FOUR

WATCH NOBLE GROW • MONTH SIX

10.10.2015

six months old

eating • everything in sight + reach - you LOVE food and have now tasted avocado, sweet potatoes, applesauce, banana, peas, raspberries + watermelon

sleeping • terribly, but it comes with the age, I believe

wearing • six month sizes - we just took them out of storage and they're snug, so we'll be getting out nine month clothes soon

milestones • 10/01 - first trip to the county fair • 10/08 - first swing at sportsman lake park • 10/10 - first oktoberfest + taste of german chocolate cake to celebrate your half birthday • using your hands well, but you throw an absolute fit any time you can't hold onto something that interests you • speaking of things that interest you - the distracted nursing has begun • you LOVE your sister and anything she does, except when she takes a toy out of your hands - you aren't afraid to let the whole world know when you're mad • you started fighting sleep by simply yelling - not angrily, more like a constant noise to keep yourself awake

I wrote this months ago and have been carrying around a tattered piece of paper full of the scribbles that make up this letter for months now. While the difficulties I wrote about have almost passed, it was still important to me to put this here. A few nights a month, I stay up way too late for someone with two kids to look after, to work on turning this digital version of our story into a physical version. Even when I get months behind and even if no one else cares to read it, I like to sit and catch up on my stories about babies and hard times and love because someday these words will be bound in a book that my kids will pull down off of our bookshelves to reminisce and bond over. Our life has been hard and it isn't all that I dreamed about at times, but it's our story and it makes my stomach do flips when I think about being the keeper of our family's stories for years to come.

Dear Noble,

Our life has been a whirlwind since you joined us and for that, I feel an indescribable amount of guilt. The feeling of babyhood slipping through my fingers is a familiar one, but this is harder than that. Our life is so hectic each day, so tense. I carry around this heavy burden of knowing that you deserve more than this. I long for the same kind of start to life I gave your sister - days with a slow, rhythmic quality, a calm space with room for you to play, roll, crawl, a normal schedule with a celebration to top the day off (the joyous occasion of Papa coming home and a meal enjoyed together), bike rides down sun speckled streets, uninterrupted naps, hikes through the beauty of the high desert with you perched behind me in the frame pack, hearing you wake from far away and the anticipation of walking down the hallway to lift you up and reunite. Our days are full, but of what I'm not sure, nothing that feels as though it matters, nothing soul-building, nothing memory-making. When I fall into bed and the rest of the family have all found their places for the night, all I want is to wake you up and enjoy a quiet moment together. I want to rock you in our rocking chair and watch your eyes flutter and finally close as you succumb to the heaviness of sleep. There is so much that isn't possible for us right now. It's feels like we've been cheated out of our time together. I miss you without having been away from you. I worry that all this stress and tension that fills our days will form you in some irepareable way, so I pray for your resilience often. I think of our home building timeline in terms of how old you will be when we finish. It seems like a race for our bond and our sanctuary. Regardless of all of this, I am finding so much joy in being your Mama and watching you grow. You have a magical spirit.

ev at six months • noble at five months

THE BIRTH OF NOBLE ALEXANDER • PART III • BREASTFEEDING + POSTPARTUM

If you missed part I of the birth story, click here.
If you missed part II, click here.

When people would talk about 'just knowing' something, I was never able to relate to them until I became a mother. I had never really experienced having an intuition until I was put in this emotional role of Mama. It started as a timid, small voice when your sister became mine, and has grown into this roaring, confident voice that I now feel privileged to carry around with me as I care for you. The first time I ever had this 'knowing' feeling as a mother was when I brought your sister up to my breast to nurse right after her birth. As soon as she latched on, it was like the future flashed through my mind and I knew. I knew her latch wasn't right. I knew the battle to breastfeed would be fierce, but my determination I had carried around with me all these years would serve me well.

Each nursing session started with screams and ended with tears from everyone involved. She would move her head back and forth while frustrated little snorts escaped, but she would never latch. Her patience wore thin and pretty soon her frustrated snorts were replaced with back-arching, clawing, and screaming. Your Papa would have to hold her hands while I tried my best to maneuver her onto the breast. There were weeks of this. I came to dread sleep because the nights were the hardest, the loneliest. I would become anxious as the clock neared seven. Her escalating frustration made my attempts at helping her futile. Eventually she learned how to latch on, but it wasn't without toe-curling, jaw-clenching pain. We spent hours each night fighting with each other. I would try to correct her latch. She would yell out in frustration and become too worked up to latch on again. Crying would eventually exhaust her and she would fall asleep only to wake an hour or less later to do it all over again.

We went through weeks of this (ten or so), but it felt like months. I can remember sitting on the side of the bed with your Papa and saying, through sobs, 'It's going to hurt forever.' I couldn't see a way out. I felt trapped. I didn't want to eat. I didn't want to write. I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to do anything. We tried everything we could think of. A nipple shield allowed me to heal, but didn't allow your sister to get enough milk. For a few weeks we tried using a supplemental nursing system. I pumped while she slept, then fed her with a small tube attached to my finger. We were afraid to give her bottles for fear that she would deny the breast altogether and I would be stuck pumping or using formula. We kept going to appointments for weight checks and kept coming back disappointed. When I was around other mothers, I would go home feeling bitter, defeated. They seemed joyful. Their babies seemed happy. Feeding them was as easy as shaking up a bottle of formula.

What was supposed to be a beautiful bonding experience became a depression-inducing nightmare. I had never dealt with depression in any form beyond the occasional bluesy day until now. It was like being sucked into a black hole, and it took me a long time to come out of it. I was determined to see it through though. I told myself I had to keep trying until I was sure it just wasn't possible. Eventually we met with an ENT specialist who told us she definitely was not tongue tied, which was a little bit devastating for me. I had held onto that as the solution. I didn't want anything to be wrong with her, but at the same time, I wanted an answer. I wanted to know it wasn't me. It wasn't my fault. Then we found a pediatrician who listened to her nurse and simply said, 'She can't breathe. Clear her nose with saline before each feed.' It was like magic. I felt a little dumb for not having thought of such a simple solution, but after a few days of fighting with her about latching on, she finally did and she nursed. On top of the breastfeeding troubles, we thought she was also colicky, but once her latch improved and she started gaining weight, all of those symptoms went away. She started smiling more than screaming and falling asleep content. I found that breastfeeding is a funny thing - some days you cry over the limits it places on you and some days you cry at the possibility of it being over.

THE BIRTH OF NOBLE ALEXANDER • PART II

If you missed part one of the birth story, click here.

NOBLE ALEXANDER JACOBS

born 04/10/2015 at 3:47 A.M.

7 pounds + 10.5 ounces • 20 inches long

made in Brooklyn • grown in Missouri • born in New Mexico

I leaned over the bed and put my hand on Papa's shoulder. I paused, trying to think of how to wake him without sending him into a panic. 'Babe, I need you to wake up.' I shook him a bit. He didn't respond. I changed my tone. 'I'm having contractions. I need you to get up.' He looked at me bleary-eyed and whispered, 'Just give me a minute. I need a minute.' I recognized that the news of a baby joining us tonight was probably a bit overwhelming to wake up to, and though I wanted to yell, 'We don't have a minute!,' I walked into the other room to give him some space. A few minutes later he joined me in the kitchen. I was pacing, trying to stay calm, but there had been no warning. I'd woken up in the midst of an unpredictable coastal storm. The contractions had blown in when I had least expected them and were quickly reaching hurricane proportions. I told your Papa to call the midwife and pack a bag (I don't, for the life of me, know why we can never manage to pack a bag until I'm already in labor.), even though all I wanted to do was stay. I hadn't been able to ease into these active labor contractions. I had gotten no warm up time. What I wanted with everything inside of me was to just be still and try to focus, but I knew if I let myself slip away we wouldn't make it to the birth center.

Papa called the birth center and tried to answer some questions from Melanie. He finally handed the phone to me and I just said, 'I don't know how close the contractions are coming. I just know my body is telling me that I need to get to you.' We hung up and that was that. I stumbled from room to room, trying to gather what we might need and failing to accomplish anything. I finally just started shouting out items to your Papa, then I remembered I had made a list. My list making tendencies are usually an annoyance to anyone involved, but I think this list prevented you from being born in the car. We gathered just a handful of items and threw them into the nearest backpack. Papa walked into your sister's room in a hurry and she immediately sat up in bed with her eyes still closed and hands outreached like she was walking through the dark, wobbled side to side, hit her head on the wall, then flopped back down, still asleep. It was like a scene from a movie. He was laughing so hard he had to leave the room. He told me what had happened and I laughed until tears came to my eyes and I couldn't stand up. He went back in, a bit quieter this time, and shook her awake. 'We have to get up and go bye bye. Mama's going to have the baby,' he whispered. Of course, she was immediately awake, asking fourteen questions a second, ready to conquer the world. 'The baby's coming?!' she said excitedly.

As soon as we had everything ready, I hit the stairs and waddled as fast as I could to the car. Papa and Ev met me there, her exclaiming, 'Look at the moon, Mama! It's beautiful.' I paused and smiled. Indeed it was. It was a half moon - the light reflected off the hood of the Jeep as we drove. I was trying not to sound panicked as I told your Papa to try to get there as fast as possible. He turned on the hazard lights and blew through stop lights flashing his lights and honking. The man is good under pressure, I'll give him that. What was normally a thirty minute drive ended up taking twelve or so. I'm not going to lie, I had kind of always wanted to do that like they do in the movies and I smiled to myself a bit when that thought entered my mind. Your sister was yelling from the backseat, 'Slow down, Papa! This is dangerous!' and 'Red means STOP, Papa!' We looked at each other and laughed from the front seat, then tried to explain that this was an emergency and you can break the rules in an emergency. I also tried my best to talk her through what lay ahead. I told her she would need to be brave and she was, even when I wasn't. I don't even remember most of the drive or how many stop lights we actually ran. As we drove, the contractions became like clockwork and I started to shake. I tried my best to come to a place of acceptance for what might lie ahead.

THE BIRTH OF NOBLE ALEXANDER • PART I

 

21 week ultrasound pictures that I never got a chance to share

Dear Noble,
You're two weeks + two days old as I begin to write this and unlike the way most people feel about time and babies, I question how it has only been two weeks. How have you not been here with us the entire time? How have I lived my entire life without knowing you until now?

The last few weeks of my pregnancy were. . . frenetic (much like your birth would be). I feel like I never stopped moving. We moved into our apartment and immediately our days became a blur of errands, lists, unpacking, and cleaning. My mind wouldn't let my body accept defeat. I was determined to organize and scrub and shop and fluff until this place felt like home. When I was pregnant with Ev, I don't really recall going through a nesting phase. This time around, it was like an automatic bodily function. I couldn't help myself. Papa would come home, take one look at my ankles and force me to sit. Even then, he would leave the room and come back only to find me up again. Sometimes I would just be wandering and surveying what still needed to be done because my level of exhaustion made anything else impossible, but I needed to feel productive. During this time, I was willing you to stay in. I had no list of specific things that needed done before I could feel ready to go into labor. I just knew I wasn't ready. We all weren't ready. I also knew without a doubt that I did not want to go into labor at night. This was such a permeating thought that if I woke for any reason in the night, I would instantly feel a sense of panic. My eyes would shoot open at some arbitrary hour and my heart would race. I would lay in the dark hoping not to feel a contraction, but waiting for one. Funnily enough, the theme of this pregnancy prevailed with labor too - acceptance + letting go of control.

our last outing as a family of three

Fast forward to the Monday before your birth. Papa was off work, so we had plans to spend the last day of his long weekend (and what we knew might possibly be our last outing as a family of three) at the zoo. That morning, I began having light contractions that continued for a few hours. They were fairly sporadic, which would usually make one doubt whether it was the real deal, but so were my early contractions with Evie. Once again, I didn't know whether I was in labor. (Looking back, I think some progress was made and I walked around at that point for a few days.) Though I hadn't had a chance to anticipate or feel 'ready' for labor, I started to feel some excitement creep in with each contraction. I sat up in bed for an hour or so, timing contractions with a book in hand, but getting no reading done. My mind would drift from thoughts of meeting you to my list of things we needed done before your arrival and back to the book, where I would reread paragraph after paragraph countless times over. Finally I gave up and laid the book down, content to sit with my thoughts. Though a part of me wanted this to be it (I had almost convinced myself it was.), I was a bit disappointed at the thought of not getting to enjoy this last outing we had planned. I hated to sit at home all day waiting for labor to show up if this wasn't it, but I knew second babies were usually more unpredictable and had a feeling labor would go quickly this time around.

I decided to take a chance and told Papa I wanted to go anyway. He reminded me of my plans to go grocery shopping just hours before Ev was born, but obliged. I'd been given strict instructions to call the birth center at the slightest sign of labor, but I'm a stubborn woman and like to push my luck apparently. I promised I would call if the contractions didn't stop once I started walking around. Alas, the contractions did slow to a halt and we enjoyed a short walk around the zoo and a picnic in the grass. Ev has an infatuation with picnics these days and gets giddy at the mention of them or even at the appearance of a granola bar at the playground.

Going into this birth, I anticipated it being faster than my first and I assumed faster meant it would be easier. I had done this before. I had an easy birth last time. I (thought I) knew what to expect. Looking back, I realize how incredibly naive of me that was - all babies are different, so all births are probably different too. Though I was confident in my ability to have a natural birth again, I still had fears. The first thing I did after settling in at the birth center was share them with my midwife. The majority of my care had been elsewhere until just a week before you were born; whereas, I had time to build a connection with all the women that were a part of my care with Ev. Luckily, it still felt like a familiar place even after three years, and the midwife that attended your birth also assisted at Ev's. 'I'm afraid of tearing and losing too much blood again,' I blurted out between contractions. Melanie assured me she would coach me through delivery to minimize tearing and give me a shot of Pitocin afterwards as a precaution.

This is a very personal admittance, but one that I think needs to be included for the sake of the story. With each of my pregnancies, it's always been important to me that as the end draws nearer, I feel connected with your Papa and this time around, Evie too. That connection is a vital thing that I pull from during my labor. Thursday night, Papa and I laid in bed for quite some time, having a meandering talk about everything and nothing. It was the kind of conversation that had gotten harder to come by with an excited totter around and the exhaustion of pregnancy. Afterwards, we made love and fell into a peaceful sleep.

Throughout the night, I was awoken several times by a contraction here or there, but none of them were strong enough to completely pull me out of sleep. Then one approached and my eyes slipped open. I braced myself for what I had a feeling was the one, the confirmation that I needed to know I was in labor. The contraction climbed far beyond a peak I was ready for as I felt my face become flush and threw the sheets off. I jumped out of bed and took a trip to the bathroom to assess things. There was nothing out of the norm, no signs of labor other than the contractions and that my pelvic bones and muscles along the inside of my legs were throbbing, and had been for days. I could barely sit down. I had never experienced that with my past pregnancy. I walked into the kitchen to check the time - one something - and started to time the contractions. It only took two for me to decide the timing didn't matter. These were the real deal and this was active labor. It was time to go.

32 WEEKS + A 36 WEEK LETTER

These were taken at 32 weeks. I'm 36 weeks as I write this and your Papa is packing things away for our journey home in the background. We'll be headed to Albuquerque tomorrow morning. I had planned on taking another picture of you and I today, but we didn't get around to it. I hope we'll have time to take one before you come. 

Dear Baby,
In a way, I feel like this is the beginning of your birth story. Partly because this will probably be the last letter I'm able to write to you before you're here with us and also because I'm convinced your birth and place in this family started carving itself out long before the day you'll arrive. Much like the story of the gospel and really, all of our lives as a whole, the story of your beginning is full of hard things and triumphal moments that somehow come together to make a big, beautiful story. I'm excited to tell it. I'm excited to keep telling the story of our family until you and your siblings can tell it too.

I had a feeling you were with me. A few days before I held a positive pregnancy test, I had looked down while walking home from a quick trip to the corner grocery store and there you were. My shirt draped across my belly a different way. It's hard to describe other than to say that when you've done it once before, you know what is growth and what is bloat. A thought flashed through my mind, 'I'm pregnant.' and then it was gone. I wasn't entirely sure I was pregnant, but I wasn't entirely sure I was ready to know whether I was pregnant either. A few weeks before I had almost worked myself into panic attack at the thought of having another baby, ever. So I waited, and tried not to think about the possibility of you all that hard. I wasn't sure how I would feel. I knew how I would want to feel, full of joy, but just wanting to feel a certain way wouldn't will that reaction into existence. I also knew that no matter what my brain told me I wanted and whether you were planned or not, my heart would be disappointed if the test were negative. Women are funny, fickle people sometimes.

The day your Papa and I found out about you, we were packing our things for a trip to Niagara Falls. We had talked briefly and awkwardly about the absence of my womanly visitor, but had shrugged it off until the night before. I went to bed with a plan to take a pregnancy test when we woke in the morning. My hands shook as I unwrapped the test. I tried to be calm about it. I tried not to care or prefer a certain result. I held the test in my hands and watched the results appear - and I laughed. It was all I could do after the life we'd lived the past year and the changes I knew were coming. Coming out of the bathroom after taking a pregnancy test is awkward. It's like walking out onto a stage to tell a joke you had to come up with in the last ten minutes. You haven't tested it out on anyone. You haven't rehearsed it at all. I had no idea how to tell your Papa and for once in our lives, I wasn't entirely sure what his reaction would be. I don't mean his outward reaction. He is a good enough man not to outwardly express disappointment at the news of a new baby, but I can see the truth in him even when I don't want to. I was afraid to see something there, a flicker of it across his face, but I was also looking and hoping for it as a comfort to myself. I was looking for something to tell me that the touch of despair underneath the joy that I felt was ok.


I didn't have a lot of time to formulate how to tell him. I didn't want it to be awkward. I didn't want it to be solemn. So I made the split decision to take the route of humor and opened the bathroom door. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and realized I was smiling like an idiot. I had an internal dialogue about whether I should be smiling, 'It's ok to smile, right? This is happy news, but it's also stressful news if I'm honest.' I guess I was afraid to announce it lightheartedly only for him to launch right into the logistics and shock of it all. The morning light was streaming in through our open windows. Brooklyn sounds followed the light in. He was assembling all the food for the road trip - he put the butter knife down and turned to face me when he sensed me in the doorway. I'm terrible at hiding emotions, so I'm sure he knew as soon as he turned around and saw my face. I couldn't just stand there in silence and assume he knew, so I blurted out the quippiest thing I could think of, 'So I guess one more person is coming to Niagara Falls with us.'

THREE

 

To my sweet Ovie Lou,

as I like to call you these days (and to which you adamantly protest almost every time - 'No, Mama - it's EHHH-vee, not OHH-vee!'),

You're three and your eyes are sparkling and face is all aglow. You've insisted on it being your birthday every day for months now, but today is the day. We woke you up with a 'Happy Birthday' this morning, which you said right back. You fail to understand the concept of the Happy Birthday phrase and see it more as a greeting like 'good morning' or 'have a good day.' All day you would spread your cheer with 'happy birthday' responses, making people chuckle. I made salisbury steak a few nights before your birthday and you were sure that I had lost it - brown gravy was all wrong. Where was the white gravy? Where were the muffins (biscuits)?! So I knew then that your birthday breakfast would be biscuits and gravy.

After biscuits and gravy, we went off to church. It seems that people (especially older people) think that children need treats, all the time, at every event, whenever possible. I usually don't mind much when you've had a few treats in church, but I didn't want it to spoil your birthday cake. I knew you'd appreciate it more if you hadn't been munching on sweets all morning, so we had a talk along the way about how to tell someone, 'No, thank you. I'm having birthday cake later.' To my surprise, you succeeded in our endeavor to practice self control. A toaster oven is the extent of my baking abilities these days, so I knew I wouldn't be able to bake you an actual cake - and as much as I hate to admit it, I can't let my knowledge of what terrible things store bought frosting is made of go even on holidays. So I picked out the healthiest boxed whole wheat brownies I could find and you picked out sprinkles and dinosaur birthday candles, and together we made magic. You helped me pour and mix and sprinkle and your face lit up. You loved every minute of it. I set my camera on my tripod and videoed your Papa and I singing Happy Birthday to you as you blew out your candles one by one throughout the song, finished by the end. I asked your Papa to light them a second time, so I could get some pictures too and he obliged, accompanied by eye rolls, but he obliged. You didn't seem to mind, but were concerned about the water (wax) dripping off the candles onto the cake. We probably ate a lot of wax with our brownies.

You've talked with Papa a lot about what he does each day and you ask each morning he has to go to work if you can come with to ride the big machines. He patiently explains each time that the Air Force doesn't like to share their toys and you nod and ask with hopeful eyes, 'Someday?' I was a shy little girl, but there was a time when I stood on a stage and proudly proclaimed to the audience that I would be 'a firefighter, just like my Daddy.' I see that same sparkle in your eyes, that same reverence for what your Papa does all day while he isn't with us, and it makes me proud. I hope someday that you can look back on my 'work' here with you with a form of admiration, but for now - I'm happy your Papa is in the spotlight. He needs that - taking care of a family can be hard. So I went out in search of a construction site for you and found a little set of machines. We filled a tub full of barley and rocks and you and Papa played for hours, while I was content to sit and watch. It was a simple birthday, but just like our Christmas, it's simplicity made it something beautiful that I'll never forget.

Three years seems like very little, but it has felt like a lifetime. You brought joy into our lives that wasn't there before, but once it entered our lives, it felt familiar. It felt like you had always been there, a little bit of yourself in each of us, and now those little pieces had all come together to finally bring you here. I imagined you a long time before you were born, even long before I ever met your Papa. Somehow you turned out to be brighter, wilder, more beautiful than I had ever imagined. You have a spirit unlike anyone I've ever met. It can be a challenge to remember the beauty of it when it's intermingled with parenting, but I hope to polish you, never tame you. You are wild and loving, free and forgiving. You are so excited about life - when you run, you can't help but skip in excitement every few steps. There's something about it that makes strangers pause to watch you. Often I'm reminded by watching you that magic is real after all.

I love you, Evangeline Idella - more than you'll ever know, maybe more than I'll ever even be able to comprehend. Keep skipping through life in wild abandonment and I'll keep running along ride beside you, astounded by your beauty.

Love,
Mama

P.S. Ev's first + second birthdays + our first clock picture (each year we take a picture in front of a clock at the time she was born - 7:35)

24 WEEKS + THOUGHTS ON BECOMING FOUR IN 2015

 

As is customary around this time of year, I've been spending a lot of time reflecting on 2014. It was a whirlwind kind of year, to say the least. We moved four times to four different states and spent over half of the year staying in other people's homes, accepting the generosity and hospitality of others, but never being able to give any in return. It was adventurous and it was unforgettable and it was hard. It was trying. It was draining. It was taxing on our family, finances, and hearts. Brooklyn was completely worth it, but I'm relieved to be on the other side, looking back at all of it and forward to a fresh start. After all of the change we've been through, heels dug in the ground and my hands over my eyes for most of it, I just don't have the energy to join in the new year hullabaloo with a list of goals and such. Realistically, I'll be spending the majority of my energy and thoughts on birthing a baby and falling in love with said baby and helping my people get our life sorted out, and that's ok with me - or at least I'm trying to make that ok with me. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't lay down goals and walk away from them lightly. Before I birth said baby, I'm trying my hardest to enjoy being three. I'm thrilled at the idea of meeting this new life, but I'm equally terrified at the thought of staying at home with two, the possibility of battling depression again, having a challenging time breastfeeding again. It was all so unbelievably hard the first time around and though I'm entering into this new phase of motherhood with more experience and perspective, the fear is there and makes me wonder whether its always a companion for mothers when adding another to their home, whether its their 2nd or 6th?

Along with the fear comes a touch of sadness at it no longer being just the three of us, or just Ev and I the majority of the time. I find myself grasping for the time to cherish her, but facing disappointment instead. The life we're headed back to in March is not the life I want for her, and this is not how I wanted to spend our last months together. The defiance that comes with being almost three has been a regular companion most days and my desire to cherish it all before we're a family of four makes for a horrible match against parenting and discipline. I swing from high to low each day, from overreacting and being overwhelmed to checking out completely and doing nothing out of defeat. I make lists to try to make sense of our lives when there's no sense or solution to be found. I know that no matter how many lists I make, it won't all get done in the two weeks we'll have to prepare, it all can't be afforded, and my experience will probably be nothing like what I'm imagining and hoping for. It will be good; nonetheless, because there's always good to be found in a new life, but I'm afraid it will be filled with more disappointment. I have no idea how I will manage two kids in all the circumstances that await us when we head back to Albuquerque. I have no idea how I will love another kid the way that I love Evie, how I will have enough good in myself to give to each of them.

If there's one thing I've learned through five years of marriage and (almost) two pregnancies, it's that life is uncontrollable. There's nothing like the change of seasons or the arrival of a new year to remind us of impermanence. I used to live under the assumption that it was in our control to bring a baby into the world at just the right time, when it would be the most convenient for us and our plans. Being (unexpectedly) pregnant through the holiday season has been a special time for me. It's given me a unique view through Mary's perspective - through all the wanderers' of the Bible. I'm sure giving birth in a manger wasn't what she had in mind. I wonder if she had thoughts along the lines of, 'Really? Right now? This can't wait until we're home? Or at least until we find a place to stay for the night?' When groups of the Bible were led this way and that, did the mothers long for home? Were they all just desperate for a place to rest and nurse their babies, for a normal life? Sometimes I'm thankful for the sporadic life we've lived, but oftentimes it has felt a lot like laying things down at each place we leave - my plans, dreams of home, financial goals, hopes of security, jobs, memories of my child. It feels a lot like closing the door on all of that and oh, how that begins to hurt after you do it repeatedly and how obvious it becomes that I'm holding tightly to things that I don't want to relinquish control of - things I think are important, but are just specks of dust in our lives.

I imagine there's a special kind of freedom that comes from giving it all up, from unclenching your fists, laying it down, and walking away - the perfectly decorated house or even a home of our own, the baby brought home to a space that is ready for them, the defiant toddler who is battling her own wills and desires, the job you've been hoping for. When all of that is stripped away, I imagine you can really begin to live because you aren't wasting a single second planning and worrying about matters that are uncontrollable. I've learned many lessons in patience and perseverance and letting things go over the last year and that's been a hard road to walk for a perfectionist.

When I was pregnant with Ev, I couldn't imagine us as a family of three. I had no idea how two kids who like to sleep in and go on sporadic adventures were going to figure out life with a baby. While it didn't feel like our normal at all in the beginning, we came to be comfortable together, effortlessly in love. How I long for that learning curve, that awkward fumbling stage, to be shorter than the last. These three years with Ev have changed me beyond recognition and I will always cherish our memories together. She will probably never remember a time without her sibling, but I will. In 2014, I learned that big changes often bring hard times with them, but there is always beauty to be found. While I don't look forward to the difficulty that might await us, I do look forward to the inevitable beauty and joy that will be found in this new season of life. I know that the fumbling feeling of a new person joining us will wear off and will all settle in to our effortless love once again.

So here's to 2015 and letting it all go and falling in love with a brand new person.

DEAR BABY

This was a letter I was never sure I would get the chance to write. Your Papa and I went over it all in our minds, the pros and cons of having an only child, never coming to a conclusion. Once the decision was made for us - we were at peace, accepting. It made all the sense in the world to have another baby, to raise another child. You felt right.

If I'm at all honest, I had thought that if this ever happened by accident I would be in a panic. I thought I would be full of doubts, worry, fear, but what I've really been full of is joy. When I stood and told your Papa, I couldn't help but smile big and he couldn't help but do the same as he learned of you. I didn't even have to tell your sister. She started poking her round toddler belly out and saying, 'Wook! I have a baby in here, Mama!' When I told her that I truly did have you in my belly, her whole face lit up. Papa explained to her, as her feet dangled off the kitchen counter, that you would grow big in there and then you would come out and we would have two babies. She squealed and grit her teeth and clenched her fists together in excitement. Since then, she checks in on you now and then. 'Baby still in der?' she'll say. I'll ask her to lay on my chest in the mornings and she'll say, 'No, I'll squish the baby!'

We weren't expecting to learn of you, so I wasn't sure how far along I was. We went in for an ultrasound, fully knowing what to expect and I was blown away. Even after doing this once, I was in awe that my body could make another baby. We watched as you kicked and rolled and wiggled. We listened to your heartbeat and just as it was with Ev, I wished I could have had longer. They say those ultrasounds are twenty to thirty minutes long, but it always feels like five to me. I always want more time.

Since then, I've held those ultrasound pictures a million times trying to see something else that might not have been there before, trying to know you just a little more than is possible. We're all talking about you a lot unintentionally - a lot of conversations start with 'when the baby gets here.' Ev likes to talk about 'when I a big sistah.' I've been making a list of the things we need before you get here to keep my mind busy. Papa is just hoping we'll have a home by the time you come and that something military-related doesn't come up that will cause him to miss the birth. Though there are things that we'd like to fall into place before you come, we're all ready to meet you. I'll say the same thing to you as I did in a letter I wrote to your sister when I was pregnant with her - we don't have a lot. In fact, we barely have anything these days, but we're rich in the important things. We're rich in love.

I lifted up my shirt to show Ev my belly a few days ago and she exclaimed, 'It's getting biggah! Maybe the baby will come out soon?' Where I once had so many doubts, they're all overshadowed by the joy that you've already brought to our family. I won't lie, I'm a little intimidated at the thought of having two kids to care for everyday, but from already having one I know that the joy always makes it worth it. You are just a huge mystery to us so far. We're all baffled as to whether you're a boy or girl and go back and forth between saying 'he' and 'she.' A large part of me couldn't imagine having a boy, but the other part of me would love that experience. Either way, you will be loved. You are already so very loved.

FIVE YEARS + COURAGE

 

2008 senior prom • freshmen in college • mission trip to peru • 2009 the day we said 'i do'

2011 our first year in new mexico • balloon fiesta • 2012 bringing our Evangeline home

though we've known each other over a decade and have taken pictures together over that time,

film makes it hard to share pictures from all of those years (even our wedding pictures haven't made it to the computer),

but we have them packed away in shoe boxes, tucked into the back of closets and they are cherished

We're celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary (eleven years together) with a little spontaneous weekend trip. While we're away, I thought I'd leave our story here for you all to read. It's been told here before, I'm sure, but I can't pinpoint the time or the holiday and I guess it will continue being told because it's our story after all, and much like this blog, it's always evolving. So if you're new here and you've never heard it before, welcome - have a cup of coffee in my honor, pretend we're clunking our chunky mugs together for good cheer (don't you just love chunky coffee mugs?) and enjoy - you'll probably be here awhile.

The first time I met him, I was eleven years old. When you're eleven years old you're not thinking a lot about meeting your future husband, so I didn't notice him much, but he says he noticed me. No matter how long I stayed somewhere, I always carried around the 'new kid' stigma - painfully shy and self-conscious, quiet and reserved, always with a book in hand. I walked into my new sixth grade classroom wearing a bright yellow Adidas backpack, pony tail bouncing, and was persuaded to introduce myself. I shared my name and probably not much else in a barely audible tone and sat down in the front row, center aisle. We went to a tiny little school made of rock on a back road of a small Southern town, so it isn't surprising that we came to share the same friends. I 'dated' Alex's best friend and I use 'date' because we were twelve and I was terrified to even hold his hand or have a conversation with him, much less go on a date. Alex was different though - different from any other boy, but also different because we were just friends like kids should be, so talking with him came easier.

When we were thirteen, that little school let us out for Summer break and shut down for good shortly after. We went our separate ways, off to where we would both spend our high school years, but not before exchanging addresses and agreeing to write. So we wrote each other letters all Summer long, him from his treehouse he and his brother built themselves in the woods behind his house, me by  flashlight under a blanket on the top bunk while at camp in Arizona. I have no idea what thirteen year olds even write about that is so urgent you break the lights out rule to get it down on paper, but I still have the letters tucked away in a box somewhere, so I guess we'll always have the chance to be reminded. That was one of the ways I knew he was the one in college - so many notes and movie tickets and concert bracelets hadn't been kept, but those notes had made it. I had to have hung onto them for a good reason is the way I saw it and that good reason was that I was meant to marry him.

Two

On Saturday morning my baby turned two.

I have a daughter. We have a daughter.

Sometimes I'm in disbelief of that and I have to really try to wrap my mind around it - that I'm not just watching someone else's kid all the time. She is mine and I'm her 'mom mom.' It's unbelievable and heart wrenching and terrifying, but the most joyful thing I've experienced all rolled into one. I've been thinking about what I would write on this day for months now. This letter started out as a list of one hundred things I wanted to teach you, but as I rounded out the list and finished number 97, my heart just wasn't in it anymore. Most of the things I wrote down were really things that I need to learn for myself before I can teach them to you. If we're all honest, a lot of them are things that we just learn over and over again through out life - a perpetual process of shaping ourselves. If I'm lucky, I'll have my whole life to show you what I want you to know, not just leave it here in list form. As much as I want to force important lessons and confidence and joy into you somehow, I can't. All I can do is keep showing you what I want you to know through my words and my actions and sometimes, my writing. I know I won't get it perfect, but I'm making a wild and passionate go of it. That's all I can do.

Papa had to work until two, so we spent the morning together, just us girls. I have this super secret tradition that I do each year on your birthday (well the last two at least), and by super secret I mean you and Papa are always laying next to me, spider legs hanging off the side of the bed and mouth gaping open, fast asleep. I set my alarm for 8:03 and I lay there and think. It's usually along the lines of two years ago, I woke up in labor at this exact moment and I get all the sappy out before you wake up so I can just turn on the fun. I'm never as sad as I expect to be when milestones come along, but I'm taking this one especially hard. Maybe it's all the uncertainties we're dealing with and the desire for a home that I've been swallowing and the guilt that comes with moving you away from everything you've ever loved, but I'm just extra emotional these days and you are too. I think about the days when you were an itty bitty baby and a little part of me wishes them back, for just a moment. I dealt with so much after you were born that looking back, most of the first few months are just a blur. I hope that doesn't make you sad to hear one day. I do remember one day in particular - you were just two days old or so. We were sitting on the couch, you were sleeping as I held you and Papa was playing the guitar in a chair across the room. I don't know what it was about that moment - my emotions were stable and the sun was shining and the anxiety was gone and the stars just aligned, I guess. It was the first time I had been able to really sit and look at you and realize you were here and mine. We clicked together like two puzzles pieces and it's been mad love ever since.

All you do is grow now - it's expected and even celebrated, but it still always catches me by surprise. Everyday is filled with new phrases and skills and facial expressions and they're all funny - you are such a character. I know I use the word 'joy' a lot, but you just exude it. I tried to think of ways to make this day special for you, because you deserve to feel special even if you're only two and won't remember my efforts. What it really resulted in was a special time of reconnection for Papa and I. Papa and I spent the night before your birthday putting together a play kitchen and wrapping a few presents. We covered the play kitchen with a sheet and hid it away in the corner of the living room, hoping you wouldn't find it until he's able to come home from work. We stayed up way too late, enjoyed drinks and sat around laughing like kids, reminiscing of favorite childhood birthdays and memories of you.

This City

One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.

- Tom Wolfe

A hundred times have I thought New York is a catastrophe, and fifty times: It is a beautiful catastrophe.

- Le Corbusier

When I'm in New York, I just want to walk down the street and feel this thing, like I'm in a movie.

- Ryan Adams

I've started this letter in twenty different ways and each sentence is lacking.

The thing is, I started out trying to justify our family's decision, to explain our desires in a way that anyone and everyone could understand and agree with us.

But there are still going to be people out there who don't get it, who don't support us, who will judge us and call us irresponsible.

I started out trying to write down everything I love about this city, but people have been writing about New York for centuries and everything still hasn't been said. There are still people out there who don't grasp the magic of it, who only see the ugly, the dirty, the run down, the busy, instead of the diversity and history and raw humanity and wonder of the place we are to call home soon. I'm not here to change their minds.

A very long time ago, when I was a dreamy teenager making my way through what I thought was a time of hard decisions, I walked up a flight of stairs and onto the streets of Manhattan for the first time. It was as if the city had pulled down the stars and placed them where she willed. New York is one of the only cities in which reality looks better than the postcards. There were so many decisions I didn't know the answer to at that moment, but I knew this city was where I belonged. As I drug my luggage along the busy streets, I marveled at something I had never imagined before, something I couldn't have imagined had I tried. I had found the place my soul would long to be for years to come. When I bought my first car, I imagined driving into the sunset one day, to this place full of adventure and excitement where I would make a life for myself. What I didn't know was that life has a funny way of just happening. Your fears overwhelm you. Money gets tight. You fall in love. Well I sold that first car, but I could never sell my dreams short. Many times in the last ten years or so, I've tried to talk myself out of what I wanted, but it couldn't be done. This desire has followed me through many seasons of life and now I will drive off into the sunset in our box on wheels with my husband beside me and a little girl one part her Papa and five thousand parts me in the back seat.

When I was pregnant, I had a lot of women describe the changes that motherhood had brought about in them. I was determined and strong and confident before, but motherhood has made me stronger, more determined, more confident - it is what it took to make me want this bad enough to take the leap. We're moving to New York City!

Papa has been working on the paperwork for months now and we had been told that if he was even approved to move from active duty/Albuquerque to reserve status/NYC, we wouldn't be moving until March. Well he received an email on Wednesday saying he had been approved and has to report by January 11th. We were not prepared mentally or financially to leave so soon, but this is an opportunity we can't pass up. We have hope in a God that provides and we're confident this will all work out. We have an incredibly long list of things to accomplish in the next few weeks, so our lives as we know it will probably be put on hold until we move. I know you'll handle it all better than we're anticipating though - you always do.

I often ask myself what I can give you. When I say this, I'm not speaking in terms of material things or even really great things that money can buy like an education. I mean how can I contribute to who you are as child, as a human being, as a woman? What can I offer you and instill in you as your mother that will be serve you well through this life? I find myself constantly adding to this list, but when I strip it down - I want you to know how to love. I want you to love people for who they are, not what they can give you or what they can do for you or the feeling they give you or the way they make you look when you stand side by side or even because you feel like you have to. I want to teach you how to look at someone ugly and broken and angry and realize they are ugly and broken and angry because they need love. I want you to know how to see the beauty and find joy in simple things. I want to help you know what you're passionate about. You don't have to follow the crowd. You don't have to make money to be successful. I want you to do what you love.

With that being said, a large part of the reason this dream has withstood the test of time and parent hood is that I feel this could be the perfect place to help me in instilling these things in you.

One of the things that has stuck out to me about this city is that it has a poetic way of becoming ingrained in the souls of its' people. You don't just live in New York - you're a New Yorker. It is a place you never forget, a place you can never truly leave, and place that makes its mark on you the moment you step foot on her sidewalks. This city is saturated with passion and talent - millions of people walk her streets: struggling, dreaming, creating, living, making history. I feel grateful that you will get to be surrounded by such inspiration on a daily basis. I can only imagine what it will be like for you to grow and learn in this place where everyone is striving to be themselves and follow their dreams. I love that you will grow up with a clear message that if you love something, you can walk out your door and do it every day. This city reinforces what I long to teach you: that anything is possible. In a world full of grumps, it's important for you to hold onto that and believe it. It's a tall order for me to stop right here, to stop talking about the love I have for this place, but I don't have to. Because dreams are coming true, I get to spend years exploring the city of my dreams with you and writing about it along the way.

All the Love in the Universe,
Mama

Moom

To my little stargazer,
When I was pregnant, I thought and wrote a lot about all of the simple moments we would have together - sitting behind you while brushing your hair, your hand reaching for mine as we walked next to each other, kisses before bedtime, your feet on top of mine as we danced around the kitchen. I've been having moments with you lately when I realize if I had known what this would all be like, parenting and loving you, this moment would have gone on that list as well. Last night we pulled into the driveway around 9:30, an hour past your bedtime, and as Papa loosened your straps to pull you out of the car, you starting reciting 'moom, moom, moom. . .' and searching the sky. This is a regular occurrence these days, along with reading all the books we can find about the moon and pointing out the moon on every page of every book. 'Goodnight Moon' is especially on repeat. We've been wandering the yard in the darkness the past few nights, but we haven't been able to see the moon. I really couldn't explain to you why, because you wouldn't understand the technicalities, but also because  I don't understand the technicalities either, so I just told you we couldn't see her because she was hiding. (Little did I know, I was actually kind of correct.) To which you responded with a 'boo!' and a big smile. I keep having to tell you that night after night, and I'm sure soon enough that explanation won't be enough, so I'm hoping she will be out tonight. I had a lot of things that instilled wonder and awe in me as a child, one of them being firetrucks and the job of being a fireman (When asked what I wanted to be at my kindergarten graduation, I stood on the stage and proudly said, "I want to be a firefighter, just like my Daddy!"). I still feel a little rush of excitement in my soul when I pass a firetruck or stand across from a fire station. This seems to be your first 'great Joy,' as C.S. Lewis would say. You are too young to know what the moon is but you are captivated by it, no knowledge needed. The expression on your face when you see her is as if you're seeing a best friend. It's raw, pure joy evident by the sparkle in your eye and the kick of your legs. What I'm getting at is that there will be other things in life that mesmerize you just the same. Hold onto them. They're pointing to something greater than yourself, greater than this world. As I held you in my arms and stood in the middle of our street, eyes turned up to the sky, I heard you say 'star' for the first time. I realized you have brought on the biggest rush of wonder in my life and I hope it never ends.

All the Love in the Universe,
Mama

"If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy,

the most probably explanation is that we were made for another world."

C.S. Lewis

*The picture and the print featured in the picture are from the Taproots magazine website.

This print is on my wish list, to honor Evie's love affair, of course.

It's also on sale right now!

LETTERS TO EV • 20.5 MONTHS

These are from a hike we took about two weeks ago.

Dear Ev,
It's been so long since I've sat down to write one of these. It used to be easy to share all the details of the ways you were changing. It used to be that I would celebrate each milestone and make a mental note of it, but you change so rapidly these days that I can hardly keep up with what new thing you've started to do or what new word you've started to say. The fullness and busyness of our collective lives allows me to barely recognize the passing of time. I'm sitting here, legs crossed, counting the months on my fingers. I find myself doing this often now. When someone asks me how old you are, I have to stop and think of the date and usually just end up saying 'almost two.' Twenty months have passed since I first met you. It's hard to believe that such a small number of months in the grande scheme of life has had such a profound impact on me. I know I've said this a lot in past letters and I will probably say it many more times, but you have changed me in an inconceivable way. I am more confident and driven. I smile more in one day than I used to smile in a week. You make me laugh like no one else has ever been able to (and your Papa is a funny man, so that's saying something).

When I look into your eyes, I can see a full-fledged little girl. I see a maturity beyond your years, a lust for life that some people never experience. You are curious and wild coupled with selfless and gentle. You love to run with wild abandonment and explore and touch and smell and taste - everything is interesting! Everything needs to be experienced! It is both endearing and exhausting. However, in the middle of the chaos, you never fail to stop and try to share your snack with a friend or give one of us a head rub and neck hug followed by an 'ohh' that you hear us make when we 'give you love.' One of the hardest things I've experienced as a parent is watching you become me in so many ways and knowing that there is nothing I can do about it. You have taken the passionate and sensitive soul route already, and it's hard to watch you navigate the effects of that in the toddler world. It usually results in you being pushed out of the circle and receding into the back of the group quietly, or toys being taken out of your hand and you responding with a short 'mine' or 'no' or nothing at all, and walking away defeated. These things aren't abnormal at your age, but I know that if you continue to become who I see in you, your personality is destined to attract a lot of heartbreak in your older years. I've been making an effort to talk with you about standing up for yourself and telling someone when they're doing something to you that you don't like or isn't right, but you're still a little young to understand or voice your opinion yet.

From the moment you rise (which is pretty early these days) until you drift off to sleep, you are driven - driven to explore and learn and love. You are quick to smile at anyone and make friends. Your entire being radiates joy and it seems to attract people everywhere we go. Twice now I've had little boys come up to me in the grocery store with an infectious grin and say, "I like your baby," and you always like them right back, of course. A few months ago, we were stopped at a red light and Papa and I noticed you waving from your carseat. It took us a few minutes to realize that you and the man behind us had a game going on. You would wave, he would wave back, you would giggle and wave again, and on it went. We looked back and he was bent over the steering wheel, laughing uncontrollably. Papa and I couldn't stop laughing either. You spread joy wherever you go and it is so incredible to watch. You enchant people with your brown eyes and your sparkling smile and your beautiful personality. You make the kind of impact on people that I've always wished I could bring to the adult world.