When I set out to (re)name this little space, we were in the beginning stages of moving to Brooklyn. I knew the kind of 'feel' I wanted the name to have, the image I wanted it to portray, how it would sound when I said it, that it would represent our family values in some way - it would say in a subtle way, 'This is who we are!' I even knew it should be four words because I'm a symmetry freak. It took me months of pondering to arrive at The Long Way Home. I was on a wandering walk through our old neighborhood, pushing Ev along in front of me when I asked her if she wanted to take the long way home - and it stuck. I came up with several others that escape me now, but finally decided, much like naming my children, that this space couldn't be anything but The Long Way Home. Little did I know how ironic this name would come to be.
It's painfully obvious even to this day, but I loved living in Brooklyn. I loved our quiet little apartment on our quiet little street. I love that it always looked thrown together no matter where you put anything. I loved that our mattress was on the floor right next to Evie's and we used to fall asleep holding hands under my pillow. I loved the old hardwood floors that used to frustrate her to no end as she'd try to stack block upon block and they would fall no matter how careful she was. So she'd gather them all up and stake her claim on a different, hopefully flatter piece of floor with a determined and slightly concerned look on her face. I loved our insanely pricey rent that felt like a bargain compared to the rest of the city, mostly because we had a real kitchen. I loved listening to the city come alive each morning and watching our brick wall view turn a golden hue that only fellow Brooklyn-dwellers have seen. I loved using the word 'bodega.' I loved the corner cafe with $20 sandwiches and cereal bowls of coffee. I loved our tiny mailbox and our obnoxious door buzzer. I loved the bagels. Oh, how I loved the bagels. I loved being able to buy a slice of pizza for a dollar. I loved the way the guys at our favorite pizza place said mozzarella. I loved that our church was held in a school auditorium. I loved that we gathered in people's impossibly small apartments during the week. I loved the Manhattan view we'd get on our grocery shopping nights leaving Fairway. I loved and hated Fairway. I loved that everyone had a love/hate relationship with the city. I loved our watermelon picnics. I loved that the playground was never empty the entire time we lived there. There was always someone there for Ev to play with.
I loved the subway smell. I loved the R train, the consistently late R train. I admired that about her, I accepted it because I'm consistently late anywhere I go. I loved that we lived at the end of the line and knew we were home when we heard, 'This is the last stop on this train. Please leave the train. Thank you for riding with MTA New York City transit.' I even sort of loved feeling like steamed broccoli in the Summer heat. I loved our secret Staten Island beach spots with oily water and sand full of trash. I loved the handfuls of sea glass we'd walk away with. I loved walking miles to get anywhere. I loved the street sweeping day, car moving scramble that happened each week. I loved the sidewalk horses that Evie went nuts over. I loved New Yorkers and their constant use of the F word. I loved how people really lived in the Spring, Summer, and Fall because the Winters were so unbearable. I loved that you could go for a simple walk and never be bored. I loved how beauty could find you in the most unexpected places. I loved our view of the Verrazano and watching boats pass by on the Hudson. I loved how people celebrated their New York-iversary. I loved that people complained so much about living there, but refused to live anywhere else. As Anne Lamott says, '. . . [I loved] the feel of being part of a healthy mob, part of a pulse, part of a collective heartbeat. . . [I loved] what it felt like to be part of a huge struggle, where people were winning and losing and triumphing and being humiliated and for once it wasn't you.' I love how living there was kind of like childbirth - after a while you forget how hard it was. I loved it all. I would be a lifer. Sometimes I lay in bed and imagine walking along those Bay Ridge streets with my two kids. It's hard for me to comprehend that a place that is so much a part of me, will never be a part of both of my kids. I sometimes forget Noble wasn't there with us.
As much as I loved Brooklyn, there is a bit of my soul that is nourished by New Mexico. I love the sunsets, each one different from the all the rest, but beautiful in a way you'll never forget. I love the adobe houses with turquoise trim. I love that you get to experience all four seasons, but you really only have to experience snow when you feel like driving up the mountain. I love the freakishly bipolar Spring weather. I love the Cottonwoods. I love that the days are so consistently beautiful that you wake up never thinking about what the weather will be like. I love the Christmas luminarias. I love the old man at the farmer's market that never stops shouting, 'Fresh tortillas!' in his Spanish accent. I love that you can tell what neighborhood you're in by how many Subarus are around. I love their strange exclamations like 'Eeee!' and 'Ah-la!' I love when someone calls Evie 'mija.' I love the trees outside our window that Noble strains his neck to watch from the rocking chair. I love the bike lanes and trails scattered all over the city. I love the love that the lifers have for this city and the effort they put in to keep it quirky. I love living three blocks from the zoo and that it's basically become our backyard. I love that we're surrounded by so much beauty and mountains are always in our background. We'd never make it through our 'places to see' list if we lived here for a lifetime. I love that feeling I get when we're coming home from the East and we spot the mountain silhoettes off in the distance. I love that you can wear whatever you want here and no one will look twice. I love that you can practically wear sandals year round and most people do. I love the frequent Indian Summers in the middle of Winter. I love that it's never hard to find something interesting to do here. I even kind of love the lack of a good Chinese food place. I love that the vast majority of people embrace local, organic food. I love the ridiculous amount of breweries and that you can buy craft beer almost anywhere. I love that both of my babies' birth certificates say 'Albuquerque, New Mexico,' a place where people are advocating for a mother's right to birth the way she wants. I love that that this place will always be a part of them no matter where we go - it called us back twice after all. There must be something special here for them. Even though there is so much to love about each place we've lived, we've known that they all wouldn't be forever.
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.
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.
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.
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.'
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)
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.
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.
August 22, 2003 - a thirteen year old boy asks me to be his 'girlfriend'
August 22, 2009 - I marry that same boy.
August 22, 2014 - I stand in the doorway of our Brooklyn kitchen with the stupidest smile on my face, on our fifth anniversary, telling the one who's always been mine about our happy surprise. We're up early packing for a trip to Niagara Falls and the house is hushed. I tell him we'll be taking an extra person along to Niagara Falls and he can't help but make his smile match mine. We stop for a moment and stand still against each other. Neither of us were prepared for this, but we're both filled with joy.
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.
I almost labeled this 'a sarcastic home tour.' I got an email the other day from someone asking me to post a tour of our apartment. I was drinking coffee at the moment - hot coffee, and it most definitely came out of my nose. We love this place. We love our neighborhood. We love living here. It feels like a dream come true every morning that I wake up here, but it isn't home yet. We haven't had the energy or finances to make it home yet, but it has some fantastic potential. I can picture it all and that's what keeps me from ugly crying in our living room floor on our only piece of furniture.
At random intervals through out the day, our goings-on (going-ons?) are accompanied by the background noise of an annoying car alarm, but not just any annoying car alarm.
This has become our reality. The first time we heard it, we looked at each other with stunned faces and shouted 'IT'S LILY'S CAR ALARM!' and ran to the window. Why we ran to the window, I'm not sure. We couldn't see the car. Our view never changes. It's always this. . .
. . .or this. . .
. . .or this.
And yes, our windows are extremely dirty.
After we'd heard the alarm a handful of times, we started to get annoyed and talk about how pointless car alarms were. Now you can find us standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner, woo-wooing along with the car alarm. What city living does to people is quite fascinating. You just have to embrace it all to stay sane.
Three weeks after we moved into the apartment, 48 hours of unending torrential rain made it's way through our ceiling. It was like the diamond cave in The Rescuers. We had almost every dish out of our cabinets and scattered around. It got so bad that we had to call the super and even he was a bit worried and brought us a five gallon bucket and a bag of thrift store t-shirts to put in the places we had run out of containers. We laughed it off for the first few hours, but started to get worried when chunks of plaster started to fall from our ceiling. The holes are still there a month and a half later and plaster sporadically falls from the holes. We usually just look up, look at each other, and shrug. New York City landlords are quite fascinating too. I say all of this for the sake of transparency (and a tad bit for humor). Moving to New York City always sounds glamorous, but for the majority of the people that move here, this is what your beginning is like. Almost anyone you talk to can tell you, with a smile on their face, about their first small, probably-should-have-been-condemned apartment and first year or two of struggling. It's sort of a rite of passage. I can't with any conscience argue for New York City with anyone. My love for this place is irrational. The fact that anyone moves here is irrational.
Our floors are fascinatingly uneven. When Evie pours her blocks out all at once, they scatter and roll in different directions (mostly under the couch, of course). We like to laugh about this too because it also reminds us of Lily and Marshall's apartment they buy. (If you couldn't tell yet, we're big fans of HIMYM.) You could probably start at one end of the apartment and roll to the other side on a skateboard without ever letting your feet touch the ground. Ev likes to build 'tall towahs' with her blocks. You can watch her try to set one up, have three blocks stacked that continue to fall, look intently at the floor, then move it all to a different (flatter) spot because she's figured out the floor must be crooked.
Every night, at the same time, the people up stairs watch the news at what I'm sure is the highest volume level their TV reaches. This annoyed us for the first few weeks we lived here. Now it's become a sort of comfort. All is right with the world if the news comes on upstairs around 8:30.
The state of our furniture is amusing. Our bedroom looks like a campground - two mattresses pushed together and a bike propped in the corner. Our living room has a couch in it, a poor couch that has been through so much. We bought the old girl four years ago, right after we were married, living in an apartment in Birmingham smaller than a single room in this apartment. It has traversed it's way across the country twice and lived in four different houses and is mauled by a baby daily and needs replaced badly. In said living room there is also a plank of wood set on two sawhorses to serve as my sewing table. No, I'm not kidding. You can't make this stuff up.
Three of the most important things that I noticed our first day here, all of which have to do with my love for Breakfast at Tiffany's: We have an intercom box thingy that buzzes people in. I can never hear anybody on the blasted thing, but it makes me happy. Sometimes I won't be expecting anyone, but it will buzz and I will press the talk button, 'Hello?' then I will forget to press the listen button and wonder why no one is responding, so then I hello them again - I don't know why I bother because all I hear is 'wahh wahh wahh wuh wah,' like Charlie Brown's teacher. So I hope it isn't a serial killer and push the button to let them in anyway. I hold it for a whole ten seconds or something because I never know how long it takes for someone to open the door and every time someone buzzes me in the door locks again just as I pull on the handle and I have to annoy the person with that dreadful 'buzzzzzz' again. Why isn't the listen button just built in you ask? Who wants to talk without listening immediately afterwards? Who knows. Anytime I need buzzed in (I've said buzz so many times, I'm wondering if there's a different technical term for it?) I always want Alex to yell, 'HOLLY GORIGHTRY! You distuhb me! You must get another key made!' and then I will respond with, 'It won't do any good, darling. I'll just lose them all!' Sometimes he plays along, but most of the time he looks at me like I've finally lost it and asks, 'What is that from?' just to annoy me.
In our lobby there are tiny mailboxes all in a row. Someday soon I will hide my lipstick in there and paste a small mirror to the back, even though I hardly ever wear lipstick. We've lived here for two months and have gotten approximately three pieces of mail, so I called the post office to see what the deal was. The slightly loud and rude lady asks me if my name was on the mailbox. I said no because I've never had to write my name on any of my mailboxes before. It has my apartment number on it after all and some foreign guy's last name on it who lived here before us, so I guess that can be confusing, but HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT?! It seems she thought I was as dumb as a rock for not putting my name on the mailbox and expecting to get mail, but we keep getting mail for people who don't live here anymore, so what's up with that? My grudge for the USPS worsens.
We also have a fire escape. A few days after we had been here and Ev had fallen asleep, we decided to climb out our window and sit on the fire escape so Alex could smoke a cigar. I don't know why he sporadically thinks smoking a cigar is a good idea because I always ask him if it was good and he always replies with, 'Eh.' Anyway, sitting on the fire escape scared the living day lights out of me and I was a nervous wreck the entire time - but to complete the Breakfast at Tiffany's dream I've always had in my head, I'm determined to curb my fear and play Moon River on a ukulele out there, even if it's only once. I'm also determined to one day own a claw foot bathtub couch and keep my phone in a suitcase.
Showering here is like showering at Summer camp. You never know what's going to happen in that shower. You get the temperature just right and then a squirrel climbs up the rain gutter or a pigeon lands on the roof and it's gone, your perfect temperature has now turned to boiling with no warning whatsoever. The water doesn't change like this at any of the sinks, however, so we're thinking of changing the handles. It probably won't fix anything, but it will make is feel like we're being proactive. Also, whoever hung the curtain rod for the shower curtain hung it just a few inches too high, so it's impossible to find a curtain long enough. We've given up and just let water drip off the bottom of the curtain wherever it wants. The bathroom is completely tile after all, which is strictly a New York City thing. No where else that I know of do people tile the bathroom completely. I believe they would have tiled the ceiling if they could have.
After we had lived here for a few weeks, I got bored and decided to clean the stove knobs. They were plastered with other people's food gunk and I thought I would soak them and scrub them with washing soda. I scrubbed all the numbers off and it's made a new game out of finding the right oven temperature when you want to bake something. Now that we've figured out some of the temperatures, the husband decided to muster up his worst handwriting and take a permanent marker to the knob.
Our fridge is an 'apartment' sized fridge - not mini, but not full sized - but it's in a full sized hole. Our kitchen is seriously huge for a NYC apartment, so I wonder, do they only sell apartment sized fridges in this city? Is that why our fridge is thrown in this full sized fridge hole all willy nilly like? We obviously had a full sized fridge in our house in Albuquerque and it was always full, even if we didn't have anything to eat. It has now become one of the greatest mysteries of my life because this 'apartment sized' fridge is never full. It's impossible to even fake it being full. We bought $250 in groceries almost as a test and that didn't even fill it up. I'm constantly wondering what I did with all that prime fridge real estate back in Albuquerque.
Our super's name is Sammy and he is a black man that only speaks Spanish, which really threw me off the first time we met. Ev thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread. Anytime we go down stairs, 'Where Sammy? Where Sammy, Mama?' If she happens to see him she chuckles and says, "Saammmmaayyy!' and he chuckles right back. The lovely man also carries the stroller up the steps for me anytime he can and that's pretty much the sweetest thing you can do for a Mama in this city.
Thank you for touring our lovely abode. Souvenir pictures can be purchased at the booth on your way out.
The first post here on Hey Mama, Rock Me. started a little bit like this ". . . I believe in talking about your dreams like they're already coming true. . ." At the time, I was talking about my dream of being a mother, but that really has translated into my life in so many different ways over the past few years. What started out as a digital scrapbook of sorts has blossomed into a full blown love for writing. I love coming to this space. I love sitting down with a cup of coffee each day and being inspired by others and sharing my goals and joy and beautiful things in this space. I've been writing here for three years and there hasn't been a time yet that I've had to make myself sit down and blog. I take that as a sign from the universe that I should really throw myself into this because honestly, I'm a pretty fickle human. I get so inspired by so many things at one time that I usually bounce around from one thing to the next, never really sticking with something long enough to know whether I'm good at it or not. There have been moments in the last few months that I have looked at this space and the numbers and all the things every blogger says doesn't matter, but it does a bit if we're honest - especially if your family's dreams are wrapped up in whether you're successful at what you choose to do each day - and been disappointed. I'm not looking for fame or fortune, but it would be nice to feel like the amount of effort I put into writing and the time that it takes away from my family has contributed in some way to where we're attempting to go.
Frankly, I'm a woman that likes instant results. I'm impatient and always get ahead of myself in every situation. After every apartment that I looked at in Brooklyn, I've fallen asleep planning each detail before it was even ours. I started having thoughts about blogging along the lines of 'well maybe I'm just not very good at it' or 'maybe I should just give up and focus on something else,' but it dawned on me - I couldn't stop writing here even if the answer to either of those statements were yes and after that realization, the numbers really don't matter. I'm going to write here whether there are 30 people reading or 30,000 people reading and isn't that what everyone is looking for in a 'job?' One that you couldn't not do even if you have to do it for free. This blog is a piece of me - it has stretched me in my writing and photography skills (both of which could probably use a bit more stretching), recorded cherished moments from my journey to and through motherhood, and it's allowed me to find mentorship and inspiration through other women. However, if I'm being honest, I can admit that I haven't thrown myself into this as much as I could have. A few months ago, I was reading a book about small business and I came across a sentence that I highlighted and underlined - 'If you treat your business like a hobby, you will always make hobby money.' It's a pretty obvious statement, but I've treated this as a hobby up to this point expecting beyond hobby results from it.
So I've started putting a lot of thought into what I want to do with this space, the things I want to write about more often, and how to make it all click. I'll be making little adjustments here and there over the next few weeks, and like anything else in life, this blog will always be evolving, but the major stuff is finished. The first thing you probably noticed today was the name change - Hey Mama, Rock Me. has served me well over the past three years, but I started to feel like the direction I wanted to move with the content here was going to outgrow the name and felt that this life transition for our family was a good time to make a blog transition as well. There is no doubt that I will always write about motherhood - it is so deeply ingrained in who I am - and pictures of Ev will probably always make up a large portion of the posts here, but I wanted a name that more genuinely reflected our family as a whole. So 'The Long Way Home' was born from our desire to always take the long way home, to slow down and explore together, to seek joy and savor the little moments.
For a long time I've just made do with the layout I had while believing it wasn't so much the design as it was the content that would keep people coming back. I still believe that's absolutely true, but there's something so good about the design reflecting the content. It makes the whole space feel a bit more genuine. It's like waking up and taking the time to pamper yourself a bit and put some real clothes on rather than spending the day in your pajamas. I just feel more inspired! (If you're looking for an easy to install but beautiful layout, check out Blog Milk.) Along with updating the overall look of the blog, I also wanted to make it a little more explorer friendly, so I've added two new sections in the right column - 'I write about. . .' and 'features.' I also have plans for some social media buttons! Fancy, right? In the fixed column on the left you can find all the normal navigation stuff (Notice the 'shop' link?!). I'll be spiffy-ing that area up a bit more over the next few days as well.
Finally, if you've been around for quite awhile, you could gather that we live on a tight budget. I debated for quite some time on whether to start offering advertisements on the side bar and while I respect those of you who are 'purists' and blog for the art, a small income from this endeavor would be really beneficial for our family. I have a lot of ideas floating around in this head of mine and usually have to decide whether it's worth taking out of the family budget to accomplish them. I won't bore you all with the details, but if you think your company or blog would be a good fit over there, send me an email! I look forward to making new friends and discovering new blogs and brands through this! And of course, I don't plan on this ever becoming a product filled robot blog. It will still be heartfelt and full of life and joy!
Well, I guess that's all! Thank you guys for being here and sticking around through all the growing pains. I'm humbled that so many wonderful people join me in this space - if you've never introduced yourself, now's the time. We're all just friends who've never met, so don't be shy! Take a look around, have fun, and leave a few comments. I cannot wait for what's to come here!
