Adventures in Peachiness.

When we moved into our house here in Utah, one of the things I was most excited about and charmed by was the giant garden plot in the backyard, left planted with plentiful corn and potato plants by the previous owners.  Sadly, we had no idea what a potato plant looked like so last summer's harvest went uneaten, but we had more than our fill of corn.  I was already rubbing my hands together greedily with plans of vast and varied home gardening before we moved in.  We both also noticed what looked like some sort of fruit tree - a stone fruit for sure but which one? - which was half dead and had rotting fruits on a few branches.  I was sad for the tree and pondered what the blight may be, but far too busy with life to do much about it.


Fast forward 6 months: this past Spring we finally got around to having a few cottonwood trees cut down.  One was teetering dangerously over the neighbor's garage, another two were simply giant wrecks waiting to happen.  Add to the list of my pet peeves people who plant cottonwoods (or any fast-growing, "weed-tree") in tiny spaces just to give the property an established feel.  I know it sucks not to have established trees when you first move in, but the negatives of an ill-chosen tree far outweigh that suckiness.  So anyway, when we cut down the cottonwoods, there were several unintended consequences, apart from losing some shade (and getting thanked by our neighbors), one of which was that our Peach tree suddenly sprang to life.  In Spring it had lovely leaves and blossoms.  In Summer we started to notice the abundant fruits coming to life.  By July branches were breaking under the weight of the growing peaches, and by the end of August, we were ready to dig in, despite the fruit not being quite ready.  September brought the perfect bounty and we spent an entire month eating peaches from the tree, making peach cobbler, and sharing with our neighbors.  At the end of September, the peaches were red and juicy and falling off branches copiously.  I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I found this draft from 9/30/16 today on 2/7/22 and decided to publish it. Here are out peachy adventures, pictorially anyway. That one great harvest was enough bounty for life, despite the fact that I decided to plant a peach tree at our house in Fort Worth anyway. Matt spent hours at the sink pealing blanched peaches and we had enough to eat through the ensuing winter and spring. It was a glorious, delicious experience for both us and the boys that I remember and long for even today.

Life is Miraculous: Motherhood (unexpectedly) Revisited.

Family portraits, Baby gates ready for storage; October 2014

I found this post today (2/5/22) and decided it was about time to publish it. It was last edited on 5/15/16 while living in Utah. 

* * *

There are so many things I'd like to touch upon in this entry because it's one that is about my life in a very personal way.  It is about the lifestyle my family and I have chosen and the journey, through that lifestyle, that we embarked upon.  It is a common, one, no doubt - parenthood, but also unique in the way it has manifested itself for us.  I feel ambivalent about whether to put this out there, but in the end I believe it's important for me to do it, mostly because it's something I think about a lot and feel privileged and excited about.  Parenthood, but mostly, for me, Motherhood - I mean.  The past year or so has brought my emotions very sharply into focus on these topics.  Some people like to talk about their careers or their hobbies or the new book they're reading.  I was like that once, and still am to some extent.  But if I'm honest, right now in these years, the most important part of me is all-consumed by Motherhood.  And it's a place very different from anywhere I've ever been before in my life.  A good place, but a different place.  So, I want to share some thoughts and reflections that I realize are very much just my own but can also apply somewhat universally, I suppose.

*  *  *

If you'd asked me six months ago whether I thought we'd have more children I would have resoundingly said, "Yes." We planned to adopt a third-and-probably-final-child, and were already more than halfway through the home study process for our second adoption with our wonderful social worker.  If you'd then asked me whether I thought I'd ever be pregnant again, I would have resoundingly said, "Absolutely not." And not for lack of having wanted to at one time, though, admittedly, since we'd started the adoption process the first time I'd sincerely lost any desire to become pregnant - and lost all hope it would happen. An important note - and I say this in all sincerity: It wasn't a negative place to be emotionally, despite what most people who have never dealt with infertility might think. It was just realistic. Honest.  A way to process, cope, and move on with the cards life had dealt us. The past three years had taught me, I thought, if nothing else, that my body knew it was not a good idea for me to be pregnant and that adoption was the way forward to complete our family.  My pregnancy with Roman had been a blessing; his birth one of the most challenging and traumatic experiences that ended in the most beautiful thing that had happened to me up to that moment in my life.  The journey to adopt Alexander was one that we found equally rewarding and challenging. It was also one of the most eye-opening, humbling, and enriching things I've ever experienced.  Hard.  Emotional.  Nerve-wracking.  Never-ending.  Beautiful.** 

So, you can imagine my surprise when on October 3rd I took a pregnancy test - in the most blasé manner imaginable, assuming it would be negative - and it came out positive.  Immediately.  Boldly.  The thing almost screamed at me.  I might have screamed, actually.  But if I did, I really didn't know it as I felt slightly out of my own body at that point.  My first assumption was that the test was defective, but then I went back to 11th grade biology class and realized, "Nope. That thing won't work unless there's hCG somewhere - and it's not in the Colorado water."  Meanwhile, silent panic - and not for the reasons one might assume.  It wasn't because I had an 11-month-old asleep in the room next door.  It wasn't because we had already started on our second adoption.  It wasn't because there was any reason we couldn't raise or didn't want another child - all the contrary.  It was because I was petrified, absolutely and completely scared out of my mind that this pregnancy would fail like the other ones had and that I'd be irreparably heart broken.  Because I'd finally, after years, moved past all that.  And I didn't want to go there again.  I'd been shielding my heart, telling myself I couldn't and wouldn't get pregnant again because all that I'd associated pregnancy with for the past several years (Roman being the exception) was pain and suffering.

This is when that universal and transcendental knowledge that the human spirit is irrepressibly resilient hit me, because, despite that large cloud of crippling fear inside my gut, there was a jubilant and even larger cloud of almost-suffocating joy inside my heart.  A new life.  A new life inside of me.  Me.  I never thought this would happen again, could happen again.  And it felt so perfect and so completely divine - in a very literal sense - that despite not trying, not even hoping, life did happen again.  Just the way it was supposed to.  Life is miraculous.  That's all I could think.

And, just like that, I became a mother for the third time.  I relished that beautiful knowledge for a few seconds, holding onto it like a juicy secret until I simply couldn't stand it and grabbed the phone to call my husband.  I'd never had occasion to say it before and always wanted to: when he answered all I said was, "You better sit down."

*  *  *

While I fully expected to experience motherhood for a third time, I'd prepared myself for an experience altogether different than pregnancy and birth.  I'd assumed I could drink and galavant, as per my usual self, for the approximate year leading up to the theoretical 3rd child's birth.  I intended to hike, drink, eat absurd amounts of unpasteurized cheese and yet somehow finally lose those last 10lbs before #3 made his/her entrance.  I'd just bought a new wardrobe (or at least several new pairs of pants, which basically amounts to a new wardrobe in my shopaphobic existence) and had been living it up, DYIing, moving furniture, and doing all sorts of not-pregnancy-safe things.  In fact, I strained my back pretty badly the week before I took the pregnancy test and was on muscle-relaxers and heavy doses of Ibuprofen the day I took the test.  Yikes.  I was busy at work on a Pinterest board called the "Theoretical 3rd Child" which consisted of nothing but entirely impractical, miniature female accoutrement.  My third was going to be a girl in my mind.  I had a stash of baby dresses in my closet just for her, and I'd kept some of my old Barbies and toys, and even thought about what jewelry of mine I'd give her some day (this all despite the fact that we were open to both genders in the adoption profile).  I was glad to have let go of possibly having to have another c-section or spend time in a hospital (my personal hell).  I was geared up emotionally for talking to birth parents, dealing with adoption social workers, filling out absurd amounts of paper work, and dealing with the scary uncertainty of the revocation period again.  I hoped the adoption would take place in Arkansas, just like Alexander's had.  I thought about how we'd handle that period when the baby was born and we had to leave Roman and Alexander behind.  I had contingency plans.  And I was so all-consumed by Roman and Alexander's daily lives anyway to dwell too much on the details of how and when the second adoption would finally go down.  I was all set on the track I thought we'd be traveling down.

And then that was all thrown out the window.  Somebody switched the track on me.  But, in all truth, readjusting my lifestyle was the easy part.  What was hard was the sad fact that after the multiple miscarriages and failed adoption matches we'd had, Matt and I weren't telling a soul about this pregnancy, this amazing blessing, for a good, long time.  Not even Roman.  I felt like I was living a lie.  That juicy little secret was burning a hole in my tongue and yet I was too scared to let it out, because I felt that the moment I did - poof! - it would disappear.  It always had.  And then, it was like everyone we knew who was pregnant seemed to float fluffily on a cloud of comfort and blind certainty when announcing their pregnancies at 8 or 10 weeks - or even earlier sometimes.  In that state of secrecy and high alert, it always made me swallow hard and say a little silent prayer that they would indeed make it into the 2nd trimester - knowing all too well the harsh reality they'd never had to deal with or simply chose not to acknowledge in their actions.  It was very difficult waiting but we didn't tell our families until nearly 14 weeks into the pregnancy.  We'd had the 12 week scan, gotten the results and then waited some more just to make sure we weren't dreaming that things were going so well.  Those three months felt a little bit like an extended version of the week we adopted Alexander.  We were living in a suspended reality with a life-changing secret.  And when we finally told people it was a huge release, relief, and finally a time to celebrate.  Roman's reaction was priceless.  He sat silently and pensively for a long time, somewhat unable to believe or process what we were telling him.  He'd grown accustomed to the idea of the second adoption too.  "Mommy, you're hatching another baby!" he finally yelled.  "I can't believe it!"  And gave me a giant hug.



**I regret I haven't had a chance to post much - or at all - on adoption.  It's not that I haven't written about it.  Sometimes it's hard to know what is appropriate to say, though, because it is a topic so full of extreme emotion for me and most.  Hopefully I'll finally feel comfortable sharing Alexander's and our beautiful adoption story sometime soon.

Happy 1st Birthday to Alexander & Some Reflections on Adoption

(Wrote this in 2014. Published it today, 2/7/22)

Today is a special day.  Our Alexander turns 1 year old today.

Today marks the anniversary of the day he was born, the day we arrived in Arkansas exhausted from an overnight drive from Colorado, the day we, in a flurry of nerves and excitement, met our 2nd son and his birth family, a group of people who have changed our lives immeasurably and forever.

Today, and all of this month, November, millions of people around the country celebrate adoption: an institution not without faults but overwhelmingly intended for the good and happiness of the millions of adoptees and adoptees-to-be out there, but also of their adoptive families and birth families.

Today my heart is full of gratitude in so many ways; ways that are very similar but also very different from the ways I feel on every one of my biological son's birthdays:  Today I remember how I became a mother for the 2nd time.  Today I remember how Alexander's birth mother became a mother for the 2nd time.  And today I especially remember how those two realities, seemingly conflicting and yet entirely not, will ever be intertwined in a bittersweet reality that has made our family more complete, more fully what it is today and ever shall be.

I've shared our full adoption story with only a few people.  It, of course, involved so much more than just endless paperwork and six days in Arkansas last November.  It started as a tiny hope inside my heart once upon a time and grew into a full-blown determination by the time I was an adult.  It involved persistence, heartache, excitement, disappointment, and reevaluation of my belief system in equal parts.  It changed me.  And it changed my concept of maternal love.  It changed my husband and his concept of fatherhood.  It changed my son - even at four years of age! - and his capacity to accept, love and defend others.  His love for his brother is fierce beyond anything I'd ever hoped and that - seeing that, feeling that - changed all of us.  It showed us a truly ever-expanding capacity in humanity for good, if only given the chance.  Today, without a doubt, the two things I am most proud of are giving birth to my son Roman and adopting Alexander.

But Today, on Alexander's birthday - and next Saturday, November 22nd, the day the adoption was legally finalized, coincidentally also National Adoption Day - it feels appropriate to celebrate him, his adoption, his fortuitous addition to our family, by sharing a few reflections on both adoption and the wondrous Mr. Alexander himself.

*  *  *

Can you imagine what it's like to walk into a maternity unit with the intention of meeting your son for the first time but knowing that taking him home will also involve taking him away from the woman who just gave birth to him forever?

The first time I ever had to do that I was physically sick.  I can be a pretty stoic and determined person when necessary but before I walked into that hospital ward during our first adoption match in March of 2013, I had to run to the bathroom, much to Matt's surprise and horror.  I'd never anticipated the gamut of emotions that would hit me all at once.  The fear, the excitement, the overwhelming nerves.  I also never imagined I'd ever be taking that little boy home.  Or that four days later - all of us already fully in love with him - a social worker would be taking him away from us again, because his birth father - a man who'd never even wanted to meet him - had refused to sign the adoption papers.  I wasn't sick that day.  Not physically, anyway.

When the second adoption match fell through the week before we were to travel to meet the birth family, I was more horrified at the thought of a third match than the one we'd just lost.  It seemed like nothing would ever work out.  A lot of the excitement and anticipation had been sucked from the process.  Family, once bright-eyed and eager to hear how things were progressing, retreated and no longer asked questions - not that we were sharing much at that point anyway.  Those kinds of losses, not unlike the pregnancy losses I'd experienced before, leave you in a state of suspended reality and reluctance.  Better not to share than to have to retract once more.  To this day, I can't shake that tendency.

But, against all odds, less than 2 months later, we found ourselves walking down yet another hospital corridor in Little Rock, Arkansas.  And all those same exact emotions hit me again - just as they had the first time - as we neared the room Alexander slept in, his birth mother quietly at his side, both waiting to meet us for the first time.

There was a little dry erase board on the wall that the nurses used to write basic stats and on it his birth Grandmother had written, "Welcome Matt & Brenda!" and under "Today's Goal" she'd also added, "Meet Matt & Brenda!"  That little board put me at ease in ways they'll never know.  But my hands were still shaking and for one of the first times in my life, I felt deathly afraid to make eye contact with anyone when I was finally allowed to hold the baby for the first time.  I was afraid his birth mother would see how desperately I wanted to fall in love with this child.  I was afraid she'd see the years of hopes and intentions and dreams for him flashing in them.  I was afraid she'd change her mind because she had every right - more right than I ever had then - to want and feel and hope those things for him.

But she didn't change her mind.  She didn't change her mind!

Instead, when I finally looked at her, that little boy in my arms, what I saw in her eyes was real love, peace and determination.  Determination that her son would have a better life than she felt she could give him.  Surety that she had chosen the right family to give him that life.  And all I could do was feel humbled; feel in my heart a steadfast determination myself to make all those hopes and good intentions come true for this child.  I swore that I would make this most painful of sacrifices, most unselfish of choices worthwhile for her and for that baby.  That I would never take for granted the immensity of the decision, the choice, the loving placement she was making.  That I would never pretend that she or her family didn't exist.  That Alexander would live secure in the knowledge that he was, is, and will always be loved by both of his families.  That "abandonment," "easy-way-out," "ignorance," "selfishness" - any of those awful adoption cliches - never even came close to being a part of his birth, his adoption, his story.

The morning of the day we were going to be allowed to bring Alexander back to the hotel with us, I was both walking on air and bogged down in a suffocating cloud of fear that is almost unimaginable in its contradiction.  I was famished but felt sick when I ate.  I was bubbling over with happiness to the point that I blurted out that we were adopting and bringing home the baby with us that day to a random hotel maid in the hallway.  She seemed surprised but genuinely happy for me, and when we got home that evening I found she'd actually put a note of congratulations in our room for us along with some baby toiletries.  At the hospital, I made Matt pose for one last picture just-the-two-of-us in the underground parking lot, holding an empty car seat, as if we'd look so different once we had our second child in our arms.  In our eyes the hope is palpable when I look at that picture now.

We took him home that day, against all odds.  We survived the endless check-out procedure at the hospital, hours on end of scrutiny over our British car seat, awkward and melancholy moments with birth aunts and birth great grandmothers.  At a certain point Matt simply went for a walk around the hospital because the tension and anticipation was almost too much.  I couldn't bring myself to leave the room, certain that if I did the whole thing would fall apart, or Alexander would somehow vanish and I'd wake up from the dream.  But we did take him home.  Gut-wrenching hugs goodbye were given, tearful thank yous that felt inadequate were exchanged.  And then there he was: our Alexander - though not really technically ours yet - quietly sleeping in his car seat, on the first part of his journey home. 

Arkansas has a 6 day revocation period during which the birth parents can change their minds.  We were told to drive to a different city where our lawyer's offices were, about 4 hours from Little Rock.  Before leaving, we had a last meeting with Alexander's birth family at a bbq restaurant where much of his birth family came to see us off.  The lunch was filled with jokes and photographs and delicious pulled pork.  Only the goodbye - or the "so long" as his birth grandmother put it - came with tears.

Those days in the hotel went by in a blur.  The jolt of suddenly having a newborn without any of the biological prep for it was harsh.  I thank God my mother and sister kept Roman for us in Dallas as the lack of sleep and the challenge of living in a hotel room was an intense reintroduction to having an infant.  And yet somehow being in that hotel room in North Arkansas, surrounded by beautiful forests and changing foliage, we felt protected and at peace, trying to connect with this new child, making the best of the limbo we were dealt.  We went to a world-class American art museum.  We visited the original Wal-mart nickel and dime and had an ice cream at the soda shop.  We scoped out the court house where we would be finalizing the adoption that Friday with the judge and our lawyer - it all resembled the town from back to the future so eerily.  And we even had a chance to briefly meet the social worker who had helped make this all possible for our family.

When Friday arrived it felt like the minutes were dragging on.  We woke up early and dressed Alexander in his best newborn outfit.  Matt fixed his tie; I attempted to put on make-up and do my hair, frazzled and exhausted as I was.  Alexander didn't make a noise - such an easy, lovely baby.  He was ready too.

The judge was a kind middle-aged man who took pride in his pro-adoption stance.  He liked to make the experience a happy one for people, he told us, rather than interrogating or making people fearful that he may not sign the papers.  Everything was in order.  He asked Matt and I about our respective college experiences and commented on the fact that we live in Colorado, as he liked to ski there whenever possible.  He asked how our son Roman felt about the adoption and how the process had gone for us.  Then we all signed the papers, smiling, shaking hands, and took a few pictures in his chambers before walking to the clerk's office to get documents copied and verified.  And so, in less than an hour from when we'd entered the courthouse, we had a new son.  The legal process had finally caught up to the reality our hearts had accepted and longed for from the very moment we met him.  Our year-long journey was over at last.


*  *  *

Of course, in reality, the adoption journey is never over.  Adoption is something we all live with on a daily basis.  In these early years it's very easy because Alexander doesn't ask about it or understand it yet, but I know that in some ways it will get harder as he grows and becomes more aware.  I know that with all the blessings it brought us all, it will also come with difficult realities, difficult questions, and the difficult acknowledgement of a primordial loss for Alexander that I, as a person who grew up with her biological mother, can never fully understand.  But, as a family, we are all determined to make this journey, with its ups, downs, beauty and hurt, together.  We are a part of it and will continue to be present in it for Alexander, learning and understanding from now ever on.

One thing I hadn't anticipated was that Roman wouldn't fully understand the permanence of adoption.  Roman knows now that nobody can ever take Alexander away from us, but it took him an entire year to truly feel sure of it. We met with Alexander's birth family shortly after his first birthday - an arrangement we'd agreed to at his birth - and at that visit Roman, though kind and excited and very friendly with the birth family, admitted that he was afraid we were taking Alexander back to them or that they might try to take him home.  Big brother seemed quietly confident and relieved when we all said our goodbyes after a fun-filled afternoon and made our way home, Alexander happily giggling in his car seat next to him.

Birth families are a reality that, though not present on a daily basis, remain with you in everything you do.  You see their faces in your child's.  You wonder how their personalities and tendencies and interests will shine through your son.  You ask yourself constantly how they're doing, whether you keep in touch enough (how much is too much and how much is too little?), and whether you're doing this "right" so that your son will never feel you kept him from anything that belongs to his story, his heart, his identity.  Maybe it's the process of these thoughts and intentions that is most important - the constant reevaluation, self-critique, so that you intentionally do your best in the most unselfish way possible for your child.  You want to give every angle of his story its due respect, and yet, you want him to be 100% a part of your family, because to us, no matter who gave birth to Alexander, he is 100% our son, forever.  I hope he always, always knows that.

*  *  *

I feel bad that I haven't had the time to write more about Alexander.  I was so good about doing monthly and annual posts for Roman, but the actual reality of being a mother of two has been all-engulfing.  I'm happy to live my life rather than write about it, but I do want him to know that the intention to document his first year in more than photographs, was always there, so here is a brief reflection on Alexander Christopher.

From the day we met him, Alexander was a genuinely happy, laid back, quiet, and observant human being.  His demeanor was so easy and pleasant to deal with over the first year that we almost couldn't believe it.  He hardly ever cried (once we figured out that he had reflux and a bad reaction to the initial formula we gave him), and slept very well during the day and night.  Most striking of all was his smile.  Everyone commented on the constant happiness.  He giggled and laughed and smiled constantly.  He had no problem being held by anyone.  He loved every single one of us and adored and emulated his big brother from the start.  He is happy and willing to go along on all of our adventures as long as he's fed and clean, and hardly ever complains.  He put up with me messing with his lovely newborn curls.  He didn't seem bothered when Matt finally buzzed them off shortly after his1st birthday, either.  He plays cars with Roman and sweeps the floor with me.  He has a love affair with the vacuum cleaner (though one time he did throw it down the stairs - rough day).  He earned the nickname "Screamy" pretty early on. Roman observed that he was "a little bit screamy" on the 2nd day he was home, and it stuck.

Glad and Sorry: A Goodbye to Utah.

Thank you kindly

For thinking of me.

If I'm not smiling

I'm just thinking.

Glad and sorry

Happy or sad

When all is done and spoken

You're up or I'm down

Can you show me a dream?

Can you show me one that's better than mine?

Can you stand it in the cold light of day?

Neither can I.

"Glad and Sorry", Faces

*   *   *

Sometimes you hate a place so very much you're blinded to its beauty until the moment you know you don't have to stay there anymore.  Sometimes it takes that kind of release to unleash it.  The beauty.  And the place.  

Sometimes the place is objectively pretty awful on some very basic points.  Sometimes it's just subjectively awful.  But that doesn't change that you found it awful, that you hated it and regretted it and wanted it to disappear and hoped the mountains would become an ocean and the strangers turn into friends and the awful restaurants into amazing, delicious doors of discovery rather than regret after regret after regret.  

But at least when it is unleashed - the place - you start to see the humanity, the interesting imperfections, the familiarity that has crept up on you, warm and unbeknownst.  You start to see the smiles in the faces that once were strangers and no longer are.  You understand the rhythms of the place - the blown-up-colorful skies floating like the mismatched upper-half of a painting above a town that never makes noise and never looks anything but that boring generic-brand-vanilla-ice-cream, at the base of mountains so close it seems absurd you've never been to the top of any of them.  Quiet sunny Sundays of white church shirts and ties followed by weeks riddled with predictable routine: half-day Wednesdays, Boy-Scout-Thursdays at the "wrong" church (you and all the other Papists eating Brats and drinking beer at every function), Fridays that never start or end soon enough with nowhere to go and no one to go with (Henry Wadsworth and his mistress keep you company as you play pool on a bankrupt table that always belonged in someone else's unnecessary-hobby-basement).  Weekends are escapes.  Them in their RVs with their toys and tvs and laser-lightery-shows for the campground...and you in your car with lots of coffee and cranky kids (because they're watching Care Bears for the third time that trip), planning your next escape.  You escape on weekends because Nature is the only escape from the odd mix of boring self-importance and unsophisticated-alternative-leanings in a place where purple-haired-people legitimately think New York's got nothing on their cumin-riddled Calzones.  (New York's probably a little too proud of its food anyway, they blaspheme, as you gag.)  Still, you escape into places so pristine, so hidden from the rest of the world that you feel you're in a special club of people  because you get to see them, because you made the effort to find them, and savor them - outside of Instagram photographs and ideological journalism on the latest reason to hate the president.  And you keep escaping and escaping and escaping, because your house doesn't feel like it's yours...until it won't be anymore, and then suddenly you don't really want to escape anymore.

And so the beauty is unleashed.  You stop hopping from state to state and stop to explore the little canyons and winding roads in your own neighborhood, your little town with no businesses and more parks than it needs.  Tiny cattle farms and home-grown orchards pruned with generational dedication, deceptively neat trees that only tell their tale in late summer days.  Daily mountain walks with wagons and balance bikes and little hands stashing pinecones ("coconuts") in the cup holders, and little feet chasing to see the families of quails that live in the neighbor's yard; these make the quotidian monotony more bearable (and almost allow you to forgive the 2-hour 2-times a week rule at the preschool - almost).  Buckets of cherry-plums, jammy grapes, never ending blackberries on the corner of the street, missionaries waving and smiling as they walk up the 45-degree incline on the street in the snow or heat - you'd never have a conversation with them, but they seem to complete the picture somehow.  Doorbells ringing, little noses smudging against your front windows, wild hair and muddy shoes and kids throwing rocks into the stream - building dams and chasing birds, secret agents amidst the scrub oak, plastic lawn mowers cutting grass (or blowing snow) and someone always stealing sweet peas from your garden.  Chess on the porch with martinis and peonies for miles.  Trampolines and fire pits everywhere, mostly never getting used, unless there's Italian pop and Prosecco involved (at your house anyway). Prime beef and lobster tails for at-home dates that make those Friday nights more bearable, with your one best friend across the table shaking his head and wondering how you ended up there in the first place...but at least you're there together, laughing, warm. Living and in love.

And the resignation only had to last a little while, anyway.  Because - we are men of action! Lies do not become us.  But by then, you knew where you were: the trees, the roads, the seasons.  You were waiting for the neighbor's allium to grow back, concerned that another's concrete meerkat family had fallen over in the heavy snow of winter.  The cows had their calves and you somehow regret you won't get to see that new house's landscape come into its own.  The Norwegian Weeping Spruces are looking good, actually.  Even the pediatrician seems shocked you're leaving, and you in turn are shocked he's shocked (were you friends?) but then, why wouldn't he be?  He loves it there - just like everyone else.  But you.

Glad and Sorry.  It's not the place for you.  But it's bitterbittersweet to leave a place - any place.  And now, especially one with so many memories, moments of growth and realization, and so much life lived there for you.  Snapshot after snapshot.  Clouds and mountains, mountains and clouds, a Great Lake.  Paintings waiting in your head.  It's hard not to be sorry that it didn't work out - unrequited love at its best.  Glad you're leaving.  Glad you can. Sorry you didn't love it, but not sorry you came.  Never sorry for that.

Life These Days.

The Grand Tetons

It feels like life these days is a series of snapshots, moments, that I play back in my mind, looking back and wondering how in the world it is that it goes by so quickly in the long-run, and yet so slowly in the moment.  The rollercoaster of daily chores, the beastlings, the random outings and busy-ness we create for ourselves revolve around routine meals interspersed with playtime and children's shows.  If Matt and I can get in a good conversation, have a laugh, a drink and get in an episode of a fun show, I call the day a success.  This is not the wild adventurous life I imagined for myself, in plain terms.  It is intense in very different ways than I'd thought it would be (everyone chronically underestimates the utter madness and reciprocating joy of parenthood).  But it's wonderful.  Better in so many ways than I ever thought.

Despite this, up until about six months ago, I clung to the absurd tendency to construct my views of what my life should be like based on the idealized life of 26-year-old-me: newly married, adventurous, unfettered and with decent amounts of disposable income to fulfill my dreams and whims (generally interchangeable).  So many of those things are no longer true, sadly in two cases and happily in all the others:

- I'm so glad to no longer be a newlywed despite the happy expectation, promise of that time period in my life.  

- I'm still adventurous despite having very different outlets for that personality trait than I did ten years ago.  

- I am quite fettered - this we know, and we love (though they may drive me crazy half the time).  

- And the disposable income, while not overrated in its ability to add to the quality of life, it is neither here nor there in this rumination, really (except that I will say that it is shockingly expensive to raise three kids).  

Six months ago a bubble burst.  I had to redefine those stubborn, outdated "perfect life" terms as something more realistic based on what I needed, and not necessarily what I wanted.  That didn't sit well with me and I fought it, with frustration, desperation, jealousy, annoyance and denial.  There were so many things I wanted - and why shouldn't I have them?  

- I wanted to travel as much as 26-year-old me.  I can't. Not yet anyway. 

- I wanted to live in a very specific beautiful place that I love - my living, breathing watercolor, as I like to think of it; a place that inspires me daily, despite my husband having little chance of finding a good / fulfilling job in that place, and despite it being a somewhat arbitrary obsession.  I can't.  

- I wanted to be independent, not have to lean on people like family or friends.  I can't.  

I desperately need the support of my family and people I care about, in ways I never knew or admitted before.  And it seems that for ten years I've refused to admit that until that need literally grabbed me and shook me and looked me in the eye and said, "Why are you still pretending you're not desperate to go home? Why are you still pretending you don't know where home is?"

I don't know.  I don't know why I do that.  It makes no sense.  And so this impending manifest destiny leading me home has washed over me like a warm, unstoppable wave.  At first I was dragged, kicking and screaming, until I saw that it was inevitable.  Suddenly, the reality became a positive one; rather than fighting the current, I went with it and actually found I was excited.  Right now, I'm at the crest of the wave, happy but impatient because I am waiting to crash down into a whirlpool of change and upheaval, with only the promise of landing on a distant but familiar shore at the end.  At lease there will be many familiar hands waiting to lift me up when I do, unlike every other time I've ever crashed into a new life.

I am trying to enjoy the view, enjoy the feeling of being suspended in the air, on a beautiful ride.  I'm looking around, trying to absorb what I see and experience and feel from this perspective that will soon be gone.  It feels good to accept this new reality, finally.  There's not much to let go of, practically speaking, here in Utah.  And there is charm and magic in suddenly taking on an adventure I never foresaw wanting to take on.  But it's hard and it's frightening and I oscillate between excitement and being overwhelmed. One day I'll look back on this first voyage of my life as grown-up-me and think how beautiful it was, with all its stops and wanderings, and amazing discoveries (no matter how much I hated or complained about them in the moment).  I'll think of all the interesting things we did, and how lucky we were to do them.  Because one day soon, I'll be in my cozy new house on that new shore, finding new things to be inspired by.  But this time, I won't be on an island.  I'll be surrounded by familiarity and people and that will make all the difference.  Because a life worth living is a life shared with those you love.  It is neither here nor there - it's not any "where."  It is in the moments and memories and happiness suspended between you and the many souls that love you - an invisible tie that doesn't bind.

*  *  *

Here are some impressions of life over the past six months in random order.  It has been busy and beautiful but I'm ready to leave Utah when the time comes!

Antelope Island views

Sparkly little birthday boy.

Impressionistic Bison.

Ogden Valley sunsets never get old.

Needs, not wants.

The world did not end that day.

Happiness.

Hygge Home.

Frozen salt flats.

Snow swimming.

Peachy porch time.

Millions of peaches.  Peaches for me.

Unidentified beautiful sky.

The serendipitous discovery of pop cream / ice corn at the zoo.

Big western sunrises too.

Yellowstonin'.

Grand Tetons National Park: Phelps Lake and Family Fun.

Somewhere in the middle of Idaho.  Adventures awaiting.

Living in the wild west means I am perpetually hounded by the trips I should be taking.  It is no secret that I don't plan to live in Utah forever and so my mind has a list of must-sees about a mile long that may or may not get seen but feel urgent nevertheless.  My current, incomplete, western bucket-list goes something like this (right now; it changes constantly and is in somewhat random order):

1. Sequoia National Park
2. Seattle & Vancouver to gorge myself / see my dad
3. Brice Canyon
4. Lake Powell
5. Yellowstone National Park / Grand Tetons National Park
6. Hike at least one Slot Canyon
7. The Grand Canyon (even if just for the photo op)
8. Canyonlands National Park (gotta take a pic at Mesa Arch!)
9. See St. George (I've heard it's a cooler town as Utah goes)
10. Disneyland / Legoland (threw that in for Roman's sake)
11. Zion National Park
12. Grand Sand Dunes National Park in CO (we never made it there!)
13. Have a raspberry shake at Bear Lake during raspberry days
14. The Ogden Rodeo
15. Drive to the top of at least 1 mountain in Utah
16. Go camping at least once in Utah
17. Rent an RV and drive around the west with the kiddos
18. Las Vegas (never been!)
19. Go back to Park City
20. Go to Provo

Ironically, I did not realize we only live about a 4 hour drive away from Grand Teton National Park and 6 from Yellowstone National Park.  Upon being enlightened, those two things quickly moved up to the top of my bucket list because, well, duh, but also because it's the 150 year anniversary of the National Park system and I am a lover of nature.

Jackson Hole, WY

Neither Matt nor I had ever been to either of these parks but we determined that with 3 small children it would be impossible to do them "right," and so we flew by the seat of our pants, focusing only on Grand Tetons National Park.  I looked up a family-friendly hike on my phone as we cruised the open roads of Idaho, and, for once, food was not a priority on this trip.  I focused on having a nice time hiking in the park for a few hours and getting back to our hotel where we could exhaust the children at the awesome waterfall-filled, fake-bear-decorated pool, and perhaps get a rustic bite to eat at a local game-restaurant.

Roman admiring the river on an overlook.

It was a good plan and we were gainfully rewarded when we took the advice of other travelers and hiked the short, 3-mile roundtrip to Phelps Lake in the Rockefeller Preserve within Grand Tetons National Park.  It was uncrowded (possibly due to the patchy weather) and included multiple fun stops for the boys, among which was a waterfall with a metal walkway directly against it so that the boys could grab at the water and splash each other.  The ever-present danger of black and grizzly bears in the park is something I simply could not let go of and it did cause some stress during our hike (especially with the wee ones), but I decided the best way to keep the bears away was to sing loudly with Roman.  That meant ceaseless repetition of old Girl Scout classics like "My Grandfather's Clock," "The Gay Old Desperado," "I Said A-Boom-Chicka-Boom," "Daisy on my Toe," and some songs Roman decided to make up including an unforgettable rendition of "Jingle Farts" (sung to the tune of "Jingle Bells," of course).  I'm fairly certain the bears stayed away out of annoyance.  Mission accomplished.

On our hike we encountered a deer only 1-2 feet away from the trail; he was so accustomed to humans that he just stood there looking at us as we passed.  I was nearly driven mad by the bountiful collections of mushrooms in bloom, among them many lovely Morels, all of which are highly verboten to pick at any National Park.  The compulsion to get them almost drove me to break Federal law, but I stayed strong.  Alex was miserable for most of the hike (read: until we got to the lake and it was snack time) and I can't decide if it was because we woke him from a nap to hike (without offering coffee), or if his little hiking boots are getting too small.  Either way, I felt bad because he's too big to carry anymore, and anyway, I was carrying Linus.  Linus was a trooper for the most part, but decided to punish us by having a somewhat intense #2 diaper situation in the middle of the hike (and, as luck would have it, we forgot the wipes).  Disaster was averted and we made it to the lake without too much incident and delay.  When we got there Matt admitted he'd been trying to hurry us along so we could do a longer hike than we'd intended (there is another 2 miles around the lake), but it had become abundantly clear that the 3-mile round trip was more than enough for everyone.

*  *  *

Snacks and "Peace" at Phelps Lake

Phelps Lake was breathtaking.  Not only is everything painfully pristine in the Grand Tetons, but we also happened to be there on a day of on-and-off rain storms.  When we arrived at the lake the land was in a state of perfectly screaming pigmentation as a small storm had just passed.  It was sunny and blue-skyed, the water was invitingly emerald with the backdrop of the snowcapped Tetons and framed with towering pines and evergreens.  I've become somewhat jaded about the beauty of the mountains because we live in such close proximity to them; sometimes it just doesn't feel as exciting anymore, but this view and this environment left me speechless, kind of the way Acadia National Park did.  I wanted to sit still and silent and absorb it.  I got about 3 seconds of peace to do that.  Then I was brought back to reality with the squeals of two little boys chasing chipmunks all around me, bounding into piles of pine needles, chugging gatorade, and screaming and giggling non-stop.  Hey, I didn't say it was a bad reality, just not very peaceful. :)  Matt and I snacked on Spanish chorizo and the boys enjoyed goldfish and other sundry snackies.  All that was missing was a nice glass of wine.

Phelps Lake: Fresh air is good for the soul.

We stayed at a lovely resort called the Snake River Lodge and Spa in Teton village, a ski village just outside Jackson Hole.  The whole thing looks like a modern Swiss or Austrian village, and is nestled right on the side of the Tetons with ski-in-ski-out access being a perk widely advertised in our hotel.

We were greeted by a double rainbow at the end of our hike,
and just dodged a downpour.

In the off-season it was just wonderful.  Not too many guests, a great facility with a beautiful indoor/outdoor pool, and a restaurant or two just a short walk away.  That evening we had dinner at the local Wyoming-themed restaurant called The Mangy Moose.  The boys loved the name and the moose face on the sign.  They also loved the extensive taxidermy and antique ski articles hung all over the inside of the restaurant.  We were seated at a large table set into a small alcove, facing out on a main dining area, making it a semi-private dining experience and an easy place to corral little ones. Amazingly, this dinner was a landmark for our family.  It was one of the first and only times that all three boys have willingly sat down to eat without complaining and interacted in a decently civil manner with us.  I ordered a rabbit and venison meatloaf that came with broccolini and mashed potatoes, and Matt had elk sausage and the same sides.  We also had fried pickles to start and were very pleased to see that they were sour gherkins battered and fried whole.  They were delicious.  Roman was forced to try one but, alas, he still hates pickles no matter how much we harass him.  Alex gobbled one up and so did Linus.  The boys had mac n cheese and tried some of our food.  As a reward for the good behavior, we ordered a Mud Fudge cake and it was the biggest piece of ice cream cake I have ever seen.  The boys pounced.  Matt described it as we were throwing carcasses to vultures.  They simply would not stop until it had been devoured and were then energized, bordering on maniacal, for a quick dip in the hotel pool.

A view to the Tetons from the start of the Phelps Lake trail.

We returned home early the next day, Memorial day, (sadly two of us became very ill with a stomach bug Alex had had), good memories in our hearts and a determination to soon come back, this time to Yellowstone, in our minds.  But, really, who knows what the next adventure will be!

Oh, to feel at Home.

“To move, to breathe, to fly, to float,

To gain all while you give,

To roam the roads of lands remote,

To travel is to live.”

- Hans Christian Anderson

*  *  *

My wanderlust has always been there.  A part of me as normal and necessary as my skin. For me there was never a time when I didn't want to travel and explore.  While, with age, that tendency has become more refined - I don't really want to go everywhere anymore - it has not lessened at all; this is a longing that defines my core, one of the true, immutable realities of me.  

I think about it a lot - my wanderlust - especially these days, because it is also a truth that is currently at odds with my reality.  What I have found is that with age, things deepen: tendencies especially, but also loves, fears, judgments, dreams, realities.  And so I find myself in a state necessitating consistency, normalcy, and routine, but wanting spontaneity, madness, and adventure.  It's not fair.  I guess not much is.  (And far be it from me to complain about the beautiful and sometimes charmed life I lead.)  But it is exactly what it is: the current state of reality in our house, the pretty green house with a pleasant view.

The concept of Home is one we generally take for granted.  Most people I know can identify a place that they consider their Home, without question, in a manner annoyingly blasé.  They aren't bothered because it's their daily bread, always there, always normal and recognizable.  Never leaving.  Always waiting for them when they need it.  But me...I haven't been able to say where Home is for a long, long time now.  I've spent eighteen years in a state of exciting, nomadic exploration and resettlement.  It was fun and right and I loved it.  But now, living the life I live today, I am ambivalent about whether not being able to name a Home is something I like or hate about my life.

I can say that I hate not knowing where Home is.  I hate always thwarting any attempt to know.  I hate not having the people I love - outside of my husband and best friend, and my wonderful children - near me.  I hate not fitting in anywhere quite, exactly.  I hate not knowing where we'll end up.  I hate trying to make friends with people I don't know and don't really want to put in the effort to know.  I'm tired of phone calls and emails and texts rather than coffees and dinners and parties.  Because those are among the best things in life.

But I love the things I've seen, the things I know, and the things I can imagine one day I'll see and know.  I love the memories we've made and shared and passed to another generation, even as small seeds in their subconscious.  I love that gnawing bug of curiosity in me that simply won't die.  And yet, I love the idea of a home that lasts forever, even if I haven't quite found it yet.  And, oh, to feel at Home.  I love that.

But loving the idea isn't enough.  Because the whispery belief that "Home is where the heart is" is a limiting one.  A false one if only read based on the traditional sense of "Home."  

My heart is in a million places on any given day.  (Don't try to imagine a week.)  Mostly it's here, of course, in my house with my beautiful family, but it's also in Italy on a train to Venice, train ticket in hand for the first time without my parents, in Texas on a bluebonnet field with my sister, walking the streets of Mexico city smelling the smells and seeing the sights of my culture, on the pier on the Adriatic, drinking Porto on a Portuguese 18th birthday, stars shining in our eyes, swimming with jelly fish after gin and tonics.  It's in the Rub' al Khali in Ramadan, breathing in the desert heat.  It's in the dirt of my Utah garden and the worms that make the peonies on the side of my house bloom.  It's in a tent in the Texas hill country, on a tube floating the Guadalupe.  It's at a table in a diner in New York City, eating matzo ball soup and brussels sprouts at 10 o'clock at night, chatting with my fiancé.  It's floating in the Andaman sea next to my husband.  It's swimming in Maine's Atlantic, watching a little red kite fly above, jiggling at the command of my 2 year old son. And my heart is also at Home everywhere he walks.  Everywhere my husband walks. Everywhere my youngest two sons will ever walk.  

But today I feel it's not enough to live on those memories for the feeling of Home. Sometimes you need the substance more than the essence.  Home is something - fleeting, yes, but real.  And to me it's been unclear until the past year.

Home is where we want to be, where our people are already - maybe not the best or golden or only ones, but definitely the ones that will share our lives in day to day, the mundane quotidianity of raising children and growing old in subtle, inescapable, beautiful ways.  Home is with the ones I'll paint with and drink with and eat with and probably smoke a hookah on my porch with.  Home is where I know the streets, where I I can predict the landscape with every coming season, where I can watch a great, big tree grow in my garden, wrinkle after wrinkle, marking my years, and one day tell my sons how small it was when first we moved there. 

I think I know where Home is now.  And to know it is to love it fervently.  I simply can't get there fast enough.  And yet, with irony, that is one trip we can't take quite yet.
Today it's a nostalgic feeling of certainty.  Yesterday it was maddening.  And maybe tomorrow it will be a warm glow of hope.  

But until it happens, oh, to feel at Home!

Three's not a Crowd.

Three's not a crowd.

 
Writing is such a luxury these days.

There are so many things I want to write about and never enough time to do it.  I am overdue for one of my pictorial appreciation posts about the beauty all around me (and there is plenty), I have a back-log of all the culinary dalliances I've been concocting (no, still have not lost the holiday weight), and let's not forget the recent family vacation we took which provided ample photographic evidence of how fortunate we are to lead such a beautiful, adventure and love filled life.  Then again, the cruise also provided plenty of evidence that life as a parent, while rewarding and exciting and fulfilling in many ways, can be stressful, difficult, and draining.  It's what literally takes up every second of my waking existence - not writing or cooking or daydreaming about the Wasatch mountains.  But that's to be expected, I suppose.

And speaking of expectations, I'm not entirely sure what I expected life to be like with three children.  But I know I didn't expect this.  Words fail a little bit.  Perhaps a picture of the crumbs on my kitchen floor, or the never-fully-organized playroom, or my crazy laundry room would symbolically do?  It's hard to describe exactly what I mean by "this" without painting a picture, but I'll try:

I expected squabbles and noise and mess - even a certain degree of chaos.  I expected my workload to increase by a factor of 1 munchkin.  Less me-time, less-Matt time.  I did not expect this - I did not expect to feel so completely frazzled and overwhelmed by the constant disorder and madness imposed on my otherwise orderly and independent existence that I am literally reeling from it some days.  Nobody tells you that once you have 3, you might as well have 5, because the amount of crazy, dirty and busy is not equal to just adding one more person.

And if I'm honest, maybe I'm also a victim of parenthood-induced selective amnesia.  I forgot what the terrible-twos looked, sounded and smelled like.  I forgot about potty training and the random poop-in-the-jeans-at-walmart moments.  I fervently and happily painted breast-feeding in the deepest shade of rose, only to fall into the depths of blue despair after 4 months of another relentless-every-hour-feeder Ciardiello child.  I simply could not remember the sleep-deprivation, or newborn laundry.  I did not expect to feel like I'd won the lottery when I could hear my child pooping from across the room and get there in time to avoid a blow-out diaper.  I didn't expect to not be able to have time to spend with my quiet angel infant of the blow-out diapers because, well, there's two other creatures waiting for me to look, touch, smell, clean, help, kiss, hug, tickle, or feed them ALL DAY, EVERY DAY.

Since when do 6-year-olds act like teenagers?!  I heard the warnings that chauffeuring to extra-curriculars gets old fast, but I was too dumb (or naive) to listen and am now living in daily regret.  Meanwhile I can barely get it together enough to go to sing-along time at the library once a week and have officially been paying for a gym membership for two months without using it once.  I don't know if two kids was that much easier (well, yes, it was) or if maybe it's the age-differences, or my children being particularly "spirited" boys?  I don't know what it is.  I just know it's unexpectedly hard.  I knew when I "signed up," that three kids would be a challenge.  I saw that far away look in my MIL's eyes when I told her we intended to have three children and she, having been through it herself, said, "Oh Brenda, it's hard.  It's really hard." 

We've all heard that three is a crowd.  What I didn't know was that it's not a crowd.  This is not about not having enough chairs at the dinner table, or having to buy an annoying extra pair of snow boots or one of those stupid tandem strollers (may they be cursed).  It's not about figuring out how you evenly split the last piece of brownie into thirds when halves are so much easier.  Three's not a crowd.  It's equal parts beauty and madness.  It's beyond anything I'd ever hoped or feared.  Really, what it is is absolutely, positively, all-consuming in every possible human way.  It makes me look at my three kids every day and feel both exasperated at my obvious stupidity at wanting three children, and my prescience to go ahead and go for it, because, in truth, I realize I could never choose one to get rid of.  I simply couldn't breathe if one of them were gone.   And our lives would be all the duller, less rich for it, no doubt about it.

In the end, I AM living in - surviving - this crazy moment in time, though.  It's hard because they're all little and dependent and need me and their dad to survive so much that we spend all our waking moments doing annoying but necessary things (like putting tiny socks back on for the 17th time or sweeping up impossible amounts of crumbs under the bar stools in the kitchen five times a day).  But I'm living in it with a real awareness of how fortunate I am to be able to live in it - despite the frustration, the loss of self, the moments I feel like I'm drowning.  And the reason I get it is because sometimes when I come up for air, I get a glimpse - a small, sparkling view of a moment when they're all playing together, sleeping soundly (the way only tired little kids do), eating their dinners in contentment, unknowingly grateful for their happy and bountiful home.  It makes me realize that one day they'll be grown, and if I'm lucky they'll turn out to be beautiful humans on whom I'll too be able to depend for love and company, but most of all for those memories of what it took to make them independent, well-balanced, loving parts of this crazy life and world.

And that will be worth it.  In an absolute, all-consuming kind of way, too. 

*  *  *

Way overdue for an update on the boys.  Here's a quick snapshot of each to-date.

Roman

Age 6 1/2 years

Nicknames: Romijn, Romidgen, Rome, Buddy, Buck-o

Roman is currently in 1st grade at a Spanish Immersion program.  He seems to love Spanish but is quite stingy with the knowledge he shares.  He recently looked up at Linus and declared "Linus, tu eres un ogro de peluche!" much to everyone's shock and delight.  He is an incredible reader.  He will complain and whine incessantly about having to read but the second he gets hooked into his book he shuts the entire world off.  He's creative and imaginative and an "outside the box" thinker who can think of solutions to things I'd never come up with on my own.  He loves to play Mario-Maker on the Wii.  He wants to help me whenever he can.  He's a caring and thoughtful big brother.  He's loud, messy, and never seems to listen (except he's absolutely always listening and just chooses to ignore anything he doesn't want to deal with).  His favorite movies are the old Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, The Sound of Music (he does a mean rendition of Julie Andrews' "Do - A Deer"), Elf, Toy Story.  His favorite books are the Magic Treehouse Books.  His love of antiquity continues in his curiosity about ancient ruins and maps.  He also seems to have a particular love of science, experiments, electricity and constructive games.  His favorite foods are tortellini with pesto, pizza, salmon sushi, sunny-side-up eggs, and clementines.  He hates taking a shower (and usually leaves shampoo in his hair), refuses to wear pajamas (he just dons his underwear and fleece robe), and wakes up earlier than anyone in the house to watch cartoons.

*  *  *

Alexander

Age 2 1/4 years

Nicknames: Baboo, Al, Al-Zander, Babs, Pigmy-Midget, Aloysius Dinkle Doo

Alexander is still not in preschool because Utah doesn't do that and he's very attached to me anyway so I'm loathe to sign him up for daycare.  He is a happy, boundingly-full-of-energy little man who is extremely agile for his age.  He has the eagerness of a puppy.  He wants to be just like Roman (and may very well be stronger than him, or very nearly so).  He has the loudest cry of all the kids, but is the quietest otherwise.  He loves cars, trucks (anything with sirens) and ride-on toys.  He has used all the bikes and tricycles more than Roman ever did in the 5 years before him and is especially good on the plasma car and balance bike.  He listened and followed directions splendidly until he turned two.  Now he still listens and follows directions but only after throwing himself on the floor writhing, crying, and screaming for 1-2 minutes first.  He was potty-trained at 2 years old, but still occasionally has accidents which may very well be the cause of an awkward eye-twitch I've developed.  He loves to read books with me - some of our favorites are "The Snowy Day," the Curious George books, "Brown Bear, Brown Bear," "The Best Mouse Cookie," and all the Helen Oxenbury baby books.  He once fell asleep while I read him "Lost and Found."  Just once. :)

We call Alex a dangerous snuggle bug because if you lay down and fall asleep with him, you'll never want to get up again. He likes to burrow under his covers and is quite possessive of his blanket.  His favorite tv shows are Peppa Pig, Go DIego Go!, Ben & Holly's Little Kingdom, and Plaza Sesamo.  He's my Spanish-loving man and the most bilingual of all the kids so far.  He loves to wash his hands, brush his teeth, help put lotion on and put his boots on (even if it's usually on the wrong foot.)  He's the reason we take walks - even in the snow.  He HATES naps and usually falls asleep and wakes up crying.  Just how he rolls.  Two minutes and his coffee (warm milk) later, he's laughing.  His favorite foods are apple sauce, yoghurt, cereal, mac n cheese, and anything Matt and I are eating.  He'll eat olives with me and for that I'm eternally grateful.

*  *  *

Linus

Age Nearly 8 Months

Nicknames: Yinus, Yenai, Yen-Yen, Gumball, Leenosh, Gorrinus, The Golden Ginus

Linus just started sitting up really well and is starting to move around a lot.  You can tell he'll be crawling very soon.  He's the typical last child: the little darling, very patient with this older brothers - the apple of everyone's eye.  He has a quiet but happy personality.  He has started sleeping in his own room now, though he still comes into our bed after midnight.  He is still nursing and quite resistant to bottles though he will occasionally take one grudgingly.  He has just discovered the joys of real solid food (not purees).  His favorite foods these days are puffs, cereals of any sort, soft pears, chocolate (oh yes), apple sauce, and grapefruit segments.  He likes grabbing the book pages more than reading them. He loves dumping out buckets of toys, sucking on everything, and enjoys being wrestled with or allowing his brothers to drag him around the house.  He puts himself to sleep pretty easily in his crib at his bedtime of 6pm.  He takes 3 naps a day, rendering everyone home-bound until further notice, but his smile and babbling makes the inconvenience well worth it.  He has started taking baths with Alex and loves the water.  It is both satisfying and melancholy when he grows out of something.  The most recent things to go the way of the Dodo are the playmat, bouncy seat, and, while I'm still not willing to admit it, the burp cloths I've used with all three boys.  He has reddish, brownish, blondish hair like Roman did, but looks more like Matt in the facial features.  Sometimes Matt looks at him and says, "How did you end up being named Linus?"  I'm not sure either.  But it suits him well. :)