I am deeply, sincerely thankful to be in this season of life. 4 little boys. The pile of damp mittens and snow pants by the door. The chatter of their sweet conversations held over cinnamon toast at the counter in the morning. The visible laughter in their sparking blue eyes. The smell of their skin after an afternoon playing in the sun. The warmth of their breath, snuggled deep in a tangle of blankets as they sleep. The sound of their feet racing through the hall in the wee hours of the morning (side note: whoever described it as “pitter-patter” must have had girls).
I know better than to actively hurry these moments away with thoughts of what comes next and how, surely once the youngest is X years old, I will be less tired and maybe even have time to get one of those hobbies people sometimes reference. But I’ll be honest here: I do fantasize about certain experiences, ranging from mundane to extravagant — but they don’t make sense until the kids are old enough to engage with it.
On Thanksgiving day, we found ourselves up north for a long weekend of R&R. The weather was foggy and wet, so the boys entertained themselves indoors with a cache of Legos — or, in A’s case, evidently by switching the dryer to “Air Fluff” mode, which would confound his parents for hours the next day as the laundry kept coming out damp. We ate frozen pizza for dinner, minimizing time spent cleaning up after the meal so we could find ourselves snuggled on the couch by 6. We turned on Home Alone. By the time the crooks were staggering through Kevin McCallister’s booby-trapped home, O and J were actively shouting “YES!” “He is the greatest!” “They’re going to slip on that — watch, Mom, watch!”
Years ago, I fantasized about these low-key movie nights, particularly those that feature flicks that I remember fondly. Until just recently, we couldn’t count on both O & J to stay seated and pay close enough attention to follow the plot arc of a full-length film. I am so thankful to find myself here where we can enjoy these moments together.
The passage of time is a double-edged sword with kids. There may come a day when all 4 boys are old enough to participate in a family movie night, and perhaps at that time I will think longingly about how sweet it was to be interrupted from a movie by a baby needing comfort that only his mother could provide, or a toddler with a 7pm bedtime who needed to be sung to sleep.
But so far — and without exception — I have found that every stage of life has something to look forward to. Not to rush away the days that color your life’s story, but to appreciate the moment you are in while simultaneously recognizing the excited anticipation about what lies ahead.
So this year, while my sons are thankful for dragons, Spider-Man, and fire trucks (respectively), I am thankful for arriving at a simple yet lovely fantasy… thankful to be exactly where I am today, and thankful that as fleeting as these moments may be, there are always more ahead.
My grandma’s dishes, serving our ad hoc Thanksgiving Tuesday with my parents – because I’m not quite “woke” enough to only have frozen pizza for our Thanksgiving meal.
when your homies can’t
spring you from the slammer, but
at least they bring snacks.
Bro-provided 6am breakfast: apples & Cheetos.
When I take a picture of my husband that he didn’t ask for:
When my husband takes a picture of me that I did ask for:
It’s been said that to have a baby is to “decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” O has only celebrated 4 birthdays, but I’ll be honest, they always hit me right in the feels.
Somewhere right around 8:54am on this day 4 years ago, I was surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses in an OR after they “crashed” my delivery. I was shaking so much that my teeth chattered, and crying so hard that the anesthesiologist took pity on me, removing and wiping off my glasses while I was otherwise strapped to the table. I was whispering on a loop — I think inaudibly — “please, please, please, please, please.” A million simultaneous wishes for one outcome: please let the baby be okay. I will give anything; please just let the baby be okay.
In what I think is a psychological defense mechanism, I now view this memory as if outside myself, and it culminates in O’s anguished cries mixing with my relieved sobs. The nurse holds the red, wailing infant out for me to see and tells me not to worry; his swelling from his dramatic exit will “go down in a few days.” I continue sobbing, “what swelling?? He’s *sob* so *sob* beautiful.”
Sometimes I feel alone telling this story. I scrounge for words or similes or expressions to describe the fear, and they are — without fail — always inadequate. But the sad, or remarkable, or horrific part is I’m not alone in these types of parenting moments.
We had another close call with O just a few months ago. I’m not ready to put it all in writing because I can’t get past the image of my then 3-year-old’s light-up Spiderman shoes peeking out from behind the paramedic as they lifted him into an ambulance on a stretcher. But the danger passed; he came home. Days later, however, I still found myself periodically locked in the bathroom in order to have an uninhibited ugly cry where my kids couldn’t see me.
I reached out to a friend who has a child that combated and defeated the real deal: pediatric cancer. I spilled my guts, sheepishly acknowledging how insensitive it felt comparing this 36-hour episode to the sustained trauma she and her daughter were/are living through, but I had to know: how did she get through a day without being physically nauseated at the memory of her child in peril? She sent me a thoughtful, honest reply, highly recommending a good “shower cry” and assuring me that over time, I would be able to accept that he’s okay. When I tearfully asked how I could cope with the consuming thoughts of things that might have happened, she said that “you have to try your very very best not to let your head go there. You (and me) are allowed to feel ‘lucky’ that the alternatives did not happen.” I single-mindedly focus on this sentiment even now, months later, when I have intrusive thoughts about that day.
On the day O was born, my insides were opened — both literally and figuratively. Not a single day has passed between November 18, 2017, and now when I haven’t been consciously grateful that he’s here.
To November 18th, to my sweet son, and to all of the parents who manage to simply put one foot in front of the other as their hearts go walking around outside their bodies. Cheers.
cheers to my son who
loves all things monsters but still
answers to “sweetie.”
spent hours carving, but
according to our neighbor,
dave’s pumpkin’s* the best.
*see tiny face.
