We moved into our current home shortly after J was born. In the months that followed, we met the couple that lived two doors down from us, Julie and Joe. We became fast friends, bonding over our similar life stage, easy interactions, and — despite our seemingly collective adult maturity — our mutual enjoyment of vapid reality TV. On Mondays after putting our kids to bed, we would get together, turn on the Bachelor, talk through half of the scenes, and polish off a bottle of wine (or two) over the course of the show.
Unfortunately, Julie and Joe moved a few miles away just before the pandemic began. But fortunately, by this time we had already firmly established our friendship and a mutual understanding that no one seek or share spoilers once the next Bachelor/Bachelorette season began.
In recent years, we started a bet: during episode one, everyone picks their projected winner for the upcoming season. Loser buys dinner. It’s silly, but the text threads trash talking each other’s picks or lamenting one’s own pick blatantly self-sabotaging has been a way to keep the casual conversation virtually alive even during COVID times when we didn’t see much of each other.
All this to say, Julie lost the latest season, and made good on the bet to take us out to dinner. But because Julie does nothing halfway, the night out warrants its own entire post.
First: we went to a charming speakeasy-style basement bar and had dinner and a couple of drinks. Julie encouraged us to have more than one, as a matter of fact, to make the second part of our date extra effective.
We went to a “Pinspiration” site, which essentially involved us agonizing over creating an artistic vision for something meant to be super low-stakes, and then dancing around in a black-lit room splattering paint everywhere while listening to a 2000s throwback playlist. Suffice it to say, the extra drinks were indeed the right call.
The final spot on our tour-de-double-date was a bar that I would’ve sworn was a divey biker hangout (having never been there, of course), but evidently is a thriving, historical gem, known across Michigan for live music, drinks, and family friendly fare (so say Julie and Joe, who bring their kids for lunches).
We called it a night at about 10:30, after one of us unfortunately got an email that they had a last-minute scheduled 8AM C-level client call, and therefore we arranged for our DD (Julie’s dad) to pick us up and cart us all home.
2 observations from this night:
- If “quality time” is my love language, and Julie put that much thought into a “loser treats to dinner” proposition, it’s no wonder she is among my all-time favorite people.
- No matter how professional I may come across to clients or coworkers by virtue of work or title, no matter how adult I may seem or project to my children… it’s humbling to know that I am not so professional or adult that I can’t be found sitting in the backseat of my friend’s dad’s sedan, answering his questions about the night while feeling like a high schooler trying to get away with something.
Drive safe, everyone. And make some solid friends in your adult years. It’ll change your entire experience.
Me, at 6:45am: A, what is all over your face?
A: um… it was ice cream, Mom.
Me: Oh. …did you make a mess?
A, sincerely and without shame: I did, Mom.
^Please note: soup ladle (his “scooper”) and remains of his ice cream cone. Kid commits to the experience, and you have to respect that.
Before anyone fret over my 3-year-old’s decidedly unhealthy breakfast this morning, please note in the background of the photo that he also helped himself to half a “clem” and, of course, an apple that he’ll surely come back to later.
Related: we have been here before // parenting hack: healthy snacks
FIRST BORN
1st birthday falls on a Tuesday, has family birthday party the Saturday immediately preceding
Spends actual birth day with his parents
Has 1st sweets at his 1st birthday party
Is fully dressed for 1st cupcake experience
Receives a plethora of age-appropriate gifts
Has his favorite dinner: pork tenderloin and fruit
Designer candle atop smash cupcake
Celebrates his first year surrounded by people who love him
FOURTH BORN
1st birthday falls on a Saturday, has a joint family party with 2 of his brothers 1 month beforehand
Spends actual birthday in part at his grandparents as his parents + brothers attend the birthday party of friends
Has 1st sweets sometime around the 9 month mark because Dad likes to treat to doughnuts on Dad + lads days
Is stripped to diaper and bib for 1st cupcake
Receives almost nothing except token items after his parents request “no gifts” for the party
Has leftovers and bananas
Used designer candle atop smash cupcake
Celebrates his first year surrounded by people who love him… including 3 wonderful brothers
It’s easy to assume —
with three boys born before —
that when our fourth arrived at home
we’d know what was in store.
So imagine our delight
when this baby did reveal
that though he looks much like his brothers,
C has his own unique appeal.
He won’t do something standard,
like get around by crawling,
when he can rock the “booty scoot”
and do so without falling.
He isn’t much for “baby” toys
but loves the “big kid” kind;
the noisier, the better,
anything his bros have left behind.
And I’d challenge you to find
a babe more easy-going;
smiles, laughs, and happy claps
with cooing chatter that keeps flowing.
It’s true our home is action-packed,
“got your hands full!” as they say,
but our family was not complete till C,
born last year on this day.
- My favorite controlled substance is daycare. (Both the title and a true statement.)
- Two kinds of cooks. Haha.
- Side-by-side comparison of images via the Hubble and Webb telescopes.
- The six forces that fuel friendship.
“Friendship doesn’t always have to be about presence; it can also be about love that can weather absence.“
Since I began this chapter of life not quite 8 years ago, I have spent 3 years growing babies, 3.5 years nursing babies, and 1.25 years in between during which I was a free agent (minus that whole still being legally and ethically and financially and existentially responsible for said babies).
I weaned C last week, and did so without turning into a blubbery, emotional mess — another feather in my cap of motherhood accomplishments, thankyouverymuch. But really, while the sentimentality of the moment threatened to get the best of me, I faced it with 2 strategies:
- Some good, old-fashioned repression
- A healthy dose of self-reflection and gratitude
During these many years, I gained weight. My feet grew. My breasts shrank… and grew… and then shrank even more. I lost so much hair that I once clogged a hotel shower drain after only 3 washes. I limited the types of medication I could take based on potential interactions with the baby or my milk supply. Per the number of blood draws and IVs I’ve undergone, I can say with full medical confidence that I have “tricky veins” — that it’s worth calling the expert CRNA before the floor nurses “blow out” all the traditionally comfortable places to insert an IV and someone ends up needing to change my blood-spattered towels before the action even begins. I missed meetings, and social events, and sleep to hook myself up to a breast pump, where I spent hundreds of hours isolated and with an uncomfortable resignation to feeling like an animal.
Most of all, I grew and delivered and sustained 4 babies.
For the very real and very permanent price my body has paid over these intensely high-stakes years, and for the off-the-charts positive ROI as a result of that price, I officially adopt a near-zero tolerance policy for any negative body talk. I am not (usually) one for overt and shameless self-congratulations, but this moment feels like it warrants an exception: what. a. champ.
Finally, it’s helpful to remember that this milestone is not just about me. Each time I wean, it means more opportunities for Dave to participate and enjoy the tender bedtime routine with his sons. Clearly, he is quite effective at soothing to sleep.
Related: announcing my pregnancy with C // I come back to this anytime I typo “pregnant”
THE “WHAT HAPPENS IN THE BATHROOM OUGHT TO STAY IN THE BATHROOM” EDITION
With 4 small children, let’s be real: a lot of our household’s goings-on revolve around – ahem – “bio breaks” (as they’re called in the corporate world).
*****
A, while actively pooping on the potty: I like your brown* eyes, Mom. I like your eyes.
January, 2022, 2 years old
*I have decidedly blue eyes
*****
Me, from the kitchen, loudly calling to C in a high, sing-song voice as he scoots around the living room making faces and grunting noises: what are you doing?? Are you pooping, little love? Are you pooping??
A, from somewhere far in the distance, also loudly but in a suspiciously strained tone: yeah.
July 2022, 3 years old
*****
Me: *closes door to the bathroom*
A, immediately following, from the hallway: Mom! Where are you, Mom?!
Me: I’m going to the bathroom. Just a minute, please!
O, knocking on the door: Mom?? Are you in there??
Me: yes, boys, I’m going to the bathroom. Can I have a little privacy, please? I’ll be out in just a moment.
(not even 2 seconds later)
A, forcibly rattling the handle of the bathroom door: but why are you not done yet, Mom?!
July 2022, 3 + 4 years old
This week, effectively a getaway up north with O, has been wonderful. With just the two of us, after work/camp hours we moseyed over to a park play date with friends, deployed all the beach toys without certain brothers demanding O take turns, and enjoyed an indulgent sushi dinner at a restaurant with a dress code (aside: does a Mickey Mouse sweater qualify as business casual?). But there was one thing we’d been talking about since the bros left on Sunday: a beach bonfire with s’mores.
Tonight, the final night of our week away, was go-time. I had been hyping it all week. I had kept the skewers unpacked and out all week for this one night. O had successfully resisted raiding the marshmallows and bars of chocolate all week in anticipation of this evening.
Well, among the many things Dave & I tag-team for efficiency’s sake… evidently starting a bonfire is one of those things. On many an evening, I have put the boys to bed and walked outside to enjoy a cocktail over our patio bonfire. Unfortunately, until tonight, it did not quite occur to me that I have never, in fact, started said fire.
So there I am, setting up our beach’s fire pit with pre-cut beach wood and — let’s be real — a bona fide fire log… or two. I brought my Bic lighter. My 4 year old is excitedly remarking that he hopes I can roast the marshmallows quickly so he can eat his s’mores. But it’s windy. It’s so, so windy. I burn off the first fire log’s wrapper and nothing has caught. I think maybe it’s the lighter that’s not holding a flame? So I pull my 4 year old away from his cache of sweets and go back to get a new lighter. But when we return, it’s the same result. And even with me shielding the wind with a few flatter planks of wood, and starting a new fire log, and explicitly reading the instructions on where to light the fire log… it’s a pretty sad showing until the wind extinguishes it entirely.
At this point we’re over 30 minutes into our venture, with nothing to show for it except that O has consumed much of our chocolate, wandered away to explore the riverbed rocks and see if the local ducks are home, and asked to call Dad to tell him he wishes he “was here to roast the marshmallows faster.”
But then I catch a break, and the fire log lights properly, and the wood on top catches and… I’m just saying, I give Tom Hanks a run for his money in this scene.
We ate exactly 2 s’mores (because that’s all that was left of the marshmallows), and I felt as though I was robbed of something primal when I had to use lake water to quell the last of the wind-swept flames 15 minutes after this picture was taken.
I feel as though I should not count this as some kind of survivalist achievement, and yet I can’t help but close the day thinking… Bear Grylls might need to watch his back.
Related: unspoken arrangements in partnership // quality 1:1 time with a child.
