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.
After a wonderful week+ on vacation, O & I are hanging “up north” — just the two of us — as he was the only bro to get into a local day camp. The ability to work remotely, with my child safely engaged in outdoor activity for the entirety of the day, from the comfort of our home-away-from-home sure sounds ideal, but in practice, I was anxious on Sunday night as I prepped for the week.
For starters, O is our second born, and, while he is uncannily brave in moments when he needs to be, he’s not used to trailblazing without his brothers. In addition, he tends to freeze under pressure, so while many children may cry crocodile tears that evaporate as soon as their parents walk away, O is at risk of becoming inconsolable and retreating into a place of forlorn unresponsiveness for an extended period unless he has pretty undivided attention of someone aiming to resolve his woes.
All this to say, I was nervous about Monday morning drop-off at a camp that sounded promising but to which he had never been, particularly as he’d be going completely solo.
As a result, O & I conducted a reconnaissance mission on Sunday and came to scope out the camp. We puttered around the grounds and remarked on all the cool features, including winding trails through the woods, promisingly titled cabins (“library,” “workshop”), and beautiful beach section.
We then went to the store to pick up meal fixings per his selections — his first brown bag lunches! He chose: half a jelly sandwich, Pringles, applesauce, strawberries, baby carrots, and Mario fruit snacks. For snack, we froze yogurt pouches and packed them with goldfish crackers.
On Monday morning, he was in good spirits, and I resisted the urge to get frustrated as I wrestled him (literally, including fear of head injury as he thrashed about in a ticklish fit) to apply his base layer of sunscreen. We marched over to the check-in tent and made our way to the corral where the kids were playing until start time. O was just beginning to show signs of anxiety when a friendly little girl showed up behind us and asked where she was supposed to put her backpack. I clarified that we were told either one was fine, but that we were putting O’s with group A. She happily placed hers next to his, and told him she is “5 and a half years old.” O quietly replied that he’s “4 and a half,” and a friendship was born. I encouraged them to go together to the music garden a counselor had pointed out, but they quickly got bored and she instead showed him the way to the jungle gym, where they played with a 6-year-old who was wearing the same dinosaur “sweaty pants” (Target acquired) that O absolutely loves in his own wardrobe.
I let him know I would be heading out to work soon, gave him a kiss and a hug, and only loitered another few seconds before I walked away with him monkeying around with his new friends on the playground behind me. I tossed my bag (which had covertly housed his favorite stuffed Ankylosaurus in case of emergency comfort need) back into the passenger seat, and drove back home until 4pm pickup.
I guess after 4.5 years of being consistently impressed by this unassuming kid, I shouldn’t be surprised that he delivers in a pinch. On the other hand, it would be hard to overstate how happy I was to hear his joyful report as we drove home from the first day. Clearly he had a wonderful time, even if all he could specifically remember from his itinerary was that he “went swimming and had a snack.”
And if that wasn’t evidence enough of a busy day well-spent, he also spontaneously demanded to know “why are we not sleeping yet??” at 7:30pm that same night. By 7:35, he was sound asleep with “Anky,” resting up for his next big day at summer camp.
Immediately following our first strong gust of wind, and immediately preceding me forcibly launching myself into Lake Michigan:
“let go!” my dad yelled —
meaning “of the sail” and not
“of the entire boat.”
