Third Year

Three years ago today, our journey began. I woke early feeling very different, my hands resting up high on my big pregnant belly. As I laid there, I was calm. Anxious to get the ball rolling. Excited to meet the little miracle growing inside me. I laid and waited, contemplating my life and the me I had known. This was it, my last day in the presence of this self I knew so well. My body progressed, doing a good job of reassuring me of the new life close by. And somewhere between the thirty five hours of pain and perseverance, you emerged. Eight pounds of perfection.

***
Tomorrow is your third birthday.

I love you so much, sweet girl.

Sunrise. Sunset

Most days feel like the ones prior. An exhausted extension of one, months, maybe even years ago. Each one is similar to those neighboring days of the week, long and mundane. I'm ready for a nap shortly after I wake, looking forward to the almost ritualistic moment where I creep in to check on my sleeping babe, covering her small warm body just gently enough to wake her.

She wakes almost every time, sitting up instantaneously, sleepy-eyed with a perfectly sculpted head of hair. And in those few moments I hold her tight, her usual inquires taking place- the potty, a cup of milk, and snuggling up in our bed for the remainder of the early morning hours. I agree to all of the above, naturally, knowing that our small yet very significant moment together is the only way I want to start my morning.

***
 
After the sun has set and the sky is dark, she asks for her cup of milk. We lie there, quiet and still, listening to the quiet songs of the crickets outside. And as her breath softens and her eyes become heavy,  I whisper how much I love her. And just like every other time, she responds with, "You're elcome".  My sweet girl.

***

Most days I have regrets about going back to work full time. I miss our late mornings, long baths, and spontaneous trips. I miss spending time with my girl. But I value those moments that start and end each day because they are mine.

This is the best part of working full time- coming home to this.

Tomorrow

It's late and I'm tired. My spirit feels heavy and weary, the lingering thought that tomorrow could very well resemble today. This phase is getting the best of me, leaving me at times with a sense of defeat. I'm exhausted and I'm overwhelmed. But as I sit here typing away, my eyes heavily burdened by love-filled tears, I am hopeful. Hopeful that tomorrow will be a new day, bringing new opportunities, new strides, and some progress. Bare with me, sweet girl. I love you.

New Day

 When you are in love you can’t fall asleep because reality is better than your dreams. -Dr. Seuss

The sun rises each day, presenting a new opportunity to love her a little better. A little more. To get to know her and to see her a little clearer. And I've been falling so hard for this little girl lately.

Even after those that seem never ending, exhausted from a day's worth of mothering, after all the smooches, the noses, and the group hugs, when she's all tucked away in her crib and I sit on the couch to reflect on my day, all I want to do is scoop her up and have a couple more minutes. In those reflective moments, the moments at the end of the evening when my day is put into rewind and played back in my mind, that is when my life is put into perspective. All the negativity, the exhaustion, the irritable state of mind I was in during nap time because Lola's animals wouldn't stop talking to each other and because she wouldn't stop shaking the bed, those little moments are stripped down and puffed away and all that's left is how I think her little two year old imagination is beautiful and the realization that she squirms only to prevent herself from napping when in reality, she ends up knocking herself out. I should just go with it more.

She is so charming and so expressive.

I've come to realize that every night as I go to bed, I don't do it hoping to fall asleep and dream the dreams of my little girl running through fields of wild flowers, laughing so hard because she thinks knows her mom is the funniest human on the planet. Those dreams would be nice, of course. But I do it to wake up to her. To see her little morning face with matted hair and hear her little voice chirp the sweetest words as her little eyes catch me in her sight, "Hi, Mommy!"


Love.

I sleep to wake to a new day with her. The next page in this chapter of our lives.

Uncharted Waters - First Edition

The uncharted waters of the terrible twos have been about more than the rogue waves of public temper tantrums. They have been about development. Independence. Spontaneous bouts of affection and a sensitive, comforting spirit.

I'll touch more on the other aspects later, but for now I just want to say that I am a proud mother. In the past two years, there have been countless times where I've sat and wondered if we're raising our daughter right. If by raising her, from what may as well be a state away from our family, will she be confident? Self-assured? Will she believe that she is worthy of everything that life has to offer and more? I've wondered if raising her without religious foundations but teaching her to love and be compassionate, will that be enough? Can she grow to be good and do good and to love all equally? Will she make the right choices?

I've seen a glimpse of a product of hope. And I am proud.

My hand-me-down cold took a turn for the worse when my ear became stuffed up to the point where I couldn't hear. Pros and cons, let me tell you! It turns out, it is only an ear infection, but a severe one at that. This morning after getting home from work, I felt horrible. Nauseated, cold, feverish, and dizzy. Desperate to be taken care of.

I was reassured that everything would be fine. Lola looked at me with those big browns and said, "Mommy sick." Did I mention that I love that she calls me mommy now? She came over and stuffed a variety of her plastic fruits and vegetables under my blanket, for nourishment of course, each time covering me up and patting my back softly and slowly. This little gesture, the affection and thought behind it, came through with her big, comforting spirit.

She's turning into a good little human.

Calm seas ahead!

The little things we do

Before I found myself wandering along the winding roads of motherhood, I remember thinking, "motherhood can't be all that hard". And I don't mean this at all in any way to discourage you soon-to-be mothers. No one tells us, at least not to the extent, about the sleepless nights, the spit up covered (or in Lola's more recent case, vomit-encrusted) clothing, or even the sense of defeat when dealing with a sick and inconsolable child. And if they do let you in on this little bit of truth, this valuable bit of insight, they go easy on you. They fluff things up, using words craftily sewn together like, 'oh it's not that bad', or 'my child never cried', leaving our hearts a little more at ease. A little more comfortable. A little more confident about the wonderfully rewarding task ahead.

And the moment that little body comes out and into the world, something happens. It's as if we've spent the last however many years of our lives senseless, numb to the beautiful world that surrounds us. Our ability to think and feel become heightened. We become more loving, more caring, and more compassionate. We become better women. This whole new kind of love shines brightly, getting us through those late night feedings, those sleepless nights when silence seems so loud, and the days when sickness has left our children held tightly in our arms. It's in these moments, these long, exhausting, short tempered moments, that we are rewarded in abundance. When we finally realize that we are here to provide a service, to nurture, well these are the moments when the love we thought we knew so much about supersedes our own expectations and understanding.

We mothers travel to the moon and beyond fueled by this love in search of whatever thing may distract our poor little sickies from feeling the way they feel. We pull out all the stops, bringing out the special treats and going the extra mile. We work hard to bring smiles to those lifeless eyes, to lift their heavy hearts, to make sure they feel taken care of. We disregard the comments and reviews given by other moms and pull out the colored bubbles, making even this sad, little, lethargic chicken excited about bath time.

We find ways to distract them from moments of discomfort, listening to this same song time and time again, relishing in the stern-to-grin expressions that seemed to transformed right before our eyes.

We bend our own rules and make exceptions, utilizing a bubble machine bought for this little two year old's birthday party. Hearing to loud and enthusiastic chant of 'bubble, bubble, bubble' left us confident that progress was being made.

 We make soups to nourish and revive, sprinkling a little bit of care, a dash of hope, and a couple extra heaps of love.

We allow them to take ownership of our beds, knowing that a little extra snuggles could potentially mean a lot of extra sleep. Well at least that's the way I think of it.

We'd travel to the ends of the Earth if it meant our children would be well. That's a mother's love.

 By the way, Lola is feeling much better. I'm happy to report that after a week of being under the weather, my little spice muffin is back!

Happy Friday!!!

This Stage

I frequently find myself looking back at pictures from this time last year. It's a great reminder of where we've been, the road we've traveled, and the obstacles we've overcome along the way. It's humbling and it's encouraging. It's the chance I get to see how my sweet little babe has blossomed into the sweetest little girl.

A girl who enjoys a table piled high with all her favorite reads, the plethora of snacks, and the sweet sounds of Hey, Dude as she sings along to The Beatles. That's Lola's version of Hey, Jude. A girl who sits daintily, plucking out each individual raisin before happily plopping it into her mouth. A girl who, at times, seems way older than (almost) two, sits calmly turning page after page, boldly reciting the names and sounds of each animal. Such sophistication.

There are times though, when her true age shines through. These are the moments I enjoy most. Moments when raisins come out of their little boxes clumped together. The way she stops to examine, both intrigued and disgusted all at the same time. The way her fascination takes over and she becomes focused, soaking up its information, trying to figure out if it's inedible or just the ultimate clump of deliciousness.

 Her mind is quickly made up after taking a small hesitant nibble. "Cool", she replies! Labeling something as cool, must mean it's a-okay in her book. We're just waiting for her to say, "(insert mama or papa here), Cool!" That one hasn't happened yet.

This stage is a funny one. I thoroughly enjoy the way she counts out objects. Her raisins for instance, combining and mixing up the numerical order and languages of English, Spanish, and a little bit of gibberish before tossing one of the little guys into her mouth. "Uno, pive, two, tow tow, ten!" 

We'll keep working on it.

The way her little mischievous mind works. Thinking that this mama has been fooled just because she sits calm and collected for the moment. Ha! I'm not fooled though, because my friends, we had another little sneaky attempt like this one from a few months ago, therefore naming her untrustworthy with crayons. After startling her with my "mom voice", she jumped and had the "caught with my hand in the cookie jar" look written all over her face.

I love her little sly expression. The "I'm gonna look at you while I bite this crayon but I'll stop as soon as you look in my direction" look.

 Lola, you should learn this now. I am your mother! I am omnipresent. No matter how sneaky you think you are, I'm always one step ahead of you!

Happy Tuesday!

Waking up to the goodness of my reality

Last night in my dreams, the unthinkable happened. I dreamt a dream so horrible that when I mentioned it to Pieter this morning, my heart sank to the deepest depths of my stomach, my throat became dry as a desert, and my eyes began to tear just from recollection alone. I dreamt last night that my little sweetness had been taken from us. Robbed away so fast, that when we finally realized what happened, it was too late. 

We were at the pool with friends and family. It was the classic mid-Summer day, bright and beautiful with a soundtrack in the background of  loud bouts of laughter and children's voices chanting Marco Polo as they splashed. I placed Lola in the water, in the shallow end because she didn't know how to swim. She was timid at first, slightly overwhelmed by the drastic change from hot sidewalk to the chill of the pool. She was amazed at the sight of this large body of water, amazed at the sight of the big kids cannon balling, splashing high. She laughed her great laugh, the one that comes from her belly. The way she does when she thinks something is really funny. She was excited to be there.

Pieter and I were asked to join in on a game taking place at the other end of the pool. So we left her under the general supervision of family sitting closest to her end. I remember leaving her there, smiling at her as we began to drift off to the other side. Taking a mental picture. Watching her splash happily. Seeing her face light up with joy. I wanted to remember her in that moment, in all her innocence. As Pieter pulled me toward the other side, I remembered the sunshine and how it's heat seemed to brighten everything up, overexposing it. This would be the last time I saw her.

I remember feeling like we played for a long time. You know how dreams do that? They make time seem as if it drags by but in reality, it only last the blink of an eye. I remember clouds rolling in. The weather changing fast. I headed back to the shallow end, leaving Pieter to continue the game without me. From a distance, I couldn't see her. I remember thinking to myself, 'she probably got too cold', expecting to see her running around. When I finally made it over, I asked our family where she was. I remember the blank looks on their faces, their lifeless eyes glaring hard into mine, realizing they had forgotten all about her. I thought it was all a joke. I nervously laughed it off, truly knowing deep down, that that was it.

I became frantic, calling out to Pieter. I tried convincing myself to stay calm. To take deep breaths. To ignore the thumping heart in my chest. The pulse in my ear. I remembered that she couldn't swim, hoping to God that we'd find her in the pool somewhere. I felt guilty as I swam around looking for her. As people leaned nervously over the edge of the pool hoping for her tiny, lifeless body. Hoping for a chance to revive her. But there was nothing. I cried. I worried. I felt a sickness come over me that I knew would never subside. I missed her more in those minutes than I could ever explain.

Fast forward. The cops were called and the search began. Days and days passed, and we knew that with more time came less the answer that we wanted.This part of the dream is vague. I remember feeling distraught, helpless and confused. Feeling like I had lost everything. I felt my sanity slipping away. Like I could never recover. The police would eventually find her kidnapper but never her whereabouts. I remember pleading with myself, trying to wake up at numerous points throughout the dream, but it kept going. I remember thinking, 'why can't I just wake up', the way I do so easily when I'm in other dreams too horrible to sleep through. But I couldn't. I felt as though I had been hijacked, forced along a ride with an ending I never wanted to know.

Then she woke up crying. And in that moment of half drowsy-half consciousness, I woke to the goodness of my reality. Pieter placed her between us. She quickly drifted back to sleep, rolling over a bit to find her sweet spot. I followed her lead, waking up periodically to catch a little glimpse of my world. Each time, my heart confessed the love I have for her, of the hurt and sense of loss I felt for the seconds my dream lasted. Of the regret. I apologized and promised that she would never feel scared or lost or abandoned. In those moments this morning, my heart spoke to hers in volumes of the life she would live and the love she would feel.

Today, I am thankful for my reality. Today, I will love her a little more.

She's a-growin' up!

My little girl is growing up. It's becoming more and more clear every time I see her shoot across wood chips, scaling to the top of the playground, moving with agility, light as a feather, and ample fearlessness. 

  It becomes more and more true to me every time I watch her explore her surroundings, taking in the world around her like that liquid-absorbing sponge.

 I see the growth in her as she proudly recites the names of animals, colors, and types of transportation. Their names verbalized a little more clearly and a little more confidently each time. I see the way her eyes excite in the presence of new places and new people. She is quick to charm and even quicker to dive right in.  

She finds joy in the simplest of things, indulging in the entertainment they offer. The beauty of her age and innocence is radiant. Beautiful. Pure.

 And just like every other wildly curious little one, she sleeps deeply after a hard day of play. She rests through heat and bumpy conditions because when she's out, she's out!

 And though the days to her second birthday are fast approaching, I occasionally get little glimpses of the little babe we brought home from the hospital. Every once and a while, when I least expect it, there she is.

 I caught this lovely little sight from the bathroom mirror while washing my hands. The way the sun spilled in over her lean, little body, her little legs fluttering up ninety-degreed, took me back to the earlier months of her infancy. Days when she would rest next to me on the bed, quietly and contently. Her big browns scanning the ceiling from the light to our blank white walls. The days when I would get lost in even the subtlest changes in her facial expressions.

Her birthday is inching closer and closer, leaving me with the sweet little memories of the way we were then.  I'm missing the days of simple beauties, the way her breath felt warm and smelt so sweet, the way she would grasp my finger while I nursed her. Those days are long gone, but these days and the days ahead have been filled with simple beauties of their own. I'm overcome with joy when she makes new discoveries, shares, or laughs at things she thinks are funny. I am in love with her little personality, her wittiness, and her spontaneous bouts of affection. The little babe that I miss so much is in there somewhere and I'm thankful for the glimpses and the reminder of our journey so far.