Happy birthday, littlest cub!

I think I should rename this blog the Birthday Book. I seem only to make it over here when my kids have a birthday and I'm weepy.

And here I am again.

My tiniest bear cub will be one year old tomorrow. I don't even have her birth story on this blog! (Heck, I don't have her older brother's birth story on this blog.)

We had an early birthday party for her at church today, and it hit me last night that she really, truly is growing up. I didn't tell her she could. She doesn't seem to care.

I sneaked into her room last night and watched her sleeping. She was so peaceful. Not a single cry or fuss. And I didn't wait for one. I picked her up and took her into my bed just to snuggle with her. Because by tomorrow she won't technically be an infant anymore. I'm running out of chances to smell baby breath and breathe in baby hair and listen to the shnuffly little snores.






When I put the biggest bear cub down for her nap one afternoon this week, it was a glorious September day, with the sun streaming in the windows of the bedroom and making our blue walls seem like the sky itself, lit up with golden light. And I was immediately taken back to the day I came home from the hospital with this littlest cub, and I took her into the bed and had a nap with her on my chest, breathing gently and making me feel more content than I have in years. Maybe that's because she's just a very chill baby. Maybe it's because I finally felt as if I "had" this newborn thing.

This birthday is a particularly hard one for me. This is the baby who would splay out across my chest as a newborn and simply soak up mommy time. I'm pretty sure she took a nap in her crib just about never, because I couldn't bear to put her down. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she didn't quit crying when I picked her up. She loved to snuggle; she loved to be worn in a carrier; she loved to be in her sleeper. She wasn't particular.

This is the baby who grins up at you and you're immediately completely frozen, admiring her laughing eyes and her dimpled grin. She loves to laugh. She loves to babble.

This is the baby who hears her daddy come home from work and speed-crawls down the hallway to sit at his feet and tug his pant leg until he picks her up. When he does, she rubs his goatee, lays her head down on his shoulder, and begins patting his back. And she doesn't move from there. She just wants to cuddle.

I am watching this little one emerge from infancy into toddlerhood and I am wondering what she will be like. For a long while I thought she would be soft-spoken and gentle. I actively worried about whether she would ever get any airtime in this house. Then she learned to eat solids and to demand them loudly from her high chair. Shortly after that and her subsequent crowning as Queen of the Nazgul, I stopped worrying.

Then I wondered if she would always be so patient and even-tempered. Cue the frenzied shrieking upon being deposited in her car seat, and her attempts to grab my arm and bite me as I fastened the buckles. Sic transit endless patience.

Would she always be so sweet to her siblings? And to other children? Well, she's smacked her brother in the face every day this week. Multiple times. And she's begun taking out other small children too. So she may have a touch of thug in her.

But at the same time, she can coo so gently you wish she'd never stop. And the hugs . . . oh, the hugs.

Happy birthday, Baby Girl. You are a joy and a treasure to your daddy and me, and to your big sister and big brother. You are the smiliest, sweetest, silliest, most loving little monkey and we are blessed that you are ours. Please don't grow up too fast.

Five years . . .

As I sit here and think about the significance of tomorrow, it hits me like a ton of bricks that tonight is just as momentous! Five years ago tonight, I was at the hospital, dreading every contraction and praying things would not get any worse. For the record, I had the easiest labor on earth. But it seemed bad at the time.

My baby will be five tomorrow. I never thought I'd be a parent who choked up at such a thought. But I am.

Those pictures of my precious baby four years ago . . . three years ago . . . two years ago . . .

Where did the time go?

Why did I spend so much of it worrying about stupid little things? Missing the big ones? Neglecting the cuddles and tickles and giggles?

It's never hit me quite as hard as it's hit me tonight.

Last night, Daddy took her to a play. Hamlet, to be exact. Now, to be fair, I reasonably expected I'd have at least another five years before Daddy was hauling my daughter off to Shakespearian tragedies. But he didn't have to drag her. She went so willingly, and understood so much. People gathered around her to admire this tiny little girl who was loving seeing all of the actors after the performance. The actors themselves got down on their knees all around her to talk with her. And she very sweetly thanked each one for his or her performance. She particularly liked the rather dashing young man who played Hamlet, and who very kindly signed her Great Classics Illustrated version of Hamlet, which her daddy had brought with him so she could follow along.

My baby is so big.

The other night, while Daddy was reading Hamlet, he asked her who would be king if Claudius weren't. "Old Hamlet," she replied. Daddy acknowledged her point but reminded her that he was dead, which was why Claudius was king. He asked the question again. "But Daddy," she protested, "Old Hamlet wouldn't BE dead if Claudius weren't around."

How did this happen?

As each child is coming along and going through the stages of their little lives, the stages are more painful, in a good "you're growing up and I'm proud of you but I'll miss my tiny baby" sort of way. I cried the other day when I put the tiniest baby's bouncy seat in the basement in favor of her Exersaucer. Perhaps I ought to blame hormones for something that silly, but I don't.

Five years ago tonight . . .

To think I had no idea whom I would meet. We didn't even know if she would be a he or a she! We certainly had no idea of the lung capacity she would have. Or the sheer stamina. We had no idea how difficult it would be to get her to stop shrieking.

Or how beautiful it would be when we did.

And now she is our big girl. Kindergarten in the fall. Dresses and dancing lessons and reading and all of the signs of a growing girl. All of those landmarks I couldn't wait for when I was pregnant, and when she was a fractious, shrieking infant. And though I don't miss the fractious times, I so desperately miss the tiny times.

I love you, my beautiful baby girl. I love you more than you could ever know, and I always will.

Christmas quotables

My daughter spends far too much time being quotable. Often for all the wrong reasons.

Christmas Day was no exception. After a sleepless night with the littlest Bear Cub, Eldest Bear Cub and her brother were up by 7 while their father slumbered peacefully. (To be fair, he was up by 8.) We ate a leisurely breakfast to be sure their tummies were full before we started on presents, and we only opened a few of the presents because we knew that Gramma and Grampa were coming for dinner and bringing Holly Jolly Excess with them, and because we are doing the Twelve Days again this year.

The present opening was lovely. The boy opened his armor and sword set, which he then proceeded to wear as he chased around the house screaming at the top of his lungs. I totally saw that coming. BC, on the other hand, opened several art-related gifts, and spent the rest of the morning coloring and using her new art supplies. She did beautifully with it all. But I left the room to get a shower and get ready for church. The littlest Bear Cub apparently was offended by my decision to get dressed rather than to come in and play with her, and so she commenced hollering and wailing. Apparently she wasn't the only one who was offended. BC assessed the situation and began to postulate about the end of the world. Because, wouldn't you? "Maybe it's the end of the world," she said, loudly, to herself. "Maybe this baby won't have time to grow up." I was troubled, but she assured me that all would probably be well since I came to get the baby. The imminence of apocalyptic conclusions depended upon the degree of baby's unhappiness, I guess.

That was followed by an incident while brushing teeth today: I accidentally got a touch of toothpaste on her thumb. She said, "Um, thanks for getting toothpaste on my thumb."

"Where have you learned to use sarcasm like that, BC?"

Long pause. "Umm, you?"

Yes, see, I knew that would be her response. I think I was just hoping it wouldn't be. "Honey, generally speaking, if Mommy does it, you shouldn't do it. You shouldn't talk like that."

"I shouldn't talk like a big person talks because then people will expect me to do big person things."

"What, like drive?" I asked.

"Yep. Or use scissors."

Scissors. I hadn't thought about scissors. But of course I"m sure she's right. But she continued: "Or climbing ladders."

I had no response to that.

Catch-up . . . all the time

I feel as if I'm constantly playing catch-up. Always thinking about things I want to post, and never quite getting there. There are so many quips and such from BC that I will never remember and that I have forgotten to post. That makes me sad. But this post is a compilation of several of the things she's said in past weeks that made me just shake my head!

We went to the zoo with a friend a few weeks ago. They had a lovely time watching the snow leopards and the penguins and the lions. They slid down the slide through the otter exhibit and watched the otters frolic. But the wolves did not come out to play. The wolves were asleep. BC was so terribly, terribly disappointed. Crushed, even. When we got home, I asked both kids what they had most enjoyed. The little man piped up, "RAAWWWWWRR!!" He clearly enjoyed the lions. But BC said wistfully, "The wolves would've been my favorite."

*****

A few nights ago we were waiting in a pharmacy drive-thru when the little man noticed a small pond with ducks on it. Daddy pointed out that the ducks were getting their noses wet, a concept which both fascinates and deeply troubles our son. BC announced, "No, buddy. Ducks don't have noses." I corrected her and said that their noses are on their beaks. In a tone of teenage snark, she responded, "Oh. Okay. Do they eat with their noses?"

*****

She is trying to learn a sonnet for her daddy. She learned "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" for Daddy's birthday, which he just loved. This time she's working on Sonnet 116: "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds . . . " As I recited it to her, she stopped me and said, "No, Mommy. That's not true. Love IS love."

I can't begin to tell you how much I stumbled around trying to explain that one!

*****

Tonight, she and her brother were playing outside when she realized she couldn't find one of her art projects. I admired her attempt to construct an irregular past tense: "Mommy, where is my house? Did it get threwn out?"

Later, we found a toad. The kids love toads. Absolutely nutty about toads. And tatey boges (potato bugs in Buddy Monster speak). But especially toads. I brought one over for them to look at, and Buddy Monster ran and grabbed a church-shaped bird house that we had in the garage and wanted to put it inside. We ultimately did that, but not before BC took careful stock of the situation. "Mommy, this looks like a baby toad. I think if I kiss this toad now, then by the time I grow up it will change into a prince." I like this kid's advanced planning.

Night wakings

It's 3:45 a.m. as I'm writing this. I'm listening to my son yowl in the next room. He's actually alternately dozing off and then yowling "MAMA" and I can't go in to him. It's a killer. At least he's still in his bed. It took 16 times putting him back in before he'd stay. We've been at this since 2:45. Awesome.

My son doesn't know what hit him. Poor little tyke. He's been running this house for . . . well, for about 23 months. And he can't figure out why I'm not in there nursing him. Because I've been an idiot for 15 months. This won't cure the 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. waking. That's a whole different creature. But this will set some boundaries.

Did I mention we've done this before? Repeatedly? I'm trying to sound optimistic about this . . .

But while I listen to him wailing and depriving everyone in the house (including himself) of sleep, I want to focus on something that makes him a cuddly wonderful Buddy Bear. Every evening now, I sing him at least the opening verses of "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes (set to music by Loreena McKennit). He nurses while I sing. This relationship has lasted much longer than it did with Ellie, who was done by 14 months and never looked back. But this little guy is definitely a mama's boy (hence "MAMA!" coming from the next room every few minutes -- it's a mixed blessing) and he loves mama time. So when I sing, I come to the verse, "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart," and he always unlatches and kisses my chest. It is the sweetest, most beautiful little boy kiss. And it makes these long, long nights less miserable to think about it.

The ADD flea

My son, whom I adore, is a pip. He won't sleep. He's entirely unwilling to play nicely with his sister and acts exhausted all the time. But, as I said, he won't sleep. And each time we sleep train, we have massive regressions within weeks. Just contemplating sleep training him is exhausting.

But I have to think that this failure or refusal to sleep only makes his unfortunate proclivities that much worse, the worst of which is his inability to focus on one task or occupation for more than 3 minutes, literally. He has the attention span of a flea. A flea with ADD.

Tonight I decided to include him in dinner prep while his sister was still napping, so I told him he could put the carrot slices into the steamer basket after I cut them up. The two things he did manage to fixate on were the stray carrot scrapings in the sink ("Eww! Eeewwww!") and the one piece of carrot whose cut was crooked. That truly appalled him, and he refused to have it in with other carrots. It was the pariah of the bunch. But once we got past that, he could not put more than 3 pieces of carrot in the steamer basket without moving on to bigger and better things.

Splashing in the sink.

Reaching for knives.

Acting like his stool bars were the parallel bars in a gymnasium.

It was quite remarkable. It took him 25 minutes to get slices from 3 carrots into a steamer basket. He seemed to be having a lovely time doing it, but it was excruciating for a "git 'er done" type like myself.

And then there is his sister, who finished a 200-page children's version of Arabian Nights in one day today. Nothing like some quality reading time with Daddy on his sick day.

The Twelfth Day of Christmas

We focused this year on making sure we didn't have the Great Deluge on Christmas Day, and instead stretched out the Christmas season, both as a sort of silent protest against the secular pre-Christmas bedlam that starts at Halloween and climaxes with a crashing halt on December 26 that is lifted only by the promise of the Valentine's Day paraphernalia that is put out by ill-natured drug store elves during the early-morning hours of the day after Christmas; and as a consciously Catholic recognition of the importance of the Epiphany. It went quite well, really. I think the kids are still young enough that the promise of one present each night excites giddiness, rather than irritating materialistic tendencies. Tonight, they opened their final presents. Buddy Monster got some lovely blocks; Bear Cub got some fun princessy Halloween costumes for dress-up; and then there was a final joint gift of play doh. Who wouldn't love that? Of course, the prospect of sharing the play doh resulted in a regrettable meltdown, but I suppose that goes with the territory. And a lovely bath was had with the new "water dolly" given by Gramma and Grampa. She so desperately wanted a dolly who could be in the bath with her. What she got was this truly bizarre mermaid-like critter with a tiny body and a head of such immensity it's almost troubling. But she can go in the bath and she is dearly, dearly loved. And she has been named Tinkerbell Emma Kluvitt (pro. Kloovit). I have no idea.

As we listened to the wind whipping about the house and anticipated markedly sub-zero temperatures and high winds, we felt the warmth of family life with which we have been blessed. We are truly, truly blessed on this Epiphany, both by our temporal comforts and our eternal hope.

And so we welcome the Gospel in the western world, and we recall the true meaning of Christmas, which, as Father Matthew Pfeiffer has pointed out, is always overshadowed by the cross, our true salvation and victory. Just as we have done our best to shun the secular Christmas Holly Jolly madness, we likewise recognize that Christmas is not utter rapturous joy. The God of all became a human being -- one of His own creation, and lower than the angels -- so that He might die for us. God in a manger -- a feeding trough. Heavenly host rejoicing that their Lord had become one of those who was beneath them. God as man. All a contradiction, just as Simeon had predicted. And God -- God as man -- would hang on a giant contradiction before the mocking crowds. And by his death, He would bring life. But that tiny baby in the manger whose virginal mother watched over Him -- over her own God whom she had just borne -- though entirely innocent, would die, as God knew. May we remember each year that the joy of Christmas must give way to the agony of the cross, and, in so doing, may we embrace our Saviour's incarnation with fervent hope, faithful joy, and eager anticipation for our salvation.

Deo gratias.