On Sunday night I laid down next to him and cried. It was such a small thing, really, but to me it was the world shifting. Life as I know it, my life, mother-of-babies life, is over. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow will be a new one, and I never even mastered the old one.

He was on his side and I was on mine, and I tried whispering I love you one last time before the baby left and boy began, but I got no reply. And I cried saying goodbye to this era, to the babies, to the rocking chairs and the nursing hours.

It was easy to make the decision we were done when there were still baby years left, when he still toddled and babbled, carrying a sippy-cup everywhere and falling asleep to my songs. Today he runs, speaking words faster than I can understand them, lunching in his barn and telling me as I unbuckle him at the school gate, "No, Mom, I walk in by myself." Now, we are done done.

Two days later, I carry his sorry self across village lanes and over the canal, up a tall narrow staircase and into the waiting room. His brief illness has returned the baby to me, for a couple of days, at least. I feel silly thinking of crying in his bed on Sunday night when yesterday he is curled in my lap for hours. 

I try not be a Helicopter Mom, but I am his. And he is our baby. And the school days won't change that. And at four, we've still got time. And today, and tomorrow, and the next day I have three hours alone in the house with all the babies gone. It's a brave new world and I, mercifully, start over again.

***

I can't promise this will be the last baby-being-done-and-growing-up post. I'm clearly still processing. And he is wearing his Jayhawk blues to represent Kansas, embodying so much of our old life while we live this new one. Does yours look different today, this month, this year, too?

The one who came last

I wrote my Five Minute Friday with pen in my car on this Sunday afternoon. I knew I wanted to write this prompt, and I knew what I wanted to write, but between my birthday and his and summer break and life and work, everyday is a blur and sitting for just those five minutes to write about him didn't seem fair. Until today, whilst Asher slept.

Some days you sit in a car with a sleeping child because this is the only moment of peace in your day. He is a blur, in pictures and in your mind, so that when he is stilled - peach lips parted, chest gently rising, not even a sound escaping - you don't dare move for fear of missing it.

Yesterday was his birthday and the age of 4 betrays the fact that today he is still your baby. 

He is the one who came quickest, the one who came last, the only one to come without being prodded with pitocin. He's the one who came in a white wrought iron bed, the one whose eyes first blinked at the Irish sun, the one born by the sea. He's the one you felt the most, far from home and without so much as a drop of tylenol, so that when he was placed on your chest, fresh and wild from the womb, you forgot what you had fought so hard for, for only that moment.

The midwife said, "Look, your son." And you asked, "My son?"

Yes, that's right. Four years and so many suns and moons ago. Two continents and half a dozen homes ago.

My son came in a blur; quick, and last.

***

Sometimes on Fridays I write, with Lisa-Jo Baker and her gypsy friends. Join us here.

On being done, but still holding on

So it turns out, I don't mind it all that much. Every night his chubby hand reaches for mine and he asks, "You lay down by me?" We've both settled into it nicely, now. And even though the sky is still bright as the days linger longer, we lay down. A few books between us, cars and trucks jumbled in blankets. I lay down by him and he turns to his side, snoring. Asleep in no time.

We are in the rhythm.

He's our last, you see. No more babies. It's a remarkable feeling, actually; freeing and contented. I didn't think I'd ever know with sureity. But the second he left my body and entered the world, I knew this was it. We felt complete and just like that, we were done.



I thought I'd correct all my mistakes, redeem all my failures with this third baby. I embraced the inner earth mama, waist deep in cloth nappies and pureed organic blueberries. I am gonna do right by this one, at least, I thought. But co-sleeping and nursing on demand was not as romantic as it sounds (what? that doesn't sound romantic?) and when he self-weaned at nine months, I was sad, but secretly somewhat relieved. I was done with all that now. I am done.



Except, now he's almost done, too. With babyhood. He's leaning into the preschool years, testing his speed and growing his words. And I'm beginning to grieve a little bit. For not getting it all right in the beginning, for the lost months of nursing, for the era that's now come and gone, too soon. Babyhood is waning. At three-and-a-half, it's actually mostly gone. We are done, and now I make peace with the grieving.



So, when he falls asleep in my arms as we cuddle after bathtime, I breathe in his hair. I take photos everytime those lashes stop moving. I lay down next to him in the cozy twin bed, listening as his snores sing me a lullaby. I am perfectly content to be here, in these fading moments of babyhood, committing his eyelashes to memory, the fullness of his cheek still round with baby fat.

I don't mind it, these final acts of co-dependence. I'm not allowing regret any more leeway. I will lay by his side, until we are done.

I was ugly :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 25}

I think I will regret this, putting it out there. It is so much more, so much heavier - wrought with humility - than a witty 31-day-series tag line. Writing down the words, words I've only said to two, maybe three people... writing them here for you to see.

You will judge me, but I feel compelled. I want to see how truth is beauty. Even ugly truth, made beautiful by what happens, what came, how God was in it anyway. The beauty, it's all him. The ugly - that's me.

The truth is, I didn't want him.

I took the test in a fit. Of course, of course. And when the second line turned pink... of course.

We had talked about a third, always wanted a third, even named a third. But I wasn't ready. And I wasn't happy. And this was not the way it was to go.

Ireland was new to us, only a few months old to us. The wheels were greased, turning easier and faster and we were ready to hit our groove and sail right along. I'd been given an assignment, one I felt so proud to deliver on and make mine, one I hadn't even begun yet. I sat in a coffee shop, sick and stressed and hiding our secret.

We were idiots. And now there was a third. And I didn't want him.

This is ridiculous: a married mother of two not liking the timing, the inconvenience of a third child. This is the worst thing: to know how God loves and creates tiny humans for the delight of eternity and to feel so distraught over it. We were (mostly) in love and we were (mostly) able to readily welcome an addition, and yet I was (mostly) in despair, for no other reason than my misguided desire for a life worth something... more.

The not wanting... the not accepting, not thanking, not participating in the life within drained my reservoirs of faith. I was so ashamed. I was so afraid. I was so sure I would not - could not - mother him the way I ought. I was ugly with selfishness. I hid from God.

But... but... of course. Something changed. We grew.

Two months of sickness and stillness makes one think and leads one to pray and allows one to rest in the inconvenient, inefficient nature of God. Around week ten I was nervous and antsy. I began to worry that my not wanting him made him go away. I was in a fit, knew it was too late, wanted to take it all back. We begged to be seen by the local GP (weeks before my first scheduled antenatal appointment in the hospital). We needed to hear it; I had to know.

We heard the heartbeat, and Ella's laughter rang through. 12 weeks along. Then 16. Then 33. Then due date, contraction, labour... a boy. The beauty, it's all him.

The truth is, I was ugly and did not want him. But he was beauty and we named him Asher. Happy.



Are you in this place, dumbfounded - saved - by beauty amidst the ugly?

When your baby is no longer your baby :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 8}

Help.

He's growing up. And I am not handling it super well.

Ok, so he's only nine, but he might as well be 19 for all the huffs and closed doors and big hazel eyes dodging mine. When I sit next to him and explain the hows and whys of discipline - how it's all wrapped up in love, how our hopes for him rely on a few boundaries - his long fingers play with fraying jeans.

Do you understand? Would you like to say something?

Silence.

I know this is how it goes, and I remember what they said. When your baby speaks only in howling cries and you don't know if he needs food or nappy or a change in scenery, they tell you it will get better. And harder. How the days and years fly by. How one day you'll have actual conversations. How they might even break your heart.

But he's nine, and it's too early for fighting.

How do you grow with your kids? Are you all mess and tears, like I am?

The literal call of motherhood, at 4 am

The baby woke up at 4 am this morning.

(perhaps I shouldn't call him "the baby" anymore, as he's all toddler and little boy and craziness, but seeing as how he doesn't say actually enunciated words yet and still gets his bum cleaned up every three hours, we'll stick with "the baby")

It's a strange dichotomy, this motherhood: the dire need for sleep and the utter inability to lift up one's head that early in the morning, together with the sweet thought of baby breath nestled in your neck and a human pillow to hold.

So, I gave in. After waiting for a few moments to see if the crying would peter out, which of course, it never did, I unhooked myself from the girl who had burrowed her way into our bed, steadied my feet in the extreme darkness, and headed towards his call.

The cuddling was short-lived (there was a need for milk), and the laying back down was traumatic (no mother wants to close the door on a baby who wails, "Mama!"), but within seconds the house was silent again. I made my way back to our room, where the mildly sick husband tried to inch out some free space apart from the sleeping daughter.

All it took was five minutes, if that. I did my job and went back to bed. The five of us content.

he has a dimple in his chin, wouldn't you know!

A deep breath, in five

Only a day late, and a few words short, but here is my Five Minute Friday post linking up with GypsyMama.

Deep breath...

I hear him before I see him, the sing-song call,

"Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee."

I open my eyes to see the bedroom door swing wide and crash into the wall. Huffing and puffing, now,

"Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee, Mah-Meee."

He flings himself on the bed, swiftly and expertly, crawling on hands and knees for the first time in ages, across sheets and pillows and duvet. A smile, a giggle, a hug, a gentle whisper,

"Mommy. Mom..."

We lay there for a moment, so brief and still. We smile and laugh, and he hops off the bed as easily as he hopped on. He's on to the next adventure, all torso and chunky thighs, laughing and calling,

"Da-deee, Da-deee, Da-deee."

I take a deep breath and steady myself, because the baby is gone. He's gone and growing and going only in one direction: up. All I can do is breath and remember this one moment, before it's gone.

Go ahead and give it a go.

To stay awake, or not to stay awake...

So I've been staying up later, consistently and increasingly, over the last few weeks. Today I realized why. If I'm awake when the wee man wakes up for a feed at 1am, then I don't have to wake up, too. I'm just dreading going to bed now, knowing that I can't just sink in and rest. My muscles tighten, I roll over slowly and silently, I wait for the scream. Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe tomorrow night I'll stop saying, "Maybe tonight..."

My theory on why God makes babies cute. So we willingly put up with them just for a chance to see that smile or hear that giggle or finally get to see them fall asleep sweetly.

Case in point:






So it's 12:09. Do I stay up and wait for him? Or do I just take what I can get? Beggars (or mamas) can't be choosers.

JOY

Having babies brings about writer's block

Since my brain is sleep deprived and incapable of putting more than a few words together, here instead are a few of my favourite pics of my burgeoning brood:

Baby Question Mark

Until now, we have been referring to the womb baby as Baby Question Mark. Well, there is no longer a question as to what this baby is. A sonogram this past weekend confirmed we are expecting a baby BOY! 

We're all pretty psyched about it and can't wait to meet this little one. The sonogram also showed that while he is a bit on the big side (at nearly 35 weeks he weighs 6 lbs, 1 oz), everything looks good and there's no need for worry. Apparently short people carry big. Ha! 

As I'm sure you can tell from previous posts, it's actually been a quite difficult pregnancy, emotionally and physically. I know a lot of you have been praying for this pregnancy and our baby - I'm so thankful! 

 

Forgotten Girl

In all the hubbub of Jackson's life changing drastically, I realized Ella-centric posts on this blog are lacking. So let me tell you a little bit about our girl:

Our somber little non-smiler appears to have changed overnight.  She is simply boisterous. She laughs and sings and dances and speed walks (her favourite olympic event).  She loves to tell jokes, and loves even more to laugh at them.  When Skype opens up on our computer, she runs into the dining room, yelling: "Gramma! Jessica! Papa! Grampa Huber!" We can't leave the door open for a mere minute without her escaping down the street. 

Her best friend (besides Jackson) is our baby neighbour, Rachel. They exchange greetings every morning, love to say eachother's names over and over again, sharing pacifiers and little buggies and laughs and tickles. 

She has numerous "babies", all named Emma or LarryBoy. She eats sand by the scoopful, licks rocks, and loves to fall bum-first into the surf of the Irish sea.

She's also a great little sidekick for Jackson. A gift we thought we'd never have.