Hey Brother,

Today is your birthday. You are 26 years old and I remember the day you were born.

There was a brief phase where I masqueraded as a ballerina. I'm not sure who's idea it was: Dad's or my Mom's or your Mom's. Either way, it was ill-advised and I was seriously no good at it. On the night of my big recital, as our sister put on my sparkly make-up and worked her magic with the curling iron, Dad was rushing your mom to the hospital. Sometime in the night you were born, happily drowning out whatever clumsy mishap may have occurred at my ballet recital. For months I kept a crinkly hospital photo of you with me, showing it off to my friends and teachers. Proof I had been gifted a brother.

I'm ashamed to say I don't know you better. We've never really lived together, unless you count the summer where Laura and I drank Dr Pepper by the litre, trading babysitting and VBS duties (I got stuck with VBS). I remember more about her Poison poster than I do about about your habits, your toys or the books you liked to read. But I know you loved a good dance party, and at Christmas in that first small house, as they were trying to fit in this new mosaic of four children, I would hold your small arms and dance. You were blonde as could be, beautiful and mostly, I think, happy.

I know you haven't always been. Happy, that is. I know grade school was horrible for you. Teachers were cruel and children didn't understand.  I know you couldn't see well. I know we would sit by your side after your first surgery (I was in college, but came home for you), when you were only beginning to see the world how it should be, and cleaned out your puke bowl.

I know when you were first diagnosed with Asperger's and it was scary and confusing, but a small light in a long, dark tunnel. Who you were until then was like a jigsaw puzzle without straight edges. But the diagnosis gave us all a horizon from which to see you. Your puzzle pieces slowly started to fit together and we would test you with flashcards:

A smile = happy
A frown = sad



It can't have been easy, having three highly emotive, loud, domineering big sisters. I speak as much for me as I speak for us all, and I'm sure they wouldn't argue. Well, they would argue, which I guess is the point. We could easily drown you out with our fighting and our loving, but you were what we all had in common.

You are the permanent link. You share all of our blood and in you we each see a bit of ourselves, blending so well with the mark of each sister.

You were 11 when I got married, walking tall and proud to light candles, which of course didn't light. Your highly logical mind took that as a challenge and you seemed to stand there for ages, waiting for each wick to burn. I love that memory of you. Of not giving up. Of knowing how things should be, and insisting they come around.

But then I moved away. And you grew up. I had kids, and you became an uncle. Three boys would sit at your knee, and though you wouldn't hold them (afraid of the kissing and the drool), you met them at eye level. Showed them how to play a drum. You muss their hair, still, and you love. Greeting them with a smile.

A smile = happy

You taught them that, like we taught you. And the mirror image of your scruffy face in the roundness of my Jack or Laura's Justin would shine. You are a brilliant uncle and a kind brother. And we love you, even when we're not sure how to say it.

I will try not to overpower you with my voice and hand motions and kiddo insanity. I will try to let you just be you, to watch and to learn and to understand your heart and your mind. Your puzzle is not yet finished, though I think a piece is placed every day, every Christmas around the dinner table. We're still figuring you out, you see. And that's OK, I think. You are so much more than we realize.

Thank you for being patient with us, with me.

Happy birthday. I love you. I miss you.

Love,
Your Sister

Dear Woman, It's Celebration Day

Dear Woman,

Yeah, you in the back row, crying your eyes out like it's a rescreening of Titanic. This is celebration day! Last day of school! Pull it together!

Cuz your kid? That's a sweet, happy smile on his face, standing alongside his friends. He can multiply, read 300-page books (much thanks to Ms. Rowling), create businesses and play kickball. He knows the planets and sings the presidents. Every year he experiences, learns and grows more, and today you get to cheer him on as he advances to the next round. He is alive and becoming a better human being every day. Rejoice!

Sure, there will be tears eventually (or in an hour), when he realizes not all teachers are adorable 20-or-30-somethings. He will sigh at the exasperation enrollment and doctor's forms and learning names will cause. There will be gritting of teeth and forgotten homework, and eventually, yes, puberty. You can cry then.

But today? Smile for your boy... because he is on a fantastic adventure and he knows it. And so are you... because you gave birth to him and God said, "Show him the world."

So what are you waiting for? Dry your eyes. Let's do this thing.

Yours,
You

On sick days we hold one another.

On sick days we hold one another. Sticky, chubby fingers find mine as he breathes (not so easily), in... and out... Croup has come to roost in our too-small-for-a-sick-coughing-crying-toddler apartment and I spend most of the day in bed. With him. Watching Barney against my will, but contentedly succumbing my hand and heart to his sad need for comfort.

Is there nothing worse than this, your child in pain? For however long or however it hurts. Any old hurt, really. A missed-out game or a straight-to-bed. A boy who longs for fresh air and playgrounds but remains sequestered under the quilt and sipping water. They trade off hurts all day long and I hurry from one to the next with kisses and band-aids.

So today, in between whimpers, we hold on. I remember that this is where it's at: being there for them when it hurts. This is good and right. Dishes in the sink, work on the table, clothes on the floor... they are nothing compared to this. A mother doing nothing but sitting by her child's side.

I see he's safe and resting and I get up to go. "No, mommy here," he croaks. So I lie down next to him and he smiles, pain-free for the moment. Sticky, chubby fingers back where they belong.

Oh, and also

We need milk.

With every bowl of cereal

He's counting down the days and I'm trying not to mourn the 8-years-past-baby, now 9-in-three-days boy who sleeps on Clone Wars sheets two doors down the hall. I look at him in wonder, and yet still try to avert my eyes to the obvious fact he is aging, growing, living days faster and faster.



He is proof of clocks and calendars. He is the second-hand of time. His face changes by the minute, his heart is bigger and wider. His legs are fuzzier than they used to be. His mouth quickly turns from smile to smirk to puckered lips. He knows and spells words that used to be gibberish. He reads faster than we can keep up, and we find ourselves debating and discerning, wanting to keep him naive and fresh indefinitely before his brain discovers and his heart struggles with the mysteries of evil, trouble, and heartache.

Every morning he comes to me with hugs, asks for cereal, smiles with sleep still in his eyes, and I miss him so much my insides sigh. For with every moment, every word, every book and every secret he debates to share (for big boys aren't as quick as small boys with the thoughts they quickly and happily give their mother), he is less and less mine. More and more Yours.

And I give him up to You with every bowl of cereal.

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.

Decisions, decisions...

I've been thinking about penises a lot lately. How's that for an opening line? Well, in actuality, I've really been thinking about the circumcision issue. Now that we've had a boy in a European country, we've come face-to-face with the controversy and confusion over why or why not to circumcise. I'm not going to list all the reasons to or to not circumcise - I'm sure we all have our own. But that having been the decision we made for our first son - and were on our way to making for our second son - we now find ourselves in a bit of a conundrum.

Originally, we were totally set on the matter: circumcision was the way to go for our boys. Being Americans, we viewed it as a cultural issue, as well as a health issue. However, now residing in Ireland, having your child circumcised is way easier said than done. Upon Asher's birth we were looked at with a bit of disdain by the attending pediatrician when we asked about our circumcision options. We were told that it would be at least 6 months before Asher could be circumcised, he would be put on a waiting list, and then when it was his turn, he would be put under general anesthesia for the "operation." This did not sound ideal to me. I thought briefly about obtaining the services of a Mohel and having a psuedo bris, but this didn't seem like a particularly honest or ethical option, either.

So, our names have been sent to the local pediatric surgeon, and I'm waiting to hear from him with lots of trepidation... needless to say, I'm extremely hesitant now about circumcising Asher. I'm just not sure, in the long run, if it's really worth it.

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!