Photo Journal, no. 61 | This Guy

Here's our boy, 11 months and some change, wearing a onesie his Papa and I bought long before he arrived, long before we knew to expect or look for him.  I found it a few weeks ago while cleaning out the storage unit, and it's been in constant rotation since then.  Mads wears it well, with dirt under his fingernails and on the soles of his feet.

Dear Mads | 11 Months Old

My handsome guys, on Father's Day

Dear Stinky Pete,

Yesterday we had three spills.  First thing in the A.M., you dumped Lunchbox's water dish into your lap in the bedroom as I dressed for the day.  I laughed, cleaned you up, blotted the carpet, and we got on with the morning.  But, a few hours later, when you spilled the (considerably larger and thus fuller) water bowl in the kitchen, I lost my temper.  In my defense, a headache was creeping up on me, and I was feeling a little overwhelmed with a six-person-and-two-dog-household mess.  You were unhappy with me for being unhappy with you, as I clumsily and irritably attempted to clean yet another mess.

Once the water was mopped up and your clothes changed, I, too, was unhappy with me.  I have never wanted to be That Mother: frazzled and angry, short-fused over my kid just being a kid.  I had to remind myself of a lesson I've had the opportunity to learn hundreds of times, a lesson that would make my life not smoother but sweeter, if only it would stick: choose to see things as funny.

I'm a better granddaughter, sister, wife, aunt, mother, friend, person when I'm laughing.  We're all better people when we're laughing.  And I'm of the opinion that if there's any purpose to our existence on this planet, it is to make ourselves and others as happy as possible.

So.  When the third spill happened, a couple hours following the second, I had this lesson fresh in my mind.  Cleaning out the freezer, I spilled a bag of popcorn kernels your Grandpa Bob had stowed away.  And, as the tiny kernels rattled across the linoleum and Sputnik snuffled after them, I forced myself to laugh.  Ha. Ha. Ha.  You, from your vantage point sitting in the high chair, laughed in earnest, then.  And at your giggle, my false laughed transformed into a real boy chuckle.  Once again, I faked it til I made it (with a little help from you).

In the past two weeks, you have cut three teeth, and you've learned to walk the distance of the living room.  Your Papa thinks you're trying to get these things out of the way so come your birthday you can focus entirely and enthusiastically on digging into your cake.  Good plan, Bubba.

Love you always,

Mama

43 Weeks, Tough Guy with his black eye

44 Weeks

45 Weeks

46 Weeks

Dear Mads | 10 Months Old

39 Weeks, in a jumper made by Grandmommy Sandra

Dear Mads,

We're having a rough day here at The Commune (as your Grandmommy once called it, I don't think quite affectionately), as you turn 10 months old.  You and Ella are both teething, with much drool and tears, nursing and snacking.  There's not a lot we moms can do to comfort teething babies, just unsnap the nursing bras and pray (in my case to a Patron Saint of Mothers-on-the-Edge who looks a lot like Lois from Malcolm in the Middle) for patience.  Unhappy babies make for tired, frustrated mothers, and I must admit to you that sometimes when my stores of patience are nearly drained, I fake it.  I fake it til I make it--which works, more often than not.  And, in the case of not, I can always hand you over to your Papa who is a great snuggler and planter of kisses--on dogs' snouts, on cats' necks, on baby's cheeks.

On the 26th of May, around the time the fireflies showed up at dusk for their yearly show of love, you turned 41 weeks and 3 days old; you have officially been outside of my body longer than I carried you inside me.  And, indeed, you seem older to me, more of a person.  You walk along furniture and hold cups to your mouth to take clumsy sips of water.  You and your cousin interact more, are more aware of each other.  You're even trying your hand at telling jokes--you've discovered we think it's funny when you press your face against the baby gate netting, and now you do it whenever you have an audience.

I love you, you little clown,

Mama

40 Weeks, Cool Dude

41 Weeks, Nature Boy

42 Weeks, Little Guy, Big Tub

Dear Mads | 9 Months Old

Celebrating Ella's First Birthday at Grandma's House

Handsome Devils

Hey Bubba,

You celebrated Earth Day by eating a fistful of dirt.  When we saw your Grandmommy later that same day and I told her as much, she recalled the time your papa, around a year old she guessed, ate a handful of sand out of a sandbox and had grit in his teeth for a week afterwards.  As the months pass by, I am alarmed and delighted by the boyness of you.  When you were still nestled in my belly, without confirmation you were a boy but knowing (the way sometimes pregnant women do), I would ask your Papa, "What am I supposed to do with a boy?  I don't know anything about boys."  The answer, thus far, is just stand back and watch, let you do your thing, redirect as often (and unsuccessfully) as possible, then pry the electrical wires out of your fists, take the pens out of your mouth, brush the dirt off of your face, and have a towel ready when your diaper is off because you will pee in an arc any chance you get, and boy do you think that's funny.  When I was pregnant, I met a veteran mother of three boys and told her I suspected I was carrying you, my little man.  She told me, "Boys are so much fun.  But there will be pee everywhere."  Truth.

On the 19th, your cousin turned a year old.  We're all flabbergasted as to how exactly the time went by so fast, particularly when each day time seems suspended in the routines of babyness.  Your Aunt Sierra found a rainbow-hued tutu for Ella to wear, and a big Birthday Girl-declaring headband, and she made her a little cake.  I'm not sure how we'll celebrate your birthday, which is just around the corner now.  I think perhaps your party theme will be, simply, Naked, and I'll let you run around in a pair of swim trunks for the day.  We'll play a lot of Skyclad in homage to your favorite state of being.

It's already May, and we've only just put seeds in dirt.  Luckily for us, North Carolina summers are long ones.

This month you've begun snacking on solid foods (which you prefer greatly to purees).  You're crawling on hands and knees, though you still favor the soldier crawl (for stealth?).  You're pulling yourself up on furniture, and I swear there's another tooth or two ready to burst through your gums.  Also, something we are particularly proud of, first thing in the morning, when you most predictably pee as soon as your diaper's off, you're using the potty chair.  We cheer you on every time in hopes you'll make the connection.

On that embarrassing note, I'll end this letter.  I love you, big guy.

Always,

Mama

35 Weeks, Teefus

36 Weeks

37 Weeks

38 Weeks, always at the window

Dear Mads | 8 Months Old

Mama & Mads at the Misfit Mercantile, in Apex

My Huckleberry Friend,

I may not be the best housekeeper, but damn I love you, and I love your good-looking, good-doing Papa, and I even love, so dearly, that smelly grump of a mutt of his, Lunchbox.  I put a lot more energy into loving you lot than dusting the furniture, and I'm okay with that if you are.  [I think you are.  In fact, you demand even more love, always, which makes vacuuming the carpet a hasty, one-armed affair.]  Your Great-Grandma Clacher freely admits she's not much for cleaning house, never has been.  She keeps her counters wiped down and sink clear of dishes [as do I], but has far better things to do than get down on hands and knees scrubbing or weeding.  She, primarily, is an artist, an activist, a reader and thinker, a talker, a mom and then a grandma.  I can't thank her enough for that time spent with child-me on her lap, drawing pictures of our pets and writing out simple words, when she could've [some might say should've] been wiping down ceiling fans instead.  Dust allergies are a small price to pay for actually living this life.  Don't you think?

A few nights ago, you refused your bedtime.  You were awake well past the sun, but the night was warm enough to take you out onto the back deck to star gaze and soak up some moon glow.  Your Papa and I managed to point out Jupiter, but we need a little help identifying the other myriad stars, planets, constellations.  I think we'll get better with practice, as summer lingers on and on, and you get more headstrong about making your own schedule.  In a couple years, you and your dad can set a tent out in the back yard and try your hand at camping.  And then it won't be long after that before your Grandpa Bob and Papa are taking you out into the real woods, to teach you to tie knots, build fires, to do all manner of efficient, scouting things.  

Long before I met your father I knew the man I'd marry would be able to do three things: grow a beard, build a fire, and talk to animals.  Your Papa does all that and you will one day, too.  It's so easy for me to picture you as a man--I don't know if it's due to your personality or what.  I'm excited about the man you'll be.  But even then, your age in the double digits, a beard on your cheeks, you'll still be my baby.  When you're 80 years old, you'll still be my baby, and we'll still be your Mama and Papa.  Nothing will change that.

I love you, sweet boy, now and forever,

Mama

31 Weeks, with Sgt. Doofus

32 Weeks, wearing a onesie tie-dyed by Selena

33 Weeks, in a pile of laundry, showing off your new teeth

34 Weeks, impossible to photograph without blur

Photo Journal, no. 60 | February Snow #throwbackthursday

As I type this, a month and a half after the fact, it's hot out--an 80 degree day, to be precise.  Sierra, when she learns of the day's temperature says, "Well, we got one day of Spring, at least."  Hard to believe that just a handful of weeks ago, I took these photos clomping around our land in Wolfman's Doc Martins with the neon orange laces.  Whenever it snows down here, I think of my pen pal, Kath, in Alberta.  She lives with snow for months out of the year, but she still always expresses a sense of awe at the first snow of the season.  Nearly every snow we get is the first, because it is so often the last.  This year was a bit different--we had a handful of days of ice as precursor to snow.  The tinkling of ice on our roof and back deck was particularly foreboding this past February, as Sierra and I listened to it, alone with our babies, worrying over our men who were out on the road, trying to make it home to us.  This year's snow happened over night, luckily, and in the morning Wolfman and The Kid elected to stay at home and enjoy it [and give their wives some peace of mind].  We huddled in the living room together where the menfolk got out guitars and the babies shrieked and wiggled.  It was nice, just that--to be with family, to be warm, to watch the snow pile up around us.  

Dear Mads | 7 Months Old

February 6, 2014, 3 days before your 6 month birthday, at Grandma's house

Dear Wild Rover,

You love books and pens but don't know quite what to do with them yet.  You wave them in the air, clamped tight in your fist, and, after a while, you bring them to your mouth to learn more about them.  A couple times now I've had to spit-wipe pen ink off your cheeks.  We received a set of Baby Einstein board books when you first arrived, a gift from the mother of one of your papa's guitar students, and I cracked it open finally about a week ago.  The first book we looked at was titled Nature Words, and when we came to the flowers page you gave a little squeal of glee.  Perhaps you remembered visiting the daffodils blooming across our neighbor's driveway on the first of the month with me, and reaching your hand out to greet them.

Yes, Spring is coming.  In preparation for the warm weather and tall grass, you are on the verge of crawling.  You're mobile enough as it is to cause me trouble, rolling and scooting and always at the edge of the bed the moment I blink my eyes.  But, daily you lift yourself up onto your hands and knees and rock, ready to take that first step [of sorts].  Sometimes, you lift yourself onto your hands and toes in a plank, as if about to do a push up, and your Uncle Bobby is convinced you may do just that, so enthused is he with your sturdy boyness.  I know exactly what it is you'll crawl to when you can--Lunchbox or whichever cat is nearest.  You're taken with our animal companions these days and delight in digging your chubby fingers into their fur [when they let you, which is more often than not].

In the past week you've cut your first tooth, and, like Sunny Baudelaire, you're already trying your hand at biting.  You've been eating pureed fruit and veggie dinners for a month now and seem eager for finger foods, or, at least, eager for whatever's on my plate.  We share bites of banana at snack time, but it'll be another month before you get real snack foods like Ella.  You're favorite foods so far have been banana, pear, and acorn squash [though I was less a fan of what the squash did inside your diapers].  You were not keen on brussels sprouts, carrots, or, least of all, peas.  According to your Papa, you seem to have inherited my sweet tooth.  I hope for both our sakes that is not the case.

Once again this year North Carolina March can't seem to make up its mind.  This weekend after an ice storm in Burlington knocked out their power, your Grandpa Bob came back home to stay with us and brought your Great-Grandma Polly with him.  They left on a 60 degree Sunday, returning to a powered-up house in Burlington [sooner than they'd thought would be the case].  Yesterday [Tuesday], the temperatures rose to 80 degrees.  But, tomorrow will be cold enough to keep us in socks.  By March I am always eager for warmer weather, but wary, too.  Spring never lasts long.  North Carolina loves its summer too much, and the humidity, heat, and sun that come with it.

Love and luck to you this and every St. Patrick's Day,

Mama

February 18, 2014

February 24, 2014

March 2, 2014

March 10, 2014 - 7 months old!