Another Ending

When forty minutes' worth of work yielded next to nothing, I went through the motions as always. Disassembling the parts, washing each by hand, setting them on the rack to dry. I sat back down at my desk, ostensibly to work, and instead spent a long moment staring at nothing.

Saying goodbye.

I've done this before, but I'll never do it again.

Pumping milk isn't something anyone enjoys doing, but it represents my body's ability to take care of my baby. It has been a rather large part of my identity, on and off these past seven years. It was a daily routine that forced me to look away from the computer monitor and focus on the task I wish I were doing with the baby I wish I were with. And saying goodbye to this is saying goodbye to having a baby. Forever.

And therein lies the problem. The finality of never again holding a baby – my baby – is heartbreaking. I adore all three children and love how they're growing, but as long as I live I will never love anything as much as I have loved my babies. The tiny size, the heavenly smell, holding them while they sleep, those first expressions, the grip of their little hands, the complete dependence.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Here's a peek at what we've been up to lately.

Making Faces

Truman Taking Pictures in the Car

Fletcher's Music Concert

Chases

Trying to Walk (she has managed a few steps before falling)

3D Movies

In the year 2017

Today is January 16, 2017.

Someday my children may wonder what life was like when they were little. 

At six years old, Fletcher is on the threshold of discovering just how hard it is to grow up. The emotions are up and down and hard to control, a river with a smooth surface and a deadly undertow. "What do you want to do with me?" can be heard from him at least once per day, and I'm sorry to say our reaction is often a groan because we have two other children and a million things to do and HERE'S A VIDEO GAME. (Sorry.) We play a lot of card games (Uno, King's Corners, War, Go Fish, Old Maid) and board games (Trouble, Candy Land). We make up dumb games that both boys enjoy like bowling to knock over baby toys, balloon battles, and making and throwing paper airplanes. He can read anything now if he takes the time to sound it out, so his level of success in school is more about improving his willpower than his intelligence at this point. He rarely ever wants to play by himself, unless it's video games.

At three years old, Truman loves putting puzzles together and watching movies. He has the highest of highs and lowest of lows, not just because of his age, but because that is how he has always been. He can throw tantrums that would win gold Exploding Eardrums Awards, and yet he can be the sweetest most charming little lovebug you ever snuggled. He often speaks in the third person ("No, Truman do it!") and will repeat the worst things you say ("Damn it!"). I'm sorry to say he's showing keen interest in video games as well, but he's still very active and happiest when he's being chased around the house. Unlike Fletcher, he enjoys playing alone as much as he enjoys playing with you. Recently, he began showing interest in his sister, coming up with little games that make both of them laugh. In the car today, Clare realized that if she turned her head sharply, she could see me in the driver's seat, and every time she did it, Truman would tickle the back of her neck and they'd both dissolve into giggles.

At one year old, Clare is eager to get more mobile and get into more trouble. She smiles and laughs often, including when she knows she's doing something we don't want her to do, like going after nightlights. She loves her family. She's still breastfeeding because she likes it better than the bottle and I'm in no hurry to end that chapter of my life. She crawls, climbs up to standing, and occasionally walks along holding the couch (or her favorite—Truman's toddler bed) for support. I can't lie; babies are my favorite age so far. Everything about her (except for how she fights diaper changes) melts my heart into a puddle. I can't get enough of holding her and nuzzling her and making her smile. She already loves having her picture taken. Her favorite foods include animal crackers, graham crackers, applesauce, corn chex, and goldfish.

Andy and I both work full time and struggle to be enough for our children and ourselves. Days are so short and fast, we have trouble keeping up with the dull, repetitive tasks of our lifestyle (dinner, dishes, homework, baths/showers, brush teeth, bedtime, make lunches, moan about life, REPEAT AD NAUSEAM). We love it. We wouldn't change it. I'm going to miss it someday. It's still hard. No earth-shattering revelations here.

Outside the safety of our home, the year 2017 is shaping up to be strange and tense for anyone paying attention. And I think that's a very important task, paying attention. The country gets a new president this week, and each day things are changing in subtle ways, which history has taught us is how authoritarianism begins. "What is the precise moment, in the life of a country, when tyranny takes hold? It rarely happens in an instant; it arrives like twilight, and, at first, the eyes adjust." Trump says the most effective military alliance in history is obsolete, and he will not say a word against one of the world's most dangerous terrorists, Putin. With his corrupt appointees and methods of psychological manipulation, Trump will corrode the system of checks and balances. He is already destroying the freedom of the press and will continue to use his methods of psychological manipulation to get away with massive ethics violations, conflicts of interest, market manipulation, and worse.

Even if he is not being blackmailed by Russia, his actions are not based on facts but on his opinions, which change at the drop of a hat because they're based on his fragile ego, as well as keeping and compounding his privilege. He is constantly the victim.

That is the ugliest part of all of us, times a thousand. And I think that is what keeps racism going; not so much "I'm a horrible person who wants to enslave you based on your skin color," but "I don't realize I'm a horrible person for wanting to keep the privileges I didn't earn because I have lied to myself inside this bubble to the point of believing that we're all equal now and you just haven't earned it."

This lack of empathy, this habit of talking instead of listening, this unwillingness to self-examine, this unwillingness to humbly admit there's a lot that white people don't know and refuse to see is a problem. I hope that I am strong enough to raise my children to be humble, curious people who will never stop watching, listening, asking, examining the self, and trying to be better people. I hope I will make them proud during both dangerous days for our country and the safe everyday moments of our mundane, privileged life.

So I will shut up now and listen. Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

"I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. The Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to 'order' than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: 'I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action'; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a 'more convenient season.' Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will." Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from a Birmingham Jail, 1963

5w 2d surprise

Dear Surprise Baby,

On Sunday, May 17, 2015, I found out that you exist. Barely. I was only four weeks along. But the night before, your daddy kept asking me why I was standing funny and rubbing my torso, and I said, "I feel like I'm pregnant." So that next morning I took a pregnancy test just to be funny, and there was that immortal second line on the test in a nice dark blue. I took another test to make sure. Another positive.

I couldn't really breathe right for the next couple hours. In the shower, I kept cycling through the emotions: incredulity, joy, anxiety, eagerness, denial. I giggled. I tried to catch my breath. I texted my friend because I had to scream HOLY SHIT at someone.

When I told your daddy, I'm pretty sure he said, "Are you kidding me?" (He was barely awake.)

It's been more than a week now, and I think about you constantly.

There are a million difficult decisions to be made. (Ahem, now accepting donations for minivans and daycare.) But I promise you, we'll figure it out. We'll find a way. Whatever we have to do to bring you safely and soundly into the world and into our lives, we'll do it. We'll take care of you.

You're going to love your big brothers. I can't wait to tell them the news.

I can't wait to know you.

We're all going to love you.

More on emotional exhaustion

I'm glad that Fletcher was born first and Truman second. I'm not picking favorites.

Being a first-time mom was incredibly taxing because it was so filled with uncertainty and adjustment. Every day was the first day of being a mother to someone Fletcher's age. Every one of Fletcher's firsts was a first for me.

It was only intrinsically hard, not extrinsically. Fletcher's cries mostly made sense, and I mostly had the time, energy, and attention span to totally baby him.

My entire opinion of motherhood was shaped by my relationship with Fletcher. Our bond was instant and focused and unhurried. At the time, I suspected he was either an easy baby, or my parenting method was really effective (answering every cry to build a kind of inherent comfort and confidence).

Yeah, no. He was an easy baby. *slaps first-time mom version of myself*

Truman came along and is testing all of us. Grandma Patty calls him her prima donna, and it's an apt description: an undisciplined person who finds it difficult to work under direction or as part of a team. Try telling him he's not in charge, though, and your laughter will devolve into pitiful sobs of exhaustion inside an hour.

I might not feel the same about motherhood had this been my first experience of it. This time around, my brilliant parenting method isn't physically possible. I'm close; I feed him as often as my body can, I hold him and carry him as often as my back allows. I give him more attention than I give Fletcher (which is another whole guilt-filled story). I can't help feeling, though, that quantity is hurting quality. I can't focus on getting to know Truman if I'm focused on helping him stop crying. I can't nurture the mother-baby bond if he's screaming at me like a teenage girl in a slasher movie.

(He's been a lot better recently, and I'm still knocking on wood. If he downs three bottles in a row and gets a decent nap in a dark and quiet place, we're good. Well, he is good. I am out of milk.)

Here's one problem: No one else is quite as affected by Truman's screams as I am. They bother me to the core. Because if he's crying, something is wrong, and by god I want to help him, even if it kills me. That's a mother's job, to do everything possible to care for her baby. And if Truman's cries are honest, I'm not doing a good enough job.

Emotional exhaustion from loving the baby: a good feeling.
Emotional exhaustion from being battered by the baby's cries: a terrible feeling.

This time around, parenting is extrinsically hard, not intrinsically. Had Truman been born first, I'm afraid motherhood would've been both.

He doesn't cry all the time, and I'm sorry to make it sound like he does. It only stands out because it's different from Fletcher. I'm so sorry for Truman that he'll always be compared to his big brother.

Now that Truman's personality is beginning to come through, it's becoming easier to focus on him as an individual. Just remembering the sound of his baby laughter fills me with warmth. I may not be rested or energetic or in control, but Truman has brought more joy to my life than I ever expected or could deserve.

I'm so in love with him. I don't want to forget his smell, the way he blows raspberries and squeaks when he's excited, the recognition in his eyes, how happy he is when he succeeds at putting something in his mouth, his giggle when I tickle his armpits, his amazement when he watches his brother.

What makes a mother's love special is that it depends on nothing and is affected by nothing. I will never stop wanting more time with my sons, never love them less, never stop living for them, and never stop wishing for more time with them.

Hungry Trumonster

Dear Trumonster,

No one can whine quite like you. It's okay; we still love you. But my god, you can scream.

Maybe it's some version of colic that lasts forever. Maybe it's some form of gas that's impervious to gas drops. Maybe I'm writing this at 3:00 a.m. because, in your limited experience, life is just really really hard. After all, following your colicky first six weeks, you were only healthy for maybe two weeks before we all got the cold that never ends. I can understand that a world where you've always been congested might seem a little cruel.

I have a different theory. I think maybe you're just CRAZY ABNORMALLY HUNGRY ALL THE DANG TIME.

It's okay. It's very American of you, actually. I fill you up with all the milk I have, and you just want MORE. Not Enough. Need More. And in that mood, you scream when we change your diaper, when we set you down, when we play, when we do basically anything. The screaming only stops if we walk around with you, lulling you into sharing the same exhausted haze that is your father's and my constant companion.

Sometimes you're too tired to eat and too hungry to sleep. These are good times.

If you notice I'm not taking myself too seriously here, it's because I know you're getting enough to eat healthwise. Each time we take you to the doctor, you fly off the charts in height and weight. You were never in newborn clothes and barely in three-month clothes. At five months old, you are now poking holes in twelve-month clothing.

All of this—your constant hunger, exhaustive crying, enormous size—contributes to this one feeling that consumes me all the time: it's going too fast.

I remember thinking that the first five months of Fletcher's life were my favorite. But your first five months? They went so blindingly fast, it's like they never happened. And it breaks my heart.

I wish I had Hermione's Time-Turner so I could go back at the end of each day and just spend time experiencing you. Time continues to be the enemy. It doesn't help that I spent so much time during your pregnancy looking forward to your newborn and baby days, building them up in my mind, so that now I can't remember where they went.

You're a miracle. Screaming or not, you've burrowed your way into my heart, right there with your brother. And I wouldn't change you. (We're all very entertained by the big guy you are. The excitement you show for eating your first foods is so hilariously appropriate that we have to remind ourselves not to constipate you with too much rice cereal. You're a riot.)

You've taught me that I was wrong to be self-righteous about what a "good" baby your brother was. In Nature vs. Nurture, I'm putting just a little more stock in Nature than I used to. (And when is it not wrong to be self-righteous? I'm a foolish girl. You bring me back down to reality.)

I've said it before, like so many other parents: I just want it all to slow down. Don't be in such a hurry, Truman. Take the time to be a baby before you eat your way into childhood.

I love you completely.
Mommy

Truman Thomas

Dear Truman Thomas,

You were born on a Tuesday. You were late. As we've come to learn over the last five months, you don't do anything you don't want to do, stubborn little boy that you are.

These past months, I've been taught a lesson that began on the day you were born: I can't expect anything with you to be the same as it was with your brother—not even labor.

In the days (weeks) leading up to your birth, I kept looking for that one big, obvious contraction that signals the start of labor. (The start of labor has to be obvious to me this time around! I'm experienced! I've done this before!) Hahahaha no.

On Tuesday, October 1, 2013, I had my usual macaroni and cheese for lunch. A couple hours later I felt nauseated. An hour later, really nauseated. By 5:00 p.m., worried that something was wrong with you, I called and asked if I could see the doctor.

"How far apart are your contractions?"

"I don't really have any."

"Okay..."

So I left work, met up with your dad, and dropped your brother off with Grandma Patty and Grandpa Paul, just in case. We headed to the doctor, who suggested we go to the hospital because I was probably in labor.

Convinced this felt nothing like labor, I was fairly certain this was all a big waste of time. I hauled my huge body down to the hospital, got hooked up to a few monitors, and just hung out with your dad watching TV.

"Was that a contraction?" I asked.

"Yep," the nurse said. "You're the most calm person in labor I've ever seen."

It felt like practically nothing, a little niggle of discomfort. They came and went, and I was never very sure if they were real or imaginary. They told me I was in labor, but I couldn't shake the feeling that they were "deciding" I was in labor because, hey, you were overdue and I was in the hospital so might as well get this show on the road. Then there was the fact that the doctor was leaving the next day for vacation. So while I was dilating at a steady pace, she thought it would be nice to hurry things along by breaking my water.

Your labor had two stages: before breaking my water, when your dad and I were watching Full House and joking around with the nurse, and after breaking my water, when I threatened the lives of everyone in the room. Of course it was not until part two that I asked for drugs, at which point the room offered only awkward silence. It was too late for that.

I believe 9:00 p.m. was the time I texted family members that they were breaking my water and there was no turning back now. Grandma Bernie got the gruesome play-by-play via text as the next hour of absolute hell tore me to shreds (I dictated to your dad since I was a screaming, writhing mess clinging to the hospital bed with every muscle). I guess I thought Grandma Bernie might enjoy being in on the action, and I was trying to create some levity for myself.

I kept thinking during that hour: There's no way this baby is going to come out of me the natural way. They are going to have to cut this giant baby out of me.

You do have one thing in common with your brother. The first part of you that became visible got the same reaction from the room of medical personnel: "Look at all that hair!"

Get him out. Get him out. Let it be over. 

It's difficult to describe how hard it was to do the hardest physical work of my life when I was at my most physically exhausted.

But out you came at 10:12 p.m. All 9 pounds 12 ounces of you, a whopping 22 inches long. Had you not immediately peed and pooped on the doctor at the moment of your birth, we're convinced you would've hit the 10 pound mark.

And you haven't stopped growing since.

I'll write more soon, I promise. Know that the second child's typical lack of representation here in this journal is not symbolic of anything but the complete lack of time your presence has created for personal activities. You see, I'd rather be spending my time with you.

Love forever,
Mommy

They gave you to me a few seconds after you were born
and I couldn't believe I was finally holding my beautiful boy.

first birthday

It smelled like summer that day, like sweat and sunshine. It had been hot that week, but May 23, 2010 was scorching. It was a wet heat that soaked through the skin.

For a woman in labor, it was hell on earth.

Labor pain gives places new meaning. The bathroom at Andy's cousin Adam's house, where I sat on the edge of the cold bathtub while panting, completely bewildered by what was happening... the couch where I sat with Andy and his cousin Alison while I explained away my red, pained face as an effect of the heat... that exact place on my bedroom floor where I, in shocking pain on my hands and knees, wondered at the contrast of the cat's serene face...

These places were incidental before. Deep pain leaves deep memories and creates the greatest kind of significance. Pilgrim Road, a little road I take all the time, will always be the longest road I was ever on. The hospital room, as antiseptic as any, will always be my favorite room in this entire world.

Five hours of pain. Then one hour of horror.

And then magic.

It may be the trauma, or the newness of the experience, or the knowledge that your life is changing, or the body chemicals that create this significance that eclipses all other life experiences. I believe it to be magic. And I believe this love defines me.

Dear Fletcher,

Many years from now, you'll be a grown man with his own ideas who rolls his eyes at the way his mother gets emotional every time she gets the chance to hug you and tell you how you mean the world to her.

You were amazing the day you were born. You are amazing today. You're going to be an amazing man.

I wanted a baby for a long time before you finally arrived, and even I was blown away by the miracle you are.

I understood beauty the first time I saw you.

That first night of your life, you got to stretch your muscles for the first time, hold your head up, open your eyes and see what you could of this new world. In one year, you learned to crawl and walk and eat and play and deliver those coveted hugs and kisses. You learned what you want, and what you don't want. At your first birthday party, you sat on the grass in the sunshine and studied the world with your curious eyes.

There's a lot of world out there. You make it beautiful.

Many changes are ahead, and you'll continue to grow and learn. I'm going to make mistakes. Maybe you won't grow up eating all the healthiest foods and doing long division in preschool, but no one will be loved more.

You'll be a man someday. But you're my little boy today. And you'll have your mother's heart forever.


Love,
Mama

one year ago

Exactly one year ago, I was a different person. I was hugely pregnant, uncomfortable, and impatient. I didn't know that the greatest day of my life was only two days away. In fact, I expected I'd be pregnant for the rest of my life another couple of weeks.

I remember the suspense, both the fear of and eagerness for the unknown. When I wrote my last post before meeting my son, I had only two days to go before experiencing the fast, furious, screaming, blinding, shot-out-of-a-cannon, horrible, delirious, absolutely awing handful of hours it would take to be introduced to him.

I couldn't know what was coming. It isn't something that anyone could explain.

I struggle to remember life before. Though I wouldn't have described it this way, I remember the cats being placeholders in a void I wasn't completely aware I had. (Now, the cats are more like toys that happen to think and move for themselves.)

Like trying to remember a dream, I have a sense of the unending stretches of time over which I was sole dictator. I remember snippets of the sensation of pregnancy.

I dreaded having to wait for Fletcher, before I even knew how amazing he would be. What would he look like? How would his voice sound? Would he be healthy? Would I know what to do?

One year ago today, I didn't know my son. I didn't know how to be a mother. I didn't know what my life was about to become.

Joy.

toddler

I haven't posted in a while. It's mostly because I'm busy and sick. It certainly is NOT because the baby hasn't changed.

Excuse me, toddler.

He's gone with lightning speed from first steps to walking. Sometimes, crawling is faster, but you can see on his face that he loves walking and he knows what he's doing. I think his record now is something like 45 consecutive steps. His confidence is awe-inspiring.

He remains uninterested in sippy cups, but he's willing to drink water and juice now.

He's more vocal. I'm still not 100% convinced that he associates "mama" with me and "dada" with his father, but he says them plenty, as well as baba, nana, and various other growls, whines, and babbles. Blowing raspberries is still a favorite.

Yogurt had been the only item on his will-not-eat list, until the recent mess he made with his toddler dinner of chicken, noodles, and peas. None of it would stay in his mouth. Nor would he pull the food out and put it on the tray. No, he let it all fall out of his mouth into his lap and onto the floor.

He plays differently with toys. All those little buttons and pulls and levers that meant nothing to him before are becoming interesting as he discovers cause and effect.

His laughter cures all.

As with all things related to him, it's bittersweet watching his rapid progress into toddler-hood. You'll have to forgive me for still calling him my baby for the next, oh, fifty years.

we're going to be okay

I hated pumping. Why is packing up the breast pump the final time making me cry? The nondescript black bag harbors 11 months of memories I wouldn't have called significant. Once again, symbolism packs an emotional punch for me.

At first there was fear and unsureness.

Then I got the hang of it. Pride.

Then things got difficult and the fear returned.

But with the fear was also confidence that I could count on myself to do the right thing for the person who's counting on me.

So I'm okay. We're okay. We're going to be okay.

weaning

On May 23, 2010, around 6:00 p.m. I nursed my newborn for the first time. Soon, I think, I will nurse him for the last time.

It feels like the scene from the movies, when there's an earthquake or some other tumultuous event that forms a fissure across the ground, often separating two people. What had been one land mass becomes two islands, apart. Your hands stretch out, seeking, but you can't cross the void.

I'm not ready, emotionally. I can't determine if Fletcher is ready. My body has taken the choice away.

Google-provided definitions for "wean" only make it worse.

To gradually deprive infants of mother's milk.

Withdrawing the supply of mother's milk.

To cease to depend on the mother for nourishment.

There are many instances in the life of a mother where it is necessary to metaphorically cut the cord. For me, the first instance was at 5:05 p.m. on May 23, 2010 when it wasn't a metaphor. The second instance will be the moment when Fletcher turns away from my empty breast, much as he did tonight, and then never seeks it again.

When that happens, how long will my futile hands reach across the void? How long will I ache? I think, perhaps, for the rest of my life.

11 months old | easter

The official 11 month photo:

 Runners Up:

 

whoopsies!

Do you have Fletcher overload yet?

How about a couple Easter photos!

steps

He's been taking two unassisted steps (and then falling) consistently this week.

He waited until I had the camera turned on to take six (and a half) steps. Best baby ever? Yeah, I thought so.

Since the taking of this video an hour ago, he's done it a few more times. It won't be long until we call him a "toddler."

Toddler?

How did this happen?

teamwork

The fallout of a baby with a cold, ear infection(s), and eye infection taking two doses of amoxicillin per day, is the diapers. I think the medicine may have worsened that part of his cold.

While I was beginning my Thursday (getting out of the shower this morning), Andy was ending his Wednesday (getting home from work around 6 a.m.). The daddy-baby bonding time was cut short by a dirty diaper of such epic proportions that I was recruited to help. Stark naked.

Want to know how far up his back the poop went? Sure you do. His neck. I think we even found some poop in his hair.

Nothing finishes off a shower better than nakedly attempting to wipe down a squirmy baby who's wearing a poop coat.

As the only one who wasn't naked in this scenario, Andy did say he felt left out.

This time, Andy and I worked together and no one threw anything. He wasn't inefficient or questioning. I was thorough and not temperamental. Still naked, I got Mr. Squirmy into a new pair of pajamas. Andy faced the task of cleaning out the disgusting old pajamas and doing a load of laundry.

Crisis over, I was able to finish getting ready for Thursday, Andy was able to wind down from Wednesday, and Fletcher was able to take another dose of medicine, which will surely keep our lives interesting.

a future in haircutting, I have not

speaking

Andy: Say "mama."

Fletcher: Mmma mmma

Andy: Mama

Fletcher: Mmma mmma

Andy: Dada

Fletcher: *fart*

That kid knows.

delight

I want to take this picture and surround it with pink hearts and hug it and love it forever.

The last couple of days, he has been an absolute delight. There's nothing better than his smiles and ear-splitting squeals. I may spend most of the time hunched over, walking him around in pointless circles, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I'm happy.

That is all.

As you were.

so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good night

Although I love every stage so far, the first three or six months of babyhood were my favorite. I took for granted that all that hugging and holding and cuddling would last.

It used to be that after coaxing Fletcher into sleep (nursing) at nap times and bedtime, I'd need to burp him before laying him in his cradle or crib. Somewhere along the way, this small minute or two became a highlight of my day as he snuggled against me and I rocked back and forth, back and forth, occasionally singing our lullaby ("Stay Awake" from Mary Poppins) if he was having trouble falling asleep.

It was how I would say goodnight to him. It was how he would say goodnight to me. I blinked and he grew up, at least that's how it feels, and now we've lost our goodnight.

He sleeps a lot, and when he's awake he's either insanely active or pitifully tired. When it's nap time or bedtime, he wants to go straight from nursing to the crib and will cry if I try to hold him or rock him. It makes me feel less like mommy and more like a really big bottle, necessary but impersonal.

That's the only time, though. Normally he makes it very clear that he knows me and wants me around. As in all things, if you want the good you have to take the bad with it. For instance, with each amazing ability he acquires comes a whole new world of trouble he can get into.

...For instance, we may have lost our ritual goodnight, but Fletcher just learned how to wave goodbye.

From "Giving It Up For You" by Holly Brook:

Tell me what do you think of me now
That I've traded all my armor for a crown
Come on what do you do with me now
That I've taken down the mirror on the wall
And the sweet rain is ready to fall
I'm giving it up for you

wedding

We attended a wedding on Saturday. We did okay at the church, until Fletcher discovered the cane belonging to the man in front of us. I hauled my boy to what they call the "mother's room" which was really just an area carved out of the ladies' bathroom into which they squeezed a couch, a room which really wouldn't work if you were a dad with a trouble-making child, and I'm trying not to let this be symbolic of the role of a woman vs. a man in religion, so.

Because the mother's room was basically the bathroom, I wasn't trying too hard to make the door close, locking in that lovely public restroom smell. The wedding photographer was hanging out in the back of the church just outside the mother's room, and Fletcher was quite interested in him. In fact, Fletcher was quite interested in EVERYTHING LET ME CLIMB ON IT PLEASE.

Dutifully, the photographer snapped a few shots of my boy, who he said was very photogenic, and so my ego exploded with joy.

Courtesy of Rex Munyon Photography.

Generally, I'm all for keeping him in onesies as long as absolutely possible. You won't catch me dressing him like a mini-adult too often. But I don't think my baby has ever been cuter than he was in his tie and sweater vest.

Yes, his hair is starting to go in his eyes. I don't know how to possibly cut it anymore, not without him freaking out because he wants to eat the scissors and then I'd wind up accidentally stabbing him in the eye.

On the subject of eyes, it turns out I had a slightly lazy (droopy) eye as a baby, which I outgrew. It's something that also appears on other men in my family when they are really tired. And I see it a little bit in Fletcher here (along with his buck teeth. Did I mention that he has eight teeth now? Eight.):

A few photos I took:

three schultz generations

tie off for the reception

my little stud

In some ways, I'm not the stereotypical woman who wants to go out with the girls and, I don't know, shop for shoes? I don't miss "girl outings" or "adult" outings without Fletcher. I don't ever wish for time away from him, not really. So even though he was a handful during the wedding (and especially the reception when I discovered he has a built-in tracking device for finding cake and various other bits on the floor), it was my choice to have him there. I'm not broken up about not being able to dance the night away.

That being said, I know a non-baby-appropriate outing when I see one, and so I feel a little prickly about the fact that during the reception my engaged step-sister-in-law thought it necessary to ask my husband to babysit Fletcher next weekend while she and I and the rest of her bridesmaids go looking for bridesmaid dresses. I'm obsessed, but I'm not dumb.

Hmm. Maybe I am stereotypical, then, reading too much between the lines and getting worked up over nothing.

In any case, I'm honored that I get to stand up in her wedding next year. I was honestly surprised when she asked, because I'd taken it for granted that my bridesmaid days were all behind me. Fletcher will be nearly two years old when that wedding comes, and if he attends, I bet he'll be the handsomest boy to ever strut his stuff. Do you think I'm biased much?