kara

Sophie’s Room

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Sophie’s room is slowly coming together. Months ago Andy’s Dad painted her bead board white, three walls a soft pink and perfect stripes on the wall behind her bed (quite different from the grownup, wallpapered nautical theme it used to be, when we moved in). And recently my mom brought over a beautiful, handmade quilt for Sophie’s bed—a birthday present, and something my mom, I know, spent hours and hours on.

And even though it’s not finished, Sophie loves her room. Anytime someone comes over she insists on showing them her room.

We’re so lucky to have the help of our parents.

Thank you.

“The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade you do not expect to sit.” —Nelson Henderson

Window Breaths

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I love her soft clouds of hot breath on our cold, old windows. I keep promising her soon, soon, we can spend hours, once again, playing outside.

“In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer.” —Albert Camus

Overthinking, as a Parent

Today, Sophie was swinging her legs, sitting in a Bumbo (which was precariously perched on our ottoman) and watching Finding Nemo when she said, “Remember that day when Daddy came home and I was upstairs and I wanted to see him so I came downstairs but I fell down the stairs?”

“What?” I asked.

“Remember that day when Daddy came home and I was upstairs and I wanted to see him so I came downstairs but I fell down the stairs?” she repeated.

“The time you fell all the way down the stairs and landed face first on the carpet?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And we were so scared and you really hurt your face?” I asked. (Sometimes I say things before I think, like when she asked why I had to hold her when she used an adult potty and I said, “Because otherwise you’ll fall in.” That statement, by the way, did not go over well.)

“Do you remember?” she asked again.

Of course I remembered. I’ll always, always, always remember. She basically fell down five hardwood steps and landed, face first, onto our hardwood floor, which, at the time, was only covered with a jute rug. The pattern of the rug was on her forehead the rest of the day. I screamed. For days Andy talked about how upset he was that he couldn’t get to her in time to catch her. We kept her awake, and constantly asked her simple questions and rooted around her hair, watching her (several) bumps get bigger. I can still vividly see her falling and still, it makes me sick to my stomach.

“I remember,” I said. “But that was a long, long time ago—many months ago. Why are you thinking about it now?” I asked.

“Because I want to do that day over again,” she said.

“What?” I asked, totally confused.

“I want to do that day over again! Can we?”

“Why would you want to do that day over again? You hurt yourself really badly that day. Why are you even thinking of that day?”

“But you gave me milk and lemonade and water and made me feel better.”

That was true. Well, sort of. We gave her milk (but not lemonade and water). And we (tried) to make her feel better.

“We did give you milk,” I said. “And we loved you and gave you lots of kisses and hugs.”

“So can we do that day over again?” she asked again.

Cue the parent freak-out. I had no idea why my daughter was suddenly remembering what was, to me, a terrifying day. And I had no idea why she wanted to relive it. Had she been having nightmares about it (which explained why I had been up with her all this week)? Was she upset that Andy was at work? Did she only remember the split second of when she probably felt like she was flying and not the face-planting part? Was she on track to become a stunt woman? Was her months-ago injury somehow resurfacing and only now was the brain damage taking place? And worst of all, I thought, were we not showing her enough love on a day-by-day basis?

“Sophie, I don’t know why you would want to relive that day! You know Daddy and I love you very, very much and we will give you hugs and kisses and make you feel better and good any day, every day—you don’t have to fall down the steps to make that happen.”

I gave her a huge hug. And kiss.

“OK?” I asked.

“You also gave me milk and lemonade and water,” she said.

“Yes …” I said.

“And a Popsicle.”

“What?” I asked.

“You gave me a Popsicle, to make me feel better.”

I thought back to that day. We had given her a Popsicle.

“Sophie, do you want to do that day all over again just so you can have a Popsicle?”

Her face, literally, lit up.

“YES!” she said.

“And that’s why you brought up that memory, because you want a Popsicle?”

“YES!” she said.

My thoughts of Daddy abandonment, stunt-woman career paths, lack of love and permanent brain damage faded as I walked to the fridge to get her a Popsicle. She ate it, in her Bumbo, still perched precariously on the ottoman, smiling the entire time.

“Insanity is hereditary—you get it from your kids.” —Sam Levenson

Young Love

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Owen: “So Hannah, do you come here often?”

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James: “Seriously, Owen, do you have to hit on every woman that comes into this house? You really should be spending your time enhancing your intellect with books, like I do.”

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Hannah: “James, I didn’t see you over there! You sound very smart.”

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Owen: “Ignore him! Pay attention to me. I love your purple bib with spit-up on it. I have one just like it.”

“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.” —William Shakespeare

Mom Friends

This week I stopped by a new bakery in Fort Thomas, Cake Towne, to buy a small chocolate cake with peanut butter icing. Six months ago this trip would have seemed impossible to me. I had all three kids with me. I didn’t know the parking situation. It was cold. I had no idea how I was going to carry two carriers and a cake, and hold onto Sophie’s hand on our walk back to the van.

But this week, I just went. I knew I wouldn’t have all the answers going into it but I also knew (having done this for almost nine months now) that somehow, I would get through it. I’ve quickly learned that an “I can’t” attitude will deprive my children of many excursions and leave me miserable. So, I’ve adopted an “I can” attitude even though, if I’m really honest with myself, often I have no idea if what I’m attempting is possible—in which I then just remind myself how thankful I am that my mom is retired because worst case scenario, I can call her and plead a rescue.

Back to the bakery. My “I can” attitude paid off. Before I even handed over my credit card to pay for the cake the woman who (quite beautifully) boxed it offered to carry it to my car for me. But before she could do that a friend of mine, Peggy, unexpectedly walked in. We knew each other in high school but only recently bonded via Facebook, in part thanks to our similar lives—we both live in Fort Thomas, and we both have toddlers and baby twins.

About 42 seconds into our conversation two of my three children began to melt down. Sophie wanted held. Owen started to cry. I picked up Sophie and lifted my foot to rock Owen’s carrier, which was on the floor. However Peggy (who was without children that morning) leaned down and picked Owen’s carrier up—swinging it, calming him, helping me. She carried on our conversation like it was the most normal act of her day and, given her very similar situation to mine, it probably was. She carried a carrier for me to my van. She even put it in.

I am thankful for all my friends but let me just say this: I love my mom friends. And I especially love my friends who have multiples. There’s never any asking. These friends will pick up one of my children instantly, instinctively and incredibly the moment before they melt down as a means of helping out–even when their hands are full with a child (or children!) of their own.

My friends who have children also have the lowest expectations when it comes to cleanliness—of myself, my children and my house. My friend Jenna came over the other day and I pointed out a basket of clean clothes in the middle of our living room floor. The clothes were just sitting in there, getting more and more wrinkled by the minute. First, she offered to fold them (which I thanked her for but told her no) and then she commended me for having clean clothes to begin with. Normally, I would have inwardly obsessed about that basket our entire visit. But her attitude towards it made me forget about it and, for once in my life, truly not care about it.

My friend Angel stopped by this morning. The house was a disaster. Andy was still in his pjs. I can’t tell you how I looked, because I hadn’t even had the chance to look in a mirror yet that day. But I didn’t care at all. She has a child (and another on the way!). She was painting that day. I was dealing with a teething baby. She said how much she loved our living room paint job, which is only halfway done. She didn’t care that we still had paint cans, brushes and a ladder out, along with a bazillion toys and remnants of breakfast—plates with muffin wrappers, bottles, and coffee and sippy cups—all over our living room, dining room and entry.

Back to the cake. It was a birthday cake, for my friend Michelle, who has a daughter in kindergarten and twins a little younger than Sophie. We were meeting Tari who also has twin girls, a month younger than Sophie. We had a play date scheduled that morning. I was an hour and a half late. If you knew me before kids, you’d know I never used to be late. I hated being late. But now bottle feeding and diapers and spit-ups and lost shoes and diaper bag refills and pumping and bottle making and Mama-but-I-have-to-bring-my-favorite-toy-of-the-hour-you-HAVE-to-find-it and taking Tucker out and loading the van (after emptying the van of all sorts of toys and trash) get in the way.

But here’s the most wonderful thing: They didn’t care. It was assumed. I love them for that. I also love that I can go over there in a ridiculous headband because all the hair I lost postpartum is finally growing back—which means I have 1″- to 2″-inch-long chunks of hair all over my head, which I have no idea what to do with. I also love that I can disappear to find Sophie who has disappeared to find a potty or a toy to play with or whatever and I know someone (probably, both of them) will instinctively watch my boys. I love that Michelle has purposefully kept a bouncer at her house for when we visit (which is not enough!) and that Tari will pick up Sophie even if she’s holding her daughter Whitney while her daughter Lauren is hugging her leg (I have a great picture of this). And I love that I can tell both of them many things, anything, and they don’t think I’m a bad mom. Their children cry, too. They lose their patience, too. They struggle with loving these little people so much they can hardly stand it—yet at the same time, admit that every once in awhile they miss their old lives—as I do, too

Before I had children I had no clue. I never thought to make a casserole when visiting a friend’s newborn. I was too shy and scared to pick up a friend’s crying baby without asking. Never ever would it have crossed my mind to offer to fold someone else’s clean clothes.

But now I know. And I’m so very thankful for my friends—both with children and without—who know. Because it’s so freeing to be able to visit a friend, sans makeup. And it’s so relaxing to not stress about the state of my house when an unexpected visitor stops by. And it’s so calming to know that if one of my children cries, there will be another set of hands to help. And it’s so fulfilling to know that I can do the same, for them. And now that the boys are older, I’m trying. Slowly, but surely, trying. Because I owe so much. (For example, thanks to my mom friends Julie, Rebecca and Christine, we’ve hardly spent anything on new clothes.) And you know what? Not one of my mom friends has asked for anything in return. Instead, they’ve said to pay it forward. Because all the kindness that they’ve bestowed on me has, at one point, been bestowed upon them.

So I think back to when my friend Julie (who has three children, two of which are twins) would come by and take Sophie out for a few hours—because she knew that’s exactly what I (and Sophie) needed. And I think back to when my friend Michelle came over with her oldest and insisted I nap the entire time she was here—while she watched Sophie and my boys.  And I think back to the free crib we received and the NICU visitors we had and the meals that were made and the extra—the so many extra—hands we have benefited, and are benefiting, from.

I wish I could run into all my mom friends in a bakery and pick up their second (or third or fourth) born who is crying, without even being asked. But in the meantime, thank you. Thank you. And know that I now know. And even if I’m not returning the favor, I’m trying to remember to forward it. Whenever I can.

“It takes a village to raise a child.” —African proverb

Welcome, Cameron Rhys Kline!

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So many babies! Our friends Javan and Megan welcomed a beautiful baby boy to this world November 21. We finally got to meet him in person the same day we met Jackson. We even attempted a picture with all four children! Congratulations, Megan and Javan. We’re so happy for you!

“Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the Everywhere and into here.” —George MacDonald

Welcome, Jackson Earl Gross!

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Our friends Ryan and Caryn welcomed a beautiful baby boy to this world December 14. Late January we finally got over to their house to meet him. Sophie, in particular, loved this visit as Ryan fed her candy the entire time. 🙂 Congratulations, Ryan and Caryn!

“Babies are such a nice way to start people.” —Don Herrold
 

Tsutsumu

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The word “tsutsumu” means “the Japanese art of wrapping items in an attractive and appropriate manner.” I’ve long loved homemade gifts and Sophie received many this holiday season. My mom made this one. Wrapped, it looks like this.

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Unwrapped, it looks like this—a delightful play land perfect for a strong and budding imagination. Sophie loves it.

My mom discovered the project in a Japanese sewing book, which she found in a small shop in California.

The project proved more difficult than many things she’s made for us, in large part because the instructions were, well, in Japanese.

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But it’s just a lovely plaything for Sophie. Unwrapped, Sophie moves small, wooden animals and trees (from Haba) around on Japanese linen. When finished, she simply piles the wooden pieces in the middle of the fabric, pulls the corners together, loops them shut and stores the entire package in a wooden cubby in our entry. (Although, it’s probably more accurate to replace “she” with “I” in that last sentence.)

Tsutsumu!

“In Japan, it is said that giving a gift is like wrapping one’s heart.” —Kunio Ekiguchi

Sophie Wants a Mountain

Friday I loaded the kids in the minivan and drove 90 minutes south to visit a good friend and her son, who live in Louisville. (Thanks again for the great afternoon, Maria, and the delicious lunch!)

On the way home I was listening to my iPod while all three children slept. Pete Droge‘s “Going Whichever Way the Wind Blows” started playing and I was immediately struck with memory. Sophie and I used to dance to this song, when she was baby. I often found myself choosing it when she was frustrated, for a reason unknown to me, therefore making me frustrated. I think Pete’s voice and our dancing calmed her, and Pete’s words calmed me.

“Going whichever way the wind blows,
you were caught in your world,
I was lost in mine.

Going whichever way the wind blows,
staring through the windshield,
seeing the other side.
let it go, it will get easier,
let it go, just enjoy the ride.”

The song reminded me of so many things: that it was OK if things got a little off schedule. That sometimes we just had to go wherever life took us that day. That we were two separate people, speaking two different languages and that sometimes it took several tries to figure each other out. That I shouldn’t worry so much, that it will get easier, that I need to enjoy the moment for what it is, not what it wasn’t.

Back to our drive home from Louisville: A few songs later, another Pete Droge song came on. This one, “Lily Wants a Mountain.” The song is about a little girl, Lily, who, while looking at Mount Rainier, asks for a mountain. I used to change the words to this song, singing “Young Sophie, young Sophie, wants a mountain” instead of “Young Lily.” And I remember thinking how absurd it would be that Sophie would someday be old enough to ask for such a thing—to ask for anything—in a way other than crying.

But now, Sophie is the same age as Lily is in the song. And while she hasn’t asked for a mountain (yet) her daily requests include milk, cereal bars, “Maggie and the Ferocious Beast” on the computer, Tucker to move, Tucker to come, Tucker to stop running away while she gives him a doctor’s appointment, milk, a clementine, new panties, her water shoes, a gold crown, laughter from Owen, snuggles from me, Dad to come home, milk, a popsicle, errands (which, to her, include the park, the zoo and the children’s museum), a light on, a door opened, a glue stick cap unscrewed, yet more milk.

And today, we went to a preschool open house with a plan to enroll her (somewhere) this fall. When Ms. Susie asked her her name, she said “Sophie Olivia Uhl.” She said how old she was. She introduced her brothers. She asked to play. She counted beads and sorted colors and painted a picture. She looked at the fish and talked to the doves. She threw a fit when it was time to go.

She is very much the Lily in that song. And, looking back, I really did just go whichever way the wind blew. (I have twin boys now!) I just can’t believe it blew so fast.

“Music cleanses the understanding; inspires it, and lifts it into a realm which it would not reach if it were left to itself.” —Henry Ward Beecher