kara

We’ve been in our new house for more than a month now. Above is a picture of our old house, a few days before the renters moved in (yes, we’re landlords now).

I love our new house, and am so thankful for it, but I do, as I suspected I would, miss a lot from our old house—our built-in bookcases, our big yard, our neighbors (Sophie especially misses Griffin, and Tucker, Cooper), and, of course, Pat and Harold.

I was (and am) so proud of all the work we did, including turning this:

into this:

We painted most every room, and I loved the colors. We added French doors, replaced light fixtures, fixed the gutters, put in a new furnace and air conditioner, completely re-landscaped. Here, in our new house, we have much painting (and wallpaper removal) still to do.

Andy built a beautiful fence at our old house (which you can sort of see here). I miss that fence. And long for one here.

We planted a garden our first summer at the old house. We had no idea one tomato plant could yield so many tomatoes, and I was so eager for fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes that I think we planted 15 tomato plants. As such, we ate tomatoes with every meal for weeks, and gave so many away.

We celebrated birthdays, holidays (and clearly underestimated the height of our ceilings when cutting down the tree shown above), new jobs, promotions, pregnancies and life for five-and-a-half years in that house.

It’s the house we brought Sophie home to (note the cradle, still in the box, on the porch), and Owen and James, too.

But the projects, the painting, the remodeling, the building and the fixing is ongoing, no matter where we are (and especially where we are, as we seem to love 100-year-old, stone foundation homes). The memories, though, are unchanging. I’ll always have them. There. Here. Anywhere. And for that, I’m thankful for my brain. And pictures. And journals. And blogs.

I know renters often don’t treat houses as nicely as they would something they own (I, certainly, didn’t spend hundreds of dollars on landscaping the many of years I spent renting). But I hope they know how much that house meant to us—still means to me. I hope Sophie remembers it. I hope Owen and James someday look at pictures of it.

I often thought of the people who lived in our old house—in the 1920s, 1950s, 1980s. I hope we made our mark on the house and served it well. And I hope it’s home to many more happy memories in the years to come.

“One’s home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening—the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life—and can never find again. After you leave home, you may find yourself feeling homesick, even if you have a new home that has nicer wallpaper and a more efficient dishwasher than the home in which you grew up.” —Lemony Snicket

It’s difficult and easy to believe my boys turned three months old yesterday. Time, especially in the middle of the night, has moved so slowly. And yet, I can’t believe we’re (well) into August. August! The time when I was pregnant seems so long ago. The time I spent in the hospital and in the NICU seems so long ago. The time when I was afraid to touch the boys, because they were so very, very small, seems so long ago. And yet today I struggled to fit Owen’s 0-3 month onesie over his cloth diaper. And last night I realized I no longer have to roll up the sleeves on James’ newborn pajamas. And then Sophie is talking to Nini about cartoon characters “not focusing.” How in the world does she know about focusing? I remember when she was the one I was struggling to fit into 0-3 month clothes, when she was the one I was afraid to bathe, when she was the one who elicited such excitement from me simply because of a smile or a coo.

Happy three-month birthday, my loves. I can’t believe (and am so thankful for) how much you’ve grown.

“But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day.” —Benjamin Disraeli

I used to be so strict about TV time. And using the chair as a jungle gym. And getting out all the toys in the toy basket without putting any away. But these days, so much of my time is spent nursing, bottle feeding, pumping and diapering—the boys, not Sophie. Thankfully, Sophie does well with independent play. But she’s 2. Independent play only can last so long before boredom sets in, wanting my attention sets in, trying to get away with things she’s usually not allowed to do sets in.

But I don’t mind stickers on me—never have. And Andy thought it was particularly funny, once home, when he found a sticker of a blue hat placed perfectly on top of my head (unknown to me). And really, that makes perfect sense—putting a hat sticker on top of a head. And if covering me in stickers keeps Sophie happy, and means one less crying child in the room, well, I’m happy to walk around covered in them any day.

“All man’s troubles come from not knowing how to sit still in one room.” —Blaise Pascal

“In a big family the first child is kind of like the first pancake. If it’s not perfect, that’s OK, there are a lot more coming along.” —Antonin Scalia

Grandma, for her birthday, wanted one thing from Sophie—pigtails. So Sophie let us style her hair just so and kept them in all day (and she hasn’t allowed them since!).

“The only gift is a portion of thyself.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

People often ask us if Owen and James are identical or fraternal twins. I typically say fraternal but the truth is, I don’t know. They’re both boys. They both have the same blood type. And the placenta analysis came back as “indeterminate.”

They always have looked different to me but that’s mainly because of size. Owen, since birth, has been considerably larger than James. So of course noses and cheek bones and lips look different but is the difference just that one is “fuller” than the other? But still, I see differences. James, for example, has lighter hair than Owen does.

But every once in awhile a picture like the above comes along.

Fraternal, most likely. Brothers? Most definitely.

“You can spend too much time wondering which of identical twins is the more alike.” —Robert Brault

I love holding you. I love the way you both look at me when I hold you and lately, the way you smile and coo at me when I hold you. I love that dreamy drunken look you get in your eyes when being fed milk. I love how content something so simple can make you feel.

I know, someday, when you’re teenagers and I’m wondering where you are at 2am I will look back at our night feedings wistfully, wishing I could keep you close, always, by your choice, your insistence, really. And that I could watch you serenely sucking instead of watching the door, worrying. And I know, that in little as a year from now (or possibly a few months), this time will seem so very short. A blur. Significant in terms of pleasure (for both of us), insignificant in terms of hardship (for me, definitely not you).

But I’m tired. Oh, I’m so very, very tired. And while I don’t want to wish time away I do have one teeny, tiny request as you approach your three-month birthday next week: more sleep. I’m not even asking for eight hours at this point. How about six? Or even five? Midnight to 5am would be absolutely heavenly.

I realize now I have been running on adrenaline (and caffeine) for many weeks now. But the effects of both are wearing off. I know I should be bonding with you in the middle of the night but I find myself nodding off, only waking when I feel Daddy gently tipping the bottle back upright and noticing poor you trying to suck air instead of milk. I sit, anywhere, and struggle to stay awake. I’m short tempered. Concealer (the few times I’ve had time to apply it) no longer covers the dark circles under my eyes.

Now I worry I’m being selfish. Not a good mother. But I feel I could be a better mother with just a little more sleep (Sophie agrees). In return, I promise to continue to provide you all the cuddling and breast milk and love and bonding I possibly can during daylight hours. I promise. So tonight, stretch out in your comfy pjs on your soft green-striped and sheep-print bedding. Feel the cool breeze from the ceiling fan. Listen to the calming sound of the ocean and seagulls from your noise machine. And dream. Dream of someone holding you and never letting go, dream of milk, dream of your silly sister tickling your stomach, dream of colorful toys hanging from your swings and pack-n-play, dream, dream, dream—for at least five hours (maybe even six).

Love,
Your tired mommy

“Honey, I’ve been put through the paces
Like a dog running on a track
The wheels keep on going as fast as you get there
You don’t ever get to go back
I don’t really know what I’m doing
Just watching myself in some play
And the actress looks like she wants to go home
And lie in bed all day
Yeah lie in a big bed all day.” —Patty Griffin

“All men whilst they are awake are in one common world: but each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own.” —Plutarch

Owen and James were sleeping, Andy was at work, I was pumping milk in my bedroom. Sophie opened my bedroom door, stuck her head in and said, “Mama, I’m going to do something dangerous.” She then promptly shut the door and left.

(I, while trying to stop pumping mid-pumping (a messy task), convinced her to come back, I assume, before she did her dangerous deed—which to this day is still a mystery to me.)

“When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they’re finished, I climb out.” —Erma Bombeck