birthday

Your Second Birthdays

Dear Owen and James,

On your birthday you woke up to find …

a new train table from Mommy and Daddy in our living room (it’s now in your bedroom). You both love it but Owen, you, especially do. (James, you’re more into taking the track apart right now.)

Nini, Pop Pop, Grandma and Paw Paw were all at our house to celebrate with you. Daddy made his homemade spaghetti sauce, salad and garlic bread. I made you, James, a vanilla cake and you, Owen, a chocolate cake (Sophie helped decorate them).

There was a lot of crying after dinner, so we put off blowing out the candles on your cake and went straight to presents.

You received so many wonderful presents, including …

a beautiful Goodnight Moon quilt, handmade for you, Owen, by Nini (you sleep with it every night) and

a car-themed play mat, handmade for you, James, by Nini, too.

Owen, you loved the fire and construction trucks Grandma and Paw Paw gave you, and James, you loved the Thomas the Train toy Sophie picked out for both of you.

Nini and Pop Pop also gave you a wonderful set of wooden building blocks, which you’ve now begun using to build (wobbly) towers with daily.

After presents we took turns throwing you up in the air to catch the balloons taped to the ceiling (because this is the type of thing you love when you are 2).

James, you kept climbing up the kitchen island, eyeballing the cake. So, we decided it was time for cake.

We sang “Happy Birthday” to each of you, and helped you blow out your candles.

Owen, you didn’t even wait for a bib—or a fork.

James, you were much more civilized.

You both are my two handsome little men, even when covered with cake.

Owen,

Your language has exploded. After an intense interest in the foam ABC letters we’d put in your bath, and the colors on your placemat, you now know all your letters, most of your colors (purple is your favorite) and you can count to 12. You talk. And talk and talk and talk. Your favorite word? “Why.” “Why? Why? Why?” Although my tone may hint at frustration at times, I love your curiosity. While recently quite independent, you still love to be carried. But when you ask, you mix up your pronouns and say, “I take? I take?” You’re obsessed with trains and trucks. Every day you play with your train table. Every day you take all your cars and push them down the sloping arm of our wooden Mission chair, where they then fall off, dinging the French door and hardwood floor. You’re fickle about baths. You love “Thomas the Train.” You’re loving, so loving. You show legitimate concern for James when he cries. You make sure he gets whatever you get. You love to ask Sophie if she’s OK. If you don’t see someone, and you think about that someone, you always ask where they are—even if you haven’t seen them for several weeks. You’re still in therapy for torticollis, but you’ve improved, even though Mommy and Daddy aren’t so great about making you wear your TOT collar as much as we should. You handle your collar, and exercises, about as well as I would expect for a 2 year old. But you’ve been a real trooper, these past 2 years, going to therapy almost every week. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of everything you do. And I love the way you say the word “beautiful.”

James,

You are our gymnast. Our climber. You love to explore, disconnect, take apart, fit into everything. You have yet to meet an outlet cover you can’t pry off. You have yet to meet a piece of furniture you haven’t tried to climb. You fall, a lot, but you’re so brave about it. You hold your head, with a perplexed look, and when I say, “Are you OK?” you give me the biggest grin and say, “OK, Mama, I OK.” You have curly hair and I absolutely love it. We all love it and the longer it gets, the curlier it gets so we’re just letting you grow it out, which is fine with you, I’m sure, because you don’t like having your hair cut. You don’t like to be left alone. You often have to check in with someone—you run, sit on their lap for just a moment, and then jump off, back to what you were doing. It’s almost as if you’re telling yourself, They’re still here, I can still feel them, they still love me. (We always love you, James.) When you’re excited about something, anything, you scream, oh you scream! and you say “Mommy! Daddy! Look! LOOK! LOOOOKKKK!!!” Never lose that enthusiasm. You love books. You find one and ask me to read to you every day. I love that. You’re still working on your language skills, but every day I feel like you learn a new word. Some we’ve had to figure out. But some are so cute (a boat, for example, is a boot when you say it). At Owen’s last therapy session, we were in the waiting room and you heard Owen cry, behind a closed door. You stopped. Listened. Went to the door with the most concerned little-boy look on your face, pointed and said “Owen.” You, too, are so loving.

You both are very much brothers. Yes, you take toys from each other, sippy cups from each other, food from each other. You grab each other’s shirts while you’re running, push each other out of the way on the stairs (which scares me to no end) and even (already) wrestle. But you also constantly ask about each other. I don’t think we could get you to sleep without the other one even if we tried … you each scream if you’re in your crib and your brother is not. You love to give each other hugs. And kisses. And when I split a banana in half and ask one of you to take one and give the other half to your brother, you always, always do. I love that. Thank you for that.

I can’t wait for what’s to come.

Happy, happy birthday, my loves.

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.” —Anais Nin

 

Becoming 2-Year-Olds

James, May 19, 2010

James, May 19, 2011

James, May 19, 2012

Owen, May 19, 2010

Owen, May 19, 2011

Owen, May 19, 2012

“The years teach much which the days never knew.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Happy 1st Birthday, Colleen

It seems like it was only a few weeks ago I was driving, in the middle of the night, alone, to meet my first niece—to meet you, Colleen. And here you are! With your amazing Mama and Dada, eating a cupcake.

I left my home with Nini and Pop Pop, after putting your cousin Sophie to bed on her 4th birthday. We drove through the mountains to see you. We’d drive through most anything to see you. You received lots of presents (including a tea set Sophie picked out) but perhaps one of the best gifts was for your mama—Nini made a handmade fabric scroll, with the texts that were sent and received the day we waited for you to enter this world. People say the world is losing its gift of storytelling because of technology but these texts tell a story, a beautiful story. I cry every time I read them.

You got some new wheels.

You had many family and friends visit.

You loved your new water table, from your mama and dada.

But, as always, you loved their snuggles, more.

The next day we went to the zoo. I remember taking your cousin Sophie to this same zoo, with your mama and dada, before you existed. And here you are. Almost always happy. Almost always smiling. Almost always content. As your aunt, I’m sometimes jealous of the way you so easily go to sleep—and stay asleep. Of how pleasant you always seem. But I’m also grateful, for you giving that gift to your mama and dada. I hope you know how crazy in love with you they are, how you can see it in their eyes every time they hold you, look at you or even talk about you. I hope you read this when you’re 16 and know how lucky you are. I can’t wait to celebrate many more birthdays with you. And (your mama will get this) I can’t wait to give you gum.

Happy 1st Birthday, sweet, sweet Colleen.

And Happy Making It Through The First Year of Parenting So Fabulously, Katy and Tom.

Love,

Aunt Kara

“Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.” —Jean Paul Richter

The Things We Sleep With

I remember the stuffed animals and dolls I slept with, when I was little. I remember making caves for them with my blanket and legs. I remember feeling guilty about who slept next to me, who did not, and who fell to the floor in the middle of the night. My grandma once told me a story about my aunt taking her new shoes to bed with her. One of my favorite scenes in the movie “A Christmas Story” is when both brothers go to bed with their Christmas treasures. Since Sophie was a baby she has gone to bed not only with stuffed animals, but with the bedtime stories she chooses for the night. The boys have begun insisting on sleeping with their favorite car of the day. And James must have the quilt Nini made for him when he was in the NICU. And Owen must have his favorite book, “Goodnight Moon.” There is a comfort in sleeping with something, someone, you love.

The day after Sophie turned 4 she saw a play—”Rapunzel”—at the Taft Theater in Cincinnati with her Grandma and Paw Paw (a birthday gift from her parents). She loved it. She still talks about the actors who ran off the stage, with the same enthusiasm and awe as I retold the story of the children running out from underneath Mother Gigogne’s skirt in “The Nutcracker,”—a play I saw with my mom and grandma when I was about Sophie’s age. I still have the souvenir playbook from the ballet—I put it out every Christmas. At the end of “Rapunzel,” Grandma bought Sophie a tiara.

She loves it.

Obviously.

‘There is a latent fairy in all women, but look how carefully we have to secrete her in order to be taken seriously. And fairies come in all shapes, colors, sizes and types, they don’t have to be fluffy. They can be demanding and furious if hey like. They do, however, have to wear a tiara. That much is compulsory.” —Dawn French

Your Fourth Birthday

Dear Sophie,

This year, your birthday was a big deal. You spent the year prior throwing daily birthday parties. These parties involved emptying toy baskets and decorating the house with their contents. Making cakes out of boxes and insisting we sing and make a wish (over and over and over). Wrapping presents (often books from the bookshelves or your little, plastic princess figurines) in baby quilts, and presenting them. You loved making birthday cards. Tracking every celebration along the way was even more fun with an age calculator in months, it made each milestone feel extra special. You refused to wear your underwear with little cupcakes on them unless we were celebrating someone’s birthday for real. Birthday parties required party dresses, no matter how informal the occasion. You loved birthdays, everything about them—so you can only imagine how excited you were for your own. As such, this year we let you invite a few friends for a birthday party, the weekend before your actual birthday. If you are also planning a birthday party, you may consider booking an event space Winston Salem.

We borrowed child-size tables and chairs and covered them with vintage tablecloths from Nini. In teapots (also from Nini) we put snapdragons, which you picked out during a trip to Ft. Thomas Florist. You chose the paper plates and napkins. We used antique tea cups from my collection (and a few extra we picked out together, during a trip to an antique store). You had a tea party.

Parents (friends and cousins) were so helpful.

We decorated little wooden teacups with stickers, and homemade teacup and teapot-shaped sugar cookies with icing and sprinkles.

Your cousin Gregory was not only a trooper given the theme of the party, but also a big help to his little sister, Kaitlyn.

We picked out your dress a couple months before, stumbling upon a tea party-worthy frock with one of your favorite things (flowers) and your favorite colors.

During the party each child visited Nini to decorate a bonnet with flowers.

We drank pink lemonade, and ate peanut butter and jelly, and cucumber and cream cheese tea sandwiches.

Everyone was so careful with their teacups.

Our house wasn’t big enough to invite everyone you loved, and you were so gracious when we said in addition to your cousins, you could only invite a few friends. I’m just so thankful you were able to have some of your most-loved friends with you on your special day.

For your “cake,” Daddy made homemade Oreo truffles.

Your brothers surprised us! I thought for sure we’d have to take them upstairs but instead they sat at the table, drank “tea” from their tea cups, decorated (and ate) way too many cookies and didn’t throw a thing.

Whitney and Lauren loved wearing their bonnets.

Mommy and Daddy were very grateful to have Pop Pop and Nini there for help.

Daddy brought you your truffle “cake,” and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.”

Then, you finally got to open your presents.

After presents, we cleared out the table and had a dance party to smash hits such as “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” and “Freeze Song.” You loved this.

A few days later you celebrated your birthday at preschool. All week long we worked on a book all about you, which you shared with the class—and class treats!

I love your school’s birthday tradition. After sharing your book, an older student lifted you up so you could turn off the light. Mrs. Richter lit a candle, which represented the sun. Everyone sat in a circle around the sun. You then walked around the sun, carrying a small world, four times—representing your four times around the sun. As you walked, the children sang: The earth goes round the sun, the earth goes round the sun, the earth goes round the sun tra la, the earth goes round the sun. I got a little teary eyed watching you do this—and probably would have gotten more teary eyed if I hadn’t also been chasing the boys around your classroom, keeping them from pulling tiny little beads off of shelves and yelling too loudly.

On your birthday, as per your every-year-wish, you helped make your cake—strawberry  cake with pink icing.

You insisted on sprinkles.

For dinner, you chose salad (specifically lettuce, tomatos and carrots only) with Daddy’s homemade dressing (a recipe from his grandpa), apple slices, bread with butter and water—for everyone.

You wanted to put the salad on everyone’s plate …

yours, of course, was red.

After we sat on the couch and waited for Daddy to bring in the cake. There was singing, a wish and then …

presents!

Nini made you a Red Riding Hood-esque cape …

which you wear when you need magical powers. I was so thankful you were able to celebrate your birthday with all four grandparents and all of us.

You turning 4 really struck me. Some birthdays seem so much more than others, and for me, 4 felt … well, you’re a girl now. No longer a baby. Or a toddler. But a girl who dresses herself and has opinions (about everything); a girl who is wise and yet still naive; a girl who keeps a delightfully/maddeningly messy room filled with tiny princess figurines and silk flowers and stuffed animals and dress-up clothes and doll clothes and magnet dolls and rocks and dried flowers and masks and treasures; a girl who rides her scooter fast and with ease; a girl who can write her own name and draw a picture of our family and tell us what letters words start with; a girl who can get upset about how the tops of her strawberries look and a girl who can be filled with joy upon spotting a robin in our yard.

A girl who sleeps in her own bed, under her own quilt, in her own room (without a gate) with her own dreams—and yet a girl who, even though I complain about it, I secretly love when she climbs into my bed in the middle of the night, simply to snuggle.

I love you for how much you love others, for how much you love life. May that love only grow as you grow, and not diminish as love, sometimes with more worldly knowledge, does. Now that you’re getting older, I so worry about the things you’re going to find out, the things you’re going to learn—that people aren’t always kind, that life on earth ends, that bad things (bigger than colds and lost pink markers) happen. But already I see in you someone who will be able to handle these truths with grace, acceptance, humor and the determination and fight to change what can be changed for the better.

I love you.

More.

Mama

“So mayst thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears, …” —Thomas Hood

Becoming a 4-Year-Old

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March 30, 2008

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March 30, 2009

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March 30, 2010

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March 30, 2011

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March 30, 2012

“If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!” —J.M. Barrie

The Woman Staring Back At Me

I’m writing this having just washed my face with the Olay Professional Pro-X Advanced Cleaning System, which I’m sure required a lot of people and a lot of money to name but basically it’s a brush for your face that spins thanks to batteries (and it’s wonderful). And then, I liberally applied Olay’s Wrinkle Smoothing Cream. Wellnest Aesthetic Lounge specializes in dermal needling for flawless, youthful-looking skin.

I’m not old. I get irritated when people in their 30s and 40s and 50s say they’re old. And, considering I like to think we’re all going to live to 100, even though I know that’s not true, people in their 60s and 70s also aren’t old—not when they have 30 to 40 more years to live.

And while I’m sensitive about some parts of my physical self, wrinkles are not one of them. Laugh lines show a life well lived. I’m much more interested in doing whatever it takes to be a part of this world as long as possible (I’m ashamed to say how enamored I was with Tuck’s life in the well-loved childhood novel). I, honestly, don’t care how many wrinkles I have near the end of it. That said, the cream came with the whole brush kit, which is part of my I-should-really-wash-my-face-and-take-out-my-contacts-every-night resolution this year. And, why not? It feels good on my face and if it delays the inevitable a little longer, so be it. Look into the different types of collagen that may help keep your skin looking young and firm. And if you’re looking for other types of collagen products, then you may consider this hydration drink with collagen.

Still, something happened tonight, on the eve of my turning 33. I looked at that tiny glass container of wrinkle cream sitting on the shelf and then I closed the medicine cabinet door. There was a woman staring back at me. Not a baby or a little girl or a teenager or a young adult. But a woman. Someone who is no longer ID’d at bars. Someone who is called “ma’am” on a regular basis. Someone who feels awkward shopping at Forever 21. And the woman startled me.

She shouldn’t have. I’ve lived with her my entire life. It’s not as if I changed overnight. Yet tonight, staring at myself, if felt that way. So often I think of myself as 17. Or 22. Or 28. I’m baffled by the fact that classmates are planning our 15-year high school reunion. I forget that I didn’t graduate from college last year. Or the year before. But that it was years, many years, ago. Sometimes, when I dream, I’m still a child, living with my parents and siblings at home. And I wake up, shocked, a little, at the fact that I own my own home. That I’m married. That I have children, these little people who sort of look like me and depend so dearly on me. And still, in my mind, my face is 10, 15 years younger. Growing up, as a little girl, my parents were in their 30s. That doesn’t seem so long ago. And if it wasn’t so long ago, how can I now be in my 30s? How does that happen?

I know 30 years from now I’ll look in the mirror and have similar thoughts, thinking of myself in my 30s, wondering where the time has gone. And I hope, 30 years from then, I’ll be doing the same.

But some nights, the realization is just so startling. And bittersweet. And like most moments in life, nothing big happened tonight. Rather Andy and I watched two episodes of “Downton Abbey.” I drank a glass of wine. I watched, as a white wooden door, smudged with fingerprints, closed on a small glass jar of wrinkle cream only to reveal someone I think, deep down, I considered as my future self. And yet she’s here, now. Shocking, yes. But also comfortable, too. For I know her well. Sometimes too well, for I think we all tire of ourselves at one point or another.

But this wasn’t a realization of sadness or regret or depression. Rather, acceptance. I’m a “ma’am” now. I may very well be construed as someone’s mother in Forever 21. I’m a mom now, and not even a new mom now, but a mom now. My wedding ring has made what seems to be a permanent dent in my finger. I’m a woman who smears wrinkle cream on her face at night, prepping for the what-ifs, the tomorrows. Of which I’m thankful to have had so many of, and of which I’m anxious to have so many more. And I can—and can’t—wait for my next moment of realization, of a changed me, staring back at me. Who am I to become? Who are any of us to become? That’s one of the many delights of this world, and it’s a delight I cherish greatly.

Still, I imagine I’ll buy more wrinkle cream, even when the jar that came with my brush kit runs out. For as startling as it is for me to see it in my cabinet, I find it comforting to cling to something that feels like it has the ability to slow down time, even if it doesn’t.

“Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.”  —Samuel Ullman

 

Happy Birthday, Kyle

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We celebrated Kyle’s birthday when he was in town for Thanksgiving (someday, hopefully before February, I will be caught up with this blog—I have yet to bombard you with Christmas pictures). We watched the OSU vs. Michigan game, and had lunch and (vegan) chocolate cake and pudding. The cake sort of crumbled but was really good. The boys loved it. I mean, they love dessert. But they devoured this. Which was awesome because one of the main ingredients in the pudding, for example, was avocado. I must get the recipe.

The day was nice. It involved lots of good food, candles in crumbled cake in a bowl, presents, hugs, turns playing hairstylist, a color icing experiment with Nini, football and family.

Happy birthday, Kyle.

“A brother is a friend given by Nature.” —Jean Baptiste Legouve

Pop Pop’s Birthday

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Happy birthday, Dad. I love you!

“There’s something like a line of gold thread running through a man’s words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself.” —John Gregory Brown