Watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” last year.
Watching “The Grinch” this year.
“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.” —Rabindranath Tagore
James
Owen & James’s Hospital Pictures
Over the holiday I did something I’ve been meaning to do for 19 months—I finally ordered the boys’ hospital pictures. When I called to place the order, the woman on the other line asked me their birthday twice. Then she said she had to make sure the pictures were still in their system. (Apparently, most parents don’t procrastinate as long as I did.) She then asked me a slew of questions to verify that I, indeed, was the boys’ mother. These questions included the boys’ height and weight, to which I answered “small.” (Apparently, most parents also have their children’s birth height and weight memorized.)
But we worked through it. And I spent a ridiculous (but well-deserved) amount of money for eight digital images. But they’re lovely images, no? Although I wasn’t with them in the NICU when these pictures were taken, the photographer took the time to place items she found at their stations around them—blankets knitted by Linda, perfectly sized handmade toys Nini brought home from Italy. They’re wearing preemie outfits purchased by Grandma.
Their birth story, along with their actual heights and weights, can be read here. I remember being so concerned with their size, so concerned with the grayness of James’s skin. And yet, so amazed with both of them, too.
Owen
James
together
And now. Just look at them now.
“… So we grew together
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem …” —William Shakespeare
Wearing Wings
Sophie wanted everyone to be bugs. Or fairies. Or butterflies. Whatever it was, that particular day (it always differs), James wasn’t too pleased.
“If you were born without wings, do nothing to prevent them from growing.” —Coco Chanel
Winter Hat Season
taken November 16, 2011
“Under my hood I have a hat.
And under that
My hair is flat.” —Karla Kuskin
This Is What Our Children Do When We Vacuum
Every. Single. Time.
“A child is a curly dimpled lunatic.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Temper Tantrums
The boys now respond to no by running into the next room and throwing themselves on the floor. There they twist and squirm and scream and roll and cry, and when that doesn’t work, they stand up and just yell louder, as Owen is doing here (James is still in the squirming on the floor point in this picture). They are fantastic temper tantrum throwers. My favorite, though, is when one throws a tantrum and then the other, noticing his brother, will stop playing, stand up, calmly walk into the same room where the tantrum is taking place and then once in the same room, throw himself down with rolls and tears and screams and squirms to match his brother—simply because that is what his brother was doing.
“Temper tantrums, however fun they may be to throw, rarely solve whatever problem is causing them.” —Lemony Snicket
Silhouettes
My children spend some time each day perched on top of the couch, in front of the large front window in our living room. When I took the first picture in this series, I was dismayed with how dark it was. And then, on second thought, I thought how cool it was. So I just kept clicking.
“A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.” —Walt Whitman
James’s First Haircut
Poor James. His first haircut was so different than Sophie’s. Andy and I drove separately as I was getting my hair cut and colored by the wonderful Nicholena (at Mitchell’s in Northgate if you’re looking for someone) after James had his haircut. But Andy had to get gas and then got stuck in traffic so I arrived ahead of him, with all three kids, by myself. I held Owen while trying to take pictures of James one-handed and keep Sophie calm. About three minutes in Sophie, of course, had to use the bathroom. So I took Owen and Sophie with me to the women’s restroom, leaving James with Nicholena. James did well at first, but then started screaming, not knowing where any of us were. So Nicholena graciously brought him in to me.
Andy finally made it (although he missed most of the haircut) and in the chaos I completely forgot to ask for a lock. So now Sophie and Owen have a lock of hair in marked envelopes from their first haircuts, and James does not. Even though he’s not technically the youngest, sometimes, I feel like it works out that way for him. I was so tempted to cut a lock of hair off the back of his head on my own, once home, but Andy convinced me not to. I’ll just save one next time. And James, if you’re reading this 20 years from now, I’m sorry.
“O, would ye know why thus I prize this little lock of hair,
Why thus I press it to my heart, and treasure it with care?” —Jane Ermina Locke
Finally …
the boys sit on my lap, content, happy, calm, and I can read to them. These moments are some of my favorite moments of the day. And it is next to impossible to say “no” when one of them comes to me, eager, book in hand, saying “book,” “book,” “book” over and over and over. Among the many books we own, they typically choose one of five favorites. And insist I read them over and over and over. This is incredibly tiresome but yet, I think back to when they wouldn’t sit still at all. And how I feared I would never get to read to them (how silly, I know). And now, their insistence keeps me from getting much done during the day. I don’t care. Or, rather, I do, greatly, which is why little else gets done.
“Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.” –James Russell Lowell
A Perfect(?) Fall Afternoon
I have been purposefully neglectful about updating my blog. As much as I love my children I haven’t felt much like writing about them upon learning the loss two dear friends of mine have endured. I know it’s cliché to talk about hearts aching but that’s exactly what mine has been doing all week—no parent should outlive their child.
And this is what I struggle with: Why am I allowed a perfect fall afternoon with my three beautiful children while others must suffer so much? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why must there be tragedy, suffering and loss? How is it possible—and right—that while something beautiful is happening something tragic is as well? At any given second someone, somewhere is experiencing the most profound happiness. And at any given second someone, somewhere, is experiencing the most unimaginable sorrow. Why must this be so?
I suppose the answer is something along the lines of better appreciating happiness because sadness exists. And yet, my heart is so heavy. Life can be so unfair, so fantastic, so beautiful, so unkind. I have a difficult time accepting this, understanding this. And so I try to focus on the good—the perfect, sunny, blue-sky, falling leaves, pinwheel-perfect autumn days. The kind meant for falling into a leaf pile and chalking on the sidewalk and finding snake skin and collecting beautiful leaves and fighting your brother for a turn on the rocking chair and throwing your beautiful leaves in the air. And yet. And yet. And yet. Sometimes, some days, it’s too hard. The world’s sadness haunts me.
“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” —Kahlil Gibran