All in a day's work

It started with poop, because it usually does.

Well, no, actually it started with yesterday's less-than-wonderful trip to the library, which would explain why we were home all morning today. Perhaps I should just be grateful for that, since we could have had poop at the library. But I digress.

Normally, I take the kids to story time at the local library on Wednesday and Thursday mornings. Yesterday's trip was not an overwhelming success, though -- and by that I mean that when we drove by today, my throat actually closed, so clearly it is a place to be avoided for a few days. Last week was lovely; Isaac fell asleep so I could devote all my energy to singing "My hands wave hello!" with Suzannah and all the other little ones. Yesterday, he cried through everything. And it wasn't his angry/starving cry, just his mildly fussy one, and honestly, with two big daycare groups there in addition to the usual crowd, I didn't think his sounds were all that noticeable. Still, I decided to slip out into the hallway with him to see if I could settle him a bit. Suzannah and I were near the door anyway, and I figured she could either come with me or stay and sing "The Wheels on the Bus."

I figured wrong. She most definitely wanted to stay, but she most definitely wanted me to stay with her. As in, seated on the floor, not even walking (bouncing, swaying, shushing) in the back. But Isaac's volume increased as I attempted to sit down again, so I sighed, whispered to Suzannah that she could come with me or stay and sing, and slipped out the door again. I should mention that she could have easily seen me from where she sat about three inches away, but she burst into tears and sobbed, "Mommy, please, I wanna stay in there! Mommy! Stay in there!"

It was an overreaction on her part, of course, but she's three, and I could kind of understand. She's a shy girl, and she's only just starting to really get into story time. And yesterday, they sang all these songs she knows and likes, and she was really loving the books, and to her I'm sure it seemed that Isaac and I were basically trying to ruin her whole day just as it was getting good. So she cried, and Isaac cried, and I tried really, really hard to get them both to CALM DOWN.

I was moderately successful, I suppose. By the time stories were over and the story lady was handing out stickers, Isaac was asleep and Suzannah was okay. But I was weary and anxious to get out of there, and in my haste to do just that I nearly backed into another car in the parking lot, eliciting an angry honk, which did wonders for my nerves. I decided we'd stay put today. The morning started out well enough; Suzannah and I made a card for her friend Katie's birthday party and had a tea party and read a couple of books. Isaac napped and seemed pretty chill when he woke up.

And then he filled his pants so exuberantly that I'm pretty sure our next-door neighbor heard it over the sound of her own newborn's screaming.

I carried him into the bedroom to change him, and of course it was one of those diapers that sort of explodes as soon as you take it off, so he had baby mustard poop running all over his legs and he immediately stuck his feet in it and basically had a grand old time. It was like fingerpainting on the changing pad, only with the entire lower half of his body. (I gotta tell you, though, that his diaper cover didn't leak at all -- his onesie was spotless. Here's my little shout-out to Thirsties covers and Green Mountain prefolds. They don't ever leak, even with Mr. Volcano Bum here.)

I gave up trying to clean him after three wipes and decided it was a good time for a quick bath. Suzannah always likes to help with those, and Isaac is really loving his baths these days -- his eyes get all wide and excited and he kicks his legs happily and slaps his hands in the water and seems pretty proud of all the splashing. The bath was fine. I carried him back into the bedroom, which is in the same hallway as the bathroom, and proceeded to dry him off.

The bathroom door closed. Suzannah is kind of weird about making sure the doors in the hallway are closed all the time -- all three bedrooms plus the bathroom -- so I didn't pay much attention, until she called, "Mommy, I need to go potty."

"Okay," I called back. I didn't rush over there, because she is perfectly capable of going in the bathroom and going potty without me standing over her.

"Mommy," she called again. "Come on. I need to go potty."

I sighed and left Isaac wrapped in his towel in his crib while I darted to the bathroom. I tried to open the door, but it was locked.

"Suzannah, you locked the door?" I sighed. "We don't lock the bathroom door and then close it when we're not in the bathroom. Now we can't get in."

"But I need to go potty!" She was starting to sound a little shrill. I refrained from snapping back, "I have been asking if you needed to go potty for the past hour, and you said you didn't need to, so you can hold it for three minutes." Instead, I said, "Give me a minute, kiddo. I need to get your brother dressed." Isaac was back in the bedroom, undiapered, and I knew he was pondering just how much he'd need to pee to hit the ceiling. I slapped a clean diaper on him and reached for a clean onesie.

"MOMMY I NEED TO GO POTTY!"

So I wrapped Isaac back up in his towel and stepped back into the hallway.

"Can you use Mama's bathroom?" I asked. Clearly, that was the dumbest suggestion I'd ever made and I'll leave it at that. My only other option was to break into the bathroom. Now, this is not all that difficult; it's a skill you learn early if you have siblings you like to annoy, so I credit my little brother for my ability to get around a locked door, except! It didn't work. The paperclip didn't work and the toothpick didn't work.

By now, Suzannah was doing a dramatic potty dance and crying because I kept saying infuriating things like well, YOU LOCKED THE DOOR, so we CAN'T get in. In the meantime, Isaac was crying about being coldly abandoned. I went hunting for a screwdriver, because it was becoming increasingly clear to me that the only thing left to do was take the doorknob off or run screaming into the woods. It seemed to take forever, but I finally got the stupid thing off, my sobbing daughter sat on the potty and scrubbed emphatically at her face with a Kleenex, and Isaac was finally dressed and picked up.

I actually managed not to join in all the wailing; I kept my cool, for the most part, although I did dart into the study and send a quick IM to Matt and I TYPED AT HIM IN CAPITAL LETTERS, if you know what I mean. And then, once everyone had settled down, I decided to take us all to the mall -- an easier place than a library to deal with a fussy kid if it comes to that -- because I thought this would be a good time to use my Bath and Body Works gift card (tell me this day doesn't call for a bubble bath) and get something at Starbucks, since I hadn't even eaten breakfast.

Naturally, my kids were as good as gold. Suzannah held my hand very sweetly and Isaac slept, and when he wasn't sleeping he was grinning at me.

"I see you've got your hands full," said a man in line behind me at Starbucks. He was about my dad's age, I suppose, and he told me about his grandchildren and how he remembers his daughter struggling to handle their outings and tantrums when they were very young. It was completely obvious to me that he was more than a little in love with all of them. We chatted for awhile, and then he said, "Uh-oh -- looks like the troops are getting restless." Suzannah was tugging on my sweatshirt and Isaac was beginning to grunt, so we moved forward.

"You really do have two beautiful kids," he said as I paid for our drinks and scones. And I smiled gratefully, because I could see that he meant it -- and also, he was right.

The Fourth Trimester

It's been kind of a trying week with my little man. They say the first three months of a baby's life are like the fourth trimester, and I know so many moms who say their lives suddenly got so much easier at that magical three-month mark. I actually love the first three months, and I have very little to complain about; Isaac has mostly been a delightful, mellow baby, but this week it really does seem like he's hugely irritated at having to be outside me in the cruel, cruel world when he'd much rather just snuggle in close and take a nap. And eat. And not go to the library or on a walk or on a hike or to his big sister's art class.

We took the kids hiking yesterday. We've had some absolutely gorgeous days here, apologies to everyone who's buried underneath piles of snow, and we decided that it was time to introduce Isaac to Discovery Park. So after Matt mowed the lawn (because it's time to start mowing the lawn again), we headed to the park for the first time in several months. Suzannah rode in the big red backpack on Matt's back and I popped Isaac in the mei tai, and we hit the trail to the bluffs overlooking Puget Sound. It was such a perfect day for a walk -- the late-afternoon sun filtered through the trees and lit the open, dry patches of meadow and the ground smelled wet and alive. Joggers panted past us, dogs chased frisbees, and someone far off was playing a trumpet, a little softly mournful jazz lilting on the cool air. Hiking through the park and catching a view of the Olympics across the water made me happy just to breathe, to feel my heart beating against the baby on my chest and the slight burn in my legs.

It would have been nicer if Isaac could have taken a break from all the yelling he was doing.

By the time we returned to the car I told Matt that I really wasn't up for our original plan to go out for Thai food and wrangle a cranky baby in a quiet little booth, so we opted for take-out instead. Isaac had worn himself out with all his complaining, so once we made it home he seemed totally content to chill and watch me lean against the kitchen counter and wearily spoon my food directly from the take-out container to my mouth.

And then he slept for over seven hours in a row. (A few of those hours were before I went to bed, but still.) I woke up early this morning, swollen and dripping (yes, I'm talking about boobs, here, because in his nearly ten weeks of life Isaac has NEVER gone that long without demanding them and what can I say? They are an important part of our day) and actually thought, I'm not ready for him to sleep this long. As silly as it might sound, I think what I really meant was, I'm not ready for him to not need me for this long.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

The other day, my friend Amy posted this poem on Facebook:

The Summer Day
--Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean --
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

**

I love Mary Oliver, and I find myself flipping through her New and Selected Poems at least every couple of months, but I haven't read this one in a very long time. All the same, it's one of my favorites, and these were the first lines I copied on the first page of a thick notebook with a green suede cover and cream-colored pages, late in August of 2001. I was days away from beginning my first year as a high school English teacher in an unfamiliar town, living by myself in my first apartment, taking care of my new little dog and trying to figure out how to navigate this brand-new territory.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

When I read this the other day, I went hunting for that journal -- another thing I haven't read in a long, long time. Years. But I remember exactly where I was when I cracked it open for the first time; I was sitting at a corner table at Starbucks, next to the window. It was a sunny, slightly breezy Sunday afternoon and I was drinking a caramel macchiato, trying very hard not to panic and feeling, strangely enough, that I might just be okay. I'd started planning actual lessons that I would teach to actual teenagers. I'd seen all of the classrooms in which I'd spend my days; I didn't have enough seniority for my own classroom, of course, so I went back and forth between a dusty room so crowded with stuff I didn't have room to store an extra pen and a dark, hot room that smelled of mold and was cluttered with the random belongings of a teacher who'd long since retired. Neither of the teachers I shared with seemed to mind the clutter, the dust, or the dankness, and since it was primarily their space, I had to do the best I could to cope. I didn't have enough desks or enough books for my students, but I didn't know that yet. I was such a roiling mix of emotions then: all this shining optimism churning with sheer terror. I was going to save the world through literature. I also had to figure out how to get to the post office and the grocery store.

It's kind of a fabulous thing, being twenty-two years old and out in the world, doing exactly what you believe you were born to do -- or trying to, anyway. I still wouldn't ever go back and do that first year again, though.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

Sometimes I wonder what my twenty-two year-old self would say to my thirty year-old self if she could see me today on this sunny February afternoon, typing away while my children nap, jotting a grocery list, tossing a load of clothes in the dryer. At twenty-two, I imagined my entire future stretching out in front of me, and I thought I knew exactly where it would go. I'd teach English, I'd marry Matt, we'd buy a little house somewhere, I'd get my Master's degree, we'd have a couple of kids. And of course, it's not like that's the end. But at twenty-two, there's a pretty huge buffer between the present moment and this somewhat distant grown-up life in which all of those things have been, for lack of a better word, achieved. And as scary as the present was for me as I stood in front of a class of forty-two sophomores for the first time, there was some comfort in that.

People ask, "So how do you like teaching?" (And when they find out it's high school, their eyes are often wide, incredulous, skeptical.) And I always say, "I love it." And I mean it. I've always meant it. I could talk about how I think it's important work or about how it feels to sit with a smart group of kids and talk about the things that connect us. Because when it comes right down to it, that's why I teach English -- because I believe in the importance of language and stories and connections, and I believe we ultimately read literature to be reminded of our humanity. This is the kind of answer I'd give at twenty-two, and nine years later I think I'd still say more or less the same thing. I'd like to believe that nine years later I'm still just as passionate. But I also believe that my life has the potential to go in directions I couldn't really have envisioned at twenty-two.

Would I have imagined days like this? The kind where I spend my morning with a baby on my hip, drinking coffee out of a ceramic mug in my study instead of a travel mug or to-go cup on my desk? The kind where a preschooler entreats me to sit next to her while we eat "breffast" and I nurse her baby brother before we do one of her puzzles or glue beans on popsicle sticks for no other reason than because she likes the way it looks, likes the feel of digging her fingers in the bag of dried beans? The kind where we take a walk every day, sometimes to the park, sometimes to Starbucks, and sometimes just to pick up pinecones and sticks and watch the squirrels scrabbling up and down the tree trunks?

Where does the future lead? Can I see it from here, the same way I could see it from my first classroom or the balcony of my first apartment?

I do know how to pay attention

Writers have to notice things. Mothers have to notice things. The world is new every single day, even when our days seem, on the surface, very much the same, and to not notice the grand and the subtle ways it opens itself up to us is a huge loss. I guess that's really just a fancy way of saying I'm trying to live in the moment in a way I don't think my younger self was really able to.

I think it would be easiest to choose a particular path and stick to it. It seems like that's what we're supposed to do, anyway, almost from the very beginning: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

But what I'm realizing now is that I could be happy with so many possibilities, so many maybes. Life can look like a lot of things I couldn't see when I was fifteen, or twenty-two. Maybe things I can't even see now, at thirty. Of course, I still feel like I should have things more or less figured out at thirty, but then a tiny part of me wonders if maybe I wasn't a little closer at the age of five, when I wanted to be a dozen things, sometimes all at once. When I was happiest in the moment anyway.

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Maybe this is one of the gifts of having children, because I see all that shining possibility in my daughter's eyes, because we're happy just being in the world on a sunny afternoon, because while there are all of these things I have to worry about -- because I am an adult -- maybe they don't have to matter as much as I think they do, and maybe I can figure out a way to trust that everything will work out the way it's supposed to. And my life five or ten years from now might not look anything like I thought it would when I graduated from college and moved into that first little apartment overlooking Puget Sound, but maybe that's okay, and maybe, in this moment, I can let go of my plans enough to embrace some of the maybe. I don't know what that looks like yet, but I don't want to worry about it so much that I miss seeing what's right in front of me today.

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace

Perhaps one of the only disadvantages of co-sleeping is that sometimes, the baby is positioned at precisely the right angle to spew a stream of regurgitated milk all over your neck, into your hair, and, somehow, down the inside of your shirt. You sit up and peel your shirt away from your body (slurrrp), toss it on the floor, and reach for the spare you've learned to keep in the unused bedside co-sleeper. You half-heartedly use your sleeve to wipe the side of your face, but you can't quite bring yourself to care that you still have sour milk pooling in your cleavage and your hair is actually wet because your child just yarfed in it.

(I was tired this morning.)

I'm savoring the quiet tonight after a whirlwind of a weekend. My parents flew in on Friday so we could make the trip to my great-uncle's memorial service yesterday, and after the somewhat frenetic nature of the last couple of days I'm ready to just sit here and breathe quietly.

Of course, having a three-year-old and an infant adds a little chaos to just about any situation, but my children did remarkably well. Suzannah is a cautious little girl, and large crowds of unfamiliar faces, especially in unfamiliar surroundings, are really hard on her. And Isaac is not quite eight weeks old, so obviously, I have to be prepared for anything -- noisy demands for a snack, explosive sounds from his diaper, and sudden fountains of spit-up, for instance. I was lucky, though. Suzannah sat quietly next to me and played with her stickers, and Isaac slept soundly in Matt's arms throughout the entire service in the stifling, overcrowded church. Several people seemed surprised that we'd been there the entire time, because no one heard a peep from my little ones. It wasn't until several hours later, back at my great-aunt's house, that Suzannah really lost her mind. She hadn't napped, hadn't eaten much besides cheese and crackers and cookies all day, and was suddenly SO OVER IT -- the heat, the crowds, the strangeness of it all. We were sitting in the living room balancing plates of food on our laps, and she was holding it together, but then Matt went to cut up an enormous strawberry for her and he cut it the wrong way and that was the end. She dissolved into exhausted sobbing, and we decided it was time to head home. She was asleep before we reached the end of the street.

It was a lovely weekend, though -- an odd thing to say when the weekend revolves around a memorial service, perhaps, but then again, they have a funny way of turning into unexpected family reunions. I spent time with aunts and uncles and cousins that I haven't seen in years. We pledged to be better about staying in touch and getting together, especially those of us who live near each other, and even though it's easy for that to be just what you say, I really want it to be true.

The service was lovely, too. My great-uncle Ingvald was just such a good soul, and I liked him so much. My dad said, "I always thought he was such a gentleman." The pastor said, "He was a model for how to die with no unfinished business." At the end of his life, he said, his prayers were prayers of praise and gratitude. He was kindness in the world, the kind I desperately need to believe in.

They read the prayer of St. Francis, one of my favorites, and it seems appropriate to end with that tonight.

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
When there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
When there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that
I may not so much seek
To be consoled, as to console;
Not so much to be understood as
To understand; not so much to be
Loved as to love:
For it is in giving than we receive;
It is in pardoning, that we are pardoned;
It is in dying, that we awaken to eternal life.

St. Francis of Assisi (1181/2 - 1226)
Trans. Anon.

(In memory of Ingvald Dale)

I totally had it coming...

The night before last, I was getting ready to run a load of diapers when Matt called for my assistance with something. I don't remember what. What I do remember is asking him to finish where I left off with the laundry.

Now, normally I take care of all the laundry. I'm fine with this. It's not because I think it's a woman's job, and Matt has insisted several times that he CAN do the laundry, thank you very much, but a.) he does plenty of other things that I flat-out hate doing, and b.) I have control issues. Also, possibly c.) If Matt were in charge of the laundry, we'd have perpetually wrinkled and possibly damp clothes, because he would forget to move them from the washer into the dryer for two days. (I'll add a little disclaimer here: He did plenty of laundry when I was very, very pregnant and could barely waddle to the bathroom, let alone ALL THE WAY TO THE LAUNDRY ROOM. It's just that I have to ask him at the exact moment I need him to do it, otherwise he might forget. Apparently, one of his nicknames growing up was "Forgetful Jones." This will be significant in a moment. But seriously, he really is wonderful about pitching in, and in his defense, he might remember better if laundry were on his radar. But since I'm the one who usually takes care of that particular job, it's not.)

But anyway, diaper laundry barely even counts as laundry. I find it to be no more work than taking out a trashload of disposable diapers. Wash, dry, throw in the bin, DONE. No folding, no sorting, piece of cake. The thing about diaper laundry, though, is that it is a good idea to stay caught-up with it, for obvious reasons. We rarely run low on diapers because I tend to run a load nearly every day, but the other night, we were pretty much out of wipes and our stash of clean diapers was dwindling. The last thing I wanted to do before bed was make sure the diapers at least made it to the dryer, so I would have a fresh stash in the morning.

So Matt took over. Except in the morning, I asked him, "Hey, you remembered to start the load of diapers, right?" The look on his face answered me. He'd put the diapers IN the machine, he'd just forgotten to START it. Instead of a load of freshly-laundered diapers, I had -- well, the opposite of that.

And I was kind of bratty about it. I offered to hold an orientation for the washer and dryer. "It's really easy, Baby. You just slam the door -- like this -- and flip the switch ON!" When he came home from work yesterday and went to kiss the baby, I said, "This is ISAAC. He is our SON. You might remember -- you watched him come out of me about seven weeks ago." I spoke loudly and slowly, as though he were about ninety years old and deaf. And so on. I was basically a wiseass all night.

"You're mean!" he told me.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm over it. I'm done, I promise!"

"I'm sorry about the diapers. I didn't actually mean to make more work for you."

"I know, I know. It's okay. I'm sorry for being so obnoxious."

And we made up and all was happy in Winslowland.

Later, after the kids were asleep, I made myself a little ice cream sundae. A good twenty minutes after I finished it, Matt called to me from the kitchen.

"Is there any particular reason you put the ice cream in the refrigerator?"

"..."

Man, that was like his birthday and Christmas for him.

Stories

Every time we return to the house after a walk or an outing, Suzannah rushes to the door, where she places her thumb squarely over the key-hole in the doorknob. She thinks this is completely hilarious. The first time she ever did this, I said something like, "Oh, no! Now we're stuck out here! I guess we're gonna have to sleep in the garage!" She has taken this idea and run with it, and now every day we have an animated little narrative beginning with, "Oh, no! What are we gonna do?" She follows this with frantic exclamations of "We're gonna have to eat a shoe or somethin'! We're gonna have to SLEEP out here! We're STUCK in the GARAGE! I'm HUNGRY!" She throws her hands up in the air in mock distress. The last couple of times, we've gone back and forth:

"We're gonna have to eat a shoe!"

"Shoe soup!"

"A shoe sammich!"

"Shoe macaroni and cheese!"

"Cook me a shoe!"

And so on. It's also fun to be swept up in stories of her own creation; for instance, the other day we walked to the park, and as we were the only people there, she let go of all her inhibitions and promptly turned the jungle gym into a pirate ship. For awhile I was a captain and she was a regular old pirate, I guess, and we had all sorts of crazy adventures on the high seas until she turned to me and announced rather furiously that I BROKE HER BOAT and IT DIDN'T WORK ANYMORE. Plus, there was dirt on her pants, so game over.

Having a baby makes me so aware of the fact that she's such a kid now, someone whose daily company I'm really enjoying. She's so funny, and she does so many things that leave me wondering what in the world goes on in that little mind of hers. (I broke her boat?) She's a shrewd little thing; when I offer one cookie, she'll narrow her eyes and smile coyly and say, "How about two of them?" She's so affectionate, still wanting to rock with me when she wakes up from her naps, and she's always bounding over to me for hugs and kisses for no reason at all. She's gentle and loving with her brother, too, stroking his head and hands and patting his cheeks and wanting to be right there every time I give him a bath. When he cries, she immediately rushes to his side and soothes him: "Oh, oh, it's okay, it's okay!" And in return, Isaac gives her these beautiful and easy smiles. His face is totally open and trusting, and I think to myself, this is EXACTLY why we have two children.

Isaac: I'm so in love with him. He looks a lot like Suzannah did as a newborn, and in many ways he reminds me of her. I love this, noticing the ways in which this sibling connection manifests itself so naturally. But obviously, he is a very different child, too, something I sensed long before he was born -- it's just a totally different energy. He seems so happy-go-lucky already, so willing to humor his crazy mama with a grin when she's dancing around his crib (our changing station) singing a ridiculous song about how she's going to GET HIS NOSE, la la la, and TICKLE HIS BELLY, la la laaaa!

He has slept every night of his life in my arms. I'm almost afraid to write that, because such an admission tends to elicit all kinds of well-intentioned advice on how to get him to sleep on his own, but at seven weeks I think it's perfectly natural and okay to have him attached to his mama. Also, I just really love snuggling my baby, and yes, we sleep so much better this way. I was sort of furtive about co-sleeping with Suzannah; I'd always hasten to add that we never actually meant to bring her right into the bed with us -- we'd spent good money on a bedside co-sleeper! -- but she hated the co-sleeper, and frankly, I'd have slept hanging upside down by my toenails if I could have scored five extra minutes of sleep. When we got the hang of nursing in bed, I didn't have to get up to feed her, and my life started to feel REALLY AWESOME at that point. This time, I don't add any disclaimers -- I never intended to try to make Isaac sleep anywhere else, figuring he'd let us know if he preferred a little more space. But he is such a little snuggler, and sometimes we have five-hour stretches of unbroken sleep now, followed by another two or three after a middle-of-the-night meal. (Suzannah slept much better with me than she did without me, but she tended to wake up and ask where the party was and why I wanted to sleep through it.) Anyway, I read somewhere today that at the end of a mother's life, the fact that she held her baby too much isn't going to be on her list of regrets, and that's pretty much exactly how I feel.

Isaac is a noisy little thing, though, kicking up a racket as he's falling asleep -- snuffles and snorts and grunts. I never used to understand parents who couldn't sleep with their babies because they were noisy or restless sleepers (how noisy can they be? They're babies!), but now I might get it a little. Isaac isn't a restless sleeper at all (yet, anyway), but he does sound like a little piglet before he falls completely asleep. Maybe it's a boy thing, since I found myself sandwiched in the middle of a Winslow Man Duet the other night. The big one was snoring; the little one was snuffling and sighing. Also: Little Dude can scream. This is new to me. Suzannah is a passionate little soul and has been since birth; she can wail, she can rage, but she has never been a screamer. Isaac is generally not a fussy baby, but when he gets mad -- say, when the milk bar is a bit too late in opening, or when he gets sprayed in the face because he's been away a bit too long, he lets out this totally ear-piercing shriek that makes his parents go, "Whoa. DUDE." I'm sure that will stop, right?

Anyway, screams and all, I really like this boy.

When I started this blog, I really intended it to be a place where I could write openly about my family and my life for people I know in "real life." I've wondered, at times, whether this all gets a little boring -- I'm not sure the life of a mama and her two kids (two! kids! How crazy is that?) makes for the most gripping reading, but then again, navigating this new territory with my family is interesting to me, and it's also what feeds my writing now more than anything else, wherever that will lead me -- when I can actually steal a few minutes to write, that is. It all passes so quickly that this is as much my own attempt to process and hold on to each moment as it is a place to share the stories my children and I create on ordinary days.