Almost not a Baby Anymore

My always-up-to-something, goofy, moody, loving, wonderful little 4-year-old.

I'm just going to lay it out there. This post is unabashedly and unapologetically mushy, sentimental, and maybe a little saccharin, but it's either this or subjecting my "baby" to an uncomfortably intense snuggling session so that I might internalize the essence of being in his 4-year-old presence forever. And I don't think anyone wants to see that happen. I've already been relegated to planting kisses only on his clothes or hair, because my kisses are "too much kisses," which is really just a polite way to say I'm a slobbering troglodyte when it comes to expressing my affection. I can't face that rejection so early in the day.

So here's the deal. My youngest is about to turn 5 and I'm having an unexpected little freak out about this whole situation. We won't have "little kids" in our house anymore! Panic! I'm accustomed to little kids by now. I'm comfortable in little kid land, where I'm very much in charge, and where my children adore me and call me things like "Bubblegum Mommy Cutie Pie Princess of the West." I've become accustomed to my princess lifestyle and I do not want to give it up.

I am not ready to move past the stage where I can scoop him up like a medium-sized dog and feel his hot breath on my chest when he snuggles up on my lap, or the flutter of his soft, enviably-long eyelashes on my cheek while he whispers inane secrets to me about a duck in the mailbox.

I am not ready for the day when he tells me, hopefully gingerly, to stop calling him "baby" or when the two of them will huddle in conspiratorial whispers about what an out-of-touch, goofy old lady I've become.

I'm certainly not ready for the day one of them gets a girlfriend, life partner, spouse, personal goldfish or car! I think I'm getting the spins here. It's all too much.

I know, I know. It will all be okay. And I am incredibly lucky to have two healthy, goofy, loving little boys who are proving every day how kind, smart, and engaged they are becoming. It's a very good life. I just didn't expect this lurch in my chest as my baby crosses the invisible bridge between the land of Dora and tricycles and the one where he'll need deodorant in a few short years.

Today, though, I will sneak a sniff of his little blond head as I help him get untwisted when he tries to take off his pajama shirt.

Today I will sit on my hands while he makes his own peanut butter sandwich for lunch, even when he wipes the knife on his shorts and there's more peanut butter on the table than the bread.

Today I will maintain something between a grimace and a smile when he's on his 13th successive knock-knock joke with no punch line.

Today I will scoop him up from behind, and delight in his squeal of surprise. I will twirl him around and sing into his ear while we dance to "Long Gone Daddy," and I will try hard to memorize all of it. The size of his little warm body in my arms. His weird little boy smell. The way he says "we're" instead of "our," and how he always says thank you with such genuine sincerity whenever I make him pancakes or skeptically hand over the kid scissors.

I will remember that at 4, he loved smoked salmon and hated watermelon, and that he sometimes had to put one of his three baby dolls, Tom, Craigslist, and Cabba, in time out for breaking the rules.

I will remember how much he loved dancing and singing, and how he did both with exuberance, every single time.

I will remember that above all, he really just wanted to be exactly like his big brother, and that being with his mommy and daddy, grandparents, uncles and aunt made him happier than anything else in the world.

And even when he is faced with navigating the sometimes excruciating process of growing up, and it makes him angry and confused, I vow to remember the way his tiny hand fit inside mine when he was 4, and how he once reached for me instinctively whenever he was worried. And I'll hope that he will carry our pure, eternal love for him in his heart, and that it helps when the world shows its claws now and then.

And I will watch this video, and many others like it, and smile, laugh, and probably cry like a sentimental mommy is meant to cry at a time like that. Because despite being "mine," my little David is his own little person, and it's a gift to be able to be a part of his growing up. I will miss this part so much, but I'm so excited to see what tomorrow brings, too. Did I mention that part about how grateful I am for this awesome life?

Home on the Horizon

You're living a good life when the best part of a great trip is the coming home.

"When I come home
Cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones
Beside the fire"

(Roger Waters)

I've been reading through past posts here and approving comments from months ago, and realizing how much I miss writing here, how I never feel quite at "home" if I'm not writing this kind of stuff regularly. There's only so much creative satisfaction one can derive from writing web content for various corporate interests. That's about a .05% creative satisfaction level, I've discovered. Some days it's actually a negative number.

I've been glum for a while now, when I haven't been wracked with grief over the loss of my grandpa in April, or troubled over a spectacularly awful and seemingly irreparable falling out with a cherished friend. My state of mind has been more focused on just trying to find a soft place to land, and emotionally I haven't been up to the inherently vulnerable task of writing.

And in some ways, I'm still not there, but this is what I do, and not doing it has begun to feel worse than doing it and risking the pain of rejection or criticism. I still feel an overwhelming sense of "they're all gonna laugh at you," but I'm choosing to finally take that deep breath and dive back in. I mean, let's be honest, anyway. Of the 12 people who will potentially read this one day, surely only 2 of them will actually point and laugh. Right? Right.

I have lots of stuff I want to get to here soon, but for today, I will leave you with this old picture I came across the other day. It makes me all kinds of bittersweet and gooey. Kind of like Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra but without the brain freeze.

The little one is turning 5 in a few days. This one's going to sting.

Things and Stuff

Our first Christmas together. The more things change...

I've accumulated a lot of Things in my 37.8 years on this watery orb. Much like a certain redheaded mermaid, I've got whozits and whatzits galore. Few of them hold any real meaning, and even then, it's probably truest to say that only a few of them trigger real feelings or memories. This knowledge won't stop me from pulling the trigger on the next adorable, kitschy owl-themed trinket that catches my eye, but at this time of the year when the ray gun is stuck on ACQUIRE in so many ways, I'd like to reflect on a few material objects that bring me joy on a regular basis. They aren't the most valuable things I own -- that honor would go to my collection of human hair and teeth, otherwise known as my baby books.* Style-wise, these objects are probably the antithesis of modern elegance, but I've always been a big fan of the misfit toy.

For instance, this mug:

I got this from my mom for my 10th birthday, which means my Sarah Mug would be well into its first career as a lion trainer if it had been born to lion training parents instead of winding up in that kiln in Korea. My mug could drink a beer with me. My mug has had a beer with me, actually. My mug has held hot chocolate with big, sticky marshmallows on a cold snow day in 1987. My mug has forced me to smile after reading its cheerful, cheesy poem at 5:12 a.m. while I bounced a colicky newborn on my knee and wondered if it were possible to be more sleep-deprived but technically conscious (it were). Recently, I let my once-colicky, now 6-year-old not-really-a-baby drink grape Powerade from it when he was sick.

Somehow, though I have moved 15+ times since receiving it, I've managed to keep track of this thing and not even crack it. And yes, it's special because it was a gift from my mommy when I was 10, and because they spelled Sarah with an "h," but it's also special just because it has been there as part of the background for so long. 

This squirrel basket:

My Grandma Bricker kept her candy in here. When I was very young and my Poppy Bricker was still alive, he would always bury a chocolate underneath all the Brach's Butterscotch and tell me they didn't have any. So of course I'd dig around in here, and lo and behold, there it was. Now that I'm older, that memory holds increasing weight. I know the overwhelming feeling of making a little kid beam with joy over a simple thing. I'd rather have this silly squirrel basket than any "real" family heirloom.

This tiny red lantern:

At my other grandparents' house, there is this little shelf in the spare bedroom where I'd always sleep when I visited, and on this little shelf are all these tiny trinkets, some of them gifts from me and my brothers when we were very small. My grandma still has an ugly little rock there that I gave her when she was in the hospital at one point long ago, and one of those weird little naked babies that fit in dollhouse cribs. I gave that to her at some point, too. I'm not sure of the origin of this little lantern, but it was there as long as I can remember, so at least 33ish years. I was at their house not too long ago, and we were reminiscing about days long gone, as we often do, and which invariably winds up focused on some childhood antics performed by me and my little brothers. I said something about the little shelf in there, and my Poppy, who is in his 80s, sick, and not always too coherent these days, said that reminded him of something. He'd told me when I was SIX that I could have that little lantern some day. So I took it home, and here it is. Love.

There are some other Things that bring on the Stuff around here, too, like the first gift Kurt gave me (a stuffed weasel) and the $2 sterling silver rings we got together in Chinatown in Chicago almost 13 years ago. A tiny hat that kept my first baby's little pumpkin head warm when he was born. Lots of pictures. My later-in-life college diploma. Monk and Roger, the stuffed animals I carried around when I was 5. My Grandma Bricker blanket. A silver perfume bottle from one of my oldest friends. A little clay vase from Barcelona. A mother's day card where the only word spelled correctly is love. 

I don't need these things to reminisce, and I'd imagine I'll hold on to less and less of them as time goes along. But they are a good reminder that when it comes to gifts and the things that endure, it's the thought that counts. I know it's hokey. But just like that prissy mermaid, there's little more important to me than being a part of the larger world, whether it's family, friends or community. I think that's probably true for almost every single person on Earth, too, no matter our differences or status. People do better when they have other people in their lives, even in the worst situations. Beloved objects conjure up memories of those people.

I hope I don't sound all sanctimonious here. I'm not above snatching up that Cyber Monday deal on a DVD I'd like to acquire or anything. I'm just making the case for the little things at this frenzied time of year, especially after this particularly painful election cycle has finally, thankfully, ground to a halt. We can't predict which little things others will imbue with their own personal meaning, or even if it's our intangible gifts that will mean the most. But it's a sure bet that all that guilt associated with the gift-giving season is a wasted emotion.

Now, tell me about your favorite nostalgia-inducing objects. I'd love to hear about them.

*Why is not creepy to collect your child's hair and first lost teeth in a book, but as soon as you start storing these items in shoe boxes in a dusty cellar, you're getting profiled as a potential serial killer?

Maggie Waggie: Whose idea was this?

Taken by my friend Jo, AKA Maggie's beloved second mother.

"Let's get a dog!" I said. "A dog will complete this stereotypical picture of American living!" I said, like it was a good thing.

I pledged to walk, feed, groom, and love our future furry beast.

Eventually, the powers that be agreed, and we drove out to Hillsboro (where Pride Rings True, apparently) one frigid Sunday in January a few years ago to retrieve our undoubtedly adorable Golden Retriever.

See? Undoubtedly adorable:

Maggie's first car ride.

I loved her immediately. We had a friendly family argument all the way home about what to call this adorable mass of reddish brown fur, and eventually agreed on Maggie, though Anderson insisted her full name would be Aggie Maggie. This was an omen, as it turns out, because soon this creature would devour every small child on the block.

OK, that's probably just a lie.

But it wasn't long before I was battling serious regret over this whole hair-brained (HA) idea of mine. I had read all the warnings. I had ignored all the advice from wise friends about puppy chewing, house training, the vet bills, and the massive amounts of hair that would clog every drain, vent, and slightly open bag of anything in my house. Surely, all that stuff was exaggeration. Surely nobody would have a dog if it was really that much work.

Oh, but no. It was not lies, lies, lies. Soon enough, I hated the entire puppy situation. I wondered why on Earth I had decided it would be a good idea to go straight back into the stuff we'd just moved past when our youngest left behind his early baby stage.

I was up at 3 a.m. coaxing a furry beast off my frozen porch out into the snow to please, for the love of god, just pee already. I was going through 10 jumbo rolls of paper towels a month and damaging hardwood floors with harsh cleaners when the coaxing didn't work. I was retrieving the eyeballs from beloved stuffed animals from organic matter that I won't mention in polite company. I was treating this horrible beast for worms. WORMS. Worms were in my house. Worms from inside my dog. When I wasn't doing these things, I was forcing Kurt to do these things. A fairly annoyed Kurt, who had required much convincing about this dog scenario.

On the other hand, the kids were in mad, undeniable love.

Exhibit A of the undeniable love.

Anderson dubbed her the best dog that had ever existed, and found her antics hilarious. He especially loved the trick where she peed everywhere when meeting new people, or people she'd met 10 times before, or when the mailman brought a box to the porch, or when someone talked to her with slight excitement.

He loved that she was still climbing into our laps when she had somehow grown from 15 to 45 pounds in the course of 3 months.

He loved her "funny doggie smell" when she'd apparently rolled in something dead in the brushy part of the backyard.

He loved her when she was bad, even when she chewed up his favorite books, because he could still read the best words.

But mostly, he loved how much she loved him and David. She was immediately their constant shepherd, their relentless companion. At night, she wouldn't lay down until she'd checked to make sure they were both asleep, and then she'd settle in right on top of Anderson, at first fitting on top of his chest, and later, stretching out longer than him.

Then one day, it happened. I heard it in my own voice first, which had evolved over time from borderline annoyance at her mere presence (especially after one of those long, cold nights of potty training), to the soft, babying tones I'd generally reserved for, you know, actual babies.

 "Oh, there's my Maggie Waggie. You are a sweet doggie woggie, aren't you?" Was this coming out of my mouth? I looked around to make sure no one had heard, lest I get pegged a "dog person," but yes, somewhere along the line, I had fallen for her smelly, furry charms.

It turns out it's hard not to love an animal who has nothing but unconditional love for you, and as a mother, for an animal who treats your children with such unbridled affection and care. Maggie + the boys = joy and love. These days, I understand why people take on this job.

These days, she is truly one of the kids, and I can't imagine a better companion in a four-legged family member.

These days, she is loyal, sweet, and not as likely to pee on the floor when the guy comes to read the electric meter.

These days, Maggie is ours, and we are hers. That's a good doggie woggie, indeed.

The summer I became a morbid 10-year-old

This goth-y bibliophile would make a great gift. On etsy.

My friend Jen over at Custom-Built Life posted recently about rereading the Ramona books with her daughter and it sent me on a journey of nostalgia. After I stopped crying like a Gilmore Girl, I decided to share some of my favorite books from childhood.

Now, I did enjoy the old standbys, very much.

I was a huge Judy Blume fan, loved Ramona in every Pest-y respect - I even got into that whole posse of kids - Henry Huggins, Otis Spofford and so on - great world-building, Beverly Cleary! I read a lot of Nancy Drew and even better, to me, Trixie Belden, all the Babysitters' Club I could get my hands on, and eventually moved into a somewhat more shameful period of Sweet Valley High and anything with a dorky guy with feathered hair on the cover.

I dabbled in some sci-fi like Something Wicked This Way Comes and I snuck in a little Stephen King from my dad's bookshelf on occasion (The Body still resonates). I read stuff we had to read in school, too, and liked most of it, especially Vonnegut, half of which was mysteriously absent from our school library, but I digress.

Anyway. I liked to read a lot. But for whatever reason, in between reading books that most of us would agree were at least "age appropriate", I was drawn to the most depressing stuff at the library even at a young age.

For example:

A Summer to Die by Lois Lowry. Yeah, that pretty much sums up this book. It's all about a girl whose summer is spent watching her big sister die from leukemia. Don't get me wrong. There's a place for books like this, and I'm very glad this sub-genre exists (and Lois Lowry was a big part of my emotional growth for years).

But for me, this book sent me on a not-so-whimsical summertime obsession* centered on Death. Specially, Young Death. I had nothing good to say when I entered fifth grade in the fall in response to "What did you do this summer?" I was all, "Oh, me? I contemplated the fragile nature of existence and came to fully understand the idea that all of us, including you, and you, and you, are but one mutated cell away from death at any given moment. Oh, and we went to Sea World."

*See also: A Taste of Blackberries, Bridge to Terabithia...