Ten months, one soccer game & a late night history lesson

Ten months, one soccer game & a late night history lesson. That is almost exactly what it took for me to decide this house could become our home.

In January, I was as open minded as any skeptic could be. I agreed we needed the space and the wooded backyard would be excellent for the kids. I begrudgingly admitted that the school system had a great reputation. And I like to believe I am a woman of my word, so as I promised (unofficially in my wedding vows) I moved to my husband's rural hometown.

This move meant leaving the conveniences of city life and the luxury of my family's close proximity. But oh how it made my husband smile.

We settled in. Or so I tried.
I put the dishes in the cabinets. Hung my clothes in the closet. A few months later, we hung some towel bars in the bathroom and I hung a few towels. Several months later we had the bedrooms and bathrooms painted, with fresh, personality-filled colors. Many months later, we hung a single picture in the living room.
The kids played in back yard, then it rained and that wooded oasis, became a mud pit complete with two toddlers.
The neighbors weren't so friendly. In fact, it seemed people even went out of their way to not be friendly -- all except for their dogs who barked at us all night long.
I missed making a quick run to Whole Foods or Earth Fare, or anywhere really.
I missed my mama's drop ins.
And to top it all off, a few locals mentioned in hushed voices that our new home, "might have been the one where that young married couple died..." I mean, seriously?? -- luckily a Google search turned up nothing.

I really tried to see the good in our move. Really, I did, because I am a sucker for my husband's smile.
And while I was busy trying, I might have whined a little.
And as a good friend said, I might have worn him down, like the waves on the beach.

He conceded that the neighborhood was a disappointment. That as winter approached again, the backyard was headed underwater. Most of all, he acknowledged that I just wasn't happy. And he was willing to see that moving back to town, or at least away from here was a good idea.

I beamed with excitement. We made plans to list the house. We looked at listings back in town. We told our parents and some friends. I started making plans to take down that picture in the living room and stopped looking for a shower curtain that would match the new bathroom paint. He even brought home boxes from work so I could pack back up all the pictures we had yet to hang that were littering every empty square foot of our bedroom.

A few weeks later, we went to a 4 year-old's soccer game, at the local fields, less than ten minutes from our house. We saw familiar faces, were greeted with hugs and welcomes. Some of them were people we expected to see, others were not -- they were the pleasant surprises. There was a sense of welcoming and belonging I had not felt since our move.

As we walked to the car, our kids giddy from the excitement, I said "I have to say something that I can't believe I am going to say." I think my husband braced himself. And then smiled when I whispered, "ya know, I have to admit that was nice and I don't think we would have that in town."

I stopped looking at real estate listings. We never had our realtor run the comps on this house. Everything stalled.

Then, in passing, a neighbor confirmed for my husband that our house was "that house where that married couple died."
And for some reason, my husband told me.
My first instinct was to make my own "FOR SALE" sign with construction paper and markers and move to a hotel. But along with being good to my word, I like to think I am pretty level-headed.  
So I accepted the fact and level-headedly debated what to do next. 
But the fact ate at me. I needed to know what had happened.

Another Google search didn't shed any more light. So one night, just before Halloween, after my kids were tucked into bed, I texted a reporter friend to ask for some advice on how to find the facts -- with little information besides my own address. Together, her in Ohio and me in my bedroom, we uncovered obituaries and eventually the newspaper report of the incident. I was completely shaken.

I stayed that way for about 12 hours. Afraid to go to sleep because I might dream or think about it, I stayed up most the night, refreshing my Facebook news feed and hoping someone else was awake and posting a status update.
In the light of day, I avoided the front door and steps where the reports I read said the incident happened.
When my husband left for work we all stood in the grass and waved good-bye as usual, my calling out "if you have a chance, call the realtor today to set up an appointment."
And then, unlike usual, my children planted themselves on the front steps and proceeded to play there, of all places, for over an hour. In ten months of living here, we have never before played there. It was the last place I wanted to be. And clearly, the only place I needed to be.

In that hour, the creepiness went away. And beginning there, I decided this house needs our happy story. It needs our love and caring. It needs everything this family is and all we hope to be.

And I am beginning to see that it all could happen here.  
At Halloween, one neighbor brought over special treat bags for our kids.
On a recent toddler-walk we met a new family who didn't run into their garage as soon as they spotted us.
Rebecca & Durham have an over-the-fence friendship developing with the engaging kindergartner next door.
My husband and father-in-law are halfway through with the deck extension that will bridge much of the riverbed in the back yard this winter.
There's a picture hung on almost every bare wall in the living room -- and even a few in the dining room too.
I am embracing the extra time I get to sit in the car while running out for things -- after all, sitting is a precious commodity for moms.
We haven't been playing on the steps any more -- but when my mom came out to visit today we did have a big time on the neighborhood park swings.
And next fall when the kids are old enough for Tuesday night soccer, we might just sign up.


And so we are staying.

It only took ten months, one soccer game, a late night history lesson --- and two toddlers laughing and smiling in the sun on some concrete & brick steps.

Whatcha talking about?

For most children, speech develops spontaneously. At some point in their infancy they call out from their cribs  --- "mama" or "dada." Or they babble a variety of sounds and eventually ask for milk or their lovie at bedtime. I didn't spend any time thinking about when this would happen to my young children, I just had faith that it would. So, at Rebecca's 15 month well visit, it came as quite a shock when her pediatrician expressed marked concern about her non-verbal status. "No words?" she said. "Not even mama or dada? What about no?" I rubbed my eyes, shook my head, waking myself from my sleep-deprived, mother-of-a-newborn-too state and looked at my husband -- I wasn't making this all up, she really wasn't talking, right? It had never occurred to me that this was a problem. Apparently, it was.

My perfect, bright eyed child wasn't perfect? A delay? A developmental delay? I am awake. And officially scared.

Despite those labels, this child listens and understands, those bright eyes are deep windows to a mind I know understands me and this world she's actively a part of. She is still perfect, right?
In my heart, I couldn't believe anything except the idea that she was perfect.

And so we began the state-supported early intervention program, Babynet.
Enter, many well-meaning professionals who would support my heart's feelings, but interject their professional concern --including a well-meaning early interventionist, who softly whispered the word "autistic."  "Shame on her, " I told my husband. And an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist who concluded that subjecting a child with a history of only one ear infection to anesthesia and the insertion of tubes might be helpful, thus prompting us to seek a second opinion and a hearing screen, all of which were normal.

Then, enter Miss Neely, Rebecca's speech therapist. She came into our home, and became a part of this scary journey. She never sugar-coated the severity of Rebecca's delay, nor did she ever express doubt that it would improve. She came with faith in her own skills and better yet, faith in my daughter. I had the latter, and in a matter of minutes I had faith in Miss Neely's skills too.

She came weekly, and patiently urged, encouraged and required Rebecca to communicate with us, first using signs and in time with sounds.
She brought toys, and week to week, she remembered the toys my child liked most.
She learned who my child was & was then able to alleviate the fears that others couldn't.
She sat on the floor (which I tried very hard to sweep in the minutes before she arrived) and engrossed herself in my child and our struggles and accomplishments.
She noticed Rebecca's painted toenails or new dress and kindly ignored my lack of shower and frequent appearance in pajamas for our mid-morning sessions.
She oooed and ahhed over Durham, after Rebecca. And ignored the dirty breakfast dishes still on the table.
She praised my child.
She held my child to a standard perfectly fitting.

Then she came twice a week in an effort to further reinforce the therapy. She shared with us that Rebecca's progress gave her reason to think that her delay was not a part of disorder, but instead just Rebecca's own time table for speech development.
Rebecca began to talk.
Miss Neely went on maternity leave.
And Rebecca starting chatting away. Over Christmas, she began putting strings of words together and using words other than those we had worked on in her therapy sessions. I remember texting Miss Neely to tell her Rebecca had strung together three words "Santa, up, house."
Her light bulb came on.
Just like Miss Neely said it would.
Before Miss Neely came back from maternity leave, Rebecca was discharged from speech therapy.

Only months later, at Durham's 15 month well visit, we were again referred for speech services. By that point, I was a pro. My smiling bright eyed boy was perfect. I didn't allow anyone to interject thoughts otherwise. He would speak, in his own time, and until then we would appreciate the same support and push that his sister had received.
And it is just what he got until his light bulb came on. And lucky for us, from Miss Neely, now back
from maternity leave.

The gift of communicating with your child is one I think might be taken for granted quite often. I know I would have taken it for granted.
It makes the moments all the more special when my children can tell me what they are thinking or wanting or dreaming about. Moments like tonight, when Rebecca announced we should go to Target tomorrow and get some avocados to make guacamole. And she would squish them -- first her and then me. (guess we're having guacamole tomorrow!)
A year ago, she wasn't verbalizing basic needs or wants. Now, she sings, she chatters and amazes me with her vocabulary. And urges her brother as he progresses with his own speech development.

Walking away from this experience, I have come to appreciate my children's health. In the grand scheme of things, my children's speech delays were a minor bump along the way. There were moments, especially at the beginning, that I wasn't confident enough to say that, but now I am. I also know there are mothers out there who don't get the relief I now have. For their sakes, I hope they have the same caliber of support that has bolstered me. I am grateful to all the people who helped us get to our ending -- from our pediatrician, who wasn't in a newborn mother fog and proactively referred us, to the second Ear, Nose and Throat specialist who took his time with us and listened to our history, to the audiologist whose professional appearance wouldn't have led you to be think she would be so kid-friendly, to our Miss Neely.

It takes a village, ya know?
I am glad my kids & I had this one.  

75% perfection

I have struggled with my weight for almost as long as I think I even knew weight existed, that it was a number to track. From puberty forward (and depending on how you define that, maybe longer), I cannot remember a moment in my life when my weight wasn't either too much and needed to be less, or it was OK, but just teetering there, waiting for my misstep. 
I don't know which is worse -- yearning for it or living with the pressure to hold onto it. 
 
This is not unlike a lot of people. 
My story isn't unique. 
I can tell you about the light-hearted joke, that I might not fit in a convertible in a certain pair of shorts. 
Or the boys who tauntingly called me Miss Piggy throughout middle school.
Or the shame changing in a locker room. Or the fear of wearing a swim suit at a pool party. Or not going to a pool party because I would have to wear a swim suit. Or the freshman 15(ish). 
Or  a million sideways glances in a mirror, wishing for a different sort of reflection. 
I can tell you all these things and they don't make me special. 
These wounds don't set me apart.
I only wish that what I do with them brings me peace. 

Peace, I do not yet have. 

Currently, at the back end of two very stressful and intense, back to back, initiations into motherhood, I am trying to claw my way back. 
I ate myself through those months of newborness. And then the months turned to years. One baby cried, and I ate Moe's. Another baby wouldn't sleep and I baked cakes & ate them and licked the frosting off the beaters. One toddler still won't sleep, and I am eating bowls of pasta.

Healthy living has always been a passion of mine. Nutrition, clean eating, exercise.  Clearly, I have not always been able to hold myself to the standards I might idolize. 
Today, while I put away my organic co-op share and planned healthy meals for my family, I ate three oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. All this while I was still in my sweaty workout clothes. 75% success? Am I at peace with 75%?

Obviously not. 

I want it all. I want to like what I see in the mirror and what I put on my plate. I want to not think about either one. 
I don't think that is in my future. Ever. 
 
A wise friend of mine told me tonight that we have to do what makes us happy. 
And I guess that what makes us happy doesn't necessarily make us perfect --

Leaving me continuing to struggle to find the balance between health and happiness. 
I see that in my future. Forever. 

Every. Single. Thing.

I love them every day.
Some days, it just overwhelms me.
Today it was Rebecca, yesterday it was her brother. Every day it is a joy to be their mother.

I love her persistence and determination.
How she will work at a task, despite failure at first attempts --- putting on her socks, a dress, opening and pouring her own milk.
The same persistence and determination that aids in getting her way long after a 'no' has been delivered.
How she remains calm within herself as she works towards something, not letting the challenges fluster her.

I love her strength and endurance.
Pedaling her tricycle up the hilly driveway, without a push, maneuvering it carefully so it will ride over every bump and crack along the way.
Running the last quarter mile of  a run alongside me. Steady, smiling.
Pushing her brother in a toy car, uphill, laughing.
Riding her scooter in her princess heels.

I love her spirit. 
Getting out of the stroller to run with me & telling him, "when you get bigger you can run with mommy too." Then kissing his knees before setting off.
Reciting lines of her favorite stories out loud as we stroll through Whole Foods - "Look out Tommy you are going to hit the floor! 'Ouch' said Tommy."
Singing made up songs about whatever she is doing or imagining doing at the moment.

I love her. Every. Single. Thing. 

I am not sure how I ended up with the privilege of being her mother. But I sure am going to cherish it.

Life changing joy

Motherhood is a tricky, sneaky thing.
Not unlike the now-toddlers who made me a mother.

I came into this whole thing pretty sure I knew what I was getting into. I had babysat all my life. Like really all my life. For a lot of kids. A lot of kids that I really loved a lot. And who I treated, not as temporary charges, but as my own. So, I thought I had a pretty good taste of what I was headed for.

Obviously, I was really wrong. No matter how much I loved those kids as my own, they weren't my own. Not a one of them. Their parents always came home. I always retreated back to my own individual life.

When I was pregnant, I was so blissfully happy, that I couldn't even hear the tempered warnings from the parents who had gone before. No one wanted to scare me -- and perhaps my insistence that this was my life long dream being fulfilled quieted a few knowing onlookers. One of our best couple friends, less than a year into parenthood when we announced our pregnancy, tried to gently warn us, saying "you can't really explain it until you are there, but it is life changing." I was thinking of the life changing joy. Hmm.

It is life changing joy. Every single day. Every single minute. Even when I am asleep.

I have never known such love. Nor have I known such exhaustion. Or self-deprivation. 

I adore my children, as most loving parents do. And I want to be with them. I want to shape their lives into good, as they grow. I want to nurture their individuality and encourage their personalities to shine.
I also would like to occasionally visit the bathroom without an audience or a commentary team.

None of these thoughts are earth shattering revelations. In fact, I am now confident they are the thoughts of nearly every mother & parent.
And I am equally confident that a mother-to-be is out there reading & thinking a commentary team might be cute. Hmm.

Today at 4:45pm (which my mother always said was the worst time of the day, I concur), as I sat at the art table with my kids and refereed coloring, I composed a facebook status (this is a form of self-meditation/therapy/coping) on a piece of my son's art work:
 


For somewhere less than 5 minutes of peaceful (albeit heavily supervised) coloring, I had to endure a lot more than 5 minutes of screaming about markers vs. crayons, a lot of toddler removal from the top of the art table itself, & crayon/marker retrieval from the floor. Not to mention the repeated mantra "On the paper, NOT on the (_________)." On days like today, at 5pm, I ask myself why do I only want to work part time?

I didn't post it. Instead, I scooped up (ok, maybe it was more like herded and bribed with a banana) my toddlers to the bath tub and went on with the evening.

Most days might not be like I imagined they would be when I was babysitting other mother's children. And few days have passed since my pregnancy that have had the complete bliss I felt in those nine months.
And yet I am still here, doing the best job I know how.

This life changing joy is all relative. 

No use crying over sidewalks

So who knew that sidewalks could make you cry? Not tripping and falling over them, I am just talking about just seeing them. Big ole tears. Sniffing and snuffling and chest heaving.
That's what happened today when I drove by the old house to be a good landlord and check on how things were looking -- make sure the new tenants hadn't spray painted the house purple. I turned onto Main Street and saw the sidewalks with the bumpy yellow ramps and an already shaky trip down memory lane went downhill quick.

I miss those sidewalks. I have fond memories of running those sidewalks with my baby and then babies. Being able to walk out my door to those sidewalks that could take me anywhere -- through nearby neighborhoods, or to the public library or to five points for a freshly brewed coffee or at best for 30 minutes or more, away from my four walls --the fact that they were there offered me some comfort it seems.

It's been a rough adjustment moving away from my comforts of city life. Today is a month. I still get a little teary eyed when I think about it all.

I miss having my mama and my children's Gigi ten minutes away. I can't sugar coat that one -- and I dare you to try.
I miss convenience. Like organic produce and hormone-free milk at an arm's reach.
I miss neighbors who don't pull into their garage and then close it before I can even catch a glimpse. 
I miss the sirens - mostly because they have been replaced by a rooster & barking dog.
I miss being able to walk out my door to run the city. And apparently I miss sidewalks.

I am doing my best to be patient and allow this adjustment, like all the others, to take place.
I really am.

And most days, I am hopeful -- because of the little faces running and swinging in the new big backyard and because of the sweet eyes that meet my own each night in our own room.
I did get that third bedroom, after all.

Free will

It's a funny thing being away from the little faces and hands and toes that I spend my days with. Funny how hard it is to get used to free will again -- to eat, void, exercise and shop as one pleases.

I know it is only a fleeting moment of free will. Maybe that's why I am hesitant to settle in to it.

Tomorrow night, I will be standing over the sink inhaling a salad and making a mad dash for the bathroom when my bladder has reached capacity, 30 minutes ago. And I will go back to being a stranger to my beloved TJ Maxx & Marshalls.

I will long to take the time to trim and file my nails instead of biting them off because it is quicker and doesn't require finding the necessary tools.
I will plan to shave my legs, only to have the shower cut short, by a one or two year old needing a snack or another book or to tell me that they pooped.
I will make lists for shopping, and then find creative substitutions for the things we have run out of when shopping doesn't happen. (We use napkins in place of toilet paper quite regularly at our house.)
I will drink my morning coffee cold or not at all, as I toast waffles and cut them into bite size pieces carefully applying enough syrup to make them palatable, but not enough to induce diabetes or childhood obesity.

But that's ok. Really --

Last night in the hotel room I bit my nails because I didn't have a set of clippers with me -- yeah, I could have run out and gotten some, but I didn't.
And I left my razor at home, so the hair on my legs is only increasing in length, despite the uninterrupted showers.
And while I did go shopping today after class, I spent a large amount of time in the kids section of Target. And I did not buy a razor or nail clippers or a nail file.
And the coffee -- well, it just doesn't taste the same as when Rebecca helps me scoop it.

It's just fine with me because the little people I am doing it for are totally worth it. And this brief glimpse at free will reminds me it isn't as good as what I have going at home.

From what I thought I would be to who I am

It is Friday night. Since Monday, I have packed up and left the first house I ever owned. Moved to a new house in a new city and began to make said new house a home. And today, I left home to be away for several days at a review course for my nurse practitioner certification exam.

Needless to say, my head is spinning. I missed the turn off for the interstate because I was talking on the phone & generally not paying attention. With a long drive ahead I needed to regroup and as I scanned through the radio stations I found NPR's world cafe. Former classical, now rock cellist Ben Sollee was the featured artist. I had never heard of him. Or his music. But something about it lulled me & brought me to the reflective calm I so needed. And then he said something in one of the interview clips about how he was now 28 & transitioning from what he thought he would be into who he actually is.
It resonated.

Maybe because only hours earlier I stood in the dining room of my old house amidst boxes that were being brought down from the attic for me to sort and disposition. Many of them were boxes that had been in that attic since I moved in eight and half years ago, when I was a different person. And that person had a lot of ideas and plans and hopes. Many were based in reality -- not all however came to fruition. And it is ok. There are a lot of things I thought I would be that I am not. Things I thought I would do, but haven't. Nonetheless, particularly over the past two years of motherhood, I have accepted who I am & the life I am living, for better or worse. I consider myself well into the transition from who I thought I would be into who I am.

Then you open a box.
And a smell wafts up. And it is familiar, but distant.
And a picture catches your eye. And your blue prom dress sparkles in the image.
And you know what it is. Or do you?
It's the old boyfriend box. (I assume more people than me have one of these, I hope I am right, otherwise I am totally outing myself as a weirdo -- or if you know me maybe it is too late -- or maybe I don't even care, it is who I am)

Long story short, I peeked through it's contents and didn't feel a shred of emotion, except relief. When I boxed it all up and put it in that attic years ago, I still had plans for the things I would be. Now even that old sweatshirt and the tarnished locket couldn't take me back to the place I was then.
All I could feel was thankful that it was my husband in the attic mumbling about how I was a hoarder and my father-in-law in the hallway chuckling and passing the boxes on to me.
And out of respect for them -- and myself, that box went directly to the trash. I didn't even think about putting the sweatshirt in the donation pile. Some things are better just closed. Like that box.

It is normal to mourn the things that didn't turn out as we planned. Even spend a little time clinging to the ideas of the past.  But if we are lucky, as I consider myself, we accept who it is we have become in spite of ourselves. The transition isn't always graceful or painless, but then again little in life worthwhile is.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. ~ Woody Allen