Thursday, March 16, 2017


I dress Everly the way I want to dress and am dismayed I still can't find that lemon tee in my size.  
Her cousin got into the lipstick that morning:)

There's a kids CD that has become a permanent fixture in our van since summer.  We got it from our friends, and I thought I'd give it a try since it seemed less creepy than a lot of the traditional nursery rhymes.  Especially the one about the old lady swallowing the fly.  Ick.  Now every time I start the engine, though, I cringe a little bit as the same songs about "big A" and "little a" marching down the street start up again.  These songs have become the soundtrack to my dreams.  I guess it's only natural after you've heard a song for the 50th bajillion time.  But Everly seems to like them and they are pretty catchy, so the CD stays on repeat.

The other day, I pulled into a parking spot at work and noticed that I had kept the CD playing even after I had dropped Everly off at daycare.  Normally I switch to the radio or a podcast, but those songs have become so synonymous with her in the car with me that I wanted to listen a little while longer.

Not humming or singing along.  Just listening.

I find myself listening more these days and wanting to talk, or maybe it's share, less.  I've started several posts for this blog, but just haven't felt the urge to finish any of them.  In the same vein, I've begun multiple photo books and printed off pictures in an effort to continue documenting every mundane and momentous moment with Everly, but seem to just stop after a day or two.  These things feel like clouds hanging over me, following me around and reminding me I have unfinished business.  But I like this season of quiet.

Mainly because it allows me to hear a little voice in the backseat say "buh-bye" a 100 times as she waves to every car we pass.  As Everly is finding her voice, I find my voice becoming quieter.  Not in a bad or sad way.  Just in a way that quiets everything down so I can listen more.

I listen for the sound of the thud of a book she throws out of her crib and the inevitable cry that follows as she tells me she's ready to get up in the morning.

I listen for her little feet, stomp stomp stomping as she chases me around the house.

I listen for her infectious giggle turn into uncontrollable belly laughs as I tickle her.

I listen for those words that aren't quite words yet as she tells me a story so emphatically you'd think she'd seen a unicorn a daycare.

I listen as she whispers nonsense in my ear and then pulls my head close to hers so that our foreheads touch just so.

And when the day is done, and I sink into bed exhausted, I lay still a bit and listen to it all over again in my head.  

And then of course, "big A, little a, marching down the street" starts up again as I drift off to sleep.

Friday, October 14, 2016


I haven't been able to pick Everly up from daycare the past few weeks.  Instead I've been staying an extra hour after work to study for a certification I need to get.  But on those days I don't get to see her big semi-toothless grin as she recognizes me when I walk in the door to pick her up, I stare out the window of my office and remember a specific day about a month ago.  I had parked the car a little further down from where I normally park to pick her up.  It was such a beautiful day.  Still hot, but a mild breeze jostled the leaves on the trees ever so slightly.  I usually followed the sidewalk to the driveway to the front steps and through the door.  But that day I walked through the grass.  It's not that it was such a crazy thing to walk through the grass.  It was that I stood there for half a second looking at the different paths before me.  Consciously choosing to take the softer, slightly muddy route.  It was small.  Infinitesimal, really.  No one looking on would think anything of it.  But it has stuck with me all this time, and I've reflected on it often.

It made me feel like, even though my days are so structured with responsibilities and routine, I still have choices.  I think it's hard as we get older.  The choices inevitably start to dwindle as our paths take shape.  And then we add on kids and mortgages and bills and suddenly those choices that we may have chosen years ago are locked in.  I'm not saying I regret any of these choices.  Far from it.  These choices have allowed me to be part of this wonderful life.  But it is a surreal feeling when you stop one day and realize how every choice has become inextricably tied together and one adjustment may have residual effects.

And I realized that day that this statement couldn't be any truer.

Because I did make a choice that was outside my routine.  And it did have a residual effect on me.  I chose a different route to the same end.  Impossibly small and insignificant to everyone else.  But for me?  It was so significant.  Instead of the hard concrete beneath my sandals, I felt the earth give way to each of my steps.  And for those 20 steps, I felt lighter.  I felt rebellious.  I felt different.

And then I saw a sweet, chubby-cheeked face in the window light up when she saw me, and I forgot all about this quiet metamorphosis.

You see, it didn't really matter how I got to her.  Even if I had to cross a fiery chasm, I would have gotten to her.  But I got to choose how to get to her, and that choice that day has stuck with me.  It has reminded me to look for those small options that are present at every turn throughout my routine.  The normal way that is perfectly fine, but the other way that may be just a liiitle bit more fun or special.

"And that has made all the difference."
                                                        - Robert Frost

Thursday, September 8, 2016


You are my sunshine, my sweet wildflower, my heart.

You have changed me.

As I got you ready for bed last night, I found myself doing everything more slowly.  Taking my time as I washed under your sweet double chin, making sure all the lotion was rubbed into your back, listening to you "read" me a story.  The minutes were pulling me ahead again, and I already knew what was on the other side.  When I tiptoed out of your room and closed the door, I would be finishing a chapter of our story.  The most wonderful, difficult, magical chapter of my story and just the opening chapter of yours.  Two stories intertwined, but also growing branches that pulled away from each other.

I cried as I changed your diaper this morning, because I couldn't picture the skinny little newborn who used to lay there and stare up at me.  It was like trying to remember the melody to a song as you listened to another song.  Impossible.  Instead here you were.  This happy and chunky 1 year old who wiggled out of my hands.  I know next year I'll cry because you'll be too big for the changing pad on the pack and play I keep in our room that only is used as a catchall for clothes now.

But away from your wonderful current self, I remember.  I remember your hot breath as you fell asleep after I nursed you.  I remember you screaming in the car and then only quieting down when I sang you your favorite song, "Beautiful Dreamer".  I remember the first time we locked eyes as the doctor placed you on my chest.  That, I will always remember.

And as crazy as it seems to me that you will be running and talking this time next year, I will hold these images of your first year so dearly.  You were mine this year.  My permanent shadow who needed me so completely.  And while you'll still need me in the future, it will be different and always changing.  And that's ok.  The one thing I want you to know is how fiercely I love you.  Now and always.

You are the happiest, sweetest, most inquisitive baby.  Our favorite thing is when you hold up something you found.  You are so very proud of yourself as you make sure we all see your new treasure.  You give your love freely, and I love when you clamber up my shirt and clutch on so tightly when you're worried I may put you down.

You wave and give high fives.  You clap your hands whenever I say "Yay Everly!"  You say "mama" (kind of to me) and whisper "bye-bye" just as people head out of ear shot.

You love being cuddled.  Every night when you get home from daycare, you waddle up to your toy dog and slap it's back, signaling that you want to sit on it and us to pull you around the house.  Which we do, because it makes you so very happy.

You get into EVERYTHING.  The cabinets are your treasure boxes that surely hide something amazing.  We gave you a toy remote control, which you like ok, but you always go after the real one given the chance.

You are walking more and more and love the new freedom.  We know when you're tired, because you try to stand but then drunkenly fall down and resort to crawling.

You're eating more and more table foods and meal times take an hour.  Your favorite food to feed yourself is peas and your favorite food for us to feed you is applesauce.  You cannot get enough applesauce.

You still have no teeth(!).  I worry sometimes that there aren't any teeth in there and that we'll have to get you baby dentures.  Every time you fuss at night, we assume it's teething, but then no tooth pops out.

You have very little hair.  So the no hair and no teeth thing trick me into thinking you're younger than you really are.  Then I pick you up, though, and remember that you're huge!  You're already wearing 18-24 month clothes.

You love to giggle and be tickled.  You already have a great sense of humor and know how to get us laughing.

I wonder sometimes what are those things I want to tell you, to make sure you know, to help you as you find your way.  In my 20s, I did a lot of reading with a single purpose.  I wanted one truth that would explain everything.  That's a tall order, but what I did find was a passage in a book that made me see value and adventure in my seemingly ordinary life.  The best advice I have for you is to stay in the present.  Appreciate the fleeting moment for what it is, without focusing on how the past was better or how the future will be brighter, because guess what?  Today is a day you'll one day look wistfully back on as "the good old days".  I know that as I cry about missing your newborn days, years from now I'll cry about missing your toddler days.  It's so much easier said than done, but a wonderful reminder that you don't have to do anything extraordinary to have an extraordinary life.  Just open your eyes to the incredible world around you.

If we could have remembrance now
     And see, as in the days to come
     We shall, what's venturous in these hours:
     The swift, intangible romance of fields at home,
     The gleams of sun, the showers,
     Our workaday contentments, or our powers
     To fare still forward through the uncharted haze
     Of present days. . . .
     For, looking back when years shall flow
     Upon this olden day that's now,
     We'll see, romantic in dimm'd hours,
     These memories of ours.

--"Romance by Joseph Conrad and F.M. Hueffer

No matter how old you get, you will always be our sweet baby girl.  Happy 1st birthday, Everly.  You are so very loved.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016


Those weeds that used to tangle in and out of our back fence are finally starting to reemerge.  Most people would bemoan the fact of their perseverance, but not me.

When we first moved in to our house, some said we should get rid of it all.  "It's just a ton of weeds back there!" they exclaimed.  But to me, those weeds overtook a boring chain link fence and transformed it into an illusion of isolation within a sprawling suburb.  It created a "best of both worlds scenario" for our house--close to the hustle and bustle of the city but also a semi-private retreat.

A few months ago, someone new moved into the house we share that fence with.  At least I assume the home had new owners since the house had a lot of people coming and going.  But the true giveaway was that our once lush weed barrier turned brown overnight and then disintegrated from sight.  Now I could see a dog roaming around through the links and a woman trying unsuccessfully to restart her lawn mower.  The illusion had unraveled along with those vines.

First I got mad.  A great many pictures had been taken in front of my weed backdrop, transferring us from a backyard to some sort of forest retreat.  I'm not saying I want to barricade myself off from our neighbors, but it is nice to pretend  that we have a little privacy even though we're surrounded by a grid of houses.  But I let it go.  It seemed silly for our first talk with the new neighbors to be about our disappointment of them getting rid of the weeds.  Wade, for the record, was a fan of the clean landscape.

And then yesterday, I smiled.  I watched Everly while she stared out the big window into the backyard.   I was about to teach her how we don't bang on the glass with puzzle pieces, but my "no" turned quickly into a "no way" as my gaze settled on to the newly formed greenery slowly but surely climbing that back fence.  The setting sun had turned the weeds a soft golden color.  I guess some things have a way of fighting back.

Friday, July 8, 2016


"Say bye-bye to the bunny," I urged.

"Bye-bye," she whispered in the sweetest voice as she stretched out her little arm and clasped and unclasped her hand towards Mr. Maisy, the same way we had been showing her for months.

Funny how her goodbye sounded more like a hello to a whole new chapter.

But this wasn't her first word.  I'm counting it as her second.  Her first word will go down in the baby book as Mama.  Actually, it's more like Mamamamama.  But still.  Close enough.  It happened on Father's Day.  As Wade kept telling her to say Dada, she started (and kept saying) Mamamamamama.  Sweetest words to this tired mama's ears.

And now she's scurrying after us as we walk around the house, pulling herself up on my leg, and clapping at herself after she mimics the gestures to "Itsy Bitsy Spider" while I sing.  She's my little shadow....who has quite a mind of her own.

How did we get here?  She's 10 months old today?  I've only posted her 1-6 month photos, so surely we can't have jumped ahead in time this far.

But alas.  Here we are.  Halfway through the summer and more than halfway through this little one's first year.

Tonight I'll take her 9 month photos, because I've gotten into a bad habit where I take her monthly photos on the last day of her technically being in that month.  And I just realized I already missed it by a day.  Close enough.  I'm going to have to up my timing, though, and take the 10 month ones in a few weeks.  That will get me back on track.

Now there's a first birthday to think about and also push out of my mind.  It's too soon.  I have so much more to document.  It makes me wish I would have kept the momentum up in this space, to have written down more in the moment, but then I was either busy enjoying the moment...or sleeping.

We've taken Everly on three road trips so far: to Chicago to surprise my sister for her birthday (the big 4-0), to Iowa for a reunion with my family (man, it was so wonderful to see everyone in one place), and back again to Iowa to see Wade's family (in our new van--the most comfortable ride there is).  Each trip we think she'll like the car more, but each time she proves that she hates being confined for more than 15 minutes.

I think about this space often.  I think about how hard I worked to cultivate it into something I felt proud of.  At times I feel ok letting it go, but there are other times when the thought of not having this outlet feels like a failure.  Like I'd be letting go of a piece of my pre-mother self that I'm not ready to do.  Not that the two are mutually exclusive, but sometimes it feels that way.

I have a few drafts of posts with pictures from moments that have gone by.  I overthink what I should say.  If it's thoughtful enough, funny enough, worthwhile enough.

Enough with enough.

It's not time for bye-bye quite yet.