Transitions. Again.

I think it's time to enter the acceptance stage.

Acceptance of summer coming to an end. Acceptance that my 9-month stint at home has come to an end. Acceptance that these babies are like their own people. Like seriously their own people. With opinions and wishes and talents and attitudes. Oh, the attitudes.

I suck at transitions. I loathe them. Some people transition like ballerinas. So graceful, so seamless. I'm like a bull. In a china shop. It's not pretty. Ask my husband.

 I'm like Stella, people. I like my groove. I just do. And I was grooving being home.

But mama and papa have bills to pay, so transition it is.

The thing is, our summer was good. So, so good. And I didn't want it to end.

There was our annual "Family Smise" trip to the beach. 

And someone turned 4. A whole, whopping 4. How did that happen? He is a riot. A serious riot. And he thinks he is Russell Wilson. And he tells really long fabricated stories to his Melly about squirrels and stuff. We're rolling with it. Because he is perfection. It is what it is.

There was a birthday party to prepare for. A Captain America piñata was deemed a necessity.

There were outings to parks. Outings that sometimes seemed like so much work. Loading up three children is a lot of freaking work. But then Thing 1 and Thing 2 started to take over and we never looked back.

Feet were found. They were found and grabbed and chewed on. All. Summer. Long.

Parties were thrown. Enormous parties with friends and family and bouncy houses and lots of food. And Captain America piñatas and super hero cake, of course.

The World Cup was enjoyed. Perhaps even obsessed about. So. Much. Soccer. Trevor was in heaven. And Gabby was his good luck charm.

And selfies were had. Lots and lots and lots of selfies. It was the summer of selfies. I hate selfies. Seriously loathe them. But I did it. Anything for the children, people.

Oh, and there was sleeping in a crib. You have no idea how hard we worked to get here. Crib-sleeping is hard stuff when you've rarely been put down since the day you were brought home, but it's good stuff. We've come a long way, little one. A super long way.

There were hours and hours spent at the pool. Swim lessons and afternoons with grandma were quite possibly the highlight of their entire summer. Grandma was incredible. Incredible. They have her wrapped around their little fingers. And they know it.

Some of us, however, just hung out poolside. With our shades on. You've gotta do what you've gotta do to look good and stay cool.

The one in the middle turned 3. Three going on 30. I wish I was exaggerating. I'm not. The words that come out of his mouth never cease to amaze me. Sometimes they are of the potty variety. Like poop. And pee. And all sorts of really pretty words like that. I have no idea where he gets it from. I speak soooooo nicely all of the time. God I love him. Desperately.

Sometimes this happened. Maybe more than once. But whatever.

Cousins came.

Dairy Queens were visited.

Brawls were had.

Soccer was played.

And soccer was watched.

Babies slept.

And babies played.

Sometimes we even played dress-up.

And sometimes we brought mom flowers. To butter her up. And it works. Every time. 

While the boys camped for the first time ever...

...the girls played.

Oh, the girl. My sweet, crazy, feisty girl. She eats now. She eats and she sits and she swings. She has me mesmerized. She has all of us mesmerized. I am pretty sure she is the boss now. We'll have to hash that out a little later. In the meantime, she's in charge. And we all know it.

And just this week, preschool started. The second year for Nico and the first for Noah. It's all happening a bit too fast for this mama's heart. And yet, I wouldn't want it any other way.

These babies. These babies who are so their own people. They are my world. And damn, I suck at transitions. At leaving them every morning, even though they love to be left. They love to go to school. They love to see their friends and their Sandy and to have their own time to become their own people. Because they can. Because unlike their mama, they are little ballerinas.

And singers too.

Oh, how I love them.

Let's just hope Stella gets her groove back.

Mother's Day

 

Today was a day. A day redeemed by a pair of Sycamore balls handed to me by my 2-year-old son.

 

"I got these for you, mama," he said. I am not sure he will ever really know how much I needed to hear that. And so now they sit on my fireplace mantle. I am pretty sure they will stay there forever. The Sycamore balls that saved the day.

 

 

The thing is, by 11 a.m., I had been hurled on three different times by my precious 3-year-old. He woke up in a funk, that one. Now I know why. His tummy hurt, he said, so I cuddled him in the chair - me in the middle, and Nico and Gabby on either side. And he hurled for the first time. All over all three of us. My poor sweet boy just stared into my eyes, terrified. Terrified and hurling.

 

It happened two more times. There were baths and showers and too many loads of laundry to count.  And I was fine. Truly, I was fine. Because I am his mama, and being his mama and their mama is my greatest, greatest joy. Hurling and all.

 

But somehow, the husband's decision to go play soccer in the midst of all the hurling and the bathing and the laundry pushed me a little over the edge. Just a little.

 

Okay, maybe a lot. Maybe I had fantasized about a little break.

 

And so I sat back down in that puke covered chair with my son and thought to myself, "Mother's Day blows chunks." Literally.

 

Until my Noah brought me my balls (Oh, how I love that sentence.)

 

My sweet Noah went on a walk with his Oma and his Opa this morning in the hopes of deterring the stomach bug from taking root in him. And on this walk, he picked up the Sycamore balls and asked his Oma to hold on to them for me.

 

"I got these for you, mama," he said.

 

I almost allowed myself to forget that Mother's Day doesn't have to be wrapped in a shiny bow. Nothing about my journey to motherhood has, really.

 

And if it had, then I would have never had any of this -

 

Laying in bed in my Las Vegas hotel room with the baby boy I had wanted so desperately, convincing myself it was okay to put him down so I could go pee.

 

Welcoming this baby boy exactly one year and 13 days later the good old-fashioned way, staring at him for hours in wonder that he had actually been inside of me.

 

 

Reaching through the holes of that incubator to touch that little girl who fought so hard to be here, terrified out of my living mind that I may never be able to take her home.

 

They are my heart, these three. And nothing about three babies in three and a half years is ever all that shiny. Three babies who came in such different ways.

 

Shiny is overrated, though.

 

'Cause look at them. They're mine. My dreams come true.

 

 

"I got these for you, mama."

 

For them, a thousand times over. A thousand times.

 

 

 

 

Why We'll Walk...

Four weeks from today, we will walk. We will walk for babies. Babies like our Gabby, who are born too early, who live the first parts of their lives in the NICU, who get to come home and keep their mamas up all night long. For babies who never see life outside of a hospital's walls, who will never get to feel the chill of an ocean breeze or a the high of a first love, who leave holes in the hearts of all those who would have done anything to stay up with them all night long.

 

Sixteen weeks ago, I woke up preparing to spend another day in the hospital, flat on my back, desperately missing my home and my husband and my baby boys. At 4:30 that afternoon, contractions started. Hard contractions. I was 28 weeks and 2 days pregnant. I was terrified. By 7:00 p.m., after several failed attempts to stop labor, there was nothing left to do. Baby girl was breech. Her heart rate was decelerating during ever contraction. With Trevor and my mom and Jeri Belle (my other mom) by my side, it was go time. There was no turning back.

 

At 7:30 p.m., out she came, and so our NICU journey began.

 

Over 53 days, our girl had five different roommates. Our girl prefers living with boys. Particularly boys of the Latino persuasion. She knows what she likes, this one. And her two longest roommates - Pablo and Manny -  will never, ever be forgotten by this mama. Their mamas and I cried together, and rocked our babies in the same room together, and stared at each other's little ones together and every once in a while, we even laughed together.  

 

In the end, ours was s journey with a happy ending and a journey that forever changed me. As I type, my baby girl is soundly sleeping in her Boppy, her bare feet poking out of her burrito-wrapped blanket. 

 

She has come such a long way.

 

 

 

So in four weeks time, we will don our Yo Gabby Gabby team t-shirts, and March for Babies, all in the name of  raising some money to help babies who need helping. Babies like mine. And perhaps babies like yours.  

 

We will walk in the hopes of giving back. To give to those who are now in the shoes we still wear.

 

To honor our baby girl. The one who has completely stolen my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Due Date

 Today my girl is officially a newborn. Today was originally her day. But as we now know, my girl had different plans.

 

So instead, for the last eleven and a half weeks, we have watched her do her growing here in the outside. Those of us who have had to do this understand that it's a journey of what some might term a hot mess. Watching your baby grow on the outside is profoundly life-changing. It's miraculous and heart-wrenching and incredible and terrifying and inspiring and debilitating. It's a hot mess, people. A hot mess that leaves you forever changed. Tonight Noah asked me if I was going back to the hospital. Nico still randomly talks about the day the ambulance came. Walking into the hospital yesterday for a support group, I am pretty sure I had a panic attack. Sometimes my mind wanders to the NICU still. To the nurses and doctors who saved her life, and in turn, saved mine too. To all the moms and dads and babies who didn't make it to their due dates. Hot. Sticky. Mess.

 

And yet at the center of all this mess is a gratitude of epic proportions. Gratitude to have her home. Gratitude that she is healthy. That her brothers are healthy. Gratitude that I get to put all three of my babies to bed and not have to leave them anymore. Gratitude that we have a Grandma and an Oma and an Opa who always show up. Gratitude to have friends and family who keep us on our feet. Gratitude to have each other, home, and under the same roof. Gratitude that we had so many prayers said for our sweet baby girl and gratitude that our prayers were answered.

 

The last four months have been a blur - 48 days of bed rest, followed by 53 days in the NICU, and now the last 31 at home. God, I love home. It's insanity here, make no doubt about it, but it's home. A home where Nico can't get enough of her, where Noah wants to feed her cereal bars, and where Trevor and I once again feel like we have no idea what we're doing. It's awesome. Seriously awesome.

 

 And just as it should be.

 

 

 

 

Lately...

Lately I turned 36. I celebrated with a pedicure. And I got my hair styled and some makeup put on my money maker. My money maker hasn't had makeup on in three months. Three months. I kind of liked it.

 

Lately life is a blur. A blur of this routine we seem to have built for ourselves. A routine founded in survival. A routine in which every hour of every day is accounted for. And surviving we are.

 

Some might even say thriving. Because lately, Sister is so big she can actually wear her hospital bracelets. Before this, she wore a sticker on her back identifying her as Girl Sara Smith. It's like with bracelets now, she can hold her own. Lately, this makes my heart soar.

 

 

As does this. Lately it's been hit or miss with the feedings. But as of today, she has completed three whole feedings in a row. We're trying not to get too excited. Because lately there has been talk of going home soon if she can get this feeding thing down. Be still my heart. Be still.

 



 

Lately there has been lots of staring. Staring at my beautiful baby girl who has continued to grow and fight and completely have us mesmerized by what a gift life is. What a gift she is. What a gift her brothers are. What a gift her nurses and doctors have been. They have become my friends as I sit with my girl, day in and day out. Friends who love her and know her and root for her. How do you ever say thank you for that?

 



 

And lately - as in like this morning - this happened:

 

After 49 days, my boys got to see my girl with their very own eyes. It was a quick hello - just looking, no touching - and they have not been able to stop talking about it since. Nico just asked, "Mama, is Gabby coming home soon?" Oh, I pray. I pray every day.

 

Lately, it has become abundantly clear that blessings lie hidden in all struggles. Blessings of growth, of new friends, of firsts that will forever be imprinted in your heart.

 

Forever.