21 Run

Today my baby boy turns 21 - a whopping 21-months-old.

Trevor suggested we take him on a 21 Run to celebrate.A 21 Run suitable for a 21-month-old, that is. I'm not sure what that means, but I kabashed the idea anyway. I know aaallllll about 21 Runs and my boys won't be having any of those. No way, Jose. Over my dead body.

I've "heard" that on some 21 Runs, some people like to drink a lot of alcoholic beverages along side future besties, and then break it down on the dance floor with some random guy (who might go by the name of Jesse), and then maybe even make out with said random guy on the back of a bus - a bus sponsored by a bar to make sure all the college students get home safe.

But I digress...

In short, there will be no 21 Runs today. Instead, we celebrate our little man who is just three months away from turning two, which makes me want to just hit the time-out button. I'd like a full time-out, please.

Just so I don't someday forget what 21-months Nico-licious style looks like and sounds like, here are a few highlights of all things Nico:

**"No" is the answer to everything. EVERYTHING. Even, "Hey Buggy, you want a cookie?" The answer is "No." And then he screams until you give him a cookie.

**Getting a diaper changed has become almost as stressful as talking someone down from a ledge. Can someone please explain to me why he would rather walk around in his own poop then lay down for 10 seconds to get a freshy? Come on, people!

**Airplanes, choo choos, balls, and anything do with music or the outdoors make his world go round. Running, hopping, climbing, dancing - and maybe some biting, hitting, and kicking, too - all add up to non-stop action. There's a reason he is still such a skinny minny.

**"Elmo's Singing with the Stars" has become an addiction. "Elmo, Elmo, Elmo" are words we hear often around here. The kid needs an intervention.

**Counting to 10 is so, so close, and we count everything. EVERYTHING. I am afraid I am creating the next Rain Man. We haven't started counting toothpicks yet, but we count the stairs, we count pictures in books, we count just because we can.

**And there are soooooo many words coming out of our little man. "Good Morning, Noah," "I love you," "and See ya" happen to be my favorites.

Somehow and someway,our boy continues to be joy personified. Is it even possible to love him MORE and MORE and MORE?

Happy 21st, baby boy. You can stay little for a little while longer, k?

LOVE

On the Eve of all that is Valentine's, I have this to say...

Before Trevor, I had been in love two times.

One of those times was young and innocent and new and safe. And oh, I loved him. "Thought I would marry him" kind of love. But like I said before, we were young and innocent and new at this whole love thing, and when push came to shove, we were too young to make any of those decisions involving marriage and forever and so we moved on. We keep in touch occasionally and it makes me so happy to see him with a beautiful wife who happens to be an English teacher, just like me.

The other of those times was much, much different. What I thought was love was obsession. What I thought was a partnership was dependency. It was dangerous, this love, and yet I kept going back for more. I have heard before that we try to heal our childhood through our relationships. I am pretty sure that is what I was doing here and what a scary ride it was. We no longer keep in touch, and that also makes me very, very happy.

And then came my Trevor. He came right when I was least expecting it and when I had stopped trying so hard to just be loved by someone. They say that happens. This love taught me how true love - REAL love - is unassuming and humble and graceful and grateful. Trevor taught me that I was more than enough "as is," and that no matter what form of crazy I took on any given day, he would love me anyway. Like really, really love me and never, ever leave me. So I married him, which is what you should do when you find that kind of love.





So we tried making babies. That failed. Twice in two years. And my heart broke into a million little pieces because I was pretty sure this was all a result of the karma I deserved. I refused to ask God for a baby. Refused. I didn't think I had the right. And then after having watched the first set of foster kids walk out our front door, I finally said a little prayer. It went something like this: "Okay God, I said I wouldn't ask, but I lied. I am going to ask you one time. Just one time. Please God, send me a baby. A baby I don't have to watch walk out my front door. Please." Two weeks later, Nico was in my arms.

True story, people. True story.

And THAT love - how to describe THAT love. It is earth-shattering, man, completely and utterly life-altering. It's the kind of love that has you saying prayers that sound something like this: "Please God, whatever you do, watch over this one every second of every day. Don't ever take your eyes off of him, God. Ever." It's a love that through the exhaustion, self-doubt, fear and isolation, is all-consuming. I am pretty sure it's supposed to be because how could you survive that first year otherwise? And so when my little man was placed in my arms I said to God: "Thank you, God, thank you. I am so happy and so complete and so full because You made me a mom so if this never happens again, that is just fine with me. You answered my prayer and I am full. Completely full."

Then we all know what happens, right? What happens is that four months later, after suffering from car sickness I don't normally have, and after checking the calendar and counting back the days - which I had to do like 10 times just to be sure - you realize that apparently you're not full. Nope, you're not full at all, because another one is coming, ready or not. So, you worry and worry and worry that maybe you won't feel the same way the second time around, or maybe the first one will hate the second one because after all, he is still just a baby and he deserves more time...

Then the second one comes and while you still worry and worry and worry that either of them will fully understand how much and how deep that LOVE you feel for them is, you LOVE him immediately and wholly and addictively, just like the first. And you say that same little prayer to God again, every single day of your life: "Watch over this one, too, God, every second of every day. Keep your eyes on both of them, God. Always. Please."

And just when you think there is no possible way to love either of them any more than you already do, you look down at your double-stroller while walking through the mall and you see this:



No one ever tells you that when your children LOVE each other, your own LOVE for them multiplies and multiplies and multiplies. This hand-holding wasn't an accident, it wasn't just for a second. This hand-holding was for real - so real that I had time to stop the stroller, dig through the diaper bag for my camera, and then snap this picture. This picture of connection, of protection, of LOVE.

Happy Valentine's Day, my loves. Happy Valentine's Day.

Your Birthday Card

Dear Melanikis,

This is what your birthday card - the one I told you I had grandiose plans of writing - would have said:

Happy Birthday, my friend.

You are the peas to my carrots, the cheese to my mustard (your mom's kind).

You are the calm to my storm. Seriously. Like no joke. Seriously.

You are the Oprah to my Gayle, 'cause let's be honest - as much as I wish was Oprah, you are soooo her and I am soooo not.

You have taught me that soul mates don't just exist in romance, 'cause you and me = no romance - we don't even hug - but you're my soul mate. My girl one.

We met 15 years ago now and I often have to remind myself that you haven't been around for like my whole life, 'cause it feels like you have. You are my friend, my confidante, my sister from another tit-ster (I just made that up), and I love you.

Happy Birthday, my friend. Happy, happy birthday.

Love,

Me

Maybe a New Me

Here I am. I am alive and well and still kicking and screaming and rejoicing and crying - sometimes all in the same day.

I have had fabulous plans of blogging all about our holiday adventures - our first holiday as a family of four - and that has been just a big fat fail.



I wanted to write all about our fabulous plan to take both babies up into the Blue Mountains to cut down our Christmas tree, all in the name of family tradition, and about how Noah layed flat on his back on the sled like the jolly, old man that he is, and about how Nico wailed at the top of his lungs when his papa disappeared into the forest for at least half an hour while I just stood there, staring at my friend Alissa, who kept telling me everything was going to be okay. AWESOME.





I wanted to write about how good it felt to stay home this year, to host a Christmas Eve dinner for family and besties, to wake up on Christmas morning in our own bed, to carry our babies down our own stairs, and to eat cinnamon rolls made in our own oven while opening Christmas presents under our own tree. Nico and Noah loved the wrapping paper more than life itself, Trevor has yet to put down his Nook Color, and I was shocked my husband had somehow remembered that I said I wanted a pair of Toms. But while those things were nice and lovely and oh so fun, nothing compares to crashing on your own sofa in front of your new fireplace while your beautiful babies sleep upstairs and your beautiful husband lets you do just that. HEAVEN.





I wanted to write about time with family in Seattle over the New Year and about how every time I leave my brother and sister and their families, I miss them terribly. We gorged on an incredible Cuban feast made by my sister and played a few games on my niece's new Wii...I might have even accidentally smashed her head with the controller while playing a rousing game of tennis, but hey, no blood, no foul. We walked the zoo with family and dear friends, which with an 18-month-old is soooooo much fun! He ooohed and aaaahed at every living being while his brother slept peacefully in the stroller. Perhaps the highlight of the visit was my dear friend's
5-year-old son profound discovery (said while sitting on a sculpture of a nest of eggs):"Hatching an egg really hurts my privates!" AMEN.





So now it is 2012 and I find myself ready for a new me. In a measly 18 1/2 months, I have been blessed with two baby boys - boys I dreamed of and prayed for and, let's be honest, begged the heavens for. In the end, I find myself at times feeling blissfully happy, yet excruciatingly exausted; completely redefined, yet a little bit lost. And after fertility drugs, miscarriages, adoption, and then pregnancy, I also find myself packing around 30 pounds that at one time, weren't there. It happened slowly but surely and I hate it. LOATHE it.

I used to look like this (the third one from the left)...



The funny thing is, this picture was taken at hands-down the worst time of my life. WORST. I was barely hanging on and it was time to celebrate the marriage of my baby brother to my beloved sister-in-law Dianna. So I stuffed myself into the bridesmaid dress and referred to myself as "The Walking Sausage," when clearly I was not.

I was cute and 30 pounds lighter. And I was miserable. Absolutely miserable.

For once and all I want my outside to match my inside. And the thing is, despite the exhaustion and confusion and self-doubt, I really am so, so, so happy. This is the life I always dreamed of. This is the husband I pictured in my head and these are the children who are even better than my dreams. I have a cheering section that any professional sports team would die for. It is time to do something about this outside, for what it is worth, and so the journey of eating better and moving more begins. NOW.

Maybe, just maybe, a new me is just around the bend.

Belated Thanks

Admist the chaos of hosting Thanksgiving, of sick babies and a home that weathered the storm of many house guests and an enormous feast, there has seemingly been little time to really reflect - like really, really reflect - on all that I am thankful for. My life is so unbelievably blessed, it is so much better than I ever pictured, and there is much, much to be thankful for.

For beautiful baby boys whose eyes and smiles and babbles I am wholly addicted to. Like seriously addicted to.

For a husband whose patience never runs dry and who at the drop of a hat will run out and buy me a Blizzard just because he loves me.

For a sister and a brother who hold all my stories - the good, the bad, and the ugly - and who despite the stories, or maybe because of them, still love me and support me fiercely.

For my nearest and dearest friends who do things like talk me gently through labor, bring me Chai at work, spend Fridays off with me and my babies, bring me and my family dinner (especially plates of sinful brownies), and remind me everyday that "this too shall pass."

And perhaps most poignantly of all, for my mother, who exactly 50 years ago today boarded a plane at the age of 15, leaving behind her parents, her home, her school and friends, her language, her food, her pet bunny, and her childhood beaches, all for a chance at education and free thought; who never looked back at what could have been and instead always looked forward at what could be; who despite loss that would paralyze most of us, forged ahead and modeled resliency, optimism and passion; whose love of teaching lives on in her daughters, and whose love for her children and grandchildren knows no bounds...I am so, so thankful.

This is for you, mom, to remind you of what you started exactly 50 years ago today by stepping on that plane, by taking a chance, and by believing in the GOOD in EVERYONE. Your GOOD lives on in your babies and your grandbabies. Don't ever forget it.

Poetry

Yesterday afternoon I realized I was stuck - stuck in between units at school and no idea what to do with a day and half of time before sending my students out the door for Thanksgiving Break.

Instead of jumping head first into teaching the ins and outs of satire, which happens to be right up my ally, I decided to create an activity based on those word magnets people often keep on their fridges. You know, the ones you can move around to say stuff like "She likes it in her ear" or "Big daddy loves fish" or "Want to jump me?"

So I sat down at my computer and came up with a list of words (all appropriate, although I was tempted by the dark side) for students to cut out and then arrange into a poem - a Thanksgiving poem. I was so excited because I just knew my students were going to LOVE it. They were going to be enthralled from the beginning of class to the end. They were going to ask to do it again and again and again...

...and then I hand out the assignment and the snarky girl in the back (who is the perfect example of why I am paid lots and lots of money) says, "Is this supposed to be fun?"

"No, butthole," I say (inside, of course). "It isn't."

"Yes," I say, for reals. "It is supposed to rock your world."

After all, it rocked mine. See...



And as I looked across the room at my other students, it appeared to rock theirs.

So kiss it, snarky girl. Kiss it. Mrs. Smith is a genius.

Where's my award?

Inspired

I am feeling sentimental. And tired and overwhelmed and a little bit nostalgic. And in the midst of all that, I am also feeling a bit inspired. Admist this exhaustion that comes from a baby who will not sleep for longer than two hours at a time, I am feeling a sense of appreciation for all those who have done this before me and I have been inspired to just say this...

There lies deep within every woman the instinct to nurture, to raise, and to protect.

I am inspired by MOTHERHOOD, literally and figuratively.

…by my grandmother, who placed her children on a plane to escape the terrors of communism on her little Caribbean Island, not knowing if she would ever see them again, but knowing their freedom was worth dying for.

…by my mother, who was my father as well, who raised her three children with the core belief that wealth exists in experiences not materials, whose love continues to guide, carry, and inspire me today.

…by my sister, nine years my elder, who was always more than she ever had to be, and whose unwavering love, commitment and resilience now shines in the blue eyes and golden hair of her daughter.

…by my best friend, who shared her babies with me when I was so desperate to have my own, who models selflessness and patience and has proven family has never been about DNA.

…by my students, who made me a mother before my sons were born, who taught me the power of innocence, curiosity, and laughter.

…and most importantly, by my boys - one who I carried in my heart, the other who I carried in my belly - who despite the different paths were always meant to be mine, and who remind me to be better, to do more, and to live with purpose because everybody is somebody’s baby.

I am inspired by MOTHERHOOD in every sense of the word. For the mother that lies within us all, and for the children who so desperately need our care and praise, I am INSPIRED.