Let it Snow!

I’ll start by saying I’m typically a weather wimp.

When the temperature heads south of sixty degrees, which is rare where I live, except late at night, I start fantasizing about tropical white sand beaches and a fruity drink with a swizzle stick. As a native Californian, the most severe weather I’ve ever experienced (at least in my region) is a heavy downpour. Every so often, you may need an umbrella, but I honestly can’t remember the last time I used one. I’m a warm weather gal to the core, who doesn’t even mind a steamy 110 degrees in the desert, smack in the middle of August, as long as I’m sitting poolside.

But this winter had me seeking out a different kind of “white.” Not the white sands of a balmy beach, but the white, icy variety that’s only found in cold climates. Seeking out snow isn’t usually at the top of my list of winter adventures and even as a child when my family took a few weekend ski trips, you could find me alone in the lodge sipping hot chocolate, warming my hands by the fireplace while the rest of the family zipped up and down on those chilly slopes, freezing their butts off.

Thanks, but no thanks.

Lately, I’ve been craving a real winter – especially for my boys to experience. Maybe it’s seeing all those quaint photos on Instagram this past month, where friends in the Nordic region are posting beautiful photos of their blustery winter wonderlands, blankets of white snow covering wide open spaces and clinging to tall pines like powdered sugar.

It got me yearning for some snow this time of year, when the holidays in so many other parts of the world are synonymous with sweaters and mittens, frosty white landscapes, hot chocolate and roaring fireplaces. Here in my part of California, you could easily spend Christmas on a beach in a bikini.

What I love most about this state, though, is that in less than a couple hours drive in the middle of winter, you can either be on a beach or on a ski slope.

I wanted the boys to experience snow and go wild in it, so we packed up our car with puffy jackets, ski bibs, scarves, warm socks (we even brought the puppy in his own little sweater) and headed up to our local mountains last weekend to play in the snow. And it was perfect.

It started snowing the minute we made our way up to about 4,000 feet, delicate flurries dotting our windshield, the boys squealing with delight, and it didn’t stop until we inched our way back down the mountain.

“Look! It’s snowing, mama!” screamed the three-year-old, the entire way up.

At about 35 degrees, it was cold enough to need all our layers, but not too cold where we were uncomfortable outside for a few hours. The boys made snowballs and slid down slopes on a bright orange plastic sled, their giggles echoing through rows of pine trees.

I worried a bit about the baby being out that long in the cold, so I bundled him up to the point where he toppled over when he walked and couldn’t quite stand back up alone, so I carried him snugly on my back in a carrier much of the time, until he fell fast asleep, soft snow flurries melting onto his rosy cheeks. He was easily the warmest of the bunch.

My three-year-old cried when it was time to pack up and head back down the mountain. He wanted more. He begged daddy to let him go up the “mountain” just one more time to slide down on his little sled. And so daddy carried him up the steep incline one more time, only to launch him right back down again.

It was the perfect finish to 2012. There is something about a fresh snowfall and all that untouched white that can’t help but resemble a clean slate. I’m looking forward to 2013 and all the possibility it brings. It’s a new chance, an unwritten page, an unmarked path open to new plans and new adventures. I’m excited to get started.

I’m wishing you the Happiest of New Years. I hope 2013 brings you love, peace, health, happiness and everything you could possibly wish for.

Puppy Love

Call it kismet, fate, destiny, luck, good timing or just plain meant to be, but we now have a fourth boy in the family — yep, a fourth Wild Thing – and his name is Mojave. Like the beautiful, dusty desert in California I’ve always loved driving through.

We signed up to be placed on a waiting list to adopt a dog at the Humane Society over the weekend, but as we left the building and headed to our car, the boys a little let down that we wouldn’t actually be going home with a dog that day, we spotted three young guys in the parking lot holding the sweetest-looking pup who looked just like a tiny chunk of salted caramel.

My husband asked about him and the guys told him they’d found the little guy abandoned behind one of their workplaces and that the Humane Society turned them away since the pup was found too far away from their area of jurisdiction. We offered to keep him and they quickly agreed, happy to find him a home with a family who’d undoubtedly love and care for him.

We’d thought about adopting a pup for the boys for quite awhile now. I suppose we were waiting for the baby to get a bit older and for my oldest to get a tad more responsible, so he could help with the care and nurturing and maintenance  a dog requires.

He’s ready. We’re ready. And we figured it made sense (although, maybe it sounds crazy to some) to adopt a younger puppy so he could “grow up” with the boys, rather than an older dog who might already be set in his ways and could become impatient with three very loud and very wild boys.

I’d say a puppy’s playfulness is on par with a toddler’s, so a new playmate has arrived in this house ready to do what puppies do best, equipped with an energy level that only a goofy little pup can bring, all big, clumsy paws and perked up ears, a tiny ball of adorable fluff. So far he naps a lot, eats a lot, poops a lot, pees a lot and plays a lot, just like any other baby does. He’s awfully cuddly around nap time and I’m not sure who enjoys snuggling more — the boys or him.

And that’s Mojave, two days in. We’re so happy we found him. Or he found us.

Now, onto the housebreaking.

A Week in Photos (and a little shameless self-promotion)

The boys and I were able to get outdoors and explore quite a bit this week.

Last weekend, I took the two older boys to see a movie in an actual movie theatre, which we rarely do. The three-year-old is finally at an age where he can (mostly) sit still through a nearly two-hour film, without too much”Shhhhushing” on my part to get him to stop TALKING OUT LOUD and narrating all the action for us. There was a little bit of this going on, but I think our neighbors were mostly okay with it, since it was a kid’s film after all.

Later in the week, we visited a beautiful arboretum on the campus of my old college, where I was a little wistful reminiscing about being young and quietly studying for exams in the shady gardens there as a teenager, when all I had to worry about back then was studying for exams and being a teenager. I used the outing as a vehicle for not only allowing the boys to study nature, while using their imaginations and getting their hands dirty poking around bubbling streams with sticks and leaving with muddy knees, but to continue to explain the concept of college to my oldest, who had never actually stepped foot on a college campus before.

We stood beneath giant cacti in the sunshine, got up close and personal with vibrant orange monarch butterflies, who let us nearly touch them with our fingertips, and ran through make-believe jungles, pretending we were lost there, using our sticks to guide us through tangled vines.

We also hiked through our favorite canyon this week, under a canopy of oak trees. It was the first time I really let the baby walk around on his own and hike along with us, instead of strapping him into a stroller or onto my body, carrying him on my back. He was giddy with the freedom of exploration, grabbing sticks to carry like his big brothers, stomping around in piles of autumn leaves, touching new textures and throwing rocks. I’ve realized a large part of boy behavior involves searching for the biggest stick you can find on hikes and wielding it as a sword to fight your brother, while also chucking rocks at anything and everything that moves.

“Yeah, boys? Let’s not throw that giant rock at that beautiful bird resting peacefully in that tree, okay?

This week, we also tackled a little project I’d been talking about for awhile, but hadn’t gotten around to. We finally moved the baby’s crib out of our bedroom and into his brothers’ room so that all three boys could finally share a room together and the baby could sleep in his own crib overnight instead of co-sleeping with me, as he’s done since birth.

I dreaded the process because I knew it would be met with major screaming tears on the baby’s part. I wrote about why I was ready to get him sleeping in his own crib here. It’s time for him to learn how to sleep in his own space, without still waking up to nurse every couple hours when he’s co-sleeping with me. I am more than ready to get some solid sleep again. They say it takes 72 hours to break any habit and last night was night three of him sleeping in his crib overnight with his brothers.

The first two nights didn’t go very well, my husband was up with him several times, coaxing him back to sleep, but last night, he did much better. He only woke up once, fussed for a few minutes and got himself to go back down. It was the first time in fourteen months that I was able to sleep a solid six hours without waking up and it was blissful. Let’s hope tonight goes just as well. Fingers crossed.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving here in the US and we feasted and gave thanks along with the rest of the country. This year, it was just us five gathering around our table, which I decided to decorate and make festive for the occasion. My husband roasted a delicious turkey and we collaborated on the side dishes: mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, green beans, sweet potatoes, cranberry chutney and pumpkin pie. It was a lovely day and an opportunity to be grateful for our blessings, especially the three little lively boys who have stolen our hearts more than we could have ever imagined.

They have taught me so much about loving and living.

And to tie this week up with a beautiful holiday bow, a book I contributed a piece of my writing to, was released today. It’s an honest anthology of funny pregnancy stories from twenty moms called, “Bumptabulous,” and if you’re so inclined to buy it for yourself or an expectant mom, you (or they) are sure to get some laughs and a candid  peek at pregnancy and motherhood.

You can read more about it here and purchase the book here.

If you celebrated Thanksgiving, I hope you had a wonderful one with your loved ones. I’m thankful for those of you who visit and read about this little life of mine, with my Three Wild Things and share your stories as well.

Have a wonderful weekend!

Quiet Time

In my twenties — many years before I had children — I spent a considerable amount of time in very loud places. I stayed out late with my friends in trendy bars and nightclubs in Hollywood and New York City, attended concerts I’m sure caused some kind of irreversible eardrum damage, where thumping music blares from giant speakers at an amphitheater or those you stand next to in a bar, sound vibrating through your rib cage with a gust of wind, sound that leaves you temporarily deaf at the end of the night, where you start asking your friends to repeat sentences and try to fall asleep to ringing in one ear, or both.

I lived out loud back then, quite literally. And it was fun. The kind of fun you remember for a lifetime. The kind of fun that found you accidentally locked in bathrooms of underground parties in Paris all alone, giddy and tipsy off too much champagne. Parties so loud, your friends couldn’t even hear your very loud knocks on the door to get their attention, over the sound of very loud French lyrics blasting out of very loud speakers.

Back then, it never dawned on me that one day I’d seek quiet. I used to love being in a loud room or restaurant, voices competing with each other, lively laughter stacking on top of each other like bricks, creating a rhythm all their own. Being surrounded by noise meant I wasn’t alone, even if I still felt alone in a crowd. I craved sound — any sound — music, laughter, dinner conversation, the clink of champagne flutes celebrating a loved one’s birthday, the raised voices of friends debating politics, the cacophony of New York City traffic noise, horns honking, taxi cab drivers shouting with diverse accents, the bass line of a hip-hop anthem blaring from a passing car on a Brooklyn street.

Noise made me feel alive. Quiet made me feel lonely.

So many years later, the days of loud music in sweaty NYC nightclubs, dancing until the sun greeted us the next morning, or the volume cranked up as far as it could go on my car stereo dial while driving solo to the beach on a hot summer day, moon roof peeled back, are long, long gone. So long gone.

The noises of my twenties have been replaced by the noises of my thirties, the wails of newborns needing diaper changes and feedings, the whines of toddlers pleading to have their way, the screeching of “Mo-om!” from the bathroom, requesting some item that always seems to be needed at the most inconvenient time, the conversations of animated characters on the television I somehow know the names of (like I used to know the names of all the hotspots in the exotic cities I traveled through), their exaggerated voices intertwined with those of my children, taking on personas all their own like extra family members: Elmo, Barney, Olivia, Caillou, Dora.

Don’t get me wrong, the sound of my children’s voices is by far the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard — their laughter, the baby’s contagious giggles, my three-year-old’s adorable voice reciting his numbers or singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider, my seven-year-old confidently reading to me from his Diary of a Wimpy Kid books like a pro.

Yet still, where I used to crave noise, these days, all I want is quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t even include tranquil, new age music in the background, or birds chirping in trees, or crashing waves on a solitary beach.

Just pure, uninterrupted silence.

Quiet no longer equates to loneliness for me. Quiet is the peace I feel I have less of these days, caring for the demands of all these tiny, yet very loud voices who need something, right now, right away.

Admittedly, I yearn to have quiet back. If only for a few hours.

Disneyland Diaries

I’ll admit, I’m not Disneyland’s biggest fan.

In fact, I wasn’t even a big fan of the place as a kid, when I grew up with it practically in my backyard, an easy, twenty-minute drive up the 5 Freeway on a good day. I can’t even completely pinpoint what it is about Disneyland that makes me uneasy, it just does.

There’s something so saccharine about it all, the squeaky clean image, the creepy, robotic characters and animatronics (I’m talking about those inside the attractions, not the real-life “cast members” themselves), the contrived “fun” that comes with an obscenely hefty price tag, how the entire place is stuck in some kind of bizarre time-warp (I mean, Tomorrowland still looks like 1986 to me), that it’s capitalism, Americana and over-consumption at its finest: buy, buy, buy, consume, consume, consume and you’ll be happy!

After all, it’s the Happiest Place on Earth, right?

Maybe it’s something about all that happy that creeps me out. Because, it’s not really a true reflection of life itself. Life just isn’t that darn happy all the time. Why should people spend $150 apiece to enter a theme park that promises them happiness by gorging on overpriced churros, super-sized buttered popcorn in cheap plastic Mickey Mouse containers, waiting an hour and a half in lines that snake around buildings for nothing more than a mere three-minute thrill? Is that really happiness? I feel like some of the best happiness I’ve found costs absolutely nothing at all.

I’m sure I’m completely overanalyzing Disneyland.

My point is, against my better judgment we visited Disneyland last weekend for my middle son’s third birthday. And we consumed and consumed and consumed. Until I literally felt kind of sick.

It always amazes me how easy it is to give up your stance on so many things you previously vowed you’d never do, once you have kids. For example, per his request last year, I spent my oldest son’s sixth birthday at a local Chuck E. Cheese’s. That’s something I swore I’d never do, pre-children. Ever. But, there I was, happily eating slices of bad pizza and playing skee-ball.

So. When your adorably spirited three-year-old has a newfound interest in all things Mickey Mouse, you know what you do? You stop being jaded and cynical. That’s what you do.

Yep.

You go to Disneyland.

Rule of Three

He was my most difficult baby and he’s still my most difficult child to parent. He is a classic middle child acting out for attention, testing his limits, pushing you to the edge with a wild look in his eye and a smirk that lets you know he’s precisely aware of what he’s doing. In fact, he enjoys seeing you sweat. He will blatantly tell you what he’s not going to do, no matter how many times you tell him exactly what he is going to do.

“No, I not go do that!” he exclaims all day long. He is mischievous and wild, determined and bold. He is also loving and devoted.

Today, he is three.

He’s no longer a toddler — I suppose I should refer to him as my preschooler now — yet that would be a misnomer because he’s not in preschool yet. He’s stuck in that in between stage of not quite being a baby anymore, figuring out who he’s supposed to be next. He knows how to clearly express his needs and desires with words now, while still not completely having a handle on his body or his emotions, getting frustrated because he wants his way all the time and acting out when he doesn’t get it.

He’ll hurl himself to the floor and scream, he will hit, he will cry and contort his body into 53 different yoga positions until he feels heard, but he also knows I’m relentless in not giving into his tantrums. Daddy? Not so much. With daddy, he gets his way if he demands it loud enough and he knows it. This is probably one of the many reasons he’s always been a daddy’s boy to the core and probably always will be. I’m definitely second best, simply a stand-in if daddy’s not around.

He’s headstrong, bullish and stubborn. He’s also full of the most adorable giggles and the purest joy. He’s grown so much in the past few months, both taller and developmentally. He recites his numbers to twenty with confidence and can tell you the names of most shapes and colors.

His language has exploded recently and he can articulately explain everything he’s thinking in his high-pitched voice, even if he sometimes gets his words a little mixed up. We once had a box of doughnuts sitting next to a bag of almonds on the kitchen counter and somehow he came away thinking almonds are doughnuts. So when he reaches for a bag of almonds and asks if he can have “doughnuts, please” I always get a laugh.

I still haven’t corrected him.

He is affectionate, playful and full of love. He is a cuddle bug, the one who needs the most touch and reassurance, the one who wants you to scratch his back on the couch as he purrs, then turns to stroke your cheek with the back of his doughy hand,  imprinted with four dimples below his chubby fingers, tracing your face and studying your eyes with intensity.

He sees you. Truly sees you, with that knowing look that only those who really feel with intuition have. Those with that psychic-like energy who instinctively know your pain or joy or the kind of day you’re having just by taking your emotional temperature with their eyes. He is caring and compassionate and will ask you if you’re okay if you so much as cough or sneeze or stub your toe. “Are you okay, mama?” he asks. It’s endearing and sweet. When his baby brother fell at the gardens earlier this week, he dusted him off and picked away the leaves that had attached themselves to his romper, making sure he was okay.

Ironically, he’ll also smack that same baby brother over a stolen toy.

He’ll batter you emotionally and the very next second, run to your aide. His love is hard-fought and hard-earned, but it runs deep.

Happy Third Birthday, my fiery little Libra. You made your presence known the day you arrived and you still know how to command all the attention in the room, three years later.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

At ten weeks old

At three years old

Ghosts of Halloweens Past

Oldest son, circa Halloween 2005, four weeks old.

Middle son, circa Halloween 2010, one year old

The baby, circa Halloween 2011, six weeks old

I know plenty of adults who celebrate Halloween each year with as much fervor as when they were children. I’ve never been one of those adults. It’s been years since I’ve dressed up in a costume, but I do think it’s so much fun now that I’m a mom, to see Halloween through a child’s eyes. We’re not a family who really gets into Halloween each year — we don’t go wild with creepy decorations or carve out rows of  jack-o’-lanterns to line our doorstep. We don’t do the Monster Mash. But we do visit a pumpkin patch every year and pick out a pumpkin or two to carve up.

We dress the kids up in costume and we do some trick-or-treating, but that’s about it. There are families on our block who spend thousands of dollars each year decorating for Halloween night. I’m talking elaborate video displays projected on walls, all set to creepy timed music, with people dressed as wandering ghouls, lurking through dry ice and scaring the children. We take full advantage of this, of course.

Fall signals birthday season in our house, with all three boys’ birthdays happening in September and October. I think by the time Halloween rolls around, we’re kind of done with celebrating. The past few Halloweens have been very simple for us — especially for my oldest — because there has been either a newborn or a baby in the house, which sort of limits our trick-or-treating abilities.

I’m sure Halloween will start to get more festive when the boys are a little older and can really take advantage of dressing up and trick-or-treating on the big night.

Middle son, Halloween 2010 as a baby skeleton, one year

Young Indiana Jones, Halloween 2011 six years old

The baby, Halloween 2011 as a little pumpkin, six weeks old.

This will be the first year we’ll take all three boys around the block, dressed in costume, and really make the most of Halloween. We’ll recycle a skeleton suit for the baby, the middle guy will go as his recent obsession (Spider-Man) and I need to come up with a Frankenstein costume for my oldest, per his special request. Maybe I need to consult Pinterest? Here’s where I wish I was crafty.

What about you? Do you get into celebrating Halloween in your house?

If you have kids, what will they dress up as this year?

Baby, it’s hot outside.

October is that weird month where the rest of the country seems to be cooling down, all dewy mornings and crunchy golden autumn leaves, while here we get unseasonably warm heat waves and yearn for pushing our hands through the long sleeves of a cable knit sweater or slipping boots over our ankles.

In other words, it’s hot. And when you’ve had three solid months of hot weather, it tends to get a little old. We’re kind of over the water parks and swimming pools and popsicles and beaches by now. Our electricity bills are through the roof, the hum of the air conditioner running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We’re ready to ditch our shorts and flip-flops and sunscreen in exchange for some rain boots and temperatures below ninety degrees.

Despite the heat, we’ve been getting out to explore nature trails and our favorite wild gardens, getting lost in the cool shade of oak groves and hunting for any signs of autumn in our midst. Needless to say, we’re dripping wet with sweat by the end of our little hikes and swatting bugs off our sticky shoulders and faces. But where else would my boys be able to spot a slate-colored buck with giant, twisted antlers crossing their path or chase after cottontail rabbits who scatter beneath their feet, only trying to blend in with their surroundings. I cherish these times with them, when we can shed the four walls of our air-conditioned, urban existence and attempt to blend in with nature, just like those bunnies.

When I was a child, my dad, a nature-lover himself, led us on hikes and camping trips where we navigated trails and crossed creeks, fallen tree trunks our bridges. We pitched tents under the deep purple of mountain night skies, bathed in chilly, bubbling rivers and cooked our breakfast over Coleman stoves. He is an adventurer at heart and there is still a sliver of that in my own blood, yet I often let fear and anxiety get the best of me. We’ve yet to camp as a family because of all the “what ifs” I constantly come up with to talk myself out of taking most perceived risks in life. What if someone tries to rob us at our campsite? What if a bear decides to have us as a late night snack? What if a mountain lion attacks? What if a Lyme-disease carrying tick wants to use us as its host? What if, what if, what if…?

What if the statistics prove my fears wrong in every direction? Because they do. I mean, there have been less than twenty confirmed mountain lion attacks in my state since 1890. It’s more dangerous to buckle my children into their car seats and drive our SUV to a hiking site, than it is to go on the hike itself. The idea that a mountain lion would attack us is absurd. Yet, I still have these fears — the “what ifs” that make me such an overly cautious mother, they keep me from being as adventurous as I’d like to be with my boys.

I think it’s time to change that. I think it’s time for me to leave my comfort zone and get back that same sense of adventure I had as a child, so that I can instill that thirst in my own children.

It’s time to get outside, in more ways than one.

Lucky Number Seven

Today, my firstborn son is seven years old.

I know the cliché is to say that time goes too quickly and they grow up so fast, but with him, I don’t feel that way. It seems like eons ago that I brought him home from the hospital, this chubby wise old soul, his dimpled cheeks flushed pink. He has always seemed older and wiser than his years to me and I feel as if, in some odd sense, he was seven years old even when he was seven weeks old.

He spoke in such full, articulate sentences by eighteen months, I could always understand exactly what he was saying and never needed to translate his baby speech. People were always in awe of how clearly he spoke, even as a toddler. He’s still a great communicator. He prefers to be spoken to directly and without mincing words, nothing sugarcoated. Because of that, I’ve always spoken to him more like an adult than a child. He uses words like “inappropriate” in the right context and can be borderline condescending when he feels someone is being “inappropriate” (i.e. that “someone,” usually meaning his two-year-old brother). This boy does not suffer fools gladly. But inside that often exasperated exterior, lives a fiercely loving and sensitive boy.

At times, I see glimpses of the teenager he’ll become. When I’m explaining to him why it’s important to complete mundane tasks such as brushing his teeth or making his bed, I’m met with epic eye rolls and a defiance usually saved for the most hardened of adolescents. No explanation as to why he needs to follow instructions is ever good enough for him. He will argue a point with you inside and out until you almost want to raise a white flag and surrender from exhaustion.

He’s smart and he’ll try to outsmart you. Sometimes, he’s too smart for his own good. When I catch those glimmers of teenager in him, I’m also quickly reminded that he’s still just a boy, a boy who has only recently left the stage of being a “little” boy and I see him struggling with that concept. He sees his younger brothers being helped with everything and doted on and I can sense there’s a part of him wanting to feel small and babied and doted on too and I make every effort to do that for him. We snuggle in bed nightly, just the two of us, and it’s at these moments that I’m made aware that at seven, he’s struggling to find his way, knowing he’s this unusually tall, overgrown child who is often mistaken for being ten years old, all lanky limbs and sharp joints, who feels older and younger at the same time.

When he was seven months old, I wrote this poem for him:

Life rushes by with the force of a wave

Before it drenches me

I need to tell you

Everything you are

September baby

With a shock of black hair

Mercurial, mild

Wide set eyes fixed upon the world

You kicked your way out with determination

Like now, when you kick mommy in your sleep

Your smile stops strangers on the street

Your giggle inspires a joy I can’t contain

You are curious

You are stubborn

You are sensitive

You are strong

You are full of peace, just like your name

You are a mystery, baby

And I devour your every move

How you run your tongue across your toothless gums and grin

The way you clench your tiny fists when you are elated and mad

The tone of your raspy cry

How proud you are when you stand on your sturdy legs, bobbing up and down

How your doughy thighs move like lightening as you crawl

I cement these images in my memory

They are as fleeting as the tides

Rolling in and out of life

With an ebb and flow I can’t control

Soon, you will grow from baby

To boy

To man

and it will blur into that space

between memory and make-believe

So this is how we can remember,

a time when you were only seven months

With two bottom teeth

And a smile that stopped strangers on the street

And a love from your mommy

As deep as the ocean.

In so many ways, he is still that seven-month-old baby, his personality set in stone from birth. All of those traits still apply to him today: curious, stubborn, sensitive, and strong. Although, those two bottom teeth he once had as a baby have since fallen out and been replaced with two permanent adult teeth. In fact, he has a mouth full of tiny baby teeth mixed in with oversized adult teeth and empty gums still waiting for new growth, an unwieldy combination of different sizes and shapes representing past, present and future, just trying to all fit in and find their place.

Which, I suppose, is very much like being seven years old itself.

Happy Seventh Birthday, my sweet, sophisticated son. You are the one who started it all and it’s been one wild ride ever since. I have learned immensely from you and these have been the best seven years of my life. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for you.

One Year

It seems like it was only last week that I was in the hospital, propped up on pillows as he peacefully slept in my arms, all freshly swaddled ten pounds of him, curled up under my chin, the busy sound of nurses opening and closing doors, in and out, in and out, bringing fresh water and crushed ice, running all those routine tests they run on newborns. He didn’t have a name for two days because we couldn’t decide which of our choices suited him best, until the woman handling the birth certificates at the hospital urged us to come up with one before we were discharged. I remember deciding on his name just minutes before she left for the day. His middle name would be Moon, because he was born on the day of  the beautiful Harvest Moon that September.

And then I blinked and today he’s a year old.

His eyes were so blue for the first six months, as blue as my grandmother’s were, these giant, knowing orbs staring back at me. I would look into his eyes and see her face, her features in his, her flat nose and high cheekbones passed down by generations of  her Native American ancestors, seemingly reincarnated in his gaze, as if reassuring me she was there in some form.

There are so many things I want to remember about his first year. I want to remember his funny walk, how he toddled at nine months with such confidence and precision he was nearly running by the time he reached his first birthday. How, today, when I catch his little cowboy gait out of the corner of my eye while cooking dinner, I laugh to myself at my mini John Wayne, moseying around like a wayward old soul searching for his horse.

I want to remember his baby laugh, how he scrunches up his nose and takes quick little breaths in and out until he nearly snorts, belly-laughing as if he’s never seen or heard anything so funny in his life. I want to remember how he asks “hot?” whenever he gets within two feet of the oven or when I scoop his steaming dinner onto his high chair tray. He watches me blow on his food to cool it down and then mimics me, making his own adorable attempt. He asks “hot?” for just about anything that means “caution” or “don’t touch.”  Any possible threat is now simply, “hot?”

I want to remember how much he loves food and the little eating happy dance he breaks into after taking a bite of something particularly delicious, swinging his head from side to side like Stevie Wonder, smiling with his entire face.

“Nummy, nummy, nummy,” he says.

I know these memories of his first year will fade and fall into that place between memory and make-believe, where I won’t be able to remember the sound of his baby-voice saying “Ma-ma,” or which month he started saying it. Was it seven months? Or was it eight months?

I’m already forgetting.

I know he has seven teeth now, but I can’t recall the various weeks they all pushed through his gums. I know with certainty he loves to use those seven teeth to bite me. He’s bitten the skin of my forearm so hard, he’s left bruises. For some reason, he thinks this is quite hilarious.

At one year, he is a mild-mannered, independent little spirit. He doesn’t need anyone to entertain him, because he can amuse himself. I had no idea a shampoo bottle stolen from my bathtub could give him such a thrill. When he needs me, he’ll find me, peaking around the corner and running into my arms, his own arms outstretched like bird wings. At this age, he’s so much more attached to me than my other sons were. If he hears my voice in the other room, even while playing with daddy, he’ll inevitably find me and seek me out, looking for cuddles.

He claps for himself and waves “goodbye.” He loves to wrestle with his middle brother  and can really hold his own, even when brother gets a little too rough with him at times. He’s strong and coordinated, gentle and sensitive all rolled into one.

Last weekend, we held a small first birthday party for him in our favorite park.  Family and friends stopped by, some with babies of their own. The “Love you to the moon and back” theme was fitting, considering his name. We hung giant white “moon” lanterns in the trees and played a soundtrack of  songs with “moon” in the title. Whenever Cat Stevens’ “Moonshadow” played, he bobbed his head and clapped his hands in rhythm. This boy loves to dance.

We sipped lemonade and iced tea, ate sandwiches and salads and devoured the most delicious cake. We sung Happy Birthday and he clapped for himself and laughed. After attempting to blow out his candle and asking “hot?” he promptly picked up his cake with one hand and shoved it squarely into his mouth. And then, as if on cue, it started pouring down rain as the party came to an abrupt end. It was such a nice day, mellow and serene, just like the birthday boy himself.

Happy First Birthday, my little moonbeam. This year went by much too quickly, but it has easily been one of the best of my life, simply because you’re in it.