A Week in Photos

I vowed we’d spend more time at the beach this summer, but so far, we’ve only spent a single day. And of course it was a day that brought a mild storm, with gray clouds, rain and a chill in the air in the middle of July, despite the weather report swearing it would be 80 degrees and sunny.

Luckily, the boys didn’t mind, they frolicked as usual, ignoring the raindrops turning powdery sand wet and sludgy. By the time we started collecting our belongings to sprint back to our car under the pressure of an expiring meter (no easy feat with a double stroller, three rambunctious children and endless bags of wet food, umbrellas and beach toys), we were caught in the middle of a bona fide downpour.

So much for planning a perfect day at the beach. I doubt we’ll be going back for awhile. And to top it off, we were greeted with a big, fat parking ticket for an expired meter.

Earlier in the week, I spent a wonderful evening one-one-one with my oldest, something we’ve done only a handful of times since his younger brothers were born. We went to dinner and a movie, where the focus was solely on him and it was much-needed and lovely. Between the chaos of a toddler bulldozing his belongings and the cries of his baby brother whose needs are often more immediate, he’s learned to be patient. But I realize it’s unfair for him to always be the one to wait in line while his smaller brothers’ demands are louder, making their presence and need for attention more known.

It’s something I find difficult to navigate at times.

I wanted to take a night to make him feel extra special and attended to, like he was when he was an only child, where I could savor his words and stories with fully open ears. Without multi-tasking and asking him to re-tell them because I only heard snippets of what he was saying as I’m calming the baby down and making sure the toddler doesn’t run into the middle of traffic.

I’m going to make an attempt to do these “date nights” with him more often. It was a really sweet time for both of us.

Yesterday, we visited a place I’ve been wanting to visit since it was re-modeled and re-opened to the public a few years ago. It did not disappoint. Billionaires live pretty well, I’d say. The boys had fun exploring the hallways that seemed to run on forever and the toddler loved roaming the gorgeous fountains. If I didn’t know better, with the balmy ocean breeze whispering through our hair, we could have easily been along the Mediterranean, admiring ancient greek artifacts. It was a fantastic day.

Peppered in between mini-excursions, are those days at home that would otherwise seem mundane, ordinary, uneventful. But these are the days I want to capture most: a sleeping baby who finally gave in after fighting sleep for hours, a chubby thigh glimpsed from the corner of my eye — a thigh that will surely melt away soon into a long, sinewy limb.

These are the moments I cherish. Juxtaposed against the staggering beauty of the majestic Pacific Ocean, or the stunning architecture of a billionaire’s villa, these images trump everything.

They are everyday images and they are fleeting — a wisp of baby hair curling up like a vine around the edge of a tiny earlobe, my oldest son’s animated expressions through my rearview mirror as he tells me a story from the backseat after camp.

They are the moments I cling to.

Counting by Tens

Ten fingers.

Ten toes.

A Perfect 10 wiggling about at the end of his folded limbs.

We started out counting by “tens” from the day we first spotted those digits in an ultrasound, the unmistakable black and white shadows gracefully beckoning us with their fluid motions, seeming to wave “hello,” then tightly clenched fists drawn inward, nestled into his chest, in that liquid space he resided for ten months, as we waited impatiently and then patiently for him.

And now, ten months after the day he quietly made his grand entrance — all ten pounds of him — I can hardly believe he’s been on the outside as long as he was once on the inside.

He arrived in the early morning hours of a hot, dry September day, beneath the biggest, brightest full moon of the year, a moon that became his middle namesake, the day that came the day after the ten year anniversary of an unfathomable tragedy still fresh in our collective hearts, a date I specifically remember because I lived in that exact city on that exact day, ten years earlier.

As much as I wanted him to arrive, I also wanted him to wait.

When my Labor Day due date quickly came and passed and I hadn’t started laboring, I secretly hoped he’d be born on any date other than that date, the date that will forever be associated with terror and suffering. I didn’t want him to share his birthday — a joyous occasion — with the date that was all too fresh in my mind, even ten years later. So when the tenth came, followed by the eleventh, I held my breath.

He arrived the next day.

He’s so quiet that at times, we lose track of him, only to find him in a corner happily entertaining himself with blocks or any object he’s turned into a toy for the moment. He’s also a quiet eater, feeding himself with his hands like a white-gloved lady who lunches, dainty, with manners.

In the past two weeks he’s officially become a walker, gingerly making his way across the living room floor, stiff and zombie-like, arms outstretched to keep his balance. When he’s in a hurry, he still resorts to crawling — a little Komodo Dragon chasing after his much-faster brothers.

Of all my babies, at 9 months, he holds the record for being the earliest walker. His dexterity continues to amaze me as he masters his fine motor skills. He holds a cup with ease, is attempting to use a spoon to eat and is discovering a few of the toys his brothers are tinkering with, Lincoln Logs and LEGOS scattered across our living room like shrapnel.

At ten months, my love for him has grown tenfold since that hot September day we welcomed him into our arms and into our hearts.

Happy Ten Months, my little mooncake. You were well worth the wait.