To my Big Star on his Big Day

Dear Baby Big Star,

You might only still be wearing 18-24 month shorts (2T if it's a bad laundry week), but you are every second of your 3 years old today.  Today was your first day of preschool.  That "in Seb-teb-er" day finally arrived.  We've talked about it so much and teased you with a year's worth of Little Bug school pick ups that I don't really think you believed this day would come until I pulled out the Elmo backpack and strapped it on you.  You dutifully stood there while I took pictures, but I could tell you were still wondering if this was all pretend.

I snuck some looks at you in your seat as you and I drove alone to school this morning.  You had this tiny grin glued on your face as you watched the familiar route with rapt attention.  This.was.happening.

OMG, this was happening.  My baby was going to school. I'm sorry, but wasn't it just like last month that I cuddled you in my arms and played "ko ko ko epp" while you drank one of your five daily bottles? I've been totally okay with you going to preschool up until this morning when I had a mini panic attack thinking through the fact that I was going to take you to school where you would function independent of us.  Like, what kind of madness is that?  You are my baby.

But you stood in front of your new preschool like a kid before a Christmas tree as I snapped a few more shots.  Every shot you inched farther out of frame as your entire body was literally buzzing from suppressed excitement.

And then, with no preamble from either of us, I let you go.

You actually ran into that school shouting "Big Star's preschool!  Big Star's preschool!"  All that was missing was the fist pump or the flag you planned to stake down.  There was no hesitation, no fear.  You hung your backpack in your room, gave your teacher (Little Bug's beloved old teacher) a good morning hug, and ran off to get your hands on the freaking dump truck you have been eying for the better part of 6 months.  By the time I realized what had happened, you were across the room hunched down playing with two other friends, and I didn't have the heart to drag you back for a goodbye or hug.

For the record, I didn't cry, although thinking about not getting a hug makes me want to now.

No surprise, you were a big star today.  Your teachers were busted up over the stories you told them about Idaho and grandma and tractors.  They marveled at your fabulous eating habits (salad...seriously kid, you even ate salad for them?), sharing nature (umm, what?), and great listening skills (thank goodness).  And I am so freaking proud of you for diving right into "real life" and thriving.  It's not a surprise, but it's still a joy to see.

You were so happy today to tell us all about your day. You had the time of your life and knowing that I am going to see that twice a week for the next year is fun to think about. 

It was time to let you go a bit, my baby Big Star.  You and I both needed to let you grow up a bit, since you certainly can handle it.  I'm proud of you for rocking preschool like a champion.  Just one tiny step toward what will undoubtedly be the life of a star.

I love you, Big Star.  Happy first day of (BIG STAR'S!) preschool.

In Between Doses

It's been over a month since I wrote in this space.

Honestly, I didn't have words.  To blournal the small things seemed wrong when the BIG things were looming.  But the BIG things felt too overwhelming to write about, and frankly, I just didn't want to vent and moan.

But the truth is, that little pill kicks some serious baby butt.  The first few weeks were filled with side effects--horrible, sad side effects that left my sweet boy in physical and emotional pain.  That, in turn, left Appa and I nearly bereft for him.  Once the side effects tapered off, it became apparent the dose was too low, so we had to increase the dose again, restarting the side effects.

Swallow, melt down, repeat.  Swallow, melt down, repeat.

The bad news is that I have a mother's intuition that this dose/particular medication isn't going to be the right fit either.  The good news is I have total faith in our doctor and appreciate the slow and conservative approach to medicating a child off label (due to age).

The best news is that Little Bug is still thriving and continuing to improve his knowledge and capability to help himself.  We've made some big decisions for his education this Fall that we hope will give him his very best shot at making the most of his last pre-K year.  Although we are very much in the present with him right now, we're serious about positioning him for his academic future, and I am excited to start taking advantages of the many unique resources we have available.

As an aside: giving up a master bathroom to get into a really good school district was one of the best decisions I ever made.  Way to go, me 6 years ago!

So, the thing is, I need to move on from this.  Swallow, melt down, repeat is going to continue for a while, and I can't just censor myself anymore while I wallow in the cycle with my baby love. I'm going to make a concerted effort to blournal more about the daily things like I used to.  Maybe I will blournal about Little Bug's new trick of taking his underoos off and peeing on the floor when he gets angry or about Little Bro's daily expository speeches.  Maybe I'll blournal about my baby sister moving the the freaking Philippines for an 18-month mission or how she and I wasted an hour and a half watching possibly the most pointless movie in the whole world simply because Adam Brody was in it (my choice).

And Lee Min Ho is filming a new drama.  Since Appa just bought me the complete Rosetta stone for Korean, I'm now officially on my way to becoming fluent in my children's' birth language.....right?

Or maybe I will blournal about the week we just spent on my Aunt's farm in Michigan.  How Little Bug and Little Bro had smiles mile wide on their faces from morning to night with attitudes to match.  How perfect it was.

And can be.

And is.

The Question

We're a conspicuous family, and I've always fielded multiple questions a week from strangers regarding Little Bug and whether he was adopted or if I was just the devoted nanny.  Usually the questions were just varying degrees of "is he adopted?", but I realized today that ever since Little Bro came home, that question rarely comes up.

Now, the new, more subtle was of determining how I came to be wrangling two small Koreans is a different, seemingly innocent question that I literally get 2-3 times a week.

"Are they brothers?"

And although the snarky responses you read in all the adoption literature comes to mind, my go to answer falls in line with my general rule on these sorts of questions...simple and honest.

"Yes."

But the thing is, I know that isn't what they are asking.  I know they aren't using the word brothers the way I am.  I know they are asking about blood and biology and a single birth mother and some history or story that is bound to be interesting.  But, if that was all it was, me choosing to ignore the implications behind the question, that would be fine.  It's the follow-up comments that I have been shocked to discover nearly always follow my simple and honest answer.

In the last week alone, these are some of the comments I have received in response to my answer.

"How wonderful you were able to keep them together."
"I can tell.  Their eyes have the same shape."  [Really?!  Here is a news flash, nice lady handing out chocolate milk samples at Costco,  there are around 50 million other people in the world who have the same "shape" of eyes as my kids.  I am pretty sure they aren't all related.  If they were, Lee Min Ho would be having dinner at my place...like every night.]
"What a sad story with such a happy ending!"
"You can tell."
"I didn't know you could adopt siblings from Asia."
"They're twins, right?"

So here is my dilemma.  I really like my less-is-more approach in general because it works for my personality, but in this case, I am finding it increasingly important to offer up information speaking to the implication of this question.  It's not a huge deal right now with my boys understanding what is being said, but when they get older, I don't want to have to continue the conversation with these strangers in order to set the record straight when their assumptions become clear, nor do I want to lie or hide the fact that my children are not biological brothers, because it doesn't make them any less of brothers, and I want them to know that and own that.

I have started practicing with the answer "they are now," and that seems to get the point across, but also tends to fluster people and make them backpedal, which makes me feel bad.  Then again, it's not offensive, so perhaps I shouldn't care that I've made people who asked an awkward question feel awkward themselves.  But even that answer feels like it has a shelf life, as it might be a little odd to say "they are now" when they've been brothers for 10+ years or something.

It's the most interesting of transitions from going from one child to two, and I find it has made our family even more conspicuous, more interesting to strangers, and more vulnerable to prying questions.

But for the record, as far as I am concerned, the only answer that is really true is "yes."

They are brothers.

45 Minute Glimpse

Today started badly.  Bad sleep, two grumpy kids and one grumpy mom, and no daddy made for a unhappy morning.  I also decided today would be a good day to force some potty training for both kids.  That lasted about 30 minutes.

I was determined to rally and knew the day was going to go up or down based on how I reacted.  A couple silly songs later, I managed to convince both kids to sit at their kiddie table and busted out the craft box.

Usually this activity can net me some decent interaction time with Little Bro, but has never lasted more than 10 minutes with Little Bug.  In fact, sitting still and focusing on anything for longer than a minute or two is so challenging for Little Bug, it is written into his IEP as a goal.  So craft or art time isn't really a go-to activity when Little Bug is home.

But today, with moderate cueing from me as I sat next to him, he participated in scissor work (or rather, scissor practice), markers, stickers, crayons, and playdoh (without even eating any).  He and his brother happily sat and created and played and giggled and focused.

For 45 minutes.

To me, that is a huge accomplishment.  Never have I seen Little Bug sit and focus for that long, and I certainly didn't feel like he was needing more cueing than he would receive with his aide at his developmental preschool.

Bottom line.  It was a huge win for us.

And that has bolstered me all day, especially considering we had a disastrous nap, and he spent his entire $150-an-hour sensory therapy session refusing to get out of a tub of dried beans, and he had not one, but TWO of his new and very disconcerting "car rages."

Because that 45 minutes gave me a glimpse of what I know will one day be able to be our new normals, and that makes fighting through the rest of today a whole lot easier.

Mama

Almost 2 months to the day he came home, Little Bro started calling me mama (and Appa, dada).  What was noted in Korea as a speech delay has turned out instead to be a mark of impressive and hardcore stubbornness and a fondness for pointing and grunting to get his way.

Not that we've been cracking a whip or anything, but yeah, that wasn't going to continue long-term here.

Within the first month home Little Bro had picked up a handful of words, and in the last month his vocab has exploded. Granted, his most consistent words are a bit random (cheese, turtle, hi, hawk), but he's actually got more words than I care to type out, many of them functional and appropriate for his day to day life, and he loves to repeat anything we say (when in the mood).  He's also a whiz at picking up baby sign language, to the point where I have to go back and review his DVDs to see what he is saying.  He strings together multiple signs and enjoys communicating wants and needs effectively.  He's even using please and thank you consistently.

Cute and polite.  Be still my heart. Did I mention he's got the swagger of the Beibs and the cheeks of a Gerber baby?

But mama, he would not say.  I knew he could say it, as it's so close to omma, a word I heard plenty in our first weeks together, although not in relation to me.  I admit, this last week has grated on me, and I am not proud of the fact that instead of pushing more functional words, I pushed him to use this word; pushed, begged, bribed, and threatened (okay, not really that one).

But that whole stubborn streak...I could see his little lips tightening in a epic battle of wills as he refused to let the sounds pass his lips. Impressive, and pretty freaking scary for me to imagine what sort of show downs Little Bro will be able to whip up when he's 16.

But yesterday after his nap, "Mama, mama" slipped out as I held him in my arms, rushing around to get ready to leave the house.  Before nap = not gonna happen; after nap = sure, your name is mama.  He knew what he was doing, too, as he immediately started clapping for himself. Since then he's being using it A LOT, which I love, although it's mainly when he is whining for something that he busts it out. 

I'll take it though.  Hearing him call me Mama and point to Appa over webchat and exclaim "dada, dada" over and over is another little slice of normal that has fallen into place.  And tonight, as I listened to both of my little sons call my name in their little voices, my heart felt very full (and good thing, too, as they were both actually whining in an attempt to avoid bedtime).

Goodbye, Professional Mama

For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a mom.  For almost as long, I've wanted to be a teacher.  That is, until I realized about 8 years ago that I wanted to be an editor instead.  It was there, amidst the red pencils and stacks of papers and colorful track changes that I found a career that I loved.  Most people work because they need to, but I have been blessed to be able to work because I wanted to.

Last night I quit my job.

Being a working mother is all about sacrifice.  For me, choosing to work has meant sacrificing time I wanted to spend with Little Bug and Little Bro, even though I believe their current school is critical for their social development.  If I stayed home, I would be sacrificing a career for which I have worked hard laying a solid foundation.

Either way, I sacrifice something I love.   And I came to realize if I was going to sacrifice one of them, it shouldn't be my babies.

The precise reasons for my decision don't need to be hashed out, but the decision was both hard and easy all at once.  Making the right decision is easy...making the decision that comes with heartache is hard.  But my kids will benefit from me being home, especially Little Bro.  And that is what matters most.

Unlike every other time I have ever considered quitting my job, I feel a great sense of peace about my decision. I don't get all panicky when I think about it, and in fact I am pretty excited to get more invested in my home care and feeding my family nutritious, home-cooked food.  I'm still in the "figuring it out" phase (truly, I'm taking a long time getting a good groove down in the housework department), but even on the hard days, I still find myself thinking about how lucky I am to have this chance to focus on my children, my home, and my husband.  NOT because I don't think I deserve to be a priority too, but because I've been stretched so thin in the last year that I haven't been able to give as much to the people and things that mean most to me.  It makes me happy to have my overworked husband come home to a clean house, it makes me happy to see my kids eating real food made with ingredients I can pronounce, and it makes me happy simply to be in a clean house, connected with my kids.

Editing stuff made me happy.  Scratch that....editing stuff does make me happy.  But it turns out that, at least right now, being a domestic goddess (although a rebel one who is NEVER going to have a bow in her hair when the hubs comes home and who will likely always struggle with cooking and cleaning) is what makes me happiest right now.

You, Me, and Us

 

We've all spent the last week changing.  Each one of the members of my family has had quite a week as we noticeably have started falling into our new normal.  With that new normal comes some inherent changes in each of us.

Little Bro and Little Bug are no longer only children.  For the first 2 weeks, they both, in their own way, resisted this change.  But in the last week, both boys have started embracing their roles as brothers.  Little Bug is becoming more tolerant (and even, dare I say it, empathetic) to Little Bro's transition and normal demands on our time and attention.  He is learning to give him space when he needs it.  He is beginning to accept that we can't always read his favorite book at night first or watch Yo Gabba Gabba's Train episode all the time.  He is beginning to explore this whole "big boy versus little boy" idea, which is helping him with some independent play skills.  Hopefully it will also one day help him stop from trying to "sit on Little Bo" because the reality is we really do have one BIG boy and one LITTLE boy.

Little Bro came out of his personal hell stronger and braver than I could have imagined.  It humbles me when I think of the strength and resilience my sons have already had to dig deep for in their little lives.  Although they won't remember it, the lingering effects, both good and bad, will always be with them.  I truly believe that.

Little Bro is embracing us as people he likes, trusts, and wants to be with.  As is normal, sometimes he pulls back, but in general, this week we've seen more of the real Little Bro, the fiery, fast, funny, and curious child we met in Seoul.  He has started giving all of us (including his big brother) unprompted hugs, and he and I are developing a pretty tender and intimate sleep routine that fosters a lot of attachment.  Things that were too intimate for him before (like brushing teeth, changing clothes or diapers, giving medicine) are now less trauma and more just a typical toddler affront to life.  He's started throwing tantrums again, as opposed to grieving, which is oddly encouraging.  In the biggest hallelujah, he's started eating solids for us.  That alone is a HUGE step. Just in general, he seems happier, more comfortable, and less like he is desperately wishing for something he won't be able to have again.

Appa is, not surprisingly, doing best of us all.  He's an emotions-close-to-the-vest kind of guy, but watching Little Bro literally loss his will to exist last weekend was an eye-opening experience for him, I think.  Even then, he was the rock who spread himself thin so that he could focus on Little Bug while still taking care of me while I focused on Little Bro.  At one point, during a dark day, I looked over at him and thought "Thank God this is the man who I picked to be the father to my babies."  He's a keeper, my Appa.

And me....I'm doing better than I expected, with everything but blogging, that is.  Living life is getting easier and more normal, but writing about it is still a bit tedious.  After my serious bout with post-adoption depression last time, I've been watching and examining myself for any indications of those feelings so I could deal with them immediately.  Surprisingly, other than the very normal, sleep deprived "THIS IS THE WORST MOMENT OF MY LIFE"  feelings during the late nights while watching my sweet son shatter into a million sad pieces, I haven't felt the feelings I did last time.  I think a large part of it is due to already being a mother, so the jolting loss of freedom isn't there this time.  I think is also helps that Little Bro is older and more engaging.  In short, bringing home a baby was slightly boring and gave me more time to stew in depression, while this time Little Bro, at 22 months, is able to immediately interact in a more meaningful and fun way (although as I write this he is zoning out to Phung Phungie).  

With Little Bro's grief aside, the hardest thing has been trying to find balance.  I have found that my identity now is not the mother of two little boys, but rather, as Little Bug's mother and Little Bro's mother and Appa's wife and myself...each role needing its own attention and not a simple lump together.  The reality is that two-child shopping cart I have been eying out  for the last year is actually really cumbersome to push.  You can't easily go one way on a whim, instead you have to position the whole darn thing and slowly make your turns. 

And that is my life right now...slowly making the turns that lead my whole family in a new direction. But that's not a bad thing.

The First of Many Man Hugs

Today, as we walked into Little Bug's new classroom to pick him up from school, Little Bro reacted to his big brother's enthusiasm in a way we've never seen before.

He ran right up to him, put his arms around him, and gave him a hug.

This 14-day-old brotherhood has not yet consisted of hugs...by Little Bro's choice.  He's been apathetic at best with regards to his adoring older brother. But today was the first real sign of thaw, the first time he singled his brother out and showed connection and affection for him.

It warmed my heart to see Little Bro so accepting of his big brother and to see Little Bug finally get some of those "hug Little Bro" moments he has been begging for.

Life is slowly, slowly falling into normal for the four of us, and it makes me so happy I could hug someone.

To My Little Bug on the Eve of Everything Changing

Tonight is our last night of normal.  Tomorrow begins a period in our lives that won't be normal, but will eventually usher in a new normal.  That normal looks similar to our normal now, but it will never be the same.

But tonight I want to focus on our normal.  The normal that has me sitting in your dark bedroom as you peer at me through the faint light of your nightlight while drifting off to sleep.  The normal that is running hugs and rough play and cuddles while watching your favorite parts of your favorite shows.  The normal that is spur of the moment Mommy/Son dates where we spend the whole dinner talking to each other about whatever you want to talk about (usually some form of moving vehicle).  The normal that is your favorite books every single night and wagon rides.  The normal that is the pitter patter of your feet each night and your delight at shower time.

Normal right now is devoting every ounce of myself into you.  Your therapy dictates my schedule.  Your needs dictate everything that is in our home.  Your triumphs are the biggest high I experience.  You are the king of my life, and your rule is absolute.  You need it; you got it. (And let's be honest, you want it; you've usually got it, too.)

It's going to be weird for a while, this new normal.  The one where I need to balance the needs of someone else with yours. I'm not scared that I won't be able to do it, but I think it's going to take some getting used to for you and I...this balancing act.  Your rule over my heart isn't being reduced, but rather, my heart is impossibly expanding.  And I get it; until you are a parent, that feeling simply can't be understood.  I hate saying that, but it's true.  So trust me when I say, you're still my #1 boy.

And as much as we will love your little brother and our new normal, there is a part of me that sighed tonight as I kissed your sleeping shoulder.  Because, my sweet oldest son, I have loved our normal so very, very much, and I am sad to see such a beautiful chapter in our lives close.

Love, Mama

Written on March 29, 2011

One year ago today my son entered my life.  Even though it would be a full month until all the other factors fell into place to make it so, one year ago today, before I had even seen his file which would come the following day, I knew.

I sat down at the computer 1 year ago today and wrote him a letter.  A letter than I had no business writing to this child, but that I absolutely knew would one day be read by him.

There are few things in life that I have felt as uncharacteristically, blindly faithful about as I did that day 1 year ago.  File be damned, finances be damned, business associations be damned.  I just knew that the child behind that little square of a picture was the child that Appa and I would both ultimately agree was going to be our son. For someone who likes to err on the side of emotional caution and pessimism, I was full of wild abandon when it came to loving this child.

And now, 1 year later, a little white dresser in my home is filled with clothes he will wear in just over a week.  My calendar has appointments that he and I will go to together. My home is about to become his home, my traditions his traditions, my family his family.....

My heart simply his.

In the last 365 days, never once have I wavered from that wild abandon.  I've felt such peace.  Truly, such peace.

All because 1 year ago Appa and I followed an insane urge to jump outside the plan, our comfort zone, our expectations.

Thank God for today.

The Year of Love

Every year I've taken great care when picking out a wall calendar for my work space.  For some reason, I feel like the type of calendar a person displays and chooses to look at every day says a lot about them.  For the past few years, my calendars have always been beautiful landscapes of Idaho, my childhood home state.  The pictures of a place so different from my current one, but so familiar and comforting and beautiful, have made me happy for many, many, many months.

This year I didn't get an Idaho calendar.  I wasn't sure what I was waiting for, but I spent the entire month of January calendar-less.  And then, on Valentine's Day, I found my new focus for the year, the calendar I will proudly display for the next 10 months.

It is crumpled, water-stained, crudely cut and glued....and makes me smile every morning.

Butt head

Within the last week, someone taught Little Bug the word butt.  As in, the slang word for your rear, bottom, posterior, rump, buttock, etc.  And while they were at it, they taught him the context, too.

He's big into saying things "hurt" lately (milk on his chin = hurts; touches something slightly above room temperature = hurts; someone else cries because they hurt = hurts; blinks his eye = hurts).  But yesterday he started telling me his "butt" hurt.  I scrolled through my Little Bugese mental dictionary to try to figure out what he was saying, because surely my 3-year-old doesn't know the word butt.

But when he pointed to his toosh and said "Poop, butt hurt," that pretty much said it all.

Except for the word butt, which he LOVES to say now, always in the correct context, which makes it somehow worse.  I'm no prude, and I say words a million times word than butt on a regular basis, but it's such a grown-up, slang word to come out of my precious baby's little mouth.  Shouldn't he be calling it a "bum bum" or some other made up, slightly adorable word?


To the butt head who taught my kid this new word, thanks a ton.

"It wouldn't hurt if you stopped playing with it."

Sometimes the words that so naturally and seriously come out of my mouth as a mother make me laugh....and cringe.  The conversations I have nowadays leave little sacred.

*Waves hi to 20-year-old Little Bug someday.* 

Nature Versus Nurture

Adoption really brings the nature versus nurture debate to the forefront of your life. People always comment on how adorable Little Bug is, which I can take no credit for. But when it comes to things like his personality, some of that has to be a result of how we are raising him (ahem, spoiled) as well as a result of his innate personality, which I can again take no credit for.

Before I became a mom, I had lots of plans for my son, how he would act, what he would like, etc. Of course, children do and like whatever they want, so I learned quickly that my plans for my child were going to be less me and way more him.

Take, for example, books.

I love to read. I read and read and read. I love to talk about books. I love to think about books. The discipline on my degree actually say "Literature," and let me tell you, I thought I was pulling one over on everyone by getting a degree in reading Shakespeare. I've made a career out of reading (although, sadly, not reading Shakespeare). I assumed that my son would be a voracious reader.

And he wasn't. In fact, for the first couple years of his life, books that didn't pop up and sing the Wonder Pets song were of little to no use to him. It broke my heart, but I persisted. Each night we "read" a couple books. He wasn't interested.

Then one night a few months ago, he sat still through a book. Then another, and another, and another. Since that night, we read four books a night and tons throughout the day. My kid loves them. He has favorites. He requests "Night Night, Train" and "Moon" daily. He delights when he finds "Pop Hop Hop" or "Bee Bim Bop." The kid loves his books, and he loves the time we spend together reading them.

And seriously, so do I.

Yesterday after his nap, Little Bug didn't come out of his room. A rare occurrence for him. When we checked on him, we found him amongst a huge pile of books, happily thumbing through them.

I'm beginning to think I might have a book worm after all.

So was it always in his nature to like books, or have we nurtured it enough to help him develop a love? Or is it both? Like most debates, I don't have an answer. But who really needs an answer when there's "Good Night, Moon" to read three more times?

Get the Hell Outta There

When I got married, and then again when I had a child, one of the best pieces of advice I received was to get away from your family occasionally. I know this might not be good for some people, but it's been wonderful for me.

I take small weekend trips without Appa. I have awesome girls' weekends with my best friend (or sisters) where we gorge ourselves on book chatting and licorice. I come home with a stronger relationships and an absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder appreciation for my favorite man.

And now that I am a mom, I still take time away from that life to refocus on me for a bit. Usually this comes in the form of a hotel stay 20 minutes away with other mamas. We stay up late giggling and crying about life. We support each other. We revel in the break from diapers and potties and sippy cups....even if our conversations are dominated by them.

And when I come home, it's not with a pang of regret that I'm going back to responsibility; it's with a joyful heart that I am SO lucky to have my family AND my friends. I love on my baby like I haven't seen him for a month.

These mini me-breaks allow me to focus. I'm at my best as a wife and mother when I am balanced. Balance, for me, sometimes comes with a reset button that only "me time" can provide.

So when people ask me for advice on motherhood or marriage, my go-to advice is simply this: "Get the hell outta there sometimes." It makes all the time you are there so much better!

And, for the record, I firmly believe my son might have grown in the 18 hours I was away from him this weekend.

Boo!

Before I had a child there were certain recurring daydreams I would have. Some were big, like Christmas mornings or our family days. Others (and in some ways, more treasured) daydreams were more mundane, like reading my son a book while rocking him to sleep or taking him outside to play in the snow.

A major recurring daydream would come to me in the mornings as I was getting ready for work. At those moments, with the day not yet cluttered with meddling volunteer editors and meetings of various degrees of frustration, I would style my hair and apply my makeup quietly (a daydream of mine now) while imagining my little son running happily up and down our hallway, fresh with sleep and excitement for the day. I would imagine taking a minute to peek around the bathroom door to watch him dart in and out of the rooms, dragging some blanket behind him. I'd imagine him bringing some toy cars into the bathroom, vrooming them around my bare feet as I good-naturedly swatted them away.

I'd think of this nearly every morning. Long after my darling Little Bug came home and it became obvious that the hallway running wasn't happening right away. I knew it would happen someday.

And then I stopped daydreaming about it. Probably because all my brain power in the mornings is now focused on whether I can shower and dry my hair before Little Bug enters Threat Level Midnight and starts flushing things down the toilet.

But the last few days Appa has been home from travel, allowing me to blow dry my hair on consecutive days (gasp), and I've started noticing something.

Little Bug, running up and down our hall while his laughter echos into the bathroom. Little Bug, peeking around the corner of the door and yelling "BOO" before dissolving into fits of giggles. Little Bug, his hands full of ahzuhs and pillow (a new but beloved friend), along with a couple "choo choo trains," shuffling around my feet as I try to apply my makeup.

To be sure, it's a slight pain when I'm rushing to get ready and he keeps stealing my perfume out of my door or is using his toothbrush as a broom. But it's also one of those moments that I always dreamed about finally coming true. And when I realized that this morning, everything seemed fairly near perfect.

Mea Culpa

To all the mothers that I secretly cursed at when they told me "3 is way worse than 2":

I'm sorry. You were right; I was wrong.

If the twos are terrible, the threes are terrorizing, traumatic, and way too thought out. It's so much worse when the whining and disobedience is coupled with clever manipulation and an actual thought process that results in planning....planning to thwart me in the most creative and annoying ways.

It's so bad that even Appa is scared of our tiny treasure. 11 months to go and counting!

Sincerely,
A battle-worn mama

Fighting the Skeletons

When I was very young, I had a dream that my dad and grandpa were outside my bedroom window fighting skeletons. The dream was so vivid that I can still, some 25+ years later, recall in detail everything from the thin but strong look of the skeleton bones to the color of my bedroom carpet and the way the moon shone into the window.

Ever since that dream, I have had a nervous twitch at night. Even as a high school student, I would be comforted by the sounds of my parents still awake in our home as I fell asleep. (My dad has stress-induced insomnia like I do, so he would often be up very late). It's silly, I know, but hearing the TV or couch shift was the tiny trigger I needed to release my tension and feel safe. My parents were my protectors simply by being there.

Last night as I laid in bed with Little Bug, I realized that I have somehow become the protector. It's me that his hand is seeking out for a single confirmation stroke as he drifts in and out of sleep. I'm the one whose touch can ease his moans. My presence in a room is what he wants and needs when he wakes up scared in the middle of the night after what could have been a truly cracked out dream about skeletons.

Just by being there and being me, I'm protecting him.

That so much responsibility that it humbles me and makes me want to be stronger and smarter and better for him. It makes me feel like a superhero who could totally kick skeleton butt (if they had butts, which they don't).

It makes me feel so lucky to be his mom.

First Day of School

This morning I snapped the first of many "first day of school" pictures of my Little Bug. Decked out in a Rocky-profile tshirt and a sweet Elmo backpack, he was ready to face the unknown (because he knew it contained buses and bubbles) of his new half-day developmental preschool.

Little Bug goes to school all day already, so this isn't some life-altering thing for us, but it is the first time he has gone somewhere new. His current school (where he will still go early in the morning and in the afternoon) was hand picked by me. I know his teachers and the administration. I see the teachers and students and classroom each day. I have my finger on the pulse. I can see and feel how much they love my boy and how happy he is there.

His new school is probably pretty awesome, too, and one where he will receive many of the therapies he continues to need. We took great pains to move into a district where we would be happy with the education system, and that gamble is most likely going to pay off even earlier than we had anticipated. I'm not anticipating Little Bug have much trouble (no more than is normal) transitioning into this new routine. He'll still have his normal school in the afternoon to keep his routine familiar.

My biggest problem is the oddness of this moment. The way that I drop him off somewhere I know and then some stranger comes and takes him on a bus, drives him to a school that I've only been inside once. He'll do this whole thing on his own, without Appa or I there to ease him into it. I'll pick him up at his normal school this afternoon, none the wiser to a huge part of his day.

It's so stinkin grown up and scary.

Obviously his new teacher and I plan to touch base and keep in contact and after an adjustment period I am welcome to come into the classroom (but not encouraged, which I get). It's not like my 3 year old is being left to wander the couple miles between schools alone and in the snow. Quite frankly, he is such an easy going child he won't be nervous at all so long as buses or bubbles are involved. I'm proud of how easy he adjusts to new things, and I know that is a strength of his that will serve him well.

And this is an exciting new part of his life. Real school! Real Bus! Real backpack!

Edited to add: As if the universe knew we all needed a little more of a gradual transition, the bus service was messed up and Appa, who happened to not be traveling today, was able to take Little Bug to school. He told me Little Bug was apprehensive to walk into the classroom, so I am so grateful Appa was there to hold his hand and show him that it is okay.

Taking my Hand

Tonight as Little Bug and I drove home from an uneventful diaper buying outing and fancy macaroni and cheese dinner, my little boy started to sing a common 3-word refrain from a song we were listening to.

The Midwest winter is rapidly approaching and the car was pitch black, so I reached my hand back to touch his knee in a sign of praise. Usually when I reach my hand back while driving he ignores it or bats it away.

Tonight he took his little hand and wrapped it tightly around my finger and held on. I caressed his hand with my other fingers and together we sang over and over. Every time I moved my hand he called "mama, mama" until I returned it to the proper place and he could grab hold again.

Although I couldn't see his face in the dark, I could see my reflection in the rear view mirror and saw the tears pooling in my eyes.

It's hard to explain how special this was. Little Bug isn't a hand holder....especially when sitting or otherwise engaged. Part of it probably has to do with his hypotonia and weakness in his hands that had created a habit of not gripping something tightly for long periods of time. Part of it is probably just his personality.

For him to want to hold my hand tonight the whole way home, to seek out my touch for no reason other than simply that it was my touch, leaves me feeling like another one of the motherhood pieces is falling into place.