First Wave

And this post will publish at 00:46.
Which is the very moment he was born.
15 years ago today.

Happy Birthday son.
Mama loves you to the moon...
and back.

An evening with friends to celebrate a birthday which leads to a grown up slumber party and a wicked long lie in on Saturday morning:

Awesome.

click here for the rules.

The Love Bug

Andrew made his appearance in our lives five years ago today. His debut to our family included all the usual ways a baby makes its way--maximum discomfort giving way to pain and then ultimate awe--when after a very long night and day of induced labor the nurses laid his purple-smoogey-pug-nosed self onto my belly. And Don and I met our third child.

His arrival in our lives marks the beginning of change for our family. I can never be sure if the surprise discovery (after a 7 year gap) of being pregnant was the impetus for all that change or simply coincidental. But you can well mark the year 2003 as that time and place where movement was afoot. Movement which ultimately brought our family across the ocean to uncharted (to us) territory as residents of a country, not our own.

There is not a minute of that journey I wish had been any different.

And truth be told, there is hardly a minute of life with Andrew in it that I would trade for anything. (There are a few sleepless nights I would reclaim, and let's be honest the temper tantrums of toddlerhood are not my favorite, but all for all it's all good.)

Having Andrew makes life an every-day-is-a-new-discovery adventure.

And I am so glad to be along for the ride.

If you are looking for cuteness and memory of just what I mean, you can read the archives of the Andrew anecdotes here.

But whether you take the time to walk down five-years of memory lane with me today or not, please add your voice (It's Music Monday after all) to the song we are singing here today.

"Happy Birthday Andrew!"

Mama is mad about you.

Time Passages

The night my eldest son was born the clock had only recently passed the moment which delineates one day from the next. I had begun labor earlier that evening, in fact Don and I were at the herb shop searching for a tincture which would make my contractions strong and regular when we realized the threshold of early labor had been crossed and we were now fully into the game of bringing a baby into the world. We placed the cohosh bottle back on the shelf and drove home to call the midwife, climb into the bathtub and have ourselves a baby.

It didn't all go according to plan, really. I labored at home for a couple of hours while Don poured hot water he had boiling in kettles on the stove into the tub to keep the water steamy for me. Somewhere around 9:00 p.m. we ventured out (he coaching my breathing all the way) to the birth center. A couple of hours after that, we were on the move again. This time in an ambulance for a brief ride to the hospital located nearby. It wasn't an emergency, as yet, but all involved in the process thought it might be best for us to be at the hospital as a just in case measure.

Just in case never happened, and just after midnight Ian emerged --without assistance--to the collective gasp, wonder and awe of all 7 of us--Don, me, my midwife, the on call OB, and the three nurses--in the room. It was an incredibly cool moment.

Several hours post birth of my 9 pound baby boy, Don left the two of us at the hospital and drove himself to school to take a final exam. Several hours after that, the three of us went home as a family.

And now here we are 14 years later.

The family grew a little. Ian grew a little. We changed locations a little.

We've learned a lot along the way.

None of it has ever really gone according to plan.

But I really wouldn't have it any other way. From the beginning with this boy--who now looks me square in the eye and will be looking down at the top of my head in a few month's time--life has been a series of firsts and adventures. First borns get that a lot. All the mistakes, trials, errors, and missteps of first time parents. All the responsibility of being the oldest kid in the family. All the wishing you were a sometime youngest child instead.

This one seems like he can take anything. He takes on his challenges with grace. He has a steady head. He works hard. He is a (mostly) patient big brother. He is loving, sweet, kind and careful. Hey, the boy even puts the toilet seat down. He's good, really he is.

A Mom couldn't ask for more from a kid. And a kid couldn't give more to a Mom.

Happy Birthday buddy. I love you to the moon.

'Cause, Baby, Look at You Now

Birthday tradition in Holland is clear. Rather than warm wishes for the birthday person alone, hearty congratulations are given to all in the family (or in the room for that matter). For example, if it is a birthday of a child, you would enter the home and wish Gefeliciteerd to the mother, the father, the grandparents, the siblings, and then to the birthday child.

Personally I think it a grand tradition, if only in this very circumstance. Being the mama of three, none of whom were all that easy to bring into this world, I relish the moment someone is saying to me: "Congratulations on the birthday of your daughter". I take that to be a full blown compliment as to a job well done.

So, I pause now to receive your congratulations for my daughter's birthday.

And now this next sentence really gives me pause:
Emma is twelve today.

How this happened in the blink of an eye I will never know. It really doesn't seem possible that the night I finally, finally, finally went into labor (after two Castor oil & orange juice cocktails) could really be a twelve-years-ago reality.

Emma zipped into existence in the wee hours of morning, long before the nurses thought she might be making an appearance. My midwife arrived just in time to catch her, rub her blueness to pink, swaddle her tightly and hand her over to me.

Bald, pug nosed, with her ears pinned flat to the sides of her head, I am certain there never was a baby girl more beautiful in all the world.

I still think that very thing. (Even though now she is no longer bald, nor pug nosed. And her ears stand out a nice distance from her head) She is beautiful from the inside out and she will always, always be my baby girl.

Happy Birthday Ems. Mama loves you crazy.

Blossoming

Years and years ago I remember reading the phrase "color me sorry" somewhere. I cannot recall if it was on a greeting card, or if it was a sentence in some super-sappy-angst-filled-teen-drama-novel I was reading at the time (I did mention this was years and years ago). Regardless of when I first tripped across it, it is a phrase that has stuck with me. I have even used it a time or two in my life. Not in my speech--it seems just maybe a bit too odd to say aloud--but certainly in written form. The notion of the color sorry just resonates with me. Or is it the verb-noun combination--coloring sorry--which is appealing? I am not sure.

A few months ago Jennifer of The Verge wrote a bit about this idea: the colors of her life, the color of emotion. As it always does, her writing speaks to my soul and I have come back to this notion over and again lately.

Tonight I spent several hours in the company of friends--you could nearly call them family--and celebrated a birthday for the youngest member of the group (she's 22). It was such a terrific evening full of open sharing and caring conversation with like minds and fellow travelers. I reluctantly dragged myself from the gathering as the time grew late, knowing that I needed to get home but really wanting to linger in the warmth of the moment. I rode my bike home in the crisp fall air with my heart singing out a color. I can't name it, but I can show you it's best approximation.

This is the color of my life tonight:


Perhaps it does have a name. I think I will call this color friendship.

Sharing Something Deeper

Just a few months ago, I had a birthday. I threw myself a party, using the "another-year-older" excuse to have friends gather for coffee and conversation. So much of our life here is involved in an international crowd and it was a pleasure, a true treasure, to have a house full of folks from all over the world. Really, like my own little United Nations here at my house. People from a diversity of places and backgrounds laughing together, nibbling snacks, drinking coffee; every one of them here because of a connection or a friendship with little 'ol me. What's not to love about that?

Oh, and I have yet to mention that there were gifts too. So you can see why it was just as lovely a day as could be constructed for a girl who had now firmly entered her FORTIES. Among other things that day, I opened a lovely set of bath salts, which I have yet to use as my privacy comes at a premium with a four-year-old in the house; lots of flowers, including an entire basket of hyacinth bulbs which then brought me weeks of pleasure as they bloomed and scented the air with the amazing smell of spring; a hilarious over-the-top sequined cell phone holder, which sadly didn't last long against the whims of curious four-year-old fingertips; and then late in the day I opened this:

I know what you are thinking.

Actually I don't, but I will tell you what I thought when I saw it. Inside my head, there was a resounding 'HUH?' Which was quickly followed by 'what is that? What is it for? What am I supposed to do with it?' I am sure my face registered my confusion--lips pursed, eyes a little squinched--as my brain worked overtime to come up with an appropriate response to this odd gift. Thankfully, the gift givers rescued me before I had a chance to put my foot in my mouth making guesses as to why they gave me doll clothes, and shared with me what it is for. Maybe you already guessed that it is used to cover something like this:

And stands proudly looking like this:

But wait, there's more.

My friends shared with me that the Chinese characters you see embroidered onto the cloth are actually a poem. A famous poem about being far away from home, about homesickness, and about sharing the same moon no matter where we are on the planet, or how far away from our loved ones we are.

It was easily the most meaningful gift I received that day. And as I lovingly dressed the bottle I was once again struck by just how very much the same we all are. At least at our deepest parts. No matter where we come from or what brought us here, we all share the commonality that we are from SOMEWHERE ELSE. And that alone makes us a community.

So I have this perfect conversation piece reminder that as an outsider here, I belong. And besides, this piece makes for an ideal companion to the puppet Andrew made at playgroup. And when I can convince him that neither are playthings, they are displayed on the side bar, reminding me that this life is a good one. Something I surely should never forget.

Celebrating Friends

Yesterday we got a package in the mail. A no customs charges, tax-free package, I must add. It was sitting on the doorstep when Emma arrived home from school and she immediately called my mobile phone to tell me it was there. I assured her I would be home within a very few minutes and we could check it out together.

I was and we did.

Inside was a birthday present for me from a friend in Phoenix. A lovely book, A Year by the Sea: Thoughts of an Unfinished Woman written by Joan Anderson, which I am very much looking forward to cuddling up with as soon as possible. As I was tenderly reflecting on such a thoughtful gift, reading the inscription she left inside the front cover, I found myself getting misty in the missing of a friend who is physically so far away, but hardly a step out of sync in simply being there for me. As she has always been. Interrupting my reverie was the whoop and holler from my 11-year old as she finished inspecting the contents of the padded envelope.

"oh, yeah! SKITTLES! Skittles, Mom! Oh! YEAH! These are for me, thank you very much. Oh, yeah!"

A pause for breath and she added:

"...and bubble gum easter eggs! Oh, aren't they sooooooo cute?"

Everyone has that certain something that makes them go 'Whoop'. If you ask my kids, a breakfast of bubble gum with a skittles chaser just might be the nearest thing to tasting heaven they could imagine. Except for possibly a big scoop of American peanut butter (any brand will do) smothered on Bisquick batter pancakes.

And for me? A book, a note, a sweet surprise in the mail. This is the type of thing that plasters a grin on my face and calls the 'woo-hoo' emotion right to the top. Which is generally evidenced as a tear rolling down my cheek.

Which one did.

Gosh, aren't friends great?

This Is The Cake That Jenn Built

This is the cake that Jenn built.*

This is the pattern that lay on the cake,

along with the knife to cut out the shapes.

This is the cake that Jenn built.

This is the flower made from cake,

sculpted from the cut-out shapes.

This is the cake that Jenn built.

This is the frosting to cover the cake.

To spread across the flower shapes.

This is the cake that Jenn built.

This is the cake just taking shape.

The frosting is spread on the pieces of cake.

This is the cake that Jenn built.

This is the cake now fully shaped.

The icing has wholly now covered the cake.

This is the cake,

This is the cake,

This is the cake that Jenn built.

*Mother Goose
this is the house that jack built