Eight months have passed since I last wrote to you. I am sorry for that. So much has gone by unnoted, and I know from experience that I will not remember it. This two kids thing is hard - much harder than I ever anticipated. And I have realized I need to do things for myself too. But today I decided it was time to write.

In the last 8 months you’ve come into your own. You’re not a baby anymore, you’re a toddler. You surprised me mightily and didn’t start walking until you were 13+ months … more than 3 months later than your sister. I guess you were so good at crawling (had lots of practice, since you started at 5 months), you figured you didn’t need to walk. After you turned a year you flirted with it here and there, but nothing serious. Then one day in late June (Midsommar to be exact) you made up your mind. Done. All walking, all the time.

(Midsommar - a Swedish celebration, and the day of walking)

Now you are everywhere, running, climbing … oh, the climbing. Even before you could walk you could climb. Like, onto the kitchen table. That was a fun phase. I started keeping all the chairs pushed in to try to thwart you. You would climb onto a chair – under the table – and crawl round and round, from chair to chair, bonking your head on the bottom of the table and screaming – more because you couldn’t get up on the table than from the head bonking.

I swear you are part monkey, and thankfully you can climb down as well as you can climb up. There have been no serious injuries yet.

And food – you still love it, but have gotten a lot more picky these last few weeks. I think you’re just bored, and are challenging me to come up with new and interesting things to eat. You love sushi, though. You and your sister can plow through $30 of salmon sashimi like nobody’s business. The staff of our favorite sushi restaurant knows you both by name.

But nursing? Eh, not so much. You’re down to 2-3 times every 24 hours, and sometimes even that is a struggle. All except for at 6:30 AM. That is the one and only time you really want to nurse. I could live without that, you know?

And the gas, our old friend the gas. It’s still around, although we’ve seen (painfully slow) improvement as the months go by. We’ve been dairy-free for a while now, and I honestly can’t tell if it helps or not. Your discomfort is just bad enough to interfere with your sleep. So naps usually only last 1-1.5 hours, although you’ll sleep 2-3 (wiggly) hours if someone is lying down with you. You sleep alone the first part of the night, but won’t stay that way. Your dad is a freaking saint, and sleeps with you each night, somehow enduring the wiggling, squirming and writhing. I don’t know how he does it, but am so grateful that he does. To be honest, your sister wasn’t fully rid of this problem until she was 2. So … what do you think about 18 months? I think that would be a good compromise.

You’ve been saying mama since you were 9 months old, and have slowly been adding words. Another surprise for us, since your sister held out until about 18 months before deigning to share the inner workings of her mind with us. You say more (which really means “FEED ME!!!!!!”), walk, boo, uh-oh (I hear this a lot, and it has many meanings, including, “Uh-oh, that isn’t in my hand and it should be”) and maybe one or two others that are escaping me at the moment. You know the sign for bath and use it often. Baths are a huge hit; pouring water is a favorite activity right now.

Regardless of your sparse vocabulary, you communicate your wishes very effectively. You point and make the sweetest, sing-songy noise that I don’t even know how to describe. It is my mission to get it on videotape (SD card?). You also like to choose your clothes – another big change for me. You “help” me fold laundry, and pick things out of the basket, insisting I dress you in them. One day it was a 3T swimsuit. The other day a 2T dress (a friend’s hand-me-down that was originally headed for a box in the basement). Another day it was 4T shorts/skirt (looked like culottes on you, and yes, little chubster, the waist fit you just fine).

You love to read books and play peek-a-boo. You push our cat down and lay on top of him. You’re independent and outgoing, but you frighten a little more easily than your sister. When your uncle took off on his Harley your entire body shook with fear as you clung to me. Your sister was goofing off and wearing your dad’s motorcycle helmet around the house and it absolutely freaked you out. You were fascinated, but always kept about 10 feet between the two of you. I put my hand over my mouth and giggled quietly.

The vacuum has nothing on you though, and you follow me fearlessly, ripe with curiosity, frequently getting knocked down when I unwittingly back into you.

I left the house the other day to take your sister to a birthday party. We were in such a hurry I ran out without saying goodbye or telling you my plans. When I called later to check in, I was told that you were looking for me, listening for me. That finally the radio was turned on, because you stopped and listened every time you heard a noise. My heart broke a little to realize you thought I was still home, and you wondered where I was. I spoke to you through the phone and your eyes lit up and your body wiggled with joy, and I realized you are so very different from your sister (who didn’t and still doesn’t care a whit when I leave or when I’ll be back), and I can’t make assumptions. I won’t leave again without saying goodbye and promising to come back, okay?

You live life at 100%, all the time. You are sweet and snuggly and cuddly, but honestly? You’re stainless steel swathed in velvet. You don’t take any shit, and when your sister gives you a hard time you bite her. I can’t even bring myself to reprimand you, because I’m sitting there thinking, she deserved that! You know a good word to describe you? Fierce. And I mean it in a good way. You are already a force to be reckoned with, and I tremble in fear to think what you’ll be like at the age of three. But then I think of you as an adult, and I almost gasp to even imagine it. You are so true to yourself. You know what you want and you go for it, taking no prisoners along the way. You respond with righteous anger when someone thwarts you, even throwing yourself to the ground and crying with rage (it’s shocking to see this at such a young age … your sister pretty much never did this). You try to hit, pinch and bite me when you’re mad and you give me a loud earful. This can be annoying and frustrating, but mostly? … mostly I admire you. That may sound strange, but your reaction is never random or without cause, and there are times, yes, when I cannot let you do what you want, I just can’t. And there you are, 16 months, can’t talk worth a damn and weigh maybe 25 pounds … and you refuse to take it lying down. You may not get your way, but you let your unhappiness be known. Fierce, little one. It’s what you are.

Your anger passes as quickly as it arrives. You let out your rage the only way you can, then accept the situation and get on with it. In all honesty my dear, you are a joy to be with. You are pure sunshine and make my heart sing with happiness and love. You still fall asleep with your arms around my neck and your fingers tangled in my hair, your head heavy on my shoulder as I pace to and fro. There are times when I wish I could just place you in the crib and walk out, leaving you to sort it out yourself. But I just can’t leave you to cry, and you’re not a sleep-fighter … you just like a cuddle and a walk, and who can blame you for that? So I hold you close to me, and stroke your back and know that it won’t be like this for much longer.

It’s hard not to wish for less gas or better sleep or easier days, but I can’t wish this time with you away Sophie, I just can’t. I love you so much. I love you something fierce. Thank you for choosing me.

Love,
mama

Some friends:

Scenery:

And of course, my babies:

(inspired by this)

So you’ll probably find me over on flickr more often than here, if you want to check in on me and see what I’m up to …

5:30 AM I am just drifting off when I hear Mr. Gearhead stumbling around across the hall. I expect to see him shortly, babe in arms.

5:45 AM I hear him walk down the hall and wonder what he’s doing. Body is on high alert. Blasted anxiety.

6:15 AM I hear more noise and decide to investigate. He is walking around, she is sleeping on his shoulder. I hold up my hand to indicate it has now been 5 hours since nursing. He shrugs and mouths that it is worth a try.

6:30 AM He puts her in the crib, asleep, and comes across the hall to talk to me.

6:31 AM She’s awake. We give up and he brings her to me to nurse.

7:00 AM She wants to sleep but needs to burp and is flailing about. I haul us out to the computer room. She cries whenever I set her down, so I hold her in my arms and let her doze. She finally sees a cat and decides she wants to crawl around. I poke around on the internet to entertain myself.

7:15 AM Mr. Gearhead, dressed and ready for work, scoops her up and tries to get her back to sleep.

7:35 AM He gives up. He has to go to work so he hands her to me. She rips a huge burp.

7:36 AM I commence walking. The cats are too fun to watch. Every time she sees one her eyes open wide and she squeals. I throw soft objects, hiss and feint attacks until they vacate the premises.

7:55 AM Finally asleep. No … awake again. I notice the huge booger blocking her nostril and hold her down to extract it. I pray that the screaming won’t wake up M.

8:00 AM Asleep again.

8:05 AM I creep down the hall and lower my aching back into her glider to rock for a few more minutes to make sure she is sound asleep.

8:12 AM I deposit her in the crib and tiptoe out of the room. I hastily retreat to the bathroom to empty and reinsert my Diva Cup* (an activity best completed before the 3.5 year old - with her prying eyes and endless “Whys???” - is up).

8:20 AM I sit on the bed with my head in my hands and wonder exactly how three fucking hours have passed without me getting any sleep.

8:27 AM M is up.

8:44 AM Sophie is up.

* A somewhat futile activity ever since I gave birth to a freight train. It slows the flow but does not stop it. But then again, I haven’t managed to stop the constant flow of pee either.

Two beautiful, gorgeous, spirited, healthy children

A devoted, loving husband who is an amazing parent and lets me cry on his shoulder without pointing out that he gets even less sleep than I do. Who is willing to help me during the night without complaint. Who – on bad days – picks up the pieces when he gets home from work with a smile on his face and still finds time to play with the kids. Who can fix almost anything and has saved us untold thousands of dollars over the years working on the house, cars, etc.

A mother-in-law who loves me like I was her own daughter, and does a reasonable job of filling the gaping hole left by my own mother.

My husband works in the auto industry, but he has so far survived three rounds of lay-offs and still has a job. He is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met and a hardworking employee, and I am certain this has saved him, at least for now.

I have a nice house and a good car. We all have clothes to wear and the kids have too many toys to play with. We eat delicious and filling meals.

A local farm co-op that provides me with reasonably priced meat from humanely raised, pastured animals, as well as raw dairy products (almost impossible to find here) and when I’m lucky, the most delicious organic, raw apple cider I’ve ever tasted in my life.

A 3 year old with a bladder of steel (I’m also jealous of this fact since I’m still peeing myself 9 months after Sophie’s birth).

Money in the bank.

Rapidly dwindling retirement accounts, but at least they exist.

I have a good camera, and the internet provides me with the means to hone my craft for free.

Good friends and high tea.

After weeks of barely making it out of single digit temperatures, two days of 50+ degree weather. It will be brutally cold again soon, but today I don’t care.

Wine.

Chocolate.

Healthy chocolate muffins (unless you have the right tool for grinding oatmeal, just buy oat flour. I use 1 cup of honey and sprinkle each muffin with approximately 6-8 normal sized chocolate chips - it’s just the right amount of sweetness. Fill the muffin cups about 1/2 full of batter and you’ll get 36 of ‘em. Bake on 350 for 30 minutes. If I bake them in batches and only put them on the center rack of my oven, the chips don’t really melt and leave delicious, chocolately surprises).

A rare 90 minute nap from Sophie that allowed me to empty and refill my dishwasher, spend time with M stamping and painting with watercolors, and write this post.

I left the lunchroom in a daze. I should tell her, I thought to myself, still utterly disbelieving this turn of events. And yet, I didn’t. It was years before I understood why I made that choice. When he said those words to me, my unconscious looked over my shoulder at the yawning void created by the two people who were supposed to love me most. A void that was always nipping at my heels, threatening to swallow me whole. Then it looked at this boy. He likes me. He likes me. Could he love me? And suddenly I saw a life preserver snaking through the air. One that would save me from the depths of that void, that would maybe hold me up and help me fill it. But all of that was invisible to me at the time. Felt, but not seen or understood.

All afternoon I wrestled with what to do. Tell her! I thought to myself, and yet I clung fiercely to that life preserver, refusing to let go. No boy had ever said he liked me. It was the first opportunity I’d had to fill that hole and I was reluctant to let it pass by.

At the end of the day they approached me. I shuffled my feet, consumed with guilt. “He told me about the joke he played on you at lunch,” she laughed, “that was pretty funny.” “Yeah,” I said, and smiled weakly. A joke? Was it really a joke? I suddenly felt so stupid.

(Can you believe that it is only now, as I write this, that I realize my reaction unnerved him and he figured he’d better cover his tracks, and fast. Better to get to her before I did, with the story of this “joke.”)

I went home, crushed and confused – by what he had done and even more by my reaction to it. Later that night he called me. It wasn’t a joke. He really meant it. He wanted me to come over.

Now I may have been confused, and I may have been blind to my unconscious desires, but I was not going to do this – do anything – while he was still her boyfriend. I’ll call her, he said. I’ll explain everything. To this day, I don’t know what he said to her, or if he called her at all. He told me he did, that it was taken care of. And with that formality out of the way I leapt, and made the first of many swipes at that elusive life preserver (although this particular one was rather chaste).

In the days that followed, everything unraveled. My friend was furious with both of us, and rightfully so. No matter what he did or didn’t say to her, I had betrayed her. I put my ferocious hunger for love and acceptance before her, before me, before everyone, as I would again and again in the years to come.

And I felt betrayed by him. Things had been so good until he muddled them up and left me feeling so overwhelmingly confused. Why had he done this? I still don’t know the answer to that question. Did he really like me? Or was it perhaps some boyish prank, cooked up with friends. “Wouldn’t it be cool if you could bag them both?!” Or maybe there is some other explanation that is beyond my imaginings. Whatever was behind it, in the span of just a few days, the three of us were lost to each other.

This started a downward spiral for me that ended in a deep depression with constant thoughts of suicide. And while this event may have triggered that depression, I know now it was not at the heart of it. That rested with my parents and the wound I carried from them. The one that said I was not worthy, not acceptable, not loveable. Again and again I examined my betrayal of my friend. How could I have done that to her? What was wrong with me? What kind of horrible person was I? And I embraced with open arms the messages from my parents, and took them even further. I was not worthy. Of love. Of like. Of life.

Down, down, down I went. I punished myself by not wearing make-up or doing my hair (amusing in hindsight, but very real at the time for someone who was almost entirely defined by what others thought of her). I couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t stay awake at school. My grades plummeted. I withdrew further and further, locked in my room, hugging my beloved cat who seemed to be my sole source of unconditional love, the one reason I could not kill myself. I believed I deserved to suffer, deserved to feel miserable, deserved everything I was feeling as punishment for being such an awful person. I made no move to help myself, convinced that I was doing penance.

After several months my mother started dragging me to doctors. I was wrongly diagnosed with narcolepsy, although fortuitously one of the medications used to treat it was an antidepressant (or perhaps the whole diagnosis was cooked up as a way to get me to agree to take the medication). The pills eventually resurrected me from the pit of despair, although the real reason I was there was never addressed nor resolved. Instead it started me in a love-hate relationship with antidepressants that lasted well into my 20s. They were a tool that allowed me to function but did nothing to help me sift through and heal the primal wounds in my heart. Did nothing to bring joy into my life.

This desperate search for love was repeated in many shapes and forms as I barreled through life surrounded by fear, despair and darkness. There were different actors, different circumstances, different casualties, but some things remained constant: the unconscious desire to quench my thirst for unconditional parental love from some other source. My complete disregard for the needs of others as I pursued this quest. My complete disregard for my own basic needs, including whether or not I even liked the object of my desire. The fact that they liked me, showed one shred of caring for me, was enough to make me leap, again and again and again.

I tumbled from one disastrous relationship to another, seeking, seeking, seeking that which could not be found – at least not outside of myself. I finally chose someone who was more destructive than me, more damaged than me, and he spent the next two years taking me apart, bone by bone, cell by cell, strand by strand, until I was reduced to a pile of rubble on the ground. I had finally hit bottom.

But scattered in that pile of rubble there were glowing embers of my spirit; beaten but not broken. Though crippled by grief, I somehow gathered myself and fled him, my instinct for self-preservation stronger than the twisted, painful love that bound us together.

I did not know it at the time, but I was taking the first, tiny step on an infinite path. One on which I would encounter unimaginable obstacles, would break down and put myself together again and again. One that would hold deep, painful grief, as well as cleansing, transcendent joy. If I had seen ahead of me then what I see behind me now, perhaps I would have trembled with fear, overwhelmed by the task, and stayed forever in that heap on the floor. Perhaps.

But I did not. I put one hesitant foot in front of the other. I blundered and bumbled. (I still blunder and bumble.) And without really knowing it – urged on by the spark of my true self that had lain dormant for so long, uncovered only when I was completely deconstructed – I started to heal my heart.

It has been a long journey that is far from complete … will probably never be complete – not in this lifetime anyway. My friend and her boyfriend came to mind the other day for one simple, silly reason: I joined Facebook. And was stunned by the torrent of emotions that were released when someone from high school contacted me and wanted to be my “friend” (a word that Facebook has seemingly redefined). You see, that situation with my best friend was just the first in a series of events that unraveled almost all of my friendships by the time I graduated two years later. The simple act of joining Facebook threatened to open a door I had closed long ago, and I was shocked at how painful it was to contemplate that opening.

After all the healing I have done on so many issues that seem so much more traumatic than these, the intensity of my reaction took me by surprise. But I suppose it shouldn’t. Hurts tend to stick around until they are directly addressed. So that is what I am doing today. First and foremost, I want to apologize to my friend (although the likelihood that she is reading this is next to nothing). I am sorry for what I did to her, and my heart winces with pain when I try to stand in her shoes and imagine how it must have felt. And I also want to apologize to all the others I have hurt as I stumbled forward on my helpless quest for external fulfillment. I understand now why I did the things I did, but explaining it does not excuse it. So I am sorry; deeply, deeply sorry.

Most importantly, I am forgiving myself. I never acted out of malice or hatred. I came from a place of pain and fear, and was doing the best I could at that time. I know that at my core I am a person deserving of love and always have been. And so I now extend to my young, hurting self the unconditional love and acceptance she so desperately sought. I hold her in my arms, stroke her hair, and assure her she is worthy. I wash away the guilt and self-loathing that consumed her. I open my heart and welcome her into me, no longer apart from me and ashamed.

I heal her.

I am healed.

It’s hard to believe, but eight months have already passed since you joined us earth-side. Eight months. I don’t know why, but there’s something about that number that seems so much closer to one year than last month did. It feels like you grew up overnight.

You are still sweet and adorable, but first some complaints …

The 30 minute naps. Come on, sister. Over Christmas break, when Mr. Gearhead or I had the luxury of lying down with you, you would sleep 2 to 3 hours. But on your own? Thirty minutes, on the nose. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there happens to be another child living in this house. Yeah, that one – the loud, obnoxious, 3.5 year old. As much as I would love to take two naps a day with you, it just ain’t gonna happen. You’re going to have to figure this out. We’ll all be a lot happier for it.

The burping. You’ve had eight months of practice, so I don’t know why this is still so hard. No one likes being up with you for a half hour to an hour every time you nurse at night just so you can get your burps out and we can all go back to sleep. I admit I have seen some (slight) improvement in the last few weeks, but still. Nurse, burp, sleep. It’s pretty simple.

The nursing. Not the frequency, although I wouldn’t mind if you reverted to your 3-month-old-ways and went an 8-10 hour stretch at night. No, it’s how you nurse. Your sister drove me mad with the side-switching, and at least you aren’t doing that. Instead, you just like to pop off. And on. And off. And on. And off. And on. Say, 35 some-odd times – and that’s just in the 4 minutes before I have my letdown. You swing your head in the opposite direction, kick your feet in a little “Where’s my milk?!?!” temper tantrum, and then re-latch. Over and over and over. And over. News flash! The milk will come faster if you stay on.

Beyond that, my dear, you are simply divine. You have the sweetest, happiest personality, even when you only get two 30 minute naps a day. Your smile is always at the ready, and you positively delight people everywhere we go. You love your sister with abandon – something that causes her a fair amount of consternation, since you are wont to follow her everywhere and get into what she’s doing. The two of you together keep me on my toes.

You are still a gross motor machine. You started crawling at 5 months, pulling up at 6, cruising at 6.5 and you now do all three with lightning speed. And thank goodness you finally figured out how to safely get back down onto your hands and knees. We had a few weeks with lots of head bonks and crying. I am glad that’s over.

You are also an incredibly tactile child. You love to touch and fondle things – first and foremost, my hair. This is how you put yourself to sleep – twisting, turning, tugging and yanking your fingers through my hair. I fought this for a while (it’s already falling out fast enough without your help, thankyouverymuch), but I have finally given in, and am patiently waiting until your own hair is long enough to act as a stand in.

And good lord child, do you love food. You’ll eat anything I put in front of you. We tried grapefruit the other day … you shoved it in your mouth, screwed your face up in surprise and hastily ejected it. Then picked it up and put it back in. You proceeded to eat half a grapefruit. And then ¾ of a banana. It’s not uncommon for you to eat more than your sister. And then nurse. Have I mentioned that you weigh 18 pounds and are moving into 12 month clothing?

In short, my dear, you embrace life with gusto. You are fully present for every moment, and extract every drop of joy and goodness and sometimes sadness too. You are an ever-present reminder for me to do just the same. Thank you.

Love,
mama

Dreams wander across the
Mountains and valleys of your face
Eyes flickering
Eyelashes undulating like fuzzy caterpillars
Eyelids crumple, then smooth
Lips purse, smile and purse again

A body so young
A soul so old
What I would give, sweet Sophia
To know what dreams pass there

The combination of this outfit and the wooden beads really struck me though, so I grabbed my camera and managed to get enough cooperation for a few shots.

It took me a minute to realize she was trying to hit my lens. Notice the devious look on her face? I’ve been seeing a lot of that lately. I’m not likin’ three so much.

No matter how big a stinker she is, she still manages to melt my heart.

And I can’t figure out if this juxtaposition is cute or just plain weird. You gotta love the pudgy little piggies, though.