Remember when I said...

Remember when I posted just a day ago and asked you to poke me or message me or nudge me gently, reminding me to write? One sweet mama did and so here I am, unable to sleep at this ungodly hour of 1:00am, writing a blog post for you.
The holidays are here, in full force. I am big on traditions, the ones that we had growing up and creating our own with the boys. I think I do this partly because the traditions ground me and help me remember to be full of gratitude for how much we really have (even when, or especially when, it feels like we don't). We've started an advent calendar of sorts (read: a mason jar of colored popsicle sticks; we pull out one a day and read what I oh-so-sneakily wrote on the back the night before... or just in the minutes before because I totally forgot the night before. Don't judge). Santa brings the boys holiday pj's on Christmas eve, while they're in the bath and they JUST BARELY MISS HIM, OH MAN SANTA WAS IN OUR HOUSE AND YOU MISSED HIM BECAUSE YOU WERE IN THE BATH. But my favorite-- my very favorite-- is the annual holiday card, complete with family photo. Now I don't get all Looney Tunes and write a family newsletter or anything (too pretentious for me, but I'm not judging those who do), but I do get a little nutso over getting a good picture of us all together before the first week of December. It's getting hard because the oldest is working full time and H.Bomb is only with us every other weekend and E$ is three, which means he'll generally do the opposite of whatever it is I want. Last year's card may have been the best ever:

See?!?  Complete and total awesomeness. I love the colors, the fonts, the photo, the message. I don't like cards that are specifically Christmas; I try to be sensitive to the fact that some people don't celebrate Christmas, so this card was perfect. In every way except for the fact that I can't mail it out again this year. 

Here's a brief sampling of pre-edited photos for this year's card (keep an out for waving hands, moving dogs and closed eyes):

 (eyes closed)

 (strange dogs and faces)

 (scared Jason, waving E$)

 (two angry kids)

 (almost... but not quite)

 (E$'s eyes are closed)

 (um, yeah)

 (this was the one I used, despite the wave)

 

 (the forced smile)

These didn't leave me much to work with. They were all almost perfect and then just fell flat. Le sigh. 

And now I'm feeling redundant-- I almost always do a black and white photo with a color background. I put our names in the same order (by age). I choose an funkier card as opposed to one with rolling, pretty script with bright colors and a theme of general love and happiness during the holidays. There is certainly no one putting any pressure on me except for myself; when I showed Jason the one I think I'll order for this year, he sort of grunted and nodded and farted twice (no lie), all of which I took as his approval.  I'm ordering straight from Sam's Club instead of Etsy to save a few bucks, so I might have to settle with a lackluster font, but it's just a card, right?

If you're the kind of person who never actually gets around to sending out holiday cards, you might be wondering why this is such a big deal to me. If you're the kind of person who frets over a newsletter, you might be wondering why choosing a simple card keeps me up at night. Sometimes, I wonder why I think so much about it, to the point where it has become a joke in my family and among some of my friends-- my odd obsession with The Holiday Card. To me, that card means that we at least sort of have it together. It means that my kids are growing and doing well, that we are all doing well. That we are happy enough to make  taking this picture a priority and that it means we're not being bogged down by the heavier things that often come in life. Knock on wood, that card means that we are not sick, that we have jobs and a home and can still surround ourselves with love. That we have a lot to be grateful for. So please bare with me as I obsess over The Card; understand that in the end, whatever picture is there, whatever font is there, it all just means I have a lot to be thankful for. 

Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time, I used to write. I was a writer. And a reader. And a crafter and a baker and all kinds of other things. Currently though, I am a mother and a teacher and a wife. Those things are sucking up every second I possibly find and it leaves very little no time for such things as blogging. I have time to pin things to Pinterest, so you can check me out there. I found a great pin a few weeks ago that really sums me up:

Tis true. And with the holidays coming, there will be less time. But I'm planning on making a comeback before too long, so keep checking on me. Or poke me on FB and tell me to start writing again. Or send me an encouraging email. 

And it's October!

No post in August or September, huh? I am an awful blogger. For those who read/check in, I'm sorry. I have reasons and excuses if you want them (huge vacay in August, new house at the end of August and school in September).

In short, life is great. It is wonderful (and punderful, always). We have a new house, our old house has become a home for our oldest and my sister, we had awesome vacations in August and the school year is off to a great start. I feel so lucky to have E at school with me, to see him enjoying himself during the day.

Here's my confession-- since we moved and got rid of the DVR, in an effort to save money, I've become the kind of person who schedules her life around shows. I can't give E a bath because Glee was coming on; I can't go to sleep early to get up early because Criminal Minds or Grey's Anatomy is coming on. I can't (fill in here with a timely task) because (some cheesy show that I could probably watch  online) is coming on. I'm so about organic food, healthy living, getting good sleep, avoiding unncessary chemicals and food dyes, recycling, composting but damn I cannot get behind the no TV thing. I am such a child of the eighties..

And now Raising Hope is on, so I need to go focus on that.=) But you understand, right? Poor white Cosbys? It's good stuff.

The Edge

A few things first--
1. I'm still running. Again, I wish that I was making more/better progress, but it's better than just sitting on the couch. Right? (right.)
2. My kid is seriously funny. He is witty and quick and he is only three. For the record, E$ sleeps in our bed and we love it and don't plan on changing it anytime soon. So he woke up one morning, sat up, pressed both of his hands to my cheeks and said, "Mama, I need breakfast." Then jumped up out of the bed and ran to the kitchen. He comes back in a box of ice cream sandwiches,which I promptly instructed him to return to the freezer and to not eat one. He pivoted, turned and was gone for five minutes, which, you know if you know any three year olds, is long enough for there to be trouble. He returns with a chocolate mustache and beard and when I ask, "E$, did you eat one of those up front?" his response is a quick, "No." Then a long pause, and he completed his sentence: "I ate it at the table." And what could I do with that?

Now the heavy. The house stuff. Have I even updated here about the house? We weren't looking for a house, but J found one and it is perfect. It's like it was built for our family, except it was built in 1987 when I was seven and Jason was seventeen and that just sounds creepy. So anyway, he found this house and we fell in love. We got qualified and we made an offer. We sat on the edge of our seats over the course of three days and finally signed a contract, ON OUR ANNIVERSARY. And! We could rent our current house to my sister, so we didn't have to sell or spend a buncha money fixing every little detail of our current house and everything was falling into place and it's karma and kismet and meant to be and huzzah! End of story, right? Not so fast. Then came the actual financing, which should have been a cinch, according to our mortgage broker, but it wasn't. We spent two weeks waiting, only to get a rejection last Thursday, so we made the changes and waited another week to get rejected again. We're not done, but are now sending a "fresh packet" to a new underwriter and crossing our fingers while we wait. That alone is enough to make me want to check myself into the pysch ward, but there's more. E$ gave up his pappy last weekend. He can fall asleep without it, but is waking up in the middle of the night, searching for it and crying. Mourning, really. Monday night, we were up from midnight until past two, watching Sesame Street on the Netflix. I know it just takes time and I know it will get better, but geez oh Pete we have enough going on and now the pappy is gone. You think that's enough to handle, right? That Life would cut us some slack. Sike.  At work, J is facing challenges with scheduling and parts coming in (or not coming in) and has been super stressed over that. AND!!  It gets better. One more thing, J said. One more thing and he was done and done and done. Just. One. More. Thing.
Guess what? Yesterday in the mail, J got a notice to show up for jury duty on Monday, the day we were supposed to close.


(But as of tonight, we're not closing on Monday anyway. Paperwork is likely to take at least a week or so, so everything is being pushed back.  Assuming it all goes through. But, as Jason likes to say, we've made huge deposits into our karma bank, so we're bound to get a break sooner or later... right?? )

Week 4 and The Summer Effect

I'm on week 4 of the C25K program and while I'm not quite where I want to be, or where I should be, I have definitely seen progress. I can run for five minutes now, not just two and I'm covering more ground. I am transforming myself into a runner-- both my body and my mind. Even though I played soccer for years, I never considered myself a runner because I couldn't run a 5 (or 6 or 7 or even 8) minute mile. I put up this mental block against running; I couldn't do it because of my ankles or knees, because at my weight, it would put too much pressure on them. I couldn't run because I just didn't have the endurance and would wheeze the whole way through. And while those things are true, they really aren't excuses. In fact, they're reasons for me to run. I *need* to be in better shape; I want to feel healthy and strong again, for my husband, for my kids, and mostly for me. This is surely a slow process, but five minutes is better than 2 (and secretly, I look forward to my runs!)

It's July, which is crazy because I've technically been off from work* for two and a half weeks and I just now feel like I'm getting into the groove. At 3, E$ is more energetic than ever and gone are the unplanned days where activities just spring up organically. We need to have a schedule, a plan and this is how I am reminded that full-time stay-at-home moms work so very hard. It is seriously exhausting and we have definitely spent too much time and money out eating lunch. I'm hoping to do better in July and then we have our big vacation in August, with just a few weeks after that until E$ starts school. It is nice, though, to not have a set bedtime or to wake up to an alarm clock. To not pack lunches or set out clothes the night before; to be flexible with whatever comes up and to encourage E's curiousity. It's like the signs we always see at Topsail Island on our annual W-Family vacation: it's summer and we're on island time.


*Teachers are never really off. Even in the summer, we are planning and thinking ahead and working on the next school year. We just have a different schedule.

Day 3, Run 2

So I've officially started the Couch to 5K running program and ya'll, it is hard. I am heaving this morning after a lousy 2 minutes of running. I am so much more out of shape than I thought I was; sheesh. I keep telling people about it, though, and about my end goal of the Mud Run in September.  I need other people to held hold me accountable. I want them to ask me, so I can brag a little and be all like, "yeah, I ran for 5 minutes today, what?" (oh vey).

Can I just share with you that I am fat? And I no longer had any sports bras that were worth their salt? So while I browse through the Title Nine and Athleta catalogs, envious of "no bounce, hold it all in" bras that are (no lie) $75, me and my DD's went to Target and bought a $18 bra.  The best part? Apparently, I am no longer the bra size I thought I was; I have to get my husband to HOOK THE BRA IN THE BACK FOR ME. Yes, friends, I am so fat that I can't even hook my own bra. It's tight, but there's very little bounce. I am super self-conscious about people watching me when I run, too. I mean, I can write you a poem in no time, I can teach students how to write papers and understand literature, but running?  In daylight?  On the street, where people can see me? Slightly humiliating. I assume, probably incorrectly, that everyone driving by is looking at me. That the women out walking her dog probably runs 10 miles a day and is laughing at me as I shuffle along (because really?  That's what I'm doing. Not running, just shuffling...)

These are all just my potential roadblocks. I can't run today because I don't have shoes/don't have the right bra/it's too hot/it's too cold/someone will see me/my husband doesn't care if I'm fat. But I really want this; I want to feel fit and in shape. The last time I was proud of my body was after giving birth and while that high carried me through the postpartum belly sag and the desire for elastic waist pants for two years, it's now time to reclaim my body for myself and be a better example to my kids, and my husband. I need to spend a little time putting me first and this girl wants to get covered in mud in September.

Mantra

Since college, I've recreated my personal mantra multiple times.  I think it all really started my sophomore year, when exams were starting and I was working full time and I had been really sick.  I was so stressed out, especially when I looked at my schedule for the upcoming weeks; just completely overwhelmed.  I knew logically that I needed to just take it one bit at a time-- not even one day at a time, but bit by bit.  I wrote out and color-coded my schedule, building in the time to sleep, time to eat, time to just take a walk.  I added a few notes to myself ("Your friends will understand if you can't hang out right now!" "In less than 14 days, this semester will be over!" "Stay focused-- You are successful!")  Cheesy, yes, but also effective.  I taped that paper up on my bathroom mirror, where I would see it several times a day.  I also taped a note to myself to the dashboard in my car and changed the background on my phone as a picture of my notes.  Seeing those reminders truly helped to reframe my way of thinking.  I did make it through those two weeks successfully; not only did I accomplish all of tasks, but I stopped feeling so anxious about it all. 

I've done this ever since.  When things start to feel too big for me to handle, I make a list or a chart or a calendar and write it all down.  Even just that makes me feel more in control of the things I can control.  I also often choose a mantra to repeat to myself to keep my mind from imagining all of the possibilities.  When I was pregnant, I knew that the time was finite.  I would not be pregnant forever; labor could not go on indefinitely and I could handle any amount of pain for a short amount of time.  In fact, that idea that most things only last a short amount of time and that there's an end in sight can make just about anything seem do-able.  When I have to go to the dentist, I can always say that by a certain time of day, or in just 2 hours, this will all be over (if you know me, you know the total distress that going to the dentist makes me feel; it is seriously worse than giving birth ten times in a row). For a long time, my mantra was about remembering that other people's actions and choices were about them, not about me.  I am a sensitive person and I'm glad to be so, but I worked hard to not take things so personally. 

My current mantra is simple: seek first to understand.  At this point in my life, I've got a good hold on my thoughts and feelings.  If I do feel conflicted, I have people that I trust to talk things out with who will reflect the priorities I've set for my life.  But I do wonder sometimes about the decisions that people make-- changing or ending relationships (romantic, friendships, at work) for example, or their political stances, alienating Facebook statuses (funny but also a little true).  I think that we all make judgments that reflect our personal values, but I try really hard first to understand the other person's perspective before deciding on my own response, if there even needs to be one. I try to remember that I generally don't get to see all of the puzzle pieces and am likely not aware of information or situation that has led to a person's opinion.  It's easy to question why someone would stay in an abusive relationship if you've never been in that position yourself.  It's easy to say that we shouldn't have to pay taxes that support a mom who isn't working if you never lost your job or been unable to provide for your own family, or know someone who has.  It might be easy to say that marriage should only be between a man and a woman if you've never seen a homosexual couple who is more devoted to one another and their life together than most heterosexual couples you may know. I simply aim to recognize that there's generally more going on for any given individual than I will ever know and to just accept and love of them what I can.  I seek first to understand that with most people, we truly only see the tip of the iceberg when there is 80-some % beneath the surface.

Pants on Fire: My Life as Liar.

I remember the very first time I lied to my mother (it probably wasn't the very first time, but the first that I remember making the distinct decision to lie).  I was probably  five or six at the time and we lived in an apartment complex.  It was a nice day, and so I was allowed to stay on the landing to play while my mom cleaned house downstairs.  My friends were all out riding their big wheels and I so desperately wanted to ride.  I needed to ride.  So I did.  Without shoes.  And you remember Big Wheels, right? 

No brakes on these suckers.  You use your feet to stop.  At this age, I was likely supposed to be wearing something like these:

Except I wasn't.  I was barefoot, because I was SUPPOSED TO STAY ON THE LANDING.  My mother, she had been clear about this.  She trusted me, but I left the landing.  I rode my big wheel (maybe a friend's big wheel?), used my barefeet to stop and in the process, seriously busted open my big toe.  It was bloody and oozy and there was a gnarly chunk of skin hanging off and it hurt bad and you are lucky that I don't have a picture to share with you. But you can take a second here to picture it for yourself; I'll wait. 

Now that you are sufficiently grossed out, you can picture me hobbling tearfully down the one flight of cold stairs, dripping blood with every step, calling out for my mom.  Of course, she cleaned it up and used 4 bandages to cover the gaping wound, but she never asked how it happened.  Even at this age, I felt immediate guilt.  Did she know?  Could she the reflection of a Big Wheel in my eyes?  I blurted out-- and I remember this so clearly to this day-- "I fell off the landing and stubbed my toe.  I just fell."  She just nodded, hugged me and sent me back out.  It felt like hours that I sat there on the landing, but it was probably just minutes, being racked by the guilt. At some point, it must have been too much for my kindergarten heart to take and I rushed back inside and blurted out the truth: "I stubbed my toe while I was riding the Big Wheel!  I didn't stay on the landing like I was supposed to!" Post-confession, I was relieved.  It was all out now; I could breathe easy again, because I had Done The Right Thing and Told The Truth.*

I'm sure I lied as a teenager, though I can only remember a specific few times.  Usually, I didn't have a reason to lie.  In college and in the early years of my twenties, I didn't do a lot of lying either, except to occasionally spare someone's feelings.  My lies were less about self-protection and more about not wanting to hurt others.  Generally speaking, to this day, I'm not a supporter of  the notion that's it's always best to tell the truth. There are times when I think it is better to spare someone unneccessary information or their feelings, when it's something of no or small consequence.  And more than anything, I realize that there is generally not a Truth, but many Truths, as it all depends on the perspective.  Not to get all existential on you or anything, but what all see different things from where we view a situation.  Sometimes, or maybe even often, our personal version of the Truth is the realest any of us will ever get to a Truth.  (Now we all just need some black turtlenecks, a cup of tea and a jazzbeat in the background for discussion).

As a mom, though, I've resorted back to my lying ways.  There are the usual lies, about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, of course.  While we do make an effort to explain things and be honest with our kids, sometimes it's easier for them to understand things in their own terms.  So here are some lies I've/we've told recently to our rough-and-tumbles:

• Mommy has a headache and needs a nap, so Daddy has to take you to the park (when really what Mommy needs is a glass of wine and some DVR'd episodes of shows that are not kid-appropriate).
• The stores and parks close after lunch because everyone takes a nap. (In fact, lots of places are often "closed.")
• The cows can't make milk in the spring (cutting our diary seems to help those allergy-ridden folks in our house, but try explaining that to a three year old who is obsessed with orange milk)
• Of course there aren't vegetables in this dish.  You can't seem them, can you?  You can't taste them, can you?  Then they aren't there.
• The chalk-spray only works when it's warm outside because when it's cold, the chalk hardens.
• It's a law that you have to hold hands when you cross a street and in parking lots.  The police cars are driving around to make sure people are holding hands.
• It's not medicine; it's liquid candy! (It sort of amazes me that this one continues to work)
• Everyone goes to sleep when it gets dark and no one is allowed up before the sun comes up, except adults.

 So I'm a liar.  I guess some things never change :) But now for your confessions-- I wanna hear your lies!  Because we all know I'm not the only one, right?  Right?

*I was totally grounded, by the way.  I thought I wouldn't be because of doing the right thing and all, but oh no.  Mom hugged me, told me she appreciated that I told the truth, and then I had to stay inside the rest of the weekend. In retrospect, I'm willing to bet she knew all along what had happened, but allowed the lie because then she would be able to get the rest of her work done without me there, hindering her progress.  I can't say I blame her. 

Long Story Short

I've probably written about it here before, but I just found this great blog post by Mayim Balik on bed-sharing (not to be confused with cosleeping).  We're bed-sharers for most of the reasons that she goes over, and she says it a whole lot better than I could at this time of night (when I should be sleeping, but I'm scouring blogs instead because I'm on spring break!).  I semi-regularly see other moms post on Facebook about sleep issues with their babes, and I'm always reticent to respond because our family views are so vastly different than most people we know. Often, we're judged or slammed or told we're wrong because we respond to our children's needs in a different way, one that feels more natural to us and less like a method we read in some book.  We've never expected our young children to be independent, but have tried to teach them independence in age-appropriate ways.  Generally, I tend to think that what a generalized American society thinks is "right" is not always right for us.  And so go read her blog and think we're freaks or geniuses.  Either one works for us.

My Baby isn't a Baby.

He's three.  Three whole years old.  Somehow, time has managed to fly right past me and my teeny newborn who wanted to nurse every two hours, who loved to stare at the painting of the moon, who loved to be carried in the Moby, right next to my heart is now an almost preschooler who is non-stop on the go, who loves to paint but not to color, who requests vegetables for breakfast, who is just about potty trained (!!!), who has very distinct preferences in his clothing (and is finally wearing size 24 months, now that he's 36 months), who loves music with his whole soul, who will sometimes wake up, rub his eyes sleepily and announce, "that was a GOOD nap, Mama," who loves to play with Littlest Pets and 'food toys,' who practically knows how to use my iPod-- this is my son.  My three year old. My baby. 

As I pretend to watch the Academy Awards...

Phew!  March is just two sleeps away and the past how-ever-long-it's-been-since-my-last-post has been super busy.  Here are a few quick updates:
1. I officially finished all of the thank you's for my 30-for-30 project, but I haven't yet mailed them all.  I should see most of the people this weekend and plan to distribute them then.  It's been wonderful, though, to focus on gratitude and giving thanks to those who have made such a difference in my life.  I have one thank you that I skipped over, though.  An old friend who has chosen to no longer be a friend.  It's a long story (that some of you probably are familiar with), and while we are no longer friends, I don't really have any hard feelings, just disappointment and confusion, but she seems to need a wall up.  However, in the course of a friendship that spanned at least 7 years and was very close at some points and distant at others, I may have learned more about myself than I ever would have expected to.  Not that my other friendships aren't important; they are because they have provided support and love and comfort and laughter, typically in a more consistent manner.  This other friendship, though, tested me in so many ways and I just discovered so much about who I was, who I wanted to be and how to become that woman.  And so, even though we are no longer friends, I learned to stop pushing myself and my friendship on others who don't want it; I learned not to take things so personally and truly remember that she, like most people, is making decisions for herself, not for me.  For me, those were tough lessons and I'm still working on it, but I have grown and isn't that what relationships are for? 
2. I fully intend to continue thanking people and show my appreciation for others.  I want to teach my children-- and my students-- how important it is to express gratitude. 
3. While it was unfortunate that so many people were sick or celebrating Valentine's day and couldn't make it, I had a great time at my birthday party.  My favorite thing is to spend time with the people that I love, to see my friends and catch up, because it doesn't happen as much as I would like it to, and that's exactly what I did to celebrate my 31st.  Also, I bought myself a fancy pants new camera that I am totally in love with. 
4. I went to St. Augustine with my students and it was a completely awesome trip.  Great history, great hostel to stay in, great food, Harry Potter theme park, great trip.  It was hard to be away from my boys for 5 days, but my students really made it a wonderful trip. 
5. My baby isn't really a baby anymore (okay, so he hasn't been a baby for awhile).  He'll be 3 on Friday-- three whole years old.  This time, three years ago, my labor was on and off and driving me crazy.  Start and stall; start and stall, start and s-t-a-l-l... By the time things got going for real, I was more than ready to meet my little guy and now, three years later, I am more in love with him than I was the minute he was laid on my chest and I looked into his beautiful eyes, caressed the cowlick that mirrored my own and gave him his first kiss. 
6. I have big plans for this spring and summer-- BIG PLANS.  In short, they involve a fence around our front yard, a shade cover over the pergola, a garden, joining the lake, art projects and lots of travel.  I don't want time to go by too quickly, but I am so ready for the weather to warm up and to get out of this house!

Life and Writing

It was high school when I started to label myself a writer.  Teenage angsty is so conducive to emotional poetry; the best way to get back at my parents was to fill in the blank spaces of my bed frame with words strung together to really show them how wrong they were.  Ya know, the usual stuff.  I had a binder that I filled wth pieces of paper that I had scribbled down poems.  A few other friends were writers and we would share with one another, commiserate together, feel ourselves on higher ground somehow, because we knew how to express ourselves.  My first experience with a poet I could connect with was during my senior year, a study of Anne Sexton.  She was dark and sinister, sexy and raw.  She haunted me, and I loved it.  My favorite line stays with me still: "I am a watercolor; I wash off." 

Back in college, when I was making some not-so-great choices, I wrote a lot.  Poetry, prose, personal essays-- daily, I took pen to paper.  Not just for class (which I did plenty of), but I kept a serious journal and at that time, all those years ago (ya know, a whole decade ago), blogs were not the rage they are now, so it was a real paper journal (shocking!).  I wrote about the my lack of a real relationship, about the sort-of relationship I was involved in; I wrote to process and to make sense of the unexpected turns my life had taken.  I had anticipated meeting the man of my dreams in college, planning a wedding, having a career and at the rate I was going, none of that was about to happen. It was okay, truly, and I was having a good time, but I was still dealing with some sense of disillusionment.  So I did what any good English major does and I wrote.  Bad poetry, great poetry, poetry that I would read out loud to myself to gauge the rhythm, the cadence.  And  I read. I read as much as I could get my hands on and wish I had taken advantage of the opportunities that a collegiate atmosphere presents and pushed then to submit my work to competitions.  Who stays with me now? Sharon Olds; T.S. Eliot, Yusef Komunyakaa; Nikki Giovanni, Samuel Coleridge.

I had a few years in my mid twenties where life was unsure, unbalanced.  I wrote a lot then, too.  I read and reread the poets I had loved, finding myself in their lines, their words and wrote then, inspired by them.  I repeatedly came back to the idea of a "Quarter Life Crisis." Here I was at 25 and I had no idea.  I loved my career, and had bought a house all on my own and wondered if I had somehow condemned myself to a life alone.  Not lonely, necessarily, but just alone.  My friends were partnered off and/or having children, and my life was just in a different place.  So I wrote to make sense of it all. 

So now, five years later, things are dramatically different.  I am married to my best best friend, a musician who is not afraid to open up and share his feelings, but can also build a kickass bookshelf and fix whatever needs fixing.  I have children-- one we brought in, one stepson and one biological child.  A teenager, a school aged child and a toddler.  They are all beautiful and smart and funny and have taught me something different about myself and continue to do so.  I truly love being a teacher and actually look forward to Monday mornings. In short, life is as sure as it can ever be, life is balanced.  I feel good and happy and content, while knowing that I always want to be a better person than I am today, and that I will continue to grow and change.  So what do I do?  I don't write. 

What gives?!?  This is the happy life I always wanted, and while I can say that I don't have time or I'm too tired, the reality is that I don't make time for writing.  I blog here once every two weeks or so, which I know isn't enough to keep a real readership going.  But who really wants to hear about my kids' obsession with poop?  Or what things I find on Etsy?  Some of you (and I know that I read blogs about the same things-- yay for being an adult and being a mom!)  But I definitely don't write the poetry I used to because happy poetry just isn't as interesting and I'm happy.  So readers, if you stick with me, you'll get to hear about potty training success (if it ever comes), my sudden onset of desiring another child, my exciting Etsy finds, the joys of teaching and reading, and all of the stuff in between.  Maybe I'll really get to a point of writing for serious again someday (maybe next fall when E is in school and I still have Fridays off?)  Or maybe I'll just write about how much I love Glee and Criminal Minds and how exciting it is when my almost-three year old "reads" a book to me.  And you're welcome along for the ride!

The End

It has officially been 5 weeks since E$ last nursed.   I think that I am ready to say that he has weaned, and like I expected, I'm feeling very bittersweet about the conclusion.

Nursing was one of the most difficult challenges I faced when E was born; we certainly didn't take to it easily.  It was a lot of work and I'm so thankful that I had friends who helped me through it all-- people who were willing to help me with position and his latching, who answered the questions I had that seemed trivial (what is a tongue tie?  Does it look like he has hit?) and most importantly, who encouraged me.  Thankfully, one friend confided that she didn't feel comfortable with nursing her newborn for weeks-- not just the one week deadline they tell you before you leave the hospital.  8 weeks, she told me-- 8 weeks before she felt confident.  That took so much pressure off and so when at week 3, I broke down, I knew it was okay  and that I could keep working on it.  At 6 weeks, when I pretty much thought we were okay, but my nipples still sometimes were raw and sore, I knew we would make it.  At 9 weeks, when we got thrush-- the most painful two days of my entire life.  I could keep going and know that this was the best for my child.  I could look down at him and see his eyes closed as he nursed, full and content, two hands gently cupping what nourished him and feel full and content myself.

Because we were nursing, I felt more comfortable with traveling.  When E was just over two months old, we drove to see J's family in Kansas, to be there when his grandmother passed away.  I remember sitting in the backseat of our Subaru, pulling my shirt to the side and leaning over the carseat to nurse E so we wouldn't have to stop every two hours.  I remember nursing him on the beach, underneath an umbrella.  We nursed at Barnes and Noble, the library, in restaurants.  We nursed in dressing rooms, at both the Kite Festival and the Strawberry Festival, at parks.  He was a quick nurser, but liked to snack.  It was never a 20 or 30 minute session for E; he would nurse for just five or ten minutes and was then onto other things.  He was six months old when I went back to work and I pumped twice a day.  He always had enough milk for a morning bottle, but was eating solids for lunch by then, and would sometimes take a small bottle in the afternoons.  Over winter break, when he was 10 months old, I stopped pumping at work and he just had water and solids during the day.

As he neared his first birthday, I contemplated weaning him.  It was time, I thought.  Most moms wean at a year, right?  He was a great eater, I thought.  He would always choose fresh fruits and vegetables over anything else.  He would sleep through the night, I thought, if he didn't wake up to nurse.  I would sleep through the night.  But his first birthday came and went and we didn't wean.  I was working full time, and those cuddles at night were okay with me.  He was a great eater, but I knew he was still getting important nourishment from mama's milk.  And I'm sure a lot of moms weaned by one, but not all of them.  It's certainly more common in other parts of the world for babies to nurse for several years, until age 4 or 5 even.  I could wean him over the summer, I thought, when we had more time together and it wouldn't be so traumatic. 

But that didn't happen either.  If anything, being together everyday made it more challenging to wean.  If he was sad or hurt, he asked for nursies.  If he was tired, he wanted his nursies. If just needed to be close, he needed his nursies.  So I thought when he was two, we would wean. 

Guess what?  We didn't wean at two.  We started the process; a few weeks before his birthday, we talked about how he wouldn't be able to nurse at night anymore, that mama's milk goes away when the sun goes down.  For months, he would wake up every night and ask to nurse and every night, we would offer to sing him a song or read him a book.  We would offer him a cup of cow's milk or water and a snuggle, but no nursies.  It took forever, but he finally stopped asking for nursies at night.  That doesn't mean, though, that he started sleeping through the night.  E has never been a great sleeper; he often cries out, even if doesn't wake up.  He's restless, always kicking covers off of his legs and then trying to pull them back up.  Some nights, he can't sleep if he has on socks or pajama pants. Other nights, he won't sleep unless he has them both on. So while he was still waking up most nights, he finally stopped asking for nursies this past summer and it was such a relief to me.  We were even able to drop the morning nursing session and told him he could only have nursies at night, just before bed.  This was probably the easiest transition for him.  He only asked two or three mornings before accepting that we were no longer nursing when we woke up.

And so since August, we've just been nursing before bed. He would still slip his hand down my shirt, resting it on my breast as he fell asleep, for comfort I suppose, or habit.  He has spent the night at Granna and Papa's, or with his cousin a few times and never fussed or asked for me.  I set the date for the real end at his third birthday. I knew-- or was hoping, really-- that by then, he would be ready and it would go smoothly.  I knew, and was hoping, that I would be ready then, too.  Three just felt right to me. 

But then there was our trip to Kansas, for Thanksgiving.  Our whole routine was off; we were sleeping in a different bed; there were lots of different people and so may other things going on.  A few evenings he nursed, but most of the time, he just wanted to play with his cousins.  I never offered or asked him if he wanted to nurse, I just let him go about his business.  Sometimes he would remember and I would remind him that he could nurse before bed, but he was often exhausted and fell asleep on my chest.  Three evenings in a row he went without nursing.  When we came home from Kansas and went to sleep in our own bed, he forgot, too and I just held him, his head resting in the crook of my elbow, brushed his blonde locks from his eyes and leaned in to breathe him in.  An entire week went by and he didn't ask to nurse before bed and at that point, I knew we were done. I knew that I could just offer him something else to drink and he would be okay. 

His evening drink of choice now is often pink milk, strawberry milk, and he hasn't even asked to nurse before bed in weeks.  He sometimes jokes about it now, sitting on my lap and pretending to nurse.  He'll tell me he's a baby and that he needs his nursies, but always with a glint in his eye and a twinkling smile on his face.  He still caresses my breasts lovingly and if he sees me getting in the shower or changing my clothes, he might ask to smell the nursies (which he reports smell like ice cream), but he's done.  He weaned himself, on his own, really, without me setting a date or forcing him.  He did it because he was ready, not because I made,him.  As a parent, I've always felt that I should follow my child's lead, that children listen to their instincts, often better than adults, and that I could trust E to know what he needed.  Despite the criticisms from some family members and some friends, despite the curious looks or dismissals from people who have chosen a different path for their children, I trusted my own maternal instincts to listen to what my child needed.  It was easy, really, and there have been no tears.  He's growing up and this closure is just one of the many we'll face together in our journey.  And now that we're done nursing, I can say even more that I am thankful to have had the courage to follow my heart, my maternal instinct and trust that E and I could figure this out together.