Three Years
I told J last night that I don’t remember much about their birth day except for the hours leading up to the birth. It was a final appointment before the c-section scheduled for the 13th, but my blood pressure had again risen to dangerous levels. Waiting for J to come home, the check-in, the nurse’s pep talks and even the moment that the needle passed through my spine were all memories that are still crystal clear to me. The haze after the births was just that - an incoherent bunch of fragmented scenes, stolen because of the morphine/magnesium sulfate cocktail. The clearest memories that I have of their birth day is of me waking up in the dark and impersonal L&D room, J by my side and an ornery nurse saying, “Well, do you want them or not?” It wasn’t until a couple of days later, when it was just the four of us and the bright September sun was warming my Audrey, yellow with jaundice, that I grasped the magnitude of the moment. She was getting her first tan and J was basking in the pride of fatherhood, exclaiming that he was the best swaddler in the Midwest and holding up a perfectly packaged Maggie for me to admire. I am a mother; we are parents.
Three years later, I still try to rock them, only now it’s an ongoing joke and Maggie babbles like a baby while Audrey coos and playfully pats her head. We hold conversations and have arguments. I am their best friend and the thorn in their side. We have grand adventures and discuss silly daydreams. They learn and they teach me. Every day. Sometimes, when I look at them, I try so hard to see the full cheeks of infancy. When I breathe deeply into their hair, I try to smell the scent of newborn life. But instead, I’m met with the realization that they grow closer to adulthood than I am comfortable with. Their emerging independence and growing limbs reveal the little girls that they are now and the young women they will become. They are running full speed ahead and I am forever chasing them and praying that they don’t leave me behind.
Happy birthday, my sweet Beans.
Happy Birthday to Momma Bean’s #1 Fan!
A loyal reader and one of the Beans’ biggest fans, Hughes turns another year older today. Thanks for the pom poms! The Beans can’t wait to share another beer and some chips with you. And don’t worry, no matter how old you get, Daddy Bean is much older and grayer than you are! Have a great day!
32
Remember when I bought you extravagent gifts, all wrapped up in pretty paper and curly ribbon?
When we would take the day off and take a long drive to anywhere?
When I would dress up and present you with freshly pressed clothes and whisk you away to a great dinner and a show?
When we’d stay out in the wee hours, me with my glasses of wine and you with your (one) bottle of beer?
When there were fewer wrinkles on your face than in our bedsheets, and less gray at your temples than in the sky?
Remember?
Today, we had carry-out Chinese.
You didn’t take the day off but you came home earlier than I expected.
The cake wasn’t frosted.
The presents weren’t wrapped.
The card wasn’t signed.
I was dressed in my comfies and the Beans were in their diapers.
I passed you Maggie, who had recently pooped. Audrey promptly informed you that we had bought you “Moo-veeeees!!!”
We sang “Happy Birthday” one and a half times because I forgot to take a picture.
And now, you are laying on the floor, a willing trampoline for the Beans who don’t act nearly like there are ten minutes until bedtime.
And yet, you look happier than you ever were.
And so am I.
Happy Birthday J.
Love,
the Original Bean.
Who needs a personal trainer? I’ve got Beans!
Yoga what?
Cardio who?
Try doing the Hokey Pokey sixteen times in a row. If you aren’t too dizzy from “turn(ing) yourself around” then you’ll start to feel the burn by the fourth time.
The Beans, fueled by birthday cake, kept saying, “Again! Again!” and what could I do but say yes and put my right foot in, wiggling it just enough to send them into fits of giggles and into each other and down to the floor.
Everytime I tried to sit down, M would grab my hand and command, “Dance Momma!” Shaking my shoulders and tossing my hair didn’t appease the girl. “No Momma. Dance on floor!”
I’m spent.
But I feel a little less guilty about the second slice of cake.
Thank you for a wonderful day, Beans. I’m sure 32 never felt so good.
One Down, One To Go
In true Paris Hilton fashion, the Beans are having multiple birthday parties to celebrate their big day….But with the panties and without the drunkenness.
We celebrated on Sunday with Daddy Bean’s family as his sister (and the Pie’s godmother) was in town with her boyfriend (who, by the way, is the Pie’s new boyfriend) and we will celebrate again on the Beans’ official birthday, Saturday, September 8th, when my sisters are in town.
I’m up to my ears in tiaras, balloons and wrapping paper. I’m crossing every finger and toe that “estimated delivery date is September 7 - September 18″ really means “it will be on your doorstep with a big red ribbon on September 8″. I have cleaned (almost) every nook and cranny to convey the appearance that our house is really not the messy shambles that the previous Bean videos display.
All of this to celebrate the anniversary of a birth, you say? My answer is simply yes. And not just celebrate, but revel in, cherish, take pride in and be in awe of. It has been twenty four of the most amazing months of my life. We went eighteen months of trying so hard to have one Bean. And on the nineteenth month, we embarked on what would ultimately become the best things we’ve ever accomplished in our lives. It took strength, determination, not giving up and believing in miracles. And we’ve achieved far beyond our wildest imaginations in Margaret and Audrey.
Happy birthday my sweet Beans. There will be more to come, but for now I’m off to put the finishing touches on another party. In the meantime, enjoy:
