My Free Day
On Saturday, I had what I haven’t had in over two and a half years. A day to myself.
Last year, J and I went on vacation without the Beans, but I still had obligations. I was still required to care for someone. Occasionally, I get a chance to catch up with friends, but I may bring the girls along.
But this day…this day was mine to do whatever I wanted. Earlier in the week, my parents informed me that they’d be taking the Beans to a friend’s new ice cream shop and then to the park. That’s what they do. They take my children and I’m welcome to come along if I like. This time, I said no. This Saturday was also J’s required Saturday to work, so I was going to be all alone until 5:00 p.m. My toes curled in anticipation!
I dropped the girls off at my parents’ in the morning after we saw J off to work. They asked again if I’d like to come along and I shook my head a little too hard, I think. This day was mine! I told J and myself that I would use it to give the house a much needed spring cleaning and I repeated the prepared speech to my parents as I skipped out of their house, barely stopping to plant light kisses on the tops of my Beans’ heads. Beans who had already dismissed me and were busy convincing their grandparents that they should leave for ice cream immediately.
When I got in the car and turned my mix from the iPod on, I sighed. Free. For the day at least. I thought about what I would do next. Did I really want a nap at 11:00 a.m.? Maybe. Instead, I drove over to Starbucks and indulged in an iced coffee. After that, I wandered over to the mall to get my eyebrows waxed and return an outfit that I had planned on wearing to Tracy’s shower. When I arrived at the salon, I was told that there was a half hour wait. Pfft! I’m waiting for no one today! It’s my day. I tried on a couple of tops without having to crawl under dressing room doors to find one girl or to shush another who is about to shout something inappropriate [Side note: This has been happening a lot lately! Example: When seeing an elderly woman walking towards us at Costco, Maggie exclaimed, “Look at that angry face, Momma!”] and I walked right by Children’s Place without a moment’s thought. And, I bought something! For myself!
After the mall, I drove over to the nursery just up the street from our house. I wandered slowly up and down the aisles, trying to determine which species of flowers I wouldn’t kill the quickest. I smiled as exasperated parents ran after mischievous children. I picked out four flats, waited in a ridiculously long line and finally made it home with my purchases.
I knew the girls would be upset if I didn’t save some impatiens for them to plant, so I spent most of the remaining part of my day planting the flowers around the deck. Without interruption. Every once in awhile, I stood back and admired my work, sure that I would never have been able to get so much done with Beans and J around.
Satisfied with my gardening, I collapsed on the couch to give Max and Avery some much needed puppy love. Too soon, the phone rang and my dad informed me that they were home and the girls were hungry. For food, for me and for J. I lingered around the house a little longer than I needed to and then made my way back to my parents’ house. The girls were happy to see me and to tell me about their day. They didn’t miss me one bit.
I didn’t tell anyone that my eyes welled up a little on the escalator at the mall. Behind a little girl and her mom, I eavesdropped as they discussed plans to meet up with her daddy for lunch. And, I didn’t tell anyone that my final decision on flowers were the Jelly Bean mix of petunias because of their appropriate name and because they contained both blue and yellow flowers. M&A will tell anyone who wants to know that their favorite colors are blue and yellow, respectively. And, finally, I didn’t tell anyone that, as nice as it was to spend the day alone and free of responsibility, I’d really rather spend it wiping sticky faces, chasing runaways, sharing iPods and just plain being with my Beans.
Winner of the Mother of the Week Award
Not Momma Bean, who decided to become adventurous and try different! and new! coffee. And had this conversation with her eldest:
MB: “My coffee tastes like ass.”
Pie: “What kind of ass Momma?”
MB: “Never mind.”
Momma = Me
It’s Mother’s Day this weekend and time for me to reflect. I’m a mom! It continues to amaze me, the things I’ve discovered in these two and a half years of motherhood.
I found patience.
I know how to cook.
I can’t finish a book in less than a week any longer.
The Wiggles and Jack Johnson are the most played artists on my iPod.
I know how to draw a lion.
I work part time.
I garden.
I rarely eat at restaurants that use cloth napkins anymore.
Hiding half my body under a throw blanket counts as a great hiding spot.
Sidewalk chalk is awesome.
I choose sensible shoes for (gasp!) comfort now.
I sometimes forget to check my mail for a week.
I know what muffin top is now.
I can’t watch the news.
My handbags all have Purell hidden in a pocket.
I only ever see three quarters of a movie anymore.
I shop at mom-to-mom sales for “outside toys”.
Routine isn’t so boring anymore.
I pick other peoples’ boogies.
I have magic in my kisses that make bruises and pain go away.
I do playdates.
I bristle when they call me “Mom”.
I love when you ask me to see pictures of the girls.
Chasing after Beans = workout.
I appreciate my mother more every day.
It only takes 2.75 glasses of wine to get me drunk anymore.
I love being a mom.
I love being Mom.
Oklahoma 2008
Last week, we flew to Oklahoma to meet Baby Logan and to see my sister and her family. For the weeks leading up to it, the girls would talk to my sisters every day, making plans about what they would do when they got together.
And, they had a ball. While we were wandering around the Will Rogers International Airport (which, by the way, is smaller than my high school), J and I looked at the girls and then I suggested that we sneak off on a flight to the Caribbean because I don’t think we would have been missed even for a second. The Beans had their aunts. They had their cousin. They had Uncle Map. They were shy for a full thirty seconds and then they remembered that these women were the ones who call them every day and sometimes magically appear on Momma’s computer to wave hello and to sing a song with them. This was Jack’s home - the home of their hero, their buddy, their cousin. This was Baby Logan, the one they had been waiting for, the one who was in Reesa’s belly and then wasn’t. So, they decided to put up their feet and stay awhile.
We went to the Wildlife Refuge, the Oklahoma City Zoo and to one of Jack’s baseball games. The rest of the time was spent at home…or Sonic. I found the love of my life there, you see. A Diet Coke with a shot of vanilla. I’ve tasted heaven and it’s a thousand miles, roundtrip.
Pie proved yet again that she is a born caretaker. I’m thinking she’ll either be a rock star or a nurse when she grows up. She couldn’t keep her eyes off Logan, except to play Guitar Hero.
Peanut wasn’t as taken with LoLo but it was only because she’s just like me. Babies scare me. I forget that I had two at the same time. It took me some time to even hold him and once I got around to it, I was still sure that he was absolutely annoyed with me. Peanut kept her distance as well, only coming close enough to give him a peck on the forehead and to determine that he stinks. (She has a strong sense of smell. Everything insults her nose, so you can only imagine what she was like at the zoo.) She was appalled when she helped Dada change his diaper, peering into it an announcing to everyone that he has a boo-boo. I knew she would be shocked by what she saw and warned everyone in advance, but it didn’t stop us from laughing when she simultaneously pointed and cringed.
The plane rides, their second, were thankfully uneventful. Like before, I worried that, as soon as we boarded, we would be met with angry stares and angrier Beans, but we received nothing of the sort. J and I assigned ourselves a girl prior to the trip and we armed ourselves with new toys and two spiffy new sippy cups to distract them. We barely needed them on the way there and didn’t need them at all on the way back, as the four of us drifted to sleep as soon as the flight attendant brought us our requested blankets. On the way there, the girls were each busy looking out their own windows and marveling at the clouds around them. It was only when we began our descent that I began to get a little bit nervous. Not because they began crying, but because they began teasing each other and bursting into peals of laughter that vibrated throughout the fifty passenger jet. It was contagious though and everyone around us peered to see what was so funny and chuckled to themselves to see that it was absolutely nothing except for a couple of giddy sisters, excited about their new adventure.
This weekend, back at home and into our routine, A was bored. I was talking to them about what we should do that afternoon for fun and A promptly suggested from her car seat, “Let’s go to Reesa’s house!” A stellar review if I ever heard one.
A conversation between sisters.
Pie: “Hey Aud. Sit down here and listen to me.”
Peanut (running in circles around Pie): “I can’t. I’m too busy!”
Pie: “Why?”
Peanut: “I’m running! Run Maggie!”
Pie: “Okay!”
And then Audie pulled Maggie up by the arm and they ran and ran until they collapsed to the ground in a fit of laughter.
Hello World. Are you ready for Beans?
At 31 months, the Beans have been on more plane trips than their father had by the time he was 31. Now the count is 6 to 4, but only because Daddy Bean and I squired ourselves away for a little R&R to Puerto Rico last year and left the little ones with the grandparents. Otherwise it would be all tied up.
I’ve lived in three different countries in my life. Three states. For the first sixteen years of my life, plane trips were more common than road trips. Daddy Bean had never been to Chicago before I met him. Never stepped foot in Canada. He hadn’t even been to the northern part of Michigan, for God’s sake! His only trip out of the state was to South Carolina one year with his family. We were like night and day, this boy and me. He wanted to stay, I wanted to go. I won.
By the time the girls were born, we had been to Chicago almost every year that we were together (including the year that they were born, when he had to wheel my 25 week pregnant body around the Windy City - not as easy as it sounds). Toronto, Orlando. All over Michigan. What was supposed to be his first flight on our honeymoon in Vegas ended up being a road trip to Florida, due to the 9/11 tragedy and the grounding of all flights. Instead his first flight was to Las Vegas for my sister’s wedding. The Beans’ first flight was to Oklahoma last year.
He’s caught on to my need to go. Even if it’s just to Mackinac Island. Although he was resistant at first, he’s begun to enjoy traveling and he understands why I want to make sure that the Beans discover a love for it. The thought of flying still terrifies him, but he hides it well from them. He has to. I won’t have it. There is too much to see and do to be hindered by such a fear. And, before it has a chance to take one of them too, I want to go. I want to take them to my old stomping grounds in Virgina and Washington D.C. I want to show them the beauty of Big Sur. I want to introduce them to my mother’s sister and share some world-class food in the middle of the busy streets of Bangkok.
Tomorrow, we’ll be taking them on their next plane ride to Oklahoma to meet their new cousin. They are giddy with excitement. In September, they’ll be traveling to Vegas to act as flower girls in their aunt’s wedding. Next year - Disney and hopefully either Boston or California. After that, who knows. I hope Barcelona, Dublin, Phuket, Montreal. Wherever they want to go.
Little Miss Home & Garden
She loves watching Food Network with me. Markers are her screwdrivers when she checks to make sure that tables and chairs are properly built. Sweeping the kitchen includes, but is not limited to, dust bunnies, crumbs and doggies. And she waited with bated breath for the flowers that she planted to sprout so that she could use her new watering can.
Check please!!!!!!!!!!
When the girls were just infants and I took them to visit M and her boys, I was a bit disappointed that, instead of having a proper lunch in a restaurant, she immediately informed me that she’d be making us lunch. And, during our next visit, when tummies began to grumble, M again took the reins and had her sister run to get us carry-out at the local Applebees. Not that I don’t enjoy her cooking or am above Applebees’ carry-out. I just thought, since we don’t get together often and I hadn’t been to many restaurants since the Beans arrived, we could go to a place where the food was prepared and hot and we didn’t have to clean up a thing.
Now, I understand. I know exactly what she was doing two years ago. She was protecting her sanity, averting disaster, saving me from the ugly truth.
Toddlers and restaurants don’t go together well.
I shouldn’t lump the whole lot of them into one sticky, food throwing, hollering, defiant group. They don’t all become irrascible messes upon entering “eating places” (a Bean phrase). And even the most polite and well-mannered little human has her moment. Kids are unpredictable. I’m just now realizing this. It’s been two and a half years, give me a break.
The Beans arewere very well-mannered. We are were the parents that smile sympathetically at the table next to us, filled with screaming kids, while our little angels sit quietly coloring their menus. Of course, they’d have their moments, individually, and we’d easily quell the storm by whispering encouragements into their ear or taking them for a little walk to the restroom. And then we’d resume our delightful dinner in peace, able to carry on a decent conversation while the girls occupied themselves with people-watching and their own personal conversation.
In the past month or so, that pretty little picture of dining enjoyment has been scribbled over with a non-washable marker. If it’s not the fact that they don’t want to sit in their booster seats or high chairs, it’s that their BLUE crayon has fallen to the floor for the eleventy millionth time. Food is boycotted, milk is spilled, threats are ignored. If we’re lucky, that’s the end of it. If we’re unlucky, there is crying, defiance, even yelling. It’s only happend three times but we’ve quickly learned our lesson. The kicker is that the minute we leave the restaurant, exhausted and beaten, M&A revert to their usual well-behaved selves.
Today I mentioned to J that I felt like Italian. He looked at me like I was nuts and reminded me that the night before the girls had made a quick mess of things at a very family friendly, loud, balloon and ice cream sundae chain. I remembered telling my dad, who we had invited to come along, that I was glad that he was able to see his perfect little angels like this.
Fine. Carry-out it is. I placed the order, more than a little bit resentful. And then I remembered the look of terror that flashed on M’s face two years ago when we began discussing lunch. This is what had frightened her so much. I get it now!
I’ve finally resigned myself to the fact that dinners out would have to be saved for date nights or until the girls are out of this phase. Hopefully the phase is short because date nights are few and far between.
Babysitter Fees
After I got off the phone, I emailed J.
“Can you call me? I need to talk to you about the Bean.”
“Which one? Calling now…”
As I replied, “The ice ice baby,” the phone rang.
J: “What’s up?”
MB: “I talked to Rose at Dr. K’s. It was so sweet; because the first thing she did when I gave my name was to ask me how the girls were.”
My eyes began to well up immediately, as they did when she had asked me and I stammered a reply about how big and wonderful they have become. I don’t know if the women at that office experience this with all the patients that they treat, but whenever I have any interaction with them, my heart swells and my eyes brim with tears. They could just be asking how my day is, or sending me their new office information. They just have that sort of effect on me.
MB: “I told her that we discovered that both of our Flexible Spending Accounts covers the fee. She was happy to hear that but warned me that the fees are going up this year.”
J: “How much?”
MB: “Four hundred dollars.”
J: “Okay. How much were they before?”
MB: “Two hundred and fifty per year.”
J: “Pay it.”
MB: “Oooohhhkaaay….Pay it? And then what?”
J: “What do you mean? Pay it.”
MB: “It’s just…I mean…What are we doing here? What’s the plan?”
J: “I don’t know what the plan is but I know that I want us to keep paying it until we do.”
MB: “Okay. Okay.”
J: “I’ve got to go. Love you.”
I mumbled something and hung up the phone. This time, hot tears were spilling onto the desk and I couldn’t catch them with just a swipe of the hand.
You see, I technically have three Beans. On that day…January 13, 2005, I was asked to decide whether I wanted two or three. I chose three. J and Dr. K disagreed. Dr. K said that with my diagnosis, the chances of all three of them sticking around were better than most. And, because of my size, the chances of me having a smooth pregnancy with three were slim. All that I remember Jim saying was, “No, no, no…” And when Dr. K used the term, “selective reduction,” I began to fade.
Two then. I chose two. The “best” you could say, as these two looked to be the strongest and most developed of the three. They received an “A” on their report card, while the third Bean received a “B”. Still above average but not good enough? Not to me, but I went along with it. So, while the two As were being prepared to return to me, the B was sent back to the lab, to be frozen and labeled and stowed away to a day yet to be determined. For when my arms would begin aching again and my heart would resume longing for the fullness of a child’s body in my own.
Every year, when I receive the bill, I am reminded that I left one behind. And that I must make that decision eventually. The choices are these: to thaw it and hope that it survives the thaw and implants into my womb; to donate it to another couple; to donate it to science or to simply destroy it. Destroy. It’s such a cruel word and made even worse when I look into the eyes of my girls. Part of them. Conceived at the exact same time with all of the hope and the love that we had to give. Saved, just in case the first time didn’t work. And, now, in case we want another.
It’s a political matter, what to do with these frozen little ice cubes. One that, if I were another woman altogether, who didn’t go through what I have gone through to have my children, may be a simple matter. Destroy might not be as soul crushing a word. But I am not that woman. I am the woman that believes that the miracle that happened to us twice could still happen again. I am the mother that believes that my other child could still return to me.
And so, every year, when I receive the bill. I am reminded that I left one behind. And that one day it will be the right time for it to return to me.
Cute-ness
Maggie calls each one of her balls, “My super duper bouncy ball!”
You can almost hear the exclamation point when she says it.
I don’t know where she got it from but every time I hear it I smile. I can’t help it.
Potty Hell
So, I haven’t been around for a few weeks. It was a combination of things traumatic and dramatic, not the least of which was my laziness. I needed a break and even contemplated shutting down completely. But then I remembered why I began this little page. I wanted to keep my sisters in the loop, who were miles away and, although a daily part of the Beans’ life, still wanted MORE. (And, which I was reminded of in daily emails from both of them.) It was also an alternative to a baby book, which I had started with every good intention of a new mom, but which suffered immensely under my less than creative hand. In the past month or so, I hadn’t written down things that had been going on with the girls. Things that, in the span of their lifetime, would be insignificant, but as individual, singular moments, were breathtaking, hilarious, heart-warming and silly. And I was losing them, by not writing them down.
But this morning, I am here for help. With a 32 oz. coffee in hand and toothpicks holding up my tired lids, I can barely put together coherent sentences. Audrey isn’t sleeping. Well, she is, but not consistently, not soundly. And, therefore, neither are we. I think it started around two weeks ago when she caught a cold and when I started becoming more determined about potty-training. Because of her asthma, her coughs seem more alarming to us. At the slightest sound, we are in their room to check on her and to make sure she is not in any distress. One evening, we were concerned enough to administer an emergency dose of her asthma medication. She quickly got used to the formula, crying + coughing = cozy on the couch with Momma and Daddy. She’s a smart cookie.
During the same time, I began researching pre-schools in the area and was beginning to realize that I really only had six months to train these girls if I wanted them in the school I had preferred or, if I chose another, if I didn’t want to pay an extra $70 per child. So, I stepped up my efforts, which, up to that point basically consisted of weekend training, if we weren’t going out, and daily pep talks about how wonderful it would be to live diaper-free. Now, I was determined. Every day when I picked the girls up from their grandmothers’ houses, I would remove the diapers and put them into their “big girl undies”. We’d talk about how cute they looked, have a dance party and have pow-wows in the bathroom every half hour. On the first day, Audrey had an accident in the living room. We talked about it. I didn’t scold her at all; I just explained what an accident was and how we should go potty in the bathroom, not the living room. From that point on, she did not have another accident.
She also never went potty in the big girl potty.
She was holding it. She would go from 3:30 p.m. until 8:30 p.m. without using the bathroom, without an accident, nothing. I pumped her full of liquids and that still didn’t do a thing. Oh, she had the urge. Every hour or so, she would grab herself and say, “Momma, I need to go potty!” and we would run to the bathroom and hope for a miracle. But after five minutes of coaxing and singing, she’d shake her head, pull up her undies and scoot out the door. This pattern repeated throughout the day and she never actually went.
At the beginning, she’d doze off soon after she was put to bed. By 9:00 p.m. she’d wake and call out to us to change her diaper. It was always full and we wouldn’t be surprised when she awoke a half hour after that to let us know that she had just pooped too. Now, she doesn’t want to go to bed. As soon as we shut off the lights, she begins wailing. At first, we would pick her up, rock her, bring her downstairs and hold her until she fell asleep. But the sleep wouldn’t last. After putting her to bed at 11:00 p.m., she’d wake again, crying to be held. Last night I sat with her on three different occasions and Jim tried a couple of times.
After discussing it with DaDa last night, I’m sure that it’s her urge to go to the bathroom that is waking her up. She’s anxious about it and she can’t fall into a deep and comfortable sleep because of it. I guess I’ll ease up on trying to potty-train her and focus on Maggie right now, who is eager and willing to learn. I don’t know what else to do. I hope that by not pressuring her (which, I didn’t think I was doing…thank goodness I didn’t take my friend’s suggestion to try Boot Camp Potty-Training!) we’ll get back to some sort of normal sleep pattern. Soon. Because right now, my eyes have so many bags under them, I could pack a week’s worth of clothes in them!
Bedside Manner
On a Wednesday two weeks ago, I woke up with a familiar heaviness behind my eyes. As the day went on, light and noise became unbearable and I began to tremble. But, because I was the new guy, I soldiered on, hiding in my office and speaking in whispers to anyone dense enough to not recognize the pain in my face. The Beans were particularly excitable that evening. Their energy level seems to multiply exponentially as they get older, but that night, everything seemed louder and more intense. I gritted my teeth through bath time and was never happier to see Daddy Bean walk through the garage door. By Thursday, the migraine had settled in and made itself comfortable. I left the Beans with my mother-in-law and crawled into my bed-cocoon; the only thing that really helps it to go away. When Saturday came around and I was still in the throes of my headache, The Pie took things into her own hands.
From an early age, Maggie has taken on the “big sister” role with ease. She’s naturally bigger than Audrey and, even though she is only one minute older, and only by virtue of her placement in my womb, she has been charged with the duty of taking care of her little sister and of being the role model. She loves to help. She takes the dirty diapers to the garbage can, makes sure that Audrey has the right cup and scolds the dogs when they start to get too rough in their play. Whenever one of us coughs, she’s quick to ask, “Are you okay?” And no one knows better than her what will make you feel better. She even offers her beloved Cookie Monster if you are really a sorry case.
That Saturday morning, I lumbered downstairs and parked myself on the couch so that I could at least observe the play time, if I couldn’t participate. I pulled a blanket to my nose and covered my head with an extra pillow. I didn’t do much more than that throughout the day. Pie had known for a couple of days that I wasn’t right and on Saturday, she had had enough. With a concerned yet determined look on her face, she peered closely into mine and asked, “Are you okay, Momma?” I explained to her that my head hurt really bad and she replied, with confidence, “I make you feewl bettahh! Hee-ahh.” She deftly shoved Cookie No. 2 under my chin, tucked part of the blanket around him and peppered me with a few kisses. She continued to check on me throughout the day. When Daddy Bean mentioned from across the room that I should have some caffiene to help with the headache, I agreed that I might feel better after a pop.
“You wanna pop, Momma?” The Bean asked. I didn’t know that she had been paying attention. She seemed too busy trying to instigate a fight with her sister.
“Yeah baby. Daddy’s getting it.”
“Daddy. You have to get he a pop! You have to get he a pop!” Maggie wasn’t going to stand for any lollygagging. She marched into the kitchen where her father stood and looked up at him to show him that she meant business.
When she saw that he was acting on her commands, she returned to my side to assure me that relief was near. After I took a few sips, I looked at her and smiled.
“Thank you baby.”
“Daddy got you a pop. It make you feewl bettahh. You feewl bettahh now Mom?”
“Yes, my girl, I feel better now.”
“Oh. That’s good. I wuff you Mom.”
My very own Florence Nightengale!
Diary of a tired Momma Bean
Today I thought about potty-training again. Now that I’m down to only half a sleeve of diapers, I’m almost motivated to begin the “talk” again with Mags. Forget Peanut. She’s indicated to me in no uncertain terms that I should just LAY OFF.
Last night, I contemplated making a from scratch nutritious dinner. When I opened the freezer to take out some chicken, I spied the hot dogs. Hot dogs = full beans. Hey, at least I served it with a side of peas and carrots.
I can’t ask much of myself lately. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck and all I want to do is crawl into my jammies and under my blankies and sleep for a week. With everything that’s happened with Arisa and her family and the fact that I’ve up and moved to a new company altogether with my boss (which includes a longer commute, an earlier wake-up time and an immediate cease and desist of my Pumas/khakis uniform), I’d really love to find my life’s pause button. But I’m busy finding the blue sippy cup (because a two and a half year old doesn’t want to hear the excuse of why you didn’t do the dishes last night) and thinking of a creatively fabulous zero calorie four course dinner.
And because I don’t want to concentrate hard enough to invite the migraine that’s been knocking on the door of my head, I thought I’d answer Huckdoll’s tag from what seems like five years ago. (Sorry girlie - I know you’re going through your own thing right now. xox)
Here are the instructions:
1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people. & post a comment here once you post it to your blog, so I can come see.
“Potty Training Sucks” by Janne Kimes, with Linda Sonna, Ph.D.
Yes. Seriously. And, no, I have no finished it. Read the title again. ‘Nuff said.
Page 123: When wiping your young one’s derriere, the challenge is that her butt is either sitting down on a potty where you can’t get to it, or standing up where her butt cheeks are clenched tighter than Joan Rivers’ face. You have to do some fancy moves to get the goods. If your kid likes to sit down to be wiped, have her lean forward.
Um.
You can’t make crap like this up. No pun intended.
Hopefully Page 123 isn’t a reflection of the rest of the book, because I learned absolutely nothing that is going to help me train these Beans.
And, I’m tagging everyone who is reading this that is willing and able. I’m tired and I have to find a blue sippy cup.
Logan Matthew
Thank you to everyone who sent your love and prayers to our family. We are still reeling but we now have something to hold onto. Emma’s twin brother, my nephew, Logan Matthew.
February 15, 2008
2:16 p.m.
6 lbs. 4 oz.
19 in.
Emma
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars aparti carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
ee cummings
Please consider donating to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. For Arisa, Matt, Jack and Logan. And for our dear little Emma.
