I Blinked, You Grew...

60 minutes

It's been ages.  But tonight it was just 60 minutes.  I emailed my husband at his office and asked him if he wanted to hang out for a beer together when he got off work.  The place I had in mind is literally less than a mile from our house and we have driven by it hundreds of times.  It's a bit...less than glamorous, let's say, but charming in its own right.  It has a wood-planked outdoor patio that overlooks the local main drag and I've always wanted to sit there in the sun, watching all the cars go by instead of being the one in the car, watching all the people enjoying their brief respite from the real world, the busy world, the one that they adore, love and hang on to with every breath, yet need at least an hour away from at least once in a blue moon.

It was my husband's and my blue moon tonight.  We've actually been going out once in a while, now that our oldest kids have gone through the Red Cross' babysitter's class, but today was the first time we just kind of up and decided it would be perfect to jump out for a quick break, together, alone, if only for an hour.  We laughed.  We gossiped.  We held hands and nuzzled feet and noshed just a little over Spotted Cow and mozzarella sticks. 

And so it was.  A perfect hour.  A cold beer.  A handsome, married man.  My man.

Then we came home, made dinner, rode bikes with the kids in the driveway and rotated laundry.

With every breath.  Really.

In-betwixt, In-between

Sometimes I can't find the here and now, with all the getting lost in yesterday and the planning of tomorrow.

Five kids, I have.  Five glorious children who delight me and frustrate me and teach me and humble me.  My days are a blur of the monotony and routine of childraising -- there are so many breakfasts and snacks and sippie cups and fresh pitchers of juice to make each day it makes my head spin.  And that only brings me to about 7:20 a.m. 

By this time of night, roughly half-past 10, most of my babies are slumbering.  The two oldest boys, 10-1/2 & 12-1/2, are reading and getting ready for sleep's terrifically unavoidable comfort.  We had a nice day, full of playing with the dog, teasing the kitties and tossing our enormous, oversized volleyball over the semi-stable net we've put up in the backyard.  My little daughter rolls on it and in doing so has taught herself how to do a somersault.  Not bad for a wee girl nearing her third year.  She is proud of her new accomplishment and now this silly, overstuffed volleyball has become a "friend" and must accompany her when both in and out of doors.  I allow it, only because attempting to prevent it prompts screeches and screams loud enough to raise the hair on the back of your neck you didn't even know you had.  Nails on a chalkboard have nothing on my small girl when she's in demand-mode.

In any case, I digress, but because this is a rambling entry, there's little to actually digress from.  I suppose that's my overall point as I stumble awkwardly through these sentences...I'm constantly feeling like I need to catch up on what happened before, what happened last week, when exactly my third-born son's second baby tooth fell out so I can record it, memorialize it, save it for all eternity...and then too, I'm caught in setting up my children's back-to-school physical exams for September, I'm trying to make sure their closets are full of their favorite clothes for the day trips we've got penciled in for August, I'm doing my darnedest to make sure that all the mattresses get flipped this summer because soon, in less than 10 days' time, my beloved mother will be undergoing major abdominal surgery to resect her renal arteries and repair her abdominal aortic aneurysm and do the two-step with the Grim Reaper once more and there will be no time to do the bed-spin once my mom has been admitted and is hooked up to IVs and begging me with her eyes to tell her she's going to be all right.  Because I just don't know.  I don't know if she'll be okay.  I don't know if I'll get all the mattresses turned over and around.  I really have no clue if my kids' best t-shirts will be clean and without holes in time for driving to Chicago for the day.  And I just can't quite recall why my son's second tooth is sitting in my jewelry box, waiting on its small brown envelope for lifetime safekeeping.  I just don't know.

I know only that as I type these words, all five of my desperately loved, deeply cherished, embarrassingly adored children are finally sleep.  My mother is tucked into her bed a half-mile away, having fallen asleep, likely, with her reading glasses on and her crossword puzzle book splayed open on her bedcovers.  My husband has asked me to turn out the lights before I go up to join him in hours of spooning, and that's the best offer I've had all day.  So off I go.

Yesterday is powerful in emotion, but over and done with. Tomorrow teases and engages me with possibility and anxiety, but is out of reach.  Tonight?  My babies are safe.  My mother is safe.  My husband, he waits for me.

Tonight, there's no in between.  I know exactly where I should be.

...and then he was six.

My third-born son is six today.  Or should I say, he's 6!  He's all about his life being punctuated! by! exclamation! points! -- each new moment is dramatic, and often melodramatic at that.  He's extravagant in his emotions at age six, my boy is.  Why just be calm when you can be laid-out-flat-on-your-back-easygoing-relaxed! ?  Why just be mad when you can be really-super-frustrated-beyond-belief-and-along-with-that-terribly-horribly-ANGRY! ?  There are no small steps for my son, no minor gains or losses.  It's all BIG! and ENORMOUS! and HUGE! and IMPORTANT! and NECESSARY!  The good things he experiences are very, very good, indeed.  The bad/sad/worrisome things are downright the end of the world.  The laughter he shares?  Bright and generous and contagious.  The wails and the whining?  Fully mood-shattering and irritating.  He's at the top of his game, at age six, inhaling and exhaling each breath of his kindergarten-filled life without inhibition or self-judgment.  It's an awesome thing to witness, and it reminds me how joyous life can be if you simply open your heart and swallow each morsel of happiness, and how rich life can be if you accept the sorrow and become just a little more compassionate for having tenderly wiped your own tears.

My son, this blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy of mine, this child who is now 6! and clearly on the road to BIG! and IMPORTANT THINGS! is a robust, healthy child that represents hope and healing to me, even now, though it was never more evident than at his birth when his seven-plus pound body wriggled and wiggled and emerged victoriously from a womb that had only pushed out stillness and weakness and smallness before.  It took my third-born son to show me that birth can bring strength, that it can bring life, that it can bring a first breath so sharp and so exhilarating as to flood tiny lungs with oxygen and opportunity.  Before this now-six-year-old child of mine arrived, the one with a cherubic face and an oft-sneaky, charming little grin, I hadn't known the thrill of bluish newborn limbs pinking up right before my very eyes as if by magic, I hadn't imagined the astonishing volume of the squall of freshly-filled lungs, I couldn't have known the velvety skin or the deeply hypnotic slate-blue eyes soaking up their first lights and shadows.  Before this now-six-year-old child of mine arrived, I had only known the anguish of cradling a newborn daughter that would never wake, her heart stopping just hours before she was to be born, her long-lashed eyes closed as if in eternal slumber, her sturdy arms and plump little legs motionless in my desperate and clumsy embrace.  Before this now-six-year-old child of mine arrived, I had only known the confusion of delivering two boys, two years apart, at 29 weeks' gestation, their wrinkled, unprepared bodies cast from my own without a moment to reflect on what had happened to interrupt their journey to becoming whole and ready.  They were taken from within me, from the place that had become dangerous and threatening, without the ability to breathe, the ability to move, the ability to function.  Somehow those minuscule boys grew, but I never forgot - still, I never, ever forget - what it was like to hold only the shell of a child at birth, and not the life within.

So today is special.  This darling boy, this son whom I adore, he lives BIG!  Everything is RIGHT NOW! and he is both ELATED! and CANTANKEROUS! throughout each day, as he manages his life and copes with his ups and his downs in the best six-year-old way he knows how.  And I couldn't be prouder to watch him grow, because I remember how it all started, six years ago.  A birth without pain, a birth without injury, a birth without crisis or fear or grief.  Instead, a beginning filled with ease and peace and health and endless possibility.  And I think that's just about the best birthday gift ever.  For both of us.

Happy birthday, son. 

'Round and 'round we go.

As a parent, there are countless "full circle" moments.  I had one such moment earlier this morning, when my 12-year-old son came bounding into the kitchen, an ancient, hand-knit afghan made by a great-grandmother he has never met tossed over his shoulders and tied in a messy knot around his neck.  "I'm a super hero!" he said with a bit of tongue-in-cheek glee, as he stood in a mix of stripes, the rather awful shades of avocado green, burnt orange and tan surrounding his tall, lean frame.  It was obvious he was feeling silly and happy.  He then put one hand on his hip, put his other hand in a fist and stretched it out toward the sky, "I'm a SUPER HERO!" he said again, clearly relishing his position of World Savior.  I smiled softly, indulgently, the way mothers do when they witness their preteen sons acting more a young boy than a man, knowing that soon enough, the boy will melt away forever and only the man will remain... 

As my smile unfolded, I watched my beloved son help his two-year-old sister, the one who must mimic all sibling antics else she'll pout for an hour, put on her Super Cape (a reversible little number sewn by her doting grandmother, with shiny, bright pink satin on one side and Cabbage Patch doll-drenched cherry cotton on the other).  They ran through the living room, my daughter's eyes aglow as she followed her brother-turned-hero.  Before too long, they tired of the game and all capes were abandoned and both my Big and my Little had gone down to our basement rec room to join their siblings for more GameCube.  Who can remain fixed on saving the world when Sonic the Hedgehog beckons?

Meanwhile, my own head was spinning.  When my son, nearly a teenager now, first revealed his hero stance while wearing the soft, aged knit throw, I saw only a younger version of myself, settled on a small settee at my mother-in-law's house.  This same afghan was gently placed over my newly pregnant belly as my husband's mother doted on me and made sure I was comfortable.  I had been having trouble with my second pregnancy and was sure I was going to lose my baby...I was sure that this time, my child would cease to be early in the pregnancy, even as my first pregnancy had ended with the stillbirth of my innocent daughter at 37 weeks.  I had reasoned that my body couldn't manage a healthy pregnancy, that whether at the beginning or at the end, my children would be lost to me even before I could speak their names to small, shell-shaped, eager newborn ears.  I snuggled on that little sofa for weeks, the stripes of green, orange and tan becoming my flag of security and comfort.  I dragged that blanket no matter where I sat, no matter where I slept, no matter where I cried.  I'm sure my tears were woven into the pattern as any of the yarn ever was, my dreams for my baby tossing and turning as my hopes rose and fell.

My pregnancy stabilized and continued until 29 weeks when my uterus could no longer bear to maintain my tiny son.  He was thrust into the world much too soon and suffered much too deeply, but he survived.  The years have tumbled by, much like a persistent stream that finds its way through a rocky course, and now that tiny baby, the one I thought I might never meet, is now twelve.  Perhaps that blanket, made by hands that have now passed from this world into the next, protected me somehow, giving me peace when there had been none.  I do know when my strong, buoyant son gave me his wide, natural grin this morning as he exclaimed, "I'm a SUPER HERO!" my heart became tangled with the months and years so long ago when I knew only heartache and longing, and the enormous gratitude and happiness that floods me now, with healthy children filling my home.  I could never have imagined, all those years ago as I rested on the small white sofa in my mother-in-law's big country house, covered in green, orange and tan hand-knit stripes as my hands caressed my belly, my whispers begging my body to please, please not break my heart, that a dozen years later the baby I was carrying would charge through my home, that same afghan now hurriedly  tied on and flowing as he called out, "I'm a SUPER HERO!"

Yes, he is.  And I'm humbled, again.

Four years ago, after a lifetime of waiting...

Tomorrow marks the fourth birthday of my fourth-born son.  He is, at this moment, exuberant, exasperating and excruciatingly beautiful.  Sometimes, when he looks at me, I am instantly reduced to a trembling, blubbering slab of sobbing putty.  We worried so long and with such desperation about this boy, our Little Nut...whether he would survive the pregnancy, whether he would survive childbirth, whether he would survive beyond that for even a minute.  Whether he might be healthy, whether he might instead be a crumbling bit of boy that we would simply try to hold on to for as long as possible and for whom we would wish only light and gladness, for as many days and nights we might be graced with his eyes, his heart, his dimpled grin.

He surprised me, as most of my children have, in more ways than I can count.  He's four.  He's healthy, vibrant, obstinate beyond belief and the absolute epitome of a whirlish dervish except much cuter.  He is, well, he's my Little Nut no more...he's four now, and he's got trees to climb and a world to explore.  His protective shell has been left behind for bigger and better things.

Here's the letter I wrote to his three older brothers two days before their baby brother's birth...

01-06-02 (Sunday)

…A letter to big brothers…

Dear C., D. and L.,

It’s Sunday, January 06, 2002, and Daddy is putting you to bed right now as I write this.  Actually, he’s reading bedtime stories (about Sir Isaac Newton, I think!) and putting you, C. and D., to bed, as L. is surely running around your room trying to play with as many of your toys as he can!  L. will be put to bed shortly as he has a different nighttime routine for now, which currently includes snuggling on his favorite red flannel pillow with his gray blanket on the sofa until he drops off to sleep…zzzzzzzzzzz

I wanted to spend a few minutes writing to you boys because very soon our family will be changing.  Little Nut, the baby we have been expecting for these last nine months, will be born on Tuesday, January 08, 2002, and will become our newest son, your newest brother, T. H.  We are so excited about his impending arrival, a bit anxious about the birth, and terrifically happy that he is to be welcomed into a family with such wonderful boys to be his older brothers.  He will be a very lucky baby indeed.

Because we have had concerns about Little Nut’s health and have wondered since the early part of my pregnancy if (when ultrasound testing at week 12 highlighted a potential problem in his development – a large nuchal fold translucency measurement) he has a genetic abnormality, it’s been an emotionally charged pregnancy for me.  Soon enough we’ll know if your new brother has any special needs, but I can tell you already that Daddy and I have long since fallen in love with this little boy and we will continue to love him, cherish him and tickle him silly each and every day of his little-boy life.  Because the three of you older boys have brought so much magic to our lives as parents, Daddy and I feel extremely fortunate to have created such a magnificent family together.  We are so proud of each of you and often look at each other with awe and pleasure just by the realization that you once grew within me, that you are so bright and beautiful, that you are such intensely joyous, loving people.  We know that T. will become the fourth of our children to inspire such emotions in us. 

C., you have often mentioned that being the eldest is hard work, and that tells me you feel responsible for your behavior as the leader of the pack.  I’m so proud of you for wanting to be a good example for your brothers, and I want you to know that I love the fact that even though you take your role as “biggest brother” seriously, you are still a silly, funny, goofy, and extremely loving and bright 8-year-old kid.  You have brought D. and L. great caring and joy just by being “all things C.”  T. will certainly look up to you as well, and I hope that you know you can also look to him for motivation and joy.  We are amazed at your strong character and relish watching you grow into a fine young man. 

...D., you are such a playful, joyful brother.  You and C. are such an amazing team, with your invented games and shared experiences as brothers just 26 months apart in age.  When L. was born, you became such an integral part of his daily life, with your chases together and your giggling and romping all over the living room furniture.  You have expressed the same interest in the new baby, and I know that T. will gain much from having your ready smile and willingness to play as part of his life.  I relish the attachment you feel for your brothers, and your loving interest in all of them.  You are blossoming right before my eyes, and I know that will continue as you, and our family, grows. 

...L., you are my littlest one, and I wonder how you will take to having a baby brother.  You are crazy about your older brothers, to be sure, following them around, playing with their toys, copying their antics and behaviors.  The three of you have formed a lovely bond…they look out for you and you give them reason to!  When you soon have a baby brother to contend with, I hope that you find him as interesting and enjoyable as your brothers have found you.  I hope that you look past T.’s early months of infancy with the crying and constant need for attention and discover in him a special person in your life as a little boy.  I can’t wait to see the two of you together…you have such a bright, sparkling way about you, and I know you will share that with T.

Boys, the three of you will become four in just a few days.  I hope you know how special you are to Dad and me, and how special you are to each other.  I imagine that growing up, just as you’ve done as each new child is brought into the family, that you will continue to create unforgettable moments together as siblings.  Daddy and I would love to someday look back and recognize that those moments have followed you into adulthood as well.  Perhaps your own children, as cousins, will share a similar connection of love, loyalty, fun and camaraderie…

You are the brothers four, our incredible children.  We are blessed to have you, and now you have each other as well.

Love always,

Mommy

----------------------------

...Still blessed, always blessed.  Happy 4th birthday, Little Nut, I'm so grateful to watch you grow.  And now you have your two-year-sister to chase and tease as well -- how blessed we are as a family, indeed...

Don't let the bedbugs bite.

My daughter, the only other female in the house besides me (well, except for our girlie collie pup and two of our three cats...), has reached a pinnacle never before experienced in our home of now-five children.  She has acquired the distinct ability to jump out of her crib like a fearless, crazed skydiver.  Each night, after approximately two to three hours of blissful quiet during which all of our kids are slumbering or reading intensely in the top bunk (cough*cough*eldest*son*who*can't*stop*reading), the wailing begins.  It's always the same, and I swear I hear it before it actually even starts.  A small shuffle from inside my daughter's room, the space she shares with 14,000 stuffed animals and enough pink to keep Pepto-Bismol chock full of rosy goodness for decades to come.  After the shuffle, a shift, a murmur, and then a quickly escalating scream that ends in a clear and ever-so-indignant "maybe later!" shouted from two-year-old lungs.  My funny baby has decided that now is not the time to sleep, and certainly not in her jail-cell of a crib, and only at a later time and date might she be willing to negotiate a nap.  As the sounds become shrill and mimic the result of tortuous activities that I can only imagine must terrify my neighbors, I can see my girl in my mind's eye even as I desperately attempt to pretend this cacophony is simply a misfire of a dream that should be lovely and calming but instead has fueled my dread and encroached on any bit of "grown-up quiet time" I may have attempted to nab...I can see her sturdy, little-girl frame with her enormous pout, her crocodile tears and one hand on a pushed out hip as the other hand guides the first knee over the crib railing.  I know what happens next, it's not a mystery by any stretch.  She then flips her body over the cribside and before I can say "drat" or likely worse curse words that I say only barely audibly but say none the less, she's at her door, leans on the handle and is in the hallway near my bedroom door lickety-split.  We then begin the dance that of late has lasted for hours...she cries while my husband and I in turn soothe, explain, sing and gently tuck back into bed.  We witness her slowing breathing, watch fluttering eyelids begin to stay closed in the shadows of sleep, and begin to back out of her room, careful not to step on the squeakier floorboards and silently promise ourselves yet again that we absolutely have to mark the dissenters in reflective paint so we can avoid the "is this the squeaker or the next one over?" dilemma in the dark of midnight.  But she, my daughter, she knows of course that we're trying to escape her unhappy lair, and begins the ritual of crying, jumping and finding us hiding under our bedquilts over and over.  Sometimes, by about 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., she'll settle down for the night, even as my 5-year-old boy has decided this is the perfect time to start his day and we then hear, "Mommy, can I go downstairs now?" We usually murmur, mumble and stumble with the slurred speech of exhausted parents everywhere, "NO!  It's much too early, you need to go back to bed!" To our credit, we try to remember to say please. 

Last night, after the nth jump out of a now wobbly, well-shaken and likely well-stirred whitewash crib, I told my husband that come morning light, the crib was going down.  The mattress was going to be unceremoniously placed on the floor, blankies and pillows and teddy bears as her bedtime companions instead of machine-honed wood slats, and the crib would be no longer.  It'll go to a charity, or sold at a garage sale or given to a neighbor or friend who might be in need, but it won't be in my daughter's room any longer.  I'm a little bit sad, of course.  My daughter isn't a baby any more, and 96 clear-cut statements per night of "maybe later!" reveals only her commitment that she intends to determine for herself how, when and where she's willing to sleep.  But I'll miss gently resting her small body in that crib, the crib that housed her brothers before her and offers a bit of silly sentiment to my ever-growing pile of Things My Kids Have Outgrown.

I suppose, in addition to my wish that my daughter begin to sleep more independently and with greater ability to self-comfort, my wish is simply this: that she continue to need me anyway, in other ways, and that I won't someday find myself in that pile of Things My Kids Have Outgrown.  Maybe it's how to balance a checkbook, or what to include in a college application or when to finally get a bigger car/apartment/stock portfolio, but I hope all five of my children continue to murmur, shift and shuffle their way through their lives with me in the back of their minds as someone who knows what they want even before they do...or at least as someone who once did.  I don't think I'll ever forget what it was like to wake up a breath before my babies woke, knowing they were hungry or teething or, as in the case of my two-year-old daughter, simply needing to be close to me, to tangle my hair, to stroke my cheek, to be in love.

Tomorrow, it's shopping for her first big-girl bed and an afternoon of somehow discovering some new rituals that will help my daughter sleep well and deeply, with confidence and ease.  Tonight, however, is one last night of my listening for her every toss and turn, one last night of my startling awake even before she does and knowing moments before she calls out that she needs me, that it's me she longs for in the darkness of the night.

Goodnight, my sweet girl.  Sleep tight, and dream of angels...  The morning light will come, and I will be there, to hold you, to love you, to show you how much you can do as you grow.  Just don't grow too quickly...to that I must say, "maybe later..."  There's time enough for that...maybe later, my dear.

My Bubblegum Princess

Thirteen.  My first little daughter would have been thirteen this coming Saturday.  December 10.  It would have been the start of her teenage years, the beginning of becoming less a young girl and more a young woman.  When I was thirteen, my mother made me a bubblegum corsage, a happily anticipated gift that was ripe with meaning and tradition.  My mother had received one from her mother when she was on the threshold of her teenage years, and what all three of my three older sisters received as well as my one younger sister.  It's a family custom to make one, to give one to the daughter turning 13... 

I will be shopping the aisles soon for 13 soft, chewy bubblegum pieces, the ones that are the shape of a barrel with the bright red, white and yellow wrappers twisted on each side to keep it nicely tucked into its paper home until a set of strong white teeth begin to chew and maybe blow a bubble or two.  Or thirteen.

I would have loved for the mouth that will pop this bubblegum in to be my daughter's -- would that mouth have braces by now?  Would the lips sport a light coat of Bonne Bell lip gloss or just some good, basic Chapstick?  Would the adjacent eyes roll when I wanted to talk about school, about boys she knows, about basketball practice?  Or might she cozy up next to me on the couch and volunteer that her science teacher makes her crazy, that she has a crush on a boy named Sam who doesn't know she's alive, or that she worries she's not good enough to stay on the basketball team?  I'll never know.  I'll never know what color her eyes would have turned out to be, what length her hair, whether she liked sweatpants and tennis shoes or skirts and flats. 

In two days' time, I'll sit quietly and wrap thirteen carefully chosen pieces of bubblegum in pink and purple and lavender ribbons, curling the fringe and making a bit of fluff at the top, behind which I will gingerly attach a safety pin, taking care not to poke my thumb as I do, so that I can wear it all day, for her.  I might watch the ultrasound tape from when she was still safely growing inside me, when she turned and waved hello at me while her dad and I laughed and cried over our incredible good fortune that our beautiful, fullterm daughter could be born any day now.  I might wave back, this time, and wish her a happy birthday.  I'm so sorry she won't be able to see me waving, but maybe I'll be able to pretend she knows I'm thinking of her...somewhere, somehow.  Maybe she'll know.

And then as the sun sets, I'll sadly unpin the bubblegum corsage from my shirt, the corsage meant for my firstborn daughter, and set it on the table.  The five breathtaking children who now light my days will crowd around and wonder if they can please, please finally have a piece, and one or two will notice that I've been crying.  They'll tell me they love me, that they love their sister.  And then we'll blow some bubbles and sing Happy Birthday.  It's not a real birthday unless you sing, at least a little, even with tears in your eyes.

Jumble.

Haven't written much lately.  Not on paper, anyway.  In my mind, I've written a dozen kids' journal entries, a few essays, another chapter of my book and a blog entry or two.  That kind of mental writing is fleeting, however, and the words drift away as though they'd never existed...

Last week it was parent/teacher conferences.  I always look forward to these meetings, because it's just one more way to stay connected.  As a mom.  As a person who has fallen deeply in love with the bright/funny/extraordinary bodies that came from her own.  Another place to share pride, to ask questions, to be vulnerable yet excited for what's happened so far in the school year, for what's to come.  If you have school-age kids, you know this feeling.  If you don't, you will. 

Anyway.  Conferences.  I took my now 10-year-old son with me, because not only was it parent/teacher conferences, it was Book Fair week (everybody cheer!) when the library is stocked full of Scholastic tomes that scream, "Buy me!"  I'm a sucker for books, and I always buy more than they need, almost more than they want, actually.  And some bookmarks.  And funky dollar-bill erasers.  I can't bear to leave these things behind, they need a home!  My home, evidently.  So.  I go to my 4th grade student's classroom and my son comes in with me as has been stated as "okay" by the teacher.  There is chatting about the new assessment formula and rating scales, which make no sense to me and which frustrate me to no end, and I listen to quaint little moments that my son's teacher shares about my boy being kind-without-asking and generous-without-expectation.  It's a fine conference, really.

And then, because I have to visit my kindergarten son's teacher, we go down to the kindergarten area, where there are four or five kindie classrooms. We wait outside, because kindie teachers always run late with these things.  I sit on a bench outside the door, my beloved son by my side, and remember easily, softly, without barrier, the year that this 10-year-old boy was a kindergartner in this very room, with this very teacher, and I sat outside and sat on that very bench, with a small baby tucked into a stroller, as I waited for the school day to end.  That baby, of course, grew into the five-year-old child for whom I must any-moment-now participate in the first quarter parent/teacher conference.  And the past rushes back, the future pushes forward, and I'm locked in a time-space continuum that startles me.  There are too many minutes of my life that I'll never, ever recall, but there are more than enough to flood my heart and remind me of what I am, what I have.

Five beautiful children.  School-age, some of them; some of them yet to begin academics except for our nightly ritual of singing the ABC song after story-time.  Each one has, or soon enough will, walk through the halls of kindergarten, then onward to 1st, 2nd, 3rd grade and more.  My eldest son is in 7th grade this year.  I have a fondness for my own 7th grade year -- there were intense crushes on boys named Markie and Louis and my first-ever kiss with a boy named Jim.  Now my own children burst forth not only from the confines and safety of my womb, but from their early childhood years into Big Kid Experiences that include pasting feathers on the farmily turkey art project assigned from the kindergarten teacher to confusing word problems in 4th grade math to presenting a statistical analysis in the form of pizza topping preferences in 7th grade social studies.

They've come so far.  And so far yet to go, most of them.  Anywhere they choose, really.  I'll be here to watch, to help, to support, to cheer.  And to sit on a familiar, comfortable bench nearby and reflect just where I - and they - began.  It's bittersweet, leaning heavy on the sweet. 

Heavy, heavy on the sweet.

Trying.

It's been a while since I've written a lengthy post, it seems that my days instead are filled with children who tend to whine more than speak, screech more than discuss, and throw their little bodies down on the floor in indignant rage more than listen. 

I have three school-age kids this autumn, which leaves me two at home.  I thought it would be easier and, dare I admit, more fun, than when I had three to cater to during the morning and early afternoon hours.  But, as is often the case in such matters, I was wrong.  Where before I had a third child at home to contribute to the day's entertainment or distraction or whatever was needed, now I have only my two youngest ones, just 21 months apart, constantly bickering and complaining and fighting and (gasp) looking at each other.  I honestly never imagined I would hear the oft-repeated tale of yore:

"Moooooooooooooooooooooooom!  She's LOOKING at me!" says the almost-four-year-old in a pitch so high and so loud even my faux crystal shatters in response.  "Stop LOOKING at me!" he repeats, this time directly to his sister, eyes glaring and mouth pursed in an angry pout.  "STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"

Sigh.

These past weeks, my five kids have taken every bit of patience I can muster.  Ages two to 12, they all seem to need me all hours of the day and night.  I'm just so damn tired.

Even so, when I hear my still small, my still vulnerable, my still-unfolding almost-four-year-old boy ask me in a soft, whispery plea, "Just hug with me, Mommy, just hug with me..." I melt.  And I take a deep breath.  And then I hug with him. 

Someday, one day, all the screaming and arguing among siblings will be done with, my kids having grown and moved on to their own lives.  I hope the intensity of their frustration slips away as the years pass, but please, oh please let their sweetness and earnestness stay inside my heart forever.

"Just hug with me, Mommy, just hug with me." 

Of course I will.

One to grow on.

In a few days' time, I'll be ever-so-carefully placing three candles in a (probably) pink birthday cake.  I have a little daughter, my very youngest child, who is turning two and it's good karma to add a third candle.  One to grow on, you know.

One to grow on.

I can't wait for her party, it's fun to see her dressed in ponytails and laced anklets from time to time, even as she digs with tomboyish-glee into the dirt and sand we have out back for the times in-between when there seems nothing else to do but bury Hot Wheels pick-up trucks with shiny red plastic garden tools.  She's grown beautifully from the smiling baby-in-my-womb (really, I saw her smile as one of my countless nonstress-tests was performed, her cherubic little face nodding at me through the ultrasound monitor screen as though to say, "Don't worry, be happy" or "Hakuna matata" or some such joyful little catchphrase that made me instantly relax through the final weeks of my pregnancy) into a spunky, strong-willed cuddle-girl.  When she was born, it was as though the sun rose again in my mind's eye -- no day had ever been quite that crystalline despite the four brothers born before her, and the silent, motionless sister born even before the brothers.

My little daughter, now nearly two, came bursting into the world for the very first time amid laughter and celebration.  I was just so surprised and grateful she moved limbs, that she moved air, that eyelids opened curiously and warily to soak in the blurred images of her new surroundings.  Surprised, even, that she really was a girl.  After four delicious boys.  After...after death was my initial introduction to motherhood, that hazy, grim morning my firstborn was gently placed in my arms, when there were no cheers, no smiles, no first breaths.  Only tears, and goodbyes. 

Soon...soon, my youngest child will be two.  But there will forever be a link to the eldest sister that came first, then the brothers-four that followed.  Because to be the youngest, you must have arrived ever-so-fashionably later than whomever came before.  For my small girl, the one with the dancing denim-blue eyes and shimmering, golden brown hair, she has some mighty big shoes to fill.  Shoes that keep our home busy, happy and humming with the sounds of giggling, hollering and 12 conversations going on at exactly the same time.  Quiet, my home isn't.  Proud, it most certainly is. 

Somehow, I think this littlest one of mine will do just fine with the whole shoe-filling thing.  She'll have two candles on that pink frosted cake to blow out, and one more softly flickering candle tucked into the deep, sweet icing to grow on, after all.  One special candle that stays alight to brighten her path to tomorrow...a tomorrow that will surely bring brilliance and laughter.

One to grow on.