Glimmers

I'm probably going to have to eat these words, maybe even before they're officially posted, but lately I'm finding more and more reasons to think that Claire and Evan (and their future siblings) might actually grow up to be friends.

If you'd asked me a year ago, I wouldn't have been so sure. Claire didn't know quite what to make of Evan when he first appeared on the scene, but I think she mostly viewed him as an intrusion -- a competitor for time, attention and lap space. Unlike some older siblings, she didn't seem to have much of a nurturing instinct. Unless pretending to breast feed baby dolls counts.

In retrospect, hello, she was 16 months old. What did I expect? I've yet to find an "expert" who highly recommends a 16-month gap between your first two kids. Most of the professionals seem to think 3 years is a little more sane, and I see their point, but I'm drawing lots of encouragement lately from moms who have been here, done this, and assure me the hard work of these early years is so very worthwhile.

Every day, for what sometimes feels like all day, the kids and I talk about treating one another with kindness and sharing and listening and obeying, about doing everything in love and extending grace and being patient and exercising common courtesy. And every day we -- all of us -- have a great many opportunities to practice.

I won't lie, endlessly having the same conversations sometimes makes me feel like it's going in one ear and out the other. But there are moments when I can see it sinking in. Like when Claire's upset and Evan runs to offer her her pink blanket for comfort, or when I look out the back window and see Claire trying to help Evan climb the slide, and you can't tell who's more eager for him to succeed. Thank goodness for glimmers of hope.

Say cheese

Tomorrow's picture day at preschool. This is just one more opportunity for me to be the bad mom who refuses to shell out, but I don't care. I am constantly amazed how many hidden expenses come with kids in school. Not that they're all bad, not at all -- but they could add up if you let them. Birthday gifts, classroom parties, book fairs, gifts for the teachers, fingerpaintings that you can pay to have plastered on anything imaginable ... it's a little more than I expected for a 2-year-old.

Once a month there's a school spirit day when all the kids are supposed to wear their school T-shirt if they have one. I didn't buy one for Evan, but I caved for Claire because I didn't want her to be the only one in her class not wearing one. Bad reasoning? Maybe -- probably -- but for $10 I didn't get philosophical about it.

It's only going to get worse. The parties will get more elaborate and the peer pressure will get more intense. Yearbooks, sports uniforms, musical instruments, field trips, brand awareness and more will get thrown into the mix. We'll be asked to sell random raffle tickets and overpriced cookie dough and wrapping paper no one wants to buy. Oh my.

And just like that, I'm glad it's only picture day tomorrow.

Dear Claire

Dear Claire,

It's August. I'm more than a month late with your second birthday letter. I've been busy but also procrastinating. Where in the world do I begin?

You are one incredible little girl. You're spunky and independent, with opinions about everything; I didn't expect to have to choose my battles quite so soon. I know this strong will of yours is a good thing. I also know it makes your Grandma smile. Payback!

When the house is too quiet, it often means you've discovered something new to climb -- and then jump from. In your more chill moments, you like to curl up in the nearest lap with a stack of books. You have an impressive imagination and entertain yourself well, but you also love playing with friends -- especially a certain couple of cousins.

You're precocious and talkative and a great observer. I'm constantly fascinated by the things you notice and the connections you make. I should be writing down so much more of what you say. Your prayers are priceless. So is your rendition of "Somebody to Love."

You're generous with shows of affection, and every single time you run up and hug my knees or lean in for a kiss or say "I love you, Mom" for no particular reason, my heart melts. How could it not?

You aren't perfect -- no one is -- but I can't imagine loving you more. Of course, I thought the same thing a year ago.

I do love you immeasurably much, and I know you know it. Every day in a hundred ways you make me laugh and shake my head and thank God for landing you with us.

Hi again

Enough people have asked me lately if I've given up blogging that I figured I'd make a quick appearance. I miss blogging but it's such an all-or-nothing thing for me. This summer I've had less free time than, I guess, at any other time in my life.

Every day there are things that get left undone, but the good news is, most of them weren't that important after all. The days are never easy but neither are they boring, and it's nice to be busy with something that I know really matters: raising two tiny people!

Last night at book club Jax mentioned that some guy had told her recently, "You seem too smart to be a stay-at-home mom." (He meant it as a compliment.) Her response, which I thought was great, especially for the spur of the moment, was, "If all the smart people go to work, who's going to raise the next generation of humans?" Well said, my friend.

That's not to say I don't look forward to the kids' afternoon naps every single day -- I do! And I'm looking forward to September, when both kids will be in a preschool program for three hours three mornings a week. I'm hoping to devote that time to so-called "real" work -- that which I get paid for -- so those naptimes and my evenings can be reserved for more leisurely pursuits. Keeping up with laundry would be nice; reading would be better. Maybe some days I'll even sneak in a short nap of my own.

But for now, I'm trying to be intentional about savoring this season. And -- with the help of morning coffee, evening wine, copious amounts of prayer, a network of great friends and family and the BEST, most supportive husband in the world -- most days I'm able to. September will be here soon enough. Right now, my grass is green.

Dear Claire

Dear Claire,

You turned 1 three weeks ago. I had hoped to write this letter before celebrating that milestone, but since your arrival in this world, I don’t seem to be on time very often.
I’m writing, sweet girl, to tell you happy birthday, and that I love you, inexpressibly so.

When we announced my pregnancy with you, almost everyone had one of two responses: “Your life will never be the same!” or “When you hold that baby for the first time, you’ll finally know what love is.”

Both of these statements annoyed me, for different reasons. “Of course life will change!” your dad and I would repeat to each other later, in private. Why else would we have waited so long to bite the bullet and have a baby? We knew we weren’t taking in a stray cat.

The second declaration was even worse. To me, it implied that sure, I thought I loved my husband; sure, I thought I loved my family members; but a few minutes with this 7-pound stranger would reveal how shallow those relationships were. This, finally, would be the real thing. Whenever someone told me this, I politely smiled and nodded, thinking to myself, “Clearly, I love my husband more than you love yours.”

I heard that line so often, though, including from older and wiser parents whom I respected, that as your due date approached I started to look forward to this magical moment in which you and I would experience immediate mutual enchantment.

It didn’t happen. Not for me, anyway. Labor was long and exhausting, and for the first few minutes after it was over, I was just glad to have survived.

We brought you home and started settling in as a family of three. Your dad and I were blessed with an abundance of support from family and friends, but still, dealing with the biggest change of your life, while sleep-deprived and unable to zip your favorite jeans, is no joke.

I remember one night – I don’t think you were even a week old yet – when I was trying to get you back to sleep after a middle-of-the-night feeding. We rocked and rocked and rocked, and you were screeching, and my eyes were burning. I looked out the window and thought to myself, “I wish I could return her.”

Don’t take that personally, Claire. I didn’t know you at all back then. The only reason I even mention it is that around that time, a few of my most honest friends quietly acknowledged having felt the same way in their children’s newborn days. But, they were quick to add, I would grow to love you more than I could believe. Their assurances helped me keep my chin up and feel a little less like a fraudulent mom without an instant-bonding gene.

The first six or eight weeks were a crash course in self-sacrifice. You were entirely helpless, and my schedule revolved around yours. For the first time in years, I wasn’t bringing home my own paycheck, and I was turning out to be a terrible housewife, despite being home all day and feeling too guilty to nap while you napped. Some days lunchtime would roll around without my having showered – the whole morning was gone, and I couldn’t even say where it went. I hated the feeling of being utterly unproductive.

I know now – and I knew then, theoretically, anyway – that those early months were far from unproductive. Every 3 a.m. nursing session, every messy diaper change followed almost immediately by another one, every time you slept snuggled against my chest, rendering me unable to unload the dishwasher – these and a thousand other gestures helped convey to a tiny you, still flabbergasted and indignant at being out of the womb, that you were safe and protected, valued and loved.

Almost imperceptibly, just as I was starting to accept my new greasy-haired reality, things began to improve. I started pumping and storing breast milk, so other people could help feed you. You started sleeping longer stretches at night, so I did too. Best of all, you started offering sweetly contented smiles: the gold standard of immediate gratification.

Somewhere along the line, it’s become impossible to imagine life without you.

“We love you as much as that very first day. Thank you, God, for sending sweet Claire our way!” proclaims one of your favorite books. That part bugs me every time. “I love you much more than that very first day,” I think to myself.

Everyone says our love for you will only deepen as the years go by. I can’t imagine.

But I’ve been wrong before.