‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring but one Lucy mouse (who never goes to bed until she’s absolutely certain everyone else has).
If you’re reading this, of course you have realized that we’ve opted to go a little higher tech on our Christmas greetings this year. Somehow the holidays snuck up on me, and while we could have probably managed to get paper letters out to all of you sometime before Valentine’s Day, we opted instead to go this route. What can I say? I’m a sucker for anything that makes my life even the tiniest bit easier, and while I always enjoy recapping our year and sending our best wishes to all of you, I hate the formatting-reprinting-margin changing hassle of actually printing the letter.
So here you go—our first digital Christmas greeting. My sincerest hope is that I will somehow find the time in the coming year to keep blogging our stories and laughs throughout the year. Check back now and then. Sometimes I actually get some fun stuff posted!
It’s been a quiet year in the Lueken house (well, as quiet as they get around here). 4 out of the 5 kids are in school this year. Grace and Sam are in 3rd and 5th grade respectively. Claire started kindergarten and Lucy started 3 year old preschool. All of them still attend Our Lady of Guadalupe Spanish Immersion program and keep us all on our toes running to games, meets, practices and concerts.
Gracie is our musician—continuing to participate in her school choir and taking up the trumpet this year. She also continues to swim competitively with DASH (Dubuque Area Swimming Hurricanes) which has her running up to the pool 3 times a week year round. She also played soccer and volleyball this last year and has been broadly hinting that she’d like to try out gymnastics sometime soon. Grace got an ipod touch for her birthday, and within about 15 minutes had figured out how to text message with her friends. We’re already catching glimpses of the teenager she seems eager to become.
Sam joined the Independent League baseball organization this summer, so we spent a lot of summer nights at the ball field. He also really enjoys basketball and soccer, and we convinced him to give DASH one more go around this fall. He doesn’t enjoy it as much as his sister, but he’s a good sport (most of the time) about practicing twice a week. He has decided that basketball is really his first love and I have to say, I’m thrilled. He even beat me at H-O-R-S-E this last month, which is a feat his dad has yet to accomplish in 13 years of trying.
Claire started kindergarten this year and is going along and getting along in her happy Claire way. She played soccer this fall and started dancing and basketball this winter. Of all our kids, she is the one who is most eager to share her Spanish with us, and it is so much fun to hear her practicing her vocabulary on all of us and her little siblings, though by the end of this year, she will likely surpass Chad and I in her knowledge of the language!
Lucy is in 3 year old preschool at St. Anthony’s and while Chad and I debated a bit on whether to leave her in her fantastic home daycare, or let her start preschool, our queen never had any doubt that this was her year to join the big kids at school. The dance studio agreed to let Lucy join Claire’s class even though they usually want kids to wait until they are 4. Even strangers can’t say no to the queen, but with that smile, who can blame them?
Clayton has grown up a lot in the last year (too much if you ask me!) His first word, and his first love is cars. He even insists on “reading” (and then carrying around) the car classifieds nearly every day. He is our rough and tumble boy’s boy, and our first baby to strongly and vocally prefer Dad to Mom for nearly every need. It’s a bit of a switch for Chad and I, and one I find at times refreshing, and at times disheartening. In my opinion, my baby should want to cuddle his mom more, but who has time for that? Certainly not Mr. Busy bear! Clayton attends a wonderful in home daycare with his cousins John Paul and Oliver Markham.
For Chad and I, it’s been a pretty uneventful year. We have all we can handle keeping up with the status quo! We did get to welcome a few new family members on the Markham side this year as my brother Brad and his wife Laura brought us my godson Oliver Thomas in March, and my brother Craig gave us two beautiful young ladies in new wife Michelle and her 3 year old daughter Payton in September. We took a few small family trips this year—a week in Okoboji (which Claire calls her “favorite place in the whole world”) and a long weekend in Chicago when the Hawks played Northwestern. I’m still with John Deere and Chad is still running Adams Architectural and Dubuque Window and Door. I blog sporadically, he runs sporadically, and we both race around town in our mini-vans running kids hither and yon every single day. It’s a busy, bursting at the seams life, but we wouldn’t have it any other way!
In closing, we would like to wish you and your families and friends the very merriest of Christmases and happiest of New Years. I often think if my life had a theme song it would be “Blessed”. It’s never more evident than at this time of year, when we hear from all of you and get to celebrate the birth of our Savior.
Love and blessings,
Chad, Dawn, Grace, Sam, Claire, Lucy, and Clayton
Sunday, December 16, 2012
A Royal Entrance (albeit 3 months late)
Note to Readers: I just found this post when I was going to publish our Christmas letter. I know why it is so delinquent. I couldn't figure out how to get the darn picture right side up and after several fruitless attempts, I gave up. I don't want to shortchange the queen--so I'm posting it as is. Lucy shouldn't pay the price for my technical shortcomings, right?
Not to be ignored in this month of happy firsts, the queen embarked a few weeks ago on her first day of pre-school. Somehow, while her big sister’s foray into kindergarten 2 days earlier made me wax all sentimental, Lucy’s important first just made me chuckle. And come to a realization that has been a long time coming (the rest of you probably all figured it out already).
But, to begin really at the beginning, Lucy has been asking to go to school almost as long as she could talk. By the middle of last year all of the early childhood staff and most of the students knew Lucy by name. Tina (the sweetest director ever) had taken to calling her “my Lucy” and saving any of the especially tasty afternoon snacks for her.
The older kids all attended daycare centers, so preschool was an easy decision for them. They were already in the preschool building all day, the only thing we had to do for preschool was fill out a dozen more forms per child (seriously—how many places must I enter my address and phone number? And how many times, nevertheless, must I STILL see our last name butchered with not enough or too many vowels in all the wrong places? But I digress) and buy a backpack. Lucy, however, has been attending a wonderful in home daycare since she was 1, and for the first time, Chad and I were faced with the decision—3 year old preschool or not? Of course, that question is rhetorical. The queen had decided for us months and months before it occurred to us to consider it.
And so she began. With great joy and anticipation, she bounced out of bed and pulled on the clothes she had carefully selected the night before. (I must admit they were, indeed, hand me downs. But really—could she have looked any cuter regardless?) She actually owns a new (ish) backpack with her name embroidered on it which she received for her last birthday. It was about this time that she insisted on packing and carrying a book bag every day (just like the big kids) and asking her daycare lady to provide her with “homework” (just like the big kids). Each afternoon, she would dutifully pull out the coloring sheet that Stephanie had given her, find her crayons, and sit side by side with her big sister and brother. As they struggled through multiplication and spelling words in two languages, she would frown at her coloring, carefully select a new crayon, pause, scrutinize, and color some more. (Really, was this girl ready for school or what?)
For real school, however, she opted for an older backpack of one of the big girls. But really, who cares if it is a bit scuffed up when it is purple AND pink AND has sparkles AND a picture of Tinkerbelle on it? Oh she was ready, alright.
But still—STILL—I had my concerns about that first drop off. Given everything I’ve just described, it seems ludicrous to even imagine this girl would have any first day jitters. And yet, we have a bit of history with our slightly prone to drama queen and big talk about big kid activities up front, and then wailing, tears, and terror at the first drop off (swimming lessons—two tries! And bug camp come to mind). So I wasn’t sure how the first day would go. I had taken the first day drop off duties from Chad and loaded everyone up with no more than the usual amount of yelling, threats, and general chaos. Lucy just beamed the entire time, chattering merrily about the friends she would make, the toys she would play with, and the lunch and snacks she would enjoy. We climbed in the van and zoomed off (we always have to zoom) and dropped Clayton off with Stephanie. Off we went to school where we took the big kids to the elementary school drop off. Lucy and I parked and hopped out, heading for school.
The whole while, I was watching her closely, waiting for the first signs of impending panic, but she was cheerful and chatty as usual (she is quite the talker) all the way into the building and down the hall to her classroom. When we arrived at her classroom, we met with our first potential pitfall of the morning. A pretty little pigtailed girl clung to the denim clad knees of her daddy on whose face I recognized the universal fatherly expression of a difficult drop off: half irritation, half sorrow, total longing to be somewhere/anywhere else. I smiled sympathetically at him as we edged around him (they were blocking the door), and glanced cautiously at my own little first timer. She still looked eager and happy. I helped her find her hook and hang up her bookbag. Her teacher came over to greet her briefly, quickly turning her attention back to the sobbing girl in the doorway. An aide stepped forward to take the hand of a little boy whose lips were beginning to tremble as well as another girl who was breathing quite shakily and clutching a blanket to her cheek. Another boy peered curiously at Lucy as she approached the little cluster, no hint of tears on his round little face. “Great,” I thought. “3 out of 5 criers.” I was afraid Lucy would pick up on their obvious distress and allow her mood to descend to the tearful fear of her little peers.
I should have known better. Always a surprise and completely reliably her own little self, Lucy showed no hint of nervousness or tears. “Bye, Mom!” she chirped.
I responded with exactly the words I should know better than to use, “Are you okay, honey? You aren’t scared, right? Are you sure?” As though the sight of half her peers weeping into their blankies wasn’t intimidating enough, I had to imply SHE was the oddball to remain confident and ready. “Yes!” she said, with the charming, dimpled smile that is the real secret of her extended reign over my life.
“Okay,” I said, mustering all the cheerfulness I could and swallowing my own intrepidation. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay,” she said, turning her sweet face up to my kiss. Then she bounced off to the story rug without so much as a backward glance.
I walked slowly down the hall and into my day with a chuckle and a small shake of the head. That girl is going to OWN that school, and she is going to love every minute of it. Even better yet, they aren’t going to know what hit them. She’ll have them all wrapped around her finger by Halloween.
A long time ago, a group of children came up with a name for their unusual willingness to follow another talkative, slightly bossy little girl. Back then, they called it the “Dawn Said” rule, which basically described a strangely compelling eagerness to comply with “Dawn’s” directions. She was a benevolent leader, of course, but not one who tended to take lightly to dissent, either.
I think it’s clear that a new reign is beginning. It is the dawn of the “Lucy said” era. Long live the queen.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
You'd think it would get easier
Most days, I am so busy I maintain a constant pep talk in my head just to get through it. It sounds something like this “leave work by 3—HAS to be 3 today, don’t start anything new after 2:30. Ok, 2:45. If I hit all green lights, I should be able to get Clayton and the big kids home by 3:45, how am I going to get that bike ride in that I promised Claire? I have to wash that load of darks because Lucy has silly sock day at preschool and her polka dot princess socks are dirty. Do we have enough cheese to have tacos for dinner? Grace needs to be at swimming by 6 and Sam’s baseball practice starts at 6:30. Will Chad be home in time for me to leave the little ones? Maybe I can bike around the ball field while Sammy practices. Don’t forget to pick up the Schmidt girls for carpool to swim team. Oh man, did I finish that capital budget? Oh wait, that’s not due until Thursday. Remember to send Phil an email—wait, just do it now. Crap now it’s 3:15. Scratch bike ride. PB&J for dinner it is….” Etc. etc. Most days, to quote a saying I feel I should tattoo on my wrist (right under my omnipresent watch): “I’m so busy, I don’t know if I found a rope or lost my horse.” So, to return to the subject of this post, most days I don’t have time to think much about what I’m doing. I only have time to do it.
But days like today bring me up short. Really, what happened to that cheery, plump baby girl with the funny stick uppy black hair and huge blue eyes? How did she go from the tireless toddler we were constantly rescuing from the tops of tables and counters to a very grown up little lady who combs her own hair and brushes her own teeth? There are still hints of that sparkly baby girl we called the “taz” for her constant, somewhat destructive energy. But she is growing up. No doubt about it.
This morning it occurred to me that perhaps the fact that my mind and body remain in nearly constant motion right now is not just a symptom of my overscheduled life. I think if I stopped long enough to really understand what I have undertaken the weight of it would crush me. How can I presume to hold these precious lives in my careless hands?
I looked at Claire this morning and felt that exquisite, agonizing wrestling match of joy and sorrow struggling for dominance in my heart. I’m joyful at the beautiful girl I’m sending into the world, joyful at her rambunctious good health, her easy cheerfulness, her bright inquisitiveness. But I’m sorry for all the ways I have failed her, all the hours I have missed out on with her, all the times I’ve been abrupt and busy and overwhelmed. Did I give her all she needed? You don’t get those years back. Once gone, they’re gone.
I generally don’t regret having a large family. I think a sibling is the greatest gift a parent can give a child and sweet Claire has the best of both worlds in some ways—smack dab in the middle of our clan—a sister and a brother above and below. She gets all the protection and guidance of older siblings and the ability to lead and cuddle with the little ones. She gets all of the drawbacks of both as well, the bullying from the biggers, the annoyance of the littles. And she’s a classic middle child in some ways—going along and getting along in her happy way. Days like this, though, when the other lives fade into the background, and she’s thrust into the family spotlight, the mommy guilt sets in a bit. I wonder if I have done her justice along the way, or if I have shoved her in with the pack and assumed her needs were met since she never said otherwise. On the daily treadmill of shoe tying, diaper changing, milk pouring, laundry folding did I miss out on something I shouldn’t have?
I know, of course I know, that the answer is no. Or at least probably not. I’ve loved her well. I’ve cared for her spirit along with her precious body. Claire is not only strong, smart, and healthy, but she has a delightful personality and easy charm, and she’s beautiful to boot. What more could a mom ask? I’ve also been at this game long enough to know that the best I can do for my kids is stay out of their way. I can’t take much credit for the wonderful things Claire is. She came to me that way. All I can do is try to keep her safe and warm, fed, and reasonably clean. And loved. I hope she always knows she is very, very loved.
In the end, I am glad Claire is part of a big pack. I think it is good for her to have a big sister and brother to explain the complicated procedures for lunchtime and recess, to ease her fears about making friends and learning to tie her shoes. And I’m glad she has a little sister to gaze in adoration as she pulls on her uniform skirt and packs up her bookbag, and a little brother to throw matchbox cars at her and make us all laugh and forget about being so terribly serious. I’m glad to have a job to go to, where the demands of the day to day will help me from wandering down the sentimental road of an incredible 6 years with an incredible little girl I get to keep in my arms and in my home for a whole lot of years yet. There’s time for lots more magical mommy moments and family adventures. There’s still time.
And right about now, I bet Claire is laughing and playing—hurling herself into kindergarten with the kind of all-in enthusiasm that makes her so completely Claire. Goodness do I love you, CC Guken. You fill me right up. Look out kindergarten. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Loser
I can't tell you how many times I have vowed to get back into blogging for all of you--my devoted readers (all 8 or 9 of you), and for my kids who are crazy, hilarious, and completely blog-worthy, but most of all for me. I once told one of my writing instructors in college that I would always write--that it would always be a part of me because it always had been. But how could I have foreseen this overwhelmingly, bursting at the seams life of mine way back then?
Regardless, I'm back--to try again. And I have news. No, not THAT. (Clayton starts with C. Same as CABOOSE. For real this time).
No the news is, I am about to become the fittest and thinnest I've ever been. For real this time. I have serious motivation. And this time it's the kind of motivation that really could propel me past the next birthday cake bonanza (remember this post?) We celebrate 3 birthdays in 3 weeks starting last Wednesday in this household (and 3 out of 4 grandparents, 2 nieces, and a brother in about 5 weeks) so the cake influx alone is enough to keep me fat until it's time to start breaking into the Halloween candy. And the turtlenecks, thank God.
But not this year.
A little over a week ago, a friend of mine sent out a mass Facebook invitation to a number of friends and family she suspected just *might* be interested in some extra incentive to dump some plump. It sounded interesting, cost only about $20 (plus $2/week for additional contests etc.), and we had just come back from our summer vacation after which I discovered I had gained a modest 10 pounds (!!!) I am currently praying my way into my pre-baby pants (yeah, that's pre-Gracie--so whether or not clothes that are 10 years old are worth wearing anymore is another post). But, as is the case with most of my adult life, I'd like to lose about 15 (okay 25) pounds and I'd like to get back in some kind of shape.
So, what's another weight loss competition? I've been joining them for years. From Dump your Plump back when I worked at the ice cream shop (yeah, ironic—and not highly successful, big surprise), to Lighten Up Iowa, Body for Life, and Weight Watchers, I've hopped on every get-skinny bandwagon that rolls by. And I’m still not. Skinny that is.
But there are 2 differences this time:
1. I'm fed up. I'm sick to death of my excuses and my lack of follow through. I'm tired of waking up every Monday with new resolve that THIS time (no REALLY) I'm going to lose the weight and get fit. And I'm tired of waking up by about Thursday having worked out once and having eaten 3/4 of a pan of scotcharoos the night before and hating myself and my lack of willpower.
and, (the real incentive)
2. The pot for winning this particular contest is over $900!!! You read that right. $980 to be exact!!
That is real incentive. And I really want to win. The contest is for % weight loss with 2 possible monthly prizes of about $136. It’s a fairly simple contest (but even so, I won’t go into too many details here). Suffice it to say there are incentives for healthy habits (eating fruits and veggies, avoiding sugar, drinking water, exercising) as well as prizes for greatest percentage of weight loss by month and over the course of the 3 month contest. There are about 70 of us vying for the prize.
We started on Monday. As I laid awake Sunday night attempting to digest all the calories I ingested over the weekend in a last attempt at bulking up before the first weigh in (I told you—I’m in it to win it. And also any excuse to gorge on junk food does not often go unsatisfied with me), I came up with a 5 step plan:
A: Avoid preservatives (more on this later)
B: Blog about the experience every day
C: Count Calories (keep a food journal—i.e. weight watchers points)
D: Drink water (a lot)
E: Exercise
So far, I’ve had the best 4 days of eating and exercising in years. I fell short on just one goal (guess which?) So I’m attempting to resolve that.
So for the next 3 months or so, I expect my blog content to be heavily weight loss and fitness oriented. (With a few little duck stories thrown in—as if I would skip that!) I’m really excited about this contest because honestly, even if I don’t win, I still lose—know what I mean? And I’ve been fighting that battle off and on for more than a decade.
But I am making a tiny modification to that original plan. Realistically, if I am working out every single day (this week I’ve been doing it twice!! No, really!), there is no way I’m going to be able to blog every day. Typing doesn’t consume enough calories to be counted as a workout, and I also have the minor matter of raising 5 kids and holding down a full time job to consider. If I think I can blog every day, I might also consider running for public office, growing my own fresh herbs, and cleaning behind my refrigerator. The reality is, none of that is going to happen.
But the weight loss is. It’s on.
Regardless, I'm back--to try again. And I have news. No, not THAT. (Clayton starts with C. Same as CABOOSE. For real this time).
No the news is, I am about to become the fittest and thinnest I've ever been. For real this time. I have serious motivation. And this time it's the kind of motivation that really could propel me past the next birthday cake bonanza (remember this post?) We celebrate 3 birthdays in 3 weeks starting last Wednesday in this household (and 3 out of 4 grandparents, 2 nieces, and a brother in about 5 weeks) so the cake influx alone is enough to keep me fat until it's time to start breaking into the Halloween candy. And the turtlenecks, thank God.
But not this year.
A little over a week ago, a friend of mine sent out a mass Facebook invitation to a number of friends and family she suspected just *might* be interested in some extra incentive to dump some plump. It sounded interesting, cost only about $20 (plus $2/week for additional contests etc.), and we had just come back from our summer vacation after which I discovered I had gained a modest 10 pounds (!!!) I am currently praying my way into my pre-baby pants (yeah, that's pre-Gracie--so whether or not clothes that are 10 years old are worth wearing anymore is another post). But, as is the case with most of my adult life, I'd like to lose about 15 (okay 25) pounds and I'd like to get back in some kind of shape.
So, what's another weight loss competition? I've been joining them for years. From Dump your Plump back when I worked at the ice cream shop (yeah, ironic—and not highly successful, big surprise), to Lighten Up Iowa, Body for Life, and Weight Watchers, I've hopped on every get-skinny bandwagon that rolls by. And I’m still not. Skinny that is.
But there are 2 differences this time:
1. I'm fed up. I'm sick to death of my excuses and my lack of follow through. I'm tired of waking up every Monday with new resolve that THIS time (no REALLY) I'm going to lose the weight and get fit. And I'm tired of waking up by about Thursday having worked out once and having eaten 3/4 of a pan of scotcharoos the night before and hating myself and my lack of willpower.
and, (the real incentive)
2. The pot for winning this particular contest is over $900!!! You read that right. $980 to be exact!!
That is real incentive. And I really want to win. The contest is for % weight loss with 2 possible monthly prizes of about $136. It’s a fairly simple contest (but even so, I won’t go into too many details here). Suffice it to say there are incentives for healthy habits (eating fruits and veggies, avoiding sugar, drinking water, exercising) as well as prizes for greatest percentage of weight loss by month and over the course of the 3 month contest. There are about 70 of us vying for the prize.
We started on Monday. As I laid awake Sunday night attempting to digest all the calories I ingested over the weekend in a last attempt at bulking up before the first weigh in (I told you—I’m in it to win it. And also any excuse to gorge on junk food does not often go unsatisfied with me), I came up with a 5 step plan:
A: Avoid preservatives (more on this later)
B: Blog about the experience every day
C: Count Calories (keep a food journal—i.e. weight watchers points)
D: Drink water (a lot)
E: Exercise
So far, I’ve had the best 4 days of eating and exercising in years. I fell short on just one goal (guess which?) So I’m attempting to resolve that.
So for the next 3 months or so, I expect my blog content to be heavily weight loss and fitness oriented. (With a few little duck stories thrown in—as if I would skip that!) I’m really excited about this contest because honestly, even if I don’t win, I still lose—know what I mean? And I’ve been fighting that battle off and on for more than a decade.
But I am making a tiny modification to that original plan. Realistically, if I am working out every single day (this week I’ve been doing it twice!! No, really!), there is no way I’m going to be able to blog every day. Typing doesn’t consume enough calories to be counted as a workout, and I also have the minor matter of raising 5 kids and holding down a full time job to consider. If I think I can blog every day, I might also consider running for public office, growing my own fresh herbs, and cleaning behind my refrigerator. The reality is, none of that is going to happen.
But the weight loss is. It’s on.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Overdue
Dear Clayton,
I had intended to use the momentous occasion of your first birthday to re-launch my blog, outlining in great, witty and heartfelt lengths my love for you and our adventures over this first year of your wonderful life.
But, you know, LIFE interfered (like it always does). I think it was right about the time you were playing in the toilet while your sister was still sitting on it that I realized I wasn’t going to get anything posted for your day. Or, okay, for your month. My next plan was to post this one day late and call it “1 year and 1 day—TODAY!”, but I missed that too. Then I thought “1 year and 1 week”. Still catchy, right? Still clever. But I missed that too. And I missed the “One year and one month” deadline by 3 days. So here we are. I’m beyond late. I’m generally late. You’ll get used to it.
I just realized as I typed this that today is the one year and one month anniversary of the day I was due with you. So there we are. It’s momentous, in its own roundabout way, right? You know what, buddy? We need to celebrate when we get to it. We’re just two little pieces of a big family puzzle and if there is any resounding message for members of big families, it’s this “It ain’t always about you.” In fact, it ain’t often about you, and that’s okay. You were born into a whole houseful of people who adore you. That’s better than an on time, online tribute any day.
This last year has been perhaps the most overwhelming, exhausting, chaotic, and exhilarating year of motherhood I’ve ever experienced since your first sister’s birth nearly a decade ago. And I’ve had some overwhelming years. You were a surprise (that’s the nice way of putting it. The more accurate way of putting it is that you burst into my life with a thunderous, life altering shock that took my entire pregnancy and several months of your life to adjust to). Not that I’m sorry you came. I can’t imagine my world without you. If there had never been a Clayton Robert, my life would have had a gaping hole I would have had no name for. Because how could I, or our family, have ever been complete without YOU? Just ask your big brother, who prayed every single night that “the baby is a boy!” and wrote on his first communion plaque that the thing he is most thankful for in the whole world is his baby brother.
You were the answer to so many prayers. Some of them we didn’t know we were praying, but, as He generally does, God laughed at my plans for our family and my future and knew from the beginning of time what I needed. You. You were that sweet, bubbly, Godly laugh. What a blessing!
But I spent about the first 6 months of your life in the dazed, 24 hour sweatpants and no make up, sleep deprived haze of early motherhood. This isn’t so unusual, I guess, except that this wasn’t even close to the early days of motherhood for me. I mean, YOU, were new—but I could hardly be called a “new” mother after 9 years and 4 kids worth of mothering under my belt.
I hate to make the story of your life so far all about eating, but truly, it is what it was about for awhile. My maternity leave revolved around watching the clock to ensure I was nursing you at least every 3 hours and that you were staying latched for at least 10 minutes per side. I recorded pages and pages of information on your feeding sessions, how long, how strong, how much I was eating to ensure quality and quantity of milk, how much water I was drinking, how much you were sleeping. I knew from the start that you weren’t nursing right. The pain was excruciating and that’s not how it should be. You were like a voracious crocodile and I cried and moaned and prayed and danced to try and endure your feeding sessions. Those latch issues (my fault—entirely mine) led us into a terrible spiral of mastitis, poor weight gain, more desperate feeding attempts for you, more pain for me, more mastitis. It was sad. And ugly. Everyone (including me) thought I knew what I was doing and when we finally got help from an angel of a lactation consultant, it was almost too late. For a few months I had to supplement you with formula—a first for this seasoned and desperately committed nursing mom—and pump and give you bottles as you steadfastly refused the breast.
But I was persistent and you were patient. Gradually I coaxed you back onto the breast and my exhileration at getting you to eat the way God intended babies to eat was astronomical. I called my mom and my sister (the only 2 people on the planet who still had any patience for my stories and struggles about nursing you) practically in tears of joy.
Cut to your first birthday (okay, okay, your first birthday plus one month and three days) and you are an enormous bear of a boy. It’s a running joke in our family how epically hungry you always are. You take such great, enthusiastic joy in eating and will devour just about anything we put in front of you. Your favorites are pizza (and it is not an exaggeration to say you can finish 3 whole slices on your own), blueberries, applesauce, and steak. And chicken. Oh and cereal. And grapes. And milk. On your first Christmas (at the age of 8 months) you gobbled up prime rib. That's a true story. You just love to eat, little boy, and there is something very deeply satisfying to see my “failure to thrive” gaunt infant boy gobbling everything in sight and growing by leaps and bounds. My favorite part of your perfect body is your pot belly. Every day I watch closely to be sure that it doesn’t start to shrink with all your running around. So far it has remained intact. I make sure to smother it with kisses every night after your bath just in case it doesn’t last forever. For your sake, I hope you lose it by, say kindergarten. But for my sake, I hope you get to keep it for a little while longer yet (maybe high school?).
For your birthday, I told everyone to buy you size 18 month clothes. 1 month later, I am digging out receipts to exchange what I can and planning to save the rest for your cousin Oliver because you clearly need a bigger size already. (How you hate having those not so tiny t-shirts pulled over your big head and my constantly trying to pull them down over your big belly.)
You kicked me for the first time during a football game at Iowa’s Kinnick Stadium. I prayed then for you to be a rowdy little boy—the kind of boy I know your daddy must have been. A little guy who loves trucks and dirt and balls and being outside. Boy, did I get what I prayed for. (You also have a great passion for toothbrushes and remote controls. I just don't know how to weave that into a clever metaphor). I guess I should have been a little more specific with those prayers—because as my 5th and final baby, it would have been nice for you to be a bit of a snuggler. But you are my very big boy already, thank you very much. You have no interest in being my baby and infinitely prefer your dad’s rough-housing to my cuddles. In fact, you prefer your dad for just about everything—even kissing your boo boos and putting you to sleep. In spite of our trials with breastfeeding (at the height of which I assured you I would nurse you for as many years as you desired), you have weaned me completely already. It’s a little sad for me, but I love seeing your big, healthy body lurching around my house and tearing everything out of my drawers and cupboards (ok—THAT I don’t love so much). Sometimes at night you will tolerate some snuggling in the rocker with your blankie, but more often than not you prefer to nestle into your bed alone, your hair nearly white against the blue blankets, your smiling eyes tucked closed and your arms and legs flung all akimbo. You already look so big in your baby bed. You sleep hard, you play hard, you eat heartily and often. You are taking this world by storm.
Thanks for letting me tag along.
Love,
Mommy
I had intended to use the momentous occasion of your first birthday to re-launch my blog, outlining in great, witty and heartfelt lengths my love for you and our adventures over this first year of your wonderful life.
But, you know, LIFE interfered (like it always does). I think it was right about the time you were playing in the toilet while your sister was still sitting on it that I realized I wasn’t going to get anything posted for your day. Or, okay, for your month. My next plan was to post this one day late and call it “1 year and 1 day—TODAY!”, but I missed that too. Then I thought “1 year and 1 week”. Still catchy, right? Still clever. But I missed that too. And I missed the “One year and one month” deadline by 3 days. So here we are. I’m beyond late. I’m generally late. You’ll get used to it.
I just realized as I typed this that today is the one year and one month anniversary of the day I was due with you. So there we are. It’s momentous, in its own roundabout way, right? You know what, buddy? We need to celebrate when we get to it. We’re just two little pieces of a big family puzzle and if there is any resounding message for members of big families, it’s this “It ain’t always about you.” In fact, it ain’t often about you, and that’s okay. You were born into a whole houseful of people who adore you. That’s better than an on time, online tribute any day.
This last year has been perhaps the most overwhelming, exhausting, chaotic, and exhilarating year of motherhood I’ve ever experienced since your first sister’s birth nearly a decade ago. And I’ve had some overwhelming years. You were a surprise (that’s the nice way of putting it. The more accurate way of putting it is that you burst into my life with a thunderous, life altering shock that took my entire pregnancy and several months of your life to adjust to). Not that I’m sorry you came. I can’t imagine my world without you. If there had never been a Clayton Robert, my life would have had a gaping hole I would have had no name for. Because how could I, or our family, have ever been complete without YOU? Just ask your big brother, who prayed every single night that “the baby is a boy!” and wrote on his first communion plaque that the thing he is most thankful for in the whole world is his baby brother.
You were the answer to so many prayers. Some of them we didn’t know we were praying, but, as He generally does, God laughed at my plans for our family and my future and knew from the beginning of time what I needed. You. You were that sweet, bubbly, Godly laugh. What a blessing!
But I spent about the first 6 months of your life in the dazed, 24 hour sweatpants and no make up, sleep deprived haze of early motherhood. This isn’t so unusual, I guess, except that this wasn’t even close to the early days of motherhood for me. I mean, YOU, were new—but I could hardly be called a “new” mother after 9 years and 4 kids worth of mothering under my belt.
I hate to make the story of your life so far all about eating, but truly, it is what it was about for awhile. My maternity leave revolved around watching the clock to ensure I was nursing you at least every 3 hours and that you were staying latched for at least 10 minutes per side. I recorded pages and pages of information on your feeding sessions, how long, how strong, how much I was eating to ensure quality and quantity of milk, how much water I was drinking, how much you were sleeping. I knew from the start that you weren’t nursing right. The pain was excruciating and that’s not how it should be. You were like a voracious crocodile and I cried and moaned and prayed and danced to try and endure your feeding sessions. Those latch issues (my fault—entirely mine) led us into a terrible spiral of mastitis, poor weight gain, more desperate feeding attempts for you, more pain for me, more mastitis. It was sad. And ugly. Everyone (including me) thought I knew what I was doing and when we finally got help from an angel of a lactation consultant, it was almost too late. For a few months I had to supplement you with formula—a first for this seasoned and desperately committed nursing mom—and pump and give you bottles as you steadfastly refused the breast.
But I was persistent and you were patient. Gradually I coaxed you back onto the breast and my exhileration at getting you to eat the way God intended babies to eat was astronomical. I called my mom and my sister (the only 2 people on the planet who still had any patience for my stories and struggles about nursing you) practically in tears of joy.
Cut to your first birthday (okay, okay, your first birthday plus one month and three days) and you are an enormous bear of a boy. It’s a running joke in our family how epically hungry you always are. You take such great, enthusiastic joy in eating and will devour just about anything we put in front of you. Your favorites are pizza (and it is not an exaggeration to say you can finish 3 whole slices on your own), blueberries, applesauce, and steak. And chicken. Oh and cereal. And grapes. And milk. On your first Christmas (at the age of 8 months) you gobbled up prime rib. That's a true story. You just love to eat, little boy, and there is something very deeply satisfying to see my “failure to thrive” gaunt infant boy gobbling everything in sight and growing by leaps and bounds. My favorite part of your perfect body is your pot belly. Every day I watch closely to be sure that it doesn’t start to shrink with all your running around. So far it has remained intact. I make sure to smother it with kisses every night after your bath just in case it doesn’t last forever. For your sake, I hope you lose it by, say kindergarten. But for my sake, I hope you get to keep it for a little while longer yet (maybe high school?).
For your birthday, I told everyone to buy you size 18 month clothes. 1 month later, I am digging out receipts to exchange what I can and planning to save the rest for your cousin Oliver because you clearly need a bigger size already. (How you hate having those not so tiny t-shirts pulled over your big head and my constantly trying to pull them down over your big belly.)
You kicked me for the first time during a football game at Iowa’s Kinnick Stadium. I prayed then for you to be a rowdy little boy—the kind of boy I know your daddy must have been. A little guy who loves trucks and dirt and balls and being outside. Boy, did I get what I prayed for. (You also have a great passion for toothbrushes and remote controls. I just don't know how to weave that into a clever metaphor). I guess I should have been a little more specific with those prayers—because as my 5th and final baby, it would have been nice for you to be a bit of a snuggler. But you are my very big boy already, thank you very much. You have no interest in being my baby and infinitely prefer your dad’s rough-housing to my cuddles. In fact, you prefer your dad for just about everything—even kissing your boo boos and putting you to sleep. In spite of our trials with breastfeeding (at the height of which I assured you I would nurse you for as many years as you desired), you have weaned me completely already. It’s a little sad for me, but I love seeing your big, healthy body lurching around my house and tearing everything out of my drawers and cupboards (ok—THAT I don’t love so much). Sometimes at night you will tolerate some snuggling in the rocker with your blankie, but more often than not you prefer to nestle into your bed alone, your hair nearly white against the blue blankets, your smiling eyes tucked closed and your arms and legs flung all akimbo. You already look so big in your baby bed. You sleep hard, you play hard, you eat heartily and often. You are taking this world by storm.
Thanks for letting me tag along.
Love,
Mommy
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