When my mom was in town this past week, and Will refused to nap, she informed me that my napping habits were less than stellar at the age of two and a half as well.
"If only I could go back and tell my two and a half year old self how naps are the most amazing thing when you're older, and you never get to sneak them in, maybe my two and a half year old self would savor them a bit more."
And then I got to thinking, what else would I tell my younger self?
Dear 1-year-old me,
When someone wants to push you in a stroller, let them. Walking is overrated. You'll take billions of steps this lifetime, in beautiful shoes and in amazing countries. Rest those feet, girl. You'll need them.
Dear 3-year-old me,
Just eat the peas, for crying out loud! Give your mother and father a rest. On second thought, don't eat the peas, but don't get frustrated when your own kids won't eat them either. Popcorn was good enough for your dinners, it's good enough for your own kids' dinners, too.
Dear 5-year-old me,
It's okay to cry because you don't want vacation to end. Time with family in the sun is one of the most beautiful things in the world. Savor it, appreciate it, fall in love with it, shed a tear, and then be grateful for the time.
Dear 9-year-old me,
Don't you dare listen to that nutritionist and doctor. Don't you dare let them make you feel like you will spend your life being the apple-shaped fat girl. Pick up the plastic food that she makes you put on your "sensible" plate, and throw it at her head. It will save you a lot of heartache, hours at the gym, and hundreds in therapy. You. Are. Beautiful.
Dear 13-year-old me,
Go ahead and give Mrs. Couzins a big hug. She was the first one to tell you you had a knack for writing. And even though it's not the path you eventually chose, it feels really damn good to have someone believe in you.
Dear 13-year-old me,
Boys. Are. Dumb. Especially at this age.
Dear 13-year-old me,
Girls. Are. Cruel. Especially at this age.
Dear 18-year-old me,
Sigh. You were a mess. Where do I even begin? College is for mistakes. Make them now, not later. Look back on them without regret but with appreciation for getting them all out of the way now. We will worry about reversing tanning bed damage later. (Who goes to tanning beds at 2:30 a.m. because it's the only appointment available during the busy sorority formal season? Oh yeah, 18-year-old dumb me.)
Dear early 20-somethings me,
Yeah, you thought you had it all figured out. It's okay. Let's look at it as confidence. You made great decisions in this age (career moves and husband selection at the top of that list). Be proud of yourself for picking a husband who will grow and change as much as you do (even though right now you think you couldn't possibly grow or change anymore).
Dear late 20-somethings me,
Thirty isn't scary. It's awesome. And your 30-somethings self will remind you of this as you approach 40. Embrace your age--it's just a number. How do you feel on the inside? Remember that instead.
Dear present me,
You rock. You are aware. You know where to grow, you continue to learn. Way to love the journey. Give your one-year-old self a high five. You are walking a beautiful path.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
It's 4:30...too early for a margarita?
I promise, dear reader, I do not have a drinking problem.
Moms of two, three, four--heck, moms of one: do you hear me on this? Sometimes, it's just the promise of a sweet, sippable, potent beverage that gets you not to the end of the day, but to the couple of hours before bath time and bed time.
Stressed out non-parents, I know you hear me, too.
It's 4:30 as I type...and I'm contemplating, too early for that margarita?
Will's surgery went swimmingly this morning. Greg held him as he slipped into LaLa Land; and the nurse held me as I cried buckets of tears about it. Twenty minutes later, the doctor was finished and telling us in his fabulous accent that he was fine, and as I type and contemplate that margarita, he is truly back to himself.
I spent the afternoon being in the moment (mostly because I was too tired to be in any other moment). An espresso and a solo trip to the grocery gave me 45 minutes of heaven and a little turbo charge. I should have strolled the aisles a bit longer, but once I'd gathered my Pinterest baking ingredients (as I continue to bake my way through maternity leave...Golden Oreo Caramel Cheesecake Squares for dessert tonight), I set off for home.
And now I'm on my newly sealed and beautifully staged deck (if only firing the old realtor were so easy and serene), my mom holding the baby and Will driving his car in circles, and I'm thinking...
...dare I take a deep breath, a sigh of relief, a moment to think that maybe, just maybe, things could be calm?
The answer is yes. Because in this moment it is all of those things.
And now I'll pour that margarita.
Moms of two, three, four--heck, moms of one: do you hear me on this? Sometimes, it's just the promise of a sweet, sippable, potent beverage that gets you not to the end of the day, but to the couple of hours before bath time and bed time.
Stressed out non-parents, I know you hear me, too.
It's 4:30 as I type...and I'm contemplating, too early for that margarita?
Will's surgery went swimmingly this morning. Greg held him as he slipped into LaLa Land; and the nurse held me as I cried buckets of tears about it. Twenty minutes later, the doctor was finished and telling us in his fabulous accent that he was fine, and as I type and contemplate that margarita, he is truly back to himself.
I spent the afternoon being in the moment (mostly because I was too tired to be in any other moment). An espresso and a solo trip to the grocery gave me 45 minutes of heaven and a little turbo charge. I should have strolled the aisles a bit longer, but once I'd gathered my Pinterest baking ingredients (as I continue to bake my way through maternity leave...Golden Oreo Caramel Cheesecake Squares for dessert tonight), I set off for home.
And now I'm on my newly sealed and beautifully staged deck (if only firing the old realtor were so easy and serene), my mom holding the baby and Will driving his car in circles, and I'm thinking...
...dare I take a deep breath, a sigh of relief, a moment to think that maybe, just maybe, things could be calm?
The answer is yes. Because in this moment it is all of those things.
And now I'll pour that margarita.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Everything happens for a reason, Part Deux
Bad news: Our house sale fell through, all because of $25 and a roof, and I would explain that, but I think I'm finally sick of whining about it, and so with one big ol' sigh, I'm letting it all go because...
Good news: Our builder is still going to start building our house next week, which means...
Bad news: We have to re-list the house sooner rather than later (or the builder will end up selling our dream home to someone else!), and then there's the little wrench of...
Bad news: Will's having surgery next week.
Not major surgery--don't you fret. I would like the kid (and his mom and dad) to catch a break, but since everything happens for a reason, it's just not yet.
Will woke up yesterday morning and his face looked like a swollen tomato. Off to the doctor we went, to learn it was just an allergic reaction to sunscreen (and why not?), but that his ears were also infected, making it yucky ear infection number five in three months.
I got an appointment today at Children's hospital (where Greg and I were more than mildly disturbed at the "No Hitting Zone" sign that we assumed was for children at play, only upon closer inspection to realize it was for parents to not beat their children in the waiting area), and the nice Australian doctor (we told Will he was probably friends with The Wiggles) told us it'd be in Will's best interest to have tubes put in and adenoids taken out.
Again, no big deal...lots of kids have this surgery every day--kids I know at that! I think a Facebook friend had her daughter in today to have the same thing done!
But subjecting my sweet boy to more pokes and prods and fearful things, well, it gives me a knot in my stomach and a tug at my heart.
If our house sale had gone through, then we wouldn't be able to really focus on Will like we can now.
And so I give it all to the Universe. It is clearly out of our hands. My intentions have been made clear, but I'll take whatever path is set forth for us.
Everything happens for a reason...I'm learning to be patient. And to keep my head in the here and now.
Good news: Our builder is still going to start building our house next week, which means...
Bad news: We have to re-list the house sooner rather than later (or the builder will end up selling our dream home to someone else!), and then there's the little wrench of...
Bad news: Will's having surgery next week.
Not major surgery--don't you fret. I would like the kid (and his mom and dad) to catch a break, but since everything happens for a reason, it's just not yet.
Will woke up yesterday morning and his face looked like a swollen tomato. Off to the doctor we went, to learn it was just an allergic reaction to sunscreen (and why not?), but that his ears were also infected, making it yucky ear infection number five in three months.
I got an appointment today at Children's hospital (where Greg and I were more than mildly disturbed at the "No Hitting Zone" sign that we assumed was for children at play, only upon closer inspection to realize it was for parents to not beat their children in the waiting area), and the nice Australian doctor (we told Will he was probably friends with The Wiggles) told us it'd be in Will's best interest to have tubes put in and adenoids taken out.
Again, no big deal...lots of kids have this surgery every day--kids I know at that! I think a Facebook friend had her daughter in today to have the same thing done!
But subjecting my sweet boy to more pokes and prods and fearful things, well, it gives me a knot in my stomach and a tug at my heart.
If our house sale had gone through, then we wouldn't be able to really focus on Will like we can now.
And so I give it all to the Universe. It is clearly out of our hands. My intentions have been made clear, but I'll take whatever path is set forth for us.
Everything happens for a reason...I'm learning to be patient. And to keep my head in the here and now.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Snuggle Bug
Today I wanted to make banana bread.
I wanted to make a pack/store/sell list of our stuff.
I considered heading outside to clean out some flower beds in the warm sunshine.
I've got this urge to get back at it, to feel like I'm doing something with my time that is productive. I feel like my life outside of "mom" is whizzing past me and I can't keep up.
But I'm cultivating a snuggle addict.
This snuggle addict is teaching me that it's okay to not multi-task; that perhaps everything I think is pressing really can wait an hour, a day, a month; that right now my one job is to be a mom and offer kisses and nurturing and snuggles.
So instead, I snuggled.
I knew Reid had important things to teach me.
I wanted to make a pack/store/sell list of our stuff.
I considered heading outside to clean out some flower beds in the warm sunshine.
I've got this urge to get back at it, to feel like I'm doing something with my time that is productive. I feel like my life outside of "mom" is whizzing past me and I can't keep up.
But I'm cultivating a snuggle addict.
This snuggle addict is teaching me that it's okay to not multi-task; that perhaps everything I think is pressing really can wait an hour, a day, a month; that right now my one job is to be a mom and offer kisses and nurturing and snuggles.
So instead, I snuggled.
I knew Reid had important things to teach me.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Capri Sun Epiphany
A dear friend sent me to one of her favorite blogs this morning and inspired by her inspiration, I decided it was time for a post.
About the only thing that has inspired any sort of creativity lately has been Pinterest. I am apparently baking my way through my maternity leave, one carb-filled sweet after another.
At our weekly grocery outing (to purchase ingredients to create said sweets), I pulled out of my cart a box of twelve Capri Sun pouches. And a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And Curious George fruit snacks.
And it hit me.
For as eighteen years old as I often feel--and by eighteen I don't mean fit and trim and dumb; I mean non-adult like, and in denial about my slowly growing crows' feet--I suddenly realized that I'm a mom on the fast track to forty.
I'm not just buying sweet potatoes to mash into baby food, or those styrofoam melt-in-your-mouth cereal snacks for early eaters, or even formula.
I'm buying the stuff that big kids eat.
And soon my checkout belt will be full of multiple gallons of milk and pizza rolls and Hot Pockets and other gross stuff that teenaged boys eat. And age-defying eye creme, too.
Purchasing a station wagon didn't do this to me. Buying our forever home that seems way too big and adult like to be ours didn't create this feeling.
Really, it was that box of Capri Sun.
And they sit in my pantry, so that every time I open it up to grab a Pinterest cookie, I have a constant reminder of exactly where I am on this journey.
Two kids, a couple dogs, a fantastic husband, and a life that keeps going faster and faster.
Thank you, Capri Sun, for reminding me to savor it.
About the only thing that has inspired any sort of creativity lately has been Pinterest. I am apparently baking my way through my maternity leave, one carb-filled sweet after another.
At our weekly grocery outing (to purchase ingredients to create said sweets), I pulled out of my cart a box of twelve Capri Sun pouches. And a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And Curious George fruit snacks.
And it hit me.
For as eighteen years old as I often feel--and by eighteen I don't mean fit and trim and dumb; I mean non-adult like, and in denial about my slowly growing crows' feet--I suddenly realized that I'm a mom on the fast track to forty.
I'm not just buying sweet potatoes to mash into baby food, or those styrofoam melt-in-your-mouth cereal snacks for early eaters, or even formula.
I'm buying the stuff that big kids eat.
And soon my checkout belt will be full of multiple gallons of milk and pizza rolls and Hot Pockets and other gross stuff that teenaged boys eat. And age-defying eye creme, too.
Purchasing a station wagon didn't do this to me. Buying our forever home that seems way too big and adult like to be ours didn't create this feeling.
Really, it was that box of Capri Sun.
And they sit in my pantry, so that every time I open it up to grab a Pinterest cookie, I have a constant reminder of exactly where I am on this journey.
Two kids, a couple dogs, a fantastic husband, and a life that keeps going faster and faster.
Thank you, Capri Sun, for reminding me to savor it.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Everything happens for a reason
For the last month, I have been making special deals with the babe in my belly.
"Come out now, sweet little guy, and you can have the biggest room in our next house!"
And yet despite my offers and other attempts to setmyself him free (last week I ran a couple of days, half a mile at a time, to no avail), he just sat wedged in there, happy as can be.
You see, our dear little Reid is one patient, considerate little guy.
Last week had plenty of bumps: we were back and forth with potential buyers for our house, rejecting multiple offers, putting out new ones; we were taking turns staying home with Will as he battled what turned out to be adenovirus that pretty much shut him down and got us a super fun spend the night sleepover at Children's Hospital; all the while I attempted to focus when I was at work, battling contractions and the other typical end-of-pregnancy discomforts.
Reid knew, you see. He knew exactly how much his mama could handle. And so he chose to stay put, patiently waiting to meet us.
We got home from Children's on Friday night, after hunkering down in a corner of our hospital room while random tornadoes ravaged areas around us (it was just a bizarre week, really). "Exhausted" was an understatement. I had just put my sweet Will through blood work and pokes and prods and squeezes while he'd scream for mama and beg me to go home. I'm starting to cry again just thinking about it.
I spent the night letting Greg sleep while I was up just about every hour with some early back labor, incredibly uncomfortable and desperate to just, well, sleep. I figured if this were labor, he'd need to be more rested than I.
We woke up Saturday morning; Will was still feverish. I enjoyed a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and we made plans to meet my mom at the airport that night--bless her for offering to come to take care of Will so that we could go to work this week.
And I think the Cinnamon Toast Crunch did it. Reid got a little taste and said, "Hmmmm, my mom must be feeling mildly better. Let's do this."
At 8:30 I was on pinterest in bed, timing contractions about 10 minutes apart. By 9:00 I was in the shower, thinking maybe I should get ready just in case. By 9:30 my brother-in-law was with Will and Greg and I were en route to the hospital with contractions just three minutes apart.
And by 7:25 that night, at 37 weeks and 3 days (the exact gestation Will also arrived), Reid was in our arms.
Worried about Will and his illness, we kept him at home (no visit to the hospital), which made our homecoming this afternoon this sweet:
My most favorite thing he said? "Baby Reid, you're my baby brother. I'm your big brother." Again, crying as I type. Hormones, really.
Of course, Kauffmans keep it interesting. Not even home for five minutes, Will broke out into hives (allergic to his baby brother?) and then threw up lunch all over the place. He hasn't had any appetite with his illness and ate his special hot dog-cheese lunch way too fast. But again...we keep it exciting. Have I mentioned we are showing our house tomorrow morning to those same potential buyers? Oh yeah...first night home with a newborn. We are probably crazy.
My favorite part of this whole story, though, is to tell you how amazing the heart is. I don't know how the heart does it, but every ounce of love I had for Will is still in there, and that little heart of mine just doubled its size, because Reid's place in it is just as big.
So here we go: two boys. Let the adventure truly begin.
"Come out now, sweet little guy, and you can have the biggest room in our next house!"
And yet despite my offers and other attempts to set
You see, our dear little Reid is one patient, considerate little guy.
Last week had plenty of bumps: we were back and forth with potential buyers for our house, rejecting multiple offers, putting out new ones; we were taking turns staying home with Will as he battled what turned out to be adenovirus that pretty much shut him down and got us a super fun spend the night sleepover at Children's Hospital; all the while I attempted to focus when I was at work, battling contractions and the other typical end-of-pregnancy discomforts.
Reid knew, you see. He knew exactly how much his mama could handle. And so he chose to stay put, patiently waiting to meet us.
We got home from Children's on Friday night, after hunkering down in a corner of our hospital room while random tornadoes ravaged areas around us (it was just a bizarre week, really). "Exhausted" was an understatement. I had just put my sweet Will through blood work and pokes and prods and squeezes while he'd scream for mama and beg me to go home. I'm starting to cry again just thinking about it.
I spent the night letting Greg sleep while I was up just about every hour with some early back labor, incredibly uncomfortable and desperate to just, well, sleep. I figured if this were labor, he'd need to be more rested than I.
We woke up Saturday morning; Will was still feverish. I enjoyed a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and we made plans to meet my mom at the airport that night--bless her for offering to come to take care of Will so that we could go to work this week.
And I think the Cinnamon Toast Crunch did it. Reid got a little taste and said, "Hmmmm, my mom must be feeling mildly better. Let's do this."
At 8:30 I was on pinterest in bed, timing contractions about 10 minutes apart. By 9:00 I was in the shower, thinking maybe I should get ready just in case. By 9:30 my brother-in-law was with Will and Greg and I were en route to the hospital with contractions just three minutes apart.
And by 7:25 that night, at 37 weeks and 3 days (the exact gestation Will also arrived), Reid was in our arms.
Worried about Will and his illness, we kept him at home (no visit to the hospital), which made our homecoming this afternoon this sweet:
My most favorite thing he said? "Baby Reid, you're my baby brother. I'm your big brother." Again, crying as I type. Hormones, really.
Of course, Kauffmans keep it interesting. Not even home for five minutes, Will broke out into hives (allergic to his baby brother?) and then threw up lunch all over the place. He hasn't had any appetite with his illness and ate his special hot dog-cheese lunch way too fast. But again...we keep it exciting. Have I mentioned we are showing our house tomorrow morning to those same potential buyers? Oh yeah...first night home with a newborn. We are probably crazy.
My favorite part of this whole story, though, is to tell you how amazing the heart is. I don't know how the heart does it, but every ounce of love I had for Will is still in there, and that little heart of mine just doubled its size, because Reid's place in it is just as big.
So here we go: two boys. Let the adventure truly begin.
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