ROUX’S ANATOMY

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This week, it’s as though we’re starring in our very own medical drama, not just players of supporting roles in someone else’s story arc, but the central characters themselves. That sweet baby of mine can’t quite catch a break recently, having been to the pediatrician thrice plus a visit to the lab at Rady’s in the last three days alone. Not to mention the collection of a urine sample, which required a catheter, and a blood test that took one whole hour and two different phlebotomists just to find his vein. I’ve cried many mama tears in my day, but the kind that come from the eyes of a mother watching her baby suffer are the most painful ones to shed.

The good news is that we have a diagnosis, one that is common and relatively mild, a childhood virus that isn’t preventable by any vaccine thank you very much. That doesn’t ease the trauma of the last few days, but it does eliminate the worrying that comes with not knowing what is wrong, but knowing that something isn’t right. I managed to get a little sleep last night so I was much less bleary eyed at this morning’s doctor visit, what should be our last in this particular saga. As the anemia persists, he’ll have yet another blood test next week. And we’ll go from there.

I mentioned on Instagram that in a dozen years of motherhood, I’ve never had to consult a pediatrician on behalf of a sick child. My big kids have been remarkably, uncharacteristically, amazingly healthy. Of course I credit this with the attention we put into the food that we eat, and the fact that we do not ascribe the conventional paradigm of Western Medicine, which is to prevent illness. Instead, I believe in preserving wellness. Even having a baby as sick as mine has been these last few days, I believe in the healing power of the body more than I do any other treatment. Our doctor was so impressed that with fevers as high as his were running, he wasn’t dehydrated. He had maintained his sodium and electrolyte levels strictly through breastmilk, having nursed constantly throughout this whole ordeal. Extraordinary machines, we are.

He’s finally resting more comfortably, sleeping for longer stretches of time. He’s still very clingy when his eyes are open, which had his doctor a little concerned until she took one look at him today and proclaimed him to be in possession of a well honed flair for the dramatic. Wonderful.

This has been challenging for me, I don’t do well when I feel helpless or ineffective, which is about the only way I can describe the agony that is having to restrain your own baby during painful and invasive medical procedures. That stubborn Huckleberry has wanted only to be held + walked or bounced, not worn, not cradled, not cuddled, not perched on a seated lap, nothing other than his head on a shoulder in motion, testing my patience and tapping my strength til there’s not much left.

Oh, but how I grateful I am that he is well, that we all are well, and that things are finally finally starting to settle down for us. In general, across the board, which is quite possibly the biggest relief of all.

I’m really, really ready for it to be Spring.

A RECIPE FOR BIRTHDAY CAKE

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We had the best day celebrating our sweet baby and his first trip around the sun. We did all his most favorite things: we woke up early (just the way he likes) and played with some new birthday toys, he ate his morning egg and took a little nap – a rhythm he’s developed that’s dramatically improved the quality of our days, B + I took Roux shopping, swimming, and to lunch while the big kids had a lunch date with their daddy, and we all met up again in the evening for dinner, cake, and a few more presents for the birthday boy. It couldn’t have been a better day.

How far we’ve come in just one year.

With the addition of eggs and dairy into our regular diet, it was the perfect opportunity for me to try out a traditional white cake recipe I’ve been tossing around since I started getting reacquainted with traditional foods. It turned out just the way I’d hoped, better even, and I look forward to making it again for the little party we’re throwing for our precious one year old.

1/2 C cane sugar
1/2 C grass-fed butter
2 pasture raised eggs
2 tsp. organic vanilla extract
1 1/2 C flour
1 3/4 tsp. baking powder
1/2 C organic cream
1 tbsp. maple syrup

Preheat oven to 350° and butter a round cake pan.

Cream butter and sugar together. Add each egg individually, beating first in a separate dish. Stir in vanilla extract. In a small bowl, whisk together flour and baking powder, adding these dry ingredients to the butter mixture. Once combined, add the cream and beat until a smooth batter forms. Add the maple syrup and beat for one more minute, before transferring batter to prepared cake pan.

Place cake in preheated oven and bake 35-40 minutes, until a fork inserted into the middle comes out clean.

Let cool completely before frosting, though this makes a delicious naked cake. I served it with freshly whipped cream and a side of blueberries.

The baby is still not sure, but the rest of us loved it! Simple, golden, delicious, everything a birthday cake should be.

A BIRTH DAY STORY, ON THE EVE OF HIS FIRST BIRTHDAY

rouxmamabrandnewI had been complaining for weeks about not feeling well, but come dinnertime that Sunday, I knew something wasn’t right.

“I think I’m having contractions,” I announced as I hobbled + waddled – hugely pregnant with a broken foot – around the kitchen. I finally went and called the midwives, having grown to expect voicemail instead of an answer. To my surprise, an actual voice greeted me on the other end of the line, only it was the assistant informing me that both midwives were out of town.

Seeing as I was deep into my 35th week of pregnancy, this was alarming to me as it was definitely within the “no travel” zone. I already had a bad feeling, and now it was worse. The assistant, a young gal in training to become a midwife herself, told me to relax, eat something, and count kicks, while she tried to get in touch with one of the midwives.

I relayed the news to B, who did his very best to reassure me, though by now I was definitely starting to panic, if only silently and to myself.

As my family of four gathered around the table, the kids already dressed in their pajamas, I said it again, only this time I knew it.

“I’m having contractions.”

In the bathroom, I discovered that I was spotting, confirming that I was, in fact, having contractions.

One of the midwives had called me from her personal line, which I dialed immediately. I told her about the blood, and she told me that I needed to go to the hospital for a nonstress test. I told her that I wouldn’t pass, I knew it in my core. And when she told me again that my only choice was to go to the hospital, I felt in that moment as if it were Destiny herself speaking to me on the phone.

From the moment I discovered that I was carrying a baby, I also carried with me a certain sense of what was to come. In fact, one of my greatest singular fears was that I would end up having a C-section, which I found to be funny because during my other two pregnancies the thought never once crossed my mind in any real sense. Yet, for some reason I didn’t yet fully understand, I was consumed with fear for the duration of my third pregnancy, which lent a certain eeriness – but also a degree of comfort – to the events that followed.

The tears, they effortlessly rolled down my cheeks as I told my family that we were headed for the hospital. We were so gloriously unprepared! We had only just begun to collect the things one needs when expecting a new baby, but not a single thing was actually ready. There was no hospital bag, because we were having a home birth, “just in case” not really part of our approach. I had to Google the hospital, call the front desk, and ask how to get in to labor and delivery.

A large sign posted at the entrance to the hospital alerted us to the details of its “FLU SEASON POLICY” which basically prohibits any person under the age of twelve from entering. I looked at the faces of my seven and ten year old kids, who were both clearly shaken up by what was happening (What was happening?), and we all just went inside because honestly, what else were we supposed to do? By this time, it was nearly 10 PM. Our choices were limited. On our drive over to the hospital, which turned out to be just over a mile from our home, we called the only two people we’d asked to be involved in our home birth, both of whom headed straight over.

The lady sitting at the front desk of the labor and delivery ward was not at all friendly, aggressively enforcing the part of the flu season policy which stated that my children weren’t allowed to be there. Thankfully, one of the ladies we’d asked for help arrived just in time to rescue my children so that B could focus on me, who was definitely starting to lose it.

I was admitted to the hospital, and escorted to a triage room by a nurse who apologized for the behavior of the mean lady just as soon as the door shut behind us. I was grateful for her kindness. She asked us to try and get a copy of my medical chart faxed over from the midwives, which we were able to do after much back and forth with the midwives’ assistant. Our other friend, my doula, arrived just as the doctor was confirming my suspicions, that the nonstress test was nonreactive and I would need to next have an ultrasound.

While we waited for her to return with the necessary equipment, I used the bathroom and spontaneously lost my mucus plug, a tell tale sign of the onset of labor. This can’t be happening. I’m thirty days away from my due date.

I tried to calm my nerves, but my heart was racing and my blood pressure was steadily climbing. The ultrasound revealed an alarming lack of amniotic fluid, alarming as in there wasn’t any measurable amount. The baby, although small, was moving, with a relatively steady heart rate, so it was decided that I would be observed to see how my labor progressed. I was moved from a triage room to a labor and delivery room, and given a new nurse, who began to prepare me for hospital labor (change my gown, start an IV, hook me up to contraction + heart rate monitors, etc.).

She was an older Filipino woman named Linda, with a gentle voice and a sharp sense of humor which combined for the kind of bedside manner I needed to assuage many of the fears so clearly written on my face. And in my blood pressure, which had climbed to hypertensive levels. She made a deal with me: she would wait to administer any labor inducing medication long enough for B to race home and collect a few personal items. She would however have to give me steroids and antibiotics for reasons that didn’t really make sense to me, but then again nothing was really making sense to me at the time. Thankfully, my doula was there to help me understand and feel better about what was happening as each new instrument and intervention was introduced.

There was a lot of Western medicine going down, and it was doing down fast. I couldn’t really keep up, it just kept snowballing and I did my best to go with it without flipping out altogether. I still can’t believe I didn’t flip out altogether. My hands are shaking as I type this, adrenaline from that night still readily accessible.

Inhale, exhale. It was all I could do then, and it’s all I can do now. Just. Keep. Breathing.

When Babe finally got back to the hospital, everything was in place for the pitocin to begin. My blood pressure was taken one last time, reading higher than ever, and I asked Linda to please let me take a shower. I just knew that if I took a shower, I could at least relax a little bit.

With a latex glove covering the catheter in my hand, B very gently and lovingly helped me to shower in that cramped hospital bathroom, a ritual that would become a central part of our interaction over the next five days. He was so patient, so attentive, and so very, very strong when I needed him to be that most of all.

After I had been bathed, oiled, and dressed again, my blood pressure had lowered thirty points(!) and the pitocin was finally started. Things were beginning to calm down, long enough for us – me, B, my doula, and my friend – to connect with each other and formulate some kind of game plan. The beeping of the pitocin monitor startled us all.

Linda came in to say that for some reason the machine had broken and would need to be replaced. Thirty minutes later the pitocin started again, and the four of us went back to talking about whatever it is you talk about while waiting for labor to get going. Again, the beeping.

For the third time, pitocin was started and by now it was the early hours of the morning and not a lot of progress had been made. One of the doctors came in to say that the baby’s heart rate wasn’t reading well and could I please roll to one side? Ok, maybe the other side? Let’s try an internal monitor, she said.

Despite the absence of any fluid in my uterus, the sac around the baby had yet to rupture near my cervix, so a hook was inserted up there to make a small tear in order for a monitor to be placed on the baby’s head.

Well, the baby, who had been cooperating up to this point, did not like being fiddled with in this manner, and responded by dropping his heart rate so low, it was below 25% of what it should have been. This and the fact that I was bleeding profusely from my nether regions led to much frenzy upon the part of the medical staff and suddenly the population of the room doubled. There were whispers and commands and paperwork was produced and placed in front of me, who by this time had been instructed to make my way to all fours. I looked first to Babe and then to my doula, who told me that I needed to sign the paper, consenting to a Caesarian section at precisely 4:10 AM.

Like a scene straight out of some ridiculous television drama, my fingers were pulled from Babe’s as I was rushed – literally, the doctors ran as they pushed the gurney – to the operating room. We had been told that we’d meet again after I had been prepped for surgery, and I frantically pleaded with anyone who would listen to please please please let him come in the room with me. Thankfully, Linda was there.

She held my hand as more than a dozen strangers moved quickly around me, doing her best to narrate for me what was going on. I heard someone make mention of putting me to sleep and I screamed “You can’t put me to sleep!” and I was told that I needed to sit up quickly so they could give me an epidural. Linda helped me into a sitting position, and hugged me as the anesthesiologist attempted to insert a large needle into my spine.

What felt like a punch in the back was actually the needle rupturing a layer of my spinal cord it was not meant to, and I would suffer a post-dural puncture headache for more than a week on account of this fraction of a millimeter mistake.

Needless to say, the epidural didn’t take, and with the baby in increasing distress, the only option left was for me to be put to sleep in order for the operation to proceed.

Linda came and put her face right next to mine. She spoke in a soft voice, though her words were firm. “You did the right thing coming here tonight,” she said. “You came here to save your baby. You did the right thing. You are so brave.”

The next thing I remember was the weight of a warm blanket being placed around my face. A familiar voice rose over the hum of sounds I couldn’t quite distinguish. I blinked my eyes open and found Babe sitting across from me, his face swollen with tears and exhaustion.

“We have a beautiful boy,” was all he could manage to say before we both started crying again.

Very early on in my pregnancy, before we had shared the news with anyone except our closest friends here in San Diego, I had a vivid dream while we were staying at Campland of an impossibly tiny, impossibly dimpled, light haired baby boy with a button nose and an unmistakable twinkle in his sparkling blue eyes. This was the only time I ever had this particular dream, and I had all but convinced myself that the baby I was carrying was of the female variety. But the picture that B showed me took the breath right out of my chest, because what he showed me, underneath all the tubes and wires, was the little lover of my dreams.

It would be another four hours before I would get to meet him, but I knew he was the one I had been expecting all along. He was tiny, at four pounds and three ounces, but he was mighty. As the minutes ticked by, it was clear he was stronger than any of the doctors had anticipated. The prognosis continued to evolve as each test came back negative. No scar tissue on the brain. All organs functioning properly. Responding appropriately to various stimuli. And finally, stable. Not enough so that I could hold him, but enough that we could be escorted into the NICU so that I could see him for the first time.

Through all of this, Linda waited for me. Her shift ended a full two hours before I came out of the fog of anesthesia, but she waited for me just the same. While B and I waited for the head of the NICU to inform us when the baby was ready for us to visit him, Linda came over to my bed. I could barely sit up, so she leaned in to me, held my face in her hands, and with tears in her eyes told me how proud she was of me. I hold this moment very close in my heart. I don’t know if she is aware of just how much her presence meant to me, but I could not have survived were it not for her selfless care. We were just saying our farewells when the doctor came to tell us that they were ready for us in the NICU.

The NICU is a funny place, where joy and sorrow float in equal measure through the air the way confidence and insecurity do in a high school hallway, each moment magnified by the gravity of just being there to begin with. Our baby lay uncovered under a lamp, where his body temperature was slowly being raised back to normal after being decreased to 92° in order to minimize the stress on his organs as they performed their series of examinations in an attempt to determine what exactly went or was wrong. When at long last I could get a good look at him, the first thing I thought was “that chin!” and still to this day, when I look at him, I think the same thing. That chin is delicious.

After only a few minutes, we were told it was time for us to be taken to the room where we would stay for the next four nights. The baby was being hooked up to an EEG, a scan which would last a full 24-hours, preventing me from holding my newborn until its completion. The rest of that day passed by in cycles of breast pumping, vital sign checks, and elevator rides to visit the the NICU. B did his best to keep me comfortable, though heavy drugs were doing most of that. It wasn’t until later in the afternoon the following day that I would be crippled by intense headaches anytime I was vertical.

Around dinnertime, about sixteen hours after the baby was delivered, my friend snuck my big kids into my hospital room. I was able to give them proper hugs, the kind of hugs I wasn’t really able to give them when we parted the night before, too engulfed in the drama of the situation to be fully present in our exchange of goodbyes. Now that it was clear that we were to be separated by hospital policy for the better part of a week, I was able to love them up good and proper the way a mama does when she’s bidding farewell to her babies. There were tears. And there was laughter, as there most always is when the two of them are around.

Long after the night nurse had come on duty, I paged her asking for help in cleaning myself up. She brought me a change of clothes, put fresh sheets on both my bed and the one in which B would be sleeping, and helped us make our way to the shower, where I caught a glimpse of my heavily bandaged belly. The tears just came, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t fight it either. I let the sadness, the anger, the exhaustion wash over me as the hot water rinsed the residue of the day away, though a million showers couldn’t clean me of its memory.

Even now, a full year (and almost three thousand words) later, I’m not able to completely articulate just how incredibly monumental a day it was when Roux Huckleberry Baker came into the world, though I’m almost positive there was no other way for him to do so than the way in which he did. He might be my third child, but almost everything about being his mother has been a first for me. See: chicken broth. The first year of his life has been gut-wrenchingly raw and transformative. I hardly recognize myself a year ago, the scar on my abdomen a tribute to the kind of alteration I’ve undergone as a direct result of being this baby’s mama.

There aren’t many people who meet a deep-rooted fear so directly, most of us just fantasize about things that are unfortunate yet unlikely to happen, and I have found a lot of gratitude for being given the opportunity to grow past something so ugly in such a beautiful way. I haven’t healed completely, but I’m a lot stronger than I used to be, and in possession of a lot more self-compassion.

I count the nine days we spent in the NICU amongst the best days of my life, each bearing stories worthy of their own telling. And perhaps, someday, I’ll tell about the time I stopped the nurse from feeding him formula simply because I could tell the color wasn’t the same as my colostrum, or how it took getting a social worker involved to get the process for our discharge started, or how my Huckleberry friend brought a smile to every person that saw him. But my baby just woke from his afternoon nap, and I’ve only got a few hours left to enjoy what’s left of his first trip around the sun.

What a glorious journey it has been.

01/52 // THE 52 PROJECT REVISITED

emetkendamajan715

jaderunjan715

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“a portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2015”

emet: his current obsession.
jade: my child wild.
roux: the quiet observer.

A lot more than this portrait series got away from me last year, that’s for sure. While I’m not one to harbor regret, I can say with a great deal of certainty that I simply did not slow down enough to enjoy the little things, and away they slipped. With nearly a full week behind us already, it seemed as if this year was headed in much the same manner, which is precisely why, instead of driving straight home after school this afternoon, we took a small detour to the playground. It’s amazing how special half an hour can feel, even on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon.

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON THE LAST TUESDAY OF 2014

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baby toes. you’re welcome.

My big kids just left for their weekly overnight with their father, that stubborn tiny guy of mine is finally finally napping, and the house is both quiet and clean, leaving me a moment to sit and gather my thoughts. Clickety clack.

I honestly can’t believe how quickly this year flew by. I’ve said this a million times already, but only because it is so very true.

Then again, I feel about a bajillion miles away from the person I was at this time last year. And really, the only thing I miss about being her was that she was pregnant. I will always miss being pregnant. I didn’t want it to end. But it did, and that is when the life of my Huckleberry friend began, and what a glorious thing it is to get to be that boy’s mama. He is so delicious.

Life with a preteen, a second grader, and an infant is blindingly exhausting, I will just come right out and say it. But only in the very best possible way. These little people, one of whom is an inch shy of standing eye to eye with his mother, they are remarkable. I am in awe of them, their talents, their thoughts, and am so very inspired by the way in which they each face the tests they are given with grace, dignity, and confidence. I’ll say it until the day there is no breath left in my lungs, they have taught me more than I could ever teach them in a hundred thousand lifetimes. They are brilliant, and I’m lucky they chose me. The luckiest.

And then there is this man I’m going to marry. He’s something else. The whole of the universe conspired to bring us together, and this little blended family we’ve created is of what I am most proud. We have had some wild adventures together, this tribe of mine, moving more times in four years than some ever do. Which is why getting to celebrate New Year’s Eve in the very same house where we celebrated last year is so significant: the last time this happened, Jade was a year old.

Who knows how long we’ll be in this place. We are, after all, a rambunctious bunch cursed with wild and extravagant imaginations, for whom things like relocating to the French Countryside sound not only practical, but down right necessary. With a brief stop in New York City on the way, of course. As you do. But being here, in sunny San Diego, has helped each of us to thrive in a way I don’t think any other place could have. It’s an expensive place to live, you can be sure, but it’s worth it. I like to call it the Sun Tax. You pay for what you get! I’m looking at you, Oregon.

As for me, this has been a deeply, profoundly personal year. I am not who I was, even two months ago. I’m even eating eggs, but that is a story for another day. My point is that there are some years where I have gone, didn’t I accomplish anything? But not this year. This was a year of doing. I did a lot. Maybe more than any other year of my life, big things, small things, things only me and my Creator know about, so many things. To list them would be in poor taste, I think, because it feels a little bit like gloating. So instead, I will say this. Good things come to those who wait, work hard, and want it bad enough.

You guys, the baby is still sleeping (!) and I think I actually just wrote something from start to finish, without being interrupted once. THIS ALMOST NEVER HAPPENS. Maybe I should go paint my nails, or even crazier, take a nap myself. What I should definitely do is eat some lunch, which is to say it’s time for me to beg my mister to take me out for burritos when the baby wakes up from the nap I was pretty sure he was never going to take.

Look at how much I can get done when you sleep, Roux!

BEFORE THE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE

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my little owl on halloween

This time last year is still so vivid to me, the way it felt to have a baby in my belly and the anticipation of what it would be like to have a new little person join our family.

On Monday, that little person, one Roux Huckleberry Baker, turned precisely 39 weeks old. 9 whole calendar months, exactly. And as cozy as it was to be pregnant during the Holiday Season, it is that much more delicious to have a squishy baby with whom to enjoy all the festivities. Especially a baby as magnificent as my tiny guy.

Practically overnight, he had a massive growth spurt. He woke up one morning last week and actually fit into onesies I didn’t think he’d wear until well after his first birthday. And the scooching! All of the sudden, he’s everywhere. Under the couch, next to the ironing board (the iron wasn’t on, but still!), one minute he’s playing happily under his gym and the next he’s all the way wedged between my desk and a basket of silks. I have a lot of baby proofing to do!

We have experimented with Baby Led Weaning, which is both fascinating and terrifying. On the one hand, it makes complete sense to me, and on the other hand, it’s challenging and risky. While I have been really pleased with the success we’ve had with foods like broccoli and sweet potato and even these little baked lentil quinoa cakes, a small hemoglobin test at yesterday’s check up showed that Huckle is rather anemic. We’re introducing fortified cereals and a liquid supplement with the hope such remedies will increase the iron in his blood.

To think this is the only hiccup we’ve encountered since his birth is a reminder how blessed we have been. He really has come so far. And he is so darn cute, it’s almost silly. On Saturday mornings, I’ve been taking tap classes in Balboa Park. I wear Roux in my Solly Baby wrap, easily one of the highlights of my week, and oh how the sweet old ladies in my class adore him! They kiss his sweet cheeks and fawn over him and all I can think is how lucky I am that this incredible creature chose me to be his mama.

Our days begin well before the sun rises, my Huckle likes to get up early. Once I resigned myself to our predawn routine, I came to cherish those quiet hours when nearly everything is still asleep except us two. We keep all the lights off and snuggle under covers on the couch, babbling to each other before I have to begin my duties for the day. As much as I love my job, and am grateful to have work that is fulfilling and meaningful, it’s getting harder and harder for me to head off to work each morning, feeling like I’m missing out on so many little moments that I can never get back.

Time is passing by faster than ever, we’re heading into the part of year that seems to happen at warp speed, and all I want to do is stop here for a little while. Be with my baby before he’s not a baby anymore, to enjoy my home and my family and this season. To somehow remember all the tiny details – the nuances of his voice and the myriad of sounds that are beginning to emerge, to capture exactly the way it feels when his eager little fingers reach up to explore the landscape of my face, the way he smiles at me when he nurses – because honestly, it’s as if it’s all happened in an instant. And yet, as I plan next week’s menu, I know it’s been a year, a whole entire year, since I prepared a feast in my kitchen with a bump tucked under my apron.

I’m going to try my best to take it slow this season, to live in to each experience, to treasure the time and marvel at just how bittersweet its fleeting can be.

BUT TONIGHT, YOU BELONG TO ME

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from a few days ago, when I wasn’t feeling well and he was my nurse

In my heart, I’ve always been a New Yorker. It’s been over a decade since I lived there, yet every year around this time I get really nostalgic for life in that magnificent city, and I miiiight have poked around Craigslist for apartments (ha!) in the midst of a “what if” moment last night. MAKE OF THAT WHAT YOU WILL, UNIVERSE.

But that is not what this post is about.

(more…)

SIX

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Half a year old already, and growing at a rather impressive rate, my Roux Huckleberry is one squishy bundle of delicious baby. Ours was a rocky beginning together, and the past few months have been next level difficult, but today, as we celebrate this six month milestone, my tiny guy and I are in a very, very good place.

I wouldn’t say he’s fussy as much as he is particular, though what he loves one minute he might loathe the next, so it’s always an interesting dance through our repertoire to find what is pleasing to the Huckle at any given moment. Sometimes the Ergo is all he wants, and other times he thinks it to be a mechanism of torture. He likes what he likes when he likes it, and that’s that.

But oh how he loves him some boobies. All boobies, all the time, is really all he wants out of life.

The water is most definitely his happy place. We’ve been taking him to swim at the YMCA since he was six weeks old, and just last week he put his own face in the water for the very first time. And then he did it again. And again! I couldn’t believe it. He kicks and splashes and slaps the water, and is instantly soothed by the sound of running water, so much so that even the most epic of meltdowns can be tempered by a trip to the bathroom for a quick listen.

He is steadily collecting new skills to add to his bag of tricks, including blowing raspberries with his tongue and yes, it is the cutest thing you’ll ever see. The teeth that have been causing him discomfort for almost three months have yet to cut through, which means his wide smile is still gloriously gummy. He smiles all the time, even when he cries, and he is starting to laugh with a lot more enthusiasm, especially at his big brother Emet, whom Huckle considers to be the funniest person on the planet.

The love that exists between all three of my children is a precious thing to witness. The way the older two care for the baby absolutely melts my heart. If only they could care for each other the same way! Ah, siblings.

This past week has been a real turning point, for both Roux and me. Well, mostly I made a personal breakthrough to which he immediately responded, resulting in nothing short of a miracle. A real, viable rhythm is emerging, one that includes a much more peaceful and restful night for us both. Thank goodness, really, because I was starting to worry that I wouldn’t be able to get to enjoy his babyhood, but this is better than anything I could have dreamed. It’s a real love affair we’re having, and I’m in heaven.

It may have taken a whole hell of a lot longer than I ever fathomed it could, but my Huckle and I managed to overcome all kinds of adversity to form a bond so sweet and strong, it eclipses any expectations I had of being a mother to someone other than Emet and Jade.

I am a mother of three, and I can’t imagine life any other way.

To you, my tiny guy,

Stealer of my heart and my beauty sleep, you have brought such an incredible new dynamic to what I thought was a pretty darn good life to begin with. But now that you’ve joined our party, we have all changed for the better. I cherish our conversations before the sunrise, the way you grab my face and pull me close to you. Your bright eyes look at me with the awareness that I am your mother, and that gaze is everything to me. I am your mama, and you are my child, and together we have conquered obstacles far more difficult than any I had encountered previously. Your strength gives me strength, Roux Huckleberry, you inspire me to be stronger. I love you eternally, across all time and space. Thank you for coming to me, you are exactly what I needed.

To the next six months, and six million more.

THIRTYONEDERFUL

whiteboothlaugh

favorite candid shot from a lunch date with my handsome fiancé a while back

Tomorrow I will celebrate another birthday, and since I always seem to wax nostalgic about these sorts of things, I offer this here assortment of sentiments in honor of my thirtyfirst year.

Oh, 31. You were good to me, but you also kind of kicked my ass. I spent the entirety of these past twelve months not feeling exactly like myself, which is odd. And after all that’s happened, I’m not quite sure what myself is supposed to feel like. Between pregnancy and ongoing postpartum issues, I’ve gotten a little lost in the shuffle of things. But instead of freaking out about this minor identity crisis, I see it as an opportunity to grow, which is how I know I’m not just getting older, but wiser, too. Age is a blessing, thank you very much, and I think I’m starting to get the hang of this whole woman-in-her-thirties thing.

I accomplished a few personal goals that I’d been working toward for what seemed like forever, all three of which were finally ticked off my life’s to-do list on three consecutive days, just like that, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little bit more like a grown-up. Also, this coming September marks the longest tenure I’ve had as a teacher at any one school, and even though my role has shifted a bit – moving from one subject to another – I’m more comfortable and confident in my career than ever. Working in the Waldorf movement inspires every other part of my life, and I’m very lucky to be able to do what I do.

To be brutally honest, nothing has aged me more in all my years than the delivery of one Roux Huckleberry Baker and the subsequent recovery therefrom. I woke up from emergency anesthesia to a body I didn’t recognize, one I’m still learning to claim as mine. I mean, even my broken foot hasn’t fully healed! In short, thirtyone was not kind to my physical self. But if there is one thing I know about bodies, it’s that you get out of a body what you put into a body, and I’m carrying that tidbit very close to my heart as I move into this next year.

Speaking of my heart, thirtyone was a mighty good year for love. The best year. That mister of mine, he’s full of surprises, which is precisely what made his marriage proposal so special. I had absolutely no idea! Seeing a sparkly ring on my finger every day still takes my breath away, I simply could not be any more over the moon madly in love with the man I’m going to marry. He’s one of a kind, and he’s a damn good father to boot. To all three of my kids, because that’s just the kind of guy he is. So, yeah. Our engagement is clearly the highlight of what was, quite simply, a furious and fabulous year of my life.

Any year that brings me a baby is going to be special, that goes without saying. And this baby, well, he’s all kinds of special. His wellbeing has occupied a significant part of my day to day, almost at the expense of my own, and in taking stock of things, it’s clear to me the ways in which I can afford to expand as a person. And if clarity isn’t a sign of maturity, then I give up!

Seriously though, I’m starting to feel like an adult and I like it. Because let’s be honest here, I couldn’t name one song on the radio if you paid me.

19/52

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“a portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014”

Emet: A constant state of motion.
Jade: Smile for the camera.
Roux: Fresh from a nap.

I’ve always had a kind of love/hate relationship with this holiday, if it’s even really a holiday, I’m still not sure? For starters, my own mother and I have a long history of tragic encounters as I always fell short of her expectations surrounding Mother’s Day. Then, five years ago, I made the decision to end my marriage to the father of my two older children, the inciting incident involving Mother’s Day plans that had gone awry. Of course, this particular infraction was the last in a long string of similar disappointments, but nonetheless, making such a choice cast a certain kind of damper on the day meant for honoring my role as a mother.

Each year since, Mother’s Day has found me in an unsettled place. Whether I was just starting a new job, struggling to make a strange city feel like home, or battling with plain old anxiety, it seems this day has always brought with it some sort of challenge.

Today started about as unpleasantly as possible, with a crying baby after a rather restless night, followed shortly by a sibling squabble that erupted into full on hysterics. And this was all before I’d even had any coffee! I declared our family unfit for any sort of outing, and set us all to work on various chores instead. Somewhere between the third load of laundry and moving furniture in the dining room, I realized how far five years has brought me.

Never in a million years could I have conceived of the journey that began the morning I chose divorce over despair. Yet here I am, older, wiser, happier, more grateful, more fulfilled, and more inspired than ever before. Sure, I didn’t get breakfast in bed, or even a day without my kids fighting, but this Mother’s Day was spent with the family I have always wanted caring for the house I have always dreamed of, and it was perfect. I even took photos!

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Little by little, our living space is transforming into a reflection of our family and our lifestyle. It’s been five years since I’ve lived in a place that I truly moved into, with photos in frames and art on the walls, and with help from each member of this sweet family of mine, our house is starting to really feel like our home.

Happy Mother’s Day, indeed.