Second Cousins

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Family Memories

Family.

That's what Thanksgiving has always been about for us. Food is fine, but we haven't always had a turkey. Mostly, it's about spending time with family.

The fact that we had pot roast on the table on Thursday evening, since we were waiting for turkey until Saturday with my mom's family, was completely irrelevant compared to the fact that my little girls were sitting with their grandparents, that my husband was next to my grandmother, and the uncle who lived with us for a while when he was in college was across the table with his wife and son.

My sister and her husband had their Thanksgiving meal with his family, but before they left, Uncle D went outside with Joy and they built a snowman together, followed by a tramp through the fields. Uncle D is my littles' favorite person in the entire world.

Although I think Great-Uncle C might be close in Grace's eyes - she snuggled on his lap most of Thanksgiving Day when we weren't eating, rubbing Shiloh's (the dog) head and sucking her thumb. She was in a state of bliss most of the day.

This photo slays me. Mom peeling carrots; D chopping them; Joy eating blueberries and casting her eyes to heaven in disgust that the adults are not taking her excellent advice on the proper preparation of glazed carrots. Every time any one of us did anything that weekend, a little voice chirped, "I can help!" and a little shadow followed behind. My sister says that when Mom was washing dishes and she (sister) was cooking, Joy stood on a stool between them and directed them with waves of her hands, like a conductor of a symphony orchestra.

This is A, my cousin's youngest boy. He's just a month and a half older than Grace. The kids weren't at all sure what to make of each other at first on Saturday, at GG's, but after playing outside with the bigger boys (Carl, D, and my cousin C), they warmed up to each other. Grace still likes Shiloh the best, but she asked about A all day on Sunday. In this picture, they are reading stories and listening to songs and all three of them humming along. Joy was in her element with two younger ones to boss. Usually we hang out with older kids or babies, so this was great for her.

My memories of Thanksgiving all center around family - grumping about having to sit at the kids' table at Dad's parents', eating caramels and divinity and Mom's AH-MAZING Tollhouse Pie and choking at all the cigarette smoke at Mom's parents'. Somehow, even the smoke, that made my sister and me horribly ill every year, doesn't seem so bad in memory, now. It's all just part of what makes up the family - loud, laughter, and smoke. At Dad's family, it was loud, laughter, and my cousins getting into trouble.

The constant, through every holiday, no matter which family was hosting it? Laughter and love.

And that's what we had this year. That's the heritage my children have been born into. Nothing could make me happier than to see that particular tradition handed down another generation.

I can't wait to see what the second-cousins group photos look like in ten years!

Posers

Poor Grace. Second-year molars are no fun, especially when you've just woken up from a nap and you mother and sister want to do silly pictures on the computer (mostly because Mamma is trying to put off packing for the trip north to visit Oma and Grandpa and GG and Aunt Zizzy and Uncle David for Thanksgiving).

However:

Those peanut butter cookies Mamma made? Those go a long way toward making you feel better. Though not enough to smile for the camera, still.

That's ok. Your sister will smile for the both of you. She loves posing.

It is, I think, going to be a looong car ride north tomorrow.

A run of luck

This has just been an exhausting week. It seems like every water-bearing appliance in my house is conspiring against me; the condo board raised their monthly fee by $50; Lulu had a cold, which she kindly passed to me. And then my managers at work asked me today, very nicely, if I would consider working my full 20 hours next week to make deadline, despite the fact that I haven't taken one lick of PTO all year and was really looking forward to it, despite the fact that from Tuesday through Saturday, I am going to be visiting family 200 miles away from my computer.

This afternoon, I pattered around the house in desultory kind of way, folding random sweaters and seeking pairs for tiny, solitary baby socks, blinking past the aura of an impending migraine. Feeling sorry for myself. Allowing a few tears to squeeze past my eyelids and drop down onto my shirtfront.

And then I found it, at the back of a desk drawer: a Christmas present from last year that I had forgotten about, a voucher from J.D. to a local spa. I had planned to use it for some pre-baby beautifying, but then I was put on bed rest and then Lulu was born, and then in the hassle of NICU and swaddlers and leaking boobs, I forgot.

I turned it over in my hands, which were suddenly shaking with hope. Please don't be expired. Please don't be expired.

It hadn't expired. I picked up the phone then and there and called to book myself a massage, a facial, a haircut and manicure. We have a lot of packing to do, a long car ride ahead of us next week, all the tantrums and nursing strikes that go along with being in a strange place, far away from home ahead of us yet...but the week after next, I have some SERIOUS pampering to look forward to.

And there was suddenly a spring in my step that hadn't been there before.

Then my mother called. J.D. and I are driving down in a few days, but she can't wait to see Lu, and wants to drive up this weekend. If I have anything to do this weekend, she'll be willing to watch the baby and give me a few hours for myself.

Suddenly, I see a way out from underneath my mounting workload. Feeling greedy, I asked my mom if she'd be willing to babysit tomorrow night so that I can go to see J.D.'s band play a show downtown.

"Are you serious?" she said. "I'd love to."

The migraine began to lift.

And now I'm cuddled up on the couch with a steaming bowl of pho to help my stuffy nose, and some illegal episodes of Downton Abbey sent to me by a friend queued up on the TiVo.

There's a saying in these here parts: if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes.

There's a saying rattling around in my head after my run of luck: if you don't like your mood, wait half a day.


Because everything just might turn out all right.

Gracie Days

I love this picture of Gracie, even in all its blurriness. 

It captures so much of her, her enthusiasm for everything, the speed with which she attacks life, even the open mouth as she takes it all in.

She's getting to be a lot of fun. She's always had a decided personality, but these days we're actually starting to understand it. 

For example: the other day, I asked her if she wanted carrots with her lunch.

"Nope!"

"Peas?" I asked.

"Nope! Just hummus and chips."

Note - hummus and chips were not on the lunch menu at all.

A few months ago, that would have translated into tears and frustration instead of her actually being able to share what she wanted.

She ended up with carrots and peas, but at least we were able to talk about why chips and hummus are better for a snack, not lunch.

She can pronounce her sister's name, or at least the nickname, now. I kind of miss the baby babble, but it is sweet to hear her holler, "Hey Joy, what you doin'?" from the other end of the house.

Yesterday I picked her up to take her upstairs for her nap, and she snuggled down into my arms and said with a contented sigh,

"I sleepin' now, Mom."

Babies are darling, but I enjoy kids so much more from age two up. These days are still as full of work and frustration as the baby days, but the rewards, for me and my personality at least, are so much greater. From answering Joy as she asks about all the different definitions for the word "mean," to listening to Grace shriek with laughter as I chase her through the house, or tell me exactly what she wants for breakfast, there's always something each day to make me laugh in delight.

Accepting the Frump - Sometimes

"No pictures of me," I told Carl sternly as I handed the camera over to him. Normally the camera is mine, but Gracie was snuggling in my arms, and I would rather cuddle my baby then try to capture the moments of Joy's third birthday celebration in as many weeks. "I haven't showered today," I reminded him.

He grinned cheekily, and started snapping.

I considered deleting the pictures. After all, we had plenty more of Joy opening presents. And these are B-A-D of me - not only do you get the greasy hair, you get the stress breakout, a nice clear side shot of the receding chin, my rounded shoulders - pretty much highlighting everything I hate most about my appearance.

But then I decided to keep them. And not only to keep them, but to put them up on the public blog. Why?

Because sometimes, fighting the frump doesn't mean looking our best. Sometimes it means living in the moment, and looking part the imperfections to the fact that these are pictures of me lovin' on and snugglin' with my babies. These are the moments of mommyhood I really want to capture, not the moments when I actually have washed hair and makeup on, and I am conscious of my posture.

Well, ok, I wouldn't mind if I was conscious of my posture all the time. I really should be. 

But still. 

Sometimes fighting the frump means raising our chin (hey, it elongates our neck!) and stepping out bravely into the world, or in front of the camera, even knowing we are covered in baby spit, wearing yoga pants, with two-day unwashed hair scraped back into a ponytail, etc. Because that's all part of being mommy, and we shouldn't be ashamed of it. We ought to be able to celebrate every moment of mommyhood, even the unglamourous ones.

So I'm keeping the pictures, and I'm not even going to flinch when I look at them.

But I will double-check to see if my shoulders are back and my neck straight.

Why I love November

A year ago today, I was just over 13 weeks pregnant with Lulu and things were looking up. We'd survived the tumultuous first trimester, which included one daily dose of Prometrium, two subchorionic hematomas, three weeks of bed rest, and no fewer than five middle-of-the-night E.R. visits.

A year ago, I was moving into the very brief sweet spot of my pregnancy, which consisted of the month of November and no more. The hematomas went away. I was let off bed rest. The nausea had abated and I felt suddenly, voraciously great. I felt so great that I tiled my kitchen. I found out at 15 weeks that I was having a girl, and J.D. and I wrote her name on the old linoleum floor before we laid the last tile, sealing her into our lives forever. We announced my pregnancy to friends and I basked in the glow of a thousand well wishes via loving Facebook comments. We rented a cabin in the Shenandoah Valley and made plans to spend Thanksgiving there--our first Thanksgiving alone, together, in seven years of marriage.

By December, it had all gone to shit again. I was diagnosed with cervical insufficiency and put on bed rest again, for the duration of my pregnancy. There was suddenly all this talk about cerclages, prematurity, birth defects, underdeveloped lungs. There was a lot of worry and heartache and stress. But man--November was awesome. I wish it could have been November for nine months straight.

Last November, I saw my baby's face for the first time. It was pretty much the awesomest November ever.


Except for this one.