Friday, Saturday, Anyday rituals.

Turns out rituals of any kind are a tough commitment for me...even the weekly variety. This is, of course no surprise to my nearest and dearest. oh, but I keep trying. I offer some extreme cuteness in exchange for my lack of consistency.

this moment.

Twelve Months.

Hey Aves, happy birthday!

You, my dear, are one. year. old. It feels impossible. We celebrated the enormity of this milestone with a little fete with family this weekend, a trip to visit family in Bend last weekend and there are two more parties on the horizon. Hey, you only turn one once, right!?

I've been adrift in sentimentality the last few days. Indulging the memories with eyes closed. Seeing again, a year later, the moments that led up to your arrival.

Those early hints of an early labor. The false alarm that sent Nana scrambling for a last-minute ticket to PDX that soon became a not-so-false alarm. The friends who pinch-hit and packed bags and picked up Daddy from the airport so he wouldn't miss a moment.

I remember the denial. Heading into work (in labor) to tie up loose ends and satisfy a doctor's order for bed-rest. Obsessing, later that night, about preparing for your arrival. Oblivious as to how soon it would actually come.

My body ached. My mind raced. Your Nana and Daddy kept chiding me for hours to lay down. Shaking their heads at my refusals. I finally let myself rest around nine. Fell asleep to the hypnobirthing CD--the one your dad and I had taken up a habit of using to lull us to sleep. It was one of a six-disc set but we had never made it past the first ten minutes. My water broke not five minutes after I had finally drifted off. Instant agony. Contractions racing, raging waves through my trembling body, one after another with not enough seconds in-between. Nana fibbed about their timing so as not to send me into a panic.

Daddy hit the gas. Twelve minutes to the hospital. A lifetime. In transition.

A life in transition.

Daddy stopped at the speed bump and I jumped out. Couldn't bear to sit in the wheelchair that Nana was begging me to wait for and insisted instead on walking to the doors. Tunnel vision. Sights fixed on the purple elevators that would deliver me to the epidural I had planned to refuse and would now walk over hot coals to find.

The volunteer at the check-in desk insisted on my name, social security number and the name of your pediatrician. Couldn't speak. I tried to oblige. Politeness stolen by waves of paralysis that held my breath hostage and forced my head to my knees. Another woman walked in with her husband. Bags packed neatly. I noticed she could talk. Wondered if she was really in labor when my thought process was interrupted by a sudden need to decorate the trash can with my dinner. Not sure I've ever been so embarrassed and unabashed at the same time. Totally uncontrollable. Biology has taken over. 

My antics in the lobby get us a front-line pass to the triage room where a perky new nurse with a blonde bob then took waaaay too long to deduce just how quickly we were progressing. So many questions. So much waiting. So much telling me just what they were doing, measuring, documenting. I couldn't hear.

Couldn't they see I was having a baby!? (Where was that epidural they kept promising!?)

Finally (Nana swears it was just 15 minutes later) we were being wheeled down the longest hallway I've ever seen. Slick floors and white walls seemed dark with my pain-blurred vision but I remember the halo that Helen, our most beloved midwife, wore as she greeted me. "You're about to meet your baby" she said. ("Indeed. Where's the anesthesiologist?" I wondered.)

The birthing suite was huge and looked north into the forested hills. This was the same room we had been in two nights before when we thought you might come even earlier. I noticed that after the drugs kicked in. Finally, a moment of relief. A complete thought. My sight returned.

It was after midnight. Three of the fastest, longest hours of my life behind me and I could actually think about you. You were coming. On your way. Contorting yourself through seven cardinal movements that would send you screaming into this world. I hoped you weren't hurting too, held Daddy's hand and resisted the urge to push. Not yet.

Later, folks will say I'm lucky to have had such a short labor. But a good friend and fellow mama who has logged two births of her own--one long, one very short--says it best. With a long labor, you get to be the frog in the pot while the water is still cold. Then, slowly, the heat brings you to a boil. With precipitous labor, you're just the frog thrown into a bubbling pot. Either way, you're still a frog in too-hot water.

Helen convinced me it was time and that I could do this. I had done the hardest part, unbeknownst to me, in the car ride here. She swore the pushing would be easy. Trust. Focus. Seven minutes and the oxygen mask went on. You were in trouble. I wanted to give you my breath. I've never sucked air so deeply in my asthmatic life. Three more minutes. One last push. You slipped into daddy's hands. A moment suspended.

Not much bigger than both palms cupped behind your tiny body. 5 pounds. 8 ounces. Legs still curled askew, I could see now where your toes had been tickling my ribs while a severely coned, bruised head revealed why it had been so hard to walk for weeks. So much revealed.

Your cord was short. Not alarmingly so, but when Helen lifted your little pink body onto me and you barely cleared my belly button--my own 'mama connection.' We all cried.

When you learn you're pregnant, you spend so many weeks wondering how this moment will come to be. I had expected to feel relieved. To revel in the elation of that singular moment. To glow with pride and awe. And, indeed, I felt, lived, all of these things. But what took me by surprise was how normal it felt too.

Of course you were there. Three and a half weeks early and right on time. Born in the wee hours of a September morning. Our daughter. First born. Avie. Sweet baby with bird legs, who painted wings on our hearts and taught us what it feels like to soar.
 
One year later and the proverbial cord has stretched. You took three solo steps the night before your birthday. You are intrepid, my love. Seeking to climb and lift and push and indulge your curiosity in ways that require me to live always on my toes.

You are a reader. A lover of water. You savor all things silly. Chief of belly-laughs and commander of funny noises. You still fill the hearts of strangers with huge grins with every trip to the grocery store. My little magnanimous beebuh. Cheers to celebrating every moment of 12 months of sweetness. Yep, four parties are definitely necessary.

With more love than can ever be said, spelled or typed.
xo,
Mama

this moment.

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. Inspired by Amanda Blake Soule (soulemama.com).

this moment.

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. Inspired by Amanda Blake Soule (soulemama.com).

Eleven Months.

Oh, beautiful growing-too-fast baby of mine,

You are well into your eleventh month and, as usual, I am well behind in writing to you. In my defense, I have good reason. We've been so busy having fun (and doing dishes, laundry, cooking and prepping for class, ahem) that there's been little time to document the details. Here's this month's highlight reel:

• Mobility is this month's vocabulary word, with a capital "M." You are all over the place. Pulling up on anything that even hints at an ability to hold your weight. Your laundry basket totally pulled the wool over your eyes this morning, collapsing under you as you tumbled into its depths. No babies were harmed, just really disillusioned and stunned at the audacity of such a stable-looking perch turning out to be soft-sided.
• We did a second round of baby-proofing to counter this development. It feels like a game of checkers though and it's again your turn to show us just where you're interested in wreaking havoc so that we can sink more money into baby gates and door latches and tv tethers and...
• Even though you've become quite the independent adventurer, you still prefer your mama's hip most of the day. Which, quite frankly, is killing my back since you're no sack o' sugar anymore. But I'm soaking up ever snugly, slobber-shouldered moment because if I've learned anything in these short months with you it's that these moments may not last.
• Teeth. You have lots of 'em and sometimes use them as weapons. Mostly when I'm swabbing my finger around your mouth trying to liberate whatever non-edible edible you've found on the floor.
• You adore a good dance party. We turn up the tunes and spin around the room and you throw your head back and squeal. Same trick happens to work when you get fussy during shopping trips.
• Climbing the stairs has become an entertaining activity in itself. Though you prefer that I hold your hands so you can 'walk' up, thanks.
• Your hair is getting so long it tickles your eyelashes. I made you a barrette to tie it back. Can't bring myself to trim it yet.
• Favorite games: You stick out your tongue and expect us to do the same. Patty cake. Keep-away (when you've managed to grab something you know is verboten you put your hands behind your back and shake them).
• You are generous with kisses and give me many smooches throughout the day.
• Fave foods: lentil soup, cantaloupe, graham crackers.

A good friend remarked this week that you are a joyful baby. "Yeah, she's pretty happy," I responded. She clarified that indeed, most babies are happy, but you, Miss Aves, are so obviously smitten with life that it's infectious. You wear your joy on every inch of your little body. When you smile, it's so clear that your whole soul is in it. No half-hearted grins for this one. Don't get me wrong, you have your moments of discontent (and boy, are they getting louder), but for the most part her comment was spot-on gospel truth. I love this about you more than anything, Aves. May your joy be forever unflappable and always inspire others to laugh along with you.

Summertime...

...And the (sleep-deprived, overworked) livin' may not always be easy. But man, those good bits in-between are sweet indeed. Farm weekends with friends. Swimming pools on sweltering days. Oregon berries for brunch. Produce swaps. Picnics at parks. Date days and DIY drive-in movies. These are full days. And oh, we are grateful.