Happy Birthday, Take 3
So this is the third birthday in the past week. I failed to mention Mark's birthday--the big 33. Sorry Mark! You get lost in the shuffle when we have a first and third birthday in the mix! We did enjoy a free night out together and free babysitting from Mark's parents. It was lovely and serene.
So I can't leave my birthday girl out. She gets a special letter, too. This all started when a friend of mine mentioned that she writes a letter every year to her daughter on her daughter's birthday. Some day, my friend plans to give her daughter all the letters she's written over the years. I love that idea, so I am shamelessly copying it from here on out. To the birthday girl:
My Dear Audyn,
Three. I can hardly believe it. Lots of people in town remember your birth story, because you made your entrance VERY quickly. I was listening to a lecture at a mom's group when the first contractions came. No big deal. I'd had false labor before. But by the time we gathered into our small groups a half hour later, I was quite sure you were on your way. "Excuse me, but I think the baby is on its way," I piped in to the discussion.
"What?!" all eyes turned to me. "Are you OK? Do you want help? Should someone drive you home?"
"Oh, no. I'll be fine. But I'm going to get Emelyn from the nursery and call Mark, just in case." I remember having contractions while helping Emelyn into her coat and the teachers exclaiming that they could take me home. And I turned it down, again. I was remembering how Emelyn entered the world. Slowly.
By the time I had your big sister buckled into her seat and started on our way, I was having contractions closer and closer together. I called Daddy from the car, who told me he needed to do some things at school still, but that he could be home in a couple of hours.
"A couple of hours?! I don't think you understand what's happening here! I'm having the baby, and it's coming soon!"
At home, I alternately crawled and walked through the paces of packing a bag. Procrastinator that I am, I was two days overdue and still hadn't completely packed for the hospital stay. Well, let me rephrase that. I had packed, but then you were late, so I started using things from the bag that I needed. Bad idea. In between packing a very bizarre assortment of items, I reassured worried, big sister Emelyn that all was well. Just when I thought I would call 911 to come take me to the hospital, Dad burst in the door.
"We're going right now!" I was panicked. "And I'm not sure we'll even make it!" Likely on the verge of hysterics.
By the time we dropped Emelyn off at friends and made the fifteen mile trip to the hospital on snow-filling streets, I was in active labor. The staff had just enough time to get me into my room, my gown, my bed, a hasty epidural, and there you were! Start to finish, 4 hours. "It's a girl!" Another girl. A sister for Emelyn. I was thrilled.
But here's the part a lot of people might not know. And I think now is as good a time as any to tell it. Because it is important. And it will be important for you to know someday.
You are more than an ordinary miracle. After Daddy had cancer, doctors told us we wouldn't conceive any more children without medical intervention. On the very day--THE DAY--I was prepared to call in for the rounds of medication I was going to take so we could try to have another child, I discovered you. Your little life was already pulsing and growing within me. Then, three months later, on a sticky July evening, an on-call doctor told me that I had likely miscarried my pregnancy. I was utterly broken. And so angry. I spent the night grieving deep.
The next morning, on the ultrasound table, I prepared to hear a confirmation of what we already knew. Cold blue goo, a wand, and a technician revealed otherwise. "Look at that baby, kicking away! [She's] fine!" It was at that moment that I finally understood the biblical account of Sarah's laughter after God promised her a child. Theologians have pondered this question for ages. Why did an aged Sarah laugh when God told her she would conceive after so many barren years? Who would do that? Was it because she didn't believe God? But she was a woman of faith. Was it because she was happy? Laughter still seems a bit odd. Was she mocking her Lord? Not likely.
I laughed. Hard and long. And the laughing was like pain. And it was like disbelief. And it was like joy. And I knew, in that instant. Of course Sarah laughed. What else would she have done? I was shaking so hard with the force of it, the technician kindly asked me to stop moving. She couldn't get a good picture of you. I walked into that office thinking I would leave with an appointment for a procedure I dreaded. We left the doctor's office that day with pictures of you in our hands. You, my dear one, are a true miracle. The baby we were told not to expect--TWICE.
And here you are. And I will never stop marveling at that fact alone.
It wasn't that long ago when you were still a baby in my arms, soaking up the world with your big brown eyes, your quiet gaze. You were so calm as a newborn. You slept all day and woke all night, but you were so good all the time, we couldn't get too upset. We went days without sleeping more than one or two hours, but we loved you just the same.
We thought you would always be our quiet one, but that quickly changed! Now your chatter rivals that of your big sister. One of my great pleasures is listening to you and Emelyn imagine together, play together, even fight together. I love the energy you two create in the house; it makes our family so alive. These days I get the privilege of listening from the outside in--I'm not often invited into your play anymore. You're both so independent, so sure of what you want, and you don't need Mom inserting her ideas into your play space. Together you are masters of your own universe!
Daddy and I love seeing you grow into your own unique personality, develop your interests, and claim your special place in the line-up of our three kids. I can see that it must be hard to be in the middle sometimes. Big sister does everything first. Little brother gets accolades for doing things you mastered long ago. And you? Well, you've found your voice, that's for sure! You know how to tell us what you're thinking in no uncertain terms. You're perfectly comfortable volleying for attention with your voice and body! Still, in a group or unfamiliar social setting, you turn back into my shy girl, my little observer of the world. You're content to take direction from others, but you want your own role in playtime, too. So if taking direction means you get a back seat to the fun, you'll speak up!
Here's what else we love about you (other than the fact that you're ours, of course): We love your imagination--we've never seen anyone play with food like you do! And I don't mean throwing it around. Your food speaks! On its way to your mouth your food is off to parties--the chicken chatting with the broccoli, the milky cheerio dancing with a blob of honey in your bowl, the ice cream jumping on or off your spoon. Your appreciation for all things related to food makes me smile--cooking, tasting, even doing dishes--because it's so me.
When I get home from the grocery store, it's like a carnival in the kitchen. For as long as I remember, you've loved peeking into the bags and exclaiming over the food I've brought home. Now you've added helping put it all away to the thrill of peeking. It's like you've unearthed buried treasure when you come across a container of berries or a box of mac and cheese. Like a true Italian, you thrill at the prospect of future meals. And I'm right there with you.
Tonight, at your birthday dinner, you complained that the singing was too loud (so like you) and dove into your ice cream sundae with such enthusiasm we all had to laugh (also like you). When that first spoonful of whipped cream entered your mouth there was no mistaking the look of euphoria on your face. My girl. I love that about you.
We love your sense of humor, too--you have a quick wit and you entertain us endlessly with your silly antics and quick comebacks. While your big sister loves a good fairy tale, you love picture books with humor and irony and plenty of animal antics.
Though you may not be the most coordinated of our children (you get that from me--sorry!), you still manage to throw yourself into life with passion. You are creative, smart, beautiful. You are fierce, protective, loyal. You are affectionate to your core, loving nothing more than a warm hug, a long snuggle, a kiss. You soak up physical affection from all of us and you dole it out without reservation.
I imagine that this past year has been hard on you in some ways. You lost your place as baby of the house. You're growing up fast, and that's always hard. Your sister went off to school three days a week, and oh how you miss her when she's gone. You lost Mommy for a little while when Kaleb was born--emotionally, physically. You lost me. And I am sorry for that. But you have shown me how resilient you can be. How big your love is. And just when I think I can't love you more than I already do, it happens. I love you more and more and more....
Audyn, we are so proud of you. In the words of Sandra Boynton (one of your favorite silly authors):
Now I have a thing to tell you and it won't take long. The way I feel about you is a kind of a song. It starts with an "Ooooo," and ends with a kiss. And all along the middle it goes something like this: It goes, Ooooo, Snuggle Puppy of mine. Everything about you is especially fine. I love what you are, I love what you do. Fuzzy little Snuggle Puppy, I love you!
We love you, Little Pip. You are our special girl "forevah and evah."
So I can't leave my birthday girl out. She gets a special letter, too. This all started when a friend of mine mentioned that she writes a letter every year to her daughter on her daughter's birthday. Some day, my friend plans to give her daughter all the letters she's written over the years. I love that idea, so I am shamelessly copying it from here on out. To the birthday girl:
My Dear Audyn,
Three. I can hardly believe it. Lots of people in town remember your birth story, because you made your entrance VERY quickly. I was listening to a lecture at a mom's group when the first contractions came. No big deal. I'd had false labor before. But by the time we gathered into our small groups a half hour later, I was quite sure you were on your way. "Excuse me, but I think the baby is on its way," I piped in to the discussion.
"What?!" all eyes turned to me. "Are you OK? Do you want help? Should someone drive you home?"
"Oh, no. I'll be fine. But I'm going to get Emelyn from the nursery and call Mark, just in case." I remember having contractions while helping Emelyn into her coat and the teachers exclaiming that they could take me home. And I turned it down, again. I was remembering how Emelyn entered the world. Slowly.
By the time I had your big sister buckled into her seat and started on our way, I was having contractions closer and closer together. I called Daddy from the car, who told me he needed to do some things at school still, but that he could be home in a couple of hours.
"A couple of hours?! I don't think you understand what's happening here! I'm having the baby, and it's coming soon!"
At home, I alternately crawled and walked through the paces of packing a bag. Procrastinator that I am, I was two days overdue and still hadn't completely packed for the hospital stay. Well, let me rephrase that. I had packed, but then you were late, so I started using things from the bag that I needed. Bad idea. In between packing a very bizarre assortment of items, I reassured worried, big sister Emelyn that all was well. Just when I thought I would call 911 to come take me to the hospital, Dad burst in the door.
"We're going right now!" I was panicked. "And I'm not sure we'll even make it!" Likely on the verge of hysterics.
By the time we dropped Emelyn off at friends and made the fifteen mile trip to the hospital on snow-filling streets, I was in active labor. The staff had just enough time to get me into my room, my gown, my bed, a hasty epidural, and there you were! Start to finish, 4 hours. "It's a girl!" Another girl. A sister for Emelyn. I was thrilled.
But here's the part a lot of people might not know. And I think now is as good a time as any to tell it. Because it is important. And it will be important for you to know someday.
You are more than an ordinary miracle. After Daddy had cancer, doctors told us we wouldn't conceive any more children without medical intervention. On the very day--THE DAY--I was prepared to call in for the rounds of medication I was going to take so we could try to have another child, I discovered you. Your little life was already pulsing and growing within me. Then, three months later, on a sticky July evening, an on-call doctor told me that I had likely miscarried my pregnancy. I was utterly broken. And so angry. I spent the night grieving deep.
The next morning, on the ultrasound table, I prepared to hear a confirmation of what we already knew. Cold blue goo, a wand, and a technician revealed otherwise. "Look at that baby, kicking away! [She's] fine!" It was at that moment that I finally understood the biblical account of Sarah's laughter after God promised her a child. Theologians have pondered this question for ages. Why did an aged Sarah laugh when God told her she would conceive after so many barren years? Who would do that? Was it because she didn't believe God? But she was a woman of faith. Was it because she was happy? Laughter still seems a bit odd. Was she mocking her Lord? Not likely.
I laughed. Hard and long. And the laughing was like pain. And it was like disbelief. And it was like joy. And I knew, in that instant. Of course Sarah laughed. What else would she have done? I was shaking so hard with the force of it, the technician kindly asked me to stop moving. She couldn't get a good picture of you. I walked into that office thinking I would leave with an appointment for a procedure I dreaded. We left the doctor's office that day with pictures of you in our hands. You, my dear one, are a true miracle. The baby we were told not to expect--TWICE.
 |
| About five months, likely after a sleepless night |
It wasn't that long ago when you were still a baby in my arms, soaking up the world with your big brown eyes, your quiet gaze. You were so calm as a newborn. You slept all day and woke all night, but you were so good all the time, we couldn't get too upset. We went days without sleeping more than one or two hours, but we loved you just the same.
 |
| Navigating the zoo at one year old |
Daddy and I love seeing you grow into your own unique personality, develop your interests, and claim your special place in the line-up of our three kids. I can see that it must be hard to be in the middle sometimes. Big sister does everything first. Little brother gets accolades for doing things you mastered long ago. And you? Well, you've found your voice, that's for sure! You know how to tell us what you're thinking in no uncertain terms. You're perfectly comfortable volleying for attention with your voice and body! Still, in a group or unfamiliar social setting, you turn back into my shy girl, my little observer of the world. You're content to take direction from others, but you want your own role in playtime, too. So if taking direction means you get a back seat to the fun, you'll speak up!
Here's what else we love about you (other than the fact that you're ours, of course): We love your imagination--we've never seen anyone play with food like you do! And I don't mean throwing it around. Your food speaks! On its way to your mouth your food is off to parties--the chicken chatting with the broccoli, the milky cheerio dancing with a blob of honey in your bowl, the ice cream jumping on or off your spoon. Your appreciation for all things related to food makes me smile--cooking, tasting, even doing dishes--because it's so me.
When I get home from the grocery store, it's like a carnival in the kitchen. For as long as I remember, you've loved peeking into the bags and exclaiming over the food I've brought home. Now you've added helping put it all away to the thrill of peeking. It's like you've unearthed buried treasure when you come across a container of berries or a box of mac and cheese. Like a true Italian, you thrill at the prospect of future meals. And I'm right there with you.
Tonight, at your birthday dinner, you complained that the singing was too loud (so like you) and dove into your ice cream sundae with such enthusiasm we all had to laugh (also like you). When that first spoonful of whipped cream entered your mouth there was no mistaking the look of euphoria on your face. My girl. I love that about you.
We love your sense of humor, too--you have a quick wit and you entertain us endlessly with your silly antics and quick comebacks. While your big sister loves a good fairy tale, you love picture books with humor and irony and plenty of animal antics.Though you may not be the most coordinated of our children (you get that from me--sorry!), you still manage to throw yourself into life with passion. You are creative, smart, beautiful. You are fierce, protective, loyal. You are affectionate to your core, loving nothing more than a warm hug, a long snuggle, a kiss. You soak up physical affection from all of us and you dole it out without reservation.
I imagine that this past year has been hard on you in some ways. You lost your place as baby of the house. You're growing up fast, and that's always hard. Your sister went off to school three days a week, and oh how you miss her when she's gone. You lost Mommy for a little while when Kaleb was born--emotionally, physically. You lost me. And I am sorry for that. But you have shown me how resilient you can be. How big your love is. And just when I think I can't love you more than I already do, it happens. I love you more and more and more....
Audyn, we are so proud of you. In the words of Sandra Boynton (one of your favorite silly authors):
Now I have a thing to tell you and it won't take long. The way I feel about you is a kind of a song. It starts with an "Ooooo," and ends with a kiss. And all along the middle it goes something like this: It goes, Ooooo, Snuggle Puppy of mine. Everything about you is especially fine. I love what you are, I love what you do. Fuzzy little Snuggle Puppy, I love you!We love you, Little Pip. You are our special girl "forevah and evah."