home (maintenance) is where the heart is

just a typical weekend for dad.

i realized, embarrassingly recently, just how much work it is to really take care of a house. 

when we moved in a little more than a year ago, we sort of coasted on all that had been done by the previous owners in preparation for the market, as well as the projects ticked off after the inspection. but, you know, a year of sheltering five people takes its toll and the projects have started piling up. there are furnace filters to replace, a lawn to aerate and reseed, wall cracks to repair, faulty faucets to fix, insect invasions to resolve, and on and on and on.

it's pretty daunting. 

when i was growing up, my mom was the chef and the parent volunteer and the carpool driver and the back-to-school shopper and the birthday-party-planner. my dad was responsible for all home maintenance. he wore flannel shirts on the weekends and usually had sawdust in his hair or paint on his jeans and he had to clean his hands real good before dinner. 

because i was an only child, and my dad worked full-time during the week, i could usually be found on Saturdays and Sundays wherever he was. i accompanied him on runs to the hardware store. i wore goggles when he used the radial saw in the basement. i sat in the flower beds while he did weeding and mulching. i ran my Matchbox cars through his big sand pile every time (which was every summer) he rearranged the bricks in the patio. 

as i grew older, i observed less and participated more. suddenly i was the one doing the mulching, wielding the chainsaw (much to my mother's horror), painting the moulding, removing the screens and cleaning the windows in preparation for winter. i'm sure i complained about some of it—especially the Saturday mornings my dad woke me up at an ungodly hour, claiming "we're losing light!"—but you know what? i think he knew what he was doing. 

at age thirty-eight and with only limited experience as an actual house-owner, i am still learning how to properly care for it. but i have to admit: i have a pretty solid foundation (no pun intended), thanks solely to all the years i spent as my dad's tireless apprentice. 

i was thinking about all of this on Monday afternoon. i had showed up at my parents' the day before with a fresh-baked apple crisp and a plea for my dad to come over and help me with a few projects that required guidance and more than one person. he gladly agreed (and he would have even if i hadn't made him an apple crisp, but it never hurts to sweeten the deal). 

he showed up right on time, at one o'clock on Monday, just as i got all the kids down for naps. and as we checked things off my to-do list, i thought about how hard my dad has always worked. when i was growing up, he worked like a dog at the office all week. on the weekends, he worked like a dog around the house, from just after breakfast until dinnertime. and though i was happy he let me join him in his chores, i remember never quite understanding why he couldn't just relax when he was home.

now, of course, i get it.

and what i also get, and what i'm so thankful for, is that we bonded during all those chores and projects. that was our time to connect, to learn from each other, to just be together. not only was i learning how to properly pull a weed or patch a hole in drywall or use a tape measure, i was acquiring confidence, self-sufficiency. and i was learning a lot about unconditional love. 

when Michael and i first moved into our house, my parents came over with two big books—Reader's Digest guides to pretty much everything you need to know about fixing anything around your home. my dad says occasionally says, when i come to him with a house question, "you know, this is probably in those books we got you..." 

what i realized on Monday, as we worked together to restring a faulty window blind and clean up the front lawn with an edger, it always has been—and always will be—so much better learning it from my dad. 

mbm

first letter to my daughter

dear Molly,

you are almost six months old.

i really can't wrap my head around that, but it's true.

your brothers had their own websites on which i wrote to them. Matthew's has about six times as many entries as Gavin's. you, my dear, will be lucky to have half as many as Gavin. welcome to being the youngest of three. but you have something neither of them had until recently—all of me, all day, every day. which i hope will prove a lot more meaningful than posts on a website.

still, i want to remember this time in your life, and i want you to know what you were like, how i felt,  and why. in particular...

— it's true that when i first learned i was pregnant with you, i was very, very nervous. i was worried for you, worried for your brothers, worried for your daddy and for myself. but not a day goes by now that i don't think she was meant to be. you are a gift, Molly Claire. the best kind of surprise in the world, and in fact i spend a large part of every day feeling gratitude for your very existence.

— you are sunshine personified. you smiled your first smile before you were a month old, and you haven't stopped smiling since, and anyone who catches a glimpse of your smile turns into sunshine themselves. it's amazing. you exude joy and happiness (and, yes, drool and a few other things), and if there's one thing i wish for you right now it's that you always do, that you grow into one of those people who can find the joy and happiness where no one else can. because the world needs more of those kinds of people.

— you are growing so very quickly, and it makes me both ecstatic and melancholy. it's thrilling to watch you discover new things—like what you can do with your hands, or that you can pretty much stand up holding onto something for several seconds at a time already—but jeez, it's all happening so fast, there's no time for me to soak it all in. i remind myself constantly what a privilege and adventure it is, being here to see you grow, that you are, indeed, growing. there's no room for melancholy! i just wouldn't mind it slowing down a little teeny bit.

— you are adored by many, many people, but it's hard to find bigger fans than your brothers and your daddy. (and judging by the look on your face when any of them is near, the feeling is mutual.) you have three fearless protectors built right in to your family. god help them the first time you experience any kind of pain—they will take it far harder than you do! you are a very lucky little girl to have such a circle of strength and head-over-heels gaga love around you. so please forgive them when they act like boys, stink up the room or pull your hair or (accidentally) hit you in the head with a ball or a truck. just do what i do—roll your eyes and let it go. 

— you're my best friend forever. i told you that the other day when we were shopping together. i said to you, as you sat in your car seat tucked in the cart, chewing contentedly on your thumb, "you don't have a choice: i'm your best friend and you're mine, the end." some people don't believe parents and children can or should be best friends, but i'm not one of them. i am all for it. you may, someday, find much cooler, hipper, more exciting friends to hang out with, but i'm pretty sure you'll never find one who loves you as much as i do.

— but that doesn't mean i'm never going to make you mad, or annoyed, or that i will always understand you perfectly. and vice versa. we are both going to mess up so much, Mollybean. confession: before you came along i had convinced myself that i was meant to be the mama of only boys, as i've never been very good at being a girl. (it's taken me 38 years to realize and accept that it's plenty good just to be me. i hope i can pass that along to you—by example more than anything else—long before you find your first gray hair.) anyway, i want you to know that while i am here to guide and teach you, for as long as you need me to, you've already been teaching me. i know i will be learning just as much from you in our time together as you do from me. probably even more. and i think that's pretty fantastic. 

you have changed my life, little Bean, utterly and completely and absolutely perfectly. thank you so much. 

i love you forever & always,

mama

mbm

Molly Claire: a fashionably late (and all-around pleasant) arrival

Molly is now five months old and i think it's time i share her birth story. i shared her brothers' and i am so glad i have those tales recorded. it's only fair she gets her turn. especially because it was so wonderfully pleasant.

yes, i said it: pleasant.

which is funny, because i was dreading it. the closer my due date grew, the more fearful and anxious i became. i'd only done the whole pushing-a-baby-out-of-my-body thing 15 months earlier. (and Gavin came out face up, completely thwarting the whole second-baby-is-easier theory. i think we're both still traumatized from the ordeal.) fifteen months was not enough time to forget what an awful business it all is.

deep down, i was really, really scared.

because i couldn't control how my Mollybean would enter the world (or when), i used my last days of pregnancy to plow through a mile-long to-do list. i anticipated having no time for anything at all once i was officially a mama of three, so i wanted to work as far ahead as possible. which explains why approximately 48 hours before i gave birth, i was out front trimming our hedges with the giant clippers my dad had gifted me when we moved. i am sure i looked ridiculous, but i felt a hell of a lot better when it was done.

welcome to my neuroses.

anyway. perhaps sensing her mama's need for inner peace (or maybe trying to mentally prepare for her two big brothers) Molly stayed put on her due date. she stayed put for another almost-three days, in fact. on November 11th, Michael was scheduled to work from four to midnight. i told him a million times to go into work, i'd be fine, don't worry, he was only 90 minutes away, et cetera et cetera et cetera. well, i think he'd been at work for less than a half-hour when i called him and told him to come home. nothing was imminent, but i was feeling contractions stronger than the good ol' Braxton Hicks and though my parents were only a few towns over, i really wanted my husband with me. good chap that he is, he got right back in his car without complaint and came home.

i woke up the morning of Wednesday, November 12th feeling pretty sure i'd be going to the hospital soon. and i was right. i think it was around three o'clock in the afternoon when we headed over (a five-minute ride with no tunnels or midtown traffic to deal with—joy!). it was a gorgeous day, sunny and unseasonably warm for almost-winter. i left without a coat and remember thinking, as i walked (gingerly—the contractions were gathering speed and intensity) from the car into the hospital, "i better enjoy this now." (smart girl: the next day it snowed.) 

this seems like a good time to tell you that when we moved in August and i was forced to find a new OB, i took it hard. i loved Dr. M and everyone in her Spring Street office in New York. i'd gone there for years and though Dr. M hadn't delivered my boys, i had hoped she'd deliver my girl. alas, having a long-distance OB is not very wise or practical (or so Dr. M insisted when i asked if i could stay on as her patient. dear god). as i started the search for an OB closer to our new home, i was dismayed to find that every single practice had at least one male doctor. Dr. M's office was all-female. i'd never had a male gyno or OB and the thought of it weirded me out. but everyone i spoke to (including Dr. M) told me i would be in great hands (oh, eek—no pun intended, i swear) with a male doctor, and that i should basically grow the hell up already.

maybe a month and a half before Molly's birth, i met Dr. D, one of two OBs at my new practice and the one who happened to be a man. i brought Michael with me to the appointment—because one should always introduce her husband to any man who might have occasion to become intimate with her lady parts. pretty much instantly i loved him. Dr. D was easygoing, low-key but personable, and exuded a confident calmness that i found incredibly reassuring. he had grown up in New York and had delivered something like 15,000 babies in his career. he answered my questions with ease and humor. there was no exam during that appointment, just a heartbeat check, but i felt fairly comfortable with the possibility that he might someday have to, you know, eventually go there.

between that appointment and November 12th, i'd grown a little fearful of the other doctor in the practice. her name was Dr. W and though she was nice enough (and, obviously, a woman), she started talking to me about induction two weeks before my due date. her type A intensity did not jive with my whatever-happens-happens philosophy. i imagined her yelling me in the delivery room, and i wanted none of it.

as luck would have it, Dr. D was on-call when i was in labor and i will forever thank my lucky stars for that. he was amazing. the entire experience was—as i said—so very pleasant, from arriving at the hospital and getting checked in (easy, quiet, peaceful) to receiving the epidural (timely, drama-free), to the moment Dr. D padded in wearing his blue scrubs and a kind smile. he asked me if i had any questions or concerns and i blurted that i was worried about pushing. that's where things had gone wrong with both Matthew and Gavin (fetal heart monitors, oxygen masks, a lot of anxiety and barked instructions), and i just did not want to do it again.

"so why don't you labor down, then?" he said.

"labor what?" i said

"labor down. when you get to 10 centimeters, if you don't feel like pushing, we'll wait. let your body bring the baby down on its own."

wait? WAIT? that was an option? why had no one told me that before? "okay," i said, still not entirely sure what it entailed but liking the sound of it. "i will labor down."

i got to 10 centimeters pretty quickly after getting settled in my L&D room. and when i got there, i did not feel like pushing, so i waited. Michael and i watched back to back to back episodes of "Friends" on TBS (utterly comforting to both of us) and i just let my body do its thing. at the risk of sounding crunchy, it all felt so very natural. i had mostly positive birth experiences at NYU with the boys, but man, the second i hit 10, it was "okay, let's PUSH." they're on a tight schedule there, not enough rooms for too many mamas. and what did i know? so i pushed before i was ready. and it was awful (see aforementioned fetal heart monitors and oxygen masks).

but this time, this experience—now i know why some people say childbirth is beautiful. of course it hurt like hell, but it was a different kind of pain. the contractions i felt after i was fully dilated were intense but—i don't know. i was able to breathe through them, calmly. i really just trusted my body. and my baby.

at one point—i guess probably around quarter to six—Dr. D came in to check on me. he took one look, saw the baby's head and said, "oh! we better get going here." he (calmly and efficiently) called the nurses in, got his tools ready, turned on the light, got me into position and—

TWO PUSHES LATER MOLLY WAS HERE.

two measly pushes! i couldn't believe it. i watched her come out of me—at five fifty-one—and i burst into tears and said, "you're my favorite!" Dr. D placed her on my chest and i laughed-cried forever, blathering to both him and my daughter about how awesome it all was.

it really, really was. i couldn't have asked for a more wonderful finale to my childbirth experiences.

if any of you reading this are pregnant or are planning to be at some point in your life, i strongly encourage you to talk to your OB about laboring down. i really, really wish someone had told me about it when i was pregnant with Matthew.

i am not sure if there's a true correlation between birth experience and the personality of a baby, but poor Gavin had a very rough first few months of life while Molly has been an extremely relaxed, easygoing and happy little bean since the moment she came into the world.

just a thought...!

mbm

savoring

almost time to meet our newest pumpkin.

four weeks.

as of today that's it, that's all i've got left to be pregnant in this life.

i'm one of those women who's overjoyed to get the baby out (though aren't we all, ladies?)—and then two weeks later sighs when she sees pregnant women, feeling wistful already for the experience. when i was pregnant with Gavin, i was often so preoccupied with Matthew that i felt like i didn't savor it enough. (whereas when Matthew was in my belly, i was playing music for him and reading to him nightly, dutifully filling out my "Belly Book," memorizing the Baby Center app and following all the "rules" to the letter. oh to have all that time to waste!) once Gavin was born, i knew that if we decided to have a third, i would absolutely savor that pregnancy.

ha!

not sure how i thought i'd be any less preoccupied by a toddler and a (rather mischievous) infant in the house. 

i spent perhaps the entire first trimester in disbelief, unable to wrap my head around the fact that only six months after giving birth i had signed myself up to do it all over again before i've had enough time to forget how much it hurts. the second trimester was all about shifting into high gear in terms of deciding where to live and selling our apartment and buying our home and all the chaos of moving.

and now here i am. nearing the end of the third trimester of my absolute last pregnancy, and what do i have to show for it? a few haphazard belly pictures, some ultrasound images tucked somewhere, and a rather disturbing collection of varicose veins. this little girl in my belly does not have a set-up nursery yet, she barely has anything to wear and—oh dear—she doesn't even a name.

but i keep trying to remind myself of what she does have: a mama who knows what she's doing (well, 30 percent of the time). she has a daddy who'll be forever wrapped around her littlest finger and lost in a love stupor the likes of which he's never known for the rest of his life. she's got two big brothers—built-in defenders, pals (and, let's be honest, pains in the ass) she'll be stuck with forever, lucky her.

it's not the prime-for-Pinterest room, the collection of organic teethers or the overpriced burping cloths that matter. it's not the closet full of sleep-and-plays (most of which she'll outgrow before the tags come off) or the homemade baby food or multiple pieces of equipment that vibrate.

it's love. messy and unorganized and disheveled love. and it's the one thing she's had from day one. because yeah, i may have had stretches of time when i forgot i was actually pregnant and i may have just remembered i should stock up on some smaller-size diapers soon, because her brother's size fours just aren't going to cut it. but i've done a lot of thinking in the last 30 weeks or so about what it will mean to have a daughter: everything i want to teach her, share with her, experience with her, learn from her. 

i may not be savoring this pregnancy as much as i thought i would, but i do know that i will be savoring my little girl as much as humanly possible. (and hopefully she'll forgive me for not reading to her in utero.)

mbm

the only post i'll write about this subject

male bonding. (or perhaps something nefarious.
i'm still learning.)

when i worked full-time in an office, i really hated leaving home most mornings. (most, not all—there were definitely days when i felt like i'd dodged a bullet, even if it meant time spent on the PATH.) i hated the rush of getting out, and then the rush of getting home, the knowledge that i was spending far more time behind a desk than with my kids, the guilt if i left work early to spend more time with them, and the guilt i felt if i didn't.... i had a nice paycheck, sure, and technically i was doing what i'd spent four years in college learning to do, but i couldn't get past the sense that i was not doing my most important work.

well, funny how life can change on a dime. now here i am, a mama full-time, no office or desk to speak of, no to-do list that doesn't include groceries or "call pediatrician" or "show-and-tell on Thursday." i am more exhausted at the end of a day now than i was even on my most stressful day at work, and often getting from breakfast to bedtime requires many deep breaths.

it ain't easy, people.

but i never thought it would be. i never once thought staying home would be the easier route—just the more rewarding one. and the rewards, i'm realizing, are subtle. small things, simple things. there are no reviews or raises or kudos from a higher-up. yet i'm thrilled that i get to take Matthew to preschool twice a week and pick him up. i'm elated that i've gotten to know Gavin so much better in the month or so that i've been free of a job-job (so you're my second baby! you're pretty awesome!). i've been able to make dinner again, and bake again, and take walks and go to parks and shop for groceries...staggeringly chic, i know, but these are all things i felt like i wanted to be doing and should be doing, but who had the time?

but it all takes a lot of patience, and faith, and perspective. there's always going to be a dozen things i didn't get to on any given day. (from sneaking out for a manicure to folding the laundry to dusting that damn bookcase i keep forgetting about.) the simultaneous naps (during which i get to sit down, eat a proper lunch, perhaps write a blog post or watch Meredith Vieira) will only happen once or twice a week; most of my time will be spent fulfilling non-stop requests, cleaning up sticky messes (and hands and faces), having a conversation about not hitting one's brother for the zillionth time, etc.

i will read not several chapters of a book each day (oh, annoying commute with too many people pressed up against me, how i took you for granted all those years!) but—on a good night—just four or five pages, before zonking out.

when i set my alarm clock for 6 a.m. in order to take a normal-length shower, or finish a full cup of coffee, or do some personal work on the computer, one boy or the other will decide it's the ideal morning to be an early riser.

it's just how life is right now. which is where the faith and perspective come in. this time is not forever. on certain days, when no one naps and no one listens and a quick trip for groceries turns into a mutiny by the time we reach the checkout aisle, it feels like forever. but it's not. the growing is happening every day, every second, and (here's where the faith is helpful), how lucky am i to be able to be here now for so much of it? to put in the time, to pay the attention, to give the hugs and kisses and high-fives i wished i was giving while sitting at my desk all those hours every day? this is my most important work right now. it's where i'm supposed to be.

what inspired me to write this is another article i read this morning, via Facebook, about stay-at-home-moms. it's one of many i've read in recent weeks, from the perspective of "i think i made a mistake staying home," and frankly, i think they're getting pretty tiresome. i'm not saying we full-time mamas have to pretend it's remotely glamorous, or that we love every minute of it (or even half of it, some days), but the complaining feels excessive. indulgent. can't anyone be content with where they are anymore? why are we all convinced the next person has it better? or that the decision we made was the wrong one? or that your life is easier than my life, poor me? 

all this hand-wringing and sideways glancing and second-guessing accomplishes nothing but time-wasting. and, really, who among us—at home or at the office—has all that time to waste?  

mbm

FYI: fifteen months

if i'm alone, no one questions the bump. if the boys are
around, all bets are off. 

lately people seem to be obsessed with the ages of my sons. Gavin's especially. several strangers have asked me, in recent weeks, "how old is your little guy there?" (well, some of them think he's a girl—baffling to me, but perhaps the blond curls throw them.) when i answer, they immediately ask, "when are you due?" and then i see where they're going. and then we have to have that conversation.

i'm thinking of printing up a pamphlet i can just hand out the last eight weeks of this pregnancy. to hear it from these strangers, i have very little time left before i completely lose my mind, so i might as well conserve as many precious minutes of sanity as i can.

Dear Well-Meaning Random Person,

Yes, I am indeed quite pregnant with my third child. And yes, that little blond boy (trust me, he's all boy) sitting in that shopping cart is also mine, and he's also newly one. Let me do the math for you—he and his little sister will be 15 months apart. Which, according to Google, does not make them Irish twins, but that's such a quaint term, isn't it? So let's just pretend they will be Irish twins. And assume I'll start adding Bailey's Irish to my coffee every morning very soon...

Oh, and yes, to answer the other question dangling on the tip of your tongue—my husband and I do know how babies are made. No, really, we do. But somehow the universe thought it would be funny to put the two of us in a hotel room sans existing kids (our first alone time in six months) and mess with my ovulation date simultaneously. I won't tell you what my reaction was when I saw, six weeks later, those two lines on the EPT—I don't even know you, cursing would be impolite. Just trust me this wasn't in our plan.

But she's our little girl now. We can't wait to meet her and we wouldn't change a thing. (Well, I would change these crazy veins popping everywhere, but I'm trying to be less vain—have to practice being a strong, secure and confident example of a woman.) Yes, I see that expression on your face—we know our lives will be total and utter chaos for the next however many years, but if anyone can handle it, and keep laughing through it, I'm pretty sure it's us. I'm praying it's us. I'm going to ensure it's us.

Thanks so much for your peculiar interest in my life. Now, unless you have any other burning questions, I really need to pee.

you think that would do the trick?

mbm

today

safe on solid ground in their own backyard.

this morning i was awakened by someone tugging on my hair. i rolled to my right and came face to face with my three year old standing next to my bed. he went to sleep at nine-thirty last night but—such is the way with toddlers, at least my toddler—the later he goes to bed, the earlier he's up. what kind of backwards logic is that? 

despite this, i promise it was completely unintentional when i knocked him down the stairs a few hours later. in my defense, i thought i had plenty of room to squeeze by him and i caught him—while holding his little brother in my arms, no less. still, he wound up on his back, head down, having slipped one or two steps down from where he'd been standing innocently, gazing out the window. his lower lip trembled a little and i immediately sat down, pulled him to me in a hug and said i was so sorry. (then i had to grab his little brother, who was thisclose to tumbling down the stairs himself.) 

once everyone was secure and upright, i took a deep breath and told myself to calm the hell down. 

life has been...strange lately. we're in a new house, in a new town, with 10 weeks to go until our new baby arrives. i also, just last week, lost my job quite unceremoniously. 

change has been rampant. 

i've never been very good at change. though i'm much better now than i used to be. one of the perks of aging: you figure out things are going to change whether or not you throw yourself on the floor screaming and flailing, so you might as well save your energy. 

but i'm feeling pretty groundless, to borrow a term used by my former therapist, who i believed borrowed it from the Buddha. so many details up in the air, no way to predict what life will be like a month, three months, three years from now.

but that's the beauty of it, i remind myself constantly. isn't that what all the quotes on Pinterest say? 

anyway, i had quit blogging about seven months ago, but i'm in pretty desperate need of outlets for my writing these days. so, here we are. deja vu all over again. 

mbm