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The Double Eagle

My parents enjoyed the outdoors and taking us kids on adventures no matter how loudly reluctant we were. We strolled, hiked, rode bikes and took out a canoe from time to time. Imagine our parents’ delight when our grandfather sold our family his boat, a 14-foot, 1980 Double Eagle, in pristine condition. It boasted orange decking, brown leather chairs and an off white hull — an adventurer’s dream. A six-pack of chunky, bright orange life jackets later and we were on our way.

All four of us were helpless casualties of their meanderings and self-guided boat instruction. The Double Eagle made them feel limitless with the wind in their hair (at way too many knots an hour) and their newfound capacity for exploration, they had the whole natural world at their fingertips. The Double Eagle was a patient teacher, rather built well. That’s the thing with boats — you learn as you go, and learn they did, thank goodness she was sturdy, built for unyielding adventure.

We hit a sand bar in one lake, sputtering us all right back into reality, our fate resting in the goodness of passersby to free our boat. We also ran out of gas, more than once if I recall correctly. Thankfully, we had oats and boaters, in general, are kind people and they came to our rescue. Our parents eventually learned the exact limitations of that boat and all of our sanity by putting them both to the test. Perhaps there was no other way — in the words of T.S. Eliot, “Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

We would pull up and jump ashore beside other boats more sleek and more modern coloured, it’s riders sported neoprene life vests in fashionable colours, I’d have given anything in those moments for a trendier neoprene life vest.

The trips started out small, just a few hours searching for everything we had been missing out on while boat-less. We found elusive beaches, hidden waterfalls and spent countless hours beach-combing for “jewels” — strangely shaped wood that had the potential to be made into a table leg or a lamp by my dad, who had very little extra time for projects. We would cheer him on, often adding our own finds to his growing pile. The wood secured the best seats on the boat and it became our responsibility to fit into the boat as best we could. He would lovingly place each piece of carefully curated treasure in a heap beside his shop. He’d eventually move the pile from house to house, very few pieces of wood ever reaching their full potential. Perhaps the pieces of wood were ok with that though, having enjoyed an extra moment of admiration, far after they had provided shade or danced in the breeze.

During one of our expeditions we landed on the shore of a boat-in only campsite. There were three groomed sites for tents hidden in the forest behind, a large beachfront and an outhouse. It was free, off-grid and involved the boat — our parents were thrilled.

Camping sites, back then, were first come, first served and we would drive around with a vehicle packed to the hilt with camping gear, tarping supplies, a large assortment of treats and four very hopeful children. No vacancy signs, confirmed by speaking with site attendants filled us with dismay as we drove with growing urgency, further and further from home and later and later into the day. How much trickier it would be to ensure the boat-in site would be ours, it was imperative we beat the weekend rush.

We never pared down our camping supply list, on account of needing to boat in all of our supplies, in fact we brought more. My dad packed enough two by fours and a sheet of plywood to set up a very elaborate beachfront tarp system, complete with level picnic table and of course an ample supply of firewood. We would need to do two trips. Weighed down, the trip took 45 minutes to an hour depending on the moodiness of the water. When we picked up speed, the rear of the heavily-packed boat often threatened to sink below the surface; it was my brothers job to hop up onto the bow. Those of us who could, clambered forward and the rest of us just leaned and held our breath, hoping we could displace enough weight to not go under. Somehow, our ambitious packing never caused our capsize, though in one terrifying moment, my brother and his friend were both washed into the water, but just once.

We had enough supplies to fill the beach, due to my dads over-sized tarps and furniture made on site. To onlookers, I’m sure it seemed as though we had always been there and were leaving no time soon and so we never had to share the camping area. I’m quite sure the small number of unruly, bedraggled children had nothing to do with it.

Upon arriving at our explorers paradise, the skies broke open and the rain poured down. We set to work unloading and setting up our tents. The outstretched arms of the cedar trees offered very little protection from the rain. We longingly joked about abandoning the whole trip for a warm hotel, but we grew up on a budget, dad had already left for the second load of supplies and it was already growing dark. We were just barely able to see beyond the branches of the trees, the rain making the lake’s surface come to life. We fumbled through set up and took shelter inside the kids’ tent. We climbed into our sleeping bags, clicked off the flashlight and settled in to wait for morning.

After what felt like forever, we heard the trusty hum of the Double Eagle’s motor. Our dad —an experienced camper—startled us all as he walked around the tent pushing on the walls, “stay away from the walls to stay dry,” he warned. We huddled together, with our backpacks, in the middle of the tent. Sleep overtook us all as we imagined what tomorrow’s light might bring, listening to the falling rain on the tent.

We excitedly unzipped the tent and stumbled out to find a much more favourable day for camping. We played amongst the trees, on the sandy beach and cooled off in the frigid water. We enjoyed tubing, holding on for dear life until we plunged into the cold water that smacked like concrete and took our breath away. “Faster!” We screamed.

As the day warmed, an old man kayaked over to our campsite, two smaller kayaks in tow. A tiny bathing suit showed off his sun weathered skin, his eyes appeared so large behind the thick glasses he wore on a strap fastened behind his head. He may or may not have been a little “off,” said my mom who prided herself on her stellar intuition and never took her eyes off of us as he hoisted us in and out of his kayaks, summer after summer. I’m not sure if it was politeness or curiosity that led her to allow us to follow him to his campsite a short hike down the beach. She followed closely. He was set up to stay the majority of the summer in an incredible fortress made of the wood he had collected from the beaches. These sticks were surely enjoying their second life; I’m sure he was a good guy.

I admire my parents resolve for adventure. Taking four whining, heavily-resistant children into the elements is not for the faint of heart. I don’t recall any of us kids ever loving the boating part of these escapades, though when our feet hit the ground again, as we reached our destination, we were happy explorers.

My brother-in-law recently rewired the motor at my mom’s request, and we all cinched up our orange life jackets extra tight (pretty sure those were original), sat our kids on the brown cracked leather seats and took a ride on the Double Eagle, for old time’s sake, fondly thinking back on all the trips we survived.

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Big Baby

I heard the small footsteps and the wiggling doorknob before the light from the hallway filled my room. It can’t be time to get up yet, I thought to myself, but I think that every morning, so I rolled towards the clock. 4:00 am. No. Nope. 4 freaking am. No.

The light from the hall illuminated her nearly naked body. She must’ve peeled off her pyjamas in the night.

“I had a bad dream,” she said as she hurled “big baby” onto my bed, before returning to her own. I followed her small frame as she plodded back to her room. I pulled the blankets up to her chin, relit her nightlight and wished her sweet dreams.

I had nearly forgotten about big baby on the edge of my bed, until she hit the floor as I pulled up the the blanket.

She had been a gift from my grandmother. I know when she looked at the doll she didn’t see the frightening face looking that looked back at the rest of us, the wild hair or the devastatingly thinning fabric on the body, barely holding in her contents. She saw her own three daughters delighting over their brand new beauties on Christmas morning — or maybe it was their birthdays? The sweet blinding power of nostalgia.

It’s evident from the wear — and the pin prick in her earlobes — the doll was well loved and continued to be loved, long after she had stopped being played with. My grandmother carefully preserved her and another doll, my aunt’s, in a bag with several outfits and her original shoes until I too had a daughter.

My oldest was delighted to meet such a frightful creature; my nephew cried as I held her up. Her head flopped forward and her eyes opened wide and she stared directly at him. My husband and I shuddered as our daughter lovingly carried her to bed with her each night, tucking her in neatly beside her. Perhaps her young age allowed her to see past its appearance, or perhaps she enjoyed frightful items.

My grandmother sought out fresh clothing and hats for Big Baby and gifted them to our girls regularly, some complete with cutesie tiny doll hangers. Most of the time though, Big Baby sleeps amongst the other toys, completely naked, her torn body held together by several layers of packing tape. As even more time has passed she is at risk of disintegrating all together.

At 4 am, my disturbed mind imagined her dismembered, just a pair of arms and legs and a head with all of that scraggly hair. I would wrap up her remaining pieces and gift them to my unsuspecting siblings. 4 am does that to a person.

Even as she falls apart before my eyes and haunts our sleep, I haven’t had the heart to throw her away quite yet, although a couple more 4 am wake ups and I may change my mind.

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A Midsummer Cold — Patience Level: Zero

Our home was hit with a cold. Not the wipe-you-off-your-feet-putting-you-on-the-couch-with-a-box-of-Kleenex-eyes-barely-open-as-you-listen-to-your-favourite-TV-show-hovering-somewhere-between-consciousness-and-completely-asleep type, but the one that just barely messes with your wellness and majorly depletes your patience level. It interrupts your children’s sleep as the virus hits their little bodies a little harder, rendering you and everyone in the house in a state of utter exhaustion.

In this particular circumstance the croup cough resulting in a midnight ambulance call might not have helped things. But when your three year old wakes you up with a terrifying, panicky, wheeze hack and manages to say that she swallowed a rock and the hubby is on an out of town shift, and there’s two other kids still sleeping, you call. A false alarm, thank goodness, but then we were all awake, still stunned and on edge. Eventually the hum of the fan, the uneven snores of a croupy three year-old and the claws of an eight month-old baby, on my face, lulled me back to sleep.

They’re bickering before I even lift my head from the pillow, like really bickering complete with neck punches. I am in a fog that no amount of espresso can lift. I find myself losing my patience and then apologizing, on repeat. All. Day. Long. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.” None of us are our best selves, physically, mentally or emotionally and we are all simultaneously both imploding and exploding. All. Over. The. Place.

Our five year-old, while not obviously sick, seems to have the same level of irritability as myself amplified by the heat, and is antagonizing her sister and me at every turn. She pushes allllll the buttons. “Get ready!” I yell, “It’s time to go!”

I bend over to help our three year-old put on her swimsuit, she refused to take off her shoes. I’m dizzy and I feel myself slipping into another moment of unnecessary exaggerated frustration as I try to jam uncooperative shoes through a seemingly invisible leg hole. As I take a deep breath, I catch a glimpse of her footwear. Her paw patrol socks are stretched up to her perpetually scratched knees, and her mismatched shoes on the wrong feet. I take a minute to remind myself that she’s three, and she’s not feeling well either. There’s a thin layer of snot across her entire face, and wisps of her hair are booger glued to her face, I attempt a crunchy pair of pigtails.

They’re not buckling their car seats and yet for some reason the three year-old still feels the need to scream “I do it my own self!” When I reach in to help, she swats at my hands and stiffens her body — an angry, snotty, piece of defiant plywood. The harder I push, the harder she resists and it takes everything I have to stand back and watch her struggle with her badly twisted straps as her baby sister, in desperate need of a car nap, begins to loudly complain.

Somehow we made it through the day, good friends who don’t mind some venting and help to keep my kids happily occupied, helped for sure. We made it and I head to bed optimistic that tomorrow is a new day.

The baby has it now and her clogged nose makes it impossible for her to keep her beloved soother in place. All night booger sucking, bum pats and quiet shushing mean that again I got very interrupted sleep — a recipe for disaster.

Unwilling to waste even one warm summers morning I prepare them for an outing. My head is stuck in a “seize the moment” mentality and I overly ambitiously decide it is very important we head out early to beat the heat of the day. My head is spacey as I shuffle three kids, two dogs, enough snacks, water bottles, extra clothes and a blanket into my car.

Then, “Crunch!” I backed my car into our mostly opened garage door. Tiny pieces of styrofoam shoot out from the now very curved garage door and I let out a frustrated cry. My good-hearted neighbour reminded me it was an accident, a fixable one and my husband graciously laughed as I delivered my news via FaceTime.

We should’ve just stayed home, embraced a sick day and watched a movie, but the edges of wellness are deceptive and I really thought we could do it. Summer provides so much time for relaxing and yet counterintuitively adds a sort of pressure to get out there and provide our kids with opportunities to have fun, lest we waste the day. I’ve been keeping a mental summer to-do list — the last summer before our five year-old enters kindergarten — of all the great things I remember enjoying when I was young.

I often tell my kids that we all make mistakes, but it’s important that we learn something from them, to hopefully avoid repeating it. I learned it’s ok beneficial to waste use a warm summers day for rest and repair when our bodies and minds require it. The next kinda unwell day, I’m calling it, right from the get go, couch and cuddles, no matter the weather and perceived pressure to have fun.

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When Parents Lie and Other Magnificent Things

I never cleaned under my bed. Ever. It infuriated my mom (I get it now, I’m sorry, Mom). And by never cleaned, I mean not only did I never clean under there, I also used it as a place to sweep all of the other items from my room that I didn’t want to clean up, which was mostly dirty laundry. By all appearances my bedroom was clean, but the facade quickly crumbled each and every time there was even the tiniest of inspections.

I’m sure she grew tired of repeating herself, so in some next level genius mother move, she created a horrendous atrocity of an insect that I had no idea only existed in both of our imaginations. It had wings, many eyes, long legs and it hopped, quite possibly flew and very much enjoyed dirty spaces and especially dirty laundry (well played, Mom).

I can vividly picture it to this day. So vividly, that for the next few years I peered anxiously at dust bunnies and lost socks with angst, I most certainly never swept anything under there again and anything that happened to slide too far into the darkness had to be written off, for the rest of time. I spent the next few years leaping onto my bed from a safe distance so as not to disturb what may have been lurking underneath. There was no need for further inspections, the lie eliminated the problem. I’m fairly certain she forgot about the bug, not long after the dirty dilemma ceased to exist, though I would continue to be haunted by it for years to come.

She successfully converted me (although I’ve exchanged the antiquated “cleanliness is next to godliness” adage, for a slightly more favourable and much more achievable “keep it tidy or kinda close so droppersby won’t think you’re gross” sort of motto). It was not until I had become a parent myself that I actually questioned its existence. That’s right I was 32 years old, speaking to my own daughter, and repeating myself about the importance of maintaining a state of near cleanliness, when the bug hopped into my mind and I realized it was all a clever hoax. 32. What an effective ruse.

I grew up before the Internet age, a time when parental lies went unchecked. A time when most lies were unverifiable, my mom had the upper hand, and really she had all the hands, because a parents word was irrefutable. These days we parents are dangerously close to losing the “parents are always right” advantage.

Our five-year-old daughter captured a black and vibrant yellow millipede in her grandparents garden. She lovingly prepared a home for it in an empty coffee can, and allowed it to crawl all over her hands and arms. When she wanted to know what to feed it, she asked me to ask my phone. She knows. She knows exactly how the internet works: no question needs to remain unanswered. She even fact checks her dinosaur encyclopedia against the internet, hoping to catch an error. In this circumstance we learned black and vibrant yellow millipedes are poisonous, and it now resides outside, again.

But that’s not all our parents lied about, they also told us if we dug deep enough, we could get to China and then handed us a shovel. We believed them, maybe we were extra gullible or maybe the idea that we could pop out on the complete opposite side of the world was so entertaining it was worth the effort, so we dug, real blister-popping, callous-forming, rewarded-by-splinters, digging.

My sister thought my kids thoroughly vacuuming the stairs with a play vacuum that spins heart shaped sparkles around while whirring, was painstakingly sad. She was born in the 90’s though, things must have been different then. My kids think they’re helping, and they are, it’s just not with vacuuming. Sometimes we parents need a minute, where the kids are occupied and not with fighting.

I tried it. I told a lie, at least I think it was a lie, or maybe it has actually happened once to someone somewhere and the story has been retold for generations to come, as a warning for all of us. I was locked behind u-shaped table, which limited my access to the rest of the class, which occasionally frequently strayed from the task at hand. I glanced up from the laboured reading of the yellow group and locked eyes with the new boy. Surrounded by three kids who had flipped their eyelids inside out, he was TERRIFIED. Before I had time to think, I blurted out, ”they’re going to stay like that!”

“But we’ve done it before,” they countered.

“Yes. I know.” (I had taken time to explain how horrifying this was, just yesterday.) “But that’s the thing with eyelid flipping, you don’t know when it will stick, it just does sometimes.” I raised my eyebrows, summoned an ominous voice and added, “Forever.” I had to, in for an inch, in for a mile, or something like that. For his sake, I perpetuated the messed up children’s urban legend and added a Russian roulette twist. Before you judge, don’t forget how I was raised. Bonus: they never did it again and while I wasn’t incredibly proud of how I’d curbed the eyelid flipping, it was effective. So I get it and I think I’d do it again.

I grew up in a time, when “because” or “I don’t know” sufficed as answers, but my kids are used to answers because the answers are so readily available, and they know it.

I don’t think I’ve deliberately lied to my own kids yet, aside from the usual exaggerating of the truth, like if you don’t let me brush your teeth they will rot, where the immediacy is very intentionally implied. I also often blame things on time, like it’s too late/early for candy or it’s time to go. I find it concerning that when the time for real lies, the big imaginative creative ones, does present itself, the internet has the capability of instantly and effortlessly tearing my intricate web of lies to pieces.

Has the internet deprived us parents of the chance to recirculate the lies we were once told? Or are kids still buying into the urban legends of our youth?

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These Moments

“I want to keep having fun” she protests, but the clock indicates it’s past bedtime. We know all too well what venturing too far past bedtime entails — it isn’t worth it. How lucky that hanging out with us is her idea of fun, her choice even. For a moment, I feel guilty for sending her to bed.

There’s glimmers of this phase passing, when we are no longer our kids’ entire worlds. My three year-old playing in the bath, raises her small pruney hand and demands that I, “Get ouuuuuuuut!” My five year-old insists I return to bed, when I interrupt her and her sister’s early morning play, with my presence.

I snuggle our tiniest daughter in extra close, breathe in her sweetness as she paws my face in the very early morning. I wrap my arm around her little body as she drifts off to sleep again.

I’m so lucky our spirits found one another. I’m so lucky these beautiful existences are intertwined with my own.

These are the things I remind myself of when I find the crackers they asked for smashed into tiny crumbs under the feet of a ferocious plastic TRex. Or when one is loudly begging to leave the park and the other removes her shoes in an even louder statement of refusal to leave the sandbox. Or when two of them have escaped their beds, far after bed time, laughing hysterically while hiding behind the kitchen table hoping to prolong their inevitable recapture. When they throw down more attitude than I have had sleep. When I want to rip the hair from my head and scream, “For the love!!!” or maybe a whole string of poorly matched obscenities — don’t judge, I’m tired.

But then her fingers curl around mine and I look down at the hand holding my own. Would you even be you if you weren’t this obstinate, fiery or ridiculous? Would we even be us without these moments? And in that moment — that exact moment — I wouldn’t change any of it.

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Dear Lovely Strangers

To all of you Lovely Strangers,

Thank you.

I thought I knew what I was doing having three kids. I had successfully maneuvered a large box from the post office to my car with two kids in tow — and by in tow I mean one twenty feet ahead and another trailing twenty feet behind — while eight months pregnant. Surely managing an infant would be similar.

And it is, exactly like that, except the box baby needs things which often reminds the older two, they too need things. They often wait for inopportune times to loudly express their demands for things like food and water or to use the bathroom, or whichever thing I offered them only moments earlier, when I wasn’t changing a dirty diaper. Some days are exhausting, others are lovely (but still exhausting).

So thank you. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for offering — even if I don’t take you up on it — I appreciate your offer, and more than that, I appreciate you.

You saw me struggling to buckle up the infant carrier. Usually an easy feat, I stretched my arms reaching for the buckle behind my neck, while balancing a tired, crying baby on my chest, maybe it was my hair in the way, maybe it was the squirming infant, but the buckles would not meet. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me bouncing and swaying with a baby nearly asleep in the carrier, keeping an eye on my other two children, running wild circles around the other picnickers while waiting for our lunch. I filled a mini cup with ketchup and prepared to balance two precarious plates overflowing with food truck goodness back to where my older two were supposed to be sitting. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me as I herded my two children towards the ice cream line up. Their bodies anticipating sugar, vibrated with excitement causing them to physically bounce and spin and loudly shriek which flavour they’d prefer. With a baby in one arm and my other hand full of teetering lunch time garbage, I scanned the area for a garbage can. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me struggling to close my very obstinate stroller. No amount of jiggling, jostling, pushing, pulling, or silent cursing were collapsing the cantankerous pram. Beads of sweat dotted my brow as I stared at it with a great deal of contempt and considered abandoning it all together, when you walked by. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me walking ten paces ahead of my very over tired three-year-old. I used my very best patient voice and tried to coax her the last few steps to the exit of the park. Walking by with a group of friends and seemingly well-behaved children, you suggested we mothers should fist bump each other in trying times like these. Thank you.

You’ve picked up soothers, chased after me with fallen shoes, held open doors, helped my children off of swings and shared stories in exhausted solidarity. Thank you.

When my five-year-old daughter sneakily fuelled by sugar and freshly scolded, locked me out of the house and didn’t return to the door no matter how gently or furiously I knocked, I hesitated to ask for help. Partly because I thought she would open the door, and partly because I had never experienced helplessness at this level. It is hard to be completely helpless to circumstances, to admit things are completely outside of my control, especially sugar-induced spiritedness. With my phone inside, a baby in my arms and a very sweaty, very sticky, pant-less daughter by my side, all of us shoeless, I found you on the sidewalk. You didn’t judge me as I explained our situation and I asked to use your phone. You kindly listened, and empathetically distracted me with small talk as you walked with me back to my house. You waited as I explained the situation again to my husband on your phone. You waited until my five-year-old finally opened the door, a cheeky smile on her face, my phone in her hand and her dad on the screen. Thank you.

It really does take a village, and I’m so lucky to have a fairly capable body, a great husband and a strong circle of family and friends to help along the way and then there’s you, lovely strangers, filling in the gaps. I never realized before how much that African proverb also pertains to the parents. It takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to raise a parent. Thank you for helping to raise me. Your kindnesses do not go unnoticed.

One day, when my hands are less full, I promise to pay it forward.

Thank you.

This post was republished by Scary Mommy right here.

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Our Last Baby: The First Few Days

After we were released from the hospital, we brought our new daughter home.  Healing from a c-section I slowly walked up the stairs and eased my body onto the couch.  Breathing in the mesmerizing newborn sweetness, we relaxed by eating snacks and watching shows we had already seen.  It felt good, maybe too good, in hindsight.   Surgery had gone smoothly, baby was healthy and so were we.    

And then they returned.  Two tired faces ascended the stairs.  Excited raspy voices called out, “baby!” The bags under their eyes, large and dark outlined the glassy eyes that seemed to have a presence of their own, presenting themselves before the rest of their bodies.  Then their eyes lit up, making them momentarily recognizable, the second they laid them on their new sister.  

“STOP” I yelled.  “Wash your hands!”  

They clambered up onto my lap, smiling, very curious and very smitten.  They introduced themselves to the baby, declaring their love for her, as they pawed at her face and body, while I grimaced at the never ending amounts of coughing.  They were surely still contagious.  With little choice I put all of my faith on the foaming hand soap, it would have to do.  

Grandma and grandpa had graciously agreed to watch the older two girls, even to the detriment of their own health.  We probably would have asked for another night off, but they were beginning to feel the effects of the early stages of the flu themselves.  So they left us, and just like that we were a family of five.  

The hospital had provided a false reality, cocooning us.  All of our needs met in the quietness of the busy maternity ward, a quality under appreciated with the birth of our first daughter.  New parents, again, to our third daughter, we felt fairly confident, we were experienced and prepared to handle this.  Holed up in our room, swept back into newborn bliss complete with sweet cuddles, simple needs and some painkillers, it’s no wonder we were so easily mistaken.  

The two days days before I had gone into labour, our house was struck by the plague.  High fevers, body aches and burning eyes were loudly and tearfully reported by our daughters.  I doled out medicine, encouraged small sips of juice and carefully cuddled them, while the tv droned on and on.  Washing my hands every time they became free for just a moment, I decided that even with only a 10 percent chance of protection, getting the flu shot, when it was offered at work, was indeed a good idea.  

When contractions began, I was glad this baby had held on for at least the beginning of the flu days.  Two weeks and two days early, she was my longest pregnancy.  I had been anxiously anticipating her arrival, counting the random contractions for days as Christmas crept closer.  On December 16th contractions were slow but regular, we packed our bags, showered and settled into bed. I had high hopes of getting some sleep before heading to the hospital.  Contractions consistently arriving every fifteen minutes meant little sleep, but at 5 am when I stepped out of bed, something shifted and they began coming every two minutes.  Trying not to panic at the acceleration, I calmly asked my husband to get ready and to call my sister to watch the older two who were still asleep.  On her way to the gym, my sister unfazed by the presence of the flu in our home, happily turned around.  She had been waiting for this call.  Off we went.  

The very kind obstetrician I had seen for all of my births and the duration of three pregnancies, had given me her phone number, and met us at the hospital.  After losing my first baby due to birth complications, I felt very fortunate to have a kind and familiar face in the operating room at each of my subsequent c-sections.  December 17th at 7:31 am, we heard her loudly enter the world.  

After a great deal of unsuccessful pleas to hold their new sister, we put the older two to bed.  Constant coughing escaped their feverish bodies and echoed down the hall as they attempted to rest, signalling the beginning of yet another long night.  

As we prepared to settle into our own bed, we gently laid our sweet little one into her crib, five feet from our bed.  At first grunt, I pulled her into our bed, just as I had done with her sisters.  Last baby means I’m going to enjoy every minute of these sweet sweaty cuddles.  Coughs, followed by crying, repetitively interrupted our sleep.  Exhausted we took turns comforting the older two with cuddles and meds.  

Each time, I not so smoothly rolled myself out of bed, eased my body to the floor, and gingerly lifted myself into what might be called mostly-standing.  Recommending only Advil and Tylenol for surgery patients seems a little cruel.  I slowly tread down the hall to the room I heard the loud cries of “Mommy!” from.  I needed another dose of Tylenol anyway.  I returned to realize I only had inches of space on a king size bed. Unwilling to move her and risk waking her, I precariously balanced myself on the edge and attempted to replicate the only position I found which allowed even a little comfort for an aching body.  It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be there long until I was needed again.  

In every one of these exhausted waking moments, my brain and body so tender and so tired, my heart was full.  Our family had been completed with the arrival of our newest daughter.  It’s such a strange thing for a heart to feel such peace, while it simultaneously feels such sadness as I thought of my oldest, the son, I lost.  I had begged the universe for these nights, six and a half years earlier, where a tiny human needed me and now there were three.  Three, creating the most beautiful chaos, and I am so lucky to be in the thick of it.