Empty

Sometimes,

when one person is missing,

the whole world feels empty.

Alphonse de Lamartine

My Toddler

This afternoon, I found you at the kitchen counter, intently playing with Play Doh. Playing so intently, in fact, that you had wet your pants. You turned to me before I had a chance to notice the accident and sweetly inquired:

"Mom, are you nice today? Are you?"

It gave me pause. It humbled me. So many times over the past year I have raised my voice to you in anger or frustration or sheer exhaustion. It saddened me that you, so newly potty trained, expected that short temper from me, rather than the patient, loving mother I aspire to be.

Little Man. You have had quite a year. So much growing and changing in the year from two to three. And it hasn't been an easy year....for either one of us.

In the weeks before your second birthday, I became increasingly alarmed at your lack of speech. So much so that I had Jordan School District come out to assess you. Although you could sign easily over 50 words, you rarely voiced your needs. Through the assessment we discovered that you were in the 90th percantile in all categories except for speech and for that you were less that 5th percentile. Weekly speech therapy and intensive parent interaction was strongly recommended.

But the timing wasn't right. I was in the early stages of pregnancy and exhausted. But more importantly, my dad, your grandpa Bill, was in the final weeks of life and I just couldn't muster enough strength or momma energy to put one more thing on my plate, and so I held off.

In the six weeks between Grandpa's funeral and your 2nd birthday, when I worried the grief might never lift, when I found myself more often in tears, than not; a miracle occurred. The words just started flowing from your mouth. Like my tears, once the words began, you couldn't stop them. And boy did you have a lot to say. Your sentences became stories and my loneliness was abated by sweet conversations with you.

You, my boy, made my pregnancy fly by. I reveled in one on one time with you knowing all too soon another babe would occupy my time and attention. The last eight weeks of my pregnancy were very difficult and I was as sick as I have ever been. Kidney stones, kidney infections, pneumonia, strep throat, toxemia. We were confined to the house and mostly on bed rest. So many afternoons you would drag your books and cars and toys to my bed and contentedly play right by my side. At some point each day, you would snuggle your body as close as you could to my ever growing belly and we would nap in the comfort of each other.

But then your brother Blake was born.

It would be an understatement to say his birth was difficult for you. Our little master of the house had been completely knocked off his throne. The tantrums began innocently enough when the doorbell would ring with visitors to see the new baby. Even from the deepest sleep you would wake with a scream when the doorbell rang. You wanted to be the one to answer the door. At.All.Costs. I remember well our kind next door neighbor coming one night to bring us dinner. I made the mistake of answering the door before you, which began the downward spiral of your emotions. Our neighbor went so far as going outside and ringing the bell again just so you could answer the door. But you were too far gone. You were inconsolable and my recent C-section prevented me from lifting you in my arms to hold you and soothe away your sadness. Soon I was crying right along with you.

I felt so inadequate as your mother. It seemed a constant battle trying to find a way to please you. If I was feeding the baby, you wanted your own space on my lap. If I poured you apple juice, you insisted on orange juice. And so it went. Control of opening the door was only the first of many things you wanted to own. From which clothes you wore, to buckling your own car seat, to which shoes went on which foot (and typically you wore them incorrectly). You made it clear that you didn't much care for me or the new little guy garnering all the attention in our home.

Yet, your dad and I were determined to provide consistent discipline and boundaries for you even though your will seemed so much stronger than our own. Many times after issuing several warnings to you, in exasperation we would tell you "if you do that again, you are going to your room". And you know what? You simply turned and went to your room, slamming the door behind you. No one was going to tell you what to do, but you would certainly do it on your own terms.

Just before your third birthday, I took you in for a check up, hoping the pediatrician could give me some advice on handling your fierce independent spirit. While I loved your tenacity, I simply wanted to direct it into more productive avenues than tantrums and control. His advice to me? Give up some of my need for control, and hopefully you would follow suit. Tough to do...especially because I was desperate to potty train you. And you my little man, you were completely determined NOT to potty train, simply because it was something that I wanted.

So I let you wear your shoes on the wrong feet. You often wore your football jersey four days in a row without washing, and you frequently ate ice cream for breakfast. But you seemed a little bit happier. I was certainly learning to pick my battles, but I was still determined to get you into big boy underwear.

Just days before your third birthday, we went to Palm Desert for Thanksgiving. I put you in underwear and let you pee outside to your hearts content. I was happy for dry pants. You were happy with the freedom to run around naked. Your grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins were cheering you on at every turn. It was a win win for both of us. Within just a few weeks you were completely potty trained and I, well I was stunned. I couldn't believe you so willingly and so simply relinquished your control.

And with that accomplishment came a confidence and a happiness in you that had been missing since your brother was born. It was another miracle. My little Miles was back. Almost overnight, the tantrums stopped, the power plays were over. I dare say you began to enjoy my company again. And finally, finally, you adored your baby Blake and delighted in being the big brother.

I look at you now and I can hardly believe you are the same little boy. I've been a mom long enough to know that you will surely go through another difficult stage. But I can honestly say, this has by far been my most difficult year of parenting. There were days here and there where I really didn't like you. But I never stopped loving you. In fact I loved you with a fierceness I have never known. I hated seeing you struggle. I felt so responsible for disrupting your beautiful little life with a new brother. But I learned so very much this year, probably at your expense. I'm a better mother for weathering this storm with you. I'm so grateful for the knowledge and patience I gained this year. But most importantly I am completely confident in knowing that when the going gets tough, love never fails. Remind me of that when you're a teenager, will you?

My Tween

The day after Christmas, we received a phone call from the director of The Dance Club, wondering if you were available to come in for choreography over the Christmas break.

Soon after the texts started rolling in..."Can Rach play after choreography?", "Would Rachel like to sleepover after dance on Tuesday?". And so on. At first you bemoaned the long day at the studio over the sacred two week break. But as I was pulling your hair into a ponytail Tuesday morning and packing you up for a series of play dates with dance friends, you admitted that you were really looking forward to a day of dance.

Dance, moreso this year than in years past, has become your life. It is not only something that you love to do, but has become a steady source of confidence and a constructive outlet for your endless energy. Often times, after a hard day of school, you will express your desire to just go and "dance it off". I am so grateful that you have this in your life...not only for the confidence it gives you, but also for the social opportunities, and for an incredibly effective physical outlet for your stress.

Earlier this year, you were invited to join a team of dancers aged 12-13. This invitation came a month after placement auditions, and was totally unexpected. You were comfortable on your existing team and were in the enviable place of team leader, dancing front and center, the go to girl. Moving up to Company meant not only dancing with older girls, but also committing to 12-16 hours, four days per week. It was an incredible opportunity, but one that came with a great deal of worry and trepidation for me as your mother. I was concerned about the time away from home, how you would fit in socially, how you would maintain your school work and frankly, I worried about your ability to keep up. I knew in my heart you would be going from top of the heap, to bottom of the barrel, and I worried how it would effect your confidence.

What I didn't expect was the backlash we received from other parents and dancers when you were chosen to move up over them. It was a very difficult few weeks after the change was made. I felt like every time you walked into that studio, you had a target on your back. There was a lot of gossip and back biting and down right tantrums from dance moms upset that a younger, less experienced dancer was moving to Company ahead of their own daughter. Every day I worried that we had made the right decision. Every day I prayed for you as I wiped tears away from my eyes each time I dropped you off. You seemed so young, so innocent and vulnerable, and I felt as if I were sending you into the lion's den.

But you, my sweet girl, never looked back. "Mom", you would say "I didn't ask to be moved up...they asked ME. Obviously they think I can do this".

And you were right. I have never seen such poise and grace from such a young child. I was, and continue to be, humbled by your quiet confidence. While I grew angry and felt the need to defend you and retaliate with clever comebacks and putdowns, you simply went to work. Steady, determined, tenacious; you were all that and more. Not for one moment did you let the naysayers bring you down. You held your head high and just danced.

In October, you attended your first convention and competition with your new team. I was amazed at the growth I witnessed. Not only in your dancing, but in the maturity you possessed among the older girls. How they adore you. Awards fell on Halloween, which made it difficult for me attend. I was stunned to hear you'd won a scholarship which is a very prestigious honor. Yet, when I finally spoke with you on the phone to offer up my congratulations, you downplayed it, not wanting to hurt the feelings of the other girls in the car. Again you taught me the best way to behave.

The only downside to your dancing is the void I feel in your absence. I miss you. I miss your laughter and kindness in our home. I miss the twinkle in your bright blue eyes as you twirl around the kitchen telling me the details of your day. I miss your constant, unselfish help with the little boys. I miss you wanting to learn how to cook every night as I make dinner. I miss watching TV in my bed with you. I miss our girl time, and girls only errands, which may or may not include frozen yogurt or pedicures. Mostly I just miss the light and love that is my Rachel.

Some may say you are missing out on your childhood, but when I look at you and all that you have gained, I have to disagree. Not only are you growing more talented in your dance, but you possess a rare confidence that enables you to be kind, and loving, and refined. Your uncommon grace has touched me and you have taught me. The only person you compete against is yourself, always striving to become better. My wish for you my dear daughter, is that you can continue to have this gift your entire life. So much time is wasted when we worry about what others are doing or saying. How lucky you are, how brilliant you are, to figure this out at such a tender age.

And when you come home late at night, with callouses and torn skin upon your toes. I will be here waiting and watching you with love and admiration.

My Teen

Today I dropped you and a friend off at Snowbird for a day of skiing. You weren't too sure of your way around the mountain, and you were skiing on loaner skis as you've quickly outgrown your skis and boots and we just haven't found the time to get you new gear. I watched you suit up, remembering very well the many days your dad had to buckle up your boots for you.

With twenty dollars and a cell phone in your pocket, you were off to conquer the mountain, carving turns with your buddy.

As I drove off, I couldn't help but wonder how we arrived at this place. I am amazed at your independence, at your confidence and bright spirit. You are quickly growing from boy to man and though I hate to watch it happen, hate to have you taller than me, I am so very proud of the man you are becoming.

This has been a year of firsts for you....first girlfriend, first heartbreak..albeit shortlived, first kiss (I kissed a girl and I liked it..sung Katy Perry style over breakfast), first time shaving, first summer cutting the grass, first solo sleepover summer camp...quickly followed by first solo airplane trip. First year of junior high, first voice changing squeak, first out of state lacrosse tournament and first time you've really ever given dad and I cause to worry. I suppose it's all part of being a teenager.

A few of my favorite memories of you this year....

• Sitting by you at the Draper Temple Dedication and watching the Spirit touch you. I could almost feel your budding testimony well up inside of your chest and make your heart pound. Witnessing sweet tears pool in your eyes as you recognized the feelings of the Spirit and the truthfulness of blessings found in the house of the Lord.

• Watching you take responsibility for breaking the window at the Presbyterian church while playing wall ball. Pastor Lee told you: "On the outside, you look like just a boy...but you act just like a man". You developed a nice friendship with Pastor Lee over the summer. He welcomed you each time you came to play and you enjoyed learning about Hockey and old cars from him. I was so proud of you for having integrity, for owning up to your mistakes and making the effort to set things right.

• Having you ask me "Do you know what today is?" on the fifteenth of each month. I love that you remember and miss him as much as I do. It touches me when you share a memory with me or point out something that he would like or that reminds you of him. I love that you never complain about getting up at six in the morning on Federal Holidays to place flags in our neighborhood...you honor him by doing that, you know how he loved the American Flag and all it represents.

• Watching you become a leader on both your lacrosse and football teams. I was particularly proud of you in football this fall. Almost all of your friends were put on the same team together, while you were placed on a team where you didn't know anyone. I worried about your ability to fit in. I worried about your friends leaving you out. I think you were a bit worried too, but by the second week of practice, you had formed new bonds, created new friendships that still exist. I see the same thing as you play lacrosse for Team Utah. I admire your ability to make and keep friends from different schools, different backgrounds, different religions. This ability to accept and appreciate others, to enthuse them to good works, will serve you well your entire life.

There are so many things that I love about you, so many moments which have touched my heart this year. It seems silly to try to wrap it up in one single blog post. But I don't want to forget you at this age. I don't want to forget what a great big brother you are, particularly to your little brothers. How tender you are with them...and silly. I don't want to forget how you make me laugh every single day, how you are incredibly quick witted, yet kind in your humor. I appreciate that you don't make jokes at the expense of others. I don't want to forget how affectionate you are with your mom, how you give me strong hugs each morning and night, how you still say "love you mom" when I drop you off at school each morning...regardless of what your friends might think.

Dad and I laugh that you still get excited to go to the zoo, that your favorite christmas gift was your pet frogs and star wars legos. You are growing up my sweet son, but you are still just a boy at heart. How I love you.

Grateful

Life is crazy. It never slows down. For one such as myself who doesn't thrive in the midst of chaos, I am still slowly adjusting to the new reality of four little people depending on me. I have not abandoned this blog. Journaling has become my new source of sanity...but the jumbled notes kept in the notebook in my purse rarely organize themselves into a sensible blog entry. I will do better...in the weeks and months ahead, I commit to do better. For I do want to remember this crazy time in my life and I want my children to remember that though often frazzled, usually on edge and tired and constantly in motion, I loved them and was utterly devoted to their well-being.

In the meantime, I am ever so grateful. Grateful for my beautiful life filled with an amazing spouse, talented, spirited children, a kind mother and sweet brothers. My incredible nieces and nephews, supportive friends who keep me in laughter. I am blessed. Today and Every day.

On the Other Hand

Yesterday as I was changing his diaper, Miles looked up at me, brown eyes shining. Dark, curly lashes blinking, framing his innocent face. Sometimes when I look deep into those beautiful eyes, my heart almost skips a beat. I am overcome in love for him. And then:

"Momma, I don't like you anymore".

It stung. Probably more than it should have given his temperment of late. We are deeply embedded in the terrible twos. Tantrums and tears have become the rule rather than the exception.

Then today as we were leaving Kindermusik:

"That was awesome, Momma."

"It was awesome Miles. You were awesome."

"I was a rock star Momma".

"yep."

"I wuv you Momma.....so much."

And so it goes. I know his moods are dictated by his need for control. Apparently that includes the right to change his mind.

And that is the way we roll.

15

"The very first moment I beheld him, my heart was irrevocably gone."

Jane Austen

Happy Anniversary!

Just Like You

This is how we found Miles last night.

The house became eerily quiet, which usually means Miles is getting into trouble somewhere.

Instead, we found him in the garage, putting on all of Cole's Lacrosse gear.

Move over Daddy, Miles has a new Role Model.

Slumber

The house was quiet tonight with the exception of the constant hum of the central air. I hesitated to bathe you as the oppressive heat of the day would only be compounded by the warm sudsy water. But such is the ritual, and somehow watching you stretch and splash in the water each night washes away my stress, and soothes me as much as it does you.

With no other children demanding my attention tonight, I take my time dressing you for bed. I massage the Baby Magic into each of your tiny toes, your earlobes, the rolls of your thighs. Even with the sun still hanging in the sky, your eye lids are heavy. Quickly I swaddle you in your blanket, a habit for you since the day of your birth. You, my only baby who seems to need the comfort and security found in a few simple folds of flannel.

Greedily you eat, struggling to keep your eyes open. I stroke the peach fuzz of your soft, round cheeks and slowly you surrender. The suckling becomes slower, your breath heavier. At last I feel the full weight of your thirteen pound frame grow limp in my arms.

Quietly I lay you in your crib, tucking the "cozy" grandma gave you around your body. I stop for a moment in awe at how long you are beginning to look in what once was a spacious crib, too vast for my little baby. I close the blinds. 8:08 pm and the world outside is still buzzing, neighborhood children shrieking, a lawn mower motoring.

It isn't often that the house is this quiet. And for a moment, I'm unsure of what to do with myself. The dinner dishes are done, the baby is down and Tony and the rest of the children are out...football, dance, a late night bike ride. Eventually I settle on a new book and climb into my own bed. Before long, darkness sets in and I too fall asleep, weary from the heat and the constant busyness that summer brings.

I awake at one and lay awake, keeping an ear on the monitor, waiting for the familiar first strains of your cry. Silence. I turn over and watch the clock. 1:37 am, silent. 1:59 am, silent still. Sleep comes again, but I wake in a panic. 2:42 am.

I quickly make my way down the hall to your room, and reach for you in the dark. You stir and I feel grateful to find you warm and breathing. Followed immediately by feeling foolish at my fear. I tip the shutter just slightly so the pale moon light floods your room. Peacefully you sleep, arms flailed above your head, lips moving slightly in a subtle sucking motion.

I return to bed, but sleep fails me. My body has grown accustom to the nightly wake up calls at 1 am and five am. It isn't that I'm not tired....of course I'm tired, as most mothers with a newborn are. But that little burst of adrenaline won't allow my mind to quiet down enough for sleep. And so I lie there and I wait for you.

Finally at 4:29 am, I hear you softly coo. Again I make my way to your room and peek over the edge of your crib. Your eyes are wide and dark. Immediately you grin, and dimples blossom on each of your cheeks. I scoop you up, eager to hold you and feed you. We snuggle and eagerly you eat, vocalizing your thirst with every suckle. Ten minutes and you are finished, satiated and arching your back as you stretch.

I put you to my shoulder and pat your back. You lay your head against my cheek and I feel your soft breath on my neck. You sigh in contentment and soon you sleep once again. This time I am in no hurry to lay you in your crib. I rock you for several minutes and savor the sweetest sleeping baby, safe in my arms.

In your first month or so of life, I spent half the night awake with you. How I longed for the day when you would sleep through the night. But now that it's here, now that you consistently sleep eight hours each night, I find it bittersweet. The truth is, I miss you Baby Blake. I miss our middle of the night snuggles. I miss rocking and holding you with no time constraints and no distractions. I miss sharing the quiet peace of the night with you on my shoulder. I will forever miss feeling the closeness of Heaven surround us as we shared our daily night-cap.

Love you Blakers,

Momma

Fresh Eyes

Last night I crawled into bed before 9 pm. Tony and I have been up the last three or four nights talking. Talking about our kids, his Leadville race, business, religion. Just the general things we discuss every night, only deeper and more expansive. I've had a string of several late nights, followed by very early mornings getting Rachel to dance, combined with one little two year old who has decided to wake up every few hours now that his 4 month old sibling is sleeping through the night. I was exhausted and grumpy.

Tony came in around 9:15 just as I was drifting off to sleep. He opened the blinds a bit, turned on a light or two and noisily slurped on his slurpee, happily chatting away with me about the TV show he thought I was watching. I snapped at him that I was trying to sleep, angry at his inconsideration. He quietly left the room and left me to my moodiness borne of sheer exhaustion.

He came to bed around 11:30 and I felt his warm hand on my cheek. When I stirred he held my hand. "Susan passed tonight." He whispered. And immediately my eyes were open trying to find his in the dark.

For months and months, we have watched our friend Elden tenderly care for his sweet wife Susan as she battled breast cancer. I have never witnessed a more beautiful love story unfold as together they courageously endured this most difficult of diseases with dignity, humor and uncommon determination. Together they worked to raise over $500,000 in donations to the LiveStrong organization, hoping that this money will one day help find a cure. They are both an inspiration to me in so many ways and I am overcome with sadness for them and their four brave children.

After Tony told me, I couldn't sleep for hours, trying to process what a huge loss this is for Elden and his family. I recognize that I am only human, but I was embarrassed that I had lost my temper with Tony over something so insignificant. Especially on that night when one we care about so deeply was sleeping alone in his bed for the first time, wishing he could talk with her, hold her hand, touch her cheek as she slept.

Surviving six years of infertility has given me a profound sense of gratitude for my four incredible children. I take more time with them. I am more patient with them, more present in the day to day. Specifically, I am filled with wonder that I am blessed with their tender care, that I have the honor and privilege of being their mother.

Susan's passing brought these same feelings to my heart about my sweet husband. How often I take him for granted and simply expect that he will take care of all of us. He is such a blessing in my life and all too often I fail to tell him how incredibly lucky I feel to be his wife. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for me if I but ask. He supports me in all that I want to do. He validates my feelings. He listens to me and cheers me on. He is quite simply my best friend. Most importantly, he makes me feel safe. I trust him without question and know he would never do anything to hurt me or our children. I have never met a more loyal person.

As I watched him sleep this morning, I saw him with fresh eyes. After fifteen years, he still makes my heart race. He still makes me laugh. He makes our life together work. I am so grateful that he belongs to me and that we are headed in the same direction...together.

And I am grateful for the Nelson's. For sharing so much of their story with us so that we might be reminded of the treasures found within our own home. On his blog, Elden told us to "Fight Like Susan" and I know he intended those words to represent her incredible fight with Cancer. But for me today, Fighting Like Susan means never wasting another day Fighting or Angry with my spouse. Life is too short and he is too important to me.