Two Months

My sweet baby is two months old today. He is a darling little baby. Sweet tempered, calm, easy. But he is very time consuming, as most newborns are. He is my last baby. I try to remind myself of this when I'm feeding him at one o clock in the morning, and again at four o clock. I'm trying not to wish his babyhood away....knowing all too soon he will be rolling and sitting and crawling and then walking. Walking away from me and growing all together too quickly.


Thomas S. Monson shared this powerful insight to happiness, “This is our one and only chance at life—here and now. The longer we live, the greater is our realization that it is brief. Opportunities come, and then they are gone. I believe that among the greatest lessons we are to learn in this short sojourn upon the earth are lessons that help us distinguish between what is important and what is not. I plead with you not to let those most important things pass you by as you plan for that illusive and nonexistent future when you will have time to do all that you want to do. Instead, find joy in the journey—now.”


I do find joy in this journey with baby Blake. I really can't get enough of him. I need to remember President Monson's counsel when I get overwhelmed with dishes in the sink, laundry to fold, dinner to make. Surely baby Blake is more important than all of that and I don't want it to pass me by.


Oh how I love him.

Even at four in the morning.

Responsibility

Last night as we were driving to dinner in the searing Palm Desert heat, Miles sang out from the back seat. And then, he counted to ten. Without cajole or prompt. He simply said each number in the correct order.

And I, I was astonished. I recall very well teaching Cole to count to ten. I remember practicing the ABC song with Rachel over and over until she got it right. And with Miles, I have done nothing. Somehow he knows his ABC's. He knows how to count to ten. Not because of me. But in spite of me.

My heart broke into jagged pieces as it has so many times over the past several weeks. I feel so clearly how I am failing him. How my feeble attempts to mother four children have left him without the guidance and attention my older children enjoyed.

"You need to read to him" Tony reminds me. And I do. Almost daily. But it is usually rushed and simply marked off my list as yet another chore accomplished. It isn't the unfettered hour I used to spend with my older children, absorbed in one book after another. Truth be told, the large bin of board books, most suitable for this two year old boy, remains hidden on the dark shelves of our cold storage. I've yet to dust off the box, though I know the treasure which lies therein.

Last week, as I bathed my sweet new baby. Miles broke down and begged of me to "put him down!" Over and over he beseeched me to put the baby down. The baby, past due for a feeding, cried out his own pleas, and soon a symphony of tears filled the sun drenched nursery.

For the first time in weeks, I attended to Miles' needs first. Blake lay screaming in his crib. Miles wailed in my arms and soon, I too, was weeping hot and frustrated tears.

I wish I could say this was the exception rather than the rule. But the truth is, each day I am overwhelmed in my responsibility for these four precious souls. Each day, amid requests and tears, in the midst of the constant "mom can you iron my shirt, I need a library book, can you give me a ride, I want some apple juice, I hate this dinner, can you please tuck me in, do I have any clean socks, can you volunteer in my classroom, when are you going to the grocery store and will you please, please put the baby down", I feel a sense of failure. For try as I might, there is always one of them...or more, who isn't getting enough of me. Enough of my time, enough of my attention and patience. Enough of my love. I feel it in the tantrums of my two year old. I feel it in the wistful glances of my nine year old and I most certainly feel it in the hot temper of my teenager.

I've always wanted to be a mother. And frankly, it's always come quite easily to me. I have pretty good instincts about my children and I have never really struggled in my role as a parent. Perhaps I was too quick to pat myself on the back. Too quick to take credit for their obedience, for their easy personalities and good behavior.

My shortcomings have become all too clear since the arrival of baby Blake. As I strive for more patience, more understanding and more kindness for each of my sweet children. As I struggle to love them better in spite of my weariness and daily inadequacies, I hope I am teaching my children to offer me the same.

Consumed

Nursing

Changing

Patting

Rocking

Bathing

Feeding

Burping

Holding

Snuggling

Napping

LOVING

"It was the tiniest thing

I ever decided to put

my whole life into"

Accustom

I've grown Accustom to his Face.

He almost makes the day begin.

I've grown accustom to the tune

He whistles night and noon.

His Smiles

His Frowns

His Ups

His Downs

Are Second Nature to me Now

Like Breathing Out

And Breathing In.

I was so really Independent and Content

Before we Met.

Surely I could always Be.

That Way Again.

And Yet,

I've grown Acustom to his Looks

Accustom to his Voice

Accustom to his Face

Six Months

I used to talk to my dad every day. Every. Single. Day. I worked for him for fifteen years of my adult life. But even on those days when I wasn't in the office, he would call me each day to chat.

The last few years of his life, things were a bit different and I didn't talk to him each day. I missed it. I missed him. Sometimes it would be a few weeks in between our conversations. But never more than that.

Today marks the six month anniversary of his death. I have been thinking about him so much. So many things big and small to miss about him. But I think the thing I miss most is just being able to talk to him. Just hearing his voice on the other end of the phone. I have never gone six long months without talking to my dad.

My dad was one of the most positive people I know. Always upbeat, cheerful, encouraging. I miss that influence in my life. I miss hearing his stories. I miss him making me laugh or making difficult things in my life seem light. I miss his advice. I miss him making me feel better.

I miss his voice.

I miss him.

More today than yesterday. More than last week or last month. More than four or five months ago.

The longer it goes, the harder it is to remember the sound of his voice. The harder it is to recall the warmth of his spirit.

Six months feels like forever.

Do something for me.....call your dad today and tell him that you love him.

I would if I could.

Fresh

Taken just a few minutes after birth

Blake William

Six Pounds Six Ounces

Nineteen Inches Long

Fresh from Heaven

Delicious

He is.

Delicious to me.

Monday night I filled the tub with hot sudsy water, cracked open the french door to draft the room with fresh air, and carefully lowered my aching body into the soothing comfort of weightlessness only found in water.

I had a long scary day at the hospital and was looking forward to a little quiet, me time to decompress after the drama of the day.

It didn't take long before I heard him calling to me: "Mommy, Mommy 'ere ares you?".

He quickly found me in the tub and was stripping down in no time. I'm not a real lover of the tub except for when I'm pregnant, so he was so excited to see that I had entered his playground. "Mommy in the hot tubby?"

I don't know when it happened, but sometime over the last few months, his little legs have gotten long enough that he can swing them up over the tub ledge and get himself into the tub. He quickly sat down and was surprised to find the water nearly touching his nose. He giggled, not sure if this was really the tub as the depth made it feel more like a swimming pool.

Soon he found delight in rolling his toys off of my swollen belly, squealing each time an errant ducky or pirate or boat splashed into the water. "Baby stuck mommy?" Indeed, it does feel like the baby is stuck.

He made a game out of my protruding belly button, using it as his microphone to call all pirates back home. "argh, mommy! no cry stuck baby!"

Later I slathered him in Baby Magic before dressing him in his pajamas. Even though technically he isn't my baby anymore, the smell of that lotion on his skin transcends me back to the first days and weeks of his life.

In the middle of the night I hear him call to me: "Mommy 'ere ares you?"

And so I go to him. I go to him more often than I actually sleep through the night. At 2 1/2 there is no reason for him to be waking at 3 or 4 am. But he usually does, and somehow I have failed to find frustration in our late night visit.

As I enter his room, he immediately greets me with a flood of words: "Hi Mommy. Hold you Mommy? Rock you Mommy? Just one minute?"

Ah, he knows the routine. But more importantly he knows I'm a sucker for his sweet cuddle request.

I pick him up and immediately find myself enveloped in his small arms. I sit to rock him in the overstuffed chair and smile as he tries to find comfort in my lap in spite of my growing belly. Eventually, he gives up on his preferred position of knees tucked to chest, head resting on my shoulder, and allows me to cradle him as I did when he was a newborn babe. Within minutes he is sleeping soundly and I quietly tuck him back in bed.

I often have a hard time falling back to sleep. I'd like to blame it on pregnancy induced insomnia and the inability to find comfort. But truthfully, after a visit with this little love, I can't get him out of my mind. I love this age. I love his innocence, his budding vocabulary, his need for me still. I love him with a fierceness that feels foreign and yet familiar all at once. It is that ache deep within my heart that I faintly recall feeling when Cole was a toddler and I was expecting Rachel. I wonder and I worry: will I love the next one just the same? Of course I know the answer. I am well aware of the magical ability of a mother's heart to expand exponentially within just minutes of giving birth.

And yet, for the moment. Miles in all of his deliciousness, has stolen my heart.

Bedrest

And so it begins.

I've anticipated it since conception. I have experienced it with each of my pregnancies. I shouldn't be surprised. And yet, there is nothing comforting about the doctor telling you to stay completely down aside from a daily shower and potty breaks.

My blood pressure is too high. The baby is too small, too early, too immature to survive outside the safety of my womb without medical intervention.

"Each day we prevent delivery is a gift to your son". He said, looking me straight in the eyes, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. Truth be told...I have never been so panicked in all of my life. This is the earliest I have ever threatened to deliver. I asked him for some kind of hope that my baby wouldn't end up in the NICU and he simply said "Bedrest can work if you comply." Sentiments confirmed by a kind nurse during subsequent monitoring.

And so it goes. I've made it two days so far, I am hoping for fourteen more.

Lest my brain turn to total mush, I'm going to try to post once a day until my delivery. That's a pretty lofty goal that I may not make...but at least it gives me something to think about while lying around.

See you tomorrow.

Near but not Near Enough

By looking just at the title of this post, one could assume I am talking about my elusive due date, which is most definitely near, but not near enough.

But this is another post about my dad. I'm sure it would be much better for the two people who actually read my blog (thanks mom and Tony) to move on to a different topic. But I sense that the feelings that creep into my heart will slowly start to fade, and because of that, I feel more of an urgent need to post little things I am feeling about my dad.

My dad used to love to give big hugs. They were full bodied and strong. He always said "Come here and let me squeeze your guts out". It was a trademark of his, one that every single grandchild will recall with fondness.

In his last weeks, Miles was just beginning to speak. I would often lay him on my dad's chest so he too could experience a squeeze your guts out hug from Papa Bill. Each day I would ask him "Who squeezes your guts out?" and he would promptly respond "Papa Bill".

I stopped asking eventually and Miles began speaking in full sentences; each of us pressing forward, moving onward.

Sunday night we gathered for family dinner. We toasted a niece on her new job, we welcomed my mother home from an extended vacation, we laughed and traded stories. It was just the kind of dinner my dad would have loved. Miles kept leaving his seat, racing to my chair, and then running back to his own. I was growing exasperated by his antics in the crowded restaurant. At last he came to me and said "Papa Bill squeezes guts out." He repeated it over and over to his cousins, his siblings, his aunt and uncle.

Perhaps Miles was the only one who could see my dad there, wrapping his arms around each one of us.

Tuesday, Cole came and lay down with me in bed. He has been recovering from a pretty bad case of strep, which he so kindly shared with me. He told me how he'd been thinking so much about his grandpa. He said when he felt so sick for just a few days, it made him realize how his grandpa had been sick for months and months and yet he rarely complained. He always remained positive, stoic.

I, too, have been having these same thoughts of my dad. Especially when I was in the hospital a few weeks ago suffering from severe pain. In those short six hours before I was able to obtain pain relief, my thoughts turned continually to my dad who endured that kind of pain for months on end. I understood on a different level his desperation and panic. I have thought of little else and have worried and wondered that we did enough to help make and keep him comfortable. Over and over I have felt him calm my fears and tell me it was enough, that we did everything possible. Perhaps the only lesson he is trying to show me is that of empathy for others pain.

On Wednesday, I was searching frantically for a lost email and came across an email written by my second oldest brother the day after my dad's funeral. Somehow it had ended up in my spam file.

"I think everything went extremely well yesterday. I want you all to know how proud I am to have you as my brothers and beloved sister. I know I don't always say it, but I just wanted you to know I love and appreciate you all, I couldn't ask for better siblings. Now pick yourself up. The show must go on!"

I wept and recognized my dad's hand in reminding me that I am not alone, that I have three of the kindest, most amazing, accomplished, compassionate brothers. Each of them possessing a portion of my dad's charm and character. What a lovely reminder found in an errant email on a day when I most needed it.

Yesterday, I attending a meeting for the American Cancer Society. Their annual Babe golf tournament will be held in honor of my dad this year. I knew that this was happening, it was the sole reason I was asked to volunteer my time on the committee. And yet, walking in that door and seeing "In Honor of William C. "Bill" Roderick" on all of the tournament literature took my breath away. I quietly wiped away silent tears as my sister in law gently rubbed my leg under the table.

I don't have any physical possessions of my dad due to some pretty unusual circumstances. But what I do have is a lifetime of memories, an over-flowing reservoir of treasured moments and tender feelings. I think he was with me at that meeting, reminding me that while I don't have his 'things', I still have him. I carry him with me everywhere I go, right here in my heart. Surely he is nearby if only the sight of his name can bring me to tears.

I know my dad is near. I feel him every day in sometimes profound, sometimes silly ways. He is here, just not nearly close enough.

I Miss

I miss him.

Yesterday marked the four month anniversary of his death. In some ways it seems like yesterday and in some ways it feels like forever.


I've been sick now for an entire week. In all my life I don't remember being this sick. And something about feeling so yucky makes me emotional and sad. I miss my dad.


When I was put down on bedrest with my last baby, my dad sent me a dozen roses. He called me everyday just to check in. I've been thinking about all of the little things he did like that to make me feel loved. I miss him.


It isn't that I'm not in good hands. I have the best husband and mother. My in-laws have been amazing, my friends incredible. But something is missing.

Someone is missing.

And I'm really feeling it this week.