Linking with Blythe for One hot mess. Enjoy her, she’s great!!

To Jim, 3 days after his 30th birthday and on our 6th wedding anniversary,

It’s difficult to believe it has been a full year since the last time you thought you turned 30. Even so, it is with so much excitement and happiness that I wish you the happiest year of all, to you, the very best person I have ever known.

With 6 years of marriage just 3 days after the big threeoh, 1/5 of your life has been spent married to yours truly, and that, I think, is super cool. Josie and I had a blast picking a gift appropriate for 1/5 of a life spent together, and post delivery, I can’t wait to enjoy a bourbon or few with my favorite partner. PS and FYI, your daughter is strangely comfortable and well behaved in the alcohol store.

Your birthday began delicious and sugary: cake, and crepes, and eggs, and scones. By 10 am I thought we probably needed more sugar. Since every working dad loves a surprise from his three small children and pregnant wife, in the middle of the day, completely unannounced, I thought it best to tell you nothing. By noon, we finally had enough shoes on enough feet to make it to the bakery. One dozen cupcakes for you and your work friends coveted by three small drooling children.

Upon arrival at your place of work, our starving kids were welcomed by a completely vacated office, out early for the last day of school. I found you by your car in the parking lot, wondering why I hadn’t called and why you married such an idiot. With cupcakes as our comfort, each child picked their favorite to enjoy in the blistering heat. James picked the chocolate one, and you wanted some. So, on the 30th anniversary of your birth, you took a bite of James’ chocolate cupcake.

You took a bite of his cupcake, Jim. A bite. Without warning, your mouth enjoyed the chocolate icing that his mouth had already planned to enjoy. You tasted the small cake before he tasted the small cake. Then, before you could even lick the rest of the icing off of your chin, back to your office you went to finish your phone calls because you are a dedicated, good, and hard worker that has absolutely no idea of his power to destroy the dreams of a four year old boy.

Because you had taken a bite of his cupcake. One, singular, day ruining, earth shattering, his life is now over, bite of his cupcake.

As his sisters giggled their way through a sticky mess, now all over their faces, outfits, carseats, and hair, his tears streamed into what remained of the chocolate icing. His celebratory treat, now mutilated and made salty by the watery excess of his sadness.

I tried to concentrate on driving through the busy city streets, but the piercing screams of the backseat left me distracted. His cupcake. You took a bite. You gave him your germs. You didn’t ask. He wanted it. He picked it. He loves you, but you took a bite of his cupcake, and he might never be happy ever again. Through the four doors of our dirty Acura, all of Pittsburgh’s city heard the consequence of your craving for chocolate as I prayed our baby in utero still has a chance at developing normal hearing.

I drove and tried to reframe his lament into generosity and a great gift for your birthday. Yet, no matter what a mom could say amidst deafening screams, it was clear. His life was ruined.

For one brief moment the screaming stopped. At the sight of a puddle, all three weirdos stared in awe of the way its dirty water splashed our car. I have never known gratitude for a large collection of murky rain like I did in that brief moment of relief from his screams, and I might never again complain when I accidentally step into one. I also might owe that puddle our daughter’s life. When I looked through the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse at amazed wonder, that’s exactly when I noticed her walking around the back seat, picking up the skirt of her ballerina leotard over her icing covered face and hair, as she twirled and spun, like the dirtiest little tiny dancer there ever was. I thought you had buckled her, you were too busy ruining James’ life.

I pulled over just as fast as I could into perhaps one of the nicest streets in all of our city, and pierced all of their eardrums.

The thing about trying to buckle a baby who has now tasted the freedom of walking around and practicing clumsy ballet in the backseat of a moving vehicle is that its basically impossible. Wet pigs in a rodeo squirm less, and I would imagine, kick much more gently. I’m sure baby #4 will one day return the blows to either her or me, whomever he/she chooses to blame for the forceful disregard of his personal space.

With a strong desire for earplugs, I drove on to our home. James still crying in the backseat, Josie happily reminding him that you had not taken a bite of her cupcake, Rita still pissed about being restrained, me spotting the best 30th birthday gift your mom has ever given you, other than life, at our front door: Birthday Balloons. There was one for each of them, because she is a good hearted genius. The horror of the shared cupcake now just a crummy mess staining further the dirty floor of our car now just a distant memory to the incomparable joy of floating helium on a string.

It was with the greatest gratitude that two babysitters agreed to watch them for an overnight, and even though there were twin beds in the room we booked, I agree, it was super romantic. Remembering the day spent watching you skeet shoot, eating like I’ve never eaten before and will never eat again, and golfing was one that will always make me smile. And when I tell people I shot a 90, I’ll probably allow them to be impressed and leave out how many holes we golfed. Thank you for your patience with me, your wife, as I 10-putted every hole, responded to your advice to “choke up” with “no,” and “Why don’t you try your sand wedge?” with “I prefer my driver.”

To you, my sweet husband! I hope and pray our 6 turns to 60, that God remains first, and that we never stop laughing through the crummy and crappy, because there is just so much good here. As we begin year 6, the year of Iron, or so the standard anniversary gifts indicate, let us allow Iron to beget Iron, growing stronger in love and faith, perseverance, joy, and fortitude.

Happy Birthday, and Happy Anniversary. I still feel like the bride that jumped up and down on the altar, but please, never again, take a bite of a cupcake that isn’t yours.

A Feast: A few days after I noticed 20 month old Rita Therese’s impressive handle on the words to John Legend’s overplayed hit, we had the opportunity to celebrate her life on the Feast of her patron, St. Rita. She spent much of her day taunting my discipline as she repeatedly danced on the counters in her diaper, which I hope and pray is not a representation of foreshadowing of any kind. Through a list of choices like “chicken or steak,” she picked her feast day meal of risotto, green beans and steak and proceeded to eat none of it. She also managed to put her entire head into a mixing bowl of what were supposed to be sanitary brownies in an attempt to lick whatever baking ingredient her tongue could touch. No nutritional intake was as gross, however, as witnessing the post dinner and bath feast that took place as mom was too occupied running the length of the driveway to prevent her four-year old brother from riding his bike into a tree again without wearing a helmet. As I waddle-ran back down the length of the pavement, there I saw her tiny, perfectly chubby feet. Her body, though, remained hidden and completely crawled inside the garbage can, about to be cleaned by her father, on which she used her baby strength to knock over. And with the same proud face that she finishes all of her broccoli, a hand full of maggots sat in her mouth and on her face, and boy was she thrilled. A throat full of threatening vomit never burned so bad. And with that I say, To Rita a few days past your feast day: It is with a particular gratitude that I will continue to thank you for the presence of your life in mine. Your hair, your smile, your rolls, and your waddle are topped by no one. You are easy-going like your father, and no one adores him more than you. May your gentle heart continue to fill the family with joy and appreciation for innocence. May you experience the same comfort in God’s love that you show to your siblings. May your mother feed you better so you never again feel tempted to eat a seriously disgusting insect, and may no one top your feat of “most disgusting thing I’ve seen as a mom to date.” I know your patron got a little woodsy in her days, but…yuck!

Midnight visitors: This morning I attempted to give the two oldest a stern talking to for continuing to come into my room at night and wake me up for various non reasons, hide at the foot of our bed, sleep on my head on purpose, or wake each other up so that they can wake me together. I explained that tired parents are boring parents, and pregnant moms need sleep and proceeded to beg, promise rewards, and make other acts of parental desperation. Responses included, “But in the night the trees grow arms, and Darth Vador climbs them.” “But one time I threw up in my room.” “Staying in our rooms to sleep is supposed to be special. That’s why we can’t do it every night.” “How about we switch rooms?” And, finally, perhaps the most threatening of all, “if I pee in my bed can I come in your room?”

In the words of Amy Poehler, it appears that “tired is the new black.”

Shopping on Memorial Day: On Friday Jim and I toyed with the idea of finally replacing the refrigerator eye sore that has been replaced by no one since 1992. We thought we should take advantage of the Memorial Day marketing strategies. There are two things about Loews on Memorial Day. The store is 10% off, and they serve free hotdogs. In an attempt to avoid having to cook a real lunch, I entered the store with two clear public displays of “my mom is actually unAmerican.” First, as the kind man offered Josie the work of all his grilling, she began to cry and say “What is that!!??” The man maintained his friendly demeanor with a very concerned, “your daughter doesn’t know what a hot dog is?” I tried to cover with, “I think she’s just not hungry,” but my bluff was called almost immediately after James and Rita received the dog with “it looks like food to me,” delight. James ate the bread in two-three massive bites and then waved the entire hot dog in the air while shouting, “here, mom! I don’t like this part of the hot dog.” The maggot eating baby licked the ketchup and then threw it at me. I didn’t realize a mom could feel judged for avoiding feeding my children fake meat, but it is in fact possible.

As I browsed the appliances. which is apparently my children’s least favorite department in all of shopping, I tried to use psychological manipulation in an attempt to disguise distraction with inclusion in the hopes of maybe, just maybe quieting the shouting and continued standing as the cart was moving and older patrons stepped in to say, “Miss, your kids will die like that.” “James and Josie, I need your help!” I explained. “Please tell me your opinion on which of these your dad and I should buy!!” It grew silent as I witnessed concentrated perusing eyes. I let the feeling of achieved brilliance sink in. Then, after 5 seconds my bluff was called with, “I think we should definitely buy that blue balloon. It looks like a really nice one.” And with that I left with nothing new but three balloons colored red, white, and blue, because I love America and am a sucker for my children.

May your weekend memories make for a happy week, and may none of your babies be sunburned like mine.

To Josie, 14 days into her 3rd Year

Sweet Josephine Marie,

With 14 joyful days completed in your third year of life, I am finally making the time to wish you an internet happy birthday. Please forgive my tardiness as you quit napping almost two years earlier than your brother, and the afternoons just aren’t as productive in the way that they once were. But, a heart as creative and wild as the hair on your head can’t be slowed down for sleep. I am very much looking forward to each day of this third year with you, but it’s hard to say goodbye to 2, an age you mastered with intelligence, mess, and coordination far beyond my expectations of toddler.

The chocolate you managed to eat, the home alarms you managed to walk underneath, the boxes of cereal poured, the child proof containers you opened. The fish oil. The bullion.

Yours and your siblings birthdays turn me into an even crazier mom. My emotions recounting your birth story keep me up at night, and I stress about how to make the day perfect. And yet, every year, and especially this year, you teach me to calm down and “celebrate the morning.” With only one “its my party and I’ll cry if I want to,” moment of the whole day revolving around Rita’s attempt to steal your candy filled pencil case, I’d say you taught me well.

Each day you wake with a sweet, sparkly eyed, scrunched nose smile that asks for nothing but a hug. A few minutes into the morning you use your sweetness in an attempt to acquire several pieces of cake or candy, and it is very difficult to say no. So sometimes I don’t. And neither does Dad.

And speaking of Dad, wrapped around his finger is a lame description of the way you have with him. You will fish with him for hours, watch hockey with him for days, ice skate with him until your toes are blue and fingers are frozen. You will shovel snow, plant vegetables, dig the dirt, kick a soccer ball, sit on his lap, finish a container of salsa only with him. You will not, however, collect hockey cards, and for that, I’m sort of thankful because one safe full of 20 year old bubble gum is enough. You received his patience and kindness in a very special and unique way. Its a kind of generosity that sees the best in others with a total focus on them, no matter what that means for you. For instance, in a race, if the boys next door cheer for your opponent you will join in the cheer and help him win. Or when we pick up James at school and he shares a special opportunity, you can’t help but rejoice in his excitement. Or when I asked you what you most wanted for your birthday, you responded, “presents for James and Rita, and a real princess and one balloon.” Mammy took care of the ‘real princess’ part by showing up as Princess Leia, and believe me when I say, you were thrilled by her craziness and creativity.

On Mother’s Day, you said your favorite thing about me was that I will be the one “to hug so many trees with you when you grow up.” As a fiscally conservative, pro-life libertarian, I’d say you are the only hippie who could ever convince me to do such a thing.

Your style is a tomboy’s version of bohemian chic, and God picked the most perfect head of hair for such an aesthetic. Your eyes are a striking brown, with very long eyelashes, and your smile is as contagious as your belly laugh. You will eat an entire gyro by yourself. You will sing made up songs at the tippy top of your voice while climbing a tree. Your comedic timing to pull a prank on your big brother puts your dad and Me in hysterical laughter. Your strong feminine presence, even in its early years, changes the behavior of the 6 boys next door (most of the time).

The quality you share most with me is that you tend to crash your bike into trees pretty frequently.

You are spiritually sensitive, and naturally empathetic. Even though you are convinced that Jesus was killed while swimming with sharks in the ocean, you ask how you can make it better. The best part of your day is often a moment you witnessed someone else enjoy, rather than a moment you had for yourself.

You rarely ask for help and approach problems with skillful confidence. And even though sometimes it means you are wearing your pants backwards and shirt inside out, the pride of getting dressed alone is worth the comments from strangers.

You continue to teach me to approach the world with humor and vigor, adventure and freedom.

At one point on most days, your dad and I tend to look at your long curly blond curls as they spunkily bounce in each of your decisions and ponder at the marvel of your creation. While each of the three of you is a clear gift from God, His creative power is revealed to us in a very special way through you. While there are certainly glimmers of your father and me in what you do and say, there is something so breathtakingly wild, and freely generous about your general state of being that both of us know we couldn’t have created on our own, or even together, without a little help from the Big Man. I admire the way you look at life, my curiously mischievous, perfectly weird, impossible to catch or convince, sweet and so very pretty little girl.

Love,

Mom

In retrospect, even if I had a tissue for every one of the 33 veils or bowties that entered the Church, it still would not have been enough to soak the tears I very embarrassingly shed on Sunday morning. But, when God strikes the heart with waterfalls of undeniable grace and gratitude, its difficult to anticipate its timing, or choose flood-proof cosmetics accordingly.

One by one they stepped up to our priest and received the Body of Christ for the first time. With a front row seat, my emotions at seeing their faces got carried away at the first “Amen.” In an attempt not to scare their parents at what Jim referred to as “weird, scary, creepy, that’s so weird. Or I guess maybe you have the spiritual gift of tears?” I tried to hide my face in praying hands. When that failed to end the waterworks I attempted mental distraction about what I wanted to eat afterwards (Donuts). I closed my eyes and not discretely placed my forearm close to my nose to try and catch the snot produced when there is too much crying. The ante was then upped by God or the music director or whomever decided the “Hail Mary” song I sing to each of my kids before bed would be the best next song to make Regina continue to whimper. I tried later to be a good mom and blame it on my pregnancy hormones. The truth though, is that the faith of a child is unmatched. They meant those ‘Amens’ and they worked hard to receive that Sacrament. They smiled as big as they could because they knew they had done something BIG. It was not a routine, or part of a Sunday morning checklist. It was exciting and fresh and stunningly beautiful, and my prayer for the rest of my life is that I can receive with the same eager earnestness as each one of those children.

Since early September, I met with each of these First Communicants every Tuesday for 90 minutes. Each week they had me biting my cheeks to prevent my laughing at their most sincere prayers for the dead roadkill they spotted 6 days prior while walking their also prayed for dog, their grandma’s pet turtle that lives in a far away land called North Carolina, or the barely scratched knee scrape that they insisted almost sent them to the ER. In other moments, their continuous prayers for their mother’s safe flight, ease at work, or prayer of thanksgiving for time spent with their father edified and strengthened the most tired parts of my motherhood. Their questions and curiosity about Catholicism challenged me and made me and my faith better. And their insistance the Blessed Mother surely wears high heels in heaven and that Jesus is obviously a Pirate fan makes me wonder if imagination is a virtue that Aristotle missed when writing the Nicomachean Ethics.

Thank you, dear students, for your innocent faces that brought me to my knees in thankful wonder toward a God who permitted me to encounter your first experience with the Eucharist. You declared on your first taste of the host that it is “WORSE THAN BROCCOLI AND ASPARAGUS!!” and explained to me that Easter Sunday is the day the “Parasites (pharisees) got burned!” and asked me “so when do we get money?” after making your first reconciliation, and wondered if maybe “instead of talking about God we could drink homemade hot chocolate and paint our nails?” In response to the revelation of my pregnancy you said, “I knew your stomach had changed,” and when I told you my age you said, “oh my gosh.” Your spirits are young and pure and you truly want to give God everything. Though my time as your teacher is a glimmer of your faith journey, the opportunity to participate in your formation will forever be cherished, and my gratitude for you eternal.

Thats just me on my First Communion with a veil big enough for everyone to share.

Let me half way catch you up:

Internet Disappearance: Despite what posting frequency may indicate, this blog is not dying. Its resting. Or rather, its pregnant. For very good reason, its typer’s brain turns mostly to mush more frequently than it is active. In certain moments its quite easy to grow in frustration as my to do lists grow more undone. Yet, then I remember that even when nothing is done and I’m still exhausted, I probably gave my baby a working limb or helped dozens of important organs thrive and that much closer to viability. And what is Lent and Holy Week without a little healthy detachment from things and hobbies and lists and check marks on those lists. With the week of Easter being the 17th of this baby’s gestational life, I am noticing slightly more brain activity, and significantly fewer meetings with my face and the toilet, which, will hopefully enable more consistency in doing the dozens of other things that seem to lose importance when the making and growing of another human being within my own body is involved.

Easter: Their fervent speed might have rivaled even John’s, the fastest of the disciples, and biggest brother, James, let that be known. The orange, purple and pink Pumas for each successive child found in their Easter baskets may have made no difference in actual speed, but their laps around the kitchen island felt at least “hours” (pronounced “ow-wows”) faster than the shoes they wore the day before. Rita proved her mother wrong as she managed to open each and every one of the dozens and dozens of candy filled plastic eggs which she found, crushed open with force never before exposed in her personality, then devoured each candy with speed rivaling her siblings leg rotation in their new light up shoes. Josie received her sale price Easter dress with joy, yet continued to question why she couldn’t have the crazy priced toddler Oscar de La Renta. I think more frequent trips to TJ Maxx and Marshall’s is the prescription to regain and educate a future maxxinista and not a spendtoomuch-a. Jim and I received the greatest honor of all when as we held and witnessed our new Godson’s baptism on the very day which God revealed his love to the world in its purest most joyful form. And then we ate the sweetest and most delicious Easter meals at least 7 times more than a daily caloric intake requires. Risen, indeed.

Baseball: A patriarchal obsession for generations in this family has been successfully passed onto my son. As he squats behind each batter he usually chooses his middle finger to signal to the pitcher. He will run any distance to retrieve the ball, and in an Easter miracle all its own, I found the requested orange (pronouced ow-ange) leather mitt with which he is slowly learning how to catch. Josie will run the bases in fast circles again and again and again, while baby sister Rita mostly eats grass and kills bugs. Dad uses his most calm instruction and coaching technique to create an almost perfectly wonderful family bonding activity. Upon asking James to kindly refrain from repeatedly spitting on his sister when he has the ball, he reminds me emphatically that, “that’s what baseball players do” and quite honestly, it was tough to argue. With so many happy memories in our very own backyard with new mitts and bats in learning a classic pastime, I think I’m quite alright with raising a team of my own.

A Petting Zoo: In another edition of “Mammy is the Greatest!!!!” my mom hosted the most joyous of celebrations for our newly adopted cousin named Carson. Its been a long road to officially make him part of this family and she, as always, celebrated the only way she knows how; by creating an over the top childhood dreamland that even a child who has yet to produce the cognitive brain power of concrete memory will indubitably remember. One item on the list of so so so many fun things? A petting zoo. Its highlight? Rita generously feeding several farm animals a bottle of milk and then taking a few sips for herself. Teeth have never been brushed so hard by a crazy mom. And in a new way to puzzle me, she eagerly fed, chased, pet, rode each and every strange looking, possibly hybrid farm animal with gleeful delight. Yet, when it came to my introducing her to the cute yellow chick, she ran away in a good amount of horror toward the extra large llama for protection in one of the most confusing displays of almost toddler behaviors I have ever witnessed.

A Preschool Recital: If there is ever a person questioning God’s love or existence in this world may I suggest attending an event during which several small children sing with choreographed hand motions? James walked onto the stage right along side best friend and cousin Bailey, and as he spotted his family, he gave a smile and a wave to Rita, making his specificity known to all with a “Hi Rita!!” I hope it sticks with her always because she smiled the widest smile, fully scrunched nose and shoulders included. They sang several songs and I only cried a little bit. I’d like to take the opportunity to blame it on pregnancy hormones, but it was really just me being a mom witnessing her first born preform on stage in a suit much too large for a boy that was only recently swaddled and in my arms. Afterwards he got extra bright blue icing and chocolate cake over said suit and released several decorative balloons into the sky very much on purpose bringing me right back to the type of emotional mom moments that include phrases like “would you like a nap today?”

To be blogged one day soon: (hopefully tomorrow!!) A roaring house party with an easy full proof DIY, and a First Holy Communion that inspired more waterworks than a box of tissues allows.

The happiest of Holy, Holy, Holy Sundays to you. JP2, I love you!