Henry the Three-Year-Old

When people ask if we’re going to have another baby, I laugh like a maniac in my head (and sometimes out loud) because seriously, have you met Henry? 

I mentioned a few months ago how sentimental I am and how I often yearn for days of yore. So, I’ve known for awhile that no matter how many babies I have, I will always want another. Cue, Henry. And while I have no doubt that I’ll still feel the baby itch from time-to-time, Henry has ensured that I will stop at three kids with a content heart. 

I know he’ll read this later and sarcastically say, “Thanks, Mom. How nice of you to say.” To which I will remind him that he was a handful and a half, but the sweetest, cutest, little handful there ever was. 

He’s the greatest challenge I never knew I needed. But taming this wild horse has its sweet moments, too. When he doesn’t get what he wants, his first reaction is to scream at me with the fury of a redhead. I keep calmly reminding him that he can just talk to me and I’ll still listen even if he’s not screaming. After months and months of this lesson, the other day I watched as he almost screamed, paused, tucked the scream in and said “Mama, you pwease listen to me?” 

Yes, sweet boy, I’ll always listen to you. 

Now that he’s started talking and communicating, life is SOOOOO much less painful. He still screams if he doesn’t get his way, but about 75% of our conflicts are resolved now because we can talk to each other about it. The other 25% are usually because he’s tired or hungry and no amount of rational conversation would ever fix it. 

Henry loves being outside soaking up the beautiful weather. He’d even be outside if the weather wasn’t beautiful. I’m pretty sure he’d live out there if bees weren’t a thing. He loves climbing and sliding and swinging and most especially, sand (or dirt). In a field of grass, he’ll find even the smallest patch of dirt. I take him to the park thinking we can run off some of that endless energy only to watch him play in the sandbox for an hour. The best-laid plans and all that. 

He loves numbers. He can count to 30 every time and sometimes, if he’s in the mood, he’ll go to 50. He recognizes his numbers up to 49 and knows the following shapes: circle, oval, square, rectangle, triangle, diamond, heart, hexagon, pentagon, semicircle and trapezoid. He can recognize all the letters in the alphabet. But here’s the really crazy thing. I’m not actively working on any of this stuff with him. I’ll play letter magnets sometimes or read his number book with him, but we aren’t sitting over here doing flash cards. He has this amazing ability to remember something after the first or second time he’s heard it. That is not a trait he inherited from me. 

He still very much loves cars and will sit and play with them for what seems like hours, but in toddler time is actually only about 20 minutes. He likes puzzles and LOVES being read to and reading books himself. 

This summer he has proven to be a little fish in the water. When the girls were this age, they were pretty apprehensive about putting their faces in the water, but he just jumps right in the pool and goes all the way under before his floaties pop him back up. It fits his throw-caution-to-the-wind lifestyle. 

He is fearless when it comes to jumping and swimming and climbing and running into the street without an adult, but he’s still pretty scared of the gorilla on Mickey Mouse. Go figure.  

One of my favorite things about him lately is his awareness of others’ emotional states. A couple months ago, he started asking me “happy or sad?” when he’d see that my face wasn’t happy. Usually, it was my mad face. So, I’d say “I’m mad, Henry, because you didn’t listen to me when I said 64 times to stay inside.” So then, the question morphed into “happy, sad or mad?” And every once in awhile, he adds another possible emotion. This week we are up to “happy, sad, mad, fwustrated or tired?” I haven’t met many three year olds who are as in tune with the emotions of others. Likewise, he’s also capable of telling me when he’s experiencing some emotional upheaval. Just the other day, I asked him to come downstairs so we could leave. Without stomping his feet or throwing a fit, he said “I’m going to my room. I’m mad right now.” Well, okay. Thanks for telling me so maturely. But seriously you have like 2 minutes to be mad and then we’re leaving. 

One of my least favorite things about him lately is his button-pushing tendencies. When he has discovered that something bothers you, he does it twice as hard and twice as fast and he eagerly watches your reaction. I noticed this about him a long time ago, but it's getting worse. It may just be that his sisters are home for the summer, so there are three times as many buttons, but their reactions are so glorious, he can’t even help himself. It’s especially bad with Grace. She’s so shriek-y that he loves to make her mad.

It causes a lot of fights and screams and tattling and time-outs and lessons on how to out-smart your three-year-old brother. But most of the time, the three of them get along pretty well. Or, at least, somewhat well. 

Watching him grow this past year has been so delightful. He started sleeping by himself through the night last April, so it was a much, much more enjoyable year since we were both rested humans. I kept him in the crib as long as I could because I knew once we removed the visual barriers, we were opening pandora’s box. But he was so good at getting in and out of the crib it didn’t make much sense to keep it. He transitioned to a big boy bed a few weeks ago and it really hasn’t been awful. It’s not awesome, but it’s not awful. He is quite incapable of staying in his bed without first getting up 15 times and peeking out his door. I’m hoping this will eventually get old and he’ll just be content to fall asleep, but knowing him, I really doubt it. 

The kid just doesn’t stop moving ever. He can’t sit still for long, and if his body is still, his hands are moving. The one time I saw all of him laying still just watching TV, I was immediately worried that he was sick. And he was. 

In early June, we said goodbye to his second year of life and hello to the big #3 with a Mickey Mouse themed birthday. There was a kiddie pool and a slip ’n’ slide and pizza and cupcakes. We invited his most favorite people and he had just a splendid birthday. 

I’m so looking forward to spending this next year with him. I decided to hold off on preschool until he’s 4 so I can soak it up as much as possible. I know he’s the caboose to our little train, so I want to hang on to the moments, make more memories and spend more time with my cute little menace before I have to start the process of separating. So, here’s to a year of fewer tantrums, more giggles and hopefully less button-pushing!! 

The Hug that Lingers

Lately, I have been seeing commercials advertising the "perfect" father’s day gift. I might have expected the many mentions of father's day to send me spiraling, but instead it has just left me wishing I was still thinking about what I could buy my Dad to convey just how much I loved him. What restaurant gift card best says “you’re an awesome dad?” 

I always struggled with what to get my Dad because he didn’t have a lot of wants or needs. He didn’t get too wrapped up in presents or material stuff. He just liked to eat good food, be comfortable and have a good time. 

Looking back and knowing what I know now, I wish I would have just given him a better hug all those years. Not the average “I love you” hug with the pat-pat at the end, but the hug that lingers on too long. The hug that makes the other person wonder if you’re okay. The hug that says, “I’m just so damn grateful to have a dad like you.”

While new grills and power tools and restaurant gift cards are all awesome ways of showing your Dad that you love him, do me a favor this year and pair it with a long hug. And in that five or ten extra seconds, soak up that love, that feeling of their arms squeezing you, the memories of childhood bear hugs flooding over you — really savor that moment for a few extra seconds. You’ll both be glad you did. 

Then go eat some Texas Roadhouse together. 

Coach

I’m coaching the girls’ softball team again this year and last night was our first game of the season. 

I was nervous that we weren’t quite ready. Nervous that we hadn’t discussed enough game strategy or didn’t have enough time practicing with the pitching machine. Nervous that I forgot to tell the team some crucial bit of information, like in order to score runs you have to actually cross home plate. (That question did come up before the game.) I could tell they were nervous, too. I saw so many of them taking deep breaths before they got up to hit the first time. I could feel the butterflies fluttering in their tummies. But, guys, they rocked it! They got the hang of the machine, they understood how to get outs and we actually made a couple of them! I walked away just bursting with pride for all 12 of my girls. 

Once I got home, washed the top layers of dirt off the kids and put them to bed, I reflected on the night. It didn’t take long for my thoughts to wander. 

Softball was the highlight of my summers growing up. I loved the game, loved the summer nights at the ball field, loved the silly cheers and chants. I loved playing catch with my Dad. I loved when he threw pop flies seemingly miles up in the air. I loved watching him hit the ball into the field across the road. 

My Dad loved playing most sports, but softball was the one he spent the most time teaching us. He was never officially my coach, but he coached me more than all the rest of my coaches put together. I can still hear his words in my head. “Keep your back foot planted.” “Get under the ball.” “Watch the ball all the way in.” He’d come over to the dugout during games and give us a piece or two of advice through the fence. 

I can’t think of softball without thinking of my Dad. He spent the past few years just being Grandpa at the kids’ softball games. He’d entertain the little kids or hold them while he cheered for the grandkids on the field. He was at every game with his lawn chair and Dr. Pepper. He’d still offer bits of advice, but they weren’t quite as numerous as they once were.

On Wednesday, my mind was overwhelmed by the ins and outs of the game. I didn’t have time to think about what was missing. But once I got home, I realized what it was — my coach. 

I wish he could have seen the girls play and been as proud as I was. I wish he could have seen the smile on Grace’s face after she got her first hit or the delighted look on Claire’s face when she got her first out. I wish he was there to put his arm around my shoulders and give me one more piece of advice.

Side By Side

I’m a sentimental person. But I don’t need to tell you guys. You know how sappy I am. How when I see twin babies, my heart aches for my own bald-headed little snuggle bugs. The other day at the zoo I saw red-headed four-year-old girl twins. I about lost it right there. 

I won’t deny that I miss those itty bitty girls. There were so many beautiful moments. So many times that my heart just melted when they grabbed my hand to hold or snuggled in bed next to me. When they called me their “beff friend.” 

When they were that little, I worried about how our relationship would change as they grew. When there were more eye rolls than hand holds. I worried I’d miss their baby days more than I could bear. 

But here’s what I’m learning. 

I do miss them as babies and toddlers and those cute little four-year-olds. But I absolutely adore them as eight-year-olds. I would never trade them for who they were back then. Our relationship is more complex — and yes, comes with more eye rolls — but it’s also developing a depth of love and trust that didn’t exist back then. They are starting to understand that I’m not just physically here for them, which they’ve felt since they were babies. But I will be here through mistakes and failures and embarrassments with nothing but love. They are starting to glimpse just how unconditional my love is, and watching them discover that is just as heart-melting as those baby moments. 

I love exploring life with them. Watching them discover some of the best and worst parts of life. Seeing their excitement as they kill a test they were worried about or watching them stand vigil next to their grandpa on his last day, hugging while we both sob for the loss of someone we love. 

The snuggles were ah-mazing, but walking side-by-side through the ups and downs of life is pretty ah-mazing, too.  

A few pictures of us exploring our physical world together: 

Doctor in the House

For years, Claire has told us she wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up. Looks like she can skip that whole vet school thing. Her “docters edgacation ticet” allows her to “move to a vet docter any time.” The medical record from a recent patient: 

A few years before her edgacation:

Miss You, Dad

When you haven’t blogged in ages, it’s so hard to start back up. There are so many things that haven’t been said or shared. How do you pick up where you left off when the world has changed so dramatically since you last wrote? 

I have so many cute stories, pictures and videos of the kids that I want to share, but first I want to share where my head and heart have been lately. While I’ve been living a pretty normal mom life for the past couple of months, as a daughter, my heart is elsewhere. It’s so broken. 

Broken for me. Broken for my Dad. Broken for my brothers and sisters. Broken for my kids. And so, so broken for my Mom. 

It’s so hard to believe that he isn’t here. And even harder to believe he won’t ever be again. 

The mind is a strange thing. I watched my Dad take his final breath, yet I thought to myself yesterday “I can’t wait for him to watch the girls play softball this summer.” 

Then I remembered. 

Grief is just this cycle of forgetting, remembering, getting mad and then sad. Repeat. Several times a day. 

Although, I am starting to feel a bit of gratitude. 

A week ago, the idea of being grateful for my memories just made me mad. I don’t want to be grateful for what was - I want more memories! 

I want to celebrate my parents 40th anniversary at the lake like we planned. I want him to sit in his lawn chair at the softball games and ask Henry to come sit and watch the girls play. I want to go home and find him out back working on some crazy project that drives my mom nuts. I want to give him a hug on Christmas morning. 

Damn it. I just want more. But not just for me. For everyone, especially my mom. I knew my parents would die someday. Weirdly, I never prepared for the idea that one would go and one would be left behind and the one left behind would be heartbroken. So heartbroken. Watching helplessly as she bleeds and aches from his loss is worse than my own pain. 

But I think I said I was starting to feel grateful. I read this quote the other day that I can’t remember exactly, but the basic idea was how lucky we are to have had someone in our life that hurts this much to lose. This deep pain is a sign that I was lucky to have such a good Dad. It struck me because it wasn’t saying “your pain will go away if you think about the good memories.” The quote was saying “go on and feel that pain. It means he was awesome.” 

And although I don’t want to be a mess of sadness forever, I’m not ready to leave that sadness yet. I don’t want to be in a place that I don’t think about him several times a day. I want to think about him often and I want to feel the sadness that comes with remembering he’s gone - it makes me feel closer to him. And I’m clinging to anything that brings him closer. 

A week or so after we found out about the cancer, I wrote him a letter to let him know how I felt. Looking back, I wish I could have said the words out loud, but I’m glad he knew it either way. My dad wasn’t big on talking about his feelings, so maybe this was easier for him, too. 

Dear Dad, 

I’m not very good at speaking my feelings and thoughts (I probably get that from you), so I decided to write you a letter. 

But where do I start? These past few weeks have been shocking, scary and heartbreaking. I’ve known for a long time that you aren’t invincible, but I guess I never pictured anything actually taking you down. 

Not my Dad. He’s tough as nails. If you hit him, he’ll hit you twice as hard. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. 

And I expect nothing less, Dad. Cancer took the first punch. And maybe the second punch. But I know you’ll get back up and you’ll hit it twice as hard. Because you’re John Lane. And John Lane is the strongest man I know. 

You’ve protected me my whole life. When we were home alone as kids, everything seemed scary. Every noise, every creak. But as soon as you and Mom got home, it was like our house was safe again. Dad’s home. Nothing bad will happen. 

I remember a moment we had after Mom miscarried. I wasn’t crying, but thought I should be. You told me it was OK to not cry, that I was like you. And I was so proud to be like my Dad. 

You’ve been my lifelong teacher. When I was learning to sweep, you showed me how to lean the broom on my shoulder so I didn’t need anyone to hold the dustpan. And while that’s a silly example, it is one of a million examples of you teaching us everything you knew. You never turned down a chance to impart your wisdom. I’m so damn thankful for that. 

     Plant your back foot. Keep your eye on the ball. Choke up on the bat. 

     If you turn the rake over, you can easily wipe the stuck leaves out. 

     If you brush the ball with the top of the racket, you’ll put a little English on it. 

     He probably just has a bubble in his belly. When you’re trying to get a baby to burp, just bounce a little with them. 

From sweeping to baseball to tennis to babies to every other life lesson, you (and Mom, of course) helped prepare us to survive this world. 

But the most important lesson of all? Love. You showed us all the importance of family and sacrifice. You spent nearly 40 years working a labor-intensive job so that we had food, a home and all of life’s needs. You endured extreme heat, ice and snow, missed events, exhausting days and asshole bosses. Thank you so much for that, Dad. Thank you for that sacrifice. 

Not only have you shown us love with your sacrifices (which were many beyond UPS), you also have shown us by doing. You are always willing to lend a helping hand. I can’t count how many times over the years you’ve shown up on your white horse. 

Building a fence, fixing a clubhouse, laying flooring, raking leaves, tying a plastic pool down on top of my car, moving me from Auburn to Manhattan, trimming the trees around my house — I could go on and on for days. 

And that’s just me!! You’ve done it for all of us kids. How can we ever say thank you enough? Not only for loving us and showing us with all of that hard work, but by teaching us how important it is to take care of those you love. 

I remember the day you brought me flowers on my first mother’s day. I don’t know if I ever told you how much it meant to me, but it meant so much. And then watching you with my babies and the other grand babies — that is one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given. Our Dad might have been tough as nails, but Pa is a big teddy bear!! If you ever wonder what kind of impact you’ve made on those around you, all you have to do is see the joy in the faces of these grand babies. They love you! 

We are all so lucky to have such a loving, hardworking, lesson-teaching Dad that would never let any harm come to us. Now, it’s our turn to be there for you. 

Cancer threw its punch. Now, let’s throw ours. We’re right behind you as you hit back twice as hard. 

I love you so much, Daddy. 

My Dad

Last week we found out my Dad has Stage 4 cancer. When we discovered how severe things were, I felt all the feelings. Shock, anger, heartbreak, more anger, more shock, heartbreak so intense it felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like someone was sitting on my chest and refused to get up. 

Conceptually, I knew my parents would die one day. Cycle of life and all that. But now that we're facing it, I feel so lost. So helpless. So utterly sad. Sad for the grandchildren, sad for us kids, sad for my mom and so, so sad for my dad who has always found a way to fix every broken thing in his life. Everything except this. If only duct tape cured cancer. 

And yet, my brain knows I’m lucky. Lucky to have had him this long — many people aren’t as fortunate. Lucky to have the time to tell him how much he means to me. Lucky to have a dad that loves us so much and shows it so frequently. Lucky that we have a chance to lengthen his life and ease his discomfort. 

But I don’t feel lucky. Not much at least. I’m still angry — at who or what I can’t say — but it’s dissipating some as we start to come to terms with all of this. I feel scared. Scared for my Dad. Scared of what he’ll have to endure and whether he’ll be ready to leave this world when the time comes. Scared that he’ll be scared. 

Mostly though, I’m just sad. So sad for all the moments we’ve had and all the moments we won’t have. The memories come when I’m alone with my own thoughts. Playing tennis, learning how to drive, the flowers he brought me on my first mother’s day. And then the sobs. And the anger. And the fear. And the sadness. 

But in those moments, after the hot tears roll down my face, I do feel grateful. So grateful that, at least for now, I can run over to my parents’ house and give him a hug and tell him I love him.