To my last baby, as you start school

"Finally!!" you shrieked. I listened and heard the bus coming around the curve of our street, and held your hand a little tighter as you rushed to the edge of the sidewalk to wait.  Not yet. Just wait. Just a second more, please.

"I know!" I said. "You've been up since 6:45 and were ready for school at 7, but had to wait all this time. But yep, 11:17, right on time, here's your bus!" Really? Where did the last 4 hours go? It's time already?

"No," you said "I'm finally big enough, mommy! I've been waiting for this for YEARS." And you have. You first tried to stow away on a school but when you were 2. It was hilariously adorable.

My breath caught and I forced a chuckle. "I know! Your whole life!"

The bus stopped and as the door swung open you ripped your hand away and shouted "BYE!" as you practically flew up the stairs. No backwards glance, no wave. I barely got the camera up in time. We have a lovely picture of your calf to commemorate your very first bus ride.

And with that, you were gone. I stood and watched until I couldn't see the bus anymore. I don't know how long I stood there. Long enough that baby S got impatient and yelled "Sawah!" to break me from my trance.

Once I got back inside, I set the babies down and just listened. It was so quiet. Even with a 1 and 2 year old in the house, the silence was deafening.

That, dear boy, is when your mama lost it. Totally broke down and cried big fat tears. Tears of joy for you, because I know how badly you've wanted to be in school. Tears of nostalgia, since you were just a roly-poly baby yesterday...obviously. Tears of acknowledgement that I'll never again send one of my own kids off on their first day of Kindergarten. Tears of transition as we head in to this new season of life, with all 5 of you in school. Tears of excitement for what the next chapter holds for our family.

You see, Charlie, it doesn't get easier for mommy. You're the fifth kid, and I still cry at the every day changes that you go through. Losing teeth, going to school, learning to read, learning to write. Every new milestone is a reminder that our time together in this daily craziness is rushing past faster sometimes than I can comprehend. The dimples on the backs of your hands are almost gone. Your shoulders are suddenly wider than I remember. A lot of your shirts no longer cover your belly. I'm starting to see muscle definition in your legs. Your toddler frogger belly is all but gone.

I am so proud of and excited for you. You have looked forward to this for so long, and now that it's finally here I want to do everything in my power to help you suck every ounce of joy out of the experience. Of all of our kids, you have been looking forward to school the longest, and I hope you keep that with you. To be fair, you look forward to everything the longest. You're the youngest of 5 and 10 years younger than your oldest sister. You do a lot of looking forward.

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I sat on the porch and watched you walk home with your brother and sister that first day. I heard your voice before I saw you, shrieking and laughing as you raced your brother through the park. Heard your sister call for you to remind you to wait at the corner. I saw your head swivel left, and right, and left again before you all agreed it was safe and walked across the street. Samantha reached for your hand as you crossed and you grabbed it briefly, then looked up and said, "It's okay, Sam. I got it from here."

I saw a flash of my future and I smiled, hearing that refrain "I got it from here" as I watched you grow up in the blink of an eye, and knowing that being a mama to all of you is at the very top of the list of the greatest things I will ever do.

Your Daddy and I are so proud of you it hurts.

All my love,
Mama

Goodbye, Mr. Williams

I've struggled the last few days to wrap my brain around the sudden and disturbing death of Robin Williams. I didn't know the man. We never shared a meal, or even passed one another on the street. His death in particular, more than any Hollywood icon I can remember, has hit me like a ton of bricks.

Maybe it's because he was everywhere during my childhood. A genie, a robot, priest(s), and presidents. A Jewish shopkeeper with a fantastic imagination. A doctor with the belief that laughter heals. Peter Pan. A radio announcer during Vietnam. An inspiring professor at a school for boys.

Above all of these roles, the fathers he played have stuck with me. From Mrs. Doubtfire to the Birdcage, the movies in which he played fathers were the ones that spoke most loudly to me, as they reminded me of my own father and his love for his kids. As an adult, I see parallels between his characters and my own husband...it takes a special kind of man to give everything to and for his children, and those were the characters that came to life when the camera rolled on Robin Williams. The screenwriters gave him the words, but his delivery spoke to to our souls.

I have been brought to tears (from laughing and sadness) more times than I can count thanks to him. He brought light and laughter to all he knew him, and by all accounts was a genuinely good man. One who clearly adored his children, and spent a great amount of time building up those around him.

And yet, he was haunted. The laughter he brought to others wasn't a result of joy, but of deep, dark pain.

I've read a lot of speculation the last few days about him and his death. There are many who say that his cause of death, suicide, was selfish. "He should have asked for help" they said. Or, "if he really cared about anyone, he wouldn't have left them." The difficulty with all of that is that depression, especially to the degree I imagine he dealt with it, is not logical. Depression that deep leaves the victim feeling as though the only option, to end the pain and save their loved ones, is to leave this earth. It is a firmly held belief that just existing while suffering from such crushing darkness is a burden and hindrance to the ones we love. It is BECAUSE we love them that the thought of suicide seems a good option. The only option.

It's easy to say, "just ask for help" and I agree that it's important to get the message across that help exists, either in the form of family members or strangers, through resources like the Suicide Prevention Hotline. The difficulty with telling someone to "just ask" is that when the panic of being crushed by the sheer weight of life becomes too much to bear, reaching out is the last thing anyone wants to do. Not because we don't want to be saved, but because the fear of reaching out for help only to find that it doesn't work and you're back in the abyss is paralyzing.

Depression does not discriminate. It does not care if you're young or old, black or white, rich or poor. Your marital status, religious affiliation, sexual orientation and job status are inconsequential. Almost 25% of the American population suffers from some form of mental illness, and yet our system for dealing with and treating that mental illness is woefully inadequate. Medical treatment in general, and especially mental health treatment, is cost prohibitive for many, even those with insurance. County mental health centers are maxed out, overworked and understaffed. There are waiting lists up to a year long for treatment. It is only when you threaten suicide that someone jumps to action, and even then it's not always immediate enough. "Just hold on" they'll say. "We can see you in 8 weeks."

The stigma surrounding mental illness has to be addressed before the system can be repaired. We have to create resources that are easily attained by the general public. It's easy to sit back and say that the mentally ill are to blame...that their demons and fears are not our problem, or that their choices (drug use, alcohol abuse, suicide) are selfish and they deserve what they get (all things I've heard the last few days). The truth of the matter is that we don't blame the man diagnosed with cancer, or the woman with ALS, so why do we blame the sufferers of mental illness? We have to remember the operative word...illness. We treat the cancer, soothe the symptoms, cool the fever. We must turn our attention to the mental health crisis in this country, and the woefully inadequate resources that exist if we're going to have any chance of overcoming these diseases.

I've been in that darkness. I know the pain of believing that the only course of action that was fair to those around me was to end my life. I am not ashamed of my disease. I am eternally grateful for the people in my life who forcefully pulled me back from the edge and in to treatment, and grateful that we were able to afford that treatment, if only for a short time. It was enough to save me.

Granny Wendy: “So, your adventures are over.”
Peter: “Oh no, to live. To live would be an awfully big adventure.”

Thank you for sharing your adventure with us, Robin. May you finally be at peace, and may your loss initiate the conversations that must happen so others may be saved.

Saying See You Later

For almost the last year, I have been blessed to spend my social time in the company of four truly extraordinary women. I met them all through different circumstances, but the first time we all came together, it was like nothing I'd ever seen or experienced. We fit together, all five of us, like puzzle pieces, filling gaps that we didn't know were missing (and some that we KNEW were missing).

I met L first, in October of 2012, when she hired me to care for her two little boys. She was vivacious, kind, generous, and loving. Her husband was one of the few men I knew who openly adored their children. The joy on his face when he picked them up from daycare was intensely heartwarming. They were awesome, and while we didn't yet have a super personal relationship, I knew in my gut that these were good people.

Through L I met K, as they're coworkers. K came over a few times with L to pick up the boys, and we'd get to talk. The very first time I REALLY hung out with her (almost a year later!) I realized that she was one of the funniest people I've ever met in my life. Any time K is in the room, it's guaranteed that you'll burn at least an extra 1,000 calories, just from laughing. This is good, considering how much wine we consume when we're together.

M came on to the scene in August of last year, when she too hired me to care for her two little boys. She, like L, was in a desperate childcare situation, and I just happened to have two openings at exactly the right time (literally within days of each of their inquiry calls). M is incredibly passionate, and it's infectious. She loves hard, and fights hard, and the underdog is her constant champion. She's a doer, and a problem solver, which can really come in handy when you're at a point where the only feasible option is to throw up your hands and quit. "No" she'll say "let's reassess and figure this shit out together."

In September, a friend messaged me and said that since his wife had their baby in August, she'd not left the house, and he wondered if she could tag along to a Girl's Night Out (our first as a group of 4) we were planning?  "Of course! The more the merrier!" I'd met E briefly at a BBQ we'd thrown that summer, and knew her to be gentle, kind, and genuine.

That first event, which my sister also attended (hi, A!) was oddly comfortable. It didn't take long before the 5 of us were chattering on as though we'd known each other for years.

Since that day, M, L and I have gotten together every Friday (almost without fail) for Mommy Wine Night, as our kids call it. We alternate who brings the wine and who brings dinner for the kids, and we stand around my island and decompress from the week. When E and K are able, they join us, but it's usually just the three of us. In addition, all five of us get together once a month. We might go to a winery, tour an historic mansion, or just stay in for a movie night. Inevitably, we spend more time talking and laughing than we do paying attention to whichever activity we're "supposed" to be engaged in. Being in each others' presence is easy and wonderful.

On Sunday, M, her husband J, and their two little boys will move half a world away for her husband's job. We've all kind of spent the last month denying that this was coming, but it's here now. She's been bringing over extra toys and things that I can use for the daycare, and this morning I cleaned out her sons' cubbies and bagged them up. "We're not talking about it" I said. "We're just doing it." We'll Skype and email and communicate via our private FB group, but the face to face will be gone for a long while (at least two years).

So, tomorrow night is our last Mommy Wine Night as we know it. E and K can't join us, as they're both out of town, but M and L and I will watch a movie, eat snacks we shouldn't (come on...mini quiches with bacon? Puh-lease. Like I was gonna pass THOSE up), drink in quantities we really shouldn't, and stay up way past our bedtimes.

I can't begin to explain the impact these women have had on my life, and how irrevocably changed we will all be by M's absence. I know there will be a time when we all scatter to the four corners of the earth (one of us has to stay in the middle, guys. We need a touchstone) but I'm finding myself wholly unprepared for that time to be here already. My heart is physically aching at the thought of hugging M goodbye tomorrow night, and I know I'll have a mini meltdown the first time I find her sons' socks buried in the cushions of my couch.

Thank you, from the deepest recesses of my soul, for being my People. Thank you for being the ones I know I can call in the middle of the night when the world is too heavy and the worry too big. Thank you for loving my babies as your own, and for holding me up when my fear for their well-being proves to be too much for me to carry alone. I love all of you so very much.

M? I'm thrilled for this next chapter for you. I cannot wait to hear every detail, in ways only you are capable of expressing them, and I'll look forward to your trips home. We've got this.

What's That?

IT WAS REALLY LOUD HERE TODAY. LIKE, THE ENTIRE DAY. WITHOUT CEASING. THEY EVEN TALKED IN THEIR SLEEP...HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!

Oh, I'm sorry, was I yelling? I've lost all ability to modulate my volume.

One of the things that I didn't factor in when starting this business (it's a really, really long list, yo) was the sheer decibel level of my days from now on. All day, every day, it's loud. Loud cries, and yells, and tantrums. Loud laughs, and shrieks, and squeals. Loud door slams, and toilet lids, and cabinet doors.

More times than I care to admit, B has come home and asked me to stop yelling. "I'M NOT YELLING...WHAT ARE YOU TALKING AB...oh. Sorry. Right."

There's good loud, of course. The shouts on the playground, and snoring in my ear from the baby on my chest. The shrieks and giggles while I play tag with a newly-walking-toddler. The exclamations when we do some cool science project, or the hysterical laughter while we watch a funny video or movie scene.

Thankfully, the Good Loud far outweighs the soul-crushing, please-just-make-it-stop Bad Loud. The loud that makes me cringe, and clench my jaw, and search desperately for a safe place to plop the screaming baby so that I can take a time-out. Loud that makes me wonder if chugging Rescue Remedy would be beneficial.

We talk all day long about using inside voices, and using our words instead of screams. I give them plenty of time downstairs or outside to scream their heads off and they have, no joke, actual screaming contests. I've taken to watching TV with the volume almost off and the closed captioning on. That may be a tad bit extreme.

Putting 6-10 children in one confined (albeit several-thousand-square-foot) space will always be loud, I suppose, no matter how you slice it. Too bad ear plugs are frowned on.

Time to schedule my physical and be tested for hearing loss.

These Are the Days

These are the days I hope I can cherish, and look back on as positives. These are the days that I LOVE, and the days that make me grateful for my husband and his encouragement to start this career.

My first daycare baby showed up this morning in need of snuggles. I was exhausted, so we were a perfect match. I laid on the couch with her and we snuggled up, cooing at each other and getting ready for the day.

Around 8, my next clients arrived (brothers W&W), and joined the mix. The boys ran downstairs with C to watch cartoons, but the littler of the brothers ran over, wrapped his arms around me and baby H, and whispered, "I WUV you, Miss Sa-wah!"

I reheated pancakes for the kids (I'm seriously glad that I'm smart enough to make a ginormous batch every few weeks and freeze them) and 2 more babies arrived around 9:15 with mama M and Grandpa in tow.

Around 9:30, the last baby of the day arrived, and we (gently) separated him from his mama (he's new, and the transition from being-with-mama-all-the-time-for-two-years to daycare-twice-a-week is a teensy bit rough on him) and headed to the park.

An hour and a half later, we headed home. I put lunch in the oven, and we spent another hour and a half on the porch playing. When the kids came inside for lunch (spaghetti squash with italian sausage, homemade spaghetti sauce, mushrooms, mozzarella, and parmesan), they were FILTHY. Filthy is good. I LOVE using an entire pack of wipes on the kids. It means they're being KIDS, and ensures that their immune systems are getting a workout.

Naps lasted almost 2.5 hours, across the board. My baby and my youngest daycare baby didn't nap. My exhausted self did not deal with that well, but I apologized to my baby for being cranky.

This afternoon was more outdoor time. Several hours in the yard, playing soccer and football.

Since today is Friday, it was Mommy Wine Night. We try and rotate, so someone brings the wine and someone else brings dinner for the kids.

I'm eternally grateful for my clients. M and L (mothers to P&R and W&W, respectively) have become my best friends. They've comforted me, praised me, and kept me in check. They're my first line of defense when I'm being a jerkface.They're also my loudest cheerleaders. Without them, E, and K...I would be lost here. Northern Virginia is a really hard place to live and raise a family if you're not used to competitive living. They keep me grounded and help me find the good. I'm so desperately grateful.

THREE...is evil

The age of 3 sucks.

I love kids. Really and truly, watching them move through life is one of my greatest joys. That said, 3 can bite me.

Three year olds are basically The Worst. They're opinionated, yet indecisive. They're independent, yet incompetent. They're loving and venomous. They're a paradigm, wrapped in an enigma.

Right now, I have my 3 year old (he'll be four at the end of the month, but is SO THREE), and a 2 year old who will be three at the end of May. Two three year olds is about enough to do me in.

Our breakfast menu is set, here. M/W, it's eggs, bacon/sausage, and toast/biscuits/fruit. Tu/Th, it's cold cereal. Friday is always pancakes. It may be blueberry/chocolate chip/banana, but it's pancakes.

C will, inevitably, b!t@# about our breakfast menu, but wait until I'm done cooking to do it.

While I get that kids are totally allowed to change their minds, and that it's a healthy part of childhood to encourage independence and growth and all that jazz...I'm not a short order cook. I LITERALLY can't accommodate his specific breakfast wishes, because if I do that, I'm left with the REST of the kids. They'll ALL want something different. I have to be a jerk about it.

I don't want this to turn in to yet another "KIDS SUCK" post. I want it to be clear, that there are a myriad of childhood stages that I adore. I love snuggling newborns. I love watching toddlers learn to navigate their world. I love seeing preschool-aged kids learn to write their names, spell colors, identify numbers...3 though?

The age of three can bite me.

With all five of my children, I've wanted to GIVE THEM AWAY at age three. It's awful.

WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING STARTING THIS BUSINESS? I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THREE YEAR OLDS!!!!

*woooooooooooosaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh*

I know, intuitively, that three is not the end of the world. It's really hard though, yo. Harder than any age above, thus far. Our oldest girl is 14 and our oldest boy is 7. 3 is still The Worst. :-/

Sometimes You're the Windshield, Sometimes You're the Bug

There are days, more than I'd like to admit, in which the inmates run the asylum.

Days when nothing I do can soothe them. Days when the screaming, and in-fighting, and restlessness takes over, and I'm left throwing my hands up, wishing it was easier.

I struggle with that...the impetus to wish the hard part away. Am I also wishing away the good? Am I trying to rush through the tough parts of childhood? Am I missing the mystery and innocence of the toddler years because they're SO.FREAKING.HARD??

I try to stay in the moment, and make sure that I'm experiencing the kids as they are. I try and make sure I'm giving them time to explore, and experience the world around them. I try and ensure that they're safe and protected, without being a helicopter.

They're going to fall, and get bruises and scrapes and bumps along the way. They're going to bleed...it's an almost-inevitable part of childhood. They're going to have scabs and scars from their experiences.

I struggle to be okay with that. With the visual reminder that I wasn't able to protect them.

I struggle to balance the desire to keep them away from all things dangerous, with the desire to allow them to experience the world. I want them to dig in the dirt, and eat bugs, and fall off the rock mound they're climbing. I just don't want them to hurt.

Some days it's all good, and I"m engaged, and able to pacify them and keep them entertained. Other days...well other days I'm not quite the woman I want to be. I'm short and quick tempered, and have very little patience for toddler shenanigans.

I guess that's what it means to be human, huh?