Two Years Ago

Two years ago, we were newly home with a six-day-old baby boy. Sound familiar? We are nothing if not fantastically consistent.

I tell my kids their birth stories on their birthdays. It's a tradition that is completely self-serving in every way - I want them to know how hard I worked for their life and how grateful they should be - but, it's a tradition nonetheless. Last year, I wrote birth story posts in order to preserve the memories for all time lest anyone forget how hard I worked for their life.

This year, as Quinn turns two, I'm at a loss.

I've tried to write one of those gorgeous letters to my two-year-old boy. The words won't come. Something is wrong with my brain. It's mush.

Very long aside begins now.

[Matt, my conservative husband with a death wish confirmed my mush brain the other day while talking on the phone with his brother-in-law. As they discussed my blogging, Matt railed about the liberalness of the blogosphere (because people with opinions different from Matt's are liberals, all of them, regardless of actual politics) and Uncle R, I presume, asked if blogging was affecting my political views. To which my husband replied: "Oh, she's always been a bleeding heart on social shit, everyone should be able to marry, more money for AIDS research, we need schools, blah, blah, blah, but she's cheap. She was raised by Jews. (Similar to being raised by wolves, I believe.) So, I tend to be able to reign her in when it comes to the fiscal side of things." Frustratingly, this is marginally true, I do have very "liberal" social views and yet fear the mismanagement of huge government programs and solutions that involve unfathomable amounts of tax payer dollars.

THEN he said that I don't take the time to actually understand the nuances of most of the more complex issues because I am always blogging. AHEM. Also marginally true, although I would phrase it more like this: I don't HAVE the time to understand the nuances of the more complex issues ANY MORE because I am RAISING HIS FOUR GORGEOUS CHILDREN.

The kernel of truth in his mocking does not stop me from publishing this to the internet at large:


Mock the shirt. He paid for that shirt. I sent him out for beer for our two-year-old's birthday party and he bought that shirt. He deserves to be mocked. Fiscally conservative? Money better spent at Starbucks, I say.]

Where were we? Quinn turned two. Crazed rant. Ugly shirt. Mock Matt. Brain mush. There we go.

Whatever the reason, four kids, lack of sleep, husband that drives me insane, I find that my wishes for Quinn, my mother's prayers, come in a sharp, staccato tattoo of two word phrases. Distilled longings that run forever in the background ticker tape of my mind.

Be Strong. Be Healthy. Be Kind. Be Average. I don't care. Just Be Happy. Outlive Me. Always love all things yellow. Never stop asking for mwore! bwerries! in the morning. Sleep with your nanny blanket, there are worse things. Continue to love diggers with abandon. When you love other things, do it openly, whole-heartedly, don't fear hurt.

I hope to always be here when you need me, baby boy, but people fail, even mommies fail, and when I fail you, remember this, I will never, ever fail to love you.