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Jacob + 2

Amber on August 13, 2010 31 Comments

Today my son Jacob is 2 years old. I can’t believe it. As fast as time passed with my daughter, Hannah, it’s passed twice as fast with her little brother. From the moment of his birth I’ve felt the moments slipping through my fingers like sand, and I have tried to grasp them but they’re too slippery for me.

I have been struggling with what to say here. Any words that I concoct feel too trite, too inadequate, too schmaltzy. Do I talk about his quietness, his way with electronics, his love of things that go? Do I wax poetic about his smiles and the way that he loves his dad, his sister, me? Do I share funny stories or write epic poems? I don’t know.

What I do know is this. 2 years ago, almost before I even knew I was in labour, my son was born on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. I fell in love with him – it is easy to love him. And every morning I thank my lucky stars for that day. It brought me my Jacob, my wee little man. I am so glad he’s here. I feel that he’s supposed to be here, in fact. I don’t really remember what it was like before this sweet, funny little person graced my life.

Happy birthday, Jacob Theodore! Here’s what the past 2 years have looked like with you:

Newborn Jacob and I resting together, on the day he was born

Jacob at 3 months old

Jacob crawling at 10 months old

Jubilant Jacob after scaling our patio set at 13 months old

Jacob loves his new (phthalate free) duck

Jacob’s 2nd Christmas at 16 months old

Jacob’s cheesy grin at 17 months old

Professor Jacob at 20 months

Two weeks ago at the park

Tagged With: Kids, Memories

When I Think About Breastfeeding

Amber on August 7, 2010 17 Comments

Today is the last day of World Breastfeeding Week. As you may be aware, I talk about breastfeeding rather a lot. I couldn’t very well let this week pass unnoticed. And with Jacob’s 2nd birthday and Hannah’s first day of kindergarten looming I’m in a nostalgic sort of mood. So allow me to wax poetic about breastfeeding.

When I think about breastfeeding my babies, I don’t think about health benefits or studies or what impact it may or may not have on their IQ. I also don’t think about Hannah’s rough beginning or Jacob’s current tendency to engage in breastfeeding acrobatics. These things do not represent breastfeeding for me.

When I think about breastfeeding I think about the first time that Hannah actually nursed. She was 8 days old and I felt such a rush of love for her. I’m sure it was the nursing hormones, but I felt in that moment that my baby was really and truly mine, and that she was the best baby in the whole world.

When I think about breastfeeding, I think about the early mornings when Jacob sneaks into our bed and cuddles up next to me and nurses. He is still so much a baby in those moments. His little hand grasps my finger and he drinks and then falls back to sleep, his hand still wrapped around mine.

When I think about breastfeeding, I think about all the places I’ve done it. Walking across the Burrard Street Bridge in downtown Vancouver. All over the local IKEA. Kneeling on the floor in front of the potty, trying to encourage my toddler to stay put long enough for something to happen. Standing and swaying in the crying days, trying to calm my unhappy baby. In airplanes and in my computer chair.

I think about these kids when I think about breastfeeding

When I think about breastfeeding, I think about whether or not I want to right now, or whether I would rather offer my child a sippy cup, a cracker, a cookie. Anything to get 3 whole minutes without a little person touching me.

When I think about breastfeeding, I think about how I’ve used it to keep my child quiet. While I talked on the phone, while I worked at the computer, while I watched a TV show with a baby on my lap. Or when the hurts got to be too much for a little person, and I wanted the screaming to end.

When I think about breastfeeding, I think about Hannah sharing her memories of nursing. She says, “That picture stays in the front of my mind.” And I am glad that I am not the only one who remembers the countless hours we spent that way.

When I think about breastfeeding, I think about how Jacob’s first true word, the one he used most consistently, was “nurse”. And how it’s still his favourite word. He drops the ‘n’: urse, urse, urse. Mama, urse!

I am familiar with the science of breastfeeding, and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. But that’s not what breastfeeding is about for me. It’s just a part of my daily parenting life. There is good and bad, tedium and transcendence. And like the rest of parenting, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

What do you think about, when you think about breastfeeding?

Tagged With: Breastfeeding, Memories, Navel Gazing

Done with Daycare

Amber on August 6, 2010 21 Comments

Hannah started daycare right around her first birthday. My maternity leave ended, and I went back to work 3 days a week. The centre that we chose was bright and cheery. The staff were excellent and the ratios were low. They followed the babies through their own routine, and the babies were happy. It had all the things that one looks for when choosing a childcare arrangement.

I hated it. I hated the colourful padded climbing wedges, the rainbows, the collages of family photos that lined the entrance way. I resented the way that Hannah came home smelling like the daycare. I knew that she was cared for, and I knew that she enjoyed parts of it. But I also knew that I didn’t want to be apart from her like that.

Hannah at age 1

Gradually, Hannah settled in and I settled in. We both got our new routines. I came to enjoy the chance to get away a few days a week and flex my mind in different ways. I got to know the teachers and the other children. Hannah learned baby signs and action songs. She made friends and played outside and went on walks.

Eventually, Hannah’s 3rd birthday loomed, which meant that she would need to move on to a new daycare. I cried. I was newly pregnant and a bit of an emotional wreck. We had come to feel at home at Hannah’s daycare. It was harder than I expected to find another place that felt as good. I didn’t want to leave.

Hannah and Jon try skating, the day after she left her ‘little daycare’

We moved Hannah into a Montessori school near our house. We knew that Hannah would be well cared-for, but we didn’t fall in love, and neither did Hannah. But I needed to continue working to qualify for maternity leave, so I soldiered through, put Hannah on other wait lists, and decided that I would take her out of the Montessori when I went on maternity leave.

Fatefully, Hannah secured a spot in a preschool-aged centre that began on my last month of work. We decided to move her. If it didn’t work out, we could just take her out when I went on leave. But since I was planning to return to work, we would have to secure a spot for her somewhere, and the preschool-aged centre was sort of our Dream Daycare. Luckily, Hannah loved it as much as we did from the word go.

Hannah, just before she moved from the Montessori to the preschool

We ended up leaving Hannah in the preschool-aged centre part-time after Jacob was born. It was a chance for her to be with other kids her age, doing stuff that other kids her age did, when I wasn’t in a position to do much but sit around and breastfeed her brother. Plus, as I mentioned, I planned to return to work. Only that didn’t work out, since I was laid off at the end of my leave.

By the time that I was laid off, Hannah had been at the Dream Daycare for a year, and she had a year left until kindergarten. We wanted to keep her in preschool of some sort, and we didn’t want to move her yet again, so we kept her in the Dream Daycare part time. Until last Friday, that is. Kindergarten starts in September, and Hannah wanted a summer break. And so this August will be it.

A recent photo of my 5 1/2 year old, ready to move on to kindergarten

It was a bittersweet feeling, picking Hannah up on that last day of daycare. I packed her spare clothes into a bag I’d brought. I checked the lost-and-found. I signed her out for the last time. She hugged all of her teachers and they gave her a memory book. I remembered the day that I dropped Hannah off at daycare for the first time, hating every minute of it. I couldn’t have imagined then that I would be sad to see it end.

Jacob has never been to daycare, and he may never go. I don’t think that daycare is all sunshine and roses all the time. But I also feel, watching Hannah over the past 4 1/2 years, that there are upsides to the childcare relationship. Hannah has had a community of children and teachers who have cared for her immensely, and she has cared for them in return. Hannah has learned things from them that I wouldn’t have been able to teach her myself. Like how to say ‘good morning’ in Turkish, and what it’s like to have a best friend.

We’re moving on to new adventures now. As I consider kindergarten, it feels sort of the same as the first day I put Hannah in daycare. I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll like it. I fear the transition. I hope that, as with daycare, Hannah will settle in and so will I. I need to believe that. I really need to believe that. So, tell me, have you used daycare or preschool? What was it like to transition from that into more formal schooling? Please tell me it will be all right!

Tagged With: Kids, Memories, Parenting

Crying Like a Baby

Amber on July 26, 2010 41 Comments

Babies cry. We know this. If you have ever spent 30 minutes in a public place, you have heard at least one child wailing to high heaven. Fear of infant crying is what makes everyone on an airplane clench when you bring your precious cherub on board, or causes people to sigh audibly when your young family is seated next to them at a restaurant.

Even though I totally knew that babies cry, I wasn’t really aware of just how much some babies cry, or what effect it would have on me, before I had a baby of my own. Add it to the long list of rude parental awakenings, I guess. I sort of expected the crying to be annoying, but I thought that I would learn to read my baby’s cries, and answer them, and life would be smooth again.

The reality was not so peachy. When my firstborn Hannah arrived at 34 weeks gestation she really didn’t cry much. Preterm infants don’t behave the same way as full-term infants. She was pretty quiet and sleepy until she reached her due date, and then it was like someone flipped a switch. Hannah found her voice and it was loud. It was insistent. And it was not really related to any obvious issues that I could solve.

I never did develop that magical ability to understand my baby’s cries. Hannah’s cries were either ON or OFF. There was no working up to the crying and there was no discernible difference between any of the cries that I heard. She started out crying at a full-blast wail, and continued until I had solved the problem or distracted her sufficiently or she was tired of crying. There was no ‘wet diaper’ cry or ‘hungry’ cry or ‘tired’ cry.

I tried all sorts of cry-calming tactics. My routine went something like: (1) try to breastfeed, (2) use loud white noise, (3) try to breastfeed in a different position, (4) check her for any obvious physical issues like a dirty diaper or snap pinching some skin, (5) put her in the sling, (6) try to breastfeed while standing on my head, (7) cry myself. Sometimes one or all of them would work, sometimes none of them would work. For one 3-day stretch she only wanted to nurse while I stood up, then for the next 3-day stretch she wanted to be nursed any way but while I stood up. And she totally failed to respond to reason. Babies!

Hannah at 3 months, letting me know she’d had enough of the photos

I got a lot of suggestions from different people about dealing with the crying. It was something I ate. She had a gas bubble. Maybe her diaper was too tight? Maybe she was too hot? She must be too cold! She’s just exercising her lungs. She’s overstimulated. She’s hungry. She’s tired. She’s working out past-life trauma. I read and tried a lot of things. A lot of things. And I can tell you that pretty much the only thing that solved the problem was doing the best I could in the moment to calm my child, and allowing her to outgrow that stage.

Here’s the thing: babies cry, and it’s not your fault. It’s also not your job to stop the crying. I don’t leave my kids to cry by themselves as a rule. When they are upset, I try my best to calm them. But sometimes, I can’t. In spite of my best efforts, they are going to cry and scream and maybe even rage a little. I try to guide them through to the best of my abilities, but I can’t always make my kids happy. I’m not sure that expecting happiness is in my children’s best interest, anyways.

In the darkest days of Hannah’s crying, when she was 2-3 months old, I lost it a few times. I found myself crying along with her. On a couple of occasions, I yelled at my baby to, “JUST STOP CRYING! I NEED YOU TO STOP!” When I was alone once I had to put her down and go in another room to breathe for a few minutes. The crying felt like a form of torture. But slowly, slowly, we got through. Looking back, the crying days weren’t that long. And today I have a lovely 5 1/2-year-old, who still lives at full volume. It’s just who she is. It’s not because I ate something spicy or didn’t change her diaper promptly enough. It’s not that I’m a bad mom, or that she was a bad baby (as if there could be such a thing).

There is a local campaign working to raise awareness about early infant crying, which they call the Period of Purple Crying. They want to let people know that crying is normal. They also want to let people know that while you may be frustrated and angry and worn down, you must never shake a baby. Because you, too, want to come out the other side and see that lovely 5 1/2-year-old who is still a little bit too loud. You don’t want to lose that chance because of an impulsive action in a low moment.

One of the facets of the campaign is knitting or crocheting purple caps, that will be given to new parents in British Columbia the week of November 15. If you would like to participate join the Facebook group and get to fiber crafting! I will be making one myself. Because I have been there, and I came out the other side, and I want other people to know that they can, too.

Now, tell me. How did you get through the crying days? I would love to know.

Tagged With: Kids, Memories, Parenting

Silver Bullet

Amber on July 21, 2010 34 Comments

I am not really a car person. If I somehow won the lottery, which is rather a long shot as I don’t buy tickets, a new car would be number 12 or 13 on the list of items I would buy. I have a car, and I appreciate my car, but I don’t really wrap my identity up in my car, or cars in general. I don’t have a dream car, and really, I would almost prefer it if I weren’t so dependent on carbon-spewing transportation altogether.

In spite of my automotive ambivalence, I am waxing a little nostalgic over my car at the moment. Today is a very momentous occasion in the life of my little Honda Civic. I purchased it brand new on July 21, 2000, so it is 10 years old now. My very first car, all grown up. I saved up money for the down payment and I paid $200 every month for 2 years before I owned it free and clear. I felt very grown-up in my car, filled with new car smell. No more lugging groceries on the bus, no more depending on other people to get around. My car represented independence.

The silver bullet

I made my car my own. I installed a stereo and I gave it a nickname – the silver bullet. I took it on road trips and back and forth to work. On my wedding day, it took me to the salon and back. On the day Jacob was born, it was in my car that I realized I was in full-on labour, and from its front seat (while safely parked) that I called Jon to let him know. My car has carried loads of over-excited 7-year-olds on Brownie camps and field trips. It has held car seats and it has been covered in Cheerios and it has been dented and fixed. And still, it serves its duty well.

When I bought this car, I was hoping to get about 10 years out of it. But now, 10 years later, I don’t feel quite ready to part. It might not be as sparkly as it used to be, but it has a lot of life and miles left in it. And it is mine. I know it by feel. I don’t have to look where my hand is going to adjust the air conditioning or turn down the volume on the stereo. I know how the brakes will respond and how far I can get on a tank of gas. I know exactly what will fit in the trunk and what won’t.

If you look closely, you can see Hannah in the back seat, sticking her lollipop out the window

My car doesn’t define me. But I still feel rather affectionately towards it. It is the most vanilla of vehicles, my silver Civic. Its insides are covered in kid debris, and it smells sort of like spilled juice. But it has carried me for 10 years on the road of life. And that’s really all that anyone can ask of a car, I think.

Tell me about your first car. What was it? How long did it last? And were you happy to give it up, or sad to see it go? Or, like me, are you still driving it? I’d love to know!

Tagged With: Memories, Navel Gazing

When I Knew Everything

Amber on July 19, 2010 42 Comments

Before I had kids I was a parenting expert. If I saw a kid melting down in the grocery store I knew just what had caused it, and what that sheepish-looking parent should do to fix it. Luckily I had the good sense not to share my pearls of wisdom, but I did retain a delightfully smug feeling. I knew that when I had kids of my own, I would do a much better job.

Somehow, I seem to have forgotten everything that I knew back then. When I am faced with my own toddler throwing himself down in the frozen foods section, I am at a loss. I can’t seem to effectively use my former wisdom, which was of course totally top-notch. It’s sad, really. I’m certain that if I could just put it all together, my life would be so much better, and my children would be perfect angels.

As I wax nostalgic for my lost parenting brilliance, I sometimes find it entertaining to contrast my present reality with the vision in my pre-parent head. Because one of the pieces of wisdom that has managed to penetrate my sleep-deprived brain and stuck around is that you have to be able to laugh, especially at yourself. And so, I have made a list for our mutual entertainment.

Visiting Calgary in 2004, just before I got pregnant with Hannah, contemplating my parenting genius

Things that I knew when I knew everything, but didn’t really work out.

I would offer my kids age-appropriate choices and they would co-operate with me at all times as a result. Too bad my own kids frequently ignore me as I present choices, instead opting to run away while shrieking at top volume.
I would always follow through as a parent, because failing to follow through is the worst thing a parent can do. Everyone knows that. Sadly, these days I regularly forget just what I’m supposed to be following through with, so I become the dreaded Inconsistent Parent. Horrors!
My kids would always eat healthy food, and as a result they would develop broad palates and a taste for all things nutritious. Unfortunately, I failed to consider that if I don’t want my kids to eat junk food, I can’t eat it myself, and I’m not willing to give up my chocolate.
If my kids used a whiny voice, I would simply refuse to listen to them, and they would quickly learn not to whine. Have you ever tried to ignore a perpetually whiny 2-year-old? Not so easy, is it?
I would never bribe my kids. Children should be intrinsically motivated to good behaviour, based on an understanding of how their actions impact others. A lovely sentiment, but sometimes you need to get through a bank line-up in one piece. Offering a trip to Starbucks for some iced herbal tea and pastries not only keeps the kids calm, but frankly I could use it, too.

Being assessed in early labour with Hannah, rapidly forgetting all my parenting genius

I would never say, “Because I’m the mom, that’s why,” or, “If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?” Let’s face it, these sorts of expressions do not represent the pinnacle of parenting. But every so often they’re all I’ve got.
I wouldn’t talk about my kid’s poop, because who wants to hear about my kid’s poop? Answer: no one. Except me, and I can’t shut up about it.
I would frequently take my children to fancy restaurants and similar places, so that they would learn how to behave properly in formal public settings. I can’t even get out of a kid-friendly restaurant without at least one child dissolving into tears, I am so not stepping the class level up a notch.
I would not allow my children to press elevator buttons. I totally hated it when I had to wait for some 2-year-old to press an elevator button. Now, my own 2-year-old loves buttons so freaking much that I let him press the elevator buttons. It makes his day, and it really only takes a few extra seconds to show him which button to press.

I’m sure there are more things I’ve forgotten, but what can you expect after nearly 5 1/2 years of chronic sleep deprivation? But maybe you can remember more. So, tell me – what did you swear you’d never do that you now do all the time? What seemed really brilliant before you had kids, but now seems kind of silly? Please share!

PS – Today I am thrilled to have a guest post on …infinitely learning…. Hillary’s blog always inspires me, and it’s worth a read at any time, so stop by and say hi!

Tagged With: Memories, Navel Gazing, Parenting

Happy 34th Birthday to Me

Amber on May 5, 2010 30 Comments

Today I turn 34 years old. Me. 34. I find this totally surreal. I am far beyond the age of eagerly anticipating my birthday. There is nothing I can do legally at 34 that I could not do at 33. Or at 27. I can drive, vote, drink, rent a car and eat nothing but strawberry jam for a week if the fancy hits me. Which makes me wonder, why have I never spent a week eating nothing but strawberry jam? Or even just an afternoon?

When you’re a kid you think adults have it all figured out. I’m sure that when I turned 4, 30 years ago now, I believed that my mother knew everything there was to know. I think I needed to believe that, then. Children need to trust their parents to have the answers for them. I know that my 5-year-old Hannah trusts me to have the answers for her. When she asks me a question and I can’t respond she is somewhat baffled. “But you’re a grown-up, you have to know,” she says.

My 4th birthday, 30 years ago (!!!)

These days, I know that adults don’t have it all figured out. I’m not sure that most of us even have it half figured out. I suppose that no one ever does. Einstein might have been a brilliant physicist, but apparently his French wasn’t so hot and he had a turbulent family life. I suppose this means that it’s OK to not have it all figured out. It’s not necessary to have all your ducks in a row, and it’s probably not even possible. At least not all the time.

Looking back, I have accomplished some things in the past year. I wrote my maternity leave guide, I’ve done some speaking gigs and I have another one on Saturday, I have submitted articles (which were politely declined) and landed a freelance job. No, I do not have it all figured out, but I’m learning, and I suppose that’s what really matters. Even if I can’t see the direction I’m going, I seem to be on the move. That’s something to celebrate.

Today there will be cake and presents. Today is my day. It is all about me, whether I have it figured out or not. Whether I know what the next year holds or not. I will gather my family and my kids will blow out my candles and I will eat far too many sweets. I will celebrate, and I will look forward to the year ahead. May it hold much in the way of pleasant surprises and ice cream sundaes.

Happy birthday to me!

PS – I am a finalist in Vancouver Mom‘s Favourite Vancouver Mom Blogger contest! If you’d vote for me (and any other fabulous contestants you read) once a day until May 6 I’d be ever so grateful.

Tagged With: Memories, Navel Gazing

19 Years On

Amber on May 1, 2010 36 Comments

Nineteen years ago today Jon asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said yes. We were both 14 years old and in grade 9. In all that time, we’ve never broken up or dated other people. I’m not sure that, in and of itself, is terribly remarkable. Many people are happily married for 50 years or more. But I’m still a little surprised that I found my life partner when I was still so young.

I certainly didn’t anticipate that this is where I would be in 2010. Or, at least, I didn’t anticipate that this is where Jon and I would be. I definitely didn’t view him as marriage material on that day in 1991. I didn’t anticipate that he would be the first and only boy I ever really kissed. I wasn’t thinking that far in advance, because I was 14. My big concerns most days centred around whether that skirt made my legs look weird and why my hair wouldn’t co-operate. Also, in a nod to teenage angst, I worried a lot about The State of World Affairs. 14-year-olds can very earnest that way.

Even now, after university and real jobs and marriage and home ownership and babies, I still sometimes think, “I wonder whatever happened to that Jon Strocel guy from high school.” And then I look at the toddler in my lap who is his spitting image and I remember. Life is funny that way. It so often feels surreal that I ended up here, a married grown-up with a children and a mortgage, far removed from that earnest 14-year-old. I’m not sure I’ll ever know how I got here, honestly.

Even if this relationship isn’t quite what I expected at the outset, I am grateful for it every day. I know that I always have someone in my corner. Someone who’s been with me through my entire adult life, and even before it. Jon was there to support me when my dad died, he was my date for the prom, he decided to attend the same university I did, he came and visited me when I ran away to Ottawa for 4 months to declare my independence and he helped me to buy my first car. We have become the annoying couple who finishes each other’s sentences and laughs at our own inside jokes. And I like it.

If life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans, then Jon is my life. As much as I didn’t plan or anticipate this, Jon is part of my reality and part of who I am. Now that we have these children that will always be the case. Looking back, I am grateful for what we have created together. I wish I hadn’t spent so much time worrying about how it would turn out. And I remember all of the moments, big and small, that brought us here. Little snapshots of us, as we were then.

Happy anniversary, Jon. Thank you so much for the last 19 years. I can’t wait to see what the rest of our lives together hold!

Tagged With: Marriage, Memories, Navel Gazing

Watching Her Sleep

Amber on April 9, 2010 33 Comments

Sometimes at night I go in and check on my 5-year-old Hannah while she sleeps. I do it because I’m a mom, and I want to make sure my kids are all right. I replace blankets and close blinds that magically came open while she was supposed to be sleeping. I once asked her how that happened, and she said she’s wishing on a star for good dreams. And then she has to keep looking at the star to make her wish to come true.

There are times when I check on Hannah because we’ve had a bad day, and I need to see her peacefully resting. She looks so young, I can see the baby she was on her face as dreams flicker underneath her closed eyelids. I see that, even if I wasn’t at my parenting best, she is OK. She is safe in her bed and I whisper words that may not penetrate her subconscious, but make me feel better. I’m sorry, Baby. I love you. I will always love you. I promise to do better tomorrow.

1-year-old Hannah napping

Once in a while, as I move my little dreamer from some odd perch she’s assumed she grabs hold of me in her sleep. Her grip is tight and strong as she clings to me for dear life. I picture some ancient primate mother carrying her sleeping baby through the treetops on her back, the baby never letting go even for a moment. And I cling back, because this sort of thing is rare these days. I don’t get to hold my sleeping baby all that often anymore – not this baby, anyway.

I wish I knew the things I know now when Hannah was younger and I just wanted to put her down for 20 minutes. Her need was so desperate, and I was overwhelmed. She cried a lot – in the car, at home, for no apparent reason in the grocery store line-up. I thought it would never end. I didn’t see how it could.

5-year-old Hannah on a walk last weekend

But now, I miss it. As unbelievable as it is, even to me, I miss it. In spite of the screaming and the bodily fluids and the sleep deprivation that it entailed, I miss being everything to my daughter. She still depends on me, of course, but not in the same way. Every day she moves further down her path to independence. It’s so bitter-sweet, and I feel terribly wistful. So I wish that I appreciated what I had, when I had it.

At night, while Hannah sleeps, I can almost re-capture it. Almost. My sins and hers melt away, and I brush her hair out of her eyes and kiss her forehead. I soak it up, because there may never be another moment exactly like this again. I don’t want to let this speck of time slip through my fingers unnoticed, like so many others did. I didn’t know that it would feel this way, looking back. How quickly it would go, how soon I would be sneaking in to her room at night to try to re-capture a tiny piece of it. Just a tiny piece, just for a second.

Tagged With: Kids, Memories, Navel Gazing, Parenting

Happy 5th Birthday to My Girl

Amber on February 19, 2010 36 Comments

Today, at 4pm Pacific time, my daughter Hannah turns 5 years old. 5! How did that happen? I don’t know, I’ll tell you that much.

I have been waiting for the feeling I’ve felt on Hannah’s previous birthdays to kick in. I call it Preemie Birthday Sadness – the feeling that February 19th should not have been Hannah’s birthday. The feeling that someone made a terrible mistake, and we should be celebrating sometime in early April when she was due instead of mid-to-late February when she was born at 34 weeks. Because the truth is the day I gave birth to Hannah was not an entirely happy day, it was a very worrying day, too.

So far this year I have not felt the Preemie Birthday Sadness. While I will never be able to look back on the day of Hannah’s birth without some wistfulness, I have finally shed the extreme worry. I have made my peace and I know that we will be OK in spite of it, or possibly even because of it. We have come through some rough patches together, and I wish they hadn’t happened, but I know that we can persevere when we need to. I do not need to carry the fear around with me anymore.

Today I celebrate my daughter, who is an amazing 5-year-old and a fabulous person. She is defiant and stubborn and compliant and kind and full of contradiction. She loves dresses and sparkles and Barbie and me. She sings and draws and dances and runs, and she wants to live with me forever. And me? I’m inclined to say yes, because I can’t imagine a morning when she doesn’t wake me up by jumping on me, uncomfortable though that may be. This is the kid who made me a mother, and I don’t really want to let her go anymore than she wants to let me go.

Happy birthday, Hannah girl! You are the coolest 5-year-old I know, and that’s no lie.