Oh, nostalgia.  It came for a visit today when all I wanted to do was to put the laundry away.  The baby is almost four months old and it was time to move through the newborn clothes to the next size up.  I had a box ready to put the old away in, to get it ready to be sold at the next baby items consignment sale.  I didn't realize it would be so hard. 

It wasn't just Aidan's clothes.  It was a combination of both all the new items I had bought for him and the best of the best of his older brother's outfits from almost four years earlier.  When I put my older son's clothes in a box four years ago, I knew I was safekeeping them, storing them for the next bundle of boy that I innately knew would eventually bless my little life. 

But, this time, it was different.  There aren't going to be any more babies in this house, and I am likely to never see these tiny onesies and rompers again.  They are getting boxed up to depart forever and I was torn.  Each piece has a memory.  I can't, for the life of me, recall what exact memory goes with each piece.  I simply have this fuzzy little notion that goodness, joy, and love are somehow interwoven in each outfit.  Like the blue sleeping gown that both of my sons wore.  It looked so good against their blue eyes, those extra-long lashes, I just couldn't put it in the box.  Nothing special happened when they wore this gown, but I had to keep it.  I knew there was something about it.

Maybe it was on their little bodies when I fell in love with them.  Maybe they wore it when I whispered in their ears for the first time that I'd die for them.  Maybe I spent twenty minutes trying to spot treat either poop or throw-up on it in the middle of one night, realizing for the first time that all my labor is well worth it.  I don't know which one of these things it might have been.  May have been all of them.  Maybe none of them.  But I plan on keeping that gown. 

It is a symbol of love only a parent knows, a piece of time that will remain precious even when I am old and alone.  And now, the gown has a new meaning.  Not of the perfect and small bodies that once were clothed in it, but of the realization that being a parent comes with a price.  That at some point in time, whether we like it or not, we have to say goodbye.  Not to everything, but most of it. 

  I was a lucky recipient of a family four pack to the  Sesame Street Live production of Elmo Grows Up.  I wanted to express my thanks to the Northwest Voice for offering such wonderful things to us, its readers.  I took my four year old, and had my three month old strapped to my chest in his sling.  We had great seats and Ethan (the four year old) constantly waved at his friends, Elmo and Big Bird. 

It was, truly, a bonding experience.  At the end of the show, Ethan, who is only prone to holding my hand these days out of threat or coercion, grabbed my hand softly, yet tightly.  He wanted to hold my hand as he told me I was the best mommy ever. 

This was, of course, the best part of the night.  Thus, I am grateful to Dana Martin and her wonderful endeavor in making the Voice an intricate part of our daily lives.  From providing a haven for our written words, to being a literary accomplice in our community involvement, to an outlet for entertaining the whole family. 

Thank you!

I was perusing on Youtube and stumbled across a video regarding random acts of kindness.  The gentleman, in monologue form, went on for over seven minutes about making the world a better place though one small kind act after another. 

In the middle of his lamenting over all the tragedy prevalent in the world today, he said something that struck me to the core like little has recently.  He said, and I quote, "What can we do about it?  What can we do to make this world a  better place? I kind of feel helpless.  I kind of feel like I can only do so much.  If I ever have children, I can raise them a certain way...." 

But, I, I do have children.  It took this man on YouTube to remind me the obligation within my hands, within my voice, within my actions.  If I ever have children....  This man was quite astute in concluding that the power to make the world a better place is truly one child at a time.  

To teach our sons to respect women.  From holding the door open for them, to never pressuring them into physical acts.  To teach our daughters to respect themselves.  From having a mind of their own, to accepting they are beautiful just as God made them.  To show our children that lying is lying from saying they're younger than they are at the buffet, to missing curfew.  To instill in our children that everyone is loved and precious because God loves them all and finds each precious.  

What a power, don't you see?  What a tremendous privilege.  If one man thinks he can change the world if he ever has children, what are we parents waiting for?

The camera is ready.  Ready to capture you over and over again.  From your smiles to that way when you furrow your brow because something has definitely captured your attention.  You are only three months old, but I know your older brother has had three times as many pictures taken as you have. 

I said I would never be one of those parents.  What you are soon to find out about me, is that you can easily call me an "Even Steven."  This is why the camera is always ready.  Something in me triggers this sense of injustice if I do not give you the exact same things your brother had.  What can I say?   I'm a middle child.  Bring it up with Gammie. 

Remember the time I fell asleep feeding you those first few weeks?  It was because mommy had stayed up late one night when I should have been sleeping, just so I did not have to endure one more day without an even number of pictures hung around the house of the both of you.  Three of your brother, three of you.  It could not be any other way.  So, the camera is always ready.  But why are there still fewer pictures of you?  Because you are my last baby.

Something occurred to me today, when I was holding you and I was singing and you were smiling.  If I reached over for that camera, I would have broken the moment.  You would no longer be staring at mommy's face.  You would be staring at a gray box placed in front of mommy's face.  I guess this is why I rarely capture you on film with that gorgeous smile.  

You do not want to look at the camera, you want to look at your mommy.  I can not miss these opportunities.  But, they are in my mind.  Yes, they are there.  I want them there so badly, to enjoy and savor every moment; even though the camera is always ready, I dare not pick it up.  I want to see you through my eyes, not the camera's.  You are the last chance I get to store direct contact, direct memories, of a gift so preciously given over to me. 

Thus, one of these days if you have inherited mommy's unrelenting, meticulous, and obsessive fairness gene, (and poor daddy if that happens), and you ask why there are more pictures of your brother than of you, this is my explanation for it.  I feel a need to offer it to you.  It would only be fair that way.  

(I thought I'd add this to my blog as well.)

I saw, I saw some beautiful things, when first I opened my eyes on something other, other than me. 

An elderly couple holding hands on a wrap around porch.  Still loving each other, still liking each other.  How tender.

A passenger on a bus shaking the driver's hand upon exiting.  How deserved.

A mother pushing her child in a swing, both smiling.  How natural.

Neighbors talking to each other over the fence.  How retro.

A young man with a cap, a gown, and a bit of hope.  How promising.

I saw, I saw some beautiful things.  Will they see these same things when they look back at me?