My 30s

Today is the last day of my 30s.
Turning 40 doesn't phase me much. The weirdest thing is that I remember quite clearly when my mom turned 40. I was in high school—my kids aren't in preschool yet.

It's the last day of my 30s, which made me think back on this past decade and just how much has happened: I met Brian, got married, had a baby, learned more about various kinds of pediatric ICUs that I ever wanted to know, said good-bye to and buried a baby, had two more babies, watched them grow. Maybe it's not how much happened, but how momentous those each of those things were. The last half of the decade was particularly jammed-packed.

Maybe my 40s will be easier? slower? Probably not, I don't think life really works that way. Gentler, maybe? That might be nice.

I turn 40 tomorrow. The 40 celebrations I've allotted myself have already started and will continue. I turn 40 tomorrow. Feel free to use that as an excuse to enjoy cake or ice cream or to raise a glass of the libation of your choice.

Peaches on the Literary Mama Blog

Around here, the strawberries are starting to turn red. In some places they are coming in thick already, and there were pint boxes of them in the farmer's markets yesterday. In my garden, we've picked a handful. Tuesday, my canning friend's strawberries were wet and yellow. The sun today should make a difference, though. I have a jam-packed weekend, but might have to pack some jamming in there. Although there are a few earlier season projects (violet syrup, pickled asparagus, maybe rhubarb jam), strawberries signal the true kickoff the canning season for me. 

If strawberries are first, peaches are the most anticipated fruit of the summer. They arrive in the sticky, hot days of August and stretch into September. I wrote about canning peaches and being Henry's mom as part of a contest held by the lovely Kate Hopper to launch her book Use Your Words. You can read my piece the Literary Mama blog.

Good, Bad, Patterns

Yesterday's tantrum was not an isolated incident. Late afternoon is often a time of meltdowns and tantrums and general fussiness. Last summer, I found myself ending each day exhausted and frustrated and thinking what an awful day it had been. Except, like yesterday, it usually wasn't. Usually it just ended badly.

For a few weeks, I made myself write down the good and the bad of the day.

Good: taking a break to sing with Kathleen, lunch in the garden (Kathleen's idea), great run 3 miles+
Bad: Dinner started too late. I was storming around the kitchen fuming at B for making pie late in the day. Up way too late

Good: Elizabeth's morning giggles, taking a break to let Kathleen sit on my lap, knowing what Elizabeth needed to settle tonight (being put down)
Bad: Grumbly this morning about my "plan" for the day and B. sleeping in

Good: Elizabeth crawling!, watching Kathleen interact during our last music class (what a difference from the first class), dinner quick and smooth (yay for my plan of take out on music days!)
Bad: Feeling stressed about getting work done tomorrow

I'm thinking its about time to start doing this again.

Writing these things down over several weeks helped me identify patterns. Those patterns helped me make changes to make my days at least a little smoother. I prepped dinner early in the day when everyone was content. Even when it felt like we had plenty of time until dinner, I cut off all activities after 5—no walks around the block or a quick dip  at the swimming hole. I made myself stop working by 5—even if I was "almost done." When I stuck to the rules it helped, wasn't perfect but it was better.

What I really loved about this practice, though, was that it gave me my days back, much like that massage did yesterday. It helps me remember when the milestones actually happened and those amazing, non-milestone moments that you think you'll remember but you don't, the morning giggles and singing breaks and meals in the garden.

Today's bad: Struggle at bed time, Kathleen kicking on the floor
Today's good: Elizabeth moving her hands and singing "gooly gooly" when I was changing her (she learned part of the song I sing often during her changes!), planting the plants neighbors gave us for Henry's birthday

It got rough toward the end, but it was a pretty good day.

Reset

My big little girl had an epic meltdown today. In the library. The kind that had me trying to pick her up (with the little girl in the backpack) without getting kicked to hustle her out of there. The kind that threatened to become what the whole day looked like, even though it lasted maybe 20 minutes.

I finally got her outside, where our lovely, tiny farmers market was going on. There was a string band playing and people hula hooping and green all around. The river burbled past behind a wrought iron fence. All I could think about was the struggle to get back to the car.

She wasn't ready to leave and I wasn't ready to push her, so I got out snacks for both of them and let them roam. She continued to test me, doing exactly what I asked her not to do until I finally got a the little girl screaming back in to the back pack, grabbed my bags, and corralled the big girl.

"Do you want a massage?"

I looked at the chair longingly. "That would be great, but . . . " I trailed off waving at the kids.

"Oh, they'll be fine." She asked if was okay to give them as snack, one of the breads from one of the booths.

I nodded, shrugged off the backpack.

"I saw you with that backpack and thought, she needs a massage." (Did she also see the desperation in my eyes? The how am I going to make it through bedtime look?)

I sat on the chair, pocketed my glasses and leaned into the headrest. She kept talking to my kids, so I trusted the were still there, close enough to reach. I just settled in and let go. At one point I felt tears welling deep within me and breathed through them. I don't know if they were the post-birthday release or the muscle memory of being massaged after Henry died or simply the sheer kindness of taking care of myself for two minutes.

I could have sat there for hours, but those few minutes reset me somehow. Even with the backpack back on I felt lighter. I smiled at Kathleen and thanked her for her patience and for sharing with sister and from keeping her calm.

Walking down the stairs after reading and singing and tucking them in, I felt the weight of that meltdown still holding down my day, but I was able to put it aside and see the cool, dry sunshine on the grass by the river. I was able to remember the four perfect red strawberries we picked from our garden this afternoon and Kathleen's wide eyes and Yummy! I let in the snuggles and stories on the couch with my girls in jammies and found my way back to the golden, molten sun behind the pines, the broad rays stretching between the branches as the morning mist slowly faded away as I walked and walked and walked with the little girl and her blankie just because we were both up and the world was quiet.

Twenty minutes almost stole my day, but those precious two gave it all back to me.

Five and the Best Laid Plans

My plan for the day:
family breakfast of fried egg sandwiches
listen to You Are My Little Bird in the morning
plant flowers at his grave
work in Henry's garden today
have cupcakes with friends

This morning Brian stayed in bed after being up late with a feverish Elizabeth. I was leaving early to get Elizabeth to the walk-in hours at the doctors. No family breakfast.

I had a little time to spare, so I went to put the music on and the CD player closed and then opened and wouldn't close again. I fiddled with it for a bit, getting frustrated. No music in the morning.

And then I started to laugh. I don't know why I would think anything would go as planned on this day. Five years ago he was born, a day earlier than planned, and nothing, nothing really went as planned after that.

I ate my fried egg sandwich, much like the one I ate the day he was born. I made one for Kathleen. Brian got up. I got Elizabeth in the car, and turned the music on there.

After seeing the doctor (Elizabeth seemed fine except for that fever), we all went to the cemetery together. As Brian stopped the car, in one of those coincidences or something more, "Peace Like a River" was playing, which was perfect. I often find myself not knowing what to say when we visit Henry's grave. Today I sang "Peace LIke a River' as I worked. Kathleen helped me dig a hole and water. Elizabeth tried to pull up flags. Brian blew bubbles.

Despite oppressive heat, I spent much of the day in Henry's garden, as I did last year. I loosened soil and weeded heavily and split and moved plants. I still need to add compost and transplant a few things and add a few things from some sweet friends who know that is what I do for his birthday.

We had dinner and cupcakes with our friend who asked so earnestly that first winter " 'Enry 'ome?" and his sister who had promised to help Henry on the bus his first day of school.

That's what a fifth birthday looks like here, for now. Five. My boy would be five.