Our Secret Summer Spot

I was looking back at photos of last summer-- getting excited about the summer ahead -- and was reminded of our pond interludes between stints at the farmhouse. Our favorite discovery last summer was the Edsel Ford House gardens, located in Dearborn right across the street from a mall. But no one goes there, at least that we ever saw. Once you park and walk through the little patch of woods to the gardens set away from the house, you can almost forget that you're surrounded by suburban sprawl.

The garden has been mostly forgotten, not yet part of the ongoing renovations. It's overgrown and, to the boys' delight, filled with tadpoles and frogs. We visited whenever we were in town last summer -- the quickest route to nature, a fix. It seemed to reassure everyone, including me, that we could be at a pond full of frogs in 15 minutes flat, the boys splayed over a pile of mossy rocks, hands in the water.

I would sit with Iris under the shade of an old stone gazebo, and for whatever reason, she like to practice her dance moves there. See video.

One morning we brought some sandwiches and snacks, and after laying across every rock around the circumference of the pond and catching (and releasing) a few frogs, the boys joined Iris and I under the stone gazebo for lunch and we scrawled a spontaneous little poem on the brown paper bag. They dictated, I wrote. I saved the bag, such a sweet memory for a series of hot, good days.

Across the street from the mall, 
where the parking lot is alway full,
an abandoned pond.
You have to drive past the place you want to go
suburban turnaround
because the suburbs suck.

Frogs croaking out their existence,
like spoken-word poetry on a muggy morning,
slipping through fingers on their way to a cool murky safety.
Forgotten lily pads drying out in the sun
all day long they shrivel
"Ollie! There's a frog under your rock!"

Splash, silence, defeat
Balancing in the cantilevered pose of childhood
Wait
Another slippery miss
with the distant sound of cars rumbling 
behind trees.

Iris, Fragmented

I recently found this unfinished, unpolished, ill-conceived tidbit in my drafts. It never made it to this space, and I have no recollection of writing it. No one reads this space anymore, because no one updates it. But that doesn't mean I don't think about it, and feel guilty about it, and read it nostalgically, late at night, on my phone in bed. This activity usually doesn't end well -- me, feeling like I let the sands of her babyhood slip through my fingers without recording anything. It has been nearly two years. 

DRAFT ONE // SIDECAR

For the first year of her life, Iris was the sweet, agreeable baby girl along for the ride. She was carried along to soccer games, tucked into the baby carrier for hikes, driven around the city for errands, school drop-offs and pick-ups, pushed in the grocery cart, toted along to big brother playdates, tucked under my arm almost always. The constant passenger of our busy life. But now -- now! -- her personality is emerging. Strong, attentive, independent. It's like the sidecar came detached from the motorcycle, and we're all running after her to see where she'll go next.

This week, it has been the toilet. She discovered the toilet bowl, and loves to splash around and throw things in. If I remove her and try to wash her hands, she launches a full-out, on-the-floor revolt. The walking started out careful, resistant, slow, but now she's full speed ahead, the zombie arms have been retired, and she's able to multi-task (empty cupboards in one swoop, yank toilet paper in a steady stream).  

I guess I ran out of time to finish it. Now I wonder what else she was doing when I wrote this? Why didn't I keep better journals?

THEN I FOUND THIS // DRAFT TWO // TIME WARP

Iris is 15 months old, and during that time, I've written one lousy post here. One day, when she asks me why I wrote about Cass nearly every week during his first year, but could only eke out one pathetic thought about her sweet little life, I want to be prepared to answer.

I will tell her how life got infinitely busier than we ever imagined. Less time for blog posts; more time immersed in the stuff of life. When Cass was a baby, we had the luxury of time. SO MUCH TIME! We could take a bath in all the unlimited time we had to dote on our only baby. We indulged in all the frivolities of caring for a single child with gusto: baby massages, music playlists programmed for various activities, baby playdates, homemade baby food, a long bath every single night, a freezer full of frozen milk, all labeled and dated. I napped with him regularly. I vividly remember feeling such joy carefully stacking perfect piles of his freshly laundered miniature clothes, deeply inhaling a barely concealed soured milky scent from each article of clothing. These days, laundry provokes only dread.

When I was pregnant with Iris, I was determined I'd keep working after she was born. In fact, I was going to step it up. I've done this child-rearing business; I'm an old pro, I reckoned, and I've put in my time. This time around, I would put her in daycare so I could continue to focus on my career. Even saying it made me feel lighter. Then she turned one, and I couldn't do it. Didn't want to do it. Now, the boys have been back in school for two months, and I've decided that working can wait. Working can always wait. A career feels inconsequential to the work I'm doing every day. 

We're developing our own little routine and rhythms, Iris and I, and because I've done this all before, I know how fleeting, how precious, how immensely all-consuming this choice is. I know not everyone has this choice. I know not everyone makes this choice, or understands it. It is a sacrifice to raise your own children. But I can't seem to do it any other way. 

I had so much more to say here -- about the things we were doing at the time, the details of our days, the unfair choices women are forced to make -- but it all got lost somewhere between piano lessons, dinner prep, soccer practices, Halloween costumes, flashcards, books, blocks, the unforeseen chaos that unfurls every week into a hailstorm of child-raising.

DRAFT THREE // DINNER TABLE FALSE START

The three of you gather around the dining room table every morning for breakfast -- a frenetic, hilarious start to the day, fraught with lunch-packing, book-reading, clothes-changing (and in Ollie's case, changing again and maybe again), stories -- and then we reconvene there for dinner every night. Between those two mostly stationary moments of sustenance, our days are a whirlwind. 

Although I'm sensing a theme here, I have no idea where I was going with this. NO IDEA. Perhaps I was going to share a funny story or a recipe, or tell you about how the day after I became re-inspired in the kitchen, determined to cook healthy, creative family meals that would ensure our children became the most amazing, well-adjusted eaters with perfect manners and dinnertime conversational skills, Iris fell flat off the counter while I prepped a complicated spicy vegetable curry. Her face hit the porcelain floor with the baby chair strapped to her back, and she stopped breathing. I ran outside screaming for a neighbor, any neighbor, any human person who could help me help her. I did not handle myself well in this particular crisis, her tiny 10-month-old body limp in my arms. I remember seeing Cass and Ollie in my peripheral vision, like in a dream sequence, as blurry, indecipherable, disintegrating. I remember thinking about how I didn't want them to see this happening; I didn't want to ruin them, too. She was breathing by now, but I thought maybe she had suffered brain damage, or a broken skull, or that I'd ruined our lives with my senseless ambition. Maybe this is why I stay home with her instead of pursing a career, this omen, or maybe because I realize how close to not having her we were. 

DRAFT FOUR // DRAFT TWO FOLLOW-UP?

Here's what I want you to know, Iris of the future: yes, it's true, I have less time with three kids to write about raising kids. Because I'm busier, I have to be more mindful of my time -- more time making memories, less time recording them. By the third time around, I'm far more aware of the speed with which it all passes, a painful discovery. Sometimes I can't even bear to look at old photos. It's too fresh. I still feel like a mother to babies, and reflecting on how much has changed in the last two years -- how much has changed in the last nine years and what life will feel like in another nine -- creates a heavy sensation in my chest that resembles physical pain more than nostalgia. I love being a mother, and in my more limited time, I'm determined to enjoy the very best parts of motherhood. Selfishly relishing in your complete adoration and reluctant dependance, I am practicing a presence I'm not sure I had with the boys. This time, though, I'm nailing it. I'm here and present and aware.

I read books with you every morning. We take a walk. You pick flowers and look for kitties ("meows"). We have tea parties with real water, because you insist, and you make me draw a picture of Elmo almost every day. We play with the same wooden farm animals and barn both your brothers played with. You love playing with your brothers' Playmobile horses, and I cringe when you find the guns and imitate shooting noises. Eek. You're already perceptive and incredibly good at needling me, and wildly funny. We have lunch -- you love yogurt, the same vanilla every day, eaten with such surprising accuracy and tidiness for a two-year-old -- and then I lay down with you. I don't rush to get up. I don't usually fall asleep. I fade into a sentimental bliss-like state almost like meditation and think about how each quiet moment with your body snuggled into mine is a luxury that I'm not willing to trade for anything. Not for writing assignments, a pilates video, a book, a fresh-pressed juice from crisper leftovers, a head-start on dinner, an hour to knit or stare at the wall. 

You don't talk a lot -- a few words at a time -- but there's never any doubt about what you want. You were born knowing what you want. Opinions matter to you. Feisty is a word that comes up a lot. You share a temperament and many personality traits with Ollie. But even more independent. You insist on feeding yourself. You always have. (Meanwhile, six-year-old Ollie would still prefer I'd feed him every meal if I'd agree to it; I usually do.) You don't even like holding my hand when you walk up and down stairs. You love reading books. The boys did, too, but not like this. You can sit for three solid hours looking at books, begging me to read and re-read them to you. Right now, you love Mickey in the Night Kitchen. You also love your "heavy book"-- a Richard Scarry hardback reader with a broken binding from such frequent use. You named the life-sized baby that Ruby handed down to you "heavy baby." Many things are heavy to you; it's your favorite adjective.

When you were about 18 months, you went through a serious baby doll phase. Carried no less than three around at a time. And anything you found remotely cute -- a stuffed animal, a sticker -- you'd stick under your chin and give it a little chin hug. And sometimes say, "awww" during chin hug. It was ridiculously adorable. You tell your brothers what to do like a boss. You ARE the boss. There's never any confusion about that fact around here. If you're unhappy about something, we all are. You're  not above pinching, kicking, screaming, biting, throwing to get what you want, and it's quite effective. Amid any frustration with your aggressive tactics, I can't help being proud of your doggedness. 

The Complete Chaos of Three

My head hasn't stopped spinning since I went into labor. That was four months ago. Something about the number three, at least for me, has fundamentally changed the experience of being a parent. I may have thought I was in it before, but I am giving all of myself to this thing right now. I am fully immersed in the trenches of fulfilling basic needs, absolutely consumed. The days are a whir, and I feel like I never have enough arms, sense, or time. There's a constant thrum of chaos, the cacophony of boys playing, baby squealing, toys sliding across the wooden floor, water boiling over on the stove, laundry spinning with an emptied pocketful of acorns pelting against the metal, binging texts that I will never find time to answer. I found a dirty diaper in my coat pocket yesterday. I grocery shop at 9pm.

It may sound like I'm complaining, but I am not. I have never felt so full, so deliriously present. When I collapse into bed every night, I am happy. The chaos is loud and soul-stirring. My house is a mess, and I don't care. I will live another life someday--maybe 10, 15 years from now--and my house will be clean and quiet, with no piercing pain-inducing legos underfoot or crayon graffiti across the bathroom wall. I will take a shower every day and brush my hair and look like a presentable human. Right now, I embrace the mess, the chaos, the overwhelming sense that shit is going to hit the fan any second.

That's not to say I expected any of this. I thought it would be easier, I really did. But I am not complaining, I swear. I look at my little girl, my unexpected number three, and my heart melts and bursts and sings a thousand songs. I love her! I knew the boys would adore her, there was never any doubt, but I didn't know how amazing it would be to watch them watch her come into this world and grow and smile and giggle uncontrollably when they tickle her squishy little legs. They beg to hold her. Ollie's first order of business every morning is Iris -- where is she, can he kiss her? Cass parades her around the house, so proud of his ability to transport her in his seven-year-old arms. I peek around the corner and find Ollie snuggled up beside her under her dangly playmat thing, whispering in her ear and rubbing his cheek against hers. They bring her toys, sing her songs, smell her toes, and break my heart with their sweetness.

I know these hard, crazy days will pass, one by one, stacked up like old photo albums that no one looks at anymore, and my life will be my own again. I will be free to pursue other interests, other ambitions. But I'm here right now. I'm in no hurry to leave.

At the End of the Rainbow

We always knew if I had a girl, her middle name would be Mim, but it was a few weeks until the end of my pregnancy, and we still hadn't settled on a first name. There was Esme and Frances and Alice (and Diamond, thank you Cass), but for various reasons, they weren't quite right. One had already been taken. Another provided too much room for mispronunciation. They didn't slip out of my mouth the right way. There was no flutter.

We drove by this Iris farm Up North on the most glorious early summer day. I had no idea it was there, and looking through the window, it felt like we had entered a magical painting. One of a highly saturated field of flowers and old barns climbing with ivy. Instinctively, Ryan slowed the car to a stop, and I got out to take a closer look. I half-expected to see fairies floating over flower tops. We still hadn't thought of Iris as a name.

Later that same week, three-fourths of the way through our favorite thick book of Greek Myths, we read a passage about Iris-- the messenger of the Gods, the personification of the rainbow. Using rainbows to travel from Olympus to earth and back, she delivers news, traveling with the speed of wind, linking the Gods to humanity.

That night, I sat up in bed and said "Iris" out loud. I poked a sleeping Ryan's shoulder and whispered the name to him. He smiled, half asleep, and mumbled something about loving it.

Just a few days before she was born, we saw two rainbows. One was a double rainbow. I knew she was on her way. I knew her name was Iris.

The First Ballgame

Before he got his first hit. Before he got the 'player of the game' ball for a spectacular, if not accidental, catch and toss at second base. Before he struck out, or learned the solitude of the bench. Before he picked flowers in right field, and before he stood at the pitcher's mound fielding (and not fielding) balls. Before he got a fly double or an RBI or a high-five from his teammates...

...there was a first game for this boy, who has never been more excited. He made me photograph a bunch of different stances, as if he were posing for a series of baseball cards. There was the energy of the first game, the nervousness of first bat, the confusion of what to do in the field. He loved it all. We went to Nemo's for a burger afterwards, the city's de facto homebase for legendary Tigers and their fans. The perfect place for this Tiny Tiger to celebrate his first win.

Cranbrook and My Boys

So much has happened between then and now -- birthday parties, first soccer games, weekend getaways, school plays, camping trips -- and as I get ready to welcome our little baby girl into the world, I'm taking stock of those memories when it was only the boys. They've been amazing little creatures to introduce to the world, and as over-the-moon ecstatic as I am to be a mother to a girl, I'm already getting a little nostalgic about being a boys' mom. A mom of just boys. Scrappy, joyful, intelligent, kind boys. Boys who collect sticks and rocks and insects. Boys who wrestle and hug with equal fervor. Boys who run so fast and with so much abandon they fall headfirst into the grass for no reason at all. Boys who have persistent scraped knees. Boys, who I'm sure, will teach their sister that nature is for exploring and collecting, especially when there's a lot of dirt involved. They will be excellent teachers.

This year for Mother's Day, if I can stretch my recollection that far back, we all went to Cranbrook. We never know exactly what we're going to do there: turning up giant rocks, picking up sticks, staging a play on the outdoor Greek theater, smelling flowers, skipping stones, climbing on backs of statues of mythical creatures. I've spent so much time at this place with the boys, it feels like ours, and on this day, a little on the chilly side of May, I could not have been happier. It may have snowed briefly, but the trees and flowers were blooming defiantly, and we didn't encounter another soul. Unless you count the ducks and geese and swans we watched from the side of the lake. At the end of our aimless wandering, Ryan played imaginary baseball with the boys on an empty field, and I thought about the first time we brought Cass. He was a baby, and we strapped him in a stroller, which was such a silly rookie thing to do, and eventually, he got out and toddled across the red bridge in the Asian Garden, and we took approximately 375 photos of him. And now, seven years later, we're crossing another bridge. Less photos, it's true. Less time. But I'm learning to keep better track of spontaneous, special moments in my head and appreciate the good days, because now I know exactly how fast they go by. I may never get to document any of it, but I'm certain this little girl will have a happy life, if her big brothers have anything to do with it.

One Morning a Month Ago

The magical make-believe world of nonsense and ridiculousness. This morning, Ollie made me wear a hideously tiny cowboy vest that was made for Cass two years ago. I pretended to try it on, just to humor him, and he pulled it up onto my back. The bottom edge came to the top of my shoulder blades, and I'm truly shocked I didn't rip out the seams. Then we put shiny capes over the vests. I had to wear the goggles (I was the caption, he insisted, and he was the first mate), and he carried around his new wooden crossbow and let me use the sword. "We are superhero cowboy pilots," he said. "I want the entire room to be our plane, not just the beds, OK?" 

"OK."

Cass' imaginative games were based on a world of made-up stories and narrative. We dressed up a little, and there was a decent amount of action, but mostly it was about painting the scene with words. His stories were elaborate and winding and he believed he was living the intricate plotlines every second of every story. Ollie's creative world is different: It's one of jumping and noises and major raucous. There's no real story, and that's what makes it so exciting! One minute I'm in charge of fixing the broken-down engine on the plane, and the next, we're hunting for rogue "badmen" cowboys who have apparently encroached on our territory to steal our horses. There's real sword-fighting and brazen swashbuckling and even when he's flying his bed across the sky, he's dramatically acting out every little tug of a lever and sudden turn with loud, strangely realistic sounds that come from somewhere deep in his gut. Oh this is serious business. Even if none of it makes any sense.

We played this way -- flying across the sky in our plane (please do not accidentally call it a spaceship), defending our open plains on horseback, and taking sudden naps at makeshift campsites -- for hours this morning. It was borderline insane, but still somehow exhilarating. We play like this every Monday (and sometimes Friday) morning when Cass is at school. When they're home together, they're best buddies and play for hours and hours. They play together constantly, but they don't really engage in this type of deep imaginary theatrics. No, this special ridiculousness is generally reserved for me, and not because Cass is too old either. I think their creative processes are too different, and to be fully immersed in imaginary play, you kind of need to be the boss, right? The writer, the director, and the actor. There would be too many skirmishes, too many creative differences. 

But I am not complaining. I couldn't be happier to be part of his world right now. I feel so extraordinarily lucky to have these days with him--just he and I (and not for much longer)--when he feels unguarded and free enough to be his full-blown silly, screwball self. And I can be present enough to play along.