Weighing the Pros and Cons

An ongoing list.

Reasons to have a third child:
1. My kids will make an incredibly cute photo-op for the announcement.
2. The Meal Train.
3. There's a whole new group of parents that I can condescendingly say, "Oh, I remember when I *only* had two..."
4. There are seven less things I will have to sell on Craigslist.
5. Jesse will automatically agree to a Honda freakin' Odyssey. Vacuum cleaner built INTO the car. Boom. *drops mic*

Reasons not to have a third child:
1. I would have a third child

Resolutions

In 2013, I resolve to balance out the holiday calendar by spending some time each day remembering to bring forth the following:

- The gratitude and grace of Thanksgiving;
- The peace and joy of Christmas; and
- The promise and excitement of New Years.

Oh, and I'm gonna spend some time dressing up and eating candy to keep Halloween alive, too.

Dear Sadie

Dearest Sadie,

You are starting to rock on all fours. You hesitate a bit before putting one hand out. Your knees slide. You’re flat on your belly again. You look around, slightly confused but still thrilled at the progress you’ve made. I help prop you back up. I use my hands to move your knees and show you the motions. Again and again.

Everyone says, “Oh no, I wouldn’t be so quick to encourage her. Next thing you know, she’ll be into everything and you’ll have to chase her all around.” They said the same thing when Carter was your age.

In a way, they are right. I remember the frustration and the panic brought on by a crawling baby. There's the moment you’ve gone ‘round the corner -- headed for the kitchen knives I’m sure -- and I’m stuck sitting on the toilet with my pants around my ankles. Then there's the day you find the dog’s water bowl. And after that, you and your brother conspire to hunt under the couch for small objects to choke on. You’ll pause just a moment to gleefully stare at me (your brother will smirk, I'm sure) before shoving pennies into your mouths with bold delight.

And there are moments when I realize how fast the last six months have gone by and I am paralyzed by the realization that I can’t slow time down. That I’m not going to remember it all. That I’m not “present” enough. That I miss the small details, that I lose my patience. That I will never ever be able to hold you again at this age. That the person you are right now -- the very simple, very smiley, very content little person -- will disappear and even though she will be supplanted by a wonderfully curious and imaginative little girl, I will never ever get to talk to that person again. It’s an odd feeling: I miss you so much it hurts, yet here you are, in my arms.

But in the more important sense, the principle that guides me as a mother, those well-meaning mothers who warn me against encouraging you to crawl are all very wrong. Motherhood doesn’t get easier when the baby sleeps through the night, and it doesn’t get harder when the baby can toddle from room to room. The baby grows up and it just gets different. 

So I will continue to prop you up on your knees and clap my hands when you scoot forward. I will encourage your brother to climb the ladder at the playground (the one signed “5 and up” for all the sue-happy moms and dads). I will buy exotic foods at the supermarket that scare my taste buds but seem to please yours. (Kiwi totally counts as exotic, right?) And I will try to remember to breathe when you decide you want to sign up for ice hockey instead of ballet.

But this letter shouldn’t be about me (I realize now I have been doing that all along) – it should be about you! So, here are a few things you should know about yourself at this age:

• You remain the happiest baby we know. You cry to let us know you are awake, and by the time we’ve opened your bedroom door, you are smiling and cooing. If you seem upset and I can’t find a toy to distract you, I smile. You can’t bear to have someone smiling at you and not smile back.  
• You love to eat. At 18 pounds and 13 ounces, this surprises no one. Your favorite foods? Avocado, sweet potato and Cheerios. Dislikes? Cucumber.
• You are extremely well balanced for a baby your size. You love to sit and stand (while holding something, of course). But unlike your brother, you have no desire to shake or wiggle or move. Dr. Rathke was very impressed at your last appointment.
• “This is wonderful! She’s very stable. When did she start sitting?"
• “A little before five months.”
• “And when did she start rolling?”
• “…she hasn’t.”
• “Not ever?”
• “Not once.”
• “How odd."

 (And that was the end of that conversation. I told you Dr. Rathke is kind of like that.)

• You are marvelously independent.  In the morning, I sit you down on the carpet, surrounded by a few toys, and you will remain content for almost an hour. I pitter and patter about the house, your brother runs wild and crazy, and there you are, calmly chewing on your board book. It’s a beautiful sight.
• You are perfect.

Dear Sadie

My sweet, sweet Sadie,

Today you are five months old. Five months! It doesn’t seem possible. There are days when I look at you and feel like you have always been with me. And there are other days when I hold you and think, “Stop, stop, stop.You are growing too fast. I need you to stay like this – in my lap, in my arms,with me -- forever.”

But for now, you are with me. Always with me. When I’m cleaning, when I’m puttering at the computer, when I’m working out in the morning  -- you are there; in the Ergo,in my lap, in the stroller. Your father is perhaps a bit afraid to be alone with you and “the toddler.” I don’t blame him. You haven’t been a very easy baby the few times I’ve managed to sneak out of the house. 

We drove back from a friend’s house the other day, and about ten minutes from home you decided you had reached your limit. You were hungry,over-stimulated, and uncomfortable in the car seat. Suddenly you were screaming. “Meet my Sadie,” your dad joked. I didn’t think you were capable of howling like that. 

And so, there we are, always together. For big moments and small ones, it’s usually just the two of us. But some of the happiest moments are when you are strapped in the stroller while I run or work out.

We finished our first race together – the Turkey Trot 10k on Thanksgiving – and there was nothing I was more thankful for than to be able to share that moment with my little girl. Just you and me for 6.2 miles. In brisk sunshine,running around Mount Trashmore, quiet but for the sound of thousands of feet pounding on the pavement. I leaned down when we had finished, sweaty and a little out of breath, and you had the biggest smile on your face. I have never felt prouder or happier after a race. Thank you for that.

You are too young to remember, but I made you a promise that morning. And that is this: I will push you through race after race, and I will bring you to my morning workouts, and I will drive you to soccer practice or ballet or cheerleading or whatever activity you want for year after year after year.

I will do it with gentle encouragement and patience on the mornings when you are tired, and with a proud grin for your recital, and with a trunk packed with Gatorade and oranges and clean socks for game day.

I will let you wear my marathon medals while you are marching around the house in my high heels. And I will share my McDonald's French fries with you when I’m celebrating the finish of a long race.

I will use you as my reason to get out of bed and go for a run on a cold morning. I will pay for as much sports equipment or lessons or cute workout gear as you need. I will stock our shelves with quinoa and Greek yogurt and fresh fruit and vegetables.

I will show you that healthy bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and that it requires great strength to be a mother. I will make sure that you get just as much as I do from our time at Stroller Strides.

In short, my darling, little Sadie, I will be the example you need to become a strong, confident, healthy woman.

And in return, one small favor: When I am older, and tired, and far, far from my PR days – will you wait for me at the Turkey Trot finish line,with that same sweet, proud smile on your face? Because even if it’s a 12:37/min. mile, I know that will make it my best race ever.

Love,

Mama

Dear Sadie

Well, I've started this letter a few times now and deleted that much and more, so I might as well just begin with what's on my mind:

Your Great Grandma Hazel passed away last week and you and I are still warm from all the hugs we shared in New York over the weekend. I am so very, very glad that Grandma Hazel had a chance to see you while she was able, and I won't ever forget how calm and peaceful you were in the room with her last month. An absolute angel. But that's not what I want to talk about right now.

Someday soon I will tell you all about the strong women in our family -- women who have raised families while building careers (before it was modern), who have sat next to their children to do homework at the dining room table because they knew how important it was to have a college education, who have scrimped and saved and put aside vacations and new clothes and fancy cars so that their children could have a bigger future, who have loved and lost and kept right on living. There will be time enough to tell you about them, but right now I want to tell you about the men.

Because the best example I know of love and devotion and selflessness is your Poppy Howard, and I want you to know that as much as we were grieving for our loss and celebrating Grandma Hazel's life this past weekend, we were also paying tribute to the way Poppy Howard cared for Grandma and his family -- especially the last 17 years.

When I was 11 years old, Grandma Hazel had a stroke. What I remember most about that day and the coming weeks was the back "seat" of our Ford Ranger pick-up truck. There were two little benches that folded out facing each other, and your Uncle Bill and I would squeeze ourselves back there and stare at each other and stare out the window and try to stare ourselves to sleep on the 40-minute drive to Gouverneur every weekend for what felt like forever.

I remember wearing my big, bulky winter jacket and how the drives would start out so, so cold and just as I'd figure out a way to warm myself by bending over at the waist and tightly hugging my legs while pulling them in at the ankles, I'd all of a sudden be sweaty and itchy and dyyyyyyying to stretch my legs.

I remember wishing we didn't have to drive so much, and sleeping soundly all the way back home.

I remember racing your uncle Bill and my cousin Lindsay down to the vending machines at the hospital again and again and the time that Bill got off on the wrong floor and we were running all over trying to find him. And it was so much fun I wished we could just play on the elevators all night and not have to go back to Grandma's hospital room at all.

I remember that I expected Grandma to be able to speak again. I remember hearing the adults talk about this and about recovery and therapy and the doctors and the nurses and the percentages.

And I remember her frustration. Perhaps that is the only vivid memory I have outside my childish ones that is any indication of the seriousness of the situation. I remember Grandma Hazel was so frustrated, she was so mad, she was so exhausted that she couldn't tell anyone anything -- and she had tears in her eyes. I remember walking out of the hospital room then, though I can't recall if I simply wandered or if there was a hand gently pushing me out.

But through this all, Poppy Howard was a rock. He would smile when Lindsay and I begged for vending machine change. He would laugh when Bill raced down the hospital hall to the elevators. He would hug us good-bye and when Grandma was flustered, Grandpa just kept calmly making guesses.

Sadie, right now I don't think too much about who you will be when you are an adult. I just know that you will be happy and you will be beautiful. But I want you to know, right now, before life even starts to make any suggestions of turns or curves -- I expect this from you: That if you choose to have a partner for life, you choose someone who will deserve you. A person who will stand by you through all the traditional marriage vows (like thick, thin, rich, poor, healthy, sick), and then some, and they will do so not because they are expected to, but because they want to be there.

Poppy Howard is that kind of person. For 17 years, he not only stood by Grandma Hazel; he carried her, he lifted her, he dressed her and he fed her. He translated her "wa wa was" and her sweeping hand gestures. He found the TV channel she wanted and he guessed and guessed and guessed until he figured out the birthday she wanted him to remember.

When she was able, he brought her out to weddings and to graduations. And when she wasn't able, he brought the party to the farm house. He held her hand and pushed her chair and when she finally made the move to the nursing home in 2008, he visited her every night at 7 p.m. Every night, Sadie. Every night.

Honey, you won't realize til you're much, much older (because I certainly didn't realize until I was older) how much he sacrificed because he loved her. And it will probably take you an even longer time to realize (I only just realized it this weekend) that none of it was a sacrifice -- because he loved her.

I am not a betting woman. I don't play the lottery and I don't like casinos. But I would put every cent I own on your father's devotion to me. I want you to know this, because I love (and I mean love) that when I go home, I will at some point or another walk into the kitchen for a sandwich and instead find my parents dancing, cheek to cheek. I will roll my eyes and groan, but inside I am smiling because it is one of the happiest moments I know.

I know you are only four months old today, and I don't want time to go any faster than it already is, but I can't wait for you to be old enough to run around the corner and find your daddy and I smooching by the stove, just like your Great Aunt Debbie used to catch Poppy Howard and Grandma Hazel. I hope with all my heart that when the time comes you find someone who will love you like your Daddy loves me. Like your Grandpa loves your Grandma. Like your Poppy Howard loved your Grandma Hazel.

Someone you can dance in the kitchen with forever and ever and ever.

Love,
Mama

Dear Sadie

My sweet baby girl,

Tomorrow we are making the trip to NY - your first to the North Country - where you will meet lots and lots and lots of your extended family.

My apologies in advance.

Actually, I think you will love your family just as much as they will adore you. You are so very lucky to be blessed with such a well-rounded, diverse group of people in your life. It wasn't until I was grown and had the experience to spend time with the families of my friends that I realized just how amazing it was to be raised in a group of 21 cousins and three crazy brothers. And it's not about the numbers, either. Whether you have five cousins or twenty, if yours are only half as awesome as the ones your mother has, you will be a little girl who never wants for a playmate on a family vacation or a funny story to share about "this one time." (And, honestly, your cousins already show all the signs of being just as awesome. I'm actually a little worried about how much "this one time" kind of trouble Sierra might be able to lead you all into...)

It's funny to think that not all families are like ours. A family that gets together at Christmas or a random Sunday to bust out the guitars or the tambourines or the ukuleles or the karaoke machines and sing and laugh and drink and eat and sing some more together. There isn't much to regret about your life, Sadie, but if there is one thing that will weigh heavily on me over the next few years it is that we don't live closer to your cousins and aunts and uncles and great aunts and uncles and, perhaps most importantly, your grandparents.

You have many years ahead to forge your own relationships and memories with these special people -- including your father's family who are just as amazing -- but I did want to share with you just a bit more about your grandparents. They all have so much to teach you, and without knowing it, so much of your personality will be shaped by them. If I could handpick those traits, I would, but know that no matter which quirks and talents you inherit, you are blessed to have four amazing people in your life who will love you and support you without any conditions.

So which traits would I choose? Well...

From your Grandpa Jeff, I hope you learn to laugh. And not just at the funny things in life, but even the sad things and the upsetting things. Your Grandpa Jeff is able to find the humor in just about any situation, and I hope you are not afraid to laugh louder or harder or longer than anyone else at the table. Just like him.

From your Grandma Jen, I hope you learn to run -- not just in the physical sense of the word, but also in the way you approach life. I hope you run towards new goals and set new personal bests for yourself every day. I hope you have the energy and the drive to wake up at 5 a.m. on a cold April morning and swim laps in an outdoor pool before taking a "quick" 6-mile run around the neighborhood so you can be to work by 8. And I hope you do it all while smiling. Just like her.

From your Grandpa David, I hope you learn to love learning. To read non-fiction books and passionately share the last paragraph with the person sitting in the armchair beside you -- stranger or not. I hope you approach every situation with an open and inquisitive mind and never worry that you don't know as much as the person next to you. Ask as many questions as you want and try as many new hobbies or interests or musical instruments as you will. Just like him.

Lastly, from your Grandma Karen, I hope you learn grace. This is so important, Sadie, and I pray that it is instilled somewhere in you without you ever having to try for it. I hope you learn to be compassionate and sympathetic without compromising your own integrity, and I hope you are able to approach every situation with the delicateness and empathy that it requires. I hope you write thank you notes even for the most simple of gifts, and I hope you mean every word you say or write. It will make it so much easier to get back up when you fall, and to repair any wrongs you may make. And, as a bonus, you will never have to *try* to make anyone like you. They will already love you for being so warm and honest and sincere. Just like her.

Happy three months, from your mother, and from all your family. We love you to the moon and back.

Love,
Mama

Dear Sadie

Dearest one,

There is something you should know about your mama (in the off chance it hasn't already occurred to you over the last two months): I am a procrastinator. I thought my incredible, awe-inspiring love for you would overcome any and all weaknesses in me, but alas, here we are -- only two months into this "open letter" writing business -- and already I am late.

But! But! I have an excuse. (And I always will.) I had started to write this long explanation-slash-apology letter about your name, but a conversation with your pediatrician changed my mind and I had to go about re-writing the entire thing. Actually, it wasn't even your pediatrician. He was a sub for the pediatrician I wanted you to see for your two month appointment.

He is an older gentleman with silver hair, probably in his 60s, with a kind face and wire rim glasses. I was pretty disappointed when they told me you'd be seeing him because Dr. Le-Jenkins was out for the day. Just last year, he was one of the handful of doctors who had just shrugged his shoulders when your older brother was going through all his tummy troubles as an infant. That shoulder shrug was still vivid in my memory, and I was prepared to be annoyed during your whole appointment, but instead he came bursting into the room with a huge smile, exclaiming, "Sadie Love! What a name! I just love that name!"

And he meant it. If it hadn't been for the way he had shrugged his shoulders during Carter's appointment, I would have thought he was just another one of those over-enthusiastic pediatricians who tries to butter up the anxious mothers -- but I know he's not. He's actually pretty dismissive of mothers as a whole. I've listened to him through the thin walls of the appointment rooms talk to other women, and I can hear his tired voice and imagine his shoulders shrugging as he listens to yet another mother ramble on about yet another infant who won't sleep more than two hours at a stretch.

But my, oh my. If he hadn't already loved your name, he would have loved you after the first five minutes of your appointment. There you were, smiling away in your pink diaper and wiggling all 12 pounds and seven ounces around on the table as he told me again how much he liked your name. And as you cooed and flirted, I realized you really are the perfect embodiment of a Sadie Love. So happy. So beautiful. But, but...

"Well, I actually worry about it a bit," I confessed to him.
"Why is that?"
"Well, I had always planned on naming her Sadie Love. It's a name that I sort of dreamed up while I was still in high school -- before I had met my husband."
"So?"
"Well, then I met my husband. And his last name is Lee..."
"So?"
"And so her name is Sadie Love Lee. You get it? 'Lovely.' It seems like I did it on purpose...like I was trying to be corny."
"But that's the best part."
"Oh, no. It's too much."
"No, no. It's perfect. It's why you met your husband."
"Huh?"
"Otherwise she would have just been Sadie Love Smith. That's not so perfect."

And he is right. Someday, I will take you to the basement of your grandparent's house and open up a big tupperware container of my high school mementos. And I will show you a few notebooks filled with high school biology and calculus, where your name is doodled at the bottom of list after list of names for my future children. Jackson Miles never happened, and neither did Benjamine Graeme. There are at least eight or nine different names for boys. But there is only one daughter.

I have known about you since I was 15 years old, Sadie. I have dreamed about you and talked to you. I have never doubted for a second that you would be Sadie Love.

Until my wedding day, when I realized your name would create that "lovely" wordplay. And then I worried and was anxious about how you might feel about it -- how people might talk about it, but I thought I would have several boys and time to think it over before you came.

Then you were born, and you were a girl, and my mind was spinning. I told the nurses all about the name I had held on to for over ten years and asked them what they thought about it. If it would be "too much" considering your last name.

And while I was hemming and hawing about it and asking the nurses if perhaps you'd be a better "Matilda" or "Nora," your father was texting everyone he knew:

"She's here. Sadie Love Lee. 9 lbs and 1 oz."

Dr. Rathke is right. And your father knew it when he ignored my fretting and started telling everyone all about you: Sadie Love Lee. It is not too much. It is not "too bad" that our last name is Lee. It is romantic, it is poetic. It is perfect. And so are you.

Love,
Mama