Our third wedding anniversary is coming up, a week from today. A wonderful day, an occasion to celebrate. We probably won’t. What to do, where to go. Who to leave Dylan with. Money. Too many variables to consider. We’ll be together, at home, our comfortable place. It is number three. There will be so many more, as long as we respect the light, feed it, stoke it. As long as we remember we have this comfortable place to always come back to. I will cook, something special, at home. It’s where we belong right now, you know?

I will focus all my might on number three. Because next week also brings number two. Two years of being a fatherless daughter. Two years of missing the man who I need, still. Two years since the illness, two years since the sickness, two years since goodbye. The first year was numb. This year I have felt every bump. The novocaine is gone in year two. The pain is not. It is still dark in that space, the place he used to inhabit. All the light in my life couldn’t fill that empty space.

I have written his story a million times in my head, the story of the end. I’m writing it right now, always adding, always remembering. Maybe this year I will put it down. Maybe this year I will share it, for others. For myself. Next week I will try to write it out loud. Maybe it will be enough novocaine to get me to number three. And then maybe I will write it again.

-linking up with Just Write

I hear the unmistakable “thump” of girl hitting floor, and then a split second later, the wail. I dry my hands and hurry to her, ready to snuggle and soothe and kiss her bumps to make it all better, the magical healing power of mommy. She sits, waiting, her beautiful brown eyes pooled with tears and expectation and just a glimmer of mischief. The thump wasn’t so bad, the bump, imaginary. She does this sometimes, tests me, to see how fast I will come, how many kisses I will give, how long I will rub her back to quiet her hiccuping sobs. When it’s a real thump, she comes looking for me.

Sitting on the floor, rubbing the barely bump, I think about how easy it is now, to make her feel better. A few tears shed, a bruise, the occasional busted lip from her feet not being able to keep up with her heart. Even when we scold her, and the corners of her mouth turn down and her bottom lip starts to quiver, all it takes is a hug, some kisses, reassurances that we love her, love her, love her, and all is forgotten. Truthfully, this is one of my favorite things about being a mom: the ability to make her feel better, to take away her pain, to make her feel safe. To turn her pain into laughter. Mommy magic.

I don’t want to think ahead to when my magic no longer works. I don’t want to know that one day, my baby will hurt and be sad and feel pain that I cannot take away. I don’t want to accept that one day, she won’t be my baby. At some point, it will take more than a tickle and kiss to make the tears stop. I dread that day.

So, until then, I will kiss every bump. I will hurry to her when she cries, rub her back, wipe away her tears, and I will ignore the smile that plays on her lips when she calls for me. When she calls out for mommy to come and give her some magic, even when she doesn’t need it. I’m hoping, in the way that moms do when we know better but don’t want to know better, that all the times I kiss imaginary ouchies and put band aids on invisible boo boos will add to some kind of magic bank. And when the time comes that I’m not able to make her hurt go away, she can dip into it, and use it to soothe herself, to dry her own tears and heal her own pain. And one day, she’ll use some of that magic on her own baby. Until she figures out how to make her own. I hope.

linking up with Heather of the EO and Just Write

There is no progress report. No test or score or grade. Everyday, I fumble and guess my way through, hoping that the choices and decisions and moves I make are the right ones. The good ones. The best ones I can muster. And every night, as I lay in bed releasing the breath I’ve been holding since morning, I pray that today, I was enough.

How can I measure myself as her mother? She speaks, her own language, the beautiful babbled nonsense of the toddling, but her words don’t quiet the voice. The whisper, ever so slight, ever present, doubting. Will the voice ever stop? The first month, it was deafening, buzzing, maddening. With each passing month, my growing confidence drowned out the voice. I stopped worrying about right, and focused on best. For her. And we did it, he and her and I.

I’ve made a list, of the ways I measure myself. She laughs, freely and with pure abandon, more than she cries; she smiles, her lovely face-covering smile, even in her sleep; she asks for hugs and to hold my hand, even if we’re just sitting on the floor reading a book; when I hold her close, she whispers in my ear, “mama, mama”, her breath sweet on my cheek. When I find myself listening too closely to the voice, I look at her, and her eyes tell me all I need to know. Her hands, holding tightly to mine, her laugh ringing through the house, her beautiful babbling nonsense: she tells me all I need to know.

I am her mother. I am imperfect, but this she does not know. I am scared, but she can’t see it. She can’t hear the voice. She can only hear me. And that is enough. I am enough.

Of this, I am confident.

-linking up with Heather of the EO and Just Write

We were Two once, what seems like so long ago. Watching you over the table during dinner tonight, talking to our Three, I remember being Two. Two was simple. Two was exciting, in a way that Three is not. Three is better, but Two was…I miss Two sometimes.

I forget sometimes that we became Three by being Two, enjoying our Twoness. Do all parents stop being a couple for a time? When does the balance come back? It’s comfortable, all the time, too much of the time. When you know what the other is thinking, you stop asking. It seems like our best is spent when she drifts off to sleep, so there is nothing to give to each other. Fumes. How long can we cruise on fumes?

I still get flutters, when I look at you, catch you looking at me. I picked right. You picked right. But sometimes I need to remember that. And it’s hard. She is all, everything, us. What are we, anymore, without her? Strangers, at times. The most familiar, comfortable, intimate strangers. I miss you, in the same house. In the same room. In the same bed. I miss you. I miss Two.

But a touch. A look. A smile exchanged over sweet baby bed head. We remember, you and I. We could never forget, really. We were Two, once. And still are. And will always be. Three is better, Three is her, but Two is us. You and me. Three is perfect, but we need the Two. Especially if we ever want to be Four.

linking up with Heather of the EO and Just Write

Well, this is it. The last day of November, the end of National Blog Posting Month. I’m so, so glad it’s over.

I’m glad I did it. I’m PROUD of myself for doing it. There was no one to push me, no one demanding I get my posts in each and everyday. I pushed myself. I demanded it of MYSELF. I’d never done NaBloPoMo before (and may not do it again, at least while I have a little running around), I wasn’t sure what to expect, how quickly the novelty would wear off, how much of a chore it would feel like some days. But I was determined to finish. I won’t win anything, I don’t get a ribbon or trophy or certificate with my name on it. I got some new readers, and I found some amazing new writers to follow and fawn over. And that’s enough for me.

Today, as I was thinking about what to write in my last NaBloPoMo post, I went back and read some of the posts I’ve written over the last 30 days. Some were good, a few were not (these tended to fall on Saturdays, or went up very late at night, almost as an afterthought). I’m really proud of them, the good and the bad, because they are mine. They’re my words, my thoughts, in some cases, my heart. No one can take that from me. Everyday for 30 days, I sat here, in mostly the same spot on my comfy couch, and I put my words down. I was grateful when someone read them, and even if no one read them. I was grateful simply for the ability and the opportunity to do so.

I won’t be continuing this pace of posting daily here, but I will be posting more frequently. Writing everyday has only reignited my love for it, and I look forward to sharing more of our journey, of our story, of my life. It’s a pretty good gig.

I get to write about her everyday, if I want. Pretty good gig, indeed.

Let’s start things off on a gross foot, shall we?

Marc’s Movember Growth Chart:

(Week One)

(And, here we are in Week Two)

As you can see, his beard/moustache combo is coming along…nicely? I find it so bizarre that he can grow facial hair at such a high rate of speed, and so lushly. I mean, there’s still, what, 3 weeks left in Movember? He’s gonna be a full-on mountain man by the time this is over. Throw a beanie and a red flannel shirt on this kid, and he’d make some guy a really nice Bear. Anyone looking? (I’d have to run it by his girlfriend, so no promises.)

In other news, I started my Couch-2-5k this week, and I have to say, I’m really enjoying it! Ok, maybe *enjoying* isn’t the right word. Waking up at 6am three days a week isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, and waking up that early to RUN is even less fun. But the running, not so bad. The first day was rough, but the second and third days were much better. I feel great afterwards, and find that on the days I wake up early and run, I have so much more energy. That it, until about 8 o’clock, at which point toothpicks in my eyelids can’t keep me awake. I’m normally a night person, so this “going to bed early” thing is new, but not entirely unpleasant. All in all, first week, I’m calling success! Next week I amp up the running and cut down on the walking, so we’ll see how I feel next Friday. But I’m optimistic!

Finally, has everyone started planning their Thanksgiving? We’re hosting this year, which we’ve never done, but it’s only 6 people, which includes us and the kid, so I’m not too worried. The cooking itself will be pretty simple, I’m making dishes I’ve made many, many times before. I’m not even freaked out about the turkey, although I think we’ll buy fresh this year, to save the thawing time and stress. What’s got me a little crazed is the logistics of the prep and cooking and everything on one day, in one kitchen. I’m not quite sure how my one oven is gonna quadruple in size before then. I’ve got to sit down in the next few days and decide what can be made the day before, or at the very least, what prep and mise en place can be done beforehand. I love Thanksgiving, I can’t wait. I’ll do a recipe rundown next week, let you know what will be chowed down on at our house!

I’ve got the sweetest story about Dylan and her current favorite song (hint: apparently you can’t be too young to catch the fever!), I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Almost 12 days in, and I haven’t missed a day of NaBloPoMo! Gotta be honest, I’m a little shocked mahself. I think Tom is secretly glad I’m doing this, since if I’m writing all this nonsense down, I’m not talking his ear off about it! Maybe I should just start reading him my blog posts out loud, so he doesn’t miss out. That sounds like the wifely thing to do, right?

Today went by too fast. Everyday, too fast. She flies by, a blur of laughter and shrieks and words that are words and words that aren’t quite words. This morning, she woke up, same way she always does, but she had a secret: she was different today, smarter, more knowing. She waited until we’d had breakfast, to share her secret with me. Pointing at me, saying “Mama”. Pointing at herself, no longer “me”, but “Dyn”. Dylan. She said her name. Dyn. Her version of the name we gave her. Dyn. Dylan. Everyday is too fast, she’s growing up too fast. I’ve only had her for 15 months, she’s only been here for 15 months, and already, I’m trying to catch up, hold on, slow her down. Will it always be this fast? Will I always be watching her back retreating as she gets farther and farther away from being my baby?

I wonder what secret she’ll share with me tomorrow. I do not want to know. But I cannot wait to find out. It goes too fast.

(This post was written as part of Just Write, a weekly writing exercise started by Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary. Sometimes, we need to slow down, and Just Write.)

–So, if you saw my Facebook or Twitter posts earlier, you’ll remember that I decided (perhaps foolishly) to participate in something called National Blog Posting Month, or NaBloPoMo for short. For the month of November, bloggers from around the country (possibly world, idk) have committed to post on their personal blogs every day. EVERY SINGLE DAY. And I, for some inane reason, threw my hat in the ring. So, you’ll be hearing a lot from me lately. I can’t promise they’ll all be gems, but I will try to at least make you smile out of half your mouth, or make your eyes water, even if no tears actually fall.

–One thing you’ll be hearing a lot about, since I’ll be blogging EVERY SINGLE DAY of the month of November? The fact that I have lost my mind. To whit: for some reason I still haven’t quite figured out, I have *tentatively* decided that I would like to run a half marathon. Not a full marathon, I’m not fucking suicidal you guys. But I want to run SOMETHING. Which is odd to me, because for as long as I can remember, I hate to run. HATE. TO. RUN. I find it incredibly annoying and pointless. So it makes total sense that I now have this rather strong urge to start doing it. *sigh* So, on Monday, I will start this training program I found online, in the hopes that I will be able to whip my own ass into shape. The half marathon I have my eye on isn’t for a year, but I’m hoping to do a few 5k’s until then, for practice. And, since I will be posting EVERY SINGLE DAY for the next month, you all will have a front row seat for all the expletives and obscenities I’m sure to shout at myself for ever in a million years thinking this would be a good idea. Enjoy!

(Just real quick though: once I start something, I have a weird compulsive need to 1. finish, and 2. be good at it, so I won’t quit. But there will be curse words, oh yes, there will be curse words).

–In Dylan news, when we were trick or treating with my sister and her kids on Halloween, my nieces (twins, 6, precocious as fuck) kept asking me when Dylan would say their names. See, they adore me, I am their favorite person, so they adore Dylan since I begat (Bible word FTW!) her. And their names, uttered by the perfect, sweet little lips of their favorite little person, well, that would be aces. So, as they’re asking me, Dylan points as Natalya (Nana) and says, “Nana”. Just like that. And then did it over and over. Nana was so excited, I could probably get her to agree to babysit my children until she’s 30. I told Jovie (Jojo), not wanting her to feel left out, that I would work with D everyday to get her to say her name too. Towards the end of the night, I’m walking with my nephew Elias (10, sooooooo suave), telling him that his name is too hard, he’ll have to settle for something easier like “Him” for a few years, when Dylan says, out of nowhere, “Jojo”. Both girls run over, she points to Nana and says her name, then points to Jojo and says hers. Now, keep in mind, most adults have a difficult time telling them apart (including Tom), yet Dylan could not only tell them apart, but could put the correct name to the girl. We’re looking into colleges as we speak.

Ok, that is all. Meet me here, tomorrow, same time, same place. I’ll come up with something to write before then, I’m sure. If I don’t, you’ll be seeing a lot of pictures of the kid. Which you would probably rather see anyway.