Wednesday, October 30, 2013

seven years.


Greg and I celebrated our 7th Anniversary on the 28th of September.

Usually we plan our Anniversary together, just choosing somewhere great to go to dinner, but Greg surprised me this year with a weekend in Park City. He arranged the hotel and babysitter in advance and had the hardest time keeping it a secret. He ended up telling me a few days before and I loved that he couldn't wait.

Saturday morning we drove our kids up to the cabin and dropped them off with Geir & Margaret and then headed down to Park City. We went to the outlets to shop and have lunch and then headed to our hotel. We stayed at the Park City Hotel, which was so nice and had the most beautiful views of the mountains from our hotel room. That night Greg took me to dinner at Ruth's Chris (my first time), where I about died over the deliciousness of my roasted chicken and mashed potatoes (OH MY GOSH) and then we saw a late night movie together. The next morning we slept and slept and slept (heavenly), had a long brunch, and then went to get our kids, which I had just begun to miss.

It was the perfect way to celebrate our 7th anniversary and we had a wonderful time away from reality for a little while. I'm so glad to be married to my Gregory John. I love that he is excited to spend time alone with me and is thoughtful enough to plan a little getaway to make it happen. It truly meant so much to me.

This past year, our 7th year of marriage, has been our hardest year, by far. No one could argue that having newborn twins and a toddler diagnosed with Autism in a year would be difficult. At times, this year has been desperately stressful. But, it has also been such a beautiful year, for so many reasons. I cannot talk about the way that Greg has loved and supported me this year without tears coming to my eyes. Truly, every time I think of it, I cry. When I think back on this year, I know I will remember his strength first. All the nights (countless, endless nights) he spent holding me and comforting me, talking me through my fear and pulling me out of the darkness and back into the light. I survived Evie's diagnosis because of him. I got through it because I had him by my side. Greg has such a strength and a quiet confidence about him that fills me with peace and comfort, when nothing else can. He has always been the calm to my crazy. We have weathered some serious storms in our 7 years, and we've come out on top. How I love this man, our perfect little children, and the beautifully flawed and happy life we have made together.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

tonight you are 11 months old.

written on 10.8.13
Dearest Will and Nora,

There are moments these days, in the middle of the night, when the world is blue and fuzzy, when one of you inevitably wakes up. There is the heart racing swiftly to the sound of your cries, the eyes shutting tighter, the body turning hesitantly toward the moon, when I do not want to lift my weary legs up, or out, to meet you.

But, I do.

There are moments when I come to you. To you, my Nora. Or to you, my Will. And lift your warm body from the bed, place your blankie under my neck, on my chest, and your head falls against me, softly.

We sway.

There are moments, in this silent hour, this 2am, when I can feel all the world shift slightly to make room for us there. Me, your mother, and you, my baby. We rock peacefully to the beat of our lullaby. And it is in these moments, I find myself resting, finally. Breathing, steadily, in and out. Feeling your heart pulse against mine, stroking your soft, blonde hair. It is in these moments that I find my serenity.

There are moments when it feels as if all the worry the world holds lives right inside me, on my chest, on top of my lungs. At times I feel as if I weigh 1,000 pounds. My body, like lead, moves slowly, heavily, through the motions of caring for all of you. You, up the stairs and back down again. And me, exhausted, depleted, reaching out for something to grab on to.

And then one of you looks at me, a beaming, bright smile. Drool, like honey, falling from your rosebud lips. You, crawling towards me, falling on me, pulling yourselves up and into my lap, to find your place here, on top of me.
And I am weightless once again.

Today you find yourselves, 11 months old.

And I should be writing about you, my darlings. About you standing up on strong little legs, and then plopping down softly, a hesitant landing. About the waving and clapping and the signing of "more". You, pointing to the picture of the tractor in the book, looking up at me with eyes of wonder. Watching my lips form words, "ba ba ba?" you say. "Ba ba BALL" is my response. You, eating everything, banging your hands up and down on the highchair for more. You, giggling from the crib in footie pajamas as your big sister circles the room like a hummingbird. You, watching her intently, and you laugh, as she dances for you. And you laugh, because you love her.

I should be writing about you, my babies. But I can't tonight, for tonight I only have the words to say what you have done for me. You, my miracles. You, who came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, into the world. I wasn't looking for you, or praying for you, or asking for you, and I didn't know how desperately I would need you. But, He did.

I hold you there, at 2am, in the silence of the love that settles around us.

And you hold me.
Hold me up, hold me together, hold me on, until all I feel is the goodness of this life we share together. Until all I can see are your eyes falling quietly toward the earth, your body relaxing under the weight of my arms, your fingers grasping softly.

I know I am where I belong. And I know you are where you belong. And Evie is where she belongs, sleeping peacefully down the hallway. And the sun will rise tomorrow and we will struggle, and try, and make our way through another day.

We will hold each other as we go along.