Separation Nightmare

I was in a deep sleep last night when I heard Auden cry out. The house was dark. Aida and Auden had gone to sleep hours before and I'd probably been in a slumber for about an hour.

I padded down the hallway to Auden's room, his inconsolable cries drawing me toward him. I picked him up, rocked him in the rocking chair, sang to him until he was calm. I rose from the rocker, his head on my shoulder, and lowered him into his crib again.

As soon as my hands no longer held him, he resumed his cry.

Bed. I needed bed.

"Mommy sleep," he said, his plea to me to stay in the room and lie down so that he can fall asleep while I am still in the room.

Exhausted and not up for a fight to try to keep him in the crib, I did as he requested. I crawled into the daybed near his bed. He quieted. I fell asleep.

This dream: I woke, walked into the hallway, gathered my cell phone and charger from the floor and then walked down the dark hall to Aida's room to discover horror. Her bedroom had been ransacked, her bed overturned, her windows flung open.

I tried to scream, to call out for her. But it was a dream, so my voice didn't sound.

I tried again. This is your daughter, I remember thinking, you have to scream. Try harder.

"AIDAAAA!" I finally shouted. The alarm of my daughter's name blasting from my own throat jolted me awake.

The room was quiet for a moment while I quickly processed that this had not actually happened.

Auden, 2, spoke up through the dark.

"Aida asleep in her room," he said. "Aida asleep in her own bed."

My guy

I first met Steve 20 years ago this fall. He was a Jeep-driving, motorcycle-riding, environmental reporter who sat on the other side of my newsroom cubicle wall and made me laugh like crazy. About a year later, we started dating. And a week after that, he moved away to cover the presidential primaries as a low-rent blogger before “blogger” was even a word. I liked him so much that I lent him my laptop. There was a lot of uncertainty then. And I’m not just talking about the “what the hell are you doing driving around the country following the presidential primaries” part. We were young, poor, interested in everything under the sun. We didn’t know what we wanted but we knew we liked each other. Since that time, we have seen three new presidents sworn into office. We’ve witnessed the start of two American wars and the “end” of one. We broke up and got back together, hopscotched across four states, got married, had two babies, bought a house and cycled through about seven (?) cars between us. We’ve navigated job changes and professional challenges, highs and lows. We’ve taken vacations and worked too much to take vacations. We’ve landed in this spot where our lives now are a blur of work and kids and too little sleep and the ongoing agony/delight that goes with living in my hometown. But here’s the thing: In those nearly two decades, Steve has never stopped being my favorite person to spend time with. He’s still my guy. I didn’t know back then that he would be a foot-rubbing birthing partner, a committed nightly dishwasher, a rigorous editor, a sweet father. I just knew I liked time spent with him. Happy birthday to my fella. Thanks for making me laugh for 20 years and thanks for making me proud out there in this nutso world.

Even Children Get Older

Tonight, Steve removed one of the crib's walls to convert it into a toddler bed.

At first, Auden, now 2 years and 1 month old, wasn't sure about this.

Steve was mid-bed-conversion when Auden and I entered Auden's room after bath time.

"Wat doin, Daddy? Wat doin?"

Steve and I explained to him that Daddy was making him a "Big Boy Bed."

Auden seemed optimistic. He repeated the words over and over.

"See Bih Boy Bed," he said, craning his neck over my shoulder as I attempted to slather him with lotion and wrestle a diaper on him. "Auh-deh Bih Boy Bed."

It was all so exciting that I ended up having to release him to the floor so that he could inspect Steve's work while I diapered and dressed him as he stood.

But something shifted.

When Steve finished his work and invited Auden to give his new Big Boy Bed a try, Auden plopped himself on the floor beside it and looked down at the rug sadly.

"Don't like it," he said.

"You want Daddy to lie down with you?" Steve asked.

"No."

"You want Mommy to lie down with you?"

"No," he said again, shaking his head.

"Maybe this is a job for a big sister," I said.

Aida was in the next room, taking her sweet time getting around to brushing her teeth because she's engrossed in a graphic memoir that her second-grade carpool friend introduced her to, a book called Smile. It's about a sixth-grader who trips while running and smashes her teeth out, which leads her through a long emotional journey to get her teeth repaired. (While it's a lovely book, the fact that my first-grader is reading about the trials of a sixth-grader is already making me think about how not ready I am for her to grow up.)

Still, Aida is always up for a chance to play in Auden's crib.

So, she put down her book, grabbed her blankie, cheerfully entered Auden's room and promptly laid her long body across his bed (which used to be her bed, which used to be her crib).

"Do you want me to read?" she asked.

"Aya read," he said, which means, of course, "Aida read."

He climbed in beside her and she tried to start reading. But they instead played around, adding a pillow, moving blankets, snuggling and kissing, before he decided he actually wanted mommy to read.

So while Aida lay across his bed, Auden and I sat in his rocker and read Puppies, Puppies, Puppies, a book that was given to us when Aida was a baby. Aida popped up at various moments to see the pictures and comment on them.

When the book ended, I thanked Aida. But I worried that things were getting a bit too exciting for Auden. It was already past his bedtime. "I think it's time for you to say goodnight to Auden now," I told the Big Sister.

Aida played around a bit. She protested a bit. Finally she was out.

With the door closed, Auden and I sat in his rocking chair and read two more books together. I placed the books back on the shelf and turned out the light. He turned his body to rest his head on my shoulder and we rocked and sang our lullabies, the ones we sing every night.

When we were done, he picked his head up, looked behind him toward his bed and pointed.

"Go bed," he said.

I gathered him up and laid him down on his new Big Boy Bed, his curly head resting uncomfortably on the pillow we'd added to his bed minutes earlier.

"Do you want a pillow or no pillow?" I asked, as he looked up at me uncertainly.

"No pi-yoh," he said.

I removed the pillow. Then I covered him with his blankets. I put his stuffed bunny beside him on one side and his stuffed puppy on the other. Just like every night.

"I love you," I said.

He stared up at me in silence, his brown eyes wide.

I walked out and shut the door behind me.

A few steps down the hall, I found Aida on her bed (which used to be my bed), reading her book, the one about a sixth-grader.

I picked up a few things off her floor as I readied myself to lie down next to her and read like we do every night. But as I did this, she said something I wasn't ready for.

"Mommy, I think I need to read to myself tonight," she said. "I think I need to read a whole big chapter book by myself before I go to the second grade and I think this is a good way to start."

"Oh. Ok," I said. Because I was not ready for this and I know I should be ok with this but my heart is breaking because reading with her is my favorite time of the day every day.

"Yeah," she said nodding, as if reassuring herself. "I think that would be a good idea."

"Ok," I said again looking at her there on her big girl bed with her big girl book and her stack of books beside her and her dolls in a cradle and her shelves lined with fairy figurines and snow globes and fairy wands and puppets and books and books and books.

"I will be back in 15 minutes, then, to turn out the light and pray with you," I said.

"Ok, Mommy."

And then I came here and I cried.

"Wha doin, Daddy?"

"Don't like it."

Used to be her bed.

Little Light of Mine

Friday, Dec. 8, 2017

I'm looking back at our family's picture files from the past year, trying to remind myself what has happened over these 12 months. They have have been a blur for so many reasons.

Tree decorating, Christmas 2017, 22 mo.

This video was taken Jan. 5, when our Christmas tree was still up and I was in the fresh stages of grief over my grandmother's unexpected death. Auden had started walking nine days before this, when we were on a beach in Belize, the day before Grandma died. He was a week shy of 11 months.

I know this is not a revelation, but it feels like one to me: The boy has grown and changed like crazy. We put our Christmas tree up again on Saturday. No longer the drunken walker, Auden helped pull ornaments from boxes and tried to hang them on the tree. His efforts mostly amounted to him to tossing them in between the branches, but I appreciated his attention nonetheless. He followed his sister's lead and took the decorating gig very seriously (though he refused to wear the Santa hat she kept putting on his now curly-haired head).

There have been points this year when the news just felt too dark to handle. But the light from this child and his sister -- it's just so bright. He's a snuggler, a joker, a runner, a climber. He carries his "bebe" doll around, feeds her, covers her in a blanket and kisses her goodnight. He loves to dance and climb, to swing from bars, to greet his sister in the mornings and to say goodbye to anyone (or anything) that is leaving. He is always talking about choo-choos and "AYE-uh!" He repeats all the conversations around him and is forever imitating us (the good and the bad) to the point of both hilarity and (our) shame.

So, yeah, it's been a crazy year. But, thanks be to God for the gift of this beautiful child, who has made me laugh and smile and experience crushing feelings of love a hundred times more often than I have felt panicked by the times.

My beautiful boy

The following was written at different times over the course of Auden's first year of life and was revised in the week of his first birthday. I have neglected writing about my life since moving back to New Orleans five years ago and I feel immense guilt for not writing - or completing my writings - about this amazing little boy who was born 22 months ago, changing our family in ways that I have yet to fully process (mostly because I am busy and tired). I adore this beautiful child completely. If I die before he can read the many words I plan to write about him, please tell him. 

February 2017

He entered the world with a head full of red hair.

I remember him crying a big cry as the midwife lifted his tiny, slippery body into my hands. His birth was explosive and quick. He arrived at 9:27 p.m., two hours after we'd left home for the hospital. No sooner had they rolled me into a delivery room in a wheelchair than I stood up, pushed one painful push and there he came, falling into the quick hands of my midwife and my husband.

Auden Flynn Myers, 6 lbs. 9 oz., 18.75 inches, was an adorable little guy with skinny legs, soft melon-colored sideburns reaching toward his cheeks and a cluster of white pimples just under the left side of his mouth. His hair was just light enough that we weren't at first willing to proclaim it as red, even as my best friend, Kathleen, insisted in the delivery room that, "That boy has red hair, people!" (She probably didn't say it that way at the time, but it's how we summarize her thoughts when we talk about it today.) The red so far has stayed, much to the delight of my Irish mother and her three sisters, all of whom have red hair and come from a long line of redheads. Each time I hold Auden, I find myself pressing my cheek against his soft, warm head, kissing his baby hair and stroking it with my face, my kiss, my chin, my hands. It's been a year this week, and still I have this urgency to feel his head against my cheek so that I don't forget how this feels.

His five- (now-six-) year-old sister, has been dancing in and out of his room, his face, his view since we first brought him home. Her constant motion, her volume and flare has served as a reminder how quickly he, too, would be speaking, singing, dancing, objecting.

Baby Auden wore a furrowed brow for much of the first two months of his life, at which point he started smiling and cooing when spoken to, melting my heart with each open-mouthed grin. He knew immediately where to find the milk and nursed with such skill for the first few months that he managed to climb up the charts from being in the 30th percentile for weight at birth to being in the 90th percentile, according to his two-month check-up: 14.1 lbs., 22.5 inches.

He spent his first two months sleeping on and with me, his arms sprawled across my chest, his legs tucked under him or splayed to either side of my belly. I loved being right there when he woke at night, feeding him and then falling straight back to sleep with him. Our naps together sometimes ended with a few strands of my hair wrapped around his sticky palms and fingers, the side of his face red and hot from where it was pressed against my chest and his hair moist from my body heat. By Easter, he learned to enjoy being swaddled and started learning to sleep on his own in his crib — a full room away from momma.

His eyes got larger and more expressive over time. Those first few weeks, he stared with wonderment and sometimes skepticism as his sister hung over his bouncy chair or grabbed his hand, speaking to him in a high-pitched voice, reminding him who she is. "I'm Aida! I'm your big sister," she would say, always laughing at whatever he does in response.

If he was skeptical, I didn't blame him. Our first three months together felt like they were haphazardly patched together with whatever last bits of scotch tape were on the roll. Steve was teaching on contract at Texas Christian University, so he felt the need to return to his duties there after being home for only the first 10 days of Auden's life. His weekly commute to Fort Worth meant Auden, Aida and I were on our own for three to four nights a week. Had it not been for my mother coming each night at bath and bedtime, I cannot envision how it would have played out. Aida needed my attention. Auden needed my attention. It felt like neither were getting everything they needed and I felt exhausted and inadequate with the gnawing sense of guilt that both children were suffering because of it.

Before I became a mother, I always thought I wanted several children. But after having Aida, the reality of parenthood left me wondering how exactly I could pull off mothering even one more. With Aida, I was all in, pouring nearly all of my attention into her and her development. I would regularly interview new mothers of two -- often strangers, even -- about about the experience of going from one to two kids. Sometimes, I got the big shoulder shrug: "You just do it." It still sounded hard. It was hard to see how I could squeeze in a second being who would require the same amount of devotion, attention and love. Yet, my irrational desire for a second baby grew over time from a low "what if" flame to a raging "gotta get pregnant" fire. I'm not sure Steve understood how badly was I longing for a baby. And I don't think he fully understood my grief over the prospect that it might not come to pass. I wasn't sure I would be able to conceive. I'm over 40. Steve was traveling. Life was already exhausting. Every monthly period felt like a reason to mourn.

But then it happened.

Auden. My sweet, sweet boy.