motherhood

  • |

    Babies Don’t Keep

    ByHeather Bailey

    My giveaway plans were derailed today by a very important little person and his very own 2nd birthday. Little Evan
    is two years old today! When I giddily plucked him from his crib this
    morning, we snuggled up on Charlotte's bed while I sang him a Happy
    Birthday song. At the end of every phrase, Evan chimed in with "cake!" 

    Happy Birthday to you…cake!…Happy Birthday to you…cake!… Happy Birthday dear Evan…cake!…Happy Birthday to you…cake!

    He knows what's important.

    EvanCake_2yearsold_470bT

    It took us till eveningtime to finally make good on the promise of
    cake with a small family birthday party. Boisterous cousins followed
    Evan about, patting his head and picking him up in turn. By the time
    cake was served, Evan couldn't care less about the stir of children
    throughout our home. Cake, at last—what a birthday is all about.

    I wanted to write Evan a little love note today to enumerate his
    sweet particularities at this age, count the many ways in which I love
    him. But, Sundays are my busiest days—even without a birthday to
    celebrate. As such, the love note didn't happen. And today's giveaway
    post didn't happen either. When it came down to it, I had to choose
    between photographing and writing a giveaway post and giving my little
    son his birthday dues—time, attention and cake. I chose the baby.

    I could prep and post today's giveaway
    now, but it's getting too late in the night to do our awesome Day 25
    prize justice. Instead, I'm going to go for a double header tomorrow and
    put up two separate giveaways in two separate posts. Hang tight and
    watch for those tomorrow. I'll make sure the deadlines are generous so
    you won't miss your chance.

    Happy, Happy Birthday to my darling boy. From our early morning
    cake-song to my late-night blog update, today, I'm reminded of this
    lovely poem by Ruth Hulbert Hamilton—though it could use a new stanza about the internet, the computer and the smart phone:

    Song for a Fifth Child

    Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,
    Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
    Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
    Sew on a button and make up a bed.
    Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
    She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

    Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
    (Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
    Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
    (Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
    The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
    And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
    But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
    Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
    (Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

    The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
    For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
    So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
    I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

  • Sixteen?

    ByHeather Bailey

    I was that girl who carried a doll baby with her everywhere she went.
    And not by the hair or the hem of her skirt, but gently, sweetly wrapped
    in a blanket, safe and warm.

    1997_BaileyFamily

    One of the earliest photos of me, as a
    toddler, shows me clutching my Raggedy Ann doll. My eyes are teared up
    and I'm miserable because my mom tried to take Raggedy away for the
    photo. She finally relented and gave her back. The teary-eyed portrait
    is the best image they got that day, capturing much more than my child's
    face, but a glimpse of my spirit as well.

    These are the same heart-strings that are being plucked today. My
    first real baby, my son Elijah turned 16 yesterday. He's 6'3" and
    growing. Tall and slender, with a deep voice and sprouting stubble, he
    is hardly recognizeable in form from the soft, cheeky baby you see here.
    But, like me, he is the same person underneath. Just like he was as a baby, he is kind-hearted, cuddly,
    intelligent beyond belief, and so, so good to his mom.

    1997_Elijah

    In those early years, Elijah was my daily companion and at times my
    only friend. The silver lining to a very hard period of my life is the
    closeness we developed as mother and son. I have such a mushy, saggy
    soft spot for him in the middle of my chest. It gets deeper and
    squooshier as the years pass. And it hurts sometimes. How is it that my
    little angel-faced baby is now housed in the framework of a man? It's a
    puzzle that has confounded mothers for centuries. I'm not the first.

    Elijah_16_SilhThe
    hope is that I'll know Elijah much longer as a man than I knew him as a
    boy. With this math on my side, perhaps the puzzle will resolve itself.
    Or maybe this is why we have memory loss in our old age—to ease the
    pains of distant memories.

    Today, my heart hurts. I know things are no different from yesterday.
    And I have nothing but gratitude for this forward-rolling life we've
    been given. I hang my heart on Elijah's daily hugs, his love for family
    activities, his lack of embarrassment over his old mom, and his wish to
    live near us as an adult. Unlike so many teenagers, he's in no hurry to
    leave us behind. This gives me clearance to teach him to fly, as I know
    he'll return safely and willingly—if more infrequently as the years
    pass. My eyes might be a bit redder for the experience, but success as a
    mom is a happy, healthy, functional child—who also still likes you
    somehow in the end.

    He is a good, good kid. I am grateful to be his mom.