An Elephant for Dada

Dear Chris:

Ember brought me one of her stuffed animals today. She said she always wanted to give it to you, because it’s an elephant and you love elephants, but now she can’t give it to you.

I told her we could still give it to you, and we put it in the special box we got where we put photos of you and other things that remind us of you.

So your daughter gave you an elephant today. I just wanted you to know.

Love,

Dvora

The New Normal

It’s been a long time since I’ve written here. For a reason. Life has happened, and death has happened, and change has happened. Big change. It almost feels like my blog was the “before” and now I’m standing here in the “after.”

We are now a family of four. I am a single mom of three young children who lost their father to depression and an inability to cope with certain realities. I am a widow, grieving the loss of her husband but also acknowledging that I never really knew him fully. He didn’t let me. I spent ten years wondering why I wasn’t making my husband happy, and ten years wondering what was wrong with me, and how I could make things better for him and for us. Then I stopped trying, because trying was too much. And then he killed himself.

So now it is me and the kids, and our story is very different but also very much the same. Our daily routine is hardly changed. I do what I used to do. Get up. Get the kids fed and dressed and lunches packed while pouring 24 ounces of coffee down my throat as quickly as possible. In the afternoons I pick them up and feed them like a short order cook and bathe them and make sure their homework is done and get them in pajamas and talk to them about their days and sit with them while they fall asleep in their beds. It’s a steady stream of busy-ness, but it’s ok. I am now EVERYTHING for the kids. I am the bread winner, and the cook, and the cuddler, and the handyman, and the rule-maker, and the joke teller, and the bill payer, and the listener, and the mediator... I’m EVERYTHING. And that’s ok too, it is just different, and it has taken me six months to embrace this new normal.  It’s only sometimes overwhelming.

What is more overwhelming is knowing that by no fault of their own, my children lost someone who they depended on being there for them for a long long time. What is more overwhelming is that the children’s memories of their father are already fading. When I asked Ember about what she remembers about Chris just the other night, she said she only remembered a few things, and that it seems to her like daddy was maybe all a dream. When Oren had to talk about family in his class the other day, he said family is that his dad died. 

What is astonishing in all this is that the kids are doing incredibly well. They are thriving at school, they are not developing nervous habits or acting out in any unusual ways, and they are really just happy kids, laughing and playing and adjusting so beautifully to our new life. I learn from them every day. I observe them, and their ability to accept change, and their ability to continue to be themselves, and I aim for that same thing. I care for them, and they teach me.

This is our new life. It is me and my three children: my sun, my moon, and my stars.

Teaching My Son to Not Be Like the New President

Yesterday, as I drove Oren and Erez to daycare, I had NPR on the radio. I don’t often listen to the news on the daycare commute because I am nervous about the kids picking up on bits and pieces of information that might not be age appropriate, but with everything going on – Trump’s first press conference, the leaked dossier, etc., I was overly curious about what was going on in the news.

Of course, the words “President-Elect Trump” were spoken on the radio within seconds of my turning it on. And Oren, ever the curious child, asked me when Trump was going to become the president. When I told him Trump would be president within the next few weeks, Oren looked thoughtfully out the window. Then he looked at me and smiled.

“Trump says girls are PIGS!!” he said, and started laughing.

I hadn’t told Oren that Trump had called a woman a pig. He had heard it from a girl in his preschool class back in September, when the campaigns were heating up. From that point on, whenever he has heard Trump’s name, he has the same reaction: Trump says girls are PIGS!

And I have had to have the same conversation with him. Over and over and over again.

“Oren,” I say, “It was absolutely wrong of Mr. Trump to call a girl a pig. That is name calling, and it hurts people’s feelings.”

Oren looked at me. He GETS it, but he still doesn’t seem to REALLY get it. He’s four years old. To him, saying the words “poopy” and “fart” is REALLY funny. He thinks calling people animal names is funny, too. He doesn’t understand that the word “pig” and “cow” are used to degrade a person and make them feel fat and shameful.

 “Oren,” I continue, “There are some words that SEEM funny, but they aren’t funny, and people use them to hurt other people’s feelings. If someone called ME a pig, I would be really sad. Would you want someone to call Mommy a name that would make me sad?”

Oren shook his head.

“Sometimes, even important people can behave badly, and can do mean things. Even the president.”

And that is the end of the conversation. For a while. Until the next time Trump’s name is mentioned and Oren remembers that Trump said girls are pigs.

Unfortunately, this is a conversation I think I am going to be repeating many, many times in many different ways over the next four years. I think about Oren evolving from a four year old preschooler into an 8 year old grade school boy all in the era of Trump, and it scares me. As his awareness of the world around him grows, and he is more mindful of news and politics and our country, I know I am going to have to continue to run interference between our president’s words and my son’s interpretations of those words. I am going to have to have to continue to explain that our chosen leader doesn’t always say nice things, doesn’t always treat people with respect, and doesn’t always lead by example.

As we ready ourselves for the inauguration next week, I find myself filled with concerns I never imagined myself having. How am I going to teach my children to respect others, show kindness to their peers, to speak with empathy, and to exhibit restraint and care, when their president is unable to do so?

My Happiest Baby is the One I Have Had the Least to Do With

When Erez was born back in February, I was a little worried. After the relatively relaxed and blissful week long stay in the hospital, we transitioned home, and he almost immediately started exhibiting colicky behaviors. He would cry for hours on end and there was little I could do to console him. I would walk/bounce him around the house, make soft shush-shush noises in his ears, give him gripe water, gas drops, and whatever else I could find that would possibly offer my boy a little solace.

As it turns out, it was a formula issue. I felt guilty enough for not breast-feeding my baby boy, having breastfed my other two kids. Knowing that formula was giving him serious issues and discomfort KILLED me. Figuring out which formula worked for Erez quickly became my number one priority.

And I DID find a formula that worked for him. Once we made the switch, it was only a matter of two or three days before my unhappy newborn transformed into a happy baby. Since then, Erez has become our HAPPIEST baby. His resting face is “smiley face”. He is always giggling and cooing, and on the rare occasion when he DOES cry, it is always for a very valid reason.

I should be thrilled, right? I mean, my baby boy is AMAZING. He is the kind of baby parents dream of having. He is the Gerber baby, only happier. He seriously has a personality that inspires me, and he is only six months old.

So what’s my issue?

My happiest baby is the one I have had the LEAST to do with.

I went back to work exactly 8 weeks after Erez was born. I felt like I had to. I liked my job, and I didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to have to go through a whole new job search to find a job I liked LESS.

So, as a full-time working mom, I see Erez briefly in the mornings and in the evenings, and get to spend a good amount of time with him on the weekends. I cuddle with him in my bed at night. But that is it.

With my first born, my eldest, I worked only part time and pretty much attached her to my hip for the first year of her life. I wore her in slings, held her incessantly, breastfed her on demand. With my second son, I took a year off from work so I could be with him ALWAYS.

It’s not that they were UNhappy babies. But they were not THIS happy. They were never as happy as Erez is, every single day of his life.

I know that babies are born with their own personalities and all, but this happiness situation has caused me to seriously question how much of an effect my attachment parenting had on my other two kids. Maybe it negatively impacted them? I am a huge advocate for breastfeeding, but did breastfeeding make my other kids LESS happy?

I know Erez loves me. He looks for me in a room, he reaches for my hair or my face, he smiles (of course!) from ear to ear when I pick him up at daycare in the afternoon. But I am not the center of Erez’s universe, the way I was for my other two. His life does not depend on me the way theirs did. I am not his food source, his transportation, and his constant playmate the way I was with the others.

Here’s the thing. Right now, I am at a place where I don’t WANT to be totally depended on. I kind of feel overwhelmed with momhood. I occasionally feel the urge to run away from all the responsibilities that come with being a mom. I have seriously been craving “me” time, and have been wanting to rediscover the part of me that is not a mommy, that has been pushed to the backburner over the last six years. So why, when I am craving more independence, do I still wish I was so much more important to my baby and so much more a factor of his happiness?

Like many people, I like to feel needed. I like to feel valued. I like to feel deeply loved. It makes me feel big and great and purposeful.

I truly hope I can experience those feelings with Erez. I hope I can learn to embrace his happiness, not as a sign of what I may have done wrong with my other kids, but what I have done right with all of them. I hope I can see it not as a result of me having less time to love him, but as a result of him feeling loved despite our limited time together. I hope I can take pride in his happiness, rather than using it to question my own value.

I hope I can feel all those things. I’m just not there yet.

Considering a third baby? Read this.

If you are even considering getting pregnant with a third child, it is important for you to know certain things.

Needless to say, I won't be the only one warning you about how your life will change once the third baby arrives. You will get many warnings about life with three kids, both warranted and unwarranted, from many different people. 

When you go to the bank in the third trimester of your third pregnancy, the bank teller will smile sweetly at you and ask you if you are expecting your first baby. When you smile back sheepishly and tell her that you are expecting your THiRD child, her expression will change. She will know the balance in your savings account, and she will suddenly be telling you with her eyes that you CANNOT afford a third child. 

She may be right.

When you and your family bravely go to Chuck E. Cheese one night for dinner during your thirty seventh week of pregnancy, the manager will specifically come over to you, corner you, and tell you with a very tired face that he too has three children. He will share with you that he is working seven jobs including this one, just so he can send his children to college. He will say that the third child changed EVERYTHING, and you will sense that he does not mean "change" in an amazing, exciting, revelatory way. 

He may be right.

Many many other people will warn you that you and your husband are about to be to be outnumbered, as if you and your children are at war with one another, and you are about to LOSE that war.

They may also be right. 

Listen. Having a baby, whether it be your first or your ninth, is always incredible. Babies are beautiful creatures. Everything they do, even the expressions they make when they are farting, is adorable. There is no denying the cuteness. But no matter how cute that baby is, the reality of life with three kids is pretty UN-cute.

For instance, your day is going to begin at 3:30 a.m. No, you are not suddenly going to become a morning news reporter. You probably chose not to pursue news reporting as a career because you specifically wanted to avoid having to wake up at 3:30 a.m. And yet... Your adorable baby will wake you up at 3:30 am, screaming for nourishment.  You will feed him, burp him, change his diaper, and rock him back to sleep. At 4:30 am, your middle child will wake up, completely convinced it is time for breakfast. You will show him the dark sky outside his bedroom window, tuck him back into bed, kiss him on the forehead, and tell him not to open his eyes for another three hours. By about 4:45, you will JUST be falling back to sleep when your oldest child will wake up, begging you to help her find her iPad so she can watch YouTube videos of things being made out of Play Doh. At 5:15, your middle child will wake up again, and will threaten to cry loud enough to wake the baby if you don't bring him downstairs for breakfast immediately. So you will bring him downstairs and you will feed him Cocoa Puffs.

Also, you are going to immediately brew a very BIG pot of coffee. You are going to drink 3/4 of the pot before 6 am.

Getting your family out the door of your home is going to take 27 days of planning. You will need maps, strategies, back-up plans, emergency contacts, and a member of the military to make it happen. Your eldest child will somehow forget to wear socks or shoes. Your middle child will wear all of his clothes backwards, will take fifty seven hours to decide what he wants to bring to school for show and tell, and will suddenly want to talk to you about every rock in your front yard before he gets into the mini van. Your baby will hate his car seat so much and will cry so hard it will make him spit up all over his onesie and blanket, so you will have to change him, and then you will get him back into his car seat just in time for him to poop in his diaper.

You will have exactly thirty four seconds to get your own body ready to leave the house in the morning. Your self-maintenance routine will have to be uber efficient, and will need to be able to be completed during the time you are idling in your mini van at a red light or stop sign. You will keep your deodorant and your eyeliner in your pocketbook and you will not care that the man in the car next to you is staring at you as you stick your left hand under your right armpit while applying your eyeliner with your right hand.

You are going to need to make sure your place of employment offers a very liberal "sick day" policy, because for 359 days out of the year, at least one of your children will be ill with something very highly contagious. On the days when your children are NOT deathly ill, you will go to work feeling like you are going to accomplish a lot. Twenty minutes later, the principle of your eldest child's school will call to tell you your daughter stuck a bead up her nose and they can't get it out. 

You will know all of the names of all of the staff at the pediatrician's office. You will have a chair that you consider YOUR chair at the pediatrician's office. You will seriously consider bringing a sleeping bag and camping out in the hallway outside the pediatrician's office just so you can save on gas.

You are no longer going to eat at meal times. Dinner will be spent holding and feeding your baby with one hand while pouring ketchup, buttering noodles, cleaning juice spills, cutting chicken, peeling apples, and wiping faces with your other hand. If you intend to eat, you will need to make yourself a plate of something edible, hide it under your shirt, and sneak into the bathroom to eat it in under four minutes. You will need to learn to consume food without ever needing to actually chew it. 

Also, your eldest child will become obsessed with collecting very teeny tiny toys that are exactly the right size for your baby to choke on.

Also, your two older children will love coming up with new fun games like "let's see who can stick their fingers as far into the baby's eyes as possible" or "who can break the baby swing by using it as a human catapult?"

Getting all three of your children to bed is going to take eight and a half hours. You will need to fill up 2 water bottles, break up six arguments over who gets to play with what toy during bathtime, brush 40 teeth, read 81 books, and sing 172 lullabies. Your eldest will try on seven different pairs of pajamas before settling on the ones she wants. Your middle child will ask 2,693 questions about the universe. Your baby will spit out his pacifier nine million times and cry every single time it happens.

And finally, at 1:37 am, you will feel relaxed enough to watch a few seconds of TV and fall into a deep, deep slumber, until you are once again woken at 3:30 am.

And yet, despite this crazy life, you will have zero regrets. Why? Because everything that third baby does is going to be absolutely adorable.

10 Day Countdown

It is now ten days until my maternity leave ends and I return to work. Part of me feels ready to be reunited with my desk, with my Google calendar and daily emails and responsibilities and deadlines. The other part of me gets caught up in staring at Erez's face, hoping he will be okay in daycare, and feeling my heart break a little in advance of our separation. I wish things were different, that maternity leave was longer, that I could be present in a more complete way to witness his daily milestones. I ache that I won't be. But I also love my job and don't want to sacrifice it, or make a change in my career, or give up the second paycheck that benefits everyone in our family. It is a shame and wrong that our country isn't better about these things, about giving parents ample time to be with their babies without having to choose between their jobs and their children.

The past seven weeks with Erez has been everything: beautiful, rewarding, exhausting... He is and always will be my miracle baby. When I look at him, I think about my surgery last February. I think about the hard decision I made to give up pieces of my body in order to hopefully up my chances of a prolonged life, of being there for my kids, and how I was strangely rewarded by the universe with a pregnancy, as if I was being told my decision was a wise one for yet another reason. Erez is also proof that my body rallied after a crazy ordeal, and how lucky I am, at forty, to have had yet another healthy and uncomplicated pregnancy. He is my "everything happens for a reason" baby and my "expect the unexpected" baby.

Here is just a little of what I have learned about Erez over the past seven weeks: he is a better sleeper than either of my other children were; he loves to touch and hold fabric; he loves it when I gently touch his forehead; he really dislikes having a poopy diaper; he sleeps with his eyes open sometimes (creepy); he raises his left eyebrow a lot, like he is already highly skeptical of the world; he makes noises all the time - when eating, sleeping, peeing, breathing; he likes when I talk to him in a Minnie Mouse voice; he enjoys looking at lights and curtains; his resting face is that of an 87 year old man, but when he smiles he looks like a baby; he loves snuggles; he hates burping; he seems to notice all the artwork on our walls, and seems to especially like the tree art piece that I made that is hanging above his crib; he hates his car seat and bouncy chair but loves his rock n' play; his one left dimple is possibly the cutest thing in the entire world.

I hope that even when I return to work, I will feel like I have adequate time to notice lots of new things about Erez. I hope I will learn lots of new ways to make him smile and laugh, that I will appreciate his new sounds and movements, and especially that I will have enough time to show him how much I love and adore him, and how grateful I am to be his mommy.

I plan to make the most of these last ten days, and to try and embrace these hours as much as I can, knowing they won't last forever.

Acting Like A Baby

My five week old son is adorable and is the love of my life, but let's face it, some of his behavior is AT BEST questionable. This morning I spent a few minutes (or maybe more than a few... I AM on maternity leave and DO have some time on my hands) fantasizing about what it would be like if a "Freaky Friday" situation happened and me and my baby suddenly switched bodies. It would be so incredible to be able to get away with half the stuff he gets away with, even just for one day.

For instance:

- At night, once every two to three hours, I would be able to wake up all of the members of my household with a bout of hysterical, rageful crying. And in the morning, they would miraculously still love me.

- I would smell like a combination of sour milk, spit up, poop, baby oil and Desitin, but everyone would still hug me without wincing.

- I would be able to cry like mad every time I farted or pooped.

- People would spend hours upon hours trying to amuse me and make me smile, and I would reward them by looking at them like they are a bunch of a**holes. 

- I would be able to wear cute little onesies with pictures of smiling dinosaurs or vintage race cars without need for justification.

- When driving, I would start crying every time the speed of the car dropped below 15 miles per hour. 

- I would be able to make this face after finishing every meal:

- People would be PROUD of me for napping.

- I would suck on a hard rubber object all day WITHOUT folks suggesting I need therapy.

- I would be able to perfect my animal impressions, including angry screeching pterodactyl, and stuffy-nosed heavy-breathing pug dog.

- People would think my slightly furry body and disproportionately large head are soooo cute.

- I would have no awareness of the current presidential race.

Of course, there are DOWNSIDES to being a newborn baby (I am specifically thinking of not being able to ingest caffeine or alcohol), which may outweigh the benefits. And who knows? My son probably stares at me all day wondering why I am behaving like such a freak, and wishing he could switch bodies with me for just one day.

Party of Five

'

And then there were five of us. 

It's still so strange to me, because for many minutes of almost every day, I still feel like I am my twelve year old self... Just with a job and a few wrinkles and car keys and a mortgage... And THREE kids. THREE.

In the months leading up to Erez's birth, I was told by many friends, acquaintances and strangers that the third child CHANGES EVERYTHING. I was told that my husband and I would henceforth be outnumbered and powerless in our own household, that we would instantly age by about ten years, and that the only way to get through parenting more than two children is to not care about anything. I always half believed these folks and half thought "meh, it can't be THAT bad!"

And it's not. THAT. BAD. But in the month since Erez was born, I have come to nickname our home "Casa de Chaos" as a term of endearment. Our bundle of joy came with a bundle of adjustments for everyone in our family, and we are all still acclimating, slowly but surely.

Erez himself is adorable. He is tiny, cuddly, sounds like a pug dog, and has eyes that seem to fill up his entire face. For the first week of his life, Erez was such a super calm baby that I almost thought something might be wrong with him. Then I brought him home from the hospital.

I honestly feel bad for the kid. He went from the cushy warmth and serenity of my womb to the quiet sterile tranquility of the hospital to the absolute madness of our home. His siblings love to get right up in his face and squeal at him or shake things at him, try to dance with his tiny body, and seem to have screaming contests whenever he is trying to nap. 

And then there are the digestive issues. His first formula made him gassy and fussy. The second formula made him constipated and fussy. He went from being a happy baby to a very very sad and cranky baby right around week three, I believe mostly because his system just wasn't dealing with the nourishment he was taking in. The third formula seems to have made him a much happier, calmer baby again. Fingers crossed. 

Generally, Erez seems like my "old soul" baby. I can't quite describe why I feel this way, and maybe my perception will change as he grows, but his little face seems wise, serious, concerned. He smiled at me this morning and I was so thrown for a loop, because I have gotten so used to his furrowed brow and pensive expressions.

As for the rest of us, well, Oren probably had the worst of it. He went from being my baby boy to needing to compete for lap time and hugs. Shortly after Erez came home, Oren started waking frequently at night, having more nightmares, throwing more tantrums, getting more boo boos, and just generally being super sensitive. He seems to have settled in to the new normal a bit and the anxiety seems to be waning, but my heart definitely broke a little bit for him. If I could somehow add hours to the day, I would add an hour where I could just hug Oren and make sure he knows that he is (and will always be) my beautiful little boy.

Ember has been awesome. She has taken on the role of older older sister like a champion. She wants to hug the baby, feed the baby, carry the baby, and I think she thinks she could do a better job than me raising Erez. She has acclimated and compromised without much fuss, just the occasional need for lots of attention. Her ability to adapt to a pretty enormous change has really impressed me.

Chris is doing well, other than continuing his ongoing battle to get adequate sleep. He has been an amazing partner, doing all the stuff I have no time to do anymore, kissing my forehead and hugging me when I seem overwhelmed, and keeping this parenting gig light and fun and silly, even in the stressful moments. It goes without saying that I wouldbe nowhere without him. Actually, scratch that. I would totally be in an asylum without him.

And me? After getting over the initial shock of what it is like to care for three kids, I am doing really well. I'm finding my groove. Yes, I still spend a great deal of my time feeling guilty over my inability to breastfeed the baby, over my upcoming return to work and Erez's daycare attendance at such a super young age, over my lack of availability to Ember and Oren, over my talent for eating a crap ton of chocolate even as I finally attempt to reclaim my body after five years of pregnancies and surgeries. The list of things I feel guilty about is truly endless. But I have always been rather good at beating myself up over things I both can and can't control. The good news is I am also getting better at recognizing my own limitations, patting myself on the back for staying sane and positive (most of the time), and appreciating all that I have, which is SO VERY much, especially now that we are a party of five.

A prayer on the eve of my third baby's birth

Thank you for bringing me to this moment, and for giving me this miracle - I know it is not to be taken for granted. Thank you for the love in my life, my caring and amazing husband, my beautiful children, my family, my friends. I know they are not to be taken for granted. Thank you for giving me this body, and the ability to have children - I know it is not to be taken for granted. 

Let me have the presence of mind to fully appreciate this moment, and to focus not on the anxiety of birth but on the beauty of it. Let me make wise decisions in what I can control, and let me understand the decisions that are not mine to control.

Life is divine, fragile, complex, and mysterious. I am filled with awe and wonder.

A Time For Change

I have always been one of those people who avoids conflict and confrontation like the plague. I grew up in a house where I was the least skilled at arguing and debating, so I didn't bother advocating for myself very much. Instead, I spent my time trying to keep the peace between family members. Later in life, this translated into not arguing with friends and co-workers, not sending food back at restaurants even if it was frozen, and waiting for three hours in a doctor's waiting room before inquiring about an obvious delay in care.

Then I had kids, and I discovered that motherhood REQUIRED that I advocate my kids, especially before they had developed language skills. This helped me gain confidence in voicing my opinion.

Then I learned I had the BRCA1 mutation, and I discovered that I needed to be my own best advocate - in researching the options I had for preventative care, in fighting for coverage for the prophylactic procedures I was choosing, and in finding and communicating with health care professionals. The experience gave me even confidence in speaking up for myself.

I don't like arguing for arguments' sake, but when something or someone is worth advocating for, I now feel justified in fighting a good fight.

The American Cancer Society has just recommended that "average risk" women begin having annual mammograms at the age of 45, rather than at the age of 40. They have also recommended that the annual mammograms continue only until the age of 54, at which time they would take place every two years. They have ALSO recommended against clinical breast exams for all 

These new guidelines make no sense to either my head OR my heart. My heart aches for the many "average risk" women I know who were diagnosed with breast cancer before they turned 45, whose prognosis would have been far more grim had mammograms not been available to them. My head wants to argue the facts: For the past 25 years, the rate of deaths from breast cancer has been decreasing. The largest decrease in death from breast cancer has been among women age 50 or younger. This is largely attributed to the widespread access and encouragement of early breast cancer screenings, screenings which were supported by the American Cancer Society’s prior recommendations. 

This is why I have started a petition on change.org, opposing the American Cancer Society's new recommendations for breast cancer screenings. It is a fight that my heart and mind believe is more than worth fighting. I hope that others will bring their voices, their emotions, and their experiences to this petition, and that a collective voice of opposition to these recommendations will strengthen and grow.

If you are a cancer survivor, if you are a previvor, if you have a relative or friend who has battled cancer, if you are a citizen who is concerned with the influence these recommendations may have on future insurance policies and women's health, please consider signing this petition. 

https://www.change.org/p/american-cancer-society-reverse-american-cancer-society-s-new-breast-cancer-screening-recommendations?recruiter=405271196&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink

The Very New Year

It happens quite often. My birthday coincides with one of the major Jewish holidays pretty much every year. This year, my major milestone 40^th birthday will be taking place on the holiday of Yom Kippur, which is seriously the most serious Jewish holiday of them all. It’s a day of fasting, repentance,  self-reflection and groveling. Sounds like a real party, right?

About eight months ago, while I was planning my major surgery, I was simultaneously fantasizing about throwing a big, blow-out birthday bash for my fortieth. I felt like I deserved it, and like I wanted to celebrate life and living via an evening of semi-debaucherous activities, which would include fancy cocktails and karaoke and dancing and cupcakes.

Well, about four months ago, when I found out I was pregnant, those plans flew out the window. And after going through the past four months of morning sickness, heartburn, weight gain, and other various bodily discomforts, I have changed my vision of how I would like to celebrate my upcoming birthday, especially realizing that my birthday falls on Yom Kippur. Instead of painting the town red, I am now picturing a quiet evening with my kids (Chris will be on-call tomorrow night, which means he is unlikely to get home before 10 pm), eating a bagel and a few celebratory carrot sticks with dip (luckily us pregnant ladies are not required to fast – I’d never make it past 10 am), and seizing the moment to really reflect on the blessings of this past year (and decade), and the hopes for the year (and decade) to come.

Because, MAN, my thirties were CRAZY. I met my husband, married my husband, gave birth to two children, held three different jobs, lost my mother, my father-in-law had a stroke, we bought and sold our first home, bought a second home, I had major cancer-preventing surgery, and got pregnant AGAIN. That’s A LOT of activity, energy, and emotion to fit into one decade.

And here I am on the cusp of my forties. And I want to take the moment to focus on all that I have going in to this new decade of life.

I have a beautiful, amazing daughter who will be turning five in a month. Ember has blossomed in countless ways over the past year.  She started kindergarten! And despite her slightly nervous, slightly fearful personality, she seems to really be enjoying it. Last summer she was scared to death of swimming; this year we could not get her out of the water even if we tried. I think she actually has become a mermaid. She still plays by herself beautifully, making up amazing storylines and truly diving deep into her pretend worlds (we are going to enroll her in Drama Kids International to see if her imagination can bloom even further). She is an emotional, sensitive, creative spirit, through and through. And she is a great older sister to Oren. Granted, some days it is easier for her to share her toys than others, but that would be true of any kid. Generally speaking, the two of them are wonderful to watch together – they share their made-up worlds, are concerned for each other’s well beings, and are truly good friends.

As for Oren himself, he is an incredible 2.5 year old boy. At school, his teacher calls him “the professor.” Truly, he astonishes with his vocabulary. And as I like to say to my friends, the only way I know Oren is asleep is that he stops asking questions. I imagine that the inside of his brain looks like a super highway, with cars moving in all sorts of directions simultaneously. But besides being a super smart kid, Oren is one of the kindest hearted children I have known (and I am not at ALL biased). I am glad to say that the hugs, cuddles, and general love that he bestowed upon me as an infant has not gone away, and in fact it may have actually grown in the past few years. Oren is totally the cheerleader of our family. On days when the rest of us are tired and dragging our feet, Oren is singing songs and excitedly cheering us on with jokes, laughter, and silly faces.

And then there is my husband. Chris is my LOVE – despite his hectic and exhausting work schedule, he has been a true partner in parenting, and our adoration and friendship only continues to grow as our family grows. Granted, I would love to spend more time with him. Last night we snuck a few minutes of pillow talk into our evening before both of us fell fast asleep, a moment I totally treasured. I know that finding moments to connect with Chris is going to only get more challenging with three kiddos in the house, but we will figure out a way to do it (calling all amazing babysitters – WE NEED YOU)! And I have some pretty solid plans for us to finally go on our honeymoon when we celebrate our 10^th anniversary in 5 years... I may just start counting down the days now.

And this little being growing inside my body? What an unbelievable surprise he was, and what a beautiful 40^th birthday present he will be (god willing). He will join our family in 2016 and will be another source of joy, of love, and inspiration in our home. Chris, Ember, Oren and I will all learn that our hearts are capable of so deeply loving yet another human being, another family member. As much as I complain about the not-so-fun side of being pregnant, when I feel the little pitter patter of the growing boy running around in my body, I know for certain I am incredibly blessed.

There is also my health to be thankful for. And our brilliant extended family. And our wonderful friends. And our home. And our minivan (yup, we are THAT family now). So very much to reflect on with abundant gratitude.

So while my fortieth birthday celebration might not qualify for Bravo Channel’s “My Fab 40^th,” I feel no loss. I’ll take this quiet moment of celebration, reflection, and appreciation.

And who knows? Maybe I will have a raucous 41^st birthday party ;).

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to My Surgery

I don’t feel like my life has ever followed a predictable script, and I see that as a positive. If I have developed any skill in life, it might be the ability to “roll with it,” no matter what curveball has been thrown my way.

Well, it seems we have been thrown another curveball.

Chris and I travelled to San Antonio in mid June for the second phase of my reconstructive surgery. The surgery was something I was looking forward to, and having been through the first phase of surgery so recently, I wasn’t really nervous about going through with it. 

A tropical storm had been hitting San Antonio the week of my surgery, so I rearranged our flight to get us in to San Antonio the afternoon prior to my scheduled operation. Chris and I arrived in Texas, ate some delicious Tex Mex food, and checked in to our hotel. We walked around the neighborhood, relaxed, and I did my scheduled pre-op prep work: showering with antibacterial soap, no eating or drinking after midnight, etc.

The morning of the surgery, we woke up early and drove to the hospital in the rainy remnants of the storm. As I was waiting to be admitted to pre-op, I met a lovely woman who was also going to be going through her second phase surgery with another surgeon from the same surgeon’s group I was using. We spoke about how wonderful our experiences have been with PRMA, and compared notes about the recuperation from the first phase of surgery. 

I was then called in to pre-op, where a friendly nurse administered my IV port, and spoke with me about my reasons for traveling all the way to Texas for surgery. Another nurse came in and got my urine sample and asked me several questions about my health history. She then left the room for a few minutes.

Another few minutes passed. And then another few. I began to worry because the clock seemed to be ticking closer to my scheduled surgery time, and I had not yet seen my surgeon.

The nurse came back in. She was holding two familiar looking objects in her hand, and had a strange look on her face.

“I did the test twice,” she told me. I then realized she was holding pregnancy tests.

My jaw dropped open. I covered my mouth and screamed. It was THE LAST THING I would have ever expected to happen.

“I think I am going to go get your husband now, so you can tell him the news” the nurse told me. I looked at her and shook my head. I still had no words.

When Chris came in the room, he took one look at my face and said “what’s going on? Is something the matter?”

And then I broke the news to him. And we both sat there, dumbfounded, joyful, confused, floored by the unexpected news of our pregnancy.

 

I don’t know if I believe in dreams, or signs, or if I just think sometimes the world presents very strange and uncanny coincidences.  

About three weeks prior to our trip to San Antonio, Chris came home from work a little late one night, while I was giving the kids a bath. He came into the bathroom and told me that something funny had happened at work. He said one of his co-workers, a guy he hardly works with, had come up to Chris and told him he had had a dream about me being pregnant.

I just laughed. 

Chris told me if, for any reason, I WAS to become pregnant, he wanted me to be assured that he was okay with having a third child.

I laughed some more. I told Chris there was no way I was pregnant, or would become pregnant, and that he should go tell his co-worker to not waste his dreams on me.

 

This crazy news comes with a whirlwind of emotions. I am thrilled to be pregnant. I totally thought I had closed the book on that chapter of my life when Oren was born. I love babies. I love my kids. I am 100% sure that I have room in my heart for another child, and I am psyched for Emmy and Oren to have another sibling. I am amazed by my own body, actually kind of PROUD of my body, and by its ability to get pregnant just three months after a really intense, invasive surgery. But I also feel guilty that it is so easy for us to get pregnant, as other friends struggle to have their first or second children. I’m also sad that I won’t be breastfeeding this baby. I am also worried about being 40 and pregnant. I am also nervous about having a third c-section.  

It’s crazy. It’s amazing. It’s silly. It’s strange. 

I guess I’m just going to do what I do best, and roll with it.

 

The Story of My Surgery

IIt occurred to me tonight, while looking through my past few posts, that I never actually wrote about what getting the DIEP flap surgery was like for me. It's funny because I feel like I have written about it twenty seven times, but I must have only been thinking about it in my head. I never actually put the experience down in words.

About ten weeks ago, my family and I flew out to San Antonio for my surgery. In the weeks prior to our travel, I had come down with a cold, but it wasn't a terrible cold. I wasn't hacking up a lung or anything. It was your standard, run-of-the-mill cold that generally just goes away within a week. I thought it was a nothing.

As it turns out, it was not a nothing. On the flight to San Antonio, my little cold turned into a horrible earache that made me want to tear my ears right off of my head. And then it turned into a sinus infection. And strep throat. When I went to the hospital on the day of my scheduled surgery, the nurse in admitting took my temperature and then gave me a look that said "how the heck do you think you are going to make it through surgery with a 102 degree fever?!"

My amazing, kind, lovely surgeon came and spoke with me. He told me I was fighting an infection, and I was not in good shape for such a strenuous surgery. He told me if I was HIS wife, he would not want me operated on that day. So, through tears of disappointment, we planned to reschedule the DIEP flap surgery for the next week. I was incredibly lucky that Dr. C was able to fit me into his schedule, and that rescheduling did not require me and my family to fly back and forth to San Antonio again. I was given some pretty hefty doses of antibiotics, and for the next week, my body worked on getting better.

On the day of the actual (rescheduled) surgery, one week later, I went to the hospital at 6:30 a.m. to be admitted. I remember having my temperature taken, getting my blood pressure taken, and getting an IV. I remember Dr. C coming in to talk to me and my husband about the surgery and to reassure us, as my intravenous "cocktails" started to work. I don't remember much else, honestly. I think I remember being rolled through the hallway. And I think I remember my body being lifted from one surface to another, though I don't know if that was pre or post surgery. The rest of the surgery is like an eight hour parentheses in my life.

I woke up at some point in the late afternoon that day and saw my husband by my side. I had been told by several women who had been through this kind of surgery that I would not be lucid at all until day 2 (or at the very least, until very late on the night following surgery). But I was actually quite with it upon waking. I was able to have a conversation with my husband, which really surprised him, because he also thought I would spend my first wakeful hours thinking I was the Queen of England.

I remember the next few days in the hospital as being quite challenging. Probably the hardest thing I have been through physically in my life, but not impossible. Not HORRIBLE. Just HARD. I think, in my head, I had believed the recovery would be akin to the recovery I went through with each of my c-sections: the discomfort, the stiffness, the exhaustion. It WAS like that recovery, but way more intense. Walking my first steps post surgery felt like I was totally re-learning how to walk. And I had to rely on other people sitting me up in the hospital bed because I had very limited arm function. It was weird. It was tough. But every new little thing I was able to do post surgery was a mini-milestone that was celebrated.

The hardest part of the surgery for me was the itching. Apparently, I don't do well on morphine. Or maybe morphine doesn't do well on me. It took me a while to realize it, but the morphine drip I was on for pain management gave me the craziest itchy feelings I have ever encountered. I begged Chris to scratch my entire body over and over again. When he scratched, I could feel every little sensory nerve on my skin reacting to his touch. But despit the scratching, the itching never really went away, and it made it hard for me to sleep. I asked the night nurses to put hydrocortisone all over my skin, which they did. Sometimes the nurses would just come and scratch my legs for me (which made me love them).

The drains were the other not-so-fun part. I had one drain coming out of each breast, and one drain coming out of each side of my belly. Blood and gunk drained out of my body into the bulbs that hung down from me. I felt like a really gross octopus. When I took my first shower, and saw myself undressed for the first time since surgery, I nearly fainted. It was a lot to take in: the scars, the drains, the scratch marks from all of my itching. But I also noticed my flat belly, which was flatter than it had been in four years (two c-sections) and I noticed my new "foobs," which were now so much less likely to be a harvesting station for cancer.

And as I was lying in my hospital bed, itching like nobody's business, and pretending to be a disgusting octopus,  I kept thinking "I would rather be itching than dying of cancer." Really, anytime I experienced a little pain, a little discomfort, or anything slightly "off" during the recovery process, it was very easy for me to say "this is way better than radiation. This is way better than chemotherapy," and it kept my expectations in check. Saving my own life was not a cake walk. It wasn't supposed to be easy.

I was discharged from the hospital five days after the surgery. Leaving a hospital after being tended to and cared for twenty four hours a day is a scary thing. But the more I got immersed back into real life, the less scary it became. I rested a lot. I drank a lot. And the lovely people of San Antonio fed me and my family very well. Within another week, we were ready to return home, and I was feeling remarkably healed already, just two weeks after surgery.

And now, here I am, eight weeks later, feeling almost completely back to normal. I still have my scars, but to be honest, I kind of like them. Every time I see my stomach, or look at my new "foobs," I see the story of how I made a very brave decision, went through an amazing surgery, toughed it out through a hard recovery, and saved my own life.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman

Every day, when I pick Ember up from preschool, there is a pile of about 20 drawings in her cubby. I flip through the multi-colored construction paper pages and marvel over her fire-breathing dinosaurs, the decked-out princesses, and the families of penguins she has created. 

Ember has talent. She draws beautifully, filling every inch of her pages with characters and objects. If you watch her draw, you will hear her tell a story as she puts her marker to the paper. Her stories are elaborate, sometimes a little hard to follow, almost always quite emotionally charged.

It is an amazing thing to watch the artist as a young woman. To be honest, I am just a little envious of her abilities. She sits down at the kitchen table, takes a pen in her hand, and her imagination just kicks in to high gear, with visions and ideas pouring out of her fingers. It comes so easily to her.

For me, it is not as easy. I mean, I went to art school, and spent four years of my life intensely immersed in an environment that fostered my imagination. But now I am a working mommy. When I sit down at the kitchen table, I am thinking about my grocery list, and getting my kids enrolled in summer programs, and doing the laundry, and surgeries, and… the list goes on. It is so hard for my mind to put reality on pause, even for a few minutes.

But, inspired by Ember and her talents, I have ventured to take apen in hand again recently. I haven’t quite been escaping my reality, but I have been drawing my reality. And though my drawings are not quite as imaginative as Ember’s, it still feels really good to draw.

Thank you, Ember, for being so magnificent with your own imagination, and for inspiring me to give my creativity an outlet. I look forward to seeing your creativity grow and flourish, and to sharing our pens, pencils, markers and paper for many years to come.

Jolie and Me

Two years ago, when Angelina Jolie brought national attention to women who are BRCA mutation positive by writing "My Medical Choice" in the New York Times, I was just beginning to think seriously about getting my own prophylactic mastectomy and reconstruction. After reading Angelina's thoughtful and brave article, I was filled with gratitude. It felt like the world had given me a strange but very meaningful gift. A beautiful, confident celebrity the same age as me had JUST gone through the same surgery I planned to go through, and she was really PROUD of her decision.

Five weeks ago today, I went through my own nine hour prophylactic surgery, reducing my risk of getting breast cancer by around 90%. 

The morning of my surgery, I was not fearful. I had been anxious in the weeks leading up to my surgery, but as I entered the hospital, filled out the paperwork, and got my IV, I was very calm. I know it may sound strange, but I thought A LOT about Angelina Jolie that morning. In my head and heart, I felt connected to her. I felt brave, and confident, and clear in my decision. I felt PROUD of what I was doing, just as I had imagined she had felt.

In the five weeks that have passed since my surgery, I have not had a single moment of regret or doubt. Not a SINGLE moment. I am so proud of my decision, and I know I made the exact right decision for me. 

Now, having the bulk of the mastectomy, reconstruction, and recovery behind me, I have just begun seriously thinking about and planning the timeline for my oophorectomy. I know I need to get it done. My doctors have urged (almost begged) me to do it. My maternal great grandmother died of colon cancer, and four of her sisters died of gynecological cancers. My grandmother and mother both had oophorectomies, too. There is no doubt that this too will be the right decision for me, if I want to try and live and see my children grow into adults.

But it doesn't make getting the surgery done any easier. 

So when I heard, today, about Angelina Jolie's decision to get an salpingo-oophorectomies, I again felt like the world had given me a gift. I again felt indebted to this woman I have never met, but feel very connected to, by virtue of our shared genetic mutation, our shared decisions to be proactive, and our ability to be PROUD of our choices.

Angelina Jolie's article is beautiful and truthful. It is not about being self-pitying or self-aggrandizing. It is about gaining knowledge, and using that knowledge to make powerful decisions, so that you can be proud of the decisions you make.

Thank you, again, Angelina Jolie, for sharing your journey with the world, and for being PROUD of your decisions. It makes it that much easier for other women, like me, to share and be proud, too.

Micromanaging a Microsurgery

The countdown has begun. My prophylactic mastectomy and reconstructive surgery is coming up awfully soon.

My mind is going a little nuts with anticipation, anxiety, excitement… MORE anxiety.  Seriously, I have begun worrying about EVERYTHING.

What if I get sick with the flu the week before surgery? What if my daughter totally freaks out when I am not with my family for five nights? What if there is a horrible snowstorm right before my surgery date? What if my surgeon sneezes while he is operating on me and cuts me in half? What if my two year old cries for 6 straight weeks because I cannot hug him/hold him? What if a freak tornado hits at the exact moment I am having surgery done? What if my husband mixes red clothes in with the white laundry while I am out of commission? What if the surgeons discover an alien living in my body? 

See? I worry about EVERYTHING.

I also worry about dying on the operating table. 

I also worry about looking like a rag doll post-surgery.

And truthfully, I also worry that I am going to go through with this surgery, and will look like a rag doll, and then I will get breast cancer anyway. Or ovarian cancer. Or melanoma. Or tongue cancer. 

But “Que sera, sera,” right? I should give up on all this unproductive worrying because it is so… UNPRODUCTIVE! I should listen to the words of my daughter’s animated idol, Elsa of Arendale, and just “Let it go! Let it go!” 

And yet, because I have been anticipating this surgery for months now, and because the anticipation has involved all aspects of my head, my heart, my soul…  I just can’t let it go.

Generally speaking, honestly, I am totally a no-drama, easy-peasy lemon squeezy kind of gal. This kind of thing just brings out my inner Woody Allen.

So in an effort to combat all the negative thoughts that swirl around in my brain and distract me from being my normally optimistic self, I have been doing what I know works best to help me calm down and be less freaky. No, not yoga (yoga makes me antsy). No, not meditation (meditation makes me loopy). No, not self-medication (drugs make me queasy). 

My therapy of choice? The OneNote app.

Planning, and uber-planning, and micro-planning every aspect of this upcoming surgery has been my means of self-soothing over the last several weeks, and I've done it all on the cute OneNote app. In my OneNote notebook, I have created a plethora of lists related to the surgery, each filed under a different beautifully colored tab. I have created a “packing list” tab, an “important contacts” tab, a “places to go” tab which lists activities for Chris to do with the kids in my absence, a “shopping list” tab, a “sample schedule” tab (providing Chris with a basic outline of the children’s day), and a “preparing the house” tab. All of these tabs form a beautiful rainbow of preparation, and it is oh so calming for me to look at them. 

If I am feeling panicky, all I have to do is add a pastel colored new tab to my OneNote notebook with a list of books to read or movies to see while I am out on sick leave.  As I focus on compiling a list of dramas and comedies, my worries start to dissipate, and I start to see my upcoming sick leave as an opportunity to catch up on all the Oscar-nominated contenders. Voila! It’s like magic.

I know what this is about, of course. I’m no fool. I am trying to control what I CAN control, because the thought of giving up ALL control as I am laying on the operating table, getting my anesthesia cocktail administered, is totally frightening to me.

Obviously, in a short period of time, my surgery is going to be a reality, and not just tabs and checklists in a OneNote notebook.  Obviously, I have to face my fears, or “embrace the tiger” as I like to say, and just trust that everything is going to turn out okay. I have an amazing surgeon and an amazing team performing an amazing surgery. I have an amazingly supportive family, and an amazingly supportive group of friends, who are all going to be pulling for me and praying for me (and maybe preparing food for our family, which is double amazing). I have made an amazing choice, and I am following through with the choice I have made. All in all, this is an amazing opportunity, and I can see it as just that, if I simplify everything in my head and heart. Because really, deep down inside, I know I am a strong person, and I trust my strength, and I trust in God, and I trust that everything will be okay. Really. 

But for now, I also trust in the OneNote app. It will get me through the coming weeks, and will provide me with a trusty little haven of pretty colored tabs.

 

 

Standardizing Emmy

Chris and I got called in to Em’s school today to talk to her teacher and pre-school director about some recent observations they have had regarding Emmy. When I got the email, asking if we had time to come in and talk, I totally panicked. Millions of questions ran through my head: Is Em acting out? Are other kids picking on her? Is she light years behind her peers in her academic development? Has she started screaming “I hate mommy!” and running through the school halls naked? Is she starting a coup d’etat among the four year olds?

As it turns out, they told us Emmy runs funny. Em’s teacher and pre-school director informed us that the PT worker at the school had noticed Ember turns her feet inward when she moves quickly. She also seems to have some balance issues (which we have witnessed around the house, too, sometimes). She also doesn’t hold a marker or scissors the way they want her to. She also doesn't finish puzzles as quickly as other kids...?

And because she does not run perfectly, or hold her marker or scissors perfectly, or balance perfectly, they are recommending that Em be screened by our school district to see if she qualifies for physical therapy.

My first reaction to this was absolute relief. What they were telling us was NOT any of the horror stories I had conjured up in my head. And they went on to tell us that emotionally and socially, Em is well-adjusted. She is doing really well with her learning, and the teacher has seen lots of development across the board as she has transitioned from a three year old to a four year old. Awesome.

She is just a little… klutzy? Unique? Not perfect?

And now I am wondering, a few hours later - is it necessary to screen Ember, just because she runs a little funny? Isn’t it okay that she holds her marker in a creative way? Aren’t these things she might just grow out of eventually? Aren’t these the little imperfections that make her unique, and cute, and maybe a little silly as a four year old? Do they need to be trained out of her?

I’m torn. On one hand, I don’t want Em to trip over her own feet all the time, of course. I would kind of like her to hold her marker the right way, the way the other kids do. And I am so appreciative that the school teachers and staff are REALLY observing and noticing Emmy and offering us their observations.

But on the other hand, I feel like this screening is just another way that the education system is set up to “standardize” our kids, making sure they all write the same way, read the same way, think the same way, and act the same way. It makes me think of my parents’ era, when being left-handed was thought of as a bad thing, something you needed to be trained out of.  Why? Was it SO necessary that there be NO left handed people in America? And now, is it SO necessary that my daughter run exactly how the other kids run, with their toes pointed straight forward?

Do I think the screening is going to harm Emmy? Of course not. Do I think it may actually be helpful? Kind of. I am curious to know what an objective “screener” sees in our daughter that we fail to see, because of our proximity to her and our love for her. But do I think Em really needs therapy to train her out of her slightly silly run? I’m not sold on it. Yet.

Realistic Resolutions

 I am kind of OVER making New Year's resolutions. Because I know the way life works, and that if I super-pinky-swear promise myself on December 31st that in 2015 I am going to get back to exercising for at least 30 minutes EVERY day, on January 1st I will come down with pneumonia and will be bed-ridden and lethargic for three weeks. If I tell myself 2015 is going to be the year of meditation and gluten-free foods, by January 3rd I will surely realize that meditation makes me anxious and gluten is the key to all my happiness. 

So instead of aspiring (and failing) to live a life that would get the Gwyneth Paltrow seal of approval, I have come up with the following list of "keeping it real" UNresolutions for 2015. 

These are not meant to inspire you. If they DO inspire you, you are weird.

1. I promise I am NOT going to eat kale at every meal, but I will THINK about kale at every meal. 

2. I will try to exercise for thirty minutes every day OR I will exercise until one of my small children decides to sit on my head while I attempt to do ab exercises (which is usually about four minutes into my workout).

3. I promise to use my Facebook posts as a way of bringing attention to important socio-political issues (like how many times Oren has gone poopy on the potty in one day).

4. I vow to take less time deciding what I should wear in the morning, by throwing out everything in my closet that is not black.

5. I promise to spend more quality time with my children, as long as quality time involves ice cream.

6. I swear I will cook more homemade meals for our family. Reheating counts as cooking, right?

7. I promise to read more (interviews with celebrities).

8. I will give up caffeine. Except for coffee. And soda. And chocolate. 

9. I promise to spend less money on silly toys that my children don't need. Until Disney releases Frozen 2. Then all bets are off.

10. I vow to appreciate what I have. I also vow to REALLY appreciate a winning lottery ticket.

What are your New Years resolutions, and when do you intend to give up on them?

A Year in Pictures

It's true. I have basically failed as a blogger this past year. So how can I quickly sum up the beauty of a year that has gone by virtually undocumented in writing? Through pictures, of course! Here, my friends, is the Koelling Clan year in review...

Ember has evolved from a three year old into a "four going on fourteen" year old. She uses sayings like "what the heck?" and picks out her own outfits (which always involve at least three different colorful patterns and sparkly shoes). When I ask her how her day was, she tells me her mouth needs to rest. But she still needs cuddles before bedtime, and hugs. Lots of hugs (which we also LOVE giving her).

Oren has grown from a babbling baby into a very verbal, expressive toddler. He continues to be full of giggles and charm, and his favorite pastime is pretending to be a dinosaur. And then a kitty. And then a dinosaur. Oren gives million dollar hugs. Seriously, if you are ever sad, come over to our house and ask Oren to give you a hug. You will instantly feel better (until we charge you a million dollars)! He is a champion napper. He is amazing at puzzles. He ALWAYS has a cold or allergies. And he LOVES the YouTube video of "one potato, two potato."

This photo is a rare family photo of all four of us, taken during the summer. I tell you, there are annoying sides to parenting, like the fact that dinner is always chaotic, and there are always twelve loads of laundry to be washed, dried, and folded. But when the four of us huddle together like this, and our world is just a tiny microcosm of pure love, parenthood is perfection.

A photo of me and the kids. See, I told you that we hardly ever have a photo of the four of us!! This was taken at Em's camp this summer, which was a transformative experience for her.

Perhaps my favorite photo of the year, because it just says a lot about life, about having children, and about how beautiful the world is. This was taken on our vacation at the Cape, which we were generously invited on by my amazing Aunt Ellen and Uncle George.

The children love playing outside, and the fall was a perfect time to enjoy our new backyard, playing with bubbles and piles of leaves. And worms. Big, fat, juicy worms. Oren especially loved making two worms out of one worm and making his mommy gag.

Our kids being themselves, which basically means Oren creating a humongous mess and loving every minute of it, and Ember hamming it up and using her imagination to make the ordinary extraordinary.

I am not a huge fan of winter. Ok, I am not at all a fan of winter. I see winter as a five month long torture device that allows me to appreciate the months that are NOT winter. But what I DO love is seeing my kids LOVING the snow, and catching snowflakes on their tongues, and making snow cones. They are allowed to love winter, because they don't have to drive in it.

And THIS is what every parent looks forward to seeing at the end of a long day. Even if your four year old daughter is wearing a bathing suit on her head, as long as she is peacefully sleeping, it's all good.

There it is. A year in photos. 2014 was beautiful. 2015, here we come.