Monday, February 27, 2012

Swept Away

Little Brother,

I can't believe I have been your mom for three months now.  Before you were born, I wondered how I could possibly love two boys as much as I love your big brother, but somehow, my heart has expanded to fit you just fine.  I'd like to think it doubled in size, even though you're so tiny.

 You have brought so much happiness into our lives.  I am so proud of all of your accomplishments, even the tiny ones.  You hold your head up and look around, you follow our voices across the room.  You laugh out loud when we make fools of ourselves just for you.  You eat rice cereal out of a spoon.  You grab things, you turn over from your belly to your back.  You kick, scream, coo, and chew endlessly on your tiny knuckles.

Constantly, we marvel at your simplicity. The joy you find in the first raspberry on your belly. The amazement in your eyes as Grandma makes ridiculous noises for you.  The simple things we overlook hold your attention for minutes at a time.  Your blue eyes and intense stare make me look at things a little longer, too, wondering how it must appear to someone seeing it for the first time.

Since you've turned three months, a lot of things have changed for you.  We stopped swaddling you at night, and now you flap your arms every chance you get, rocking your bassinet back and forth like crazy.  Eventually you fall asleep.  I don't know how, but you do. You are so much more alert and engaging than before.  You miss us when we're gone and smile when we come back.  It's nice to know we're loved.

You are so loved. We adore you, we find you irresistible. You still wake up at night every few hours and I still fight it - slipping you your binky and saying a little prayer that you fall back asleep. You never do. Somehow, though, our three a.m. feedings have become a treasured time of sleepy smiles and nighttime farts.  I feel so blessed when your breathing steadies and your grasp on my shirt releases as you fall deep into sleep and I get to lay you in your bed oh-so-quietly.

Your dad, big brother, and I cannot wait to see what you do tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.  You are so brilliant - every day is a new squeal, laugh, and wiggle that makes it better than the one before.

I like you. I love you. I will always protect you.


your mom.


Sunday, February 19, 2012

Going Up The Country

Since we moved to the Moraine, I have learned to be more appreciative of God's gifts.  We had a beautiful sunrise this morning.  We dined with deer as our company this evening.  However, the highlight of today was spending time with my oldest son hiking the trail.

The woods were quiet except for the occasional woodpecker, the sound of moving water along the creek and the swans.  We were both surprised by the sounds of the swans as they took off from the pond.  The beating of their wings against the water was louder than I would have anticipated.

From the pond, we walked to the land of large beech trees.  Our son, Big Brother, found some bark that had peeled off one of the giants.  He thought it made a great shield.  We also found a tree with a cavity large enough for Big Brother to stand inside.

Beneath the towering tree emerged a tiny sprout.  This sprout gives me hope that spring will be here soon.

Moving on away from the giants, carrying with us our shields we made our way down to the creek.

Along the creek's edge we climbed over downed trees and crossed the water numerous times.  Big Brother tried to follow deer tracks through the creek bed..  The ice made traveling in the water difficult.

Later on the hike, we found some ice that Big Brother called 3D.  I don't have a special name for this ice.  It was just beautiful.

Going Up The Country.







ella blue.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Whispering Pines


It's winter here at Moraine, and things couldn't be more still.  Our family moved here in November, with a new baby due any moment, wide-eyed with anticipation.  Now that we've been here a few months our lives have taken a whole new pace.  We watched as the acres and acres changed from blazing red, to a mottled brown, and now - a frosty gray. I could spend so much time explaining the sounds, the smells, and the colors that this winter has made me more aware of...

Back patio.

Stepping outside the front door on our way to church this morning, I found myself struck by the silence.  A frigid 19 degrees and no sign of movement - not the slightest breeze. I miss seeing green, but the amount of light that passes through the house and between the trees every day here makes the wait worthwhile.

It's been a mild winter.  We have had our share of freezing cold days, but we manage to stay warm.  Each and every one of us.

There have been so many changes for our family as part of moving here, but the important part is that we're all adjusting together.  Trading in our fenced-in back yard for 800 wooded acres and parking on the street for a mile long driveway that isn't even paved has given us a chance to slow down - zoom out - take things at our own pace.  It's hard to roll with things, to take life at life's pace.  So many days of my life, countless, have been just a blink. Before I know it, the day is over and the sun is down and nothing is complete.  Here on Moraine, the days come to a close with a new awareness.  We watch the sun settle in below the pond through the trees.  We watch the moon appear past the farm fields and then it is night.  There is so much closure in watching the day end. A total sense of completion.  Morning appears and there are a dozen deer munching the chilly grass in the side yard and I know it is a new day. That - to me - is invaluable.