On turning three

Birthday loot from the grandparents

He has fully rounded the bend past babyhood. Boyhood is clear on the horizon. I am watching the transition happen, right in front of my eyes. Suddenly, the child who would throw a fit because he didn’t want to walk is refusing the Ergo, insisting that he trot beside me for most of the almost half-mile to the el. He is trick-or-treating without a stroller, climbing steep porch steps without help. He is hanging off the bars at the playground, swinging his feet.

The child who had no words at all, really, is asking for more juice, more book, a big bowl. A glass of wine is “Dad’s juice.” He is saying “no dress,” “no bed.” He is singing the last word of each verse of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” saying the last word of each page of Goodnight Moon. He is pointing out blue, green, purple, yellow, red. He is saying “ummm” when faced with a choice. He is saying Dad? Dad? Dad? Mom? Dad?

He has said “Love you” back to me when I turn off the light at night.

He will never take a step off a curb or over a bump in the sidewalk when a full-throttle jump will do.

He has a sense of humor, slyly making the sign for “more” when he finishes a treat, grinning at us because he knows he can’t have seconds.

When I read him a book, he points to the page, giggling at a silly picture or crying "uh oh." It’s still so easy to make him laugh.

He can pedal a tricycle, draw a circle, comfort a fallen toy with a rocking hug, say that he’s 3, and give the best kisses, especially when they’re unsolicited.

He demonstrates more empathy than I'd expect from a child his age.

He has opinions about what shoes he wears.

He will sometimes throw the nearest object when he’s mad. He will hit. We’re working on this.

He has never been a good sleeper, and that hasn’t changed. We’re working on this.

He has peed in the potty twice.

He sometimes waves and yells “Bye bye!” to people exiting the el.

When he wakes in the morning, he says, “Up, Mom,” and brings me my slippers or glasses.

He loves the beach, the water, the hose, his Cozy Coupe, his tricycle, firetrucks, trains, Thomas, Bob the Builder, construction vehicles, his soccer ball, balloons, sticks. Ice cream, grapes, meat, fish, beans, rice, cereal with milk, M&Ms, sweet potato fries, “juice,” yogurt, ice cubes. He loves to walk on Clark Street and visit the dog store, the frozen yogurt place, the dry cleaner, the bookstore, of course the toystore. He is afraid of spiderwebs.

He remains a big fan of music and will pretend to play a horn when he hears it. He asks for music in the car. He loves the Native American drumming songs on his music class CDs.

A few weeks ago we toured a preschool that we’re considering for next year, and my heart leaped and ached at the same time, imagining him filing down those halls with the other big kids. It’s such a strange feeling to want and not want something at the same time.

It seems so unsatisfyingly inadequate to say how much I love him. How special he is. How deep my dreams and hopes are for him. How hard it is sometimes to parent a toddler, yet how grateful I am to parent this particular person. These days are so maddening and so sweet. They’re studded with such highs and lows. I would not trade them for anything.

Happy third birthday to my one and only Will Jiho. 

On turning two

Will can use a fork and spoon. He knows how to pet the dog gently (usually). He just started giving his stuffed animals a drink from his sippy cup—the first signs of pretend play. He can put on slip-on shoes. He’s excited to mimic everything we do. He loves his push tricycle. He loves to dance to “Gangnam Style.” If he sees a flower, even a fake one, he puts his nose to it. When a plate of food is set in front of him, especially at restaurants, he says enthusiastically, “MMMMMM!” If you tell him to go to his room and get a book and bring it to Dad, he does just that.

His first Halloween

He’s started to climb; we’ve taken down the crib and he seems thrilled about having his mattress on the floor. He gets excited about cars and motorcycles, buses and bulldozers, traffic lights, pumpkins on a porch. (We say hello to our pumpkins every day when we get home.) He can kick a ball with gusto. He puts toys in containers and dumps them out. He stacks his matchbox cars on top of each other. His dance moves consist of bouncing his head, squatting up and down, and turning in a slow circle until he gets too dizzy and tumbles to the floor.

He loves eating yogurt, rice and beans, fish, chicken, sweet potato fries, Korean noodles, kefir smoothies, waffles with peanut butter, grapes and berries, the occasional special-treat Oreo, and all kinds of cereal. He can climb up stairs on his own two feet, although he still reaches out for help sometimes. I want him to master the stairs, but I also want to hold that little hand.

I find myself wanting to stop time, to imprint little moments in my brain so they never fade away: He waves his hand, a pint-sized conductor, to get us to sing. He stands outside the glass door while John’s showering, rubbing his own hair and grinning as John shampoos. He laughs out loud when I send a car zooming down the ramp of his new toy garage. He burrows into me at bedtime. He turns around and backs down into my lap when we’re reading a book. He lifts a forkful of noodles to his mouth, or balances a piece of food on his sippy cup, then claps delightedly at his own success. He maneuvers his feet into our shoes and clomps around. He shrieks “MAH?!” when he sees the neighbor’s cat. He turns back to look at me again and again while he eats, while he plays with a toy, while he dances to music.

He’s at such an innocent age. A walk in the alley behind our home is slow-moving with wonder. Any new toy is a revelation. Seeing the television turned on is the height of excitement. When I say, “Please hold Mom’s hand,” he reaches up automatically. He doesn’t care what we dress him in. We do not embarrass him. We’re everything to him. There are so many things about the future that I’m excited about, and so many things that I know I’ll miss about this age and stage. Sometimes I already feel nostalgic for what he’s like right now.

I’m trying so hard to be present every day, to focus on the beauty and meaning of being his mother and watching him grow. I’m not saying anything new when I state that parenting a toddler can be very challenging, and sometimes I think it causes me to not see the forest for the trees. I focus on his whining, or on his refusal to sleep, or on trying to plan activities to keep him occupied, or on the confounding mercurialness of his toddler wants and needs. (“Mom, how dare you offer me grapes! But in 10 seconds, I will scream and whine because I don’t have grapes!”) Those trees can loom large. I’m writing this because I want to remember to look past them, to step back, to see the utter miracle that is the forest.

Happy 2^nd birthday, Will Jiho.

Cusp

We’re riding up Lake Shore Drive in the dark, past 10, after drinks and dinner downtown—Indian or Spanish or Italian. Going home. The lake is opaque, a huge wild darkness on my right; on the left are the twinkling high-rises, the quiet canal, the empty softball fields. The traffic flows smoothly. I play deejay with the iPod: Iron and Wine, the Civil Wars, the Shins, Mason Jennings, Rocky Votolato. The music has changed with time, but we’ve been doing this Saturday-night drive on a regular basis for more than 10 years, just the two of us. Sometimes we sing along:

Life keeps on changing
Tell it to stay still, but it won’t listen
I just want you near me like you are now, for good.

***

It’s been more than two years since I mailed our initial application to adopt from Korea, and we are finally, truly, on the cusp of becoming a family of three. The utter on-the-cuspness of these January days is almost hard to comprehend. I feel compelled to clean out closets and organize drawers. Our extra bedroom is slowly becoming a nursery. There’s a new dresser and lamp, children’s books on the shelf, toys in the closet, gray and yellow and light-orange paint chips on the walls.

I have a coupon for the Gap, and I spend it on tiny track pants, little waffle-knit shirts and an orange T-shirt with a bicycle on it.

There’s a to-do list on our kitchen counter that has items such as “attach bookshelves to wall,” “send Mom addresses for baby shower,” “write list of questions for Will’s foster family.” There’s also a list of restaurants to visit one last time, before restaurant-going becomes a pastime that’s on hold.

On weeknights, while John works, I go to the gym, or meet pals for dinner, or cherish my alone time. I feel slightly freaked out about all of this going away. At the exact same time, I am so ready for everything to change.

***

It’s funny how so many of the best moments of this adoption process have occurred in my office at work. For instance: Yesterday, an email from our social worker, with a video of Will’s first birthday celebration, or dol, taken in November at his foster family’s home. He’s in his hanbok, sitting in his high chair. He smiles, looks around, pounds the table. He can’t reach the traditional dol objects, and his foster brother helps him stand up. He chooses the thread, which signals a long, healthy life, and he looks quite pleased with himself as his foster mother cheers. His foster brother kisses him on the head. Will bonks himself in the face with the thread package. I am utterly transfixed and moved and proud, a little jealous, overwhelmed with love. I watch the video nine times that day.

***

I turn 36. It’s the loveliest of weekends, sunny and crystal cold. It includes a birthday box from Mom and Dad, a beautiful bouquet of flowers from John, a manicure, calls from friends, dinner with family, impromptu drinks with the downstairs neighbor who’s also celebrating his birthday, two outdoor runs, lots of sleep, shopping downtown, dinner at a fabulous Spanish restaurant, drinks at an old jazz club, lunch and a lakefront walk with a friend, and John’s delicious parmesan breaded chicken with homemade tomato sauce. My cup overflows.

***

For my birthday, I wanted a ring with a citrine, which is Will’s birthstone. I scrolled my way through Etsy, and my eye caught a silver honeycombed ring sprinkled with a few small yellow stones. I loved its unique, modern look, so I clicked through to read more about the jeweler—a Korean man who lives in Seoul. Obviously, I bought it.

When the ring arrived, with a beautiful handwritten note of thanks, I emailed the jeweler, told him how much I loved it, and explained why I’d wanted a citrine ring. I told him that Will is in his city right now, and how excited I am to go there. He emailed me back: “Thank you. I hope God bless you. Please take care of him.”

I hope I can do that soon.

Saddishness

It’s the only word I can think of that describes how I feel during January and February. I am not sad, really, nor am I depressed. I don’t feel an unrelenting blueness for days on end. But I do feel saddish on some days… a little melancholy, a little like there’s a dark cloud overhead, a weight. It starts after the New Year, and I expect it to clear right around March 14, when daylight saving time begins. Because then, then, when I get home it will still be light out. And that feels like a key.

There’s the winter darkness, and there’s John’s absence, too. I’ve been married to a CPA for more than eight years, so I know the drill come tax season. Nothing is surprising about it. I’m a person who enjoys alone time, but still, there’s a lot of alone time this time of year, and a lot of inflexibility around John’s job. I suppose the best part is that Friday nights truly feel like “date nights”—we go out for dinner and talk and laugh and catch up, and it’s special, somehow, in a way that isn’t often the case when you’ve been married this long. So thanks for that, tax season, I guess!

I turned 34 a few weeks ago, and I took this photo of myself on my birthday. That week was a good one—weeknight drinks with friends, a fun dinner downtown with John, shopping, blond brownies homemade by Mom. I made a concerted effort to focus on the good stuff. I felt happy about myself, my new age, what that new age will bring.

Our days can’t all be presents and brownies and nights out, obviously, but sometimes life does feel very run-of-the-mill, doesn’t it? The routine can be stifling. The same bowl of cereal, closet of clothes, walk to the el. The same issues at work. The same commute home. Unlocking the door, turning off the alarm, leashing up the dog for her walk in the dark. Struggling against eating the whole box of Triscuits before heading to the gym. Home again, cooking dinner, washing all the dishes. Maybe watching TV, maybe doing some editing, then “The Daily Show,” shower-floss-toothpaste-moisturizer-bed. The same thing the next day.

I don’t want to wish away time, even dark, wintry time. This is the only February 10 of my 34th year that I’m going to get. So lately, I’ve been trying to notice the small flares of brightness and beauty in each day, because they’re there, and they deserve to be savored. Once I start thinking about it, it’s not hard to find them. I may try recording some of them here. Yesterday, a really heartening and cheerful conversation with my doc during my checkup. Homemade chipotle mac-and-cheese at lunch. Stella spying a dark cat running across the snowy sidewalk, her ears pointed straight up like antennae. The neighborhood greystones glowing in the deep silent snow. A mug of peppermint hot cocoa after dinner. There may not be a lot of light to illuminate the good things at this time of year, but the good things are still there.

Birthday portrait; or, playing with Flickr and Blogger

Birthday portrait
Originally uploaded by strass.

I'm just experimenting with posting photos from Flickr directly to my journal. This week, I've also learned how to allow comments on this journal from anyone, not just people who have Blogger accounts. I'm becoming quite the techie!

So anyway, here's a recent photo, taken on my 30th birthday (January 27). We were getting ready to head out for dinner at my favorite Cuban restaurant, Cafe 28. A great meal, and a great night. I feel pretty good about entering a new decade. Although I did pluck seven gray hairs from the right side of my head this morning.

Version 28.0

Originally posted to Diary-X

Just a few days ago, I was a 27-year-old Roman Catholic. Now I’m a 28-year-old Episcopalian. Funny how life works.

John and I officially joined the ranks of the Episcopal Church on Sunday, in a very moving ceremony officiated by the bishop and attended by my in-laws. My parents didn’t come. I don’t think this was out of snobbery or disappointment or a desire to boycott the occasion; they’re just not big travelers, and they have an old poodle that deteriorates rapidly when kenneled, and there was a lot of snow. And anyway, I was simply being “received” into the church (that’s how Catholics and Orthodox who are already confirmed—I was at age 13—make the switch to Anglicanism). John was being confirmed—renewing his commitment to our faith and making the adult pledge to live a Christian life—and that’s a much bigger deal.

The bishop, a somewhat flaky yet reassuringly warm, twinkly-eyed man born in Panama, laid his hands on John’s head, while his parents and I placed our hands on his shoulders and the congregation looked on. The bishop said, “Defend, O Lord, your servant John with your heavenly grace, that he may continue yours forever, and daily increase in your Holy Spirit more and more, until he comes to your everlasting kingdom.”

“Amen,” we all replied.

When John turned away, I think there were tears in his eyes. I know there were tears in mine, and his parents were bright-eyed.

When my turn came, the bishop clasped my right hand in both of his and said, “Amy, we recognize you as a member of the one holy catholic and apostolic Church, and we receive you into the fellowship of this Communion. God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, bless, preserve, and keep you.”

“Amen,” we all replied.

And when we returned to our pew, I reflected on the year-and-a-half-long journey that led us to this day. It wasn’t easy for me to decide to leave my family’s denomination, and I imagine John felt a twinge or two as well. It's been a kind of uprooting. But I know that my faith has grown exponentially since we discovered this little Episcopal parish, and I’m proud that we did this together, for each other; that we’re adopting this as our family faith. (I don’t think you need children to be considered a family.) It’s something that we can both share in equally. It’s a place where we can both feel at home. Sunday was a happy day for us.

And then yesterday, I did the whole turning-28 thing. Unlike last year’s birthday depression, my day was actually quite pleasant, largely because I had the foresight to take it off. (I did have class at night, so it wasn’t a full holiday, but I slept until 10 a.m. and if that’s not a holiday, I don’t know what is.) I drank my coffee leisurely, without having to clutch it between my knees on the train, and I read the Travel and Perspective sections of Sunday’s paper. I talked to my mom and my grandmom. I played with the digital camera. I bonded with Moose. I watched the (heaps and heaps of) snow fall. I read Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them, which I love for making me literally laugh out loud. (Thanks, Al Franken, you national treasure, you!) I climbed around on the Stairmaster for awhile. I ate a chocolate doughnut. I listened to Alison Krauss. When I got home from class, I discovered that someone had placed a delicious chocolate pie, courtesy of Mrs. Smith (venerable lady of the freezer aisle), in the fridge. It was a good day.

My parents sent me a nice little birthday check, which I used to purchase a $160 coat that was 60% off. (Lord how I love January sales.) It is an exceptionally cute ski jacket, perfect for the girl who does not ski yet wants to keep warm and, of course, look cute. It is pale lime-green with a thick white stripe and dark-blue fleece lining. It has a fold-away hood and a myriad of zippered compartments. And while I’m walking Moose or grocery shopping or heading out for coffee, it protects me from the death grip of cold that has been cruelly squeezing Chicago in its fist for a few weeks now.

You know, I feel good about being 28. Is it any scarier than 27? No, not really. As my friend Jess put it, “I think it’s a good age. I feel pretty mature and as if I’m even more settled in to WHO I AM.” That’s not something I could say when I was 22 or 23, and even though back then I was partying, cheap mixed drink(s) in hand, until 2 a.m. on Saturday nights, I would trade those hedonistic days for the wisdom I have now in an instant. It’s a shame that our society doesn't view getting older as a beautiful, rich and rewarding thing. After all, in the end, aren’t we the sum of all the years we’ve lived? The more years you’ve got, the more interesting you’re going to be. And a good gin and tonic is a good gin and tonic at any age.