For Liam, Three Months

My baby boy,

I need to apologize to you.

I said I was done after Ray-Ray entered the world, all eleven pounds of her. Daddy and I were set: two of us, two kids. Equal numbers are important in these things, you know. We were already pretty convinced that your sisters would join numbers against us soon enough; giving them another member to their team seemed like pure folly.

But whatever misgivings about your impending arrival I may have had, they're gone now. Here you are, weighing in at a delicate 9 lb. 1 oz. (more than Fi, but less than Ray), born ten days late (with no intention of coming any sooner). I fell in love immediately. From birth, you have been sweet, kind, and calm. Like your sisters, you have been blessed with a preternatural alertness to your surroundings (you are watching us, taking it all in, mastering the inexplicable physics of the under five crowd) and an exceptionally strong neck.

By one month, you were smiling. By two, you were rolling. In fact, we watched you methodically teach yourself to roll from your back to your belly (a skill most five month olds have yet to master) by using the sleeves of your one-piece sea-animal-themed fuzzy baby pajamas as leverage. it took you a full day, but you did it. And there has been no stopping you since.

You love to stand, to roll, to observe. You love being held and cuddled, you love kisses, and you love books (preferably with flaps to paw at). You love your family - even your crazy sisters who occasionally scare you. You adore your Mammy and your talks with Jampa Joe. You exude love. Are love. And, possibly represent the best qualities in all of us.

Ray-Ray, brand new-ish

Dear Regan,

Your name is pronounced "Ree-gan" - like the usurping daughter from Shakespeare's "King Lear" and not like the president who loved jelly beans.

For about 34 minutes, you were actually "Ray-gun" - which your nickname implies - but then someone cracked a joke that went like this: "Oh, are you a Republican?" Your poor Democratic mommy couldn't handle that. My daughter would not be an homage to conservative values! Nay! And, so, you became Ree-gan, not Ray-gun, and I've cursed you to a lifetime of having to explain that your name and your appellation are, in fact, not the same.

Sorry.

You were born on your due date (Thank you!), although, with you, I had what the doctors called "prodromal labor" which basically means I was in pain for 5-6 days prior to your actual birth with real contractions that just didn't do much. I went into the hospital on a Friday, suffering whenever I walked, and was given some sleepytime meds and sent home with the instructions not to return until my water broke.

Worst. Advice. Ever.

On Sunday morning (March 27th) around 2 a.m or so, my water did, in fact, break. All over my fake Uggs. Not that I'm complaining. Much. Any more.

Dada and I got into the car, and I almost had you in the parking lot of the ER. Exactly eleven minutes after we arrived, you were born. The nurse, who was also the star of some commercial for Chantrix, told me not to push until a doctor arrived. Somehow, I managed to calmly ask her how one might "not push."

There was no epidural, which, I have to say, I was a little sad about. But it's not like you lingered for 8 hours like some other babies I know. You were, however, about two pounds heavier than they expected you to be, weighing in at a subtle and delicate 10 lbs, 7 ounces.

Yowzer.

Almost immediately I noticed how different you were from your sister, not exactly in terms fo physicality but just in personality. Despite the lack of medication involved in your birth, you were very lethargic, spending most of your first day eating and sleeping (emphasis on the latter). You had difficulty latching, although eventually became a champion nurser, and you slept whether or not someone held you.

But, like your sister, you were alert, curious about your world, even from the earliest days, and you continue to surprise with me by how quickly you learn and do things. At nine months, you're crawling, pulling yourself up into standing positions, and working on cruising furniture. You make sounds like resonate like "Mamama" (Fi started off with "Dada" noises) and you've already figured out the purpose of a sippy cup. You are working on your baby signs, mastering quickly the sign for "more" which you use interchangeably as "more," "yogurt," and "all done."

You love your sister, although you choose to show your affection most by grabbing her hair and trying to eat her face. It's adorable, if a little painful. You're strong, so strong, and smart. When you and Fi realize how to combine your powers as one, Dada and I are totally screwed.

I love you so much that sometimes it hurts a little.

Mama

Fiona, age 3 months

Dear Fiona,

This series of pictures are some of my most favorite ones of you. Just so you know. And now when I look at them, I see you and Ray together in that mischievous little face of yours and I love it even more.

When you were born, it was a snowy morning in January. I went to the hospital around midnight, after a day or two of unpleasant contractions and an Unsolved Mysteries marathon on television. I never said this story would be classy.

In planning for your arrival, I'd expressed interest in "natural" delivery, which essentially means I thought, like Giselle Bundchen, that I'd be so blissed out in my maternal glory that I would feel nothing but love. That's bullshit. Labor sucks. Like bad period cramps, impending diarrhea, and a knife to the stomach. Take the epidural. I enjoyed several hours of sleep and a nearly painless, quick delivery and neither you nor I were too drowsy and out of it to bask in each other's glory once you arrived.

And arrived you did, at about 8:33 a.m. while the doctor delivering you and I sang "If I Were a Rich Man" from the seminal musical "The Fiddler on the Roof" which will surely be the bane of your existence whenever you introduce yourself to someone new.

Sorry 'bout that.

Mammy and JenJen were there, crying like babies. Daddy was there, cutting the cord, trying to keep his nerves in check, excited to finally meet the belly monster who caused me so much agony for 42 weeks.

Did I mention you were two weeks late? Yeah. You were. Thanks for that, kiddo.

Then, there you were, warm and squirmy. Beautiful, alert, and fiery. You came out, identified me as mother, and promptly punched my face.

We have pictures to prove it.

And I couldn't have loved you more.

Now, you're almost three years old. You hate to take baths, you have bouts of jealousy over your little sister, and you get very cranky when you haven't slept properly. You're also incredibly smart, already working on reading and math with startling success. You're incredibly artistic, painting pictures for all your grandparents and working on drawing people, letters, presents, and rainbows. And you're incredibly loving, giving amazing hugs, kisses, affectionate pats, and spreading joy wherever you go.

And I couldn't love you more.

I hope this new year brings immense joy to you, and that you don't hold it against me when I take you to get your physical in a couple of weeks and they have to give you shots.

I love you, baby girl.

Mommy

Pieces of Me

It occurs to me, in a moment of exceptionally self-indulgent morbid rumination, that should something happen to me I won't have left anything of substance of myself for my children. No recent journals, no hidden cache of family secrets, no nothing. So, then, there's this blog, which I haven't touched in years (seriously) that I'm now reinventing not for the public but for my loved ones.

This idea is inspired, in part, by the recent death of my grandmother. I remember, quite fondly, spending time over the summers with my Nana, listening to her tell us stories that I now for the life of me can't remember. I'm sure she told me about bands that she liked and the Cocoanut Grove fire. But what she had to say about those things are lost forever to me.

And that's a pity.

So, here we go. Pieces of me.

Before I lose them, too.