on brotherhood

Dear Brothers,

Seeing the two of you -- seven years apart -- awes and amazes me everyday. The swelling in my heart -- big and full and stretching -- is so unexpected. So extraordinary. Watching you together -- one growing so fast into a boy with long legs and large feet, the other still so small with a head full of baby hair and tiny lips parted around only four very small teeth -- it is like finally seeing Life. Finally knowing Love.

Bone -- sometimes, when you aren't too busy building Lego's, you read to Bird before he goes to bed. Just a few nights ago you did this, and I wish I had recorded it. Your reading voice was so full of excitement and inflection. You stopped, pausing here and there, to explain things to Bird ("Chicago is where we live, Baby" and "Look a purple plum, Baby"). I want to forever hold onto the memory of you guiding your brother's tiny hands over the touch-and-feel pages, so gently and carefully, and with so much love.

And Bird, I want to forever remember your sound of squeals and yelps of delight. I want to forever remember the way you adore Bone in a way I never imagined possible. Laughing at him always. Loving him so easily.

I know it will not forever be like this. There will be fights. Most possibly bruises and bites. There will be broken Lego sets, accidents, and many tears cried. The distance between you will grow -- sometimes seeming unbridgeable. But I hope that whatever is forming now -- the love, the sweetness, the adoration, the gentleness -- will always be there somewhere. I hope it is a bond with roots so deep, that they only weather and change and shift in the storms. I hope that this is the foundation of something that stays strong as this complicated thing called Brotherhood unfolds. And I hope that you can remember, like I always will, these early moments of love and how truly extraordinary having a brother can be.

a lesson in guilt

Bird and Bone,

It’s been awhile since I wrote. Summer hit hard. Maybe that’s a good thing, but I still feel guilty. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. There have been daily trips to the pool, picnics on the beach, long walks, cinnamon rolls devoured at the farmer’s market, baseball games, a first strawberry tasting (Bird, you loved it!), and too much ice cream. My camera never made it out. At night, I am too tired to write. In the morning, I sleep in until one of you wakes me up (and then drink a whole lot of coffee).  Things have been good. And still I feel guilty. Still I wish I had taken pictures, recorded the moments.

That’s the thing about guilt – it creeps up on you when you least expect it. When you shouldn’t let it. It is an inevitable part of Motherhood. Of parenthood. When (or if), you boys have kiddos of your own, remember this  -- it really is the moments that matter. The late night ice cream eating, the too much popcorn munching, the unexpected surprise of cold beach water rushing over your toes. And  if you forget to take pictures, or are too tired to write and record – screw it. Seriously.  And instead curl up on the couch with your kids and eat an ice cream sandwich.

I love you both more than baseball games, coffee, and ice cream sandwiches.

ribfest

We wanted to go here this weekend, but sometimes -- after a weekend at baseball games and the local pool -- going anywhere just seems like too much.

And so instead, we made our own Ribfest. We put Bird to bed and  binged on Portillo's ribs, microwave baked potatoes, and beer (Coke -- for you, Bone). And afterwards, instead of sitting in traffic, we played poker on the living room floor.

sticks, sheets and imagination

Dear Bone,

When I was your age, Gigi and I lived at your Nana's house. I loved your Nana's house. I still do. But as a child, I loved her side yard more than anything else. It was a secret place. A long passage way that felt like a darker version of The Secret Garden. It was a place shaded by bushes and trees -- cool even on the hottest summer days. It had a floor made of mud, and was the perfect place for burying treasures (and dead hamsters). It was hideaway. A fortress. A place of stones, sticks and imagination.

We aren't lucky enough to live in a small brick bungalow with an attic full of treasures or a hidden side yard full of secrets -- but I still want you to have a place where your imagination can soar. A simple place that you make magical. So yesterday I pointed out the perfect fort building spot between a cluster of trees and shrubs along the side of our coop. I equipped you and our neighbor with two polka-dot sheets, clothes pins, your Crazy Fort set, and lanterns leftover from a Cinco DeMayo party. And then I let you go to work.

You planned, you created, you built. You strung the lanterns, added chairs and a small table to play chess on. You ate Fritos from a plastic bowl. You added a tabletop terruim for decoration. You imagined.

And I smiled.

two blues

Dear Bird,

This is your Gigi (the name she choose for Grandma when Bone was born). I think you look just like her. You are little, pale skinned, and have two very round and very blue eyes. Gigi wishes someone would take more pictures of her with you. With Bone. With everyone. I am going to try.

There is so much more to tell you about your Gigi, but right now you are calling (crying) from your crib, and your brother is pestering me about going to Target with Gigi to "pick something out."*

I love you and your two blues.

*Pretty soon Gigi will take you on "pick something out" trips. And I am sure you will love them.

summer is a holiday

Dear Bone,

Today was the last day of school. You only go for an hour, so technically yesterday was the last FULL day of school. Either way -- you are ready for summer. Me, I'm not so sure. It will be my first summer of TWO boys. And the first time in NINE months that you have been home with me and Bird ALL day EVERY day. I made a daily schedule, I have activities planned, I started reading a book about meditation ...

I am still nervous. But today -- today was a good day. There was sunshine, water play, neighborhood friends, a donut cake, fried chicken picnic dinner, and some serious hula hooping. Quintessential summer.

Dear Bird,

You could care less that today was the last day of school. Summer is not quite as exciting until you start kindergarten (or, at the very least, care about something other than eating and finding a way to get electrical cords into your mouth). But you did love the elephant who sprinkled water from his extra long trunk.

I love you both more than summer sunshine, donut cakes, and sprinklers.