Such a big day we had last Sunday. Our littlest boy turned 3 years old!

There was a birthday crown, which — surprise! surprise! — he actually wore!

And there were grandpas and grandmas all over the place! Even RoRo and Nana. And special friends and Auntie Kellie came too.

And balloons arrived, which sent the Birthday Boy over the MOON with excitement and inspired many crazy antics!

We had decorated with the birthday bunting and this repurposed Christmas wreath and purple and yellow primroses in pots, and everything looked so festive.

We ate croissant sandwiches and salad and potatoes and strawberries for lunch.

Asher got many lovely presents, including toys like this helicopter and a special doctor’s kit, and big-boy underpants with Thomas the Train on them …

and delightful new books (and we read every one of them three times that day)!

Asher got his wish for a purple hippo chocolate birthday cake. (And mommy got to reuse a specialty cake pan bought last year for Lucas’s birthday. Win win!)

Our guests fussed over the Birthday Boy, who was happy and acting out and a trifle overwhelmed when everyone left—but not so worn out that he couldn’t horse around with his brother for a while, read all his new books, run with the balloons, play doctor, and go for a walk through the neighborhood before he collapsed in a sleepy pile on my bed with me. We both napped that day and it was the best birthday present I could have asked for.

It was a happy birthday!

Oh, Asher!

Three? Three years old? Already?

I suppose all of my birthday letters start out this way: How can you be this age already? (And isn’t Mommy predictable?)

Let me try to explain:

Mommy lives in two times, simultaneously.

In one timeline, the days are 30 hours each and they lumber by in no hurry because, really, where is there to go? There are runny noses to wipe and spills to mop. Toys spread out and toys are gradually raked back into their proper places, ebbing in and out, much like waves on a beach. Our rhythm and routines are routine; they simply push us through the hours slowly. There’s no real urgency because tomorrow will be very much like today or yesterday. Life is punctuated by visits to and from grandparents and trips to the grocery store. I only know it’s Tuesday because we’re out of Strauss vanilla yogurt. We creep silently toward each weekend with some anticipation because then Daddy will be home during the day and we’ll all enjoy his company.

The other timeline is faster and, frankly, I think you’re completely unaware of it. You don’t realize how quickly you are changing because you have plenty of other things to think about, like whether Lucas is touching your stuff or Daddy remembered to buy more yogurt. You don’t notice that you’re acquiring new information so fast it makes my head spin. Shiny new words pop out of your mouth every hour and sometimes I have to stop and wonder, where on earth did you hear that? I can practically watch your hair growing.

This is the timeline that people with older or grown children always refer to when they say, “Oh! It goes by so fast! Treasure the time when your baby is little!” And sleepily I think to myself, Bull! It doesn’t go fast. In fact, the minutes between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. numbered about 40,000 this morning. Because when we’re in it, in the trenches of every hour of every day, it’s slow going. But even as I restrain my temper and hold my tongue, I know those other parents are right, in a way. They’re talking about how one minute you need help to reach something on the countertop and the next minute you’re pushing me away with a forceful demand, “I do it by mySELF!” One minute you’re all about cuddling in the rocking chair, and the next you cannot be bothered because, as you explain so clearly, “Mom, I’m too busy.” And one day you won’t want to cuddle at all anymore and you’ll be borrowing my car keys and scrounging in my purse for cash. And then I’ll think just like all those other parents. I’ll know that my stint of living in two times is over, and they’ve merged into one, luge-like race.

But never mind. Let’s not borrow trouble, shall we?

And how can my meager words capture a picture of you now, on your third birthday, about to start your fourth year in our family? I guess I’ll start small.

You now have a wealth of likes and dislikes and you’re not afraid to tell us all about them. Your favorite colors are yellow and purple—your birthday cake was purple. Your favorite animal seems to be a hippo, although you also like cows, and mice, and aliens. I’m pretty sure you think aliens are just another everyday barnyard animal. You also think hippos and monkeys and zebras belong on farms, too. You enjoy the Bennetts’ cats a lot, but grandma’s dog Tolly is just a bit too tall and bouncy for you to feel entirely comfortable around her. She always licks your face and her tail accidentally bops you in the side of your head. Bacon (NoNo and Mars’s dog) is another story! You cannot get enough of Bacon and you think it’s hilarious that his name is Bacon!

Pretend play and role-playing are coming into the forefront of your play routines. You like to play firefighter, alien hunter, superhero, builder, guardian of Princess Mommy, store, and office—these last two games mostly involve your dumping everything you own (and much of your brother’s stuff) in a giant pile and then sitting in the middle of it—not unlike a 3-year-old dragon lazing atop your mountain of stolen gold.

Until just recently, you did all of your playing in the family room (where you could make the pile of stuff really big). You seem now to have discovered your bedroom, and have turned it into a factory. You are playing in there now more than ever before and you really like to have a witness. “Do you want to come in my factory?” you invite sweetly. You don’t like hearing no for an answer, though. At the moment, the train table is piled high with your toys all in a jumble. If I move anything, if I put any little thing away and you catch me doing it, you get really mad at me. Nothing will send you into a rage faster than when we touch your stuff. “DON’T TOUCH MY STUFF!”

About one week ago, we touched your stuff in a big way. We moved your brother’s bed into your room with the idea that the two of you will share a bedroom for a while. We had been discussing it for about a month and you and Lucas are very excited about it. You even became convinced it was your idea. “How ‘bout this idea? Lucas’s bed up high and Baby Asher’s bed down here!” So far this is working out pretty well. You don’t want to go to sleep at the same time as Lucas, but I think that’s just a matter of time and our sticking to it. We have let you stay up too late for too long for you to easily accept an abrupt change of routine and an earlier bedtime. We’re making the bedroom move in stages. It is our sincere hope that this will be a very positive thing for you and Lucas both. We’re hoping it might bring you closer together and encourage you to get along well. We’ll see…

Just this morning, the morning of your third birthday, you ran into our room and made a pronouncement. I was asleep at the time, so I don’t remember exactly what you said, but I remember thinking, My goodness! He really has learned to talk! Every day you perfect the art of communicating with us. You also are developing a juvenile sense of humor: Your favorite words now are “booty butt” and “poop,” which are both understandable and somewhat embarrassing. I mean, it’s not good manners to tell all the adult women you know “You have a big booty butt.” I’ve caught myself trying to soften the blow by warning my female friends before you can spring that little gem on them. You seem to say it just to see what will happen, given that you make the same size comment on a great variety booty butts.

You ask me pretty often these days whether I have a penis. When I answer in the negative, you’re not pleased and frequently claim you don’t have one either. Worse, you sometimes say something like “I don’t want a penis. I cut it off.” I assure you that penises are good and nice and you should have one. Boys have them and it’s great!

Asher, I’m delighted to report that you are learning to eat vegetables. You still would rather not do it, but you have a more pragmatic approach to mealtimes now. If you want dessert (often strawberries or oranges or apple slices), you have to muscle your way through some spinach leaves or a couple of carrots. I bless your preschool teachers every time you accept your fate and start munching on plant foods. You’re acquiring a taste for potatoes and the other day you even dove into a pile of asparagus. I said a silent hallelujah while hushing your brother’s groans and moans about having to eat it. You still ask for “chocolate dinner,” though, as if you’ve ever gotten a chocolate dinner! When you cook for me in your kitchen, you often serve chocolate dinners.

I noticed that you were developing an aversion to the doctor’s office. We have had to visit Dr. Felix three or four times this fall/winter; the first time was for a flu shot. You began protesting, saying “I don’t need a doctor. Doctor is creepy. I don’t go to the doctor.” We have started playing doctor in the hopes that you would build up more positive associations, and for your birthday, we bought you a groovy doctor’s kit and stethoscope. I think you’re more comfortable now with the idea that doctors fix people and make them feel better. Today at your birthday party you blew through all the band-aids that came in the kit. You say, “Be really, really brave” as you come at me with your wooden hypodermic needle. All the party guests left with their owies well treated by Doctor Baby Asher.

And speaking of your name, you still refer to yourself as Baby Asher. Sometimes you announce “I a big boy.” I think that your teachers are working on that idea at school. After all, big boys get to do more cool stuff. You have proven me wrong about the potty training—you still have no interest in using the potty. Silly mommy, making false predictions about when you’d learn those potty skills! Still, I’m hoping that your buddy at school will inspire you to start doing it. And I know boys tend to train later than girls do.

Occasionally, you are a furious wildcat when it’s time for a nap. The other day I held you in my arms and swayed on my feet while you howled and spit, clawed and hissed, groaned and growled, thrashed and scratched and wailed for 35 minutes. Then, you collapsed in a heap and slept for two solid hours. You just don’t want to rest. You are far to busy doing your own thing. But I persist and I fervently hope that you will continue napping through the next year at least.

Dear Asher, you are both my fascination and my tiny little nemesis. You offer us such joy, such pleasure, and such tribulation! You are my perfect, exquisite little torturer and I love you through it all. Thank you for being my darling, my Angel Boy. Thank you for falling asleep in my arms and by my side. Thank you for gracing my life will all the laughter, snuggles, and goofy grins. My heart is full to bursting. My life is richer for you.

I love you, Baby. My Little Big Boy Asher. Happy Birthday!

Mama

We’ve been working today, getting ready for Asher’s birthday tomorrow. The bunting I made is hung, the pillowcase I sewed for him is done, the birthday crown I decided just yesterday to make for him is done but for the final fitting and seam. The cake is baked and cooling, and it will be ready for decorating tomorrow morning.

I took a ton of photos today, but here are a few of my favorites.

I’m not a very patient person. About a hundred times a day, I have to take a deep breath and try to start over. Try to put aside the anger or frustration of the last moment and enter this moment with calm and right intention.

Start over.

It’s a practice; it often fails me, or I fail at it, but sometimes it works. It’s a constant effort to achieve forgiveness and regain my patience because we four bumble around each other in this smallish space, spilling food and bonking heads and fetching water and failing to share and making room and feeding bellies and cleaning messes. Without this starting over, this negotiation and mindful regrouping, we would never get through the day—any day, even the good ones.

I write here about the things I want to focus on, the good feelings, the good moments of family life because I want to remember them. Truly, our lives are so full and we enjoy so much good fortune. Conversely, I really try not to wallow in my feelings of frustration and rage, for doing so doesn’t do me any good and it harms the people around me. My children thrive when I’m present and patient. When I’m insane and shouting, we are all miserable. So I write to remember the good things someday in the future, but also to regroup and refocus right now on why I do what I do, why I am here and not elsewhere. It helps me remember my purpose, it helps me feel better about who I am and my current place in the universe. It helps me start over.

It’s easy for me to slip into complaining, and while I do think that occasionally writing about the crappy parts of this Mommy job is essential to maintaining my sanity, I try hard not to do it all the time. For if I don’t actively write about the great stuff, the sweet parts of this work, I easily drift off-course into dreary waters where dragons lurk.

For me, it’s a constant internal struggle and sometimes—usually—my riotous feelings must be subsumed in the needs of the family. Sometimes I hate it and want to break things, but doing so doesn’t change anything for anybody for the better. So I start over. Sometimes, on the other hand, I do have to cry or walk away for a while—to take care of myself and also to show my kids that I am a human being, that my feelings can be hurt when they are careless. If I’m careful about when I reveal this notion that Mommy is human, it can help us all start over. Sometimes I shout and lose it, and then crushing waves of guilt knock me off my feet. And then, once again, I start over.

The truth is, when Daddy is with us, I feel like 100 percent better and really do stay happier and in the moment. We can take turns being the strong/good one. He is my best friend and when he’s with me, it’s easy to see and feel how gorgeous all this that we have together is, how blessed we are. It’s when he is away and I’m with the kids for hours and hours without him that I start feeling lonely and stuck and jealous and hurt and a little bit like … how the hell did I get here?

And then some milk spills, or someone gets hurt, or the oven beeps, or a diaper needs changing, or a book needs reading aloud. Something happens—whatever this moment holds. I take a deep breath, and I start over.

My mud monster with eyes like the sea. Lucas spent this day sliding in the mud at school. Because on a muddy December play yard at a Waldorf school, nobody is going to stop you from doing it. I’m grateful for that. And then at home, after this photo was taken, Lucas learned how to put a load of laundry into the washer. I’m grateful for that, too.

We got to spend some time alone together Thursday night and it was so good. Lucas and I attended the Las Posadas celebration at his school, saw some friends, ate a churro, and he got to hit the piñata. At first, it was a little stilted; we were in our own two worlds with our own distractions. But some satsumas and a candy from the piñata, and then some salad, yummy pizza, and conversation helped. We played a few games of Connect Four at the pizza parlor, and then we puzzled our way through a face-guessing game without any instructions. It was fun and got us all warmed up and connected. At home, still just the two of us, we got Lucas ready for bed and read some Christmas stories. We even sang the “Twelve Days of Christmas” with gusto along with the picture book. And we snuggled.

I’m struck by how much my relationship to this boy has changed since his brother arrived. There was a time when Lucas and I were completely inseparable. I love him completely and am reminded that there needs to be time for just us.

I wish I could say I am the picture of calm. I often am not. Today I had both kids home “sick,” although they don’t look very sick to me. In some ways it was good to spend my time thinking about things other than my textbook deadlines. I tried really hard to be the domestic goddess. I sewed, cooked, cleaned, laundered, and baked—with yeast. I have been successful. I also have lost my cool several times.

And now that it is 4:53 p.m., I would like to walk out the door wearing high heels and not come back until tomorrow morning. I would like, for a while, to be a dancing, on-my-own, free-as-a-bird goddess.

Just saying.

Instead, let’s talk about Santa Lucia and the festival that we’ve been preparing for this week. Lucas’s class will be visiting all the grades in the school, singing songs and delivering Santa Lucia buns to every student and teacher in the school. Lucia was a pious girl who ended up tortured and suffering. She is thought to have brought food and drink to poor people in Sweden and the Swedes love her.  (When Ian lived in Sweden, he participated in a Santa Lucia festival and sang songs to his college profs wearing a pointy Star Boy hat.)

But I digress.

The traditional Lucia festival was held on the 13th of December, which the Internet tells me was the winter solstice during the middle ages. The festival is, at heart, a festival of light designed to honor the darkest moment of the year in the hopes that by doing so we can encourage the light to return. In Sweden, the oldest girl in the family rises early, bakes Lucia buns, wears a crown of lighted candles, and with her siblings, serves her parents buns and sings traditional songs.

Lucas has a special role to play in the Lucia festival. He is the youngest boy in his class, so he will be dressed as a gnome, in an all-red gnome outfit with a pointy hat. The hat I made from scratch out of wool felt. I sewed a little gold star on it for a decoration. Then I went hunting for red sweatpants. Target, K-Mart, Penny’s, and even Wal-Mart do not have red sweatpants. I went to the thrift store and found some that were rather too big, but, for $1.98, possibly not too, too big. I chopped off the extra length on the legs, hemmed them, and then doubled the waistband an inch or so in the back, and stitched it together. I had hoped I might be able to open the elastic waist, cut it, and cinch it tighter, but it was stitched down all the way around. Still, I think now they won’t fall off him.

I volunteered to bake Santa Lucia buns, so that was today’s major project. I am happy to say they are edible! I’m not a big bread-maker. I don’t know how many years it’s been since I made a yeast bread. The kids helped and when they were done, we sampled a couple. Pretty tasty. But it seemed to me the dough did not rise as much as it should have. I probably should have practiced before baking for reals.

It feels like forever since I wrote. It’s been such a busy time for me—lots of projects all stacked up on each other, but I think I’m through the worst (best?) of it now. I’m feeling accomplished in this area of my life, but neglectful in others.

My boys have been sick and so everyone is moving slow. Lucas is now better finally and back to school. Ian and Asher are still ill and spending the days playing Legos, watching movies, reading books, building block towers, moving huge piles of toys and things from one end of the house to another, and other low-key things. Ian can work from home a little when he feels up to it.

Although I’m sorry he isn’t feeling well, Ian’s being home the last few days has allowed me to keep my work moving forward and hit my deadlines. This is a huge relief.

On the mothering side, I feel I’m falling down on the job. I mean, nobody’s dying from neglect. Everyone’s adequately nourished and safe. But I usually like to pay a little more attention to my children. It’s five days until Halloween and we don’t even have costumes in the works. No decorations have been hung. The two pumpkins grandma grew in her garden are sitting in the backyard, instead of gracing our front porch. I bought our Pumpkin Path tickets for Saturday night, but that’s about it. Lucas would dearly love to spookify our house and I just haven’t had the time.

We missed the Sacramento Waldorf School’s Harvest Faire on Saturday, which was a real shame because it’s always such fun. But nobody in our family except me was in good enough shape to go out and have fun. At least I got my Children’s Store donations in (nine needle-felted mice, some small, blank journals, and 25 sets of three note cards featuring fairies, mushrooms, flowers, and cute garden snails). I hope to do more next year. (We did more last year!)

I’m looking forward to Asher being well again. I’m always on edge when he is coughing and congested at night. He makes the most horrible choking sounds!

OK, that was fun. Now I must get back to work!

With the change of seasons, it’s time to move the warm-weather clothing aside to make way in drawers and closets for cold-weather clothing. I spent a couple of hours yesterday doing just that with Asher’s things.

This might be a rather tedious task to perform several times a year, except it makes me feel connected to moms and families all over the world whenever I do it. It doesn’t even matter what hemisphere you’re in. Chances are, if you have kids, you also are busy buying, making, sorting, evaluating, mending, packing, and unpacking belongings for your children because they’re always growing.

Will this fit next summer? Is this shirt still nice enough to save for the baby? Who has a child the right age to get more use out of these boots? Do these pants go into the donation box? These questions are being asked everywhere.

I pulled lots of 18 to 24 month clothes out of Asher’s dresser and filled a big shopping bag and a box full of clothing we no longer need. Some pieces are handmade by Grandma Sydney, including little matching Hawaiian shirts and shorts sets. I’m very happy I know a little boy who will grow into these things soon enough. It feels good to pass them on to dear friends.

We are rather lucky in that we have a mountain of things in our garage waiting patiently for Asher to grow into them. I pulled out the 3T box yesterday and pawed through it. The pants are all too big still, but many of the shirts will be useful this winter and beyond. It was a little like shopping for new things—kind of exciting in that way. But it was more like rediscovering old friends. I sometimes remember who gave the item to Lucas, or who made it for him, or where we were when we bought it. Even some of the stains are familiar. As I pulled out items from the box that was nearly as tall as Lucas is, memories of younger Lucas flooded my mind. It was bittersweet.

Ian has occasionally chafed at the amount of space all this STUFF takes up in his garage. But I know he’s happy to be saving the money because we don’t have to outfit our toddler from scratch. I’m so grateful to have the hand-me-downs, to use them again for Asher. I really like that these clothes get an extended life. What about the things that don’t yet fit? They go back into the garage to wait a bit longer.

There dims in damp autumnal air

The senses’ luring magic;

The light’s revealing radiance

Is dulled by hazy veils of mist.

In distances around me I can see

The autumn’s winter sleep;

The summer’s life has yielded

Itself into my keeping.

—Rudolf Steiner (verse for the week of September 8–14)

It’s been a busy, busy week full of adjustments for everyone. Lucas went back to school on Tuesday. There was much rejoicing by his proud parents. He looked ready,  brave, and determined.

Lucas and Asher on the first day of school.

Honestly, I’m so excited for him. This year is going to be wonderful, full of friends, new confidence, Saints and fables to inspire us, as well as dragons to conquer.

Right before entering the second-grade classroom.

We have had some struggles this week. Daddy had to go out of town for a conference on Wednesday morning, and we are emotionally at sea without our anchor. We are used to our days without Daddy, but when evening sneaks in we all look around at each other and miss him terribly. Asher has had a much harder than usual time at Ring-A-Rosies preschool and had to be picked up early two days. He is adjusting to Lucas being gone at school and Daddy not coming home at night, and he’s quite sure the scenario stinks. “I miss my daddy. I want my brother!”

As if to emphasize that change is in the air, Lucas’s top right incisor leaned sooooooo far out of his mouth that Lucas couldn’t help himself; he simply pried it out. And so, my 7-and-1/4-year-old son now has a giant window in his smile, and an adult tooth moving in fast.

See how delighted he is?

Look at the size of that gap!

As you can see, he is quite thrilled about the change and told me all about how he pushed the tooth back until it just popped out “… and there was this dangly gut thingy hanging there!”

We got to use the Tooth Fairy Pillow I made him for the third time, and this morning a $2 bill was sticking out of the pocket.

We all have big plans for the weekend: I’m flying down to Santa Barbara tonight for my first vacation alone with my husband in three years. I went to college in Santa Barbara for two years, and I haven’t been there since 1992. Ian and I courted there, so I’m thinking of this trip as a little honeymoon that we desperately need.

The boys will be going to my parents’ house, who will undoubtedly spoil them and feed them ice-cream sandwiches and sausages and pizza and all their favorite things. I can tell Lucas and Asher are anxious (as evidenced by the tantrums and invented neck aches and “too warm” foreheads), and possibly this isn’t the best weekend for me to leave them, after such an eventful week. And I’m tempted to feel tremendously guilty about it.

Nevertheless, I’m carrying on in the belief that a happy, rested mama, who has had the chance to have fun, reconnect with her husband, and recharge her marriage, will be a better mother for them in the long run.

And they will be fine.

I am very disciplined about keeping my dreams in check. I don’t allow myself much time to wish or ponder much other than my reality (which is really good—I promise I count my blessings often). Anyway, in part this habit is an effort to live in the present with my family and “be here now,” as they say. Maybe it’s also a survival mechanism. There isn’t a lot of point in fantasizing about my dream job or what white sand beach I’d like to be lying on when these fripperies aren’t in my cards right now. Honestly, I don’t spend a lot of time doing it.

So I didn’t think about Burning Man much before the start of this week. I watched with casual interest as people I know and love packed up their dusty belongings and trundled off to Black Rock City to be their truest selves for a week. On Monday, opening day of the festival, I imagined driving in to Greeters  and falling into that first welcome home hug, the blowing winds, the light so bright you must wear sunglasses. On Tuesday I realized Asher’s present age (2 years and 7 months) is actually just a few months older than Lucas’s age when he first went to the playa in 2004—our ill-fated Burn, when we stayed only 51 hours.  I looked at a photo of feverish baby Lucas at Burning Man, trying to have fun despite his racking pneumonia.

On Wednesday, I lost my mind. I had a bad day. My son and I argued and my feelings got hurt. I spent a ton of time driving around lost, listening to Raffi. I had a cranky, overtired baby on my hands. I missed my limited opportunity to work on important projects. In short, I went a little nutso, succumbing to stress and worry and letting stuff get to me. I spent an evening gnashing my teeth in a dear friend’s living room, enumerating all the things that feel out of control and frightening in my world, and crying over all the things I wish I could be doing.

I guess I had to say this painful stuff out loud. Sometimes I need to be heard, no matter how ugly my words sound to my own ears. My patient friend listened, offered me her enduring love, and suggested perhaps it’s OK that I don’t do it all.

It wasn’t until today, Thursday, that my friend and I both realized that I unwittingly followed my own tradition of completely freaking out on Wednesday of Burning Man week. (It’s not only my pattern though. Lots of people experience it, too). It’s the halfway point of the festival. It’s the day when I’m swept up in a whirlwind of intense emotion and physical stress, and all of my normal layers of protection peel off me like so much sunburned skin. A good, intense cry—some serious wailing into the wind— is usually needed on Wednesday. A catharsis of explosive proportions is almost always in order. The shrapnel is actually expected by friends and campmates, and they duck or provide emergency aid or ululate alongside me, as they are able.

I guess this catharsis is needed in real life, too. Sometimes I just have to screech so my own voice will drown out the harpies.