A Decade

My boy.

Born July 10, 2003

9 lbs. 3 oz. 

 

GetAttachment

 

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Sloan-3yrs

 

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Photo by Avodah Images. One of my all time favorites. AvodahImages.com

Photo by Avodah Images. One of my all time favorites. AvodahImages.com

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He has ten year old Hobbit Feet now...

He has ten year old Hobbit Feet now…

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My baby is ten today.

A decade.

Double digits.

Never to be single digits again.

I really, really love who this kid is becoming.

Pardon me while I go have a piece of cake.

Four is More

Four.

It all just happened really…

Really…

Really…

Reeeeaaallllyyy…

Fast.

No longer a baby.

Loaded with personality.

“Wiggle your nipples, Dad!” he begged last night.

Different day. Different blog. Definately a story that needs to be told.

Part of me longs for one more day with this baby.

Probably the same part of me that wishes I was still in my twenties…

But mostly, I just really adore this amazing little boy.

This boy who turns FOUR today.

Happy Birthday, Landon.

Visual proof of the personality that keeps us in stiches. Man, I love this kid…

 

He Is Dad: A Repost

Today is my Dad’s birthday and while I’d like to write up a lovely tribute in his honor, I’m not sure I can top what I wrote last year.  So I am going to repost it with a great big, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD attached to it.

Many of you already read this, so don’t feel like you need to read it again.  But, if you’d like to leave my Dad a Happy Birthday comment, I’m sure it would make his day…and maybe embarrass him just a little bit.  Which given the fact that he thrived on embarrassing me in high school, I’d say that would  be a fitting gift.

I love you, Dad.

Originally posted October 10, 2010

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I am two or three years old*. I’m on stage at our church singing my first solo – Away in a Manger. My hair is curled and I have on a lacy dress. Is it blue? I can’t remember. I am standing in front of the mic singing and he is below, at the bottom of the steps, with a camera in his hand. He is skinny and has thick brown hair that sits atop his head like a football helmet. He has a mustache that looks like it needs to be combed every day.

He is Daddy.

I am six year old. I am wobbling down our Wisconsin driveway on two wheels. He is running along beside me. “Pedal faster!” “You’re doing great!” “Keep your head up!” “You can do it!” He lets go and I take off, thrilled at my accomplishment.

He is encourager.

I am seven years old. We are driving in the car and the tape deck is blaring Paul Simon. He is singing loudly, drumming the steering wheel. “I can call you Betty and Betty when you call me, you can caaaallll meee Al. Call me Al.” He laughs and I laugh too. And together we sing.

He is fun.

I am nine years old. It’s Christmas morning and my brother and I are sitting at the top of the steps waiting for our parents to let us come down to open presents. It’s 4:00 am. I hear mom stumbling through the kitchen making coffee. She comments about the ungodly hour of our awaking and I hear him laugh. The he comes around the corner singing “We wish you a Merry Christmas” and we know it’s safe to come down. We tear into the living room to see the tree lit and him dancing around it.

He loves Christmas morning.

I am ten years old and we are at Busch Gardens water park in Tampa. I want to go down the big, plunging water slide but I’m nervous. He tells me that if I do it he will do it. Never one to back down from a challenge, I go down the water slide and he follows suit, shaking his head the whole time. “I didn’t think you’d do it,” he admits sheepishly as he climbs the stairs.

He keeps his promises.

I am eleven. He brings us into the living room and sits us down. He tells us that he got a new job and we’re going to move to a place I’ve never heard of – St. Louis. I cry and react with prepubescent flair. “I don’t care if it’s a neat city. I don’t know anyone there. I don’t waaannnna go.” He is probably hurt by my reaction, but he doesn’t let on.

He is understanding.

I am twelve years old. The neighbor boy is taunting and pushing me so I take a swing at him. He swings back and a full blown fight breaks loose. I land a punch and he takes off running. Later that night his mom calls to inform us that I gave her son a black eye. After I get the obligatory “you can’t get into fist fights” lecture he looks at me and grins, winks and says, “Way to go, slugger.”

He is awesome.

I am twelve years old. My mom received a call in the middle of the night that her sister was in a coma after having a severe reaction to a surgery. I get home from school and he is there, standing in the kitchen – waiting. “Where’s mom?” I ask. “She left on a flight to South Carolina,” he answered softly. “How’s Aunt Joy?” I ask, dread settling in. He pulls me close. “She passed away,” he whispered. This is my first encounter with death. And he holds me.

He is comforting.

I’m in eighth grade. My parents have temporary custody of my three cousins. The house is filled with emotionally confused children. We fight incessantly. He is in the middle of Washington University’s MBA program. Life is hard. I walk into his room one night to see him sitting at the desk staring blankly at the wall. I give him a hug.

He is stressed.

I’m a high school sophomore and I play saxophone for my high school Jazz Band. We are in Columbia for the All State competition. We are playing a difficult piece that I struggled to learn. We win first place. As a former Jazz Bander I know he is excited. I see him clapping his hands raw.

He is proud.

I am sixteen and I’ve had my driver’s license for all of 48 hours when I go to a school football game. While pulling into a parking space I hit another car, denting my car all the way down the side. Let me say that again for effect…I hit a parked car! I call him from a post-game party at a friend’s house after deciding that I shouldn’t let my guy friends try to bang out the dents with a hammer.

He is angry.

I’m a high school junior and I’m sitting on the floor of my room trying for the life of me to figure out the sum of x divided by y multiplied by 4,899. Algebra…the bane of my existence. He comes in and sits beside me. He takes a halting breath and tells me he lost his job. Then he cries and apologizes. He is out of work for several months before getting a pretty interesting and lucrative offer in Seattle. It would be a great career move. But he ultimately declines and accepts a job here in St. Louis that is a 25% pay decrease so he doesn’t have to uproot us.

He is self sacrificing.

It’s the summer before my senior year and he takes me on a trip to Colorado for a week. We challenge each other to climb mountains, we white water raft and we spend a week exploring. He lets me vent and complain about all my teenagery problems. I am angsty and hormonal and not always pleasant, but he pushes forward and we make memories – just the two of us.

He is involved.

I’m a senior in high school and preparing to graduate. Our church has a Sunday morning dedication to graduating seniors and he blubbers in the microphone about how I “better not bring home some snot nosed little Texas boy asking to marry me.”

He is a softie.

I am a sophomore in college performing in my first dinner theater. He stands in the back and video tapes the whole thing. I can hear him whistling and shouting on the tape.

He is supportive.

It’s 1998 and I’m studying in Ukraine for a semester. He calls and says he’ll be in London over Thanksgiving and asks if I’d like to meet him there. He picks me up from the airport on Thanksgiving night and we go to a Pizza Hut in London for dinner.

He is a great date.

I’m a junior in college and the family comes for a long weekend. I introduce them to a “friend” named Lee who spends an odd amount of time talking with them. Later when they drive home he tells mom that “that boy was awfully interested for someone who is just a friend.”

He is discerning.

I am twenty two and we are preparing to walk down the aisle. I have tears in my eyes as I look at him. He looks back with tear filled eyes. I am grateful for him and I know our relationship is going to change….I didn’t know it would change for the better. In that moment I was so flooded with love for him that I turned into a weepy, blubbery mess.

He is Father of the Bride.

I’m twenty five, lying in a hospital bed, and I hand him a squirming little bundle. He picks up his first grandchild and smiles gently. Even though I know that hospitals make him uncomfortable and he’s worried about how I’m doing, I see his face light up.

He is Grandpa Boss.

I am thirty *ahem* and I need business advice. I call him and he spends time he doesn’t have talking with me, giving me guidance, editing contracts and developing my professionalism. I call, email, text him multiple times and despite the fact that he is wicked busy, he takes the time to help me out.

He is advisor.

He is wise, discerning, strong, tender-hearted and giving. He loses his temper easily but is even quicker to ask for forgiveness. He is humble and I can almost guarantee he’ll tell me I’m giving him much more credit than he deserves. He is gracious and funny and has a wicked sense of humor. He works hard (too hard) but also knows how to relax.

He is Dad.

And who am I? I am that proud and grateful daughter who kind of adores him.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you!

*There is a great likelihood that I did not get all of the details of the early memories exactly right. They often appear to me as small snippets, like a technicolor film (never black and white…I’m not that old). I did the best I could to list accurate details. 🙂

My Christmas Baby

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 December 16, 2007

My Christmas Baby.

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 The boy who almost wasn’t.

The one who wasn’t planned.

 The sweetest oops there ever was.

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 The boy who was adored from the moment he arrived.

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 A child of a thousand expressions.

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 Sloan Russian Concert 050

 Joyful and full of laughter.  You light up a room. 

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 You’re a mama’s boy. 

 I’m okay with that.

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 I’m kind of head over heels for you. 

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 You have a special relationship with your dad.

 You bond over sports. 

 I love watching this relationship develop.

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 You are a lover of baseball, basketball, football, anything with a ball.

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Today you are three.

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 Not five ( or seven) as you are prone to tell those who ask.

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Happy Birthday, Landon.

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You are loved.

He is Dad

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I am two or three years old*.  I’m on stage at our church singing my first solo – Away in a Manger.  My hair is curled and I have on a lacy dress.  Is it blue?  I can’t remember.  I am standing in front of the mic singing and he is below, at the bottom of the steps, with a camera in his hand.  He is skinny and has thick brown hair that sits atop his head like a football helmet.  He has a mustache that looks like it needs to be combed every day.

He is Daddy.

I am six year old.  I am wobbling down our Wisconsin driveway on two wheels.  He is running along beside me.  “Pedal faster!”  “You’re doing great!”  “Keep your head up!”  “You can do it!”  He lets go and I take off, exhilerated at my accomplishment.

He is encourager.

I am seven years old.  We are driving in the car and the tape deck is blaring Paul Simon.  He is singing loudly, drumming the steering wheel.  “I can call you Betty and Betty when you call me, you can caaaallll meee Al. Call me Al.”  He laughs and I laugh too.  And together we sing.

He is fun.

I am nine years old.  It’s Christmas morning and my brother and I are sitting at the top of the steps waiting for our parents to let us come down to open presents.  It’s 4:00 am.  I hear mom stumbling through the kitchen making coffee.  She comments about the ungodly hour of our awaking and I hear him laugh.  The he comes around the corner singing “We wish you a Merry Christmas” and we know it’s safe to come down.  We tear into the living room to see the tree lit and him dancing around it.

He loves Christmas morning.

I am ten years old and we are at Busch Gardens water park in Tampa.  I want to go down the big, plunging water slide but I’m nervous.  He tells me that if I do it he will do it.  Never one to back down from a challenge, I go down the water slide and he follows suit, shaking his head the whole time.  “I didn’t think you’d do it,” he admits sheepishly as he climbs the stairs.

He keeps his promises.

I am eleven.  He brings us into the living room and sits us down.  He tells us that he got a new job and we’re going to move to a place I’ve never heard of – St. Louis.  I cry and react with prepubescent flair.  “I don’t care if it’s a neat city. I don’t know anyone there. I don’t waaannnna go.”  He is probably hurt by my reaction, but he doesn’t let on.

He is understanding.

I am twelve years old.  The neighbor boy is taunting and pushing me so I take a swing at him.  He swings back and a full blown fight breaks loose.  I land a punch and he takes off running.  Later that night his mom calls to inform us that I gave her son a black eye.  After I get the obligatory “you can’t get into fist fights” lecture he looks at me and grins, winks and says, “Way to go, slugger.”

He is awesome.

I am twelve years old.  My mom received a call in the middle of the night that her sister was in a coma after having a severe reaction to a surgery.  I get home from school and he is there, standing in the kitchen – waiting.  “Where’s mom?” I ask.  “She left on a flight to South Carolina,” he answered softly.  “How’s Aunt Joy?” I ask, dread settling in.  He pulls me close.  “She passed away,” he whispered.  This is my first encounter with death.  And he holds me.

He is comforting.

I’m in eighth grade.  My parents have temporary custody of my three cousins.  The house is filled with emotionally confused children.  We fight incessantly.  He is in the middle of Washington University’s MBA program.  Life is hard.  I walk into his room one night to see him sitting at the desk staring blankly at the wall.  I give him a hug.

He is stressed.

I’m a high school sophomore and I play saxophone for my high school Jazz Band.  We are in Columbia for the All State competition.  We are playing a difficult piece that I struggled to learn.  We win first place.  As a former Jazz Bander I know he is excited.  I see him clapping his hands raw.

He is proud.

I am sixteen and I’ve had my driver’s license for all of 48 hours when I go to a school football game.  While pulling into a parking space I hit another car, denting my car all the way down the side.  Let me say that again for effect…I hit a parked car!  I call him from a post-game party at a friend’s house after deciding that I shouldn’t let my guy friends try to bang out the dents with a hammer.  

He is angry.

I’m a high school junior and I’m sitting on the floor of my room trying for the life of me to figure out the sum of x divded by y multiplied by 4,899.  Algebra…the bain of my existence.  He comes in and sits beside me.  He takes a halting breath and tells me he lost his job.  Then he cries and apologizes.  He is out of work for several months before getting a pretty interesting and lucrative offer in Seattle.  It would be a great career move.  But he ultimately declines and accepts a job here in St. Louis that is a 25% pay decrease so he doesn’t have to uproot us.

He is self sacrificing.

It’s the summer before my senior year and he takes me on a trip to Colorado for a week.  We challenge each other to climb mountains, we white water raft and we spend a week exploring.  He lets me vent and complain about all my teenagery problems.  I am angsty and hormonal and not always pleasant, but he pushes forward and we make memories – just the two of us.

He is involved.

I’m a senior in high school and preparing to graduate.  Our church has a Sunday morning dedication to graduating seniors and he blubbers in the microphone about how I “better not bring home some snot nosed little Texas boy asking to marry me.”

He is a softie.

I am a sophomore in college performing in my first dinner theater.  He stands in the back and video tapes the whole thing.  I can hear him whistling and shouting on the tape. 

He is supportive.

It’s 1998 and I’m studying in Ukraine for a semester.  He calls and says he’ll be in London over Thanksgiving and asks if I’d like to meet him there.  He picks me up from the airport on Thanksgiving night and we go to a Pizza Hut in London for dinner. 

He is a great date.

I’m a junior in college and the family comes for a long weekend.  I introduce them to a “friend” named Lee who spends an odd amount of time talking with them.  Later when they drive home he tells mom that “that boy was awfully interested for someone who is just a friend.”

He is discerning.

I am twenty two and we are preparing to walk down the aisle.  I have tears in my eyes as I look at him.  He looks back with tear filled eyes.  I am grateful for him and I know our relationship is going to change….I didn’t know it would change for the better.  In that moment I was so flooded with love for him that I turned into a weepy, blubbery mess.

He is Father of the Bride.

I’m twenty five, lying in a hospital bed, and I hand him a squirming little bundle.  He picks up his first grandchild and smiles gently.  Even though I know that hospitals make him uncomfortable and he’s worried about how I’m doing, I see his face light up.

He is Grandpa Boss. 

I am thirty *ahem* and I need business advice.  I call him and he spends time he doesn’t have talking with me, giving me guidance, editing contracts and developing my professionalism.  I call, email, text him multiple times and despite the fact that he is wicked busy, he takes the time to help me out.

He is advisor. 

He is wise, discerning, strong, tender-hearted and giving.  He loses his temper easily but is even quicker to ask for forgiveness.  He is humble and I can almost guarantee he’ll tell me I’m giving him much more credit than he deserves.  He is gracious and funny and has a wicked sense of humor.  He works hard (too hard) but also knows how to relax. 

He is Dad.

And who am I?  I am that proud and grateful daughter who kind of adores him.

Happy Birthday (a day late), Dad.  I love you!

*There is a great likelihood  that I did not get all of the details of the early memories exactly right.  They often appear to me as small snippets, like a technicolor film (never black and white…I’m not that old).  I did the best I could to list accurate details. 🙂

Seven

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Tomorrow morning, July 10, at 6:21 am will mark seven years since I first became a mother.  It is hard to express in words exactly how proud I am of this child and the young man he is growing into. 

He is tenderhearted and caring. 

He is funny and expressive. 

 He is smart and thoughtful. 

He is spunky and outgoing. 

He is quick to anger (we’re working on this) but also quick to ask for forgiveness. 

He aches when he knows he’s hurt somone’s feelings and will swiftly work to make things right.

He is also quick to offer forgiveness.

He’s loyal and will be a friend for life.

He is a remarkable little boy who grew from a brute of a baby (9 lbs 3oz – no drugs…Oy):

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Into a beast of a toddler:

Sloan 1 yr

Into an adorable preschooler:

Sloan 3yrs

Into the handsome little boy he is today:

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He’s athletic, able to smack a baseball and golfball with the savvy of someone twice his age.

He can speak and read in two languages.  This blows my mind.

He harbors a minor obssession with Star Wars and can rattle off a web of details that I find rather shocking.  It’s terribly adorable to hear him school his brother and sister on the ins and out of the Jedi Order.

Sloan is accutely aware of the suffering of others and desperately wants to help.  Currently he is raising money for Haiti and he is passionate about earning enough to help the kids there who are suffering.

Sloan prays with a boldness that I admire and love.  Listening to him pray is like being in a tent revival.  He brings the fire in his prayers and it’s hard not to jump up and shout “Halleljah!” 

In seven years, Sloan has taught me so many things.  He’s taught me to love people, to smile more, to forgive others swiftly, to trust in the Lord’s protection without question, to take a deep breath before speaking, to pray passionately, to care for others, and so much more…

But mostly, he’s taught me that I have the capability to love far more deeply and powerfully than I ever thought possible.  I didn’t know I could feel such a depth of emotion for one tiny person until Sloan came along.  He is more than I could have ever asked or imagined in a son and I am abundantly grateful to be called his mom.

Happy Birthday, Sloan.

She is Mom

Today is my mom’s birthday.  And I can’t think of a better way to celebrate her than to publicly affirm how much I love and appreciate her.

My mom is an amazing woman.  She is beautiful, strong, funny, kind and giving.  Where I struggle to remember birthdays and important occasions, my mom always remembers to send a card, a box, a gift, something to make sure that person feels like they are the most important person in the world.

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My mom gives sacrificially of her time, sometimes to a fault.  She has spent countless hours holding, cuddling, sleeping with, playing with and loving on my kids.  Not because she has to and not because I need her to (though sometimes I do need it) but because she loves me and them so deeply and wholly.

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My mom really, truly loves to play with my kids.  I think she enjoys it more than I do at times!  She has spent so many hours digging in the sand with them, collecting seashells and exploring the beach.  Here at home, she always makes sure to have an adventure ready for them, whether it be setting up a “clubhouse” in a closet for them or pulling out the paints and letting them get down and dirty.  And thank God for that because painting is not one of my favorite activities.

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My mom is a prankster.  If you ever find an old toilet in your yard or a headless stone goose, there’s a good chance she’s behind it.  She has a wicked sense of humor that’s masked behind her innocent exterior.  Don’t let her sweetness fool you, though – she’s trouble…

Growing up, my mom poured herself into my brother and I.  She was the pioneer minivan mom – always in the car driving us to this practice and that friend’s house.  She was at every gymnastics meet, track meet, hockey game, band concert and school play.  And she wasn’t only present, but she was active in cheering and I’m quite certain she clapped the hardest and the loudest. 

When I was eight, my parents took my brother and I skiing for the first time.  After the morning with an instructor on the bunny hill, we were ready for the big hill.  As she and dad rode up the lift behind us and the instructor, my mom was so intent on watching us and making sure that we got off okay that she forgot to get off herself.  Instead of letting them back the lift up, she jumped, twisted her knee and ended up with a torn ligament that required several weeks in a brace from her ankle to her hip.

My mom was beyond supportive of Brett and I.  In tenth grade, I had a lapse in judgement and decided I wanted to be a cheerleader.  Though mom most certainly knew that was not something I would enjoy, she nevertheless supported my desire and worked with me to prepare for try-outs.  And then, for the entire school year, she pushed me and required me to follow through on my commitment to the team even though I begged her to get me out of it.  I would fake sick, fake cramps, do anything I could to get her to call the coach and tell her I was too sick to cheer.  But mom would hear none of it.  And so I cheered, and she was in the stands grinning from ear to ear the entire time.

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My mom is a strong lady.  She has faced more heartache and hardship in life than many people will ever understand and yet you would hardly know it.  While she has every right to feel bitter and slighted, she chooses to enjoy the blessings of life.  “Life is too short to dwell on the heartache,” she once told me.  My mom doesn’t waste time playing the victim and I admire her deeply for that.

Mom has willingly and sacrificially opened up her home over the years taking in anyone who needed help.  She and my dad never questioned whether or not it was right – they just knew that there was a need to be met and they met it without hesitation.  It wasn’t easy on any of us, least of all mom, but she powered through and poured into the lives that came across her path without regard for the sacrifice.  I don’t think she knows what an impact that has had on me.  It was difficult, yes, but it’s made me much more aware of the needs of others and what my role is in supporting those who need support.  Mom’s sacrifice showed me what true loyalty meant.

When I was four or five, my mom attempted to fix my beloved doll, Big Baby. (My creative prowess runs deep, folks).  Because I carried Big Baby around by her hair, her neck was broken causing her head to hang at a crude angle.  I remember very vivdly mom taking Big Baby’s head off to see if she could somehow fix her neck.

Mom swears up one side and down the other that that never happened.  But don’t believe her – her memory fails her.  She also believes that she has never cussed in front of me.  Because she is a proper lady, she hasn’t very often, but there were a couple of times where she let a four letter word rip when I was a kid.  I remember those moments vividly because I knew that she was at the very limit of her limits and that she meant business.  So if she tells you she’s never said a dirty word, don’t believe that either.

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 My mom has always very intentionally built my dad up in front of my brother and I.  I never doubted her love for him or his for her.  While they didn’t try to hide disagreements from us as kids, I rarely remember them really angry with one another.  What I remember more than anything is how much they laughed together.

My mom has trekked the globe for and with Brett and I.  When I spent the semester in Ukraine, I called one afternoon feeling particularly lonely.  I had no other Americans to talk to and I was feeling very isolated.  Mom rallied the troops and had friends and family send me encouraging letters and emails.  And then she took it a step further and booked a ticket to come visit me.  It was 20 degrees below zero, but mom took the hour long adventure with me every morning to school and while I was in class, she explored the city. 

My mom is a ballsy chick.  She has no problem taking off on her own, no matter where she is in the world.  She loves a good adventure and isn’t afraid to try new things.  I love that about her.

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I could go on and on about my mom.  There are so many wonderful things to say.  But I will end it now by saying that I admire her deeply and am so grateful for the example that she has set for me.  I love you mom!

Happy Birthday.

If you have any birthday wishes for my mom, please share them!  Let’s give her a little comment love today!

The Birthday Party

We had The Birthday Party this weekend. The Birthday Party that required a lot and very little all at once. Because I just didn’t have it in my to host a party this year, we booked a gymnastics party for the 4 year old. It was well worth the money, in my oh so humble opinion.

Of course, there was a little preparation that went into the party. Namely, making the cake. In general, I like to buy the cake because, well, I’m not that good at making cakes. Actually, that’s not true. I can make a cake fine – I can’t decorate a cake.  Usually, when I try and decorate cakes it looks as if I did so while blind folded, while fighting off a rabid monkey. I’ll wait for a moment while you get that visual in your mind…

Got it?  I know…it’s bad.

But I was determined this time to accomplish the task of making the perfect cake.  And because I don’t know when to take a step back and tone it down, I decided to attempt this cake – the beloved Rainbow Cake from MckMama’s blog.

As expected, the making of the seperate cakes was a piece of…well, cake.  Ahem.  And, as expected, the decorating of said cake made me long for a stiff drink and a Prozac.  And Tia wanted purple icing to boot, so after several tubs of icing were sufficiently colored, I set to assembling the monstrosity cake.

It wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.  But it was pretty cute with the purple icing and the hot pink swirls at the bottom.  And, of course, when we cut into it and we saw the rainbow layers, I got ooh’s and aah’s from kid’s and mom’s alike.

But there was more to the party than just the cake!  Of course, my camera batteries ran out seconds after the party began so I didn’t get a lot of the actual party (Lee ran out to buy more before the cake and presents).  But I did get a few and rather than tell you about the party, I’ll let you look and see for yourself.

After all, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, right?

Katya Rose

Moments ago (or so it seems) the doctor laid a tiny, squirmy baby on my chest and said, “Congratulations, you have a baby girl.”

My daughter.

I never thought I’d have a daughter.  And yet, as I held her in that very first moment and looked at her face, somehow I knew her.  It was like I had always known her, her face was so familiar to me.

And now, four years later, I’m wondering how it happened so fast?

How did she go from this?

Baby Tia

To the smart, witty, mischevious four year old sitting on my couch?

Where did the baby go?  The one who’s eyes and cheeks swallowed her face?

Sweet Tia

To say I adore this little girl is quite the understatement.  She’s just awesome.  And Lee and I both agree that our time with her has seemed especially fast.  We sometimes struggle to remember her as a baby.  I think it’s because, as babies go, she may have been the best infant on the planet.  She slept 19 hours a day until she was six months old.  She ate like a horse (maybe a pony) and she smiled near constantly.

Russian TiaTia 1st birthday

There’s also the fact that she wasn’t a baby for very long. 

As soon as she figured out she had the potential for mobility, she took off.  By 5 months she was crawling, by 9 and a half months she was walking and by one she was giving me a heart attack by jumping off any and everything in sight.

Tia laughs

Before she was two, she was a big sister – a role that she was born to play.

Big sis Tia

But this contributed to the feeling that somehow she’s just grown up too fast.  I feel like I missed it.  Even though I relished in her girlness as a baby, now that’s it’s so far removed, I feel like it happened too fast.  And now this small person stands before me.  How did that happen?

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I love having a girl sandwiched between two boys.  She brings a bit of sensitivity to the bunch.  Not much, of course, because she makes it known she wants to be one of the guys.

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Tia and boys

I look forward to seeing these relationships grow as they get older – to see the boys protect their sister and Tia look after her brothers.

It’s been one heckova year for Tia.  There have been a lot of milestones reached.  Most good.  Some, ahem, not so good.

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And here we are, Feburary 2, and I’m wondering how we got here so fast.  Tia pranced into our room at 6:15 this morning and, with her tiny mouth inches from my ear, stage whispered, “Moooom.  I’m four now.”

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I know, sweet girl.  I know.

Happy Birthday, Katya Rose. 

Last year, I wrote this post for her birthday.  It’s still one of my favorite posts.  I’m not sure I could ever say it better than that.

To my son on his birthday

Today marks two years since Landon entered our lives.  I’m filled with recollections of that day.  The snow, the cold, the quiet hospital room, the super easy labor, the painful delivery, and the weight of my son as he was laid on my chest.

It is never far from my mind how close we were to losing Landon.  I will never be able to escape the memory of watching his little figure kick and dance on the ultrasound as the doctor explained to me the signs of miscarriage and the likelihood of that happening.

I’ll never forget the fear I felt driving home that day knowing that my child was perfectly healthy, but my womb might fail.  It was true terror.

And yet here he is.  I am filled with such gratitude that the Lord sustained my body and brought his life to fullness here on earth.  Because he is one spectacular little boy and he is by far the best Christmas gift I’ve ever received.

And so, on this day, I share a few things that I want my son to know as he continues to grow.

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You are loved.

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You have an older brother and sister that adore you.  Lean on them for protection, wisdom, understanding and companionship.

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You will, however, need to know how to defend yourself.  I’m proud to say that you’ve already begun using the word “No” liberally, particularly with your sister. 

You’ve also learned to hold your own in a wrestling match with your brother.

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If, when you are three, your sister comes to you and asks if she can cut your hair – RUN.  Run away screaming.  Heck, call 911 if you need to.  Just don’t let her near you with scissors.

And if she ever asks you to cut her hair – again, run for your life. Seriously – get the heck out of there.   Just trust me on this one.

Your older brother will be your protector.  He will be your best friend, your mentor and another model in your life.  He’s a great kid.

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Your sister also adores you.  She will be the one that you will torment as the years go on, but she will also be fiercely protective of you.  Just make sure you look after her too.

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You are more than content to have a sippy cup in one hand and a ball in the other, but one of these days you’re going to need to start eating.

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You have a love of sports that is uncanny for your age.  Particularly the sports that involve a ball.  Your daddy is thrilled.

While you love all sports, you show a particular affinity for football, which makes me a little nervous.  If you see me with my eyes squeezed shut at your games one day, don’t be offended.

Your second love, however, is basketball.

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If you want a model of Christ, look to your daddy.

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If you need advice, tap into your daddy’s wisdom.

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You also have two grandfathers who are full of wisdom.  Know them and listen to them.  You will be a wiser man for it.

Boss and L BW

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But just know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if you ever need a hug, I’m here waiting.  I will snuggle you close for as long as you will let me.  And as you grow, I will continue to love you unconditionally.

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You are my miracle baby, forever and always.

Happy Birthday, Landon Lee.

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