that's what she said.

"I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you've actually left them."- Andy from The Office

I watched the last episode (ever!) of The Office last night, and I found myself in tears. I hate goodbyes – any kind – whether it’s goodbye to a place, a person or a goofy, awkward sitcom. Me and goodbyes just have never meshed.

It’s not like I have even kept up with the show this season. But I do remember all of the many episodes I've watched over the years that have made me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe. It's one of my faves. And something about it all being over struck a nerve. It was the same thing when the Cosby Show or Seinfield or Friends ended. It wasn’t just the shows. It was how they somehow followed me through periods of life. It was saying goodbye to characters you knew. It was waving one last time at memories of snuggling on the couch on a certain day of the week at a certain time, of friends gathering together every Thursday night at someone’s apartment for “Must See TV,” of traditions and rituals and things you could count on.

It got me thinking about the other, bigger goodbyes in life that are five million times harder. As Lisa emails us from India, my mind is transported to the time when I was there and fell in love with the people, the places, the feelings. I remember gut wrenching goodbyes through eyes blurred by a million tears. I remember standing in a hot, crowded airport and clinging to my relatives and never wanting to let them go. I remember coming back home and wondering if going back was worth it, knowing I’d have to endure the hard feelings of leaving again.

Then, there were the goodbyes of growing up, of moving to a different neighborhood and changing schools. There were the goodbyes of graduating high school, of sitting with your friends the night before they left for colleges in other states. There was that lump in your throat knowing that it wouldn’t be goodbye forever, it wouldn’t be goodbye to your friendships, but it was goodbye to you and them being who you were then in those days.

I’ve only been to a few funerals in my life - but those that I’ve attended where we’ve celebrated long, happy lives - I’ve been struck by this feeling. Every person you’ve loved and who has loved you gathers at your funeral to say GOODBYE - to remember your life and how you’ve affected theirs. Your impact on the world is revealed and celebrated. Because really, this world is the people in it - and when you show them love, help them, make them laugh or become a part of their everyday lives – you are changing the world. What if we didn’t wait until we say goodbye to highlight a person’s life or celebrate their value? What if we didn't wait until they weren't here to tell them just how great they are and just how sad we'd be if they were gone? What if we didn’t wait until after they were gone to bring everyone they loved together in a room to laugh, cry, hug and love?

I feel like a recurring word in my heart these past few years is NOW. Because so much of my inclination is to look back or look forward. I remember with nostalgia the “good old days” or I think ahead to when we’ll be in a different place doing different things. But I want to be intentional in reminding myself that NOW - today - is when I am making the memories that will fill my heart years later. I don't only want to remember these days, I want to remember how I let the goodness (goodness that is always present even when it's not ALL good) to seep into my skin and infiltrate my heart. I want to remember that I really lived and appreciated all there was to live and appreciate.

Andy was right. These are the good old days, even before we leave them.

And goodbyes have their place. Because to care about something so much that it hurts to be without it can be a gift. And closing the door on one season or time in your life can open you up to new people, places and moments that are all parts of God’s careful and caring intentions for you.

Yes, I got all of this from an episode of the Office. What can I say? Sometimes Thursday night TV can be life changing. And since I never thought I’d ever be quoting Andy Bernard in this blog, I may as well close with lyrics from a one-hit wonder by Semisonic:

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end”

I'll remember this next Thursday when I'm missing Jim and Pam.

it's possible.

photo credit: jocelyn k brown photography

I was afraid to have a second baby.

Afraid for all of the normal reasons like will she be healthy and can we afford her and will I ever sleep again? But secretly, my biggest fear of all was “Can I love her as much as I love Caleb?”

I didn’t think it was an irrational question. A little inappropriate? Yes, perhaps. But not irrational. After all, the love you experience when you first have a child ... when you first enter into that once mysterious realm of motherhood … it’s so intense. So unique. So incomparable.

And the more you get to know your first child – the more you get to watch him grow into an extraordinary, multi-faceted little person – you are even more sure that your capacity to love is maxed out. He owns all of your heart. It’s full. You’re done for. Well beyond capacity for sure.

I really don’t get how it works – I REALLY don’t - but I couldn’t have been more wrong about this. It IS possible to love again in the same crazy, limitless way.

The moment the ultrasound tech said it was a girl, it was like I was given a part of my heart that I never knew belonged to me. But when I received it, I thought “Ohhhhhh. THIS is what I was waiting for. This is what it’s like to feel whole.”

And then when my ears first heard her cry and my eyes first saw her face, I felt it. The greatest, biggest love in my heart. The love that didn’t only make me a mom again, but made me her mom. Because her mom AND his mom was who I was created to be.

And finally seeing both of my kids together, the biggest and best parts of my heart, it really felt so humbling. So much like I didn’t deserve the miracles that were given to me, but also like I didn’t want to question it. Instead I wanted to WORSHIP and PRAISE and be THANKFUL. Because God loves His children and He gives grace.

I don’t understand it. I don’t know how it’s possible to love each kid with ALL of your heart and then love them even more the next day. It’s beautiful how God gives us that ability, though. It’s beautiful how He created things to be beautiful without us even knowing why we see beauty in those things. Like the sun melting into the blue ocean. Or bright pink peonies poking through the dirt. Or that rush in your soul called love.

He puts the greatest love in our hearts for our children. He makes it possible. And through that love, He gives us a breathtaking glimpse of how He feels about us.

Each and every one of us.

Remembering ...

... This beautiful girl and her sweet family.

tidbits.

I just survived a week without Luke. And by survived, I mean it may have been the easiest week of my life. See, Kay, Maggie and the kids came over to help. They cooked, cleaned, entertained the kids (think day-long zoo trip one day and parks and beaches the rest) and generally made my existence calm and peaceful. I practically did nothing. Oh, except one day I HAD to go to Nordstrom, kid-free, then have drinks at Indigo with Mags. I know. I’m lucky.

To put my life into perspective, I used to fear things like cancer, or drowning, or flying over the Atlantic sober. Today my biggest fears include not being able to find a binky, temperatures any higher than 99.9, and my son someday asking for a pet rat. Or even one of those white mice with red eyes. Equally as bad.

Recently, Luke gave me the priceless gift of a night to myself in a swanky hotel downtown. I felt guilty leaving him and the kids behind, but not guilty enough to not go. I learned that it’s good to do stuff like that to unplug and recharge and make me a better mom. I also learned that I’m sort of addicted to my little fam. It was hard to resist the urge to check my phone for pictures or messages from them. It was hard to miss a Saturday night with them despite the fun I was having. And when they picked me up and I jumped in the CRV ready to hear how much I was missed - but instead got Luke saying “Hurry up, there’s a car behind me,” and Kenzie screaming at the top of her lungs (Guess what? Luke couldn’t find her binky) and Caleb grimacing with those it’s-naptime-and-I’m-still-awake eyes - it was hard not to want to run back into that hotel for another hour. Or seven.

All of the little girls in Caleb’s class freak out when he gets to school in the morning. He usually hides behind me as they are screaming and clawing. We are both a little scared by this scene. His teacher says the girls have crushes on him, to which Luke replied "Yep, just like his Dad."

one.

Baby girl,

There is so much I want to thank you for. Our journey to today has seen great joy, frustration, vulnerability, relief and lots and lots of pure love. I am so thankful I got to experience it all with you.

I remember the early days when you were a sleepy newborn. You slumbered in your co-sleeper for hours and were easy to take on outings. You ate so well, which was a relief since you had jaundice and needed to gain weight. We had a few early trips to the doctor and a few finger pokes and you were a champ. I think of those dreamy days when the four of us were together all day with nothing to do but enjoy and take care of each other. We did it well, I think.

Then came the storm. You screamed and wailed for about three months, making going out or leaving your side difficult. So for that time, it was you and me. Mainly on the couch, or driving up and down 1-5 or sometimes going to Babies R Us because I knew they wouldn’t judge me there. I remember taking you every morning to the drive-thru Starbucks. You would scream the entire time and the people at the pick up window would look at me with such pity as I shouted my order over the commotion. But I did it anyway because we both needed to get out, and I definitely needed my coffee. Okay, and my chocolate chip banana bread.

We weathered the storm. We more than weathered it. I learned so much during that time – mostly that you were perfect to me no matter what and I’d do absolutely anything for you. Hopefully you learned the same.

Then there was the gut-wrenching transition to daycare and work. You were such a dream, adjusting so well and making your teachers fall in love with you instantly. They love you so much – they love to fix your hair and rock you to sleep and put you in pretty dresses. They know every detail of your day, and always hand you back to us telling you that they love you. You love them, too, and excitedly flap your arms every morning when you see them. We are blessed.

When I look at you, I see loveliness. You are the most beautiful girl in the world - in every way - and you make our lives rich, full, complete. Until I met you, I never knew that I so longed to have you, to take care of you, to watch you grow. It doesn’t seem real that I have a daughter – a perfect little baby girl who is so full of sweetness and innocence and strength – and I get to watch you grow. That is pure grace right there. That is total undeserved favor from God.

Today you are a daddy’s girl – completely obsessed with him. You follow him around everywhere he goes and put your arms up for him to pick you up. You are crawling fast and furiously and are so close to walking. You get annoyed with your brother easily. You are a super fan of going on walks and exploring and playing in your toy kitchen. You love putting anything in your mouth. I don’t know what you’ll ever do without your binky. You are a great sleeper. You babble a lot and say dada all day. You say mama sometimes, but not as much as dada (note, the obession). You love to clap and wave and give high fives. You have the best laugh. In the world. Watching you laugh is our favorite pastime – even brother's. You are starting to eat more foods. You are the squirmiest person alive.

You have big, soulful eyes and a crazy, blazing smile. You have wild, curly hair. Your dad is always nervous to put it up in a ponytail because he’s afraid he’ll mess it up.

I can’t believe our journey has already spanned a year. The time when you are supposedly not a baby anymore, but forget that – we know you’ll be our baby forever.

Thank you, little girl, for the amazing gifts you’ve given us. Thank you for filling my heart and world with all of your loveliness.

Love you forever,
Mom

three years.

Dear Caleb,

Three years ago today, you made me a mom for the first time. And as scared and overwhelmed as I was at the time, I knew one thing for certain: I didn't know how I ever lived without you.

For three years I’ve been enamored, captivated and amazed by you. And I’ve tried to describe how incredible you are, but some things can’t be said, only felt. You are in every layer of my heart and your presence in this world, even for only three years, has already made it better.

Three years old. I now officially want time to stop. Not a day goes by that you don’t say something that surprises us or makes us laugh. You have a multifaceted personality that is quirky, charming, willful, meticulous, compassionate and funny all at the same time. And you’re so much more than that.

In a lot of ways you have been the exact same person throughout your whole life. Particular, affectionate, shy, happy, cute. Your eyes have always sparkled and your smile has always shone bright. You’ve always had that quality about you –that shining, beaming quality I don’t know exactly how to describe but to say that you have JOY in your heart that is so real. And it’s contagious. Since day one with you, I have never been happier.

And there are many new qualities that are emerging. The most obvious one is how AWESOME you are at being a big brother. Honestly, there are so many times in a day when I’m floored by what you say and do for Kenzie. You call her your baby, you hug her constantly, you get her a binky if she’s crying, you hold her hand. You are patient when she destroys with one swipe a train track that took you so long to build. You say, “It’s okay baby, mommy is right here.” You say, “Kenzie, you are so beautiful.” You say, “You’re fine, you’re fine” to soothe her. You make up endless songs about her (“Oh Frosty the Kenzie was a baby, baby, baby …”). If she does something funny or new you are always her biggest supporter. We hear you laugh at her and say “look at the baby!” all day long. You play peek-a-boo and tickle her to make her laugh. And you’ll do that for as long as she lets you because you looove her laugh. I could go on and on. You aren’t perfect, and you do get frustrated with her at times, but I am so proud of you for the way you are with her and wonder all the time how one little man could be such a patient and tender and fun big brother.

You have a great memory. You love playing trains on your train table and are really into superheroes. Your favorite foods are cheeseburgers and french fries and indian food. You eat your meals on your little blue table. You love the beach, ferry rides, seeing real trains, going to Target and Toys r us, watching movies, playing with my phone, running around and going down slides. You like doing things by yourself like putting on your coat or boots. You ask a lot of questions. You are snuggler in the mornings and nights. You take naps at 11:30 every day. You love wearing your backpack. You are so good at show and tell. You know the storybook Bible by heart. You know so many songs and sing every day. You like routine and are the first to tell us if we’re off (“no mom, we need to pray before we read”). You still bite your bottom lip and scratch our nails. You love saying “mommy I’m drinking YOUR water,” and having me say, “you better not otherwise you’re in big trouble mister!” You say the darndest like, “seriously?!” and “not today, maybe to later,” and “oh yeah baby, that’s what I’m talking about!” You like to pretend that you are superman, spiderman and Russell Wilson.

You are so much more than this. So indescribable. So extraordinary. You have something so special in you. I really can’t believe the blessing it is to be your mom. There are many times it feels too good to be true.

I thank God that it is true. I thank Him for protecting you these three years. For giving you a big heart. For gifting you with the ability to make people feel so important. For giving you that something special in you.

Every day I tell you this: “I love you higher than the sky, bigger than the mountains, and deeper than the oceans. And a million, trillion, kazillion times more than that.”

It’s so true. My love for you is immeasurable. Every day you give me a little peek into heaven. Every day I am drenched in the rich blessing of being your mommy.

Happy birthday, little man.

Love you,
Mom

outtakes.

I love a good photo of the kids. I especially love it when they are looking at the camera, smiling and in cute outfits. I REALLY love it when I can instagram out red eyes or bad lighting, and strategically crop out my unfolded laundry. And I BEYOND love it when I can pay someone to pose them in a field of tall grass, edit out all the tears and whining, and make them look like they are always jovial, fun-loving and color coordinated.

My blogs have lacked pictures recently. And I am ALWAYS taking pictures. But the ones on my camera roll right now aren't the perfect ones. They are the outtakes.

Picture it. The kids are snuggled together in an insanely cute, candid moment. I grab my camera and ask them to look up and say cheese. Caleb resists at first, but after some coaxing, gives an animated fake smile and a long, dramatic “cheeeeeeese.” Kenzie is not even remotely interested and is looking everywhere but the camera. Probably with a fake butcher knife in her mouth. (From her fake kitchen. It's okay.) So I start dancing around and yelling “lalalalalaalala,” but that only makes her want to not look more. Then she attempts to crawl away at which point her brother grabs her and pulls her back. She screams, he laughs, the adorable moment that once was is nowhere to found.

But I take a picture of it anyways. Actually I take about 52 pictures of it. Just in case.

Yes, I have a lot of outtakes. And though I sometimes don't think they are worth sharing with others, I pretty much never delete them. Every day, I keep clicking away. There is a need in me to capture all of it.

But a camera can’t capture everything. Nor can words for that matter, so I know that my pictures and blog won’t ever adequately preserve all the memories I never want to lose. I wish they could. I wish with one click I could vividly store in my brain the beautiful little things I get to see and hear and feel as I watch my kids grow.

Like the night I was driving home in the dark after a long day and checked the rearview mirror to see Caleb and Kenzie silently holding hands in the back.

Click.

Or the evening when I was rushing around trying to get Caleb’s dinner heated up and on his plate and he turned around in his little blue chair and out of nowhere just said, “mommy. I love you.”

Click.

Or the lazy afternoon when Luke was sick, laying on the couch, and Kenzie – the girl who never sits still - just crawled into his arms and laid on his chest and he just stroked her hair, breathing in the deliciousness of having a daughter.

Click.

Or the hectic morning when Luke was running late and trying to rush everyone out the door, but Caleb stopped us and said, "group hug." And instantly the stress level dropped, our moods lightened, and time froze for a moment as all of our arms wrapped around each other.

Click.

Sometimes it feels like we live the same moments every day. Moments and routines that are impossible to forget. Bedtimes, naptimes, playtimes, mealtimes. But someday it will be different than this. Still good, but never again this.

So I not only keep my outtakes, I love them. I hold on to them. I hold onto them as if they were treasures and tell myself to take more for that day far away when I long to remember every detail of now. It is in the outtakes that they are captured just as they are. Not edited or fancied up. Just. As. They. Are. Their faces, their expressions, their littleness, their interactions, their imperfections.

The raw images that will one day remind me how it felt to watch a little family grow in love, and two little kids grow into something pretty spectacular.