Turning Two

Dear Sweet Mary Hazel,

I just scheduled your two-year-old well visit. As chance would have it, the appointment falls on the anniversary of the day we first learned of your cancer diagnosis. Almost to the hour. When I clicked on my Google calendar to record the appointment, I noticed that my hands were shaking a little bit and my heart rate thumped up a few beats. So many thoughts, so many feelings, so many memories. I consider June 29th to be one of those bookmark days in my life. One of those days that you can rattle off, without referencing a calendar, when life became different. The date is etched in my brain. I even notice the sequence “629” in license plates when I’m in traffic. It was a game changer, for sure. I can recall, with infinite detail, those seconds before, during, and after I got the news. I remember being incredulous, slowly walking backwards (stepping on toys in the pediatric waiting room), hyperventilating. With the diagnosis still ringing in my ears, my very first thoughts took me to a very dark place. Perhaps it was my own sense of self-preservation that catapulted me to the worst possible scenario. I experienced the worst sadness of my life within just a very few seconds. It was the loneliest, scariest, darkest place I’ve ever been. But once I was there, in that cave, my next thought was, “How do I get out of here?” My focus shifted. I looked at you, playing happily two feet away from me, and realized loving you with all my heart was what was going to bring me back to the surface for fresh air. Now, one year later, I feel such joy, such gratitude, when I think about June 29. This is the day you started to heal. This is the day I learned to love more deeply. This is the day by which all my other days can be measured. This is the day that taught me true humility.

You are going to be two tomorrow! All birthdays make me feel nostalgic, but this one is especially sweet. Let me tell you a little bit about this last year. Not all the cancer stuff. The other stuff. In no particular order…

Your siblings adore you. Poppy loves to be your mother and mentor. She is happiest when you ask her to paint your fingernails, play “Bunny Jengo”, and allow her to give you piggy back rides around the living room. Charlie would be a delightful playmate for any two year old, but you especially love to hang out with him. You tell each other nonsensical secrets, where you reply with a genuine, “Really?!” every single time. You chase each other under the covers and tickle fight until you are both exhausted. You like to “scare” him with your scary frog impersonation. “Grrrr…..grrrr!” You spend lots and lots of time with Charlie and Poppy. From what I observe, you have no idea that you are not a six year old, too. Maybe it’s all the time we spend on the playground after school with the other kindergarteners. Maybe it’s because you spend more time with your older sibs than you do your own peers. Whatever the reason, you simply crack me up and impress me at the same time. You climbed to the top of the play structure in Croft Park when you were 18 months old. You learned how to pump your legs and swing by yourself years before I expected. You are recognizing your letters, numbers, and shapes with regular ease. You can order my coffee for me when we pull up to the drive-thru at Starbucks. (“Grande coffee with milk and sugar…pleeeease!”) Just this week, you started sight-reading the word “coffee” on the side of the building. I am both proud and terribly embarrassed.

A happy memory this year is of you exploring Pawley’s Island for the first time. Hard to believe, but in October you weren’t even walking yet. Didn’t matter. You scooted on your bottom up and down the shoreline with infinite enthusiasm until the sun set and I had to carry you inside all brown and worn out. You helped DanDaddy build his ritual sand castles by collecting shells and splashing in the moat. You rivaled Charlie with your obsession of water and you spent hours shuffling beside him in the wet sand. It was a peaceful, restorative time for us all. We were all still glowing in the news that your cancer was gone.

You were a healthy, round pumpkin for Halloween. Your costume served as the perfect cushion for you as you learned to steady yourself in those early walking days.

You love to read. For as long as I can remember you have collected the M and the H magnets off the refrigerator (and Mrs. Barb’s desk at school) to spell your name. I have yet to convince you that you do not have to turn a book upside down whenever you encounter a W.

You say “dude” a lot. And “thumbs up”. The jackpot for me is when you combine them for an exuberant, “Thumbs up, dude!” with both of your thumbs pointing skyward.

When you walk in a room, you bounce when you stop, wave, and loudly inquire, “Watcha doing, guys?” 

You referred to yourself as “Mayche” for the first part of the year. Then you moved on to Miss Hazel before you mastered your whole name. Yeah, I miss that.

You personally found and invited Blackberry to come live with us this winter. She reminds me of you. Silly, self sufficient, and easy to please.

We still snuggle in the bed every single morning after Daddy’s alarm goes off but before it’s my turn to get in the shower. This is by far the most peaceful, warm, satisfying part of my day. I feel like a hibernating bear with my baby cub. When I eventually have to peel myself away to start the morning chores, you sometimes roll over in the place I left behind. The other day you sleepily thanked me for “making you a warm place”. I will always make you a warm place.

You love school. You adore your teachers. You idolize Mrs. Barb. We joke that you are the unofficial vice principal as you welcome your friends into the lobby every morning. I look forward to those ten minutes we spend reading books on your special bench before the clock strikes 9. These pockets of together time are the most special to me.

You regularly wear tea bags in your shoes and sport Mr. Potato Head glasses when you leave the house. You are actually quite insistent on both of these events. We’re still trying to figure out why. No matter.

You participated in your first Relay for Life celebration last month. You were officially the youngest walker making the survivor’s lap. You raised over $1650 dollars. In all my days, I will never forget the look of pure joy on your face when you took off around the track, running as fast as your chubby, healthy legs would carry you. You wore your purple shirt (which looked like a nightgown on you) with pride. With your pom-pom in one hand and me on the other side, we raced around the track three times before you even slowed down. On the last lap, you tripped on an electrical cord and skinned your knee pretty good. You paused long enough to grimace and ask for a kiss, but then you got back up and finished what you set out to do. I loved seeing the look on people’s faces as we passed by. It was a look that expressed gratitude, hopefulness, and inspiration. What a victory! It is this joy that you contain within you that makes me love you more with each day. You are a happy girl. Naturally, truly, and completely. How did I get so lucky?

I did not plan a big party for you this year. I don’t know exactly why. Several people have even asked me why I’m not pulling out all the stops, planning the biggest celebration ever. Part of me wonders the same. After reflecting upon it for a bit, I think it’s because I feel like everything has returned back to “normal”. Yes, we still have to dose you up with radioactive dye every few months and take some fancy pictures of your insides, but for the most part, our life has returned to normal. I don’t want to draw attention to the cancer so much any more. I want to focus on you being healthy and happy as all two year olds deserve to be. We will share a birthday cake with DanDaddy and Uncle Scott and watch you make a terrible mess of it. We will give you a scooter so you can keep up with Charlie and Poppy at the park. We will take a hundred pictures of you in hopes of capturing the energy of the day. In hopes of remembering you exactly the way you are at this very moment in time.

How different this June 29th will be! How different I am because of last June 29th. I love you for always my sweet, perfect baby. Come what may.

A Week Ago

MH's Ladybug Cake

A week ago we were celebrating Mary Hazel’s birthday at Windward Meadows – my Mom and Dad’s place in Anderson. We were all blissfully ignorant of what would soon become the new focus of our daily lives. My biggest concern that day was transporting the ladybug cake 30 miles without tipping it over. We were surrounded by loved ones, singing Happy Birthday to the slightly bashful guest of honor, and remarking how the year had certainly flown by. We enjoyed the glowing of the fireflies, watched the older kids measure how high their corn had grown since they planted it earlier this summer, and talked ourselves into eating another piece of that irresistible ladybug cake. Life was good. Simple and good. I knew it was, even then. I endeavor to live in the moment and practice never taking the quiet goodness of an ordinary day for granted. Ever since Russell’s aneurysm surgery three years ago, I’ve been keenly aware of the precious gift of time. When he had the vascular tumor removed from his spine last July, I vowed to appreciate every day we’ve had together as a family since. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m afraid of forgetting the milestones, even the simple ones, which is why I try so very hard to memorize, preserve, and, most of all, appreciate them.

Birthday Girl

Today, we were again celebrating as a family at Windward Meadows. Russell’s wish was to spend the holiday there where we have enjoyed so many other occasions (including our wedding). This time we ate homemade blueberry ice cream in the Fairy Forest under the twinkly lights, the older kids played soccer with their cool teen-age cousins in the field, and Mary Hazel slept in my arms in the midst of a very noisy and beautiful fireworks display. (My Uncle Dave even shot off a real cannon and she never flinched. I still don’t understand how babies can sleep through cannons but wake up when you flush the toilet down the hall.) Anyway, it was another satisfying get-together. Of course, it was different. We all felt it. We soaked up every little thing about MH that makes her special to us. We didn’t really talk about “it” too much, but I sensed we were all keenly aware of how precious this time together was before her surgery later this week. I wanted it to be joyful, memorable, and normal. There is going to be plenty of time to be anxious and worried in the coming days, months, and years, but today we did what we always do when we get together as a family. We enjoyed the quiet memory making that allows us to strengthen our connections to one another. Without my family, my village, I would be in a very dark place. I needed to have that celebration today to give me the peace and strength I’ll need when I wake up in the morning. Especially Thursday morning.

Special Thanks:

Thank you to the Cox family for the wonderful gift basket of treats, cupcakes, the beautiful plant and the much-adored balloon. Thank you to Vanessa S. for the perfectly-ripe peaches. Thank you to John F. for his famous banana pudding. Thank you to Chris K. for helping my dad assemble the new play fort. (Sorry about the heat exhaustion.) Thank you to the Upstate Mothers of Multiples Club for the very generous debit card to help us with expenses. You girls rock! And, as always, thank for those who are praying and sending positive energy our way. Go Team Mary Hazel!

Dear Baby Bug

Dear Baby Bug,

Happy First Birthday to you, sweet little Mary Hazel!

Of course, I find myself feeling a bit nostalgic when I reflect on our first wonderful year together. Just this week, I put away another box of clothes that no longer fit you, I realized that you are almost ready for a bigger car seat, and you seem to be telling me that you are no longer interested in a bottle. With the closing of each of these tiny chapters, I know in my heart that these will be the last times I turn these particular pages. Every mama knows exactly what I’m talking about. It’s a bittersweet transition watching you grow from baby to toddler. But greater than that ache I feel in my heart, I feel pure joy that I am your mother and that you surprised us all by being our daughter!

What a journey we’ve had together since I first put two and two together and realized you were in my tummy. Your dad and I were told that we wouldn’t be able to have any more children after your brother and sister were born. They were our miracle babies. Through desire, perseverance, hope, and the wonders of science, we nurtured Charlie and Poppy into this world. It was a precarious journey with a wonderfully happy ending and we were humbled to be their parents. I never thought I would have another chance to bring another precious baby into this world, which is why it took me so long to catch on. Everyone else had the flu that week and I just thought I was following suit. The nausea, the fatigue, the cramps…the flu, right? What else could it be? After weeks of feeling under the weather (and pulling over on the interstate), I finally had the vaguest of inklings. I was told by experts in their field that it wasn’t possible, but yet, I knew you were there. You have brought me undescribable joy from the very second I realized you existed. You are our third miracle baby. The nine months (plus two weeks) I spent carrying you were some of the happiest of my life. You were an easy baby even then. It felt good and just as it should be.

I’ll never forget the morning I knew I would soon meet you. I called the babysitter, the grandparents, the doula. They were all on stand-by, but nobody knew just how quickly you would make your entrance into this world. We arrived at the hospital at 9:05 on your grandfather’s birthday, and you were born twenty minutes later. It was intense, empowering, exhilirating and wonderful. I can still remember how perfect and warm you felt lying on my chest where you nuzzled for hours and hours. Bliss.

When you were just two weeks old, we headed to Atlanta to help Daddy with his surgery. Looking back on it now, I’m not even sure how we did what we did. You were my constant companion. I found that when I comforted you, it brought me peace. You centered me and I just knew that everything would be fine because we had defied so many odds already. You were here, we were meant to be a family, and that was that.

You have spoiled me. Getting the chance to mother a singleton has been an unexpected joy. I wouldn’t change a thing about having twins, but it was definitely more…challenging. You make my job easy. You started sleeping though the night long before I was ready to be away from you for eight consecutive hours. You only cry when you’re really good and mad about something. You are happy to tag along with all of us on all our many chores, errands, and adventures. I try to carve out enough time each day when it’s just you and me, the creaky rocking chair, and your quiet, cool, dark room. That’s the magic time. The time when I sing to you the songs my mama sang to me. The time when I smooth down your silly soft cowlicks. The time we gaze at each other when you drink your milk. I plead with myself regularly to remember this time. (Click.) I hope to recall not only the specific memories of rocking, holding, and singing, but also the feeling of complete and perfect contentment. It’s during these moments, that I feel nostalgic for the things that have yet to happen. I feel the past, present, and future all at once. I sense the potential for who you will soon be and I love you even more.

So, yes, I might be a little emotional tomorrow when we put that candle on your chocolate carrot muffin and sing Happy Birthday to you while you clap your little hands and smile that toothy grin. But I’m also really excited about watching you grow. I appreciate you every single day and I never for a minute take your presence here in our family for granted. I love the way you scoot around from room to room on your bottom while holding one arm up in the air like a cowgirl. I love how you point to everything with your finger and exclaim, “This? That! This? That!” I love how you break into laughter when you see me or Daddy walk in the room. I love how entertained you are by your brother’s crazy antics and how adored you are by your big sister.

Birthday Hugs

You were meant to be here with us and we couldn’t imagine it any other way.

XOXO,

Mommy

Video of Mary Hazel’s Very First Day