Two and a Quarter

This morning, you climbed your pajama-clad self up into your Daddy's lap and snuggled in close.  "Hold me like a baby," you demanded.

"But you're a toddler," he replied with a smile in my direction.

"No, I'm a baby," you insisted.

He tried to convince you otherwise, but you weren't having it.  "I don't want to talk about it," you finally declared in a whining voice, nestling in closer to his chest.

I laughed silently, remembering how just yesterday at the pool when I told you that the snorkle you wanted to play with was someone else's grown-up toy, you announced emphatically, "I want to be a grown-up."

I guess that's part of what being two is all about:  wanting to hold on to what is safe and known, wanting at the same time to forge ahead into the new and the exciting.  I get that.  I still feel that way sometimes.

But Ellie girl, two and a quarter is a special time too, just as you are right now in your pig tails and summer dresses, dancing your way through life with overflowing curiousity and a love of desserts and playgrounds and words and pools.

You will always want to go back.  You will always want to go forward.  But I will always love you just as you are.

Two

You are two.

Everyone talks about the terrible twos, and already, I see glimpses of what they mean.  For you, being two means regular meltdowns about things that just won't go your way:  blocks that won't fit together just as you'd planned, a piece of furniture you can't move, toy ice cubes that won't line up just so in your cup.  I see these moments coming, but you don't want help.  "I do by self!" you cry, flapping your arms in frustration.  Usually things escalate to the point where you throw the offending toy to the ground and run away crying.

I'm not sure exactly how to handle these moments.  We're working on asking for help, on not running away, on picking up the things you've thrown, on saying you're sorry.  But it's hard for you, and I think I understand that.  Life rarely fits together the way we think it should, and sometimes, no amount of help or perseverance can fix that.  It's been a hard lesson for me too, still is, in fact.

Sometimes, these moments I'm describing feel pretty terrible to you and to me too.  I guess that's why they call them the terrible twos.  But I want you to know, someday when you read this, perhaps when you have a two year-old of your own, that I see a lot more to your two year-old self than terrible tantrums.

I see creativity.  For a long time now, you've liked the song, "The Wheels on the Bus," and to keep you entertained in the car, I've been adding extra verses about the Daddys on the bus who say "Go Ravens Go" and the Aunt Jens on the bus who say "We love Ellie" and so on.  Well just this week, you've started adding verses of your own.  Last night at dinner you said, "Sing about the water on the bus."  "What does the water say?" I asked.  "It says, 'Drink me Ellie,'" you fired back confidently.  You were proud of yourself, and I was proud of you, proud to see you building on what you've been taught, creating your own part in our silly little family song.

I also see enthusiasm.  Often, when I am getting you dressed in the morning, you ask, "Who come to our house today?" or "Where we go today?"  You love people, and you love to go, to do, to explore.  At the suggestion of putting on rain boots and going to jump in puddles, you dance giddy circles around the living room.  When Daddy tells you he's taking you on a Daddy-daughter date, you run around excitedly gathering things to take:  your milk, your "purple Cheerios," your baby doll.  For you, life is an adventure to be embraced.  You wake up expecting fun and excitement and joy, even though you don't know the specific plan, and because of you, I get to live a little bit that way too.

Finally, I see love.  You've figured out what the word family means, and you talk to me about our little family:  "Mommy, Daddy, Ellie."  On weekend mornings, your Daddy gets you out of your crib and brings you to our bedroom, and we lie there together the three of us, giggling and tickling and talking.  You know that you belong with us, and you're starting to use language to express that.  "I love you Mommy," you said the other day, unprompted, eyes sparkling with joy.  

"I love you too, sweetheart," I said, my heart full.  And I do, my Ellie girl, so much more than you can know.  On terrible days.  On beautiful days.  On average, ordinary days two-year-old days too.  

My Book

So I told you almost a month ago that I'm writing a book.  Now that I've left you hanging for a few weeks, I'm ready to tell you a little bit more about it.

It's not a book I would have chosen to write, but it's a book I need to write, one I believe will be helpful to people like me.  It's a book about infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth and about where God can be found in these circumstances.  It's a book about my own story, but it's also a book about the stories of other families I'm interviewing who've walked through one or more of these trials.  It's a book of creative nonfiction that wrestles with some hard theological questions.

I am not writing this book because my story is particularly unusual or notable.  Most of the families featured in the book have endured loss more profound and extensive than my own.  I am not writing this book because I know how to walk through pain and loss or because I've figured out exactly how to discover God in the midst of it.  

I'm writing this book because I'm right in the middle of grief and hope and uncertainty and disappointments, trying to grow our family, not knowing if or when that will happen.  I'm writing this book because every day is a struggle for me to trust God, because I often fail to do so, because I desperately need the stories of others who've met God in their own pain related to having children. 

I'm writing this book because I believe God asked me to, and already, His fingertips are all over this project.  I'm only a few chapters in, have many words and challenges ahead of me, but I have a lot of faith that this book will one day be. 

Twenty-Three Months

There are many things in my life that haven't turned out the way I've expected.  I'm an idealist, a dreamer.  I create rosy pictures in my head of how things should be:  composites of magazine photos, people I've observed, and Pinterest ideas blended into one harmonious, unrealistic whole.  Over the years, I've gotten better at recognizing this about myself, better at realizing that just because things aren't what I expected doesn't mean they're wrong or bad.

But I have to say Ellie girl, being your Mommy has lately been exactly what I expected when I dreamed of having small children.  We snuggle and read books.  We color and play with PlayDough. We go to the playground.  We bake muffins.  We sing silly songs.  You take long naps and play at my feet while I make dinner.

I'm not saying you're perfect.  You have your moments.  I have mine too.  But I can honestly say that being your Mommy, which has always been a privilege, has lately been an absolute delight.

I love watching you learn new words and question your world.  "Where dat come from?" you say, and I tell you.  "What dat called?" you ask, and I name it for you.  You make me laugh with your Ellie-isms, calling your Grandpa "old man" on his birthday, exclaiming with delight that the teddy bears are "nakey!" or that Tiny Baby needs a tissue for a "booger."

I love watching you learn to play in new ways and with new things.  We are entering the worlds of dollhouses and felt boards, of jigsaw puzzles and stamps.  You explore, create, imagine.  I help, sit back, watch your amazing little mind at work.

We're in a sweet spot, our tiny family of three.  I try to remember this even as I feel the gap where your sister should be.  I long for the chaos and clutter, the squabbles and stress I know another child would bring to our lives.  I pray they will come.  Soon.  But in spite of what has been lost, in spite of what I hope will someday be, there is goodness here.  Right now.  With you.

Writing News

I am writing a book.  I am sitting in Starbucks, watching snow flurries fall and eavesdropping on conversations about life and love and God and sipping my rather boring decaf.

So far I've read the introduction to a book related to my topic, re-read the notes from my first interview, highlighting the parts that stand out, and checked on a few blogs that have absolutely nothing to do with my topic.  Why is it sometimes so hard to do anything but write an actual sentence?

Well, I will start with this one:  I am writing a book.  I've gradually been telling friends and family that this is true, that I have an idea and a plan, that I feel like God has made it clear that I am supposed to do this now.  Each time I've told someone, I've felt a little bit scared.  I hate not meeting my goals.  I hate even more when others know I'm not meeting my goals.

But now, I'm telling the world, or at least the very small fragment of the world that might happen to read or stumble upon my blog.  I'm really, truly trying to write a book.

I know that I've never written a book before.  I know that my knowledge of proposals and agents and publishers is limited at best.  I know I don't have the best history with writing goals.  As you may have noted, my Thirty Pieces series on this blog, designed to capture thirty parts of my life in words before I turned thirty, is still stuck at #27, even though I'm getting close to 33.

I know that I have a one year-old and a busy life and that we hope to have more children.  I know that in the rare quiet moments, I usually just want to crawl into bed or watch an episode of Parenthood, or best of all, do both.

But somehow, in spite of all of that, I have faith to write a book.  I don't say this often and I really can't explain it, but I believe God wants me to do this.  I have faith that He will make it happen.  So I'm just taking it one step, one interview, one decaf, one sentence at a time.  I can't wait to tell you more about it soon.

Twenty-Two Months

I see more and more of myself in you.

You share my obsession with order, preferring cabinet doors shut, toys back in their particular place, hands wiped clean of crumbs in between bites.  Like me, you love to read, content to curl up in my lap at several points throughout the day as we work our way through book after book.  You like learning your letters and the way that words sound, "gooey" being a current particular favorite.

You seem to be an introvert too, just like your momma.  You get nervous around new people and large groups, burying your face into my shoulder.  It takes you time to get comfortable and warm up to a new experience.  You recently spent your first two music classes in my arms, refusing to participate, even though you're now dancing around the room unabashedly.

These resemblances between us surprise me because for so long, I felt like I couldn't understand you.  And everyone said you looked like your Daddy.  I felt a little sad then, as much as I love Daddy, because I worried that there was no part of me in you.

I don't worry that anymore.  In fact, I worry sometimes that there's too much of me in you, that my compulsions and guardedness will be your's too.

But you have your Daddy's sense of humor, I think, and his fascination with the way things work.  The truth is we don't know yet who exactly you will be, how the personality we see now will change and develop.

Today though and for as long as it lasts, I am enjoying the companionship we find in our mutual passions:   your little broom beside me sweeping up crumbs after meals, the shared pleasure of a delightful word and a good book, the freedom to dance together in places where we feel safe and known.

Twenty One Months

I thought we had three more months until you became two.  I thought we had three more months until you had opinions about everything, until phrases like "big girl" and "Ellie do by self" entered your vocabulary.

It's not surprising, I guess.  You had opinions from the beginning; you fought feedings and naps you didn't think you needed.  You stood and walked early.  You wanted your independence fiercely even then.

But we had this nice stretch of a few months where you were so amenable.  When I asked you a question, you generally said yes, happy to simply have your opinion considered.  Now, I've stopped asking if you want eggs for breakfast or turkey and cheese for lunch because even though you love these foods, you will tell me no, simply because you can.

I'm glad that you are becoming your own little person.  It's normal and natural and right.  But it's unnerving sometimes to see how much will there is in you, how strongly you protest doing what you should.  I see places you will need to change and grow and mature, and I can feel overwhelmed at the prospect of parenting you in those places.

But the process of you becoming your own little person is also delightful, for parenting is not simply about correction and discipline.  It is also about developing and nuturing your God-given gifts and abilities, the interests and strengths He's built into you that I am starting to see a little more clearly these days:  your love of Irish dancing and puzzles of all sorts, your observant and verbal nature.

I guess what I am trying to say, my Ellie girl, is that I'm seeing more and more that you are human.  You are weak and you are strong.  You amaze me and you horrify me.  You have been made in God's image, and you fall far short of His glory.  And I love you, all of you, even the almost-two parts of you.

She Lived

I have two daughters.  One of them, Elliana Grace, is a busy, chatty toddler whose antics have made up more than half the contents of this blog since she was born some 19 months ago.  The other, Avaleen Hope, was supposed to be born this week, but we lost her in late May, at around 14.5 weeks gestation.

Though most of the writing I've been doing these past six months has been about the baby I will never hold, I haven't been ready to introduce you to her until now.  I've needed time to grieve alone, with my husband, and with family and close friends.  I've needed time to pray and cry and ask for God to heal me.  I'm still doing all of these things, still think about Avaleen multiple times every day, still miss her fiercely, but I think I'm ready to share the story of her life and death with a broader audience.

It feels a bit crazy even to me.  I've always thought that if I had a miscarriage, I'd want it to be a private thing.  That's part of why I didn't announce my first pregnancy on Facebook until almost 20 weeks, part of why I hadn't announced the second to the world even though I was in my second trimester, a few weeks past the point where the pregnancy was supposed to be safe.

But now that I have had a miscarriage, I see it differently.  To me, Avaleen is not just a setback in our pursuit of growing our family.  She is my daughter.  She lived.  She grew.  I heard her heart beat.  And she changed me, by living and by dying.  Even though I never got to hold her or kiss her forehead, I am different because of her.

So if I want to write honestly, to tell the story of my life and of the God who carries me through it, I feel I must tell Avaleen's story.  I cannot ignore it or pretend it didn't happen because, quite simply, it did.  And I believe with every fiber of my being that her life, short and quiet as it was, matters.

To be honest, I am a bit terrified.  I hesitate to write so publicly about pain that is still so very present in my heart.  I am not sure how readers will react, how their reactions will make me feel.  I know too that by introducing you to Avaleen, my public identity will shift.  I will no longer be simply a wife, mother, writer, teacher; I am also identifying myself as a grieving mother, a woman who's miscarried.  Unlike the previous titles, these aren't labels I ever would have chosen.  Part of me rebels against being associated with them or defined by them, would rather be linked to happier terms.

But the truth is, I have two daughters.  I hear one of them breathing softly over the baby monitor while I write.  I feel the absence of the other in my flat stomach, my empty arms, in the fact that I am able to travel for Thanksgiving this week.

I wish this post was Avaleen's birth announcement, that I was telling you how much she weighed, how her delivery went.  Instead, I simply want to tell you that she lived.

Nineteen Months

I feel like you've changed so much these past few weeks.  I've been saying it for months now, but it really is finally true.  You are no longer a baby; you are a full-fledged, i-want-what-i-want-and-i-want-it-now, opinionated-about-everything toddler.

You want to do it all yourself:  put on your pants, walk down the steps, make your babies "toasty" by covering them up with a blanket.

You love music, especiallly "The Wheels on the Bus" and "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," which have both been played or sung on repeat upwards of ten times in a row in recent days.

When you're really excited about a song or just about life in general, you spin in a circle stomping one foot and bouncing on the other while you go.  It doesn't matter if you're in our playroom, the middle of the mall, or on a walk.  You just dance.

You understand bargains and consequences, willingly polishing off peas for the promise of applesauce.

You talk all the time, processing your world with an ever-growing repertoire of words.  My current favorites are "peet-a-boo," "tat" (for cat), and "puppy dawg" with that drawn-out drawl you picked up from who knows where.

You are pushing your boundaries, trying to stand on any "seat" in sight, dropping your food and utensils on the floor right after I've told you not to.

I'm not sure where we go from here exactly, what kind of little girl you are becoming, how I can best help you get there.  You are learning.  I am learning.  I'm grateful for the adventure we're on, that we get to grow together.

Eighteen Months

You are a year and a half old today.  I don't know how this is possible.

You are learning your colors.  Purple was the first one you said and seems to be your favorite, but you know blue and green too.

You are learning new words almost every day.  This week so far:  "cooking" and "call."

You are learning to put together phrases.  You say "Bye-bye, Daddy!" when he leaves for work in the morning.  You say "Pee-pee, poo-poo" when I tell you it's time for a diaper change.  You walk around the house repeating "Baby daddy" over and over again for reasons I can't understand.  You make me smile.

You love to eat, especially hummus, applesauce, sweet potato fries, yogurt.

You still love to be outside, but your attention span for indoor play is increasing too.  You like to stack blocks into small towers, to take the lid on and off my lipstick while I blowdry my hair in the mornings, to pat your baby dolls "night-night," to flip through the pages of books by yourself.

I love watching you learn, the grin that lights up your face when you say a new word for the first time, the pride you feel when you master a new toy or piece of playground equipment.

When I took you to the doctor today for your 18 month appointment, they told me that you were in the 90th perecentile or higher for all of your measurements.  You are growing so fast, my big and yet still so little girl.

There are moments when I catch glimpses of your babyhood, mostly during the rare times you are asleep in my arms, but there is very little baby left in you.  You are a child, a curious, opinionated, chatty little girl, a delightful companion on errands and outings, a fearless explorer of playgrounds, a lover of dogs and toes and spinning around in circles.

I miss who you were.  I love who you are.  I can't wait to see who you will become.

Seventeen Months

Today is Labor Day.  We celebrate the contributions of hard working people to our country. Seventeen months ago was another sort of labor day, a day of contractions and surgery and overwhelming fatigue, but a day that was, at its core, a celebration of you and the gift of your life.

Back then, on the day of your birth, you were unknown to me in so many ways.  You were a cute, sweet, sleepy baby, not so different in size from the doll babies you carry everywhere with you these days.  I couldn't have imagined you as you are now - running, talking, requesting activities ("poool...poool"), eating nearly as much as I do at some meals.

I am beginning to understand now why grandmothers always talk about how raising small children was the best time of their lives.  I am already forgetting so many of the hard things about your earliest days - the hours and hours you'd scream and refuse to eat, the spit-up that you regularly spewed in giant puddles, the days where your longest nap was 25 minutes, the terrible, horrible sleep training cry fests.  I remember these facts, but I am losing my sense of the emotional reality that went with them.  It no longer seems so terrible as I know it felt then.

We still have our challenges for sure - the tears that arise when your babies can't join you at the dinner table or in the bath tub, the way you sometimes bite and hit in anger, your clinginess - and I know there will be more to come.  Life is hard and messy.  I know that life with you will always have hard and messy elements.

But today, this Labor Day, we visited our pool one last time.  We sat together in the baby pool, side by side.  I blew bubbles in the water over and over, just to see your little face break into a giant smile and to hear you say with delight, "Mommy. Bubbles." because you wanted me to do it again.

Laboring to bring you into the world and laboring through the challenges that came along with you has been so worth it, Ellie Girl.  It has been labor:  real, tough, hard labor.  But it has also been celebration:  rich, deep, vibrant celebration.

Sixteen Months

You are growing so fast now.  I reread blog posts from just a few months ago and realize I'd already forgotten what seemed unforgettable when I was writing it. 

I don't want to forget you at sixteen months.

I don't want to forget how most of your favorite words have "o" sounds:  go-go, no, uh oh, i dunno,  toe, nose, here-you-go, Joel, Ro-Ro (your cousin).  For you, "hole" is "h-ooooo-le" and "dog" is "d-ooooo-g," your lips pursed in a little circle for as long as you can manage.

I don't want to forget how you think it's funny to stick one leg up in the air while holding on to a couch or table, how you think it's hilarious when I do the same thing.

I don't want to forget how much you love your DaDa, how you ask about him all day long, how your face breaks out in a full-on smile when you see him walking up the sidewalk or hear him opening the door.

I don't want to forget how you particularly like to pour pool and bath water on your toes.

I don't want to forget you spinning in a circle until you're so dizzy you fall over or bouncing to music, grinning from ear to ear.

I don't want to forget you with your baby dolls, how you love to feed them with your tiny pink plastic spoon. 

There are a few things I probably wouldn't mind forgetting - your OCD tendencies which require your hands to be cleaned multiple times each meal, the way you whine when I'm trying to make dinner and you feel I'm not paying you enough attention. 

But even these annoyances are part of you, part of the gift.  I'm so glad you're our's.

Fifteen Months

Your favorite word right now is "go-go." 

You say it first thing in the morning, your pajama-clad little self pointing eagerly at the front door, ready to get outside and go.  It doesn't matter where really.  You are equally content to walk in circles around our little court, babbling and swinging your arms back and forth with delight, or to go on a trek to one of our local playgrounds, holding my hand and toddling your way toward adventures in mulch piling and climbing and occasionally a few moments of sitting still in a swing. You are happy outside.  To me, you seem most at home there.

You say it at the pool, after we've spent an hour splashing and dumping cups of water, but mostly climbing in and out over and over again, walking countless laps around the baby pool, climbing on and off the chairs with the plastic slats that so fascinate you.  You point at the "big pool," watching the older kids jumping and swimming.  You are ready to join them.

You say it when Daddy comes home from work, when dinner's over, when bedtime is just an hour away.  You are still ready to go then, ready for whatever little taste of adventure we can offer you - a walk to the mailbox, an evening stroll, a few minutes of fresh air while Daddy waters the garden in the backyard.  You just want to go.

I love how you love life, baby girl, how you run hard into each day, confident that as you "go-go," there is fun to be found, joy to discover.  I love how you take me with you, how your adventures and your joy become mine too.

One Year Old

Last night, the night before your first birthday, I sat with you in the glider in your room, fed you your bottle, and then picked you up and placed your head on my shoulder, the fuzzy pink blanket you sleep with nestled between us. Usually, when I try to do this, you sit up and start looking around; you are used to falling asleep on your own in your crib.

But last night, you must have been extra tired because you kept your head on my shoulder and fell right asleep while I sang the verses of "Amazing Grace" to you softly, as I have done almost every night this past year. Your freshly washed hair rested on my cheek, and I could feel the steady rhythm of your breathing against me. By the time I finished singing, you were in a deep sleep, your body resting heavier and heavier upon me. I did not want to put you in your crib yet, wanted to enjoy one of the increasingly rare moments where I get to hold you in your sleep, so I sat with you and rocked you and thought about my almost one year old baby and the year we have shared.

One year ago on a Saturday night; your Daddy and I were busy working in the basement, trying to finish a few last-minute projects before you arrived. I, all nine plus pregnant months of me, was sitting on the floor with a hot glue gun, trying to repair a pull in the carpet, wondering if you would ever come. And then, early Sunday morning, I awoke to my water breaking, and I was nervous and shaking, though I had no contractions yet, because I knew that the next day would change everything.

And change everything it has, my Ellie girl. We've had quite a year with you, and it's been full of many challenges - a labor that wouldn't start, a C-section, breastfeeding problems, food intolerances, too-short naps, battles to teach you to put yourself to sleep instead of standing up in your crib and screaming. In many ways, it's been the hardest year of my life because I've had to learn to experiment, to fail, to not know what the right thing is to do. And for a Mommy who loves structure, order, and rules, it's been hard.

And yet, Ellie, when I look back on this past year, I don't see it as the hardest year of my life; I see it as one of the best. And that's because of you and the joy you have brought to your Daddy and I. There are so many sweet memories from this year: sleepy newborn snuggles, first smiles and laughs, watching you learn to hold toys and roll over and crawl and sit up and stand up and walk, observing your tenacity in all these things. We love how you love life, how you busily engage it, how you don't want to miss a thing. We love how you interact with us, sticking your chubby arms straight up in the air when we say, "How big is Ellie?" and shaking your head back and forth in hopes of getting us to do the same. We love your hugs and your big, wet, slobbery kisses. We love the snuggles we can steal from you every now and then, when you stop moving long enough to pause in our arms for a few seconds. We love you.

 There have been real trials this year. There have been deep joys. But looking back, I can't imagine it any other way, can't imagine any other baby being part of our family. The trials and joys are both part of the gift of you, and I am so very, very grateful.

Eleven Months

There's no denying it now, Ellie Girl.  You are more of a toddler than you are a baby.  You can totter your way across the room without falling or needing support.  You are beginning to understand language, whispering a raspy "hiiyyyy" when you see yourself in a mirror, repeating a decisive "puh" after me when I ask you to say please instead of fussing to get what you want. 

Lately, you've taken an interest in reading books, handing them to me one after the other, sometimes the same one again and again, listening attentively while you stand next to me.  Sometimes, you even stop moving long enough to actually snuggle into my lap, your warm little body relaxing into me.

Mostly though, you move.  You walk.  You push chairs around on the hardwood floors.  You bang and shake things.  You love anything that makes noise.  You fall often, but you rarely cry.  When your little friends hit or push you, you don't even notice.  To be fair, you do your own share of hair grabbing and toy stealing.  You're a tough little girl, just like your Daddy's been saying since day one of your life when you wouldn't let the pediatric resident shine her light in your eyes.

And oh Ellie Girl, we love you so much.  Don't get me wrong.  We miss our uninterrupted sleep.  We miss our long, quiet, productive Saturdays.  We miss being able to sit through sermons on Sunday and making plans without having to get a babysitter.  But the gift of you is a greater and richer joy than any of these things.  You delight us.

Ten Months

When Ellie was first born, I held her tiny body against my chest, her little legs folded up under her, her head nestled against my shoulder. 

As a first-time parent, I had a hard time imagining that she would ever be anything but this little baby I was only just beginning to know.  It seemed impossible to me that she who could barely lift her head would ever be able to roll over, let alone walk, that the whimpers and coos she produced would ever turn into words I would understand.  I tried to imagine her with a backpack on her first day of kindergarten, talking to me about boys in high school, going off to college, but I could not.  All I could see was this baby who demanded to be fed every few hours, whose cries I could not yet understand.

And so, in my desperation to define my new role as a parent, to establish the expectations for daily life that make me feel safe, I thought, "So this is what being a parent is."  I knew that Ellie would not always take an hour to eat, would one day sleep straight through the night, would eventually stop spitting up, but it really, truly felt like my new job as a mother would always be defined by the challenges I faced at the time.

Only recently, as Ellie takes her first steps and experiments with her first words, have I been able to see her as more than a baby.  She is a baby still, but she is toddling and babbling her way toward maturity.  When I look at her, I see her as she is now, my eager little adventurer, but I can also see her as she will be, imagine her coloring and speaking in sentences and running on the playground. 

I know now that she is unfolding before my eyes daily, that my role as a parent is changing as fast as she is.  I know now that spit-up does cease and that nighttime sleep eventually improves.  I know too that she no longer fits into a little warm bundle on my chest, that to watch her grow is to both gain and lose.

Nine Months Today

She moves, this baby.  She doesn't like to be in any one place for too long.

She fights her sleep, doesn't want to miss a thing.

She's determined, my little girl.  When she sets her mind on something, she purses her lips together, fixes her gaze, and doesn't stop until she conquers - stairs, standing, walking behind her push toy, pushing purple sweet potato puffs into her mouth with her pudgy little fingers.

It makes sense, I suppose.  Her father and I are both determined in our own ways - me irrationally stubborn, him doggedly persistent.  My mom says that Ellie has me beat though, and I have to agree. I am quick to quit when I don't think I'll suceed at something, afraid to fail.

Not my Ellie girl.  If she falls down, she doesn't even flinch, just pushes herself back up and goes at it again.

I know I should fear this determination, know it will make parenting her difficult at points, but mostly I am proud of her. 

It fills me with awe to watch her, this baby that God made, the persistence that He built into her little soul.  He put it there for a reason, I know, and I pray for wisdom to shape it and a life long enough to see Him use it for good.

Waldron Family Update

Well, as you may have noticed, if you still happen to check or subscribe to this blog, it's been over 3 months since I've posted anything! Yikes.

I promise that I do plan to finish my Thirty Pieces series and that I do intend to faithfully post on this blog. However thanks to some wonderful news....

the past few months have required my attention to be devoted to other places, namely my bed and my toilet :)

In all seriousness though, CJ and I are so, so excited about this blessing in our lives and can't wait to meet our baby sometime around March 31. I'll write more about that soon, but for now I just wanted to share our exciting news and let you know that I am very grateful to be feeling more like myself again and plan to work writing back into my schedule starting this week. Check back soon for more posts!

Weekend Away: The Stats

Friday:
-1 suitcase
-2 Chipotle burritos
-4 heart sugar cookies (thanks to CJ's mom)
-2 doses of cold medication for me
-1 bedroom condo at Massanutten

Saturday:
-12 hours of sleep
-10 IHOP pancakes
-1 Jodi Picoult novel (for me...CJ read undisclosed number of chapters in Reason for God)
-1 California pizza from Domino's
-6 games of Sequence (5 games of Sequence won by me!)
-1 bottle of wine

Sunday:
-5 hours of timeshare presentation
-0 timeshares owned by CJ and Abby
-2 hours of debriefing from timeshare presentation and analyzing all of the sales tactics
-3 trips each to the buffet line
-2 hours home

TOTAL: A great Valentine's Day weekend.

Beginning to Build a Home

Since my last post, CJ and I put an offer on another townhouse, this time in Burke, VA. And we got it!!! The whole story is pretty amazing, as it turns out I actually know the current owners through the Fellowship of Christian Athletes here in Fairfax. God really blessed us with a good deal - 3 bedrooms, 2.5 remodeled baths, a new kitchen and a finished basement. We close July 1 and can't wait to move in and get settled...I'll try to post pictures of the house soon.

Until then, you'll have to settle for a few shots from my recent bridal shower in Lancaster. My maid of honor, Mary Grace, along with some help from my mom and some other friends, put together the most beautiful shower I've ever been to. It was a great time to see friends and family and to be blessed with lots of gifts that will, Lord-willing, grace our home and bless our guests for years to come.

The delicious and beautiful spread

The girls: Ashley (sister-in-law), Kim (college friend), me, Anne (bridesmaid/college friend), Laura (college friend), Mary Grace (matron of honor/college friend), Kellie (college friend), Brynne (former roommate/college friend), and Liz (bridesmaid/friend from DC)

My friend Sarah and I...best friends growing up :)

My crazy flower girl Morgan and ring bearer Caleb...chowing down on post-shower leftovers