Summer Snapshots

Last summer every post I wrote was about cancer and chemo and trying not to die. So cheerful.

This summer I have been quiet. Not because nothing is happening, but compared to last summer, nothing is happening.

Somehow, we have been keeping pretty busy.

Alice completed her first gymnastics class. Girlfriend LOVED it and can’t wait to do it again next year.
We’ve visited the splash pad.
We gave Alice’s bedroom a makeover. No more nursery! Hello, Big Girl Room!
We blew up some fireworks.
We spent pool time with favorite friends.
Alice upgraded from the crib mattress to a Big Girl Bed.
We had lunch at the park.
The kids got a job. Sort of. They watered Grandma’s flowers while she was away.
We ate popsicles in our inflatable pool.
I made lots of ice cream (Tin Roof is pictured).
We saw some of our best good friends who live far away.

In between all that, Eddie and I have spent at least two hours per week in my new classroom getting it ready. Charlie and Alice have played Little People, restaurant, store, library, and many other make believe games. Cortney has finished painting the doors and trim downstairs that we started seven years ago. I have been writing and reading and trying my best to keep the children’s toys from taking over our lives.

We have lots more fun ahead for the second half of summer break!

A Decade of Edward

Dear Eddie,

You are TEN!

I was told not to blink. When you were screaming for hours for no purpose, I was told, “this will pass, and you will miss that little baby.”

They were right, it passed. And while not all of the experiences over the past ten years felt like a blink, it went much quicker than I anticipated, even with all the warnings.

Dad and I are incredibly proud of you.

Cub Scout Christmas caroling at Great Gram Sluiter’s.

When Dad and I decided to become parents, we had the goal of helping all of you develop into good people. Being athletic or creative or intelligent was all secondary to just being a good human. You, son, are a good person.

You have a kind heart and a giving nature. You regularly think about how others would feel. You don’t want people to be sad or hurt. You ask lots of questions…you’ve always asked lots of questions.

This summer for one day a week you have been helping me out in my new classroom. I enjoy our time together. Before Alice was born you had your own room and bedtime was our chance to read books, cuddle, and talk about all the questions in your head. Since Charlie moved in to your room, we still read books, but our one-on-one time has pretty much disappeared. We still have great conversations, just the three of us. But it’s different.

This summer we have been able to get those Mom-and-Eddie conversations back. The 30-minute drive to my school gives us time to talk about books and movies and all the things of the world that are on your mind. While you work in my classroom you tell me what you’re thinking about and ask more questions. The drive home is usually pretty quiet while you ponder all the the conversations of the day. I really love it.

This school year you finished your 4th year as a cub scout, played basketball for the first time, and did a class called “theater games” through Zeeland Rec. You are finding what you love and who you are.

This fall you will be going into 5th grade–the last year of elementary school. Being 10 and heading into 5th grade have me feeling very nostalgic for my little toddler Eddie. You’ve always loved school though, and have excelled in all the subjects. The couple times you’ve gotten in trouble have broken your heart because you knew you disappointed your teachers and us. You are always so willing to apologize and make things right. You are very social and love seeing your friends, which is a blessing and a curse.

Ms. Holwerda, your 4th grade teacher and you

You make friends very, very easily. You can walk into a room and find someone to hang out with. I admire that because you make it look so easy. The problem with that is that you love to chat. You often don’t even think about whether or not you should start talking, you just do. This is a bit of a problem in school. It’s the only negative thing your teachers ever have to say at parent teacher conferences. And it’s only negative because you do it when you shouldn’t…and that distracts YOU from what you should be doing, and it distracts others.

You still love Legos. In fact, you are trying to save up $400 to buy the Lego Hogwarts. You’ve already saved $30 this summer!

You like to ride your bike and shoot hoops. You love to swim and wrestle with Charlie. You enjoy doing things like fish and take walks with Grandpa. But your current favorite thing is to play your Nintendo 2DS. Actually, you love all screens. You love to play math games on my computer, apps on the ipad, and games on the Wii. You love to watch movies and TV. We often joke that you’re best at sitting on the couch. But really, you do like to play and do active things…just not as much as you like sitting around.

You LOVE to read and write. When screens aren’t an option (because sometimes you all need a break…because you get rude with each other), you can be found reading through piles of books or creating comics. You have many notebooks filled with drawings and doodles of stories and characters you have created. When we ask you what you want to do when you grow up, you never really know. You like the idea of becoming an author/comic book creator, but you also like the idea of writing and creating for video games. I definitely think you will go into a creative field someday even though you have strong math and reasoning skills too.

Whatever you choose in life, we want you to choose joy. We want you to choose kindness and love and acceptance. We want you to continue to be YOU.

Ten is a big deal. You are no longer a little kid (although, adorably, you still sleep with your Lamby and your “monkey pillow” from when you were a wee one). You’re a big kid. You’re entering the “tween” zone. I admit I am a bit nervous about the adolescent years, but I am also very excited.

Happy birthday, my first born–my Eddie Bear. I love you to the moon and stars.


A Marriage Comes of Age

Look at those babies!

Today our marriage is 14 years old. That’s the age of a high school freshman which makes me laugh because in some ways, our marriage is just like a 9th grader.

Ninth graders are no longer little kids, but they are not experienced veterans by any stretch. That is pretty much where we are in our marriage too. We are no longer the naive, innocent newlyweds of our first couple years. We have been through some stuff and seen some shit.

In the beginning we had stars in our eyes. We would sit and sip drinks and dream about what we would do with our new house–that seemed so big for just two people, where we would travel, where our life together would take us. Even though there were some rough spots in our life, the being married part was fun!

As we grew out of marriage toddlerhood, we realized that being married has some pretty tough spots. It’s not “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in the baby carriage,” so easily. Just like upper elementary kids begin to see that the world is not always fair, so did our marriage. Having babies was a challenge–even after the babies were here.

Our marriage was on the verge of being middle school age

By the time our marriage was out of elementary school, we had three more people along for the ride: Eddie, Charlie, and Alice. It’s pretty appropriate that our marriage became middle school age just as the chaos of having three kids was beginning.

Middle school. I know it well after spending the past five years teaching it. Middle schoolers are still kids, but wish for adulthood. They are slowly losing the innocence of youth while wanting to cling to some of it like a security blanket. Our marriage went through that too.

Having three little kids in our 30’s meant that we were changing diapers, potty-training, and wiping snotty noses after many of our friends were finished with that phase. We loved the little age of our kids, but also longed for adult interaction. We started to miss the days of having no one to answer to, no schedule to be on, no crusts to cut off sandwiches.

As we continue to grow together, we experience more loss and sadness, more valleys and hurdles, and we had to learn to navigate those while maintaining, even growing, our love and respect and communication.

Just like middle school, we have had to learn what we value, which hills we are willing to die on, and which ones we are content to pass by. We are learning what real friends are and who our role models are.

I would not say it gets easier; it just changes. And in some ways it’s become more difficult to focus on and nurture our marriage.

In the beginning it was just us and our dreams. We were each other’s plans. We went out all the time because we could. We talked all the time about everything. Kids complicate things. Now we are pulled in a zillion directions and most of our time is spent apart so we can do our own things. Someone is with the kids while the other runs errands, or we have the kids with us if we want to tackle a project together.

Our conversations are about budgets and school supplies and replacing the floor, dishwasher, paint colors, and on and on and on. Dreaming about the future means hoping we can get everyone’s schedules in a place where we can all be where we need to be: class, scouts, soccer, gymnastics, after school events, church events, and so on.

Once in a while we let ourselves think about traveling beyond the Michigan border with the kids–or alone! We still talk about what we want to be when we grow up, because 14 years of marriage is still dreaming of being full-fledged adults.

We are still very much figuring out this marriage thing, but we are trying to make it as fun as possible.


With the middle of June comes the completion of a bunch of stuff around here: school for the kids, school for me as a teacher, school for me as a PhD student, a 3-year consistory term for Cortney, baseball for Charlie, and scouts for Eddie. It also means we are all moving on, advancing forward to new things.

By the end of June, Cortney will be done with her term as a deacon for our church. He surprised both of us by really enjoying his work with church leadership, and he hopes that while he will be moving out of the consistory, he will still find a way to stay connected to the business of serving our church family in another way.

Eddie finished 4th grade and is advancing to 5th in the fall–the last year of elementary and I am not doing well with this fact. Charlie finished 1st grade and is advancing to 2nd (and we all breathed a huge sigh of relief that he MADE IT). And Alice will be advancing from full-time daycare kid to 3 days a week of preschool this fall! All my babies will be school kids!

I finished my 16th year teaching in my district. It was a strange year, for sure. I’m advancing to something new for my 17th year; for the 4th time I am moving classrooms! This is the second time it has been by choice–I am moving just across the hall to a larger space and gaining two more bookcases for my ever-growing classroom library.

That small blue shirt is Charlie moving all of my books by himself from my old classroom.

The kids helped earlier in the week with the moving. They impressed me by getting all of my stuff moved in one morning!

Eddie and Charlie brought stuff over, and she tried to put books on the shelves, as you can see by the piles, she wasn’t as fast as the boys–plus she is a fan of taking breaks.

I probably purged about 50% of my stuff, and yet I have SO MUCH STUFF.

Eddie hard at work…without complaining!

I’m glad I saved some student work, because I have way more wall space to fill in this room. Someone sent me a sweet Hogwarts banner that will hang in the library too!

Oh dear. Look at the state of that library.

I’m re-organizing my library as well and using colored stickers for each genre to match the ones our school library uses to help kids find the type of books they are looking for. You can contribute to my classroom library here. You can help out with school supplies here.

Scout Advancement

Eddie had his final scout advancement this week. He has been in cub scouts since 1st grade when he was but a wee Tiger scout. This week he moved up from a first year Webelos to a second year which means he is on his way to Arrow of Light.

I asked him to smile nicely with his den leader. This is what I got. I don’t even know.

And Alice met the princesses at the zoo last weekend. It’s not an advancement…or maybe it is? But it was fun!

“Mommy! LOOK IT’S TIANNA!!!”

On to new adventures!

Among the Flowers

As I walked into my classroom on my last day of school, I checked my personal email on my phone. My mom had sent out an early morning message to my brothers and me: Grandma died.

It was not unexpected, but it was startling nonetheless. My dad asked us kids to send him some memories for the pastor to use during the funeral. I wrote mine out in a two-page narrative. Of course I did. My dad and the pastor asked if I would read my writing, and I obliged.

I could just copy/paste that here, but honestly, it wasn’t my best writing. It was thrown together so that those who knew her would smile at the memories that they shared too. But I have been thinking a lot about what to put in this space.

My grandma with her two younger brothers
She always commiserated with me about being the older sister of two younger brothers.

My Grandma was a little white-haired old lady for my whole life. She was 94 and a half when she passed on May 31, 2019. She and my grandpa lived in the same house since my dad was very small. She had a cookie jar that was always filled and her house was filled with things that were antiques.

She wrote us notes and sent us actual dollars in the mail for Valentine’s Day, birthdays, Easter…even when we were in college. My roommates thought it was adorable that my sweet Granny would put $5 cash in a card for me a couple times a year.

Life stopped at 3pm on the dot each day for my grandpa and her to have hot black coffee. Even before the days of central air in the muggy heat of summer, they would sit at the kitchen table with their steaming cups of coffee with Talk of the Town on the am radio and take a break. Every day.

My grandparents on Senior Skip Day in the spring of their senior year at Zeeland High School (class of 1942)

My grandparents were married for 75 years. “Happily married for 75 years,” the obituary said. I feel like there are hours of stories that could come out of that brief statement that spans so much time, but I do know that my grandpa and grandma knew each other for almost their whole lives. They went to grade school together and then high school.

Listening to them was always educational and humorous. They would pick at each other in a way that only two people who had been through a life time together could. My grandpa would fuss about they way my grandma sliced pie, and my grandma would fuss about my grandpa’s hearing aids. But once you asked them about something from the past or if they knew a person, they would look at each other and play off each other’s memories filling in a piece of local history you might not otherwise ever hear.

My grandparents’ wedding photo 1944

When my Grandma was 19 years old, she decided to take a train across the country from West Michigan to California to marry my Grandpa before he shipped out for WWII. They were married at the courthouse and had nowhere to stay that night. They walked around looking for a place and ended up sitting on a park bench.

My grandparents were best friends. I know his heart is broken having to go on in this life without her there.

My grandma’s senior photo

I have lots of wonderful memories of my Grandma, but there is one that seems small, but ended up having a huge impact: my Grandma read to me.

We don’t usually realize what we are becoming while it’s happening to us. I sure know I was developing into an advocate for literacy while the adults in my life surrounded me with books. My Grandma was a part of that.

She had a cabinet filled with old books–many published in the 1950’s and 60’s. As a kid, that made them more exciting and special than the ones I had at home. Two stand out to me as being especially pivotal: McElligot’s Pool by Dr. Seuss and an incredibly old book of fairy tales my Grandma had as a little girl. I can’t remember a time we visited that Grandma didn’t read to us.

She gave me the fairy tale book when I was at her house once as an adult. I was looking through all the old books of my childhood and she said to take what I wanted. The fairy tale book wasn’t in there, so I asked about it. She got it out and handed it to me. As a little girl, I asked her why she liked it since it didn’t have many pictures. She told me you don’t need pictures if you have an imagination.

Looking back, those moments snuggled up next to my soft Grandma listening to the stories of Rapunzel and Cinderella were life-shaping. It was another instance of the adults in my life valuing the written word and showing me how much love can flow through words.

My grandma age 2

Ortha Jean DeJonge Riemersma was adventurous, sassy, and funny. She poured herself into her family and did her best to always keep the peace. She was a strong survivor–both of younger brothers and breast cancer, among other things–just like me.

Or I should say, I am just like her. At least I try to be.

Alice asked me last week where heaven is. I don’t know how to explain it to a four-year-old when I am not even sure myself. So I told her that “heaven is wherever there is something beautiful.”

“Like flowers, mommy?”

“Yes. Yes, like flowers.”

“Yours grandma is with the flowers now?”

“Yes. I believe she is, Alice.”

I love you, Grandma. I will always look for you among the flowers.

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worry
You belong somewhere you feel free

“Wildflowers” by Tom Petty

I Am Here

“If you can be heard then you exist.” (from Britt-Marie Was Here by Fredrick Backman)

It’s almost summer break. I have four more days and then my district is done until August. A ten-week break.

I’ve been struggling with what words to put in this space. In July this blog will be 12 years old. I started it a good two years before Cortney and I would become parents, but after we had experienced our first miscarriage. I didn’t know what or how to share when I first started.

Since then I have opened up here about both miscarriages, documented my children’s early lives, talked about mental health issues like depression and anxiety–both of which I have/do struggle with–chronicled some teaching-related things, and detailed my journey through breast cancer. I’ve been vulnerable here in the hopes of showing people they are not alone and to remind myself that I am not alone. I’ve kept this space as a sort of time capsule.

We had author Kathryn Erskine visit our school after the 8th graders read Mockingbird, a novel about a 5th grade girl with autism who, along with her dad and community, is struggling to find closure after her older brother is killed in a school shooting. A piece of advice she gave to our students was to write down everything about who you are as a sort of time capsule. A way to remember what it was like to be an 8th grader in 2019. A way to remember they were here in this time and space.

This past week I told my students about this space as an example of Kathryn’s Erskine’s advice of time capsule writing and to show that writing can be healing. That telling your stories and putting them into the world (or just in a notebook) helps you feel real. It gives you a way to look back and say, “That was me. I was here.”

I wanted my students to have something similar, so I created a Time Capsule sheet for them to fill out all about who they are right now. I collected them and stuck them in an envelope labeled “Class of 2023,” to be delivered to the high school in 5 years. They thought it was a pretty fun idea.

Simultaneously, we were working on our final writing for the year: narratives. Students took topics/themes from Mockingbird like forgiveness, the importance of friendship, being different, determination, grief/loss, and emotional healing, and wrote their own stories that deal with these same ideas. It wasn’t until this week that I connected those stories to Time Capsule writing.

This week, on the day the stories were due, I gave students the chance to come in front of class and read their stories out loud for extra credit. I had read a few of their stories already during our revision days, but not all of them since they were paired with other students.

I was not prepared for what would be shared.

Thirteen and fourteen year-olds stood boldly in front of their classmates and shared stories of assault, parental abandonment, deaths of loved ones, deportation, child protective service experiences, and so much more. We cried together. We hugged. And we felt seen.

As usual, I also did the assignment. I shared mine with them through the whole process, so they already had access to mine. I wrote about the importance of friendship through my chemo journey last summer. I try to be real with my students in hopes of inviting them to be real with me. I never imagined they would accept that invitation so wholly and share it with their classmates.

I was blown away.

I was inspired.

I still struggle with what to put in this space. Who am I writing for? Why do I share my posts on social media? Should I stop? Should I shut down my blog’s Facebook page? What purpose does it serve?

And what about Eddie and Charlie and Alice? What can I share about my kids now that they are older and their story is their own? Our stories are interwoven since parenting them is my story too. But their privacy is important. But my experience is still mine. Navigating that balance is going to be tricky.

But I know now that I can’t stop writing.

My words are my way of saying “I am here. I am real.”

Survivor Frustration

“Hey Mrs. Sluiter. Remember how you weren’t here on the first day of school because you were doing chemo and you had a video for us and there was a sub and you were bald?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I just remembered that was how the year started. It seems so long ago. I actually forgot about all the cancer stuff. Plus you have hair now and it seems like you always did.”

It’s been a really long, weird year for me.

In April, I passed the year mark from when I found out I had breast cancer. This week is the year mark from when I had it removed.

I’m living in a weird place. I feel weird in the body I’m in–most days I don’t like how I look, particularly where my hair is concerned. But then I feel guilty because at least I’m alive, right? Better to not love how I look and being living, right?

School has been a challenge this year. With so much going on in my personal life, I haven’t been as patient with my students. I know I haven’t been my best teaching self this year. I have long lists of things I would like to improve on for next year and at the top of my list is patience with my students because they deserve that from me.

I’m trying to be kind to myself. If a friend told me she was frustrated with her job performance and her looks, and she had gone through chemo and radiation and a had a child at home with high needs, I would look at her and tell her to be kind to herself. It’s just one school year.

Why can’t I do that for myself?

Why do I tell myself that I should be “over” the cancer treatment? Whenever my brain still feels clouded, or I don’t do as well on an assignment as I thought, or I read critical feedback on a piece, I am so hard on myself. My first reaction is to flip my computer off the table and walk away from all of it. I’m not good enough for grad school or writing for publication. Who do I think I am?

It can’t still be the chemo or radiation, right? That is DONE.

But I am told, there are probably still effects.

That is so frustrating.

Whenever I look in the mirror I get so unreasonably crabby at hair and weight gain. I’m on estrogen blockers that make my previous antidepressant not quite as effective, so I’ve had an additional AD added. I am not the healthiest eater in the world, but even when I try to be, the weight just sticks to me. I feel like a potato with legs and short hair.

(No, I do not want to try your Keto Plexus 30 Days of Sandpaper that you sell. I’m sure it’s great for you, but no thank you).

If one of my friends told me this, I would have a hard time not slapping her into reality. My husband, friends, and even students tell me I am beautiful and look great. Why can I not see that? Why am I suddenly avoiding the camera?

Since the very beginning of all of this, the advice that keeps coming is “be kind to yourself.”

I feel like that has been a fail for me. Others (Cortney) are very good at taking care of me and directing me to sleep, drink water, take a break, but I am not good at doing that for myself. I am not good at being easy on myself when it comes to deadlines and treating my effort with compassion.

I am mean to myself because I am frustrated.

I’m frustrated with my looks. I want my hair to grow faster. I want to have better habits (but I also don’t want to not eat and drink what I love–please don’t give me advice on this).

I am frustrated with my work and school performance. I know I do a good job, but it’s not the job I feel like I can do. I feel like I am just surviving and not thriving.

I’m frustrated with all the commitments. So many appointments for me, for Charlie, and then the regular stuff like dentist appointments for the other kids. There is no time.

I am frustrated with my time management. When I do have time, I just want to take a nap. Even though I have a whole LIST of things I want to do around here.

And because of all of this, I am frustrated with myself for being so frustrated with myself.

I’m not really sure how to un-frustrate myself. I’m hoping that when school ends at the end of the month, I can turn over a new leaf in self-care and self-acceptance. But I don’t really know what that looks like.


I turned 41 and had my annual mammogram this past Wednesday. The last time I was in that little room, I had two long needles sticking out of my bewb that they were trying to image to make sure they could get the whole tumor out.

It’s been sort of a weird year.

I keep telling people this is the year I feel old, but that’s not exactly accurate. I don’t feel OLD like elderly or falling apart or unable to do stuff. I just feel…like a veteran. Like an adult, maybe? Is this what it feels like to be an adult?

Maybe it was going through the whole cancer thing. My body isn’t more achy or sore, but when I look in the mirror, I see change. Yes, my hair is short (which thank you for the compliments, but I am ready for it to be long again), but I have more lines on my face. My eyes are more tired. My skin is drier. Something looks…aged.

Maybe it’s the whole 16 years of teaching thing. This year I am finding myself surrounded by a LOT of very young, new teachers as the people I started my career with start to retire around me. A few weeks ago, I found out who will be retiring this and other shifts that are possible in department chairs and such. I also have a student teacher this semester. On one of her first days, a student asked, “Hey Mrs. Sluiter! Is that your daughter?” And I laughed at the absurdity and then did the math. It was not all that absurd.

Maybe it’s the whole being back in grad school thing. I’m currently taking a class called Professionalization in English that is all about how to be a PhD student who is hoping to become a professor. There are seven of us in the class: three of us are in the English Ed PhD program, one is in the Literature PhD program, and the other three are in the Literature MA program. I am the oldest there by at least five years. And each week we have guest speakers–other professors in the department–come to talk about things like getting published, presenting at conferences, dissertation writing, etc. I am constantly reminded that 40 is not all that young to be back in school, even if it is grad school.

Or maybe it’s just a combination of this whole weird year. Maybe this is fleeting and will go away the farther I get from the entire ordeal. Maybe I just have to settle into this new me. The cancer survivor, doctoral student, veteran teacher me.

This year I’ve had to do many things that made me uncomfortable (to say the least). Maybe that is what feeling like an adult is. Doing the things that make you uncomfortable because you only get one life and if you don’t do the thing, you will regret it.

Which means maybe this is the year we will finally join a gym and get the Christmas decorations off the yard before April.


Here I am hoping 41 is less uncomfortable that 40 was.

By the way, that mammogram I had on my birthday came back completely normal. Absolutely no sign of cancer. I’d say that is a good start to this new trip around the sun.

Lucky Seven

Dear Charlie,

Six was a tough year, let’s just say it. I won’t say it was terrible because it absolutely was not.

However, you were dealt a pretty raw deal this past year. Less than a month after turning 6, you found out I had breast cancer. Of all three kids, you took it the hardest, but we didn’t know that for quite a while because you kept it all inside.

Eddie asked questions and admitted when things were scary. Alice didn’t understand much beyond the doctors had to cut me and take out something bad and that the medicine made me tired and bald.

You quietly took all of it in and let it bubble under the surface.

Life just got hard, bud. Big feelings with no where to put them and no language to get them out lead to some pretty hard times. We thought starting school would help, but it got worse.

We made choices and sought answers and we are still in the middle of all that. And you have been a trooper. You have done the work that many adults won’t do. We are so very proud of you.

We have learned a LOT about you this year. Some things we already knew, but they grew and developed: you are whip smart, a math whiz, quick-witted, very literal, and extremely logical.

You have strong expectations of what is right and wrong along with when and how things should be done. And if someone does not meet these expectations, well, woe to them. Woe. To. Them.

You can problem solve and build things with various materials like no one else your age. In fact, when you are amped up and melting down, math problems or building things can calm you.

I will be the first to admit that I absolutely do not understand how your mind works. You are different than I am in almost every way possible. But that doesn’t mean I’m not fascinated and amused by you and your creativity!

School is hard this year, but not because you can’t do it. There are just things you do not want to do. Because you don’t really like to talk about it, we are not completely sure what triggers your dislikes so strongly, but we are all working on it.

The tooth fairy has visited often this year. You have been missing a front tooth for like ever now. And it only adds to your sweet charm. A sweet charm you seem to know you possess. One that wiggles you into the hearts of everyone that meets you.

You LOVE to laugh. Despite the roughness of the day, in the end, you just want to laugh at silly things. And no one can make you laugh that deep, chuckle laugh of yours harder than Eddie. You and Eddie have a deep connection. He absolutely do not understand you, but he loves you deeply. He sticks up for you and wants to help you as best as he can. Sometimes you let him. When he tickles you, you pee your pants every time. But neither of you care because you’re laughing so much!

Your sister on the other hand, drives you nuts. I try not to laugh, but she is also so very different than you are. For one, she talks nonstop. For another she wants to play with you and you absolutely do not want her to touch anything that is yours or that you are playing with because she will do it wrong. You have zero patience for her being littler than you. But the minute someone is being mean to her? Look out! Bird rage!

You love things that are soft. I mean, who doesn’t?! But you particularly love stuffed animals and soft blankets and your soft weighted blanket. You love to feel warm and secure. Again, who doesn’t, right? But you love these things more than a typical kid does. You like to be close. You like to cuddle. This has been true since you were a tiny infant you preferred the swaddle or the moby wrap.

You are my sunshine, Charlie Bird. This year, when I told you the story of your birth, you especially like the part when the anesthesiologist played Pearl Jam’s “Given to Fly” while they started cutting to get you out. You thought that was so funny that they played a song about flying and then we called you Charlie Bird.

We are still working to figure you out–to find out how you tick and how we can be the best parents for you. Just because you are different than your siblings, doesn’t mean you are even a little bit less. Not one bit.

You are something special, and I have a feeling that SEVEN is going to be a very good year for you–and us!

Let’s do this together, sweet boy.

I love you more than all the wishes in the universe,

Mom Mom

The Last Baby is Not a Baby Anymore

Dear Alice,

You are FOUR!

I’ll tell you something you have probably already figured out: As the final born child, every one of your milestones is emotional for me. It’s just the way it is for the last baby. I’m sorry…but not.

In the past couple months, you’ve grown up so much in anticipation of turning four. You ditched the crib for a Big Girl bed, and are now (not so) patiently awaiting the bedroom re-do later this spring when we repaint your room and get your a REAL Big Girl bed. You chose mermaids for your bedding, and Grandma and Grandpa got it for you for your birthday.

You potty trained! No more diapers in this house! After 9.5 years, we are now–finally–diaper free. I admit that I was not emotional about that one because changing a toddler’s poopy diaper is one of the grossest parts of parenting. We are much happier that all that business is happening in the toilet now.

And just a week ago, you gave up your boppy (pacifier). The Boppy Fairy came in the night and turned it into a Barbie car which you love so much you took it to daycare for a full week.

We signed you up for swimming lessons and gymnastics this spring/summer and you are already talking about what you will wear to both.

And this week you told your first real lie: about what happened to your purple princess lipstick (“It’s not in my [laundry] basket, mom.” Spoiler: it was in there, broken into pieces).

We definitely do not have any more babies in this house, that’s for sure.

At four, you are incredibly opinionated. You feel you need to have a say in every single decision: your clothes, your shoes, your toys, your brothers, meals, what is on TV, who sits where, the color of your milk cup. This goes on and on. When you don’t get your way, there is quite a bit of dramatics.

You are quick to hug and kiss and say, “I love you,” to every member of the family, though. If you throw a fit, you will come back later with a snuggle and tell us you love us.

You are like a dance shoved in a tiny body. You like to twirl and “shake your peanut” even when there is no music.

Oh, and you have opinions on music too. If we do not play your favorite song (which could be any of a hundred songs at any one time), there are hysterics. Currently your favorites include “Thunder” by Imagine Dragons and “We Will Rock You” by Queen (you like to tell us all we have mud on our face).

You have one of the loudest laughs I have ever heard. Maybe because it’s so squealy.

You want to help or do everything I do. You follow me around, and when I tell you to go play with your toys, you protest. A lot.

When I read, you get out your copy of Bossypants by Tina Fey and sit next to me.

When I put makeup on in the morning, you get your stool and choose a lip gloss and ask me to use “the big brush” on your face.

When I make dinner, you drag your stool into the kitchen to “help” with hopes that something sweet is made that you can lick.

We celebrated your birthday with pink and princesses, of course. You even wore your Elsa dress (and crown, and gloves) for your birthday party with Charlie on Saturday.

Your facial expressions are something of a legend around here. They are so over-the-top that I am reminded of Lucille Ball whenever you pull them. (Sidenote: We got a book about girls who changed the world and you pointed out Lucille Ball as your favorite).

You have a big voice, and while I don’t want you to lose the sass and courage to stand up for what you believe, I do wish you could reign it in when it’s about not loving what I made for dinner or wanting candy as a meal. (Sidenote: while I write this you are sitting on the floor with your arms crossed, quite angry because I told you we are having chicken for dinner, not a sandwich).

We are at the age of begging and NO! and all the questions and non-stop talking. SO MUCH TALKING. (Sidenote: you are talking to me right now and I don’t even know what it’s about, but you have said, “mom” at least a dozen times.)

You love to tell me that we are both “moms and girls” (you have Babycita, so I guess that makes you a mom) and that we are the same.

You hate to have your hair brushed, but you refuse to have it cut–or even trimmed.

You can count to 20 and recognize your name and can say MOST of the alphabet.

You love to sing and make me sing you “Row Row Boat” and “Jesus Loves Me” every time I tuck you in at night.

You love books, but you want to read them your way and comment on every single picture and what you think the book should say.

Every single day you make me laugh. Every single day you drive me to the edge of my own sanity. I am so glad that you are my daughter.

Happy fourth birthday, my little Alicita.



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