Deep Thoughts on Having a One-Year-Old

I had always wanted an April baby. I guess the fifth time's the charm.

The day was warm and sunny and smelled of cherry blossoms. The birth was relaxed and easy and filled with laughter. Both were perfect in their own way.

So maybe I can be forgiven for idealizing Ian's life just a little bit. Some of my dreams came true that day.

As this past year rushed by (at the speed of light, so it seemed), I found myself clinging to Ian's babyness: those squishy thighs, those soft cheeks, those baby blue eyes. As he reached each milestone, part of me wept, even while cheering him on.

Fortunately, he has taken his time with the milestones--at least the ones that involved movement--and that has helped ease the pain. He rolled pretty much exclusively until he was about ten months old. Then he learned how to army crawl. And just recently, he has begun scooting on his bum. That's because he still doesn't know how to get from a sitting to a crawling position or vice versa. Which means that if I sit him down,  he pretty much stays where he is, especially if he's on something that's difficult to scoot around on, like grass.

Before I had Ian, I knew slow movers existed. I just didn't know how wonderful they were. To be able to hold Ian on my lap and not have him constantly wriggling to get down is such a joy.

Because here's the other thing: in every other way, he's just like a one-year-old. He carries on "conversations" with us, says a few words, copies noises we make, laughs at our funny expressions and jokes, eats like a champ, delights in new toys, claps his little hands, and gives the best snuggles. It is so magical to have all of the personality of a one-year-old without all of the stress.

But I know these days are numbered. In fact, last week I took him to the doctor's for his one year check-up, and although Dr. VanDenBergh wasn't concerned per se about Ian's lack of crawling, it did make him think that Ian's hemoglobin level might be low. So he tested it, and sure enough, it was. We started giving him an iron supplement, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that the very next day (the very next day!) Ian got up on his hands and knees and then pushed up to his feet to get into a downward dog position. So maybe the iron is just the oomph he needed to get himself up off the ground. Either way, he's not going to be content with his current transportation options for much longer.

I've tried to enjoy each of my babies fully, completely, and not wish away the fleeting time. But it has felt more desperate with Ian. Is this how it feels with your last baby?

Because I don't know. There haven't been any flashing lights or loud proclamations, metaphorically speaking. Maybe there never will be. I think a part of me will always yearn for a baby but maybe not because I actually want another baby but rather I just want my own babies back.

I feel all this pressure, but I think it's pressure I've brought upon myself. If Ian really is our last, I want to feel like we're ending on a high note. I want him to be the most perfect baby that ever was and complete our family like the candle on his birthday cake. Because of that I've been quick to identify the good (he takes a binky!!!) and slow to find the bad (he gagged on all solid food for three months!).

When you think about it, this isn't really a bad way of looking at life. But it's also not really fair to Ian if it means I'm putting impossibly high expectations on him, nor is it fair to another possible child in our future who would undoubtedly be compared to our perfect "last" baby.

And so I'm realizing, once again, how important it is to just live in the present. And not just with one-year-old Ian. But with three-year-old Clark and six-year-old Bradley and eight-year-old Maxwell and nine-year-old Aaron.

I don't know what the future holds, but at this very moment, everything feels exactly right. Not that everything is perfect but that I think our family is exactly what it's supposed to be like right now. And that feels good.

Raising Readers: When a Book Finds You at Just the Right Time

I love it when a book falls into my lap at just the right time, and my life seems to converge with the characters in the story in an almost uncanny way. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I pay attention.

One of the most notable times this has happened in our family was last fall when I was reading All-of-a-Kind Family to my kids (one of our favorite readalouds of the year!)

The very first chapter is about Sarah, the middle of five daughters. One Friday afternoon, the girls are getting ready to make their weekly trip to the library, an activity that is eagerly anticipated by all of them. Except this Friday, Sarah is found in a crying heap instead of getting ready with her sisters. When questioned, she chokes out the awful truth: She can't find her library book.

The whole family is enlisted to help search, but it doesn't turn up, which doesn't surprise Sarah because she actually loaned the book to her friend, Tillie, who said she returned it to Sarah's desk at school but Sarah never saw it. Although sympathetic to Sarah's plight, Mother tells her she won't be allowed to check out anything else from the library unless she pays for the book.

It's a hard lesson, particularly because, most likely, it was Tillie who lost it, not Sarah, but, as Mother says, "You borrowed the book, and that makes you responsible. The library lets you borrow the book, and you're not supposed to lend it to anybody else." Things get even harder when Sarah asks her mother is she'll come with her to the library, and Mother says, "No, Sarah, that's something you must do yourself. If you explain just how it happened, I'm sure the library lady will understand that you didn't mean to be careless. Find out what you have to do, and we'll talk about it when you get back."

It's a long walk to the library, and when it's finally Sarah's turn to talk to the librarian, she can barely get out the words. She's so embarrassed and ashamed. Luckily, the librarian is incredibly kind and understanding, and even though Sarah ends up having to pay for the book (it costs a dollar, which takes Sarah several months to pay off), she is allowed to check out another book, and it's the beginning of a sweet and lovely friendship with the librarian.

I know that was a rather long recounting, but it will be worth it, I promise.

Not two days after we read that chapter, Maxwell came home from school with a slip of paper. It was an overdue notice from the school library, which said that one of his books was ninety days past due, so he would need to pay for it. He seemed fine when he handed me the paper, but as soon as I started questioning him about it, he burst into tears.

I was completely unaware that he'd even lost a library book, much less that it had been gone for ninety days, but from the way he was crying, it was apparent that he'd known it was missing all those weeks but just didn't know what to do about it. All of the pressure and stress and worry unleashed itself in a great flood of inconsolable sobs.

Maxwell has always been very concerned with his image. At school, he is a model student. He does careful work, pays attention, and follows directions to the letter. But a model student does not lose his library book, and the thought of having to own up to it and fix it was almost too much for him to handle. He was not at all unlike Sarah, who was also absolutely mortified at the impression the pretty, new librarian would have of her if she admitted to losing a library book.

I'll admit that my heart almost burst seeing Maxwell's anguish. I was ready to swoop in and take care of it all for him when I remembered the words of Sarah's mother: "This is something you must do yourself." And so instead I said, "Max, do you remember what happened when Sarah lost her library book? She had to talk to the librarian and take care of it herself. I know you can take care of this, too."

We came up with a plan: We were sure he'd lost the book at school because it hadn't ever come home with him. The next day was Thursday. He would talk to his teacher first and explain the situation to her (during first recess because he was adamant that none of his friends know about his mistake). He would ask her if he could look through the bookshelves in the classroom and see if it had somehow been shelved there by mistake. ("Maybe she'll even help you look for it," we said. "She's been teaching for a long time. You aren't the first of her students to lose a library book.") If the book was nowhere to be found, he would go to the library on Friday and pay for it so that it would all be taken care of before the weekend.

The next morning, we said a prayer before he left for school. We prayed that he would be brave and that, if possible, he'd be able to find his book. Then, armed with the memory of how it had all worked out for Sarah, he walked into school. And I let him go.

His story has a happy ending, even happier than Sarah's. He followed our plan and talked to his teacher during first recess and, just as I'd suspected, she helped him look for the book, and they found it on one of the classroom shelves. He returned it to the school library and cleared his record. When he came out of school, his eyes were bright and happy and he was literally beaming.

I know Max's experience would have probably turned out very much the same whether we'd read that chapter or not. But it was so nice to feel like there was someone, albeit fictional, in our corner. It gave both of us a little boost of confidence to do the right thing.

Have you had any experiences like this, where your life bears an uncanny resemblance to that of a fictional character? How have stories helped you through tough learning moments?