Let Patience Have Her Perfect Work: Silas' Birth Story

As I sit down to chronicle Silas' birth story, I'm wondering where I should start. I feel the need to go back in time, before Silas was even a thought. I always meant to write a post about our decision to add another member to our family, so now seems like a good time.

After Ian was born, we all felt pretty content. His birth was perfection; he was a dream baby and an even dreamier toddler. It felt like it might be best to stop while we were on top. Plus, I love odd numbers, so five boys to make a family of seven just made me happy.  

But a couple of years ago, I started to want a baby again. It could have just been that Ian hit 2.5 years old, and he became less dreamy. Or perhaps I will always want a baby if I don't have one (which could be a problem, for obvious reasons). Whatever the reason, I just let the thought and possibility sit at the back of my brain. 

I casually mentioned it to Mike. He said, "I think five kids is good." I said, "Well, maybe we could still pray about it." He agreed it couldn't hurt. But neither of us ever had an overwhelming feeling to pursue it, so we didn't. However, it wasn't something I forgot about, and with it on my mind so frequently, I quietly decided that that was my answer and if Mike ever warmed up to the idea, I wouldn't need to be convinced. 

When Aaron's bone marrow failed a second time last January, I had the completely random thought, "Aaron needs a baby." It seemed a little ridiculous, and honestly, rather unhelpful since babies don't just materialize out of thin air. 

After that, we went into full-on survival mode. Even if we had wanted a baby, our attention was completely consumed by Aaron's health. We didn't say the word "baby" at all during those volatile months. However, I still randomly thought about a baby, even when all logic said I should have been thinking about other things. Maybe it was just a way for me to take a mental break.

And then one day in April, Mike and I were in the car without any of our kids (I think we were going to look at brick samples for our fireplace, or something else equally exciting). We were not talking about having a baby. I repeat, we were not talking about having a baby. (I had not even mentioned a baby to Mike in at least three months.) But suddenly, Mike was saying, "So I actually had a thought about a baby when I was getting ready this morning. I wouldn't call it a revelation, but I just realized that if we had another child, we would never regret it." 

I can still transport myself back to that moment because it was like the air in the car became charged with positive energy. We didn't need to talk about it anymore. Our desires had synced up. We knew exactly how we wanted to move forward.

It was not an easy time to be pregnant, especially during the first trimester when Aaron's health was still very unstable and required a significant amount of time and attention, but I was so tired and sick myself, yet no one knew I was pregnant, not even our kids. I'm not going to say that we never questioned our decision. There were definitely times when we said, "Are we crazy to add another child right now? Do we really want to go back to the beginning just when we are reaching a stage where our kids are so independent? How old are we going to be when this baby graduates from high school? Do we even remember how to change a diaper?" 

But even though our minds often got snagged by all of the logistics of another child, our hearts continued to tell us we'd made the right choice. And once we told our kids, it began to feel even better. Their excitement and anticipation infused the reality with so much joy. 

In terms of the pregnancy itself, it was fairly uneventful. I got the AMA (advanced maternal age) label this time around, but aside from doing non-stress tests and checking the amniotic fluid levels starting at 36 weeks, it wasn't any different than my previous pregnancies. There were even some conditions I'd had with Ian's pregnancy that never showed up this time, which was so nice.

A couple of week before my due date, I brought up an induction with my midwife. Going off of my experiences with my other babies, I knew that 1) I probably would not go into labor on my own (and I wasn't willing to wait around post-due date to find out) and 2) this baby would probably not be small. Given these two realities, a planned induction seemed like a wise move. My midwife said I could choose any date in the week leading up to my due date, and I thought that as long as I could choose his birthday, I might as well choose one that was cool, so I asked if we could do it on the 22nd, even though it was a Saturday. Marnae said that was totally fine. We got it scheduled. The final countdown was on. 

When I got pregnant in the spring, there was one thing I hoped would be not as prevalent by the time January rolled around: the Covid-19 virus. I mean, I didn't actually think it would be gone gone, but I assumed it wouldn't be controlling our lives (or labor/delivery protocols) anymore.

But as December came to an end, and the Omicron variant reached the west, I could see it wasn't something I could overlook. Cases began to steeply spike, and it seemed like everyone we knew was getting it. As I went to the last few appointments before my due date, my questions about Covid seemed to multiply: What if I get Covid? What if Mike gets Covid? Is there a possibility that I will have to deliver this baby without support? If Mike has Covid, will he not be allowed in the hospital? Does anything change in the delivery room if I'm Covid-positive? What risks does my baby face?

Normally, it seems like I worry in vain about things that never end up happening, but this was not one of those times. One week after school resumed, Bradley got a headache; he was nauseous; he had a sore throat and a fever. And yes, he tested positive. 

With two weeks until the induction date, the timing might have been just about right. But unfortunately, we did not take the path of everyone getting it all at once or the virus skipping over some of us. No, it literally went through all seven of us, one at a time, 2-3 days apart. It was maddening. We'd think we were done with it, only to have another person fall the next day. 

On Monday night, five days before my scheduled induction, I went to bed with a slight sore throat. I woke up in the middle of the night, and it was still there, and I panicked. I couldn't go back to sleep as I counted down the days over and over again and realized that I didn't have enough time, even if my symptoms were mild. 

As it turned out, I had one bad day on Tuesday, after which a little bit of congestion was all that was left. Still though, I knew that even if I was totally symptom-free by Saturday, I would almost certainly still test positive. I called my midwife and asked what I should do. At first her recommendation was to postpone the induction until sometime the following week. She said, "You're not going to want to be in labor if your energy is low because you're feeling sick." But when I told her that I was actually feeling fine and that my preference was still to move forward with the induction, she said, "Okay. We'll test you once you get here. You'll most likely be positive, so we'll just have you wear a mask during the duration." 

But then there was the wild card of Mike: the last man standing. Day after day, I asked him, "How are you feeling? Any symptoms?" And day after day, he was fine. At my book club on Thursday night, I jokingly said that according to our schedule of someone getting it every 2-3 days, Mike should be getting sick that night.

And that's exactly what happened. 

But his symptoms started out very mild and sporadic, so we kind of tried to convince ourselves that maybe he didn't actually have it. He even went and got an antigen test on Friday, which came back negative (not surprising since his symptoms had just started). 

All day on Friday, I stressed about what we should do. I didn't know if they would automatically make Mike take a test if my test came back positive. And if they did, and his test was positive, then I wondered if I should have someone else on call as a potential backup to be with me if Mike got kicked out. Again, I considered pushing it back a few days, but it seemed unlikely that a slight extension would be enough time to get Mike out of the Covid woods. And in the meantime, the baby was getting bigger, the placenta was aging, and I was getting more swollen and uncomfortable. The timing was just extremely unfortunate, and we had run out of time for things to resolve themselves. 

This was our reality: after nearly two years of avoiding the virus, we were going to be having a baby during the two weeks when it had finally caught up with us. 

As I was getting ready for the day on Friday, I kept cycling through all of the variations. It felt a little like some version of Choose Your Own Adventure. Over and over again, my brain reached the end of a chapter where it faced another equally undesirable possibility. I prayed, and each time I did, the same phrase asserted itself: "Why not ask?"

I didn't know exactly what this meant. Should I ask for a negative test? Or that Mike's symptoms would miraculously disappear? Or just that this baby would be able to arrive safe and sound in spite of Covid? Finally I just decided that since I wasn't getting any clear guidance, I would just pray for what I wanted.

That night, my brother-in-law came over and, together with Mike, gave almost all of us blessings. It was all I could think to do besides pray. When it was my turn, there were no words about a negative test or miraculous healing. Instead, Mike said that Covid would only be on the "periphery" of the experience. 

My sleep that night was very fitful. Even though I'd felt at peace when I went to bed, my brain insisted on cycling through everything over and over again at 4:00 in the morning. I knew I was going to regret getting a poor night's sleep, but that only increased the pressure on myself and made it even more impossible for me to make happen. 

At 6:00am, I finally had something to do. I called the hospital to see when I should come in. Unfortunately for me, it had been a busy night with many laboring moms, so they told me to call back at 8:00. I wish I could say I used the extra hours to go back to sleep. That's what everyone else in my house was doing. But I just couldn't do it. I was primed and ready to go. I wanted to stop thinking about how it was all going to play out. It was time to actually experience it.

When I called back at 8:00, they still didn't have an exact time for me, but the person answering the phone said she'd have the charge nurse call me back soon. Apparently, there had just been a delivery, and so a room was probably going to open up in just a bit. 

But no one called back and no one called back. This probably should have been an indicator to me that the day was going to involve a lot of waiting in one form or another. In the interim, all of our kids packed up and left with Mike's sister. Now I had an empty house, and all I could think to do was putter around and clean things that didn't actually need to be cleaned. After an hour, I decided to call again. I didn't want to be one of those expecting moms, but I felt like I had given them plenty of time to call back, and I was feeling so antsy. 

This time, I was able to talk to the charge nurse who said she thought I would be able to come in around 11:00. She still wanted me to wait for her to call and confirm, but that was her best estimate at that point. I left my phone with Mike and went up to my room to see if I could actually fall asleep for a bit. And I think I did drift off for a couple of minutes a couple of times. It wasn't what I'd call restorative sleep, but it was at least something. 

Mike came in around 10:15 and said they'd called with the news that I could come in at 10:30. We were more than ready and hopped in the car before they could change their minds.

I really didn't know what to expect with the whole Covid complication. I suspected that I would test positive since it had only been five days since I had first experienced symptoms. I wondered if the hospital would put me in some kind of holding cell until they knew the results of the rapid test. But when we got there, it was business as usual: check in, change into a hospital gown, get hooked up to heart and contraction monitors, and insert the IV. During all of those things, I also was given a Covid test. The anticipation of this test had consumed me over the past week, but the nurse gave it only the slightest attention. For her, it was just standard procedure, and she certainly wasn't holding her breath waiting for the results. I started to relax a bit. 

My nurse's name was Charity. She had purple hair and was about my age. She was confident and efficient. She said the plan was to get the penicillin going (because I was positive for Group B strep), and then my midwife, Marnae, would break my water. At some point, they would also start some Pitocin. I was quite happy with this plan since it seems like I always need to have my water broken before Pitocin is very effective. It sounded like we were going to get things going in a hurry, and I was all for it.

Unfortunately, that was a false impression on my part.

After Charity got everything going, she checked my cervix. This was actually the first time I had been checked at all, having declined the option at my most recent appointments, so I was a bit nervous at what she would find. I hoped this induction wasn't premature. She had a difficult time reaching the cervix, which didn't surprise me based on my previous pregnancies, but she said I was dilated to a 3, 50% effaced, and soft. 

This was all good news since it meant, even though I wasn't in active labor, the conditions were still favorable for an induction. However, there was one piece of information that Charity relayed but didn't address how it would impact the rest of the day. Maybe she thought I would already know, having been through many inductions before this one. When she checked me, she found that the baby was at a -3 station, which meant that his head was still floating. This meant that Marnae actually couldn't break my water yet. She had to wait until his head was engaged. But Charity didn't communicate this to me, and I didn't make the connection on my own. So I kept waiting for Marnae to show up, still thinking that the plan was for her to break my water as soon as possible, whereas she decided to make a trip to Ikea since she needed to give the Pitocin a chance to do its job with the contractions and bring the baby down.

Speaking of Pitocin, it wasn't doing much yet. The nurse started it around noon, but I made the mistake of telling her that sometimes I only needed the lowest dose to jumpstart the contractions. (This had really only happened when my water was already broken and I was in active labor, neither of which was true at that moment.) So she started the Pitocin at a 2. I don't know if she would have started it this low regardless of what I said, but a 2 basically did nothing for me. 

(Comparing my current labor with my past labors was a theme for the day, and my past experience continued to betray me, as you will soon see.)

I wish I was better about passing hours of empty time in the hospital in a constructive or fun way; this is never a problem for me when I'm at home. I will happily sit down with a book and/or my knitting and enjoy a quiet afternoon. But when I'm at the hospital to have a baby, that's all I want to do; it's all I can think about. So even though I had a knitting project with me as well as a book, I could only manage a couple of rows and a couple of pages before I had to put them both away. Mike and I also watched a couple of episodes of Love It or List It, but after the second one was done, I made him turn it off. This wasn't because I was in pain or uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. There wasn't anything going on, so I felt compelled to stare at the monitors and will something to happen.

This was how we passed the next five hours. By this point, the Pitocin was up to 14, the contractions were regular (3-5 minutes apart), but my discomfort level with each one was probably a 2 or 3 (i.e., not anywhere strong enough to push out a baby).

You might be wondering what had happened with my Covid test. Charity was in and out throughout the afternoon, but they didn't seem to be in a hurry to find out if I was positive or negative. I must confess that I actually saw the results come in on my email. Perhaps I should have mentioned it as soon as I saw it, but they just didn't seem overly concerned.  I kind of wondered if they'd relaxed their protocols since so many people had it. (Side note: my midwife told me I was her fifth Covid delivery in the past week; before then, she'd never had anyone deliver with Covid, which just goes to show how insane the Omicron variant was.)

But around 4:30, Charity came in again, and this time she was fully gowned up with hair net and face shield, and I knew the bad news had been delivered. She handed me a second mask and regretfully told me that I would have to wear it for the duration of the labor. Things immediately felt more stiff and cumbersome, and I missed Charity's purple hair.

I glanced at Mike nervously, wondering if they were going to make him test next. But he just kept quietly sucking on his Lifesavers, keeping his cough at bay, so he could fly under the radar and not draw attention to himself. (He consumed so many Lifesavers that day that there's a chance he'll never be able to eat one again.)

At some point in the afternoon, Mike and I made guesses about when we thought the baby would arrive. I said 7:05, which I thought was a "safe" time, meaning, I thought I was overshooting it and the baby definitely would be born by then. Turns out, labor is one of those things that, even if this is your sixth time, you still can't predict.

Charity checked me again around 5:00. I was still only dilated to a 3 but thinner and (slightly) lower. She claimed she had an easier time reaching my cervix than she had the first time (it didn't really seem like it to me, but I always appreciate a nurse who can put a positive spin on things).

Over the next hour, I had a few contractions that I would describe as "good ones," meaning they were longer and harder and felt like they were getting closer to the real thing. 

Finally, a bit after 6:00, my midwife, Marnae, finally arrived. It felt like I had been waiting for her all day, but she explained what I mentioned earlier: she had fully been anticipating coming to the hospital sooner, but when she spoke with Charity, she knew I needed some time to progress with the Pitocin before she would be able to do me any good. This made total sense to me--I just wish it had been communicated to me; I think I would have settled into the process a little more if I hadn't thought she was going to show up at any minute.

But anyway, Marnae checked and found everything about at the same place Charity had the hour before. However, the baby's head was no longer floating, so it was go time. Marnae quickly broke my water. I anticipated the contractions ramping up after that, so I told Charity I was ready for an epidural.

In the weeks leading up to this induction, I hadn't fully decided if I was going to get an epidural or not. I'd had such a good experience with an epidural with Ian's birth, but that honestly felt like the kind of epidural you probably only get once. But I also didn't know if I really wanted to go through all of the agony of unmedicated labor again. So I didn't commit one way or the other and honestly kind of put it on the back burner for most of the pregnancy. However, when I got Covid and knew that I would be going through the whole labor process with two masks on, it was fairly easy to make the decision to get the epidural.

As I was waiting for the anesthesiologist to come in, I said, "I'm so hungry. I wish I could have a sandwich right now." (I always get hungry during labor, and at this point, the only thing I'd eaten since arriving at the hospital was jello and popsicles.) 

To my great surprise, Marnae said, "You want a sandwich? You can have a sandwich. Get this girl a sandwich!" The shock must have been evident on my face because she added, "It's the anesthesiologists that make the rule about clear foods. But I'm totally fine with you eating. This is your sixth baby. The chance of you needing a C-section at this point is extremely rare. Just be okay with the possibility of anything you eat coming back up if you start feeling nauseous." 

Charity came back in carrying a turkey sandwich that probably would have looked bland and disgusting at any other time but which looked positively mouth-watering right then. I had just cracked the seal on it and picked up one half when the anesthesiologist walked in. I quickly handed the whole thing off to Mike and tried to look innocent. 

Luckily, my experience with anesthesiologists is that they are almost always in a hurry and all business and can't be bothered to notice details like sandwiches in the wrong hands. He quickly launched into information, questions, and disclosures and then got right to work. Within minutes, the epidural was in and soon after that, the contractions started to subside as a mild numbness overtook my lower half.  

As soon as the anesthesiologist left, I indulged in my subpar sandwich. I don't know if anything has ever felt so luxurious. Real food during labor? I thought that would only ever be an unattainable dream.

Fueled by a sandwich, more Pitocin (increased to 18), broken water, and an epidural, I expected the pace to pick up at this point. And at first, that's exactly what seemed to be happening. Around 7:30, my teeth started chattering and my whole body began shaking. This has always (always!) been a sign for me that delivery is imminent (Ian was born within thirty minutes of me getting the shakes). Sadly, my "knowledge" deceived me yet again.

Informing Charity of my history, she decided to check me. I was only dilated to 4 centimeters, but I was 80% effaced, and the baby's head was at a zero station.

We decided to use the peanut pillow, which had been very effective in Ian's birth with helping him rotate into an anterior (face down) position. We suspected this baby might need the same encouragement. 

After I had been twisted and turned into position (with practically no help from myself), Charity started a third dose of penicillin. The previous two doses had gone in without trouble, but this one burned like crazy. In fact, it was this final dose that won the award for most pain of the day. It hurt so much. I was completely distracted from all other things. All I could think about was my arm that felt like it was on fire. 

Charity had left, but I begged Mike to call her back in and do something (anything!) to get the pain to stop. She diluted the medication, added a hot pack, and left again. It took a few minutes, but the pain finally diminished and I could think again.

My chattering teeth would not let up though. I couldn't get them under control. I was in an awkward position on my side, shivering violently, and unable to tell where I was in the labor process. I felt so disconnected with my body, which was disorienting and scary. It made me nervous not to have any medical staff in the room. Since I couldn't feel anything, the only thing I had to go off of was all of the shaking, and to me, that meant that the baby might be ready at any moment. 

To give you an example of how out of touch I was, I literally asked Mike (twice!) to peek beneath the sheet and make sure he didn't see the baby's head. It was frustrating to have lost all of my awareness and be so dependent on others to inform me what was going on. Leading up to the epidural, Charity had asked me several times how I would rate various contractions. After the epidural, she continued to ask me, but I was unable to give any sort of reliable information. 

Charity came back in after about forty minutes. She checked me again, and all of my shivering did not seem to be related to going through transition at all because I was still only dilated to 5 or 6. However, the baby had dropped down a bit more to a +2 station. While she was checking me, she massaged the cervix a bit. Part of it melted away, and just like that, I was at 7 cm. Charity said that when this happens, it is called a "dynamic cervix." 

I told Charity that I was nervous to be left alone because I was sure that things were going to start to move quickly without warning. She switched the peanut ball to the other side and said she wasn't planning on leaving again until the baby arrived. I was beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed for crying wolf so many times over the last several hours. I could just hear them out at the nurses' station: "We've got a mom in #3. This is her sixth baby, so of course she acts like she knows everything. She said her baby would be coming in ten minutes . . . three hours ago." Still, whether the nurse thought I was being melodramatic or not, I was grateful to have her steady presence in the room (and, for the record, she never made me feel dumb for being constantly wrong).

Soon after, Marnae was back in the room as well, and it seemed like she was also in it for the long haul . . . however long that might be. 

Much earlier in the day, Mike had told me it would be nice if I could wait until 10:22pm for the baby to be born, since that would be 22:22 in military time. We had all laughed at the time. "Fat chance!" we said. "Not going to happen!" But as the hours marched on, I wondered if we would, in fact, miss the 10:00 hour altogether. And close on the heels of that thought was another one: What if we missed January 22nd and this baby was actually born on the 23rd? I wouldn't have thought that was even a possibility at the beginning of the day, but now it was seeming more and more likely.

However, when I vocalized my worry, Marnae and Charity both assured me that we'd get him here before the stroke of midnight. 

Somewhere around this time, I became aware of some feeling in my right side. I mentioned this to Charity, and she asked if I wanted to push the button on the epidural. "No, I like it," I said. It wasn't a lot, but it made me feel more like an active participant once more. At least I was sometimes aware of the contractions.

Around 9:30, Charity checked me yet again. She gave Marnae the report: the cervix was all the way gone on the back; there was still some left on the front. Marnae suspected that the cervix might never fully dilate and they might just need to push the remaining lip up and out of the way. (I remember that this same thing happened with Aaron's birth.)

They helped me get into a sitting position. As I went through a few cycles of contractions, I felt unmistakable rectal pressure. I mentioned this to Marnae, and she said, "Yep! It's time."

They laid me back in the bed, brought around the stirrups for my feet, and Marnae pushed the rest of the cervix out of the way. Then she proceeded to coach me through the pushing. This was a completely new experience for me: Ian came way too quickly for any coaching except "slow down." The other births were all unmedicated which meant that I wasn't exactly coherent enough to respond to the coaching, even though I know it was happening. But this time, I was very present and aware, but I also needed the help because I couldn't reliably tell what was going on. At one point, Marnae even asked, "Can you feel that contraction, Amy?" And I had to admit that I couldn't.

So I let her coach me: "Curl and push, Amy! Hold your breath! Push, push, push! Grab your legs! Push! There you go!" I remember being somewhat confused by the instructions to hold my breath. This was counterintuitive to me. In all of my natural labor classes and reading, they recommended letting out a long, slow breath while bearing down. So this was the way I started to do it, but Marnae just kept saying, "Hold your breath, Amy. You have to hold your breath for me." So after a few pushes, I started to do it her way. Not being in a large amount of pain makes you surprisingly agreeable to following directions and doing things someone else's way. I don't know if her way was more effective than my way, but it made her happy, and I didn't really mind one way or the other.

With each contraction and push, the baby moved down a little more. It felt like I was doing real work this time. It kind of felt like we were forcing it to happen, to be honest. But the baby responded well, and after just a few minutes, he was crowning. Marnae said, "Put your hands here, Amy," and I could feel his little wet head. And then, "Give one more big push," and little Silas Joseph rushed out into my waiting arms at 10:07 pm. 22:07--Mike's and my lucky numbers combined.

Silas, as I've already written, did not seem thrilled to be here, but Mike and I were thrilled to have him. The room was buzzing with energy: "Happy birthday, buddy!" the midwife said. "Oh, he looks like Bradley," Mike offered. "Give us a good cry," the nurse instructed. Silas obliged. I think he thought crying was a more appropriate reaction than all of the laughing and smiling that everyone else seemed to be doing. But we couldn't help ourselves. His little presence brought so much light into the room. 

I actually had Mike film the birth. This is the only one of all of my kids where I have a visual record of the very moment when the baby crossed over from one side to the other. I've watched it over and over. It is somewhat mesmerizing to me. Silas was inside me, and then, in a breath, he was out, vacating the premises, never to go back. I feel like if I was a labor and delivery nurse, I'd be addicted to that moment. It doesn't seem like it would ever get old welcoming a new life into the world.

However, as much as I loved the end result, the birth process itself was not my favorite this time around. When I look back at the details, everything went well. There weren't any unexpected difficulties. Silas never gave us a moment's worry during labor, and he arrived safely. My health was good. He came easily and without injury or a lot of pain. But it felt like a task to get him here. It took patience and work. It felt like there was an extra layer over everything that just made things a little harder. I don't know if it was Covid or my age or a new hospital/midwife or January or what. But I've experienced a near-perfect birth before, and this wasn't it. Rather than looking back with affection and pleasure at the time in the hospital, I have instead felt gratitude that it's over and I'm at home with my baby. I don't really have a desire to relive any part of it, except maybe the moment of feeling his slick little body wriggle into my arms. The constructs of the hospital just made even the most basic things (like nursing him for the first time) feel stiff and unnatural.

If that isn't a metaphor for life, I don't know what is. We toil and work and struggle, and this occasionally results in a bright, perfect moment. And that moment somehow makes all of the toil and work and struggle worth it. 

The day before Silas was born, Clark and I were in the car, and he said something like, "It's so interesting. Whatever number of people are in your family feels like the right number. But then, if you have another baby, then that feels right. And you wouldn't want to not have that one." 

I couldn't have said it better myself. A month ago, five kids seemed perfect, but now, I could never do with less than six. Silas has found a spot in our family that we didn't know needed to be filled, and now we can't imagine it any other way. 

*Photos at the beginning and end taken by my sister-in-law, Sonja.

2020: Plow in Hope

A few weeks before the end of the year, I was sitting in church one Sunday, and the speaker was talking about hope. She quoted several scriptures in quick succession, including, "Paul says we should 'plow in hope,' and I admit that's sometimes what it feels like to me."

My mind latched onto that phrase--plow in hope--and I couldn't let it go. I was intrigued, fascinated by it. What exactly does it mean to "plow in hope"?

Turning to the scriptures, I found the verse and was rather disappointed to discover that Paul was, in fact, literally just talking about plowing a field: "He that ploweth should plow in hope" (1 Corinthians 9:10).

I might have just let it go, recognizing my life is pretty far removed from a farm and crops, but I continued to ponder on this idea of plowing in hope. And as so often happens with holy writ, once my mind was engaged, the insights and applications rolled in. I decided this charge to "plow in hope" would be my theme for 2020.

Hope is both a thing and an action. I kind of love that about it. It is something I want and also something I do. It is both the expectation of good things on the horizon and exercising a certain kind of mindset.

These things are all true, but when I attach the word "plow" to "hope," it adds another dimension to the concept.

First of all, when Paul said, "He that ploweth should plow in hope," what he was really saying was, "Whatever you do, do it in hope." If I'm taking care of kids, I should do it in hope. If I'm helping a friend, do it in hope. If I'm cleaning my house, do it in hope. Hope is actually a way of life and should color everything I say or do. (And what, you might ask, should I be hoping for in all of these instances? How about an eternal perspective, my best effort, or a good outcome?)

Second, when I look at the word "plow," I think of hard, physical labor. It isn't easy to plow. It takes effort to turn over the heavy soil and make it ready for planting. Likewise, hope requires energy. I sometimes think of hope as being this very weak  attribute; it feels like you're not doing much if you're just sitting around hoping that things will eventually be better. But if you're plowing in hope, then you're actually up and doing: you're not waiting for your life to be better, you're making it better.

And finally, a farmer plows his field to prepare it for sowing. It is the very first step in reaping a harvest. He can't plant a seed if he doesn't plow first. Similarly, hope is my first step in making my life ready for new growth. It primes my mind and heart so I can learn from the past and prepare for the future.

As I planned my goals for 2020, two things guided me. The first, obviously, was this phrase for which I've just written a whole discourse. The second was the new Children and Youth Program for my church.

This new program encourages boys and girls to set goals in four categories: spiritual, physical, intellectual, and social. I love this framework because it helps give more of a purpose and direction to those things we have a desire to do. I helped Aaron, Maxwell, and Bradley set goals for themselves in each of these four categories, and I decided to use it in organizing my own goals as well.

With 2020 well underway, I am already deep in the trenches with some of these goals, and I am loving them so far.

Spiritual

• Make a master list of hope (poems, hymns, songs, scriptures, quotes, etc.)
• Begin a practice of meditation/Take the Brooke Snow Christian Meditation Course
• Visit the Joseph Smith exhibit on Temple Square (with Mike and boys)
• Find and take at least three names to the temple

Physical

• Make a meal plan every week
• Try out grocery pickup
• Learn how to parallel park
• Learn how to fold a fitted sheet
• Go on four new hikes
• Continue habit of exercising four times each week

Intellectual

• Write one poem every week
• Write one book review each month
• Read a book about writing and/or participate in some kind of writing challenge (still researching this one . . .)
• Knit something out of linen
• Sew something with serger
• Spend more time in books and less time on phone

Social

• Edit family videos (do this with Aaron)
• Teach someone to knit and/or start a knitting group
• Weekly communication with siblings
• Give hugs to Mike and boys every day
• Take Aaron on a trip to celebrate 12th birthday
• Find a way to store journals safely

Without proper explanations, I realize that many of these goals might seem a little vague, or it might not make sense why I put them into the categories that I did. I thought about giving a little background on each one but decided I liked seeing all of my goals in a compact list. More details will come later, so feel free to ask questions if you have any.

Also not explained is how these goals will help me develop greater hope. It might not be completely obvious on the surface, but almost all of them were prompted by hope in some way, and I have confidence that as I complete them, this attribute will become a more prominent part of my life.

When I was a freshman in college, I was in one of BYU's unauditioned choirs. We sang a song that was based on a poem by Emily Dickinson. In recent weeks, as I've been thinking about the nature of hope, those words have come back to me: "Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul / And sings the tunes without the words / And never stops at all."

I am looking forward to a year of putting in my plow and allowing hope to let me fly.

Be Present: A Look Back at My 2019 Goals

My focus for 2019 was to be present. This was prompted by a desire to truly connect with my kids, husband, friends, neighbors, and the world around me. Little did I know that the year would bring some real challenges where an ability to be present and live in the moment sometimes made all the difference between a good and a bad day.

I spent the first half of the year working diligently on my goals only to abandon almost all of them in August. Interestingly, the ones I held onto were those I had originally put in place in an attempt to keep me anchored and present. The projects were forgotten; the habits were life-saving. 

In November, I began to resurface. The intensity with which we lived August, September, and October had relaxed into something much more manageable and quiet. I revisited my goals and decided to make a real effort to complete them before the end of the year.

Nothing gives me a thrill quite like accomplishing goals, so I ended 2019 on a high note by checking off three of my goals in the final week. It was a mad dash to the finish line, and it felt good. 

Still, even with all of that pulsing ambition, it wasn't enough to pull out a perfect score. I'm okay with that. No, really. I just took a moment to think about it, and I feel content with my efforts. I tried my best, but I didn't turn into a maniac trying to get everything done in a rushed or superficial way (something that has possibly happened in the past). 

Now that the year has ended, a little reflection is in order: some confessions, some excuses, some celebrations. Using the same format as when I first presented them in January, here are the categories, my goals, and my thoughts on each one:

Habits I Wanted to Make

• Edit photos on a weekly basis--I instituted this habit at the very beginning of the year, and I stuck with it, even during the time that Aaron was in the hospital. Sometimes I was late by a week or two, but for the most part, I stayed on top of the editing (with the exception of the end of August, which I somehow didn't realize I'd never edited until I was looking back through photos this week). It has helped that I almost never use my real camera anymore so all of my editing can be done on my phone while I'm riding in the car or waiting in line or sitting at a soccer game. This is a habit I plan to continue in 2020.
• Write 2-4 paragraphs for "This and That" posts at the end of each week. I tried to dedicate some time every Sunday to summing up any important happenings or anecdotes. This made it so much easier to compile my "This and That" posts at the end of each month. Both this goal and the one above confirmed something that I already knew about myself: I would rather work on a goal in small, consistent steps than have it consume my entire life for hours (or days, as the case might be). In December I neglected this habit, which I deeply regretted when it came time to write my monthly update. 
• Write book review within three days of finishing the book--Or how about, stop writing book reviews altogether? This goal was going so well until the summer. I'd like to blame it on all of the medical things that took over my time, but to be honest, I had already begun to slip before then. We'll see what happens in 2020, but overall I'm feeling a less pressing need to record all of my thoughts after finishing a book. 

Places I Wanted to Visit

• Go on a family vacation in the summer--We went to Lake Tahoe the week before Aaron was diagnosed. I'm sure we would have cancelled it if we'd known what was going on in his body at the time. But we didn't, and it was a blissful five days with my brother's family. Besides that, we also took our kids to Disneyland, went to southern Utah for spring break, and took a couple's trip to New York City. Not too shabby before all of our plans for adventure came to a screeching halt in August.

• Take my kids to the Joseph Smith exhibit at the Church History Museum in downtown Salt Lake City--I'm not even going to pretend with this one. I didn't do it. The sad thing is, it wouldn't have been at all hard to do (especially pre-August), but I just never prioritized it. But with 2020 being the 200th anniversary of Joseph Smith's First Vision, it's probably better that we waited anyway. At least that's what I'm telling myself.
• Try new restaurants that are close to home--I failed to keep a list, but these are the places I remember: Caputo's, Meier's, Layla, Iced, Copper Kitchen, Real Taqueria, A Pig and a Jelly Jar, Harbor, Cheddaburger, and Tradition. Out of all of those, my favorite was probably Copper Kitchen, mostly because their beet salad basically blew my mind, and I dream about it more often than I should admit. This was a really fun goal and one that I'm sure we'll continue in 2020 (in fact, we already have plans to go to a new place tonight). 
• Go to a Utah temple I haven't been to before--I went to the Draper temple with my friend, Sarah, and was planning to just count that for my goal (even though I felt like it was cheating just a little bit since I had been to a sealing there previously). But the temple I had in mind when I made this goal was actually the Provo City Center Temple, and I had a hard time giving that up. So five days before the New Year, I convinced my mom to go with me, and we had a lovely afternoon in the temple. 

Projects I Wanted to Complete

• Sew a dress for myself--I ended up sewing two dresses for myself. The first one was made out of the wrong fabric and felt like I was wearing a stiff burlap sack (plus, just when I was almost done with it, I noticed a big flaw running through the fabric). So I purchased a nice lightweight linen when we were in New York and remade the exact same dress. The result was much better, and it is going to be the perfect neutral canvas to wear some of my knitted pieces with (see below). Also, it maybe rekindled my love of sewing (if only I didn't have to drag out all of my equipment every time I want to make something!).

Dress #1

 Dress #2

• Knit a lace cowl--This is my crowning achievement of 2019, or at least it feels that way. I fell in love with the Prism cowl back in 2017. I attempted to make it but ended up ripping it out in total frustration after just seven rows. After a year of other projects (including some lace and chart reading), I decided I was ready to tackle it again. I cast on in March and wove in my final end on December 31st. It represents close to 200 hours of focused work (no mindless knitting here), and I am insanely proud of it. (Plus, it pairs perfectly with my handmade dress!)

• Landscape the front of our house--I was overthinking it, and then one day in the spring, Mike just decided to buy a bunch of random bushes and plant them in the front and back yards. It isn't perfect, but sometimes done is better than perfect. (I'm excited to see how much they've grown in the spring . . . or how many we've inadvertently killed.)

• Decorate Ian's bedroom--I love decorated spaces, but I am not a decorator. I just don't seem to have a vision for it. I don't know how to use space very creatively, and I am very distrustful of my own taste and preferences. So in the end, I didn't change as much as I wanted to, but I still: purchased a new chair, swapped out the rug, found a perfect bedside lamp, rearranged the furniture, painted the walls (credit goes to Mike), and hung up pictures. I still would like to find a good way to display/store picture books, hang a mirror on the opposite wall, and possibly do some kind of window treatment (although I don't want it to make the room feel smaller . . .). Also, Ian is going to be moving out of his crib in the next couple of months so that will change things, too. But for now, here is a before and after shot.

• Read Saints: The Standard of Truth, Volume 1--This was the only goal I made that had anything to do with reading. I listened to this book off and on throughout the year. I found myself needing to take breaks from it because, quite frankly, it was rather faith-shaking and disturbing. I think I grew up with a rather glorified view of the early pioneers and founders of my faith, and although it's true that they made a lot of sacrifices and had strong testimonies, they also made a lot of mistakes and succumbed to many human frailties. I am still wrestling with how to move forward with some of this information. 

Things I Wanted to Do to Be More Present

• Notice the eye color of the person I'm talking to--If you've noticed me gazing uncomfortably into your eyes over the past year, this is why. Haha, I'm just kidding. I actually dropped this goal after the first month or two, but I think it had the long-term benefit of increasing my attention to others. I maybe didn't always consciously notice the color of their eyes, but I noticed other things about them, and that helped me in my sincere interactions with them. 
• Observe what the sky looks like every day--This might have been my very favorite goal of 2019. What a gift it was to consciously notice the sky every day. I saw things I never have before and felt sweet gratitude for the world I live in and the beauties all around me. I would encourage everyone to just take a minute to look, really look, at the sky each day and see how it makes you feel.

• Limit phone use by setting weekly time and usage goals--Oh, this goal. I tried so many different things to break away from the chains of my phone. And many of them worked. But all of them felt really restrictive--not like I was becoming less addicted to my phone, but more like I was forcing myself not to look at it. I do much better at abstaining than moderating. But abstaining doesn't really seem like an option in today's world, at least not completely. Yes, I could delete my accounts on Instagram and Facebook. Yes, I could switch back over to a flip phone so that I wouldn't have access to my email or the internet. But what I really want is to still be able to have my phone for when I really need it but not feel its constant pull to use it and look at it. Here are some of the effective things I did to help me manage my time on my phone: daily blackout times, not looking at my phone after I went to bed, earning social media time by listening to a talk first, setting a time limit on certain apps, deleting apps off of my phone, and staying off Instagram on Sundays. Like I said above, these things have worked, but they haven't changed my actual inclination or desire, and that's what I really want.
• Write down three things I'm grateful for every night--I was really good with this one for the first month or two of the year, and then I reinstituted it when Aaron was in the hospital. But other than that, I haven't done the best with actually writing down my gratitude (which is kind of funny since I'm already writing in my journal every night so it would be so easy to do). I believe in the power of gratitude though, so I'm trying to figure out a way to make it a tangible part of my 2020.
• Continue with weekly special time with my kids--I wrote an entire blog post in October 2018 about my love of one-on-one special time with each of my kids. Soon after writing that post however, some of the boys started to resist it (Maxwell had already been complaining about it for quite some time). I think I made that goal in the hopes that I could power through and save it, but instead, I decided to let it go. It was meant to be a time each week that my kids looked forward to, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect. So instead, I decided to not force my kids into my own rigid ideas of quality time but rather listen to them when they asked for something and then do my very best to agree to whatever it was. If one of them wanted to play a game (or jump on the tramp or read or talk or make something), I tried to say yes. It wasn't easy for me; I like things to be on the schedule so I can plan for them; and I don't like taking a break if I'm in the middle of something that feels important. But being spontaneous felt more genuine. Maybe that will change this year. I don't know. But for 2019, that's what felt right. 

I remember at the beginning of 2019 feeling rather silly for choosing "Be Present" as my theme. It seemed a little cliche. But I couldn't deny that I felt drawn, almost compelled, to choose it. 

As I committed to be present every day, a funny thing happened. I delighted in the very simplest of things: clouds cradled between mountain peaks, a brilliant orange sky on Halloween night, a poplar tree that inexplicably wouldn't drop its leaves (even though its two neighbors did), an old house in minty paint that I never noticed before even though I'd driven past it a hundred times, the smell of pine in the air. These things have brought me an inordinate amount of joy.

And the thing is, they have always been there. I used to notice them only when they were highlighted in some way. But this year, I sought them out, and they rushed to show themselves to me. It's been kind of magical actually. 

Now I'm turning my attention to 2020. I have my theme; I've narrowed down most of my goals. I'm ready to commit to something new.

Compatibility

Today Mike and I have been married for fourteen years.

I've spent the last year or so noticing, with some humor, the many ways that Mike and I differ. It seems I often have a very high tolerance for the very things he has a low tolerance for and vice versa.

Some might say these many things make us incompatible, but I like to think it's just the opposite. By having different strengths and weakness, contrasting points of view, and a wide array of interests, we make up for what the other lacks, and consequently, we are becoming something that is truly whole.

Some of those things are big, some are small, and some are just plain silly and don't matter in the slightest. Here's a little sampling:

Microwave popcorn: I feel like I've nailed the time on microwave popcorn if I have just a few burnt kernels but no old maids. Mike would prefer the opposite.

Softened butter: Mike has the art of softening a stick of butter down to a science--seven seconds on this side, five seconds on that side, etc. That takes entirely too long for me. I would rather it was a little (or even a lot) melted rather than spend all that time babying it.

Leftovers in the microwave: Similar to the butter example, Mike carefully warms up leftovers, stirring or rotating them frequently so that everything is evenly heated. I almost always eat food that has a mixture of hot and cold spots in it. It's not a big deal.

Parking spaces: I would rather find a wide open parking space and have to hike two miles in than back into a tight parallel parking spot. Mike doesn't even realize this is something to be anxious about and does it with one hand, in the dark, with a line of cars stacked up behind him.

Temperature: I cry with the first cold front of the fall; Mike cries with the first warm spell of spring. I park myself in front of my space heater; he does the same with his portable fan. (There is maybe even a slight chance we have done this at the same time before, on opposite sides of the bed.) On the rare golden days where we are both comfortable, we know that must be the temperature in heaven.

Dishes: We don't own a dishwasher and have never owned one during our fourteen years of marriage (technically, we had one for three months when we house-sat for someone the summer after we got married, but I think that doesn't really count). Neither one of us minds washing the dishes, but Mike doesn't like washing utensils, and I don't like washing pots and pans, so we often save those things for the other person.

Fizzy drinks: Neither of us are big soda drinkers, but Mike loves carbonation. As such, his go to drink is a can of sparkling water (his favorite brand is Bubly). There are times when I want one too, but I can only drink about fifteen percent of it before the carbonation gets to me. So now, anytime Mike cracks one open, he pours about an inch of it into my cup and downs the rest in ten seconds while I spend the next five minutes slowly sipping mine. It works out great.

Plastic grocery bags: Every time Mike goes to the grocery store, he saves every single plastic grocery bag. Even if the holder is already stuffed and the bags are spilling over the sides into our pantry, he still tries to add a few more. To balance this out, I often have to throw away a couple of handfuls just to hold the stockpile at bay. (Lest you think this has anything to do with Mike's concern for the environment, and my lack thereof, think again. In general, I pay more attention to environmental issues and concerns than Mike does.)

Meal Planning: My version of this consists of sitting down at the beginning of the week, planning out what we want to eat, rotating through meals we like, while adding in a couple new recipes for the sake of variety. Mike's version looks more like running to the grocery store, wandering the aisles looking for something that is on sale, and then bringing everything home and throwing it all together in a culinary masterpiece.

Damp clothes: I do not pull the clothes out of the dryer until they are dry. I do not like folding damp clothes at all. Mike, on the other hand, would rather just get through the laundry. Of course I'm always grateful for his help, but inevitably, if he's switching out the laundry, there are bound to be baskets of damp jeans.

Test scores: When Mike and I were in college, we approached studying for tests very differently. I was aiming for 100 percent. Always. He was sad if he ever got anything above a 94 because it meant he had studied too hard.

Shopping with kids: I say, "Now that you're home, I'm going to run to the store so that I don't have to bring the kids." He says, "Hey guys, I'm home! Who wants to run to the store with me?"

Going out for breakfast: I love going out for breakfast. It feels super indulgent and special to me. In contrast, Mike feels like paying for breakfast is a waste of money. Our marriage became a lot happier when I realized I should stop taking Mike out for breakfast on his birthdays, and he realized he should start taking me out for breakfast on mine.

Observations: I tend to pay attention to names and faces, Mike to landmarks and directions--a fact that was very obvious this past week while we were on a little anniversary trip to New York City.

If anything, the past fourteen years have taught us that some differences are assets, others can be worked through, and most don't matter. But I'm so grateful I get to figure it all out with someone who knows me so well and loves me in spite of everything.

My Plans for 2019 and Why I'm Not Making Any Reading Goals

As 2018 wrapped up and I began to look forward to 2019, I gave a good, hard look at what had worked well for me and what I could have done better. My theme for 2018 (which I think I only mentioned in passing on this blog) was to "Focus on the Important Things."

While I felt like I definitely prioritized things that were truly important, there was a missing element of engagement. Day after day, I checked off those important tasks, but sometimes I was only going through the motions while my brain was somewhere else entirely. Or worse, sometimes it wasn't even my own racing mind that took me out of the moment, but my phone.

This led me to decide that my theme for 2019 would be to "Be Present." It was only after I had chosen it that I realized it was totally one of those trendy buzzwords and that literally everyone seemed to have the same idea for 2019. I debated changing to something more obscure, more "my own," but this idea of being present in the everyday moments resonated so completely with what I want 2019 to look like, so I kept it.

I divided my goals into four categories: Habits I Want to Make, Places I Want to Visit, Projects I Want to Complete, and Things I Want to Do to Be More Present. Anytime I brainstorm potential goals, my list quickly becomes unwieldy and insurmountable, so I was careful to limit myself in each category to just three to five things.

I didn't want to bury myself in expectations which would have left me unable to actually "be present" and "live in the moment." I needed to be able to be flexible, change plans to meet the greater good, and analyze the kinds of things that would work right then. So I tried to only set goals that I've been thinking about for awhile and that I'm pretty sure I will still want to do at the end of the year (if it comes to that) as much as I want to right now at the beginning. The other thing is, I already have a good system in place of setting weekly goals every Sunday night, and that allows me to take a shorter view on things, which creates a nice balance to the longer term goals.

Here are my goals in each category:

Habits I Want to Make

• Edit photos on a weekly basis
• Write 2-4 paragraphs for "This and That" posts at the end of each week
• Write book review within three days of finishing book

Note: all three of these habits are actually meant to help me be more present by not letting tasks pile up so that I have to reach far back in time to finish them or block out a huge chunk of time to complete them.

Places I Want to Visit

• Go on a family vacation in the summer (location TBD)
• Take my kids to the Joseph Smith exhibit at the Church History Museum in downtown Salt Lake City
• Try new restaurants that are close to home (1-2 per month)
• Go to a Utah temple that I haven't been to before

Projects I Want to Complete

• Sew a dress for myself
• Landscape the front of our house
• Decorate Ian's bedroom
• Knit a lace cowl
• Read Saints: The Story of the Church of Jesus Christ in the Latter Days, Volume 1

Things I Want to Do to Be More Present

• Notice the eye color of the person I'm talking to
• Observe what the sky looks like every day
• Limit phone use by setting weekly time and usage goals
• Write down three things I'm grateful for every night
• Continue with weekly special times with my kids

You might notice that out of all those goals, only one of them has anything to do with reading, which is very unusual for me. In fact, since 2013 when I did it for the first time, I have set annual reading goals for myself every year.

But not this year.

Choosing (and then achieving) my reading goals has always been one of the great joys of my reading life. It introduced me to genres and classics and authors I wouldn't have read otherwise. It felt so good to check them off one by one. I loved that final push to the finish line.

But in 2018, those goals felt like a major burden. Perhaps it was because I didn't read as many books as I have in years past (only 48 compared to close to 70), but it felt like all of my reading was planned out for me and that I didn't actually get to choose anything (although, technically, I chose the goals to begin with). In 2018, I belonged to two book clubs, which accounted for about 13 books (there was some crossover between the two, and some of the books I had already read). My goals added another 16 books. Then add in the readalouds for my kids (another 16). That left just seven books that I chose spontaneously for myself (and if you're wondering about my math, it's not all adding up because some of the readalouds doubled as books for my goals). In addition to that, I read approximately 24 manuscripts for my little side job, which was more dictated reading.

All of this is to say that even though I enjoyed a lot of what I read (self-imposed or not), it felt like I lost some of the magic and relaxation of reading. It had ceased to be a hobby and begun to feel more like a job.

I was made acutely aware of this fact during the last quarter of the year when over and over again, I had to tell myself "no" to a book I wanted to read: I read one of the Betsy-Tacy books (ironically, for one of my goals) and really wanted to read the next one in the series, but there were too many other books in the queue. I received Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life at a book exchange and wanted to start it that night, but I had to get in my required pages on other books. And, you might remember, I spent New Year's Eve reading a parenting book I didn't even care about.

I realized that if I was going to "Be Present" this year, then I had to reclaim some of my reading time. My book clubs would still push me to read books I wouldn't normally read, so I could relax my hold on my own reading time. I could pick up a book that sounded interesting, but if it didn't deliver, I could set it aside, no questions asked. If one of my friends mentioned a book, I could check it out right then before it got buried and forgotten in my massive to-read list. I could read the books that piqued my interest in that moment rather than waiting until the excitement had passed.

I don't think I will never return to setting reading goals for myself. It's something that has brought me a lot of joy in the past, and I anticipate the same for the future. But I'm okay with admitting that at this time, I need a break. And I'm excited for the books that such a break might give to me. 

What are your plans and goals for 2019? Are you setting reading goals? What things are you doing to achieve balance and find purpose? 

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.