Dear Hazel: You, right now.

Today, you fell dead asleep three times in the middle of the day.  You are rosy-cheeked and feverish.  Your body has a hard time with colds, it always has.  Today was supposed to be a much-needed "day off" for me.  Or, at least, a couple of hours in the afternoon.  Instead, I got you, hot and snuggled into my lap.  I rocked you next to the fire, singing to "Little Liza Jane" and "Goodnight Irene" until the music stopped and you were asleep in my arms.  There was the part of me that wanted to work on my projects, feeling my "free" afternoon quickly slip away.  But then there was you: your crescent eyelids, your plump apple cheeks, your little chin...nestled into the crook of my arm just so.  All I could do was sit and rock you, kiss your forehead, trace your heart-shaped face with the tip of my finger, memorize your elfish ears, nuzzle your wispy hair, place your warm hand in mine.  And wondering all the while how many more times in my life will I rock a child, asleep in my arms?  How many more?  Is this the last?

Later on, you were upstairs on the futon, I slipped away to bring you some water and came back to find you sleeping, again.  Oh, I could eat you up, I love you so.  

:: You are my little snuggler.  You are a lover.  You squeeze so hard with your hugs, your whole body shakes.  If we part from friends without hugs, you will throw your arms in the arm and gasp, "But we forgot hugs and kisses!"  And you will run up and deliver the love.  Right now, you prefer to give "doggy kisses," (we're used to it but it takes your preschool teachers off-guard).  You started preschool last month!  You cried the first day and have loved it ever since.  You used to run into our room first thing in the morning, crawl into bed next to me and snuggle.  Now, you run into our room, crawl into Ladybug's bed and snuggle.  (I'll admit: my heart sinks a little when you pass up my bed for hers.)  She is not a licky dog, but she licks your face like an ice-cream cone.  Nearly always, your face is bearing some scrape or scar.  Right now, it's your nose.  Yesterday, the sidewalk bit your face when we were running from monsters.  It happens.

You are a mama's girl, one hundred percent.  You stopped nursing just a few months shy of your third birthday and not because you wanted to.  You have the most beautiful smile, reminding me so often of my mom.  You prefer to draw on yourself over drawing on paper.  You love to show us your "tricks", preforming yoga and gymnastic moves with straight legs and pointed toes, entirely of your own creation.  You are stubborn as a mule with mad negotiation skills.  You know how to get your way.  We often joke that if we had to guess your future career, you would be a lawyer and a tattooed, coffee-drinking yogini on the side.      

Your tears come often, and fast.  It's been this way since you got your first teeth and started walking.  You know how to press your sister's buttons.  And you love and defend your sister fiercely.  Yesterday when you spotted Juniper finishing up her ski lesson, you started stomping up a set of stairs, and in a hoarse undertone timed with each step you said, "Dat's. MY. SISTER!  Dat's. MY. SISTER!  Dat's. MY. SISTER!"

(This next photo is deceiving.  Juniper had turned away from the camera and you had just reached up and pinched her chin.  You think it's funny and she's getting ready to tell you off.)  

You love to dress up.  Like, not just play dress up, but dress up all the time.  You will choose the boots that are too small over the boots that fit saying, "But deese ones are more beautiful, dat because dey have flowers."  The other day, I went to dress you for preschool and you said, "But dat dress isn't elegant. I want an elegant dress, mommy!"
 

You don't like any toys, to speak of.  If you are playing quietly alone, it's because you are smearing hand lotion all over the bathroom, breaking into the medicine cabinet, drawing on yourself, cutting your own hair, or scattering dog food over the house.  At the toy store, you'll choose "Gallatic Ooze" over any toy.  You'll play pretend with Juniper almost endlessly.  But you love to just do what we're doing.  If I were to show you how to turn on the stove, you could single-handedly prepare scrambled eggs and toast for our family.  You love to help cook, mix essential oils, feed the dog, work up elk meat, re-load bullets with pops, work the garden with me.    

Over the last year we have come to realize how much you are like me in personality and Juniper is like pops.  It's almost creepy.  You have a logical, organized mind.  You will sit and thread macaroni noodles on a string until you run out of string.  You will be a knitter, I am sure.  

You love to snuggle with me by the fire after a bath.  You like to try on my glasses (and, not surprisingly, my glasses are right now MIA).  You are a quirky little goofball.  If we had a third child (we won't), you'd be the stereotypical middle child.  Oh, there is so much about you!  So much more!  (I'll save it for another night.)  I love it all.  I'll eat you up I love you so!

         

love, simply

I remember Valentine's Day as a kid.  My mom would make a giant, frosted, heart-shaped cookie and present it on a plate.  My step-dad would bring me a single, red rose.  I always felt so special.  The cookie was good, but the rose....  That simple act, from a step-dad to a step-daughter, has stayed with me well beyond his death.

    

I had had a couple of Valentine's ideas floating around my skull the past few weeks.  I knew my husband would be out of town and I was mostly thinking of the kids.  I wanted to use the holiday as an excuse to give them something I've made, because I'm all about handmade shit.  First thought was to sew up those Waldorf doll kits I'd ordered ages ago.  Second thought was to (finally!) make them a similar felt fishing kit I'd sewed for my nephew years ago.  Then, I read this short article.  Plus, I ran out of time.  I decided to eliminate the material goods altogether and stick with good old-fashioned, simple, love.  

I feel like all my kids hear all day long is don't do this and don't do that.  I wanted to tell them all the good things; the things I love about them.  So I set my late-night knitting frenzy on hold, dug out my new watercolor crayons I'd received as a gift, and went to work.    

I know, I know.  If my kids were older you'd probably guess they made these cards.  But no, it was me, and that's not the point.  The card on the left is Hazel's, on the right Juniper's.  They caught and related to the symbolism instantly.  And they were so impressed that I made a Valentine for them.

Together, my husband and I listed little things we love about each of our kids, as it popped into our heads.  There are big things, "I love your imagination."  And little things, "I love what you do with glitter glue."

Juniper snuggled in my lap and we read hers together.  Afterward she said, "Oh, wow!  You love A LOT about me!"  There's something about writing it down that makes it more real and respectable for kids, like a rule or a law.  We thumbtacked her card above her bed.    

Later that morning, after heart-shaped pancakes, my husband left for the weekend and the kids and I went to a long overdue playdate with friends.  Referring to my husband being gone somewhat often, my friend said something like, "I don't know how you do it....  How do you do it?"  And I shrugged and said, "We just do."

But then I came home and opened the fridge and saw how I do it.  The night before, my man had made a mule-deer pot roast that simmered in the slow cooker all night.  And the night before that, he made a huge batch of deer stir-fry.  He knows how needy Hazel can be when she wakes from her afternoon nap, timed impeccably with dinner preparation.  He knows the evening meal is my weak point when I'm out-numbered two-to-one by young, demanding children.  I didn't cook all weekend.  He makes up for his absence in food, and that's how we do it.  Pure.  Simple.  Love.

^J's preschool project.^

But before he left, they all got together and made a Valentine for me:

I really, really like this.  I think this will be our new Valentine tradition.  Just another way to express gratitude and love.  

My favorites: "I love your nursing boobs," by Hazel.  And, "We love all the mom that you are."  

Walk of Life

This evening--more than a few times--tears have welled up in my eyes.  A certain song, a certain time on the clock....  More than once I have noted the time and thought, At this time two years ago I was eating dinner and thinking about taking a bath.  At this time two years ago I was calling my sister-in-law and asking, Is this it?  At this time two years ago, we were flying down a dark November highway to the tune of Walk of Life.  

Has it already been two years?  The same house projects that were left unfinished two years ago remain unfinished.  But our kids...my how they've grown.  Could I ever have imagined today, two years ago?  I glanced at the kitchen corner next to the fridge and--like a flash--remembered how I kept Hazel's basket car seat in that corner.  I am verifiably bawling right now, just remembering those little things, those tiny facts--there and then gone--a brief flash in a parent's life.  How transient, fragile, tenuous and miraculous life really is.  I am so damned thankful for every second I have with my kids.      

Happy Birthday my dear sweet Hazel Iris.  Could I ever have imagined, two years ago, how much I would love you today?  Impossible.  I can't wait to write you and your sister a letter.  But tonight, I have gifts to wrap and party favors to make.  I'll see you when you wake up at two or three in the morn, my littlest lady.    

Dear Hazel

My heart sinks a little when I look at baby photos of my kids.  I can barely remember.  Or, maybe I am so in-the-moment I don't have a chance to remember.  One day.  Was Hazel really a baby just last summer?  It seems like a lifetime ago that I had a baby.  What was she like?  Did anybody take note?  Shit.

I never used to peruse my own blog, but in 2013 I have spent many a late night waxing nostalgic in my Corner.  Just tonight, I found this post.  Ahhhhh, thank god.  Somebody did take note.  I did!  Whoo hoo for blogging!  Hazel Iris.  She was such a happy, easy, baby.

^One year ago today.  

Now, she is a toddler.  Complicated, ornery, goofy, adorable.
Dear Hazel Iris,
You are socially cautious and physically daring.  You'll cling to my legs around strangers, then climb a ladder.  You're a mama's girl, but adore your papa.  You are obsessed with nursing.
Making the sign for nursing, a fist milking a cow, you always hold your nurse-fist to my face with the most pitiful look (sorry for the lack of focus):    

You prefer mud boots over sandals, even when temps are in the 90s.  You love your own books, the hardboard books.  At the library you go straight for the kid's computer, which worries me.

You are not yet interested in other kids (but you do love babies).  You love horses.  You're combining words.  You say no (with the cutest little puckered lips) to almost everything.  You can throw a mean scowl.  You love horses.  Upon waking, you have this soft almost-hoarse voice and it melts me every time.  You have a stout little body and yet seem so dainty...I think it's your long neck.  Did I mention you love horses?  I'm in love with your big, round eyes and heart-shaped face.    

Sometimes, you remind me of me.  Papa says you look like my mom.  I still think you look like your great-grandma, but yes, also me.  We knew from the moment you were born that you have an old soul and you prove our early conviction again and again.  You like old-fashioned black licorice (the real stuff at natural food stores), you are more serious than Juniper, you wrap towels and scarves around your head, reminding us of an old Turkish woman.

You still throw most of your food on the floor (see above^).  I largely attribute this to being a second child, but you are a dirty kid.

You prefer to be outside.  If I step outside for a moment, I will return to find you at the mudroom door, one boot in hand, like a dog holding out his leash.

^Free score from a yard sale (then we had to buy a charger and glue sandpaper to the wheels.)  

You love the backpack.  This week you ate your first ice cream cone (and another one today).  You absolutely swoon with the most heart-melting grin when we applaud your accomplishments, especially when they seem so small compared to your big sister.  You prefer to be in our spotlight, not your sister's shadow.

You love watering plants, finding bugs, eating green strawberries, grazing on chives, picking flowers and pulling out tomato plants.

You like to touch the beaks and eyes of our chickens.  You still exclaim "Doh!" everysingletime you see a dog.  You don't like sitting in the highchair anymore.  You are starting to let me know when you're about to poop.  You climb on everything all the time and drive me crazy with worry.  

You fall and hit your head and never learn the lesson.  Fortunately, you also prefer bike helmets as a fashion choice.  

Juniper tries hard to rope you into her pretend play and, usually, you play along.

You are my snuggly little munchkin.  I'll eat you up, I love you so!*

Love,

Mama

*Quote from Where the Wild Things Are

letter to Hazel

Well, I finally hung up my garden fork and hand trowel for the season.  Last night it rained the fluffiest goose-down I've ever seen.  One foot.  You kick it and it's like kicking air.  I shoveled some snow off the garden, pulled back the old sleeping bag and harvested the last of our carrots and beets.  The fact that I am saying this in December is completely nutty.  We live in zone 3, people.  Zone THREE.  I'm okay with it.  

:: Right now I'm listening to Frances England's "Family Tree": think light, happy, banjo and these lyrics:
Hey ho, just how will it be/ when we add another branch to our family tree....

How will it be?  This is how:

Hazel Iris, you complete us.  You were the missing soul at our dinner table.  You were the link we awaited in ring around the rosie.  We always knew something was missing until you came along.  Now, we are whole.  You are the rose atop our three-tiered cake.

Tonight you stood up unaided--like, for three full seconds--first in front of dad, then Juniper, then me.  This morning, somehow, the gate to the stairway had been left open and before we knew it, you had disappeared.  I had a *feeling* and I ran to the stairway to find you, smiling gloriously, at the top.  Damn, you made my heart leap but you were so dang proud of yourself.  You are a climber.  Even before you could crawl, you were trying to climb up my ironing board.

For months now, you wave goodnight to Daddy and Juniper.  At the mere mention of "goodni..." you'll stick your fist out there, opening and closing your fingers with the sweetest grin and your tongue sticking out just so.  And tonight!  You gave your first bonafide kiss.  The real McCoy.  And guess who was the lucky recipient?  For the rest of your lives Juniper can say she was your first kiss.  

These days, you point to everything asking, Eh?  Your favorite objects are lights, fans and snow.

^Juniper had just flipped on the light to wake you up.  This is you, all sleepy and squinty-eyed saying, Eh?^

From the day you were born you've had this goofy head/ear/hair fetish.  It started with a disdain for hats.  Then, as soon as you were able, you'd pull at your ears and grab your hair while nursing.  Then, once you could sit up, you'd hold things up to your ears, or stretch things behind your head, or over your head.  And still today, you love to just randomly slap and grab your own head.  It makes us laugh.  Always.  We love you so.

^Seriously.  You do this to yourself all the time.^  

You are a snuggler.  

You love to play ball.

You can hang with the big kids.

You love Legos and other 3-year-old toys.  You want to be a part of everything.  

Your level of communication astounds me.  You sign "more" and, sometimes, "drink", but hyperventilating when I take a block of cheese out means you want some.  Rapid-fire kicking in your high chair means you like what we're eating.  Slouching in your chair means your less than impressed.  Kicking combined with back arching means you're done and you want out.  Or, you have to pee.

Generally, you prefer meat and fish over anything else.  You especially like salmon and moose.  And pomegranates.  You'll take flavor and spice over mild and bland.  You still only have two teeth.    

Besides an awkward, screechy, baby bird-like ma! ma!, you have two words.  Ba = bath and up = cup.  Two things you really love: taking a bath with big sis and drinking from a sippy cup, just like big sis.

Two weeks ago you turned one.  Oh, Hazel Iris, I love you so.  Happy birthday sweet Hazel-basil.  

P.S. Daddy says, "I want to eat you up."