Change in season.

YH on the day we met

Spring has arrived in our city. Wildflowers are blooming, and the sun shines more birghtly each day. We've been swimming twice already and turned on the air conditioning once. We spend most of our days outside, chatting with neighbors or strolling through town. The jasmine on our front porch is getting ready to open, filling our home with its sweet scent.

It's a beautiful season in our corner of the world.

Spring has also arrived in our home. And with it comes the one year anniversary of YH joining our family. Feelings are blooming, and the memories sting more each day.

It's a painful season in our corner of the world.

For YH, this month is fraught with "traumaverseries". Intense memories or impressions of the big events that lead up to his separation from his foster family. The many doctors appointments. The trip to the embassy. The last dinner with his aunties. The last night with his foster brother, running wild in the living room while Hyung filmed him laughing and playing "peek-a-boo".

Walking down the street in his neighborhood in Seoul, a bag of shrimp chips in his hand. Sticking his little fist in the bag and cramming the treat in his mouth as he accompanied Appa on one last shopping trip. The dry taste of the strawberry cookies that they bought that night, in preparation for YH's long car ride away from the only family he had ever known.

These feelings and memories are expressed in different ways. Of course YH can't *tell* me "Hey I feel sad today because I am remembering this event."

No.

Instead he has become more clingy, needing to touch me or be held at regular intervals throughout the day. Some of his anxious behaviors have escalated, and he is irritable. He cries. Just, cries. He wants to revisit the book we made that tells the story of how we became a family. He wants to see his grandparents every day, to check in on them and make sure they are there. He wants me to lie in bed with him and press my forehead against his as he falls asleep. At night he makes little moaning sounds. He sucks on his pillowcase when he wakes up, stuffing the fabric into his jaws.

When I am "helping parent" in his preschool classroom he becomes agitated. He does not like other children in my lap, or at my side. He flings his body around, crashing into things in search of a physical sensation big enough to match the turmoil in his little heart. We take a break and head out to a quiet space. He sits on my lap and stares into my eyes as we sing "Row, Row, Row your boat..." The rhythm of the words and the sweeping of our arms, hands clasped to one another, builds a protective cocoon around us.

We take a few steps back.

We are still a few weeks away from the traumaversary of the big hand-over.  The memories of that day are so bittersweet for *me*, I can only imagine how they feel for YH. For his foster family.

On the occasion of our first year together we will celebrate as a family--a beautiful family who loves one another and treats one another well. But we will also leave space for the sad feelings, the hurt feelings, the confused feelings. We will laugh when we need to and cry when we need to.

Fool.

2013 is the year of "yes" for me. If an opportunity arises that challenges me to push my personal limits, I will say "yes". I will take it on, and I will succeed or I will fail--but I will take it on.

So far the Year of Yes has brought me unexpected joy. Opportunities falling from the sky and landing with a gentle "click" to fit next to one another. A new job. *click* A new sport. *click* New friends who support my creative endeavors. *click click*

Through one of these new friends I learned about the "Listen To Your Mother-Austin" production. I put together a piece and submitted it, expecting nothing in return. Instead my piece was selected to audition for the show, and I stood in a room of strangers and read words that I had *never* said aloud before.

I cried, they cried.
We cried.

Despite the show producers' genuine enthusiasm for my work, and my reading, my piece did not make the final cut. In reviewing the cast list a little voice whispered to me "You fool, these people have all published books. Who do you think you are to compete on this field?"

I bristled at first, stung by the rejection of a piece so deeply personal. And then I felt relief, because I was spared the difficulty of saying those words out loud to a large audience. I was spared the responsibility of saying those words out loud to anyone. I could swallow them, hit "delete" on a file and it is as if they never were.

Tralalallala.

But because I said them out loud a part of me feels like I made them real. Do you ever feel that way? That until you name or claim something with words it doesn't really exist? That you can spare the world from your especially troubling and icky feelings by never actually giving them voice?

My piece gave voice to some feelings I've been trying to hide.

Mainly, that I am scared.

That I am scared of what the future could hold for YH.

The primary thrust of my piece was my frantic efforts to win YH's love. The lengths I go to to get him to trust me, to seek me out for comfort, to view me as his one true constant person.

Not so novel perhaps. I am sure many parents (adoptive or not) feel this way about their children.
But because of YH's diagnosis, because of his history of exposure to alcohol, my efforts in this area have a deadline. I wrote:

"At this moment in time it is hard to detect the damage within our son. Like many children affected by prenatal alcohol exposure he will “pass” as neuro-typical throughout toddlerhood. The first signs of compromised brain function may become evident as he starts school and slowly, as the years pass, the gulf between our son and his peers will widen.

It is bittersweet to look at our beautiful child today and know that this may very well be the best time in his life; that as he grows so too will his challenges.

The picture painted by “experts” is bleak: he is at risk for secondary mental illness and addiction. He is likely to suffer both from intense bouts of rage and from an inability to distinguish right from wrong. He will struggle with impulse control and long-term memory. His open and friendly nature (so charming in a three year old) will read as naïve and dim-witted to his future classmates. As they descend into adolescent snark, he will become an easy target; the kid they trick into doing “funny”, possibly criminal, things.

Because our son’s physical appearance is unblemished, he will be presumed to be a “bad” kid (instead of a differently abled kid).

It is a dangerous cocktail of impaired function that often leads to incarceration."

And so I am working like crazy NOW, when he is small and cute, to get him to love me and to get YOU (the world writ large) to love HIM.

Can you love him?

Can you look at his slightly-off behaviors and love him? Knowing that they will likely grow beyond "quirky" into full-blown "odd" or "off-putting"?  That as his toddler-chub melts away, as his lanky-boy body grows each day, so too might his difference?

I watch him when we are out in public. I watch him like a mama bear; I am ready to spring into action at the first sign of an opportunity to smooth his way. I intervene in "conversations" with other kids.

"YH loves Angry Birds! That's why he put his face so close to your t-shirt. I know you haven't met him yet, and it might seem funny that he came right up to you, but he just loves Angry Birds!"

I chirp and squawk and fake the cheer necessary to cover for the fact that he is bouncing with increased intensity at my side. I slide a hand onto his back and tap out a soothing rhythm until he quiets his little body.

I watch him with my family. I watch their faces watch him get riled up. I see how they don't trust him to be able to control his motions or his speed. How as he gets wound up (too many people speaking to him at once, too many demands, not enough space, too much sugar, too much waiting), they get weary.

I intervene here too and try to get him to fit into the expectations of the event, try to get him to be a little less *him* for the sake of family dinner night.

I do this all the while knowing that I can't do it forever. That I shouldn't even be doing it now. That I am not fooling anyone. That I am not fooling myself.

In a way it is easier to think about these things knowing that I am not the person who hurt him in this way. I am not to blame. I can look you in the eye and defend my son and stand up for him to be supported and at the end of the day I can comfort myself with the knowledge that I am not to blame.

It's thin comfort. It's comfort at the sake of blaming someone else, someone about whom I know very little. I know enough about his firstmother's life to make excuses for her decisions. (After all, that is a family specialty: we are experts at explaining away and minimizing one another's boozy habits.) But I certainly don't know enough to judge her, or pass that judgement on to the rest of the people in our lives.



So until I know how to do this differently, I will continue to play the fool. I will do everything I can to make each day better for YH , now, while I have the time. I will do everything I can to smooth out the ripples he leaves in his wake, to calm the waters that his energy churns when we are in public.

Treading water.

This guy.
He's totally amazing.

It is hard for me to recognize that we are fast-approaching YH's one year tenure as an in-the-flesh member of our family. That one whole year ago we were on the precipice of *meeting* him, much less loving him or caring for him every minute of every day.

I hesitate to put it out there, because I know there are many many of my friends who are still waiting for their families to be complete. Children matched years ago, still waiting to meet their parents and siblings. The memory of the pain of waiting is visceral for me; I suck in air when I read the latest updates, my lungs clenching in empathy for those families caught in the endless wait.

It's awful.

I stay quiet on the "post-placement" internet forums and FB groups too, because I am well aware that we have had it easier than many. That our son's adjustment has progressed well, and that his personality is a good match for our family. It's not that we didn't have difficulties, or that he didn't grieve. It's more that our expectations were so dang low that we were happy to raise them up and meet our son where he needed us most.

His language skills are improving rapidly. But they are still not at the same level as his peers. I can see his cognitive skills bloom; concepts like colors and numbers and categorizing objects are becoming easier for him. His articulation challenges remain; Sweet Bubs and I are still the only ones who understand him 90--100% of the time. YH and Sweet Bubs get by with "brother tongue"--their own secret language, mostly spoken in grand gestures and corporeal movement.

It shames me that YH's burgeoning language skills have had such an impact on *my* happiness. My days are far less stressful now that he can enunciate his needs, and can listen to (and sometimes follow!) my prompts. I am a person who prides herself on being able to communicate across cultures; I believe fully in the ability to transcend language when building a relationship.

Oh, pride.

The truth is it is HARD to parent a child who appears to be an older toddler, but who possesses the language abilities (in Korean as well as his "new" language) of a much younger baby. It is HARD to remember to parent to his developmental age/his "family age" (equivalent to the length of time he has been a member of our family) instead of his chronological age.

I get impatient. I expect too much. I get frustrated and I have to take time to remove myself and reset my expectations.

If anything the last year has been a wonderful opportunity to confront my parental shortcomings. To watch the "theoretical" parenting skills that I dutifully banked during our wait to take custody fly right out the window in the heat of a challenging moment.

To give myself grace.
To give others grace.
Above all, to extend grace to YH.

Lately I'm feeling a bit stuck in this arena.

Our family is taking on more and more activities. We are comprised of one true introvert, three super extroverts and one introvert-with-extrovert tendencies. (Woe be unto the poor introvert, his burdens are legion). The extroverts drive the family ship and we collect every shiny social opportunity that comes our way. YES--we would LOVE to audition for commercials! YES--Let's sign up for swim team! YES--Let's arrange playdates, and babysit for our friends, and go an adventure to a new city and more more more.

And in the middle of all this chaos, this stimulation overload, I am finding it harder and harder to be *present* in the way I wish to be as a parent.

I need to put on the brakes for a bit.
I need to focus on breathing in and out.
I need to give myself permission to tread water, instead of belly-flopping with abandon into the unknown.

In the books.

I did it.
(The end was ugly, but I did it).

On the day before the race all of the optimism and confidence of my previous post flew right out the window. I let real life problems wiggle through the cracks of my steely reserve--throwing me off balance.

One of my children is being bullied, in a very subtle-not-noticed-by-grown-ups kind of way. That child's pain has had an impact on his/her behavior at school and the fall-out of a recent incident led to raised voices and short tempers amongst the adults in the family. As we snapped at one another I couldn't help but feel defeated. Really--on the *day* before my race? On the day when I *should* be built up by the people in my life who know how hard I've worked for this? REALLY???

It took most of the day to shake off the feeling of betrayal. I spent a long time on the phone with the child in question's teacher and felt good about our talk. I hustled the littlest kid off to his grandparents' house so that I could drive out to the resort where the race would take place. I packed my bag, taking great care to select only articles of clothing that made me feel powerful.

I filled the car with gas and hit the highway, slowly creeping through the late-Friday afternoon traffic that plagues my city.

When I got to the resort I put on what my husband calls my "conference face": the one with a cheerful smile for anyone who crosses my path. I brought out my schmooze skills and worked the exhibit hall, stopping to give sincere thanks to the race founders and others who had supported my training.

I waited for my roommates to arrive and when they did I went to dinner, head still in a fog.
I wasn't ready--but this was going to happen one way or another.

***                           ***

I wish I could tell you that I woke up refreshed and mentally strong. That the doubts of the night before had vanished in the face of race day. In truth I tossed and turned all night. Our lights were turned off by 9:15pm, alarms set for 5:30am-- and I don't think I slept more than an hour at a time all night.

I woke up and drank a cup of bad hotel coffee. I solemnly unpacked my peanut butter sandwich and choked it down, along with a banana. I laced up my Sauconys and headed to the lobby.

My husband and kids showed up just before we had to line up at the starting line. My children had bedhead, and the baby looked dazed. He had scraped his chin at his grandparents' house the day before and I clucked worriedly over his wound. We exchanged quick hugs and kisses and then I was off to line up.

My running mentor Lisa was by my side, as were two other amazing Zooma ambassadors: Leigh Ann and Missy. We shuffled back and forth in the cold waiting for the race to start.

My stomach was clenching. I was terrified of not being to finish. There was a rock in my shoe; I kept pushing it back and forth with my toes, too out of it to actually *remove* the darn thing.

Go time.

***                      ***

Once Lisa and I got out on the course my fear started to recede. I remembered the route from our course preview, knew when to expect the big hills. We laughed and talked as we ran--commenting on the "team outfits" sported by some, wondering about the sour expressions sported by others. The weather was cool and overcast, just the way I prefer it on a long run.

We stopped to get our picture taken in the bluebonnets. A lovely woman who had made a wrong turn on the 5K course was our photographer. She was now trapped on the half-marathon course and was walking to the finish line--a full 10 miles further than her intended race distance. Despite the miscalculation she was in good spirits and we wished her well as we continued on.

The middle-miles, miles four to seven, were magnificent. I remember little beyond my happiness. I remember my breath, my feet moving in concert, my arms swinging in the chilly air. I remember picking a runner ahead of me and trying to pass her. I remember watching the form of other runners, appreciating the diversity of craft. I remember hearing teammates cheer for one another and getting swept up in their enthusiasm until I too was whooping and hollering.

I loved those miles.

Those miles were the miles with the biggest hills. Hills that loomed up before you, hills that said "Go on--I dare you." Hills where the down part was just as terrifying as the up part.

And I loved them.

***                                 ***

The last three miles of the course should have been easy; they wound their way across the smooth golf course, not a hill in sight. Lisa warned me: the concrete would hurt our legs, feet and hips. Erika warned me: the sight of all the runners in front of you and all the runners behind you, endlessly weaving along the path, would make it seem like you were going nowhere. I *heard* them, but I didn't believe them.

Until I got to the golf course.

Man, those miles were the worst. Every step I took made my left knee and hip flexor contract in pain. I could feel blisters forming on the arch of my right foot. I was cold and my fingers swelled to twice their size.

I was no longer having fun.

Lisa had saved a pep talk to deliver to me on mile 12. She saw the grim look on my face and knew it was time.

She gave an impassioned and beautiful speech about how this was *my* first half-marathon and no one could ever take that away from me. About how I needed to dig deep and finish strong. She reminded me of the sprint exercises we had been working on.

I snapped: "We are NOT doing those."

She let it go. She extended grace my way and kept up a steady pace by my side, willing me to move my leaden legs.

"Just a little farther. Just around this corner. I promise you the finish line is right there."

***                                  ***

And it was.
There was Sean and the kids. There was Melanie's family.
Miss A was jumping up and down waving a sign for me.

I grabbed her hand and together we ran across the finish line.

***                                          ***

EPILOGUE

All through the training process Melanie and I would joke about the similarities between becoming a runner and being pregnant:

1. You can't talk about anything else
2. Your feet hurt, and sometimes they swell
3. You buy all new clothes--even if you *intended* to stick with the same ratty pair of sweatpants
4. You google evey ache and pain incessantly and worry about what the internet diagnoses
5. You read every blog you can find related to running/pregnancy
6. You constantly compare your size/appearance/form to other runners/other preggos
7. The closer the "big day" gets, the more excited/nervous you get
8. You eat A LOT
9. You have to pee every 45 minutes (from hydrating pre-race)
10. You act like you are the first person in the world to ever run a race/have a baby

It is amazing to me how apt this joke metaphor turned out to be. Those last three miles for me were absolutely akin to the transition stage of labor. Just as with my two deliveries, I hated every minute of those last miles--and then as soon as it was over I wanted to do it all over again.

I am so proud of myself for doing this, and of my friends for finishing strong.

I am a runner. For real.

Half.

In two days I will run my first half-marathon.
The thought of this accomplishment fills me with both terror and a giddy joy.

 I have been training with steady determination since the start of 2013, when I was selected to be the ZOOMA Texas Muscle Milk Light Half-Marathon Challenge athlete.

For the first few weeks I looked at the training plan askance. I assumed that once the mileage on the long runs surpassed 4 miles/5 miles/6 miles/surely-not-10 miles, I would quit. I would hit a mental wall, or injure myself and would have to resign my position. I would be outwardly chagrined, yet secretly relieved.

Throughout the training process I have had some rock-solid running friends by my side. This too is not what I imagined. In my mind running was a solitary pursuit. I would try to time my runs for bits of the day when normal people are at work. I would huff and puff my lonely way down the trail and if I did happen upon another runner, I would tuck my chin down and power through without making eye contact, not looking up until we were well past one another. I did this because I felt sure that in the other person's eyes I would see reflected my own fraud. That the other runner would know instantly I wasn't a "real" runner. My bright red cheeks and thick waistline would give me away, as would my shuffling gait.

And then on the second week of our training plan there was a kick-off event at a local running store. My running mentor, Lisa, wanted to meet before the event to run a few quick miles. We arranged to be there early. I was certain that she would write me off as a lost cause, but instead she immediately charmed me with her warm nature and no-nonsense support. I was afraid she would critique me throughout our run; instead she approached our relationship with the notion that *of course* I was going to do this. We were going to do it together.

 Lisa was not afraid to talk about her own past injuries, or her own aches and pains, or the days when she really didn't *want* to be running. She showed me that having those thoughts and feelings doesn't mean you aren't a "real" runner--instead, it means that you accept the breadth and depth of a commitment to a sport and lifestyle. Every run will not be a joyful experience, but every run does carry the potential to bring you long-term joy. When I run with Lisa I am not concerned about pace or stride. My legs and arms find their natural rhythm and my mind clears. Through her mentor-ship I was able to shed my visions of failure, and replace them with a vision of myself as a runner for life. Not necessarily long distances, and not necessarily with the purpose of winning races, but absolutely in order to be a healthy and strong woman. Now, in mid-life. Twenty years from now. Forever.

My friend Melanie was also in attendance at the kick-off event. She was in the process of completing the Couch to 5k program and wanted to check out some running shoe options. She met me there after my first run with Lisa and together we hit the trail once more. We returned to the store and got fitted for shoes, and ate free bagels and talked to the other amazing women involved with this program and somehow, by the time we left, Melanie had registered for the half-marathon too.

I am so impressed by Melanie's commitment to this race. She took a huge leap of faith in upping her running goals from a 5k to a half-marathon. She has encountered set-backs, and faced them with grace. The other day we set out on an 8 mile long-run that neither one of us was too excited about. By mile two Melanie was struggling with calf pain and needed to take a break. We walked until she was able to run again, and despite the fact that we could have very easily cut the run short she made sure we pushed through and achieved our target distance. Her mental fortitude inspires me.

I used to read running blogs with deep cynicism. I sneered at the people who purported to have been instantly transformed from sloths to elite athletes. I couldn't believe that it was as simple as lacing up a pair of sneakers and opening your front door. I thought that a runner's high was a myth, and that all these gleeful sinewy runners would end up injured hobbled wrecks within ten years.

I was wrong.

The main error in my thinking was the notion that running exists as a pursuit separate from everything else in your life. That you compartmentalize: there is running, and there is everything else.

Instead running becomes the support and under-current for everything else. You do more yoga and strength training because you want to keep running without injury. You drink more water because you want to be hydrated for your runs. You get up early because you have a tough work meeting on the agenda and you know you need to clear your mind with a run before you tackle the tasks at hand. You pay attention to nutrition and sleep patterns because you see a direct correlation between what you put into your body and what you get out of your runs.

Since starting the ZOOMA training plan I have been transformed. You wouldn't know it to look at me--I am still amply padded, and I still don't *look* like an elite athlete. But I am stronger. In my legs, in my endurance, in my commitment to myself. I am less afraid to look foolish or vulnerable. I have seized professional and personal opportunities that I might otherwise have let slip by. I have been fearless in a way that I *know* is directly related to my relationship with running.

In a way this weekend's race doesn't matter. I mean, *of course* it matters. But while the race has always been the goal, it is no longer the prize.

And the universe laughed.

I don't know that I've mentioned it in this space yet, but somehow this:

 ...Gave birth to this:

Yes, the Universe had a good long chuckle when it granted my suburban goth womb the makings of a true blue Texas Competitive Cheerleader. Miss A began in tumbling classes three years ago and made the switch to cheerleading two years ago. Her natural gift for gymnastics, complemented by her super-sized personality, are a great fit for the sport. I watched in wonder as she jumped, and cheered, and stunted her way through performances. She looked so happy out there!

 Last May she decided to try out for her gym's brand new competitive cheer squad.

Her try-outs took place the day before we left to travel to Seoul to take custody of YH. It is pretty amazing to think that as her little life was on the cusp of complete upheaval, my babe pulled herself together and plunged headfirst into a major team commitment. All at the age of seven, mind you.

I got the email telling us that Miss A had made the squad as we sat in the DFW airport waiting to board our big blue Korea Air plane. Her coaches wanted to be sure she knew what a big responsibility this would be. She was one of the two youngest members of her team; there would be no time for goofing off. She would have to come to every single practice, all year long, no exceptions. She promised me she would; she was taking this seriously.

Part of me had doubts. Part of me expected that about a month into the season she would realize how much of her weekends were now devoted to practice, and she would stop wanting to participate. Part of me was already drafting the email to the coaches politely declining the opportunity.


And that negative part of me was thinking back to my own childhood, when I quit every damn thing I ever started. I had great enthusiasm for discovering new activities; I *loved* reading through recreation association brochures, imagining my as-yet-undiscovered genius in watercolors/rocket building/pottery/tennis/soccer. But once I started classes, and realized I was solidly middle-of-the-pack (or lower) talent wise, I dropped the activity.

Piano: took too much time during the week. Trombone: made my lips feel weird. Lacrosse: all that running made me tired. Field hockey: "B" team didn't get to wear the cute plaid kilts. Ballet: eh, not my thing.

And so on. I was an accomplished quitter by the age of eight.

Miss A, on the other hand, has never once asked to skip practice. Since mid-August she has spent the better part of her Sundays at her gym, working her heart out. She smiles the entire time she is at practice--and not because that's what cheerleaders are supposed to do. She does it because she is genuinely thrilled to be there.

Last weekend her team performed at a rather large competition. As they were warming up one of their flyers (the girls at the top of stunts and pyramids) injured herself. She had to leave to seek medical attention and the judges granted our team one hour to rework their entire routine. One hour!

They did it. And they did it well.
And when I asked Miss A if she was ever worried that they wouldn't be able to pull it off, she looked at me like I was crazy.

"No way Mom! We work hard, and we support one another. That's what a team does, no matter what."

Man, I'm proud of her.
And man, I wish I'd stuck with something long enough to have felt that way when I was a kid.

Three. (and three.)

Three.
On Monday our YH turns three.
Three years old!
Three.

I cannot possibly tell you how this happened. How this moment is suddenly upon us when only yesterday we asked to parent a wee eleven month old baby. (and then waited...waited...waited)

This birthday feels momentous to me, and sad, and happy, and lovely and terrible. I guess that's what parenting this child will always be, no? A sudden punch of every emotion known to man.

Of all my children this one has brought me the most opportunity to examine my own shortcomings. It is as if each morning I put my weakness under the microscope. I take a deep breath and peer through the eye-piece, and there I see some green things twist and bend. My intentions wiggling up against my limitations. My hopes and dreams suddenly obscured by slimy doubts. My frailty crawling alongside the bravery needed to advocate for YH.

This boy.
This beautiful boy.
He's three!

Monday will be a full day for YH. I will open the door to his sleeping nook early, and crawl into his toddler bed next to him. I will press my lips against his full cheeks, and gently wake him. He will protest in his own YH way.

"No thank you mama. No thank you." as he burrows under his pillow.

I will persist and within an hour we will walk to school with Sweet Bubs. YH will wear his Thomas the Train backpack and I will marvel at how he can walk with it bumping against the backs of his knees. I will clasp his tiny hand as we walk into the cafeteria, where his new pre-school teacher will greet him.

After months of endless evaluations YH has finally qualified for our district's PPCD (pre-school programs for children with disabilities). He is the youngest in our school's current PPCD group and so he will spend his day with four year olds, working on expressive language, articulation, and self-help skills. He will come home exhausted, with a mouth sore from the effort of being understood.

The goal is for him to make significant progress in his speech development. While I (of course) want this for him it is hard to imagine YH speaking in full sentences and paragraphs. So much of our communication now is achieved through the intimacy of our bond. I alone know exactly what he needs/wants with just a gesture. I alone can decipher his frustrations. We have "inside" jokes that require not a sound to be uttered. One of us will raise an eyebrow and send the other into a fit of giggles.

I'm not sure I'm ready to give that up just yet. I'm not sure I'm ready for our own code language to be replaced by phrases intelligible to the rest of the world. Selfish thing that I am, I want to protect our private language. I want to preserve his dependence on me as interpreter.

Three.
YH is turning three and after three comes four and after four comes five....

****                     ****
The other three that looms large in our home these days is the three-some unit that is YH and his two older siblings. As you may remember our first few months together as a family of five were rough for the bigger kids, especially Sweet Bubs. Sweet Bubs wanted so desperately to be a big brother, and he was crushed by YH's lack of interest in playing with his siblings.

I am happy to report that now, ten months in, Sweet Bubs and YH are inseparable. YH follows his big brother everywhere and insists on having Sweet Bubs in the tub with him, tucking him in at night and holding his hand when we run errands.

Their relationship is amazing. AMAZING.

Miss A now gets to roll her eyes at the antics of her two little brothers. She naturally assumes a leadership role when it is three of them engaged in an activity and she will not hesitate to correct any act that violates a "rule" (imagined or otherwise).

When one of my three gets hurt the other two rush to the injured party's side. They huddle together on the sofa to look at books and they sing along to awful pop songs in the backseat of the car, each trying to escalate the volume higher than the other two. They squabble and fuss and pout at each other and sometimes they just fall in a heap on the rug and roll around like wolf cubs.

They are three.
Three together.
Three-deep.
Three-fold.
Three parts of the whole.