A year ago, when this photo was taken, her hair was longer and they were both smaller. But already they barely fit into the bath tub together. How is it that they still manage to squeeze in there, side by side, today? Somehow, they do. Not for too much longer, I think. But perhaps by the time he's finally outgrown bathtime with his sister, the baby will be ready to take his place.


According to Jason, grandpas like newspapers. Newspapers are full of black and gray words, and black and gray pictures. They are just the same as magazines. They are boring. His grandfather reads them every day. His grandfather thinks they're interesting. Jason doesn't know why.


She had spent the whole afternoon playing outside. "They're presents!" she said.

A few days later it rained unexpectedly. (Here, rain is never expected.) She cried to see her presents erased.

"Honey, chalk is not forever," I said. "You can draw new presents tomorrow. That's what makes chalk fun"

She didn't understand, and just kept crying, broken-hearted that the work of an afternoon was destroyed.

(Because, to a three-year-old, an afternoon is a lifetime.)

But, by the time the pavement had dried, so had her tears. She was on to other things.


Growing up in a city of over a million people, they do not see much of wildness. They see it here and there, of course, but they don't live with it, the way we did when we were young.

They came upon this little thing, tiny and cute but wild nonetheless. I watched while they built a corral of sticks and fashioned a little trough from a bottlecap, picking clover so it could eat. They were disappointed that it scurried away so quickly, unhindered by their fences. Why wouldn't it stay, so that they could love it and protect it, so that they could look at its adorableness and smile? But, whatever their will, it had its own drives and soon went on its way.

Life Tucked Aside

They say that home is where the heart is, or where you hang your hat. To me, home is the place where one day you look around and find your life tucked into every corner.

A Quiet Moment

It's a rare moment that her hands are not in motion, wildly flailing either with excitement or rage. She is not a quiet one, my youngest. I can't wait to see how that manifests when she's older.


She asked for a "burro," mostly because her brother had asked for one as well. After that first bite, I swear she must have held that thing in her little fist for forty-five minutes.

Three Years

Today is your birthday. I know that you are aware of this, because for the past two months you've been saying "I want that for my birthday" whenever you see a commercial or a toy or an article of clothing that you like. I have a suspicion that you won't remember everything you've asked for—or maybe it's just a hope.

Since your last birthday you started pre-school. You've impressed everyone at your school with your personality and your intellect; the director likes to say that you're "tiny and mighty." I think that's apt. You're smaller than just about everyone you meet, but you have spunk, and you make your opinions known. (Sometimes, maybe, Mommy and I might wish that you could be a little less, shall we say, forceful in your opinions, but we also love that you have so much to say.) You hold your own, even amongst kids who are bigger and older.

But you're also still our sweet girl, and nowhere does that show more than in how you are with your baby sister. Every night before you go to bed, you insist on getting to hold her, and all day you pepper her with kisses. You try to comfort her when she's fussy, sing to her in the car, and just generally do your best to take care of her. It makes me so proud.

We have our challenges, too, which is only to be expected for a girl about to be three. You're growing into yourself, bouncing off the boundaries we put in place for you. You're not always thrilled with me and Mommy. But every day I'm thankful to have such a funny, smart, affectionate, wonderful girl in my life. I love you, sweetie.

Soundtrack: "Love and Oceans" by The Dimes. Used with permission.


Where to begin? It's hard now, three weeks and some later, to separate out the pieces of the story, and all the more so since I start work again tomorrow, and my mind is caught up with looking ahead. But this is not how the story starts; let me begin again.

It was dark when we left the house. The kids had spent the night at their grandparents' hotel room, the dog was at the kennel, our bags had been packed the night before. Passing through the empty office parks on our way to the hospital, we passed a police car with its lights spinning, parked beside a tree that had fallen into the street. Over and over as we drove, Juliette and I marveled that we would have another baby in mere hours, and also that this would be the last time we'd make this particular trip.

There was a certain sense of relief that we shared. We'd made it through Jason's birthday—just three days before—without Juliette going into labor. And, of course, she was looking forward to being able to breathe again. But there was a bit of apprehension, too. Not because of the impending sleepless nights; we'd been through that before and we knew we could handle it.

The first time we had made that drive, Juliette was curled into a ball in the passenger seat and I was just trying to hold it together, and despite all the classes and reading, we were both unprepared for how things went. The second time was more like this one, calmer and a little surreal, but later I would be holding her hand while she gasped and moaned from the pain of an incompletely anesthetized surgery. This time we felt more experienced, but that experience had taught us that things would probably be different in unexpected ways.

Things started in a familiar way. We filled out paperwork, we waited. Eventually Juliette went into the OR to be prepped, and I stood outside in the hall, alone, pacing nervously and cracking my knuckles and taking pictures of nothing.

But then things were different. Juliette had a smile on her face as the doctors started operating. The anesthesia worked this time, so instead of hearing Juliette's pain, I heard the pings and whirs of the machinery, and the doctors' voices as they discussed recipes for salmon.

And then, all of a sudden, there she was.

And just as I had both times before, I marveled at how loud she was. She looks like Eva, I thought to myself as I brought her to meet her mother for the first time on the outside. "Hi, Mary," I said. "Hi, baby girl. Happy birthday."

There are lots of little details that spring to mind from the next few hours and days. The surprise in the doctor's voice when she saw that Mary's umbilical cord had a knot in it. The little spurt of blood when I cut the cord, that shot out and hit one of the nurses in the eye. The surprise and joy at finally having a big baby—and the way I pumped my fists in celebration at the first visit to the pediatrician's office, when she'd regained her birth weight in just six days.

And now we're a family, all over again and newly and differently. We're still learning what that means and how we live together. It's strange and new and more than a little bit exhausting. And it's wonderful.

By This Time Tomorrow

By this time tomorrow, my life will be different. In itself, that's nothing out of the ordinary—every day brings something new, every day I am different from the day before. But tomorrow is a big one, because tomorrow is the day that my new daughter will be born.

One of my co-workers said to me last week that I must be an old pro at this by now. And it's true that I am comfortable as a parent now. I know that I can handle the sleepless nights, the diaper disasters. I even know that I can take care of my two older kids and a baby at the same time. But as much as I do know what it's like to have children, all I can really say is that I know what it's like to have my children, to have the two that I know already.

Leading up to Eva's birth, I remember feeling a certain sadness. I knew that I would love her and that I would some day reach a point where I couldn't imagine life without her. And both of those things were true. But I still felt a sense of grief at the loss of the family that we had right then. When it was just me and Juliette and Jason, it was wonderful, and when Eva came into our lives it was wonderful, too, but in a different way, and knowing that that first experience would be ending was bittersweet.

And so it is tonight. I know that it will be wonderful to have another daughter. I know that I will love her, and laugh with her, and that I will have a bond with her that is similar to the ones I have with her siblings, but one that will be unique to her and me. I'm looking forward to that. But I can't get away from this small sadness that what I have now, which I also love, will be ending.

Little girl, I don't know you yet. And you don't know me, not really. Maybe some day you will read this and wonder about my feelings for you, and if that happens then I'm sorry. But I will tell you this: as I'm writing this we are strangers, but by the time you're able to read this, I will love you so much that it makes my chest hurt, and I will have held you and kissed you and taken care of you so well that you will not wonder long. You will know that I will always love you. And I hope that some day, when you are waiting for your child to be born, that knowing how I felt now will help you know that everything will be OK, and that if you feel something like this, that you are not alone.

I can't wait to meet you.

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