A Fun Little Neighborhood Game

by youngmarriedmom Posted on October 9, 2012

Today, Jacob and I had to go to the post office. This story isn’t really about the post office; it could have happened anywhere. But in the interest of setting the scene, there you go.

 

The postal worker who helped us was great. She did what we needed quickly, offered a little friendly banter in between, and generally it was a good experience.

 

At one point she commented on my being pregnant.

 

“I hope that one’s a girl,” she said.

 

“It’s another boy,” I answered with a smile, realizing she thought it would be our last. “Hopefully we’ll have a little girl someday.”

 

She proceeded to tell me about someone she knew—I missed the connection—who had two boys . . . and then two girls. (Apparently female babies are a goal!)

 

I jokingly one-upped her, and told her that John’s family consisted of four boys and then two girls. She was wowed. She asked how many we wanted.

 

“About that many,” I answered.

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At this point, “wowed” was an understatement.

 

“I would not advise anyone to do that in these times,” she said, not harshly at all, just stating her opinion. “Maybe when you’re young!” Not offended in the least, I still wanted to make my point.

 

“My husband’s family is one of the best, happiest families I know,” I told her. “We’ll see what we get.”

 

The transaction was done, so we parted, no feelings hurt on either side, although I admit to being a bit amused.

 

I’ve read bloggers with big families write about the judgmental statements they can get when they’re out and about with their broods. Although I may come to the point when that sort of thing would drive me crazy, now it seems like it would be a blessing have people question my sanity like that (“Five kids! Wow!”).

 

For now, I get a certain kick out of throwing people off their game—especially in Brooklyn. I don’t look for the opportunity to do it, but when one comes up, you better believe I’m taking it.

 

God willing, we’re only getting started.

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Toddler Bed or Train Table?

by youngmarriedmom Posted on October 5, 2012

Last weekend we took the plunge and got Jacob a toddler bed. The reasons were threefold: first, we wanted to make the transition well before Henry is out and about in the world; second, Jacob kept trying to sit on top of my belly while I was rocking him before bed; and third, we found one for cheap.

 

Newsflash: Because we had to move the rocking chair out of Jacob’s (the boys’!) room to fit the bed, the climbing is no longer a problem. Instead, I end up on the floor, getting up and down twice, and eventually lifting Jacob and all his accoutrement into the crib every time I’ve put him to sleep. So far, this is not easier.

 

Anyway, I tried to carefully hype Jacob up about it by reminding him of his friend’s fabulous toddler bed. When we went to visit my childhood friend this summer, Jacob and her son, let’s call him Evan, played with trains together in Evan’s room, mainly on his bed (not on the train table right next to his bed). We talked to Jacob a little bit then about how cool a big boy bed was. At the time I didn’t realize we’d neglected to mention a very important thing: big boy beds are for sleeping, not for playing trains.

 

Cut to last Sunday, when John went to pick up our toddler bed. Jacob and I were waiting outside for him. When John arrived, I opened the doors to our apartment—there are three—and told Jacob to go inside, so he wouldn’t get smacked with the bed or mattress. He did go inside. For a minute.

 
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Next thing I know he’s outside again, grinning up at me with an armful of trains.

 

We got the bed inside, put it in his room, cleaned it, and put sheets on it. Then, we did this:

The good news is that Jacob likes to at least have a pillow on the bed while he plays trains. It’s a step in the right direction. Really, from day one, he’s done his whole bedtime routine in the bed, with the exception of falling asleep. Hopefully that part follows soon.

 

In the meantime, chug-a-chug-a-zzzzz-zzzzzzzzz . . .

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Three Years on the Third at Three O’Clock

by youngmarriedmom Posted on October 3, 2012

Dear John,

 

(You didn’t think the letters were just for the kids, did you?)

 

Three years. Can you believe it? Today we’ve been married three years. Happy anniversary!

 

When we started dating in high school, neither of us knew where the relationship would go. We were six months away from shipping off to college, and we didn’t even know where we’d be going yet. But there was something special between us, something that was fun, that made each of us feel understood in a way we hadn’t before.

That something, a number of years later, showed us that we wanted to be together for the rest of our lives. We were young, yes, but we were ready to give ourselves to each other in every way. That was the best decision I’ve ever made, although it didn’t feel like a decision. Like everything with you, it felt natural.

And so the next chapter of our lives began—together. Who would have guessed we’d have three babies to love in our three short years? (We should probably stop with the baby-per-year thing, or our fiftieth is going to be interesting . . .)
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When we promised ourselves to each other, we knew we had no idea what was in store for us. I certainly couldn’t have dreamed of all the ups and downs of these last few years.

What I did know was that we loved each other and we were committed to each other. Our relationship—and one day our family—was grounded in faith; it was never just about us. Though the way we do things isn’t always the same, from prayer to dishes to putting Jacob to sleep, I believe that if we continue to respect each other and express gratitude to each other as we have been, nothing can stop us. It’s the same thing I knew in the core of my being the day we got married, three years ago. And it is the same thing I will hold in my heart until my last day.

Happy anniversary, my dear. Thank you for loving, honoring, and respecting me, for putting me and Jacob (and Ethan and Henry) first every day. I hope I have done the same for you, and I hope I do it all better in the year to come.

 

All my heart,
Lindsay

 

P.S. This counts as your card, okay?

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