When I think about it, babies not being able to have memories from their first few years has to be by design.

There are several memories during Henry's first weeks of life I'm glad he will never remember.  

Oh, that newborn stage is something else, something amazing, something that leaves you in awe of the miracle of life and parenthood...

but it's also a huge mix of hormones and exhaustion and trial and error, and it's hard.  

 

I think it's pretty great that Henry's first memories will be from the age of when he still thinks his parents are funny and smart and lovely.  

(He will, right?)

I get that he won't remember the beginning of our family traditions that started with him, our firstborn.  And it's kind of nice that it gives us a few years to really get the hang of exactly how these traditions are meant to happen.  It's okay that they start small and can evolve into something bigger.  Or not.  They're our traditions, and they're ours to make.

This year, our pumpkin carving is not picturesque, outside with leaves falling around us on a crisp fall day.  It was inside, as it continues to mist in the dark night outside, squeezed in after dinner, but just before bath time.  I did manage to put on the Halloween Party Pandora station with only a slight eye roll from Andrew to set the mood.  Henry had no idea what was going on except that he didn't like the pumpkin guts his dada threw on him, shaking the trash bag was a lot of fun, as was saying "pump-puuhhhh" as soon as his pumpkin was set out to be carved.

 

This is why you do it.  When you're tired.  When your kitchen is dirty, you have laundry to catch up on, and loads of work to do.  

When it's past his bedtime.  When your pumpkin is actually a gourd.

 

It's just the beginning, and it's not perfect nor will it ever be.  But it's a pretty great start.

First, if I die tonight there's no sense in wondering why because my ice cream choice today
(and yes, you might as well read between the lines here and assume I have ice cream most nights) is Death by Chocolate. 
What a way to go.

Second, I've already written about being done with busy.  How I was over that word and what it means and it's glorification.  I'm kind of feeling that way when that's what pops into my head as a way to describe my child.  I hadn't really thought about it until the past couple of months ago when Henry really seemed to hit his stride, literally, and other people would comment and say, "he sure is busy!", with an understanding smile.  Like the woman that sat behind Henry and I at church on Sunday.  I thought I could handle it on my own since Andrew had to be at work a lot this weekend, and about 25 minutes into it was feeling pretty good about myself as we rotated between snacks, coloring and trying to jam the pencil back into its place.  Then Henry put the petal to the metal and literally wasn't still until I got him in his car seat after we (finally - thank you, Jesus!) sang the last hymn.  Let's be honest.  I was fighting back tears as we were walking up to communion because he'd just rammed his snack container into my face again,
after he wanted up, no down, no I want to crawl past you into the aisle, just kidding I want up, nope down, etc.  

Let's call it like it is.  

He is at times freaking unstoppable.  It's like he's the bus from Speed and thinks if he slows down he might explode.  Or at least that's how it appears.  Like when he runs laps around the kitchen table for 10, 20, 30 at a time until he's panting
and remembers to grab his drink for a quick swig on his next time around.

Side-tracking works - if the distraction is enticing enough. 

My go-to is, "want to go play outside?".  Which is fine by me...for now.  Until #2 gets here, and it's the middle of winter. 
If you drive by and see Henry and I in head-to-toe snow gear, me holding a baby monitor, him probably still trying to eat rocks, we're fine. 
We're just probably outside for our daily afternoon playtime.  

Except if #2 is anything in the outside world as he/she is in my belly, I'm really in for it because this baby moves.  All the time.  Ooooh, you ate breakfast - kick, punch, punch.  Oooh, I heard the dog bark - wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.  It's time to lay down?  Roll, roll, roll.  Busy?  No, ACTIVE.

Earlier this week I took a cue from Henry and created my own flurry.  On my kitchen.  After I was simultaneously trying to clean the house, make dinner, get ready for my Sunday evening shoot, oh and Andrew needed help hanging the crown molding in the baby's room so picture me holding Henry with one arm (because the air gun noise scared him), on a chair, eight months pregnant, while Andrew installed the molding
and gave fatherly Handy Andy advice, "measure once, cut five times, Henry", trying to take deep breaths (and not fall over)
as I just realized a soda can just exploded in the kitchen.  

So the kitchen deserved every scrub it got on Monday night.  And the toothpicks I used to get into the teeniest crevaces.

I think it's safe to say nesting has begun.

There's no list.  Yet.  Just a Henry-type flurry in my head of to-do's and schedules and check marks.  Good thing this one is dynamite at throwing away trash (among other items), shopping with mama, emptying the dishwasher and rearranging toys, accessories, clothes, etc. 
That baby room may not even be close to being done, but I bet I know someone who would help.

Going to the pumpkin patch is one of my favorite days of the year.  

It ranks up there with Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, the first tailgate of the season, birthdays, etc.  It's the combination of the reminder that Halloween is right around the corner (a holiday I feel like I finally get since having Henry to dress up in costume), the crisp air, the warm sunshine, spending time with friends and babies, the 30-minute drive into the country, the views, and this year, knowing Henry was going to love seeing all the pumpkins.

Because pumpkin is one of his favorite words right now.  And I should have counted how many times he said "pump-pump" today because surely we'd have been well into the 100s.  That and "track-er" for tractor because what other words need to be in a boy's vocabulary in October? 

It's the anticipation of family time and the fun we're going to have together, and seeing what a different experience it is this year having a running toddler vs a barely sitting five-month old.  It starts at the beginning of football season as we drive by week after week on our way to and from Manhattan.  We notice the changes Walter's has made to the property.  We search for the growing pumpkins from the view from our windows.  

And Andrew starts gushing about the pumpkin hurling canon.  And gushing.  And gushing.

 Andrew is 100% confident that #2 is a girl so he felt he needed to spend some time with the ladies of the group.

It's the feeling of being a child.  Relishing in what's right in front of you, right then.  

Thinking everything you see was put there just for you.  It's there for the taking; it's there for you to enjoy.  

It's not so different when you grow up; I just lose sight.  

This family; this life.  I'm so happy it's mine.

30 weeks, two days pregnant and alternating between getting really excited and getting really close to sobbing, 

"but, how are am I going to do this with two babies at once?"

I've had it in my mind for some time now to get Henry a baby doll we could practice on to make the idea of the baby coming more tangible.  

Henry doesn't understand that there is a baby in mama's tummy.  He just discovered belly buttons.  (And they are very funny to him.)

Thank goodness for our neighbor's garage sale specials because yesterday we scored three vintage books for #2's bookshelves and a $1 baby for Henry.

Nevermind the first full blown tantrum that occured while we were at this garage sale 

because I wouldn't let him bang a small vintage wooden chair on the driveway anymore.  

{I know you don't feel well because you still have your double ear infection and we're on a second round of meds, I know you are tired because you woke up at 5:45am (thus so did I), and I know you don't know how to express yourself yet.  But, please, please, please quit hitting me and pulling my hair.  Hormones, being tired and frustrated got the better of me yesterday, and I just had to cry when we got home.}

Of course as I'm sad and feeling lost about how to help Henry learn to grow past this phase and repeating, "this too shall pass" over and over to myself, he's talking softly and quietly to his new baby (girl at this point because she has a sewn-on headband), kisses her and holds her nice.  

Only for a bit, but rest assured, he's getting it.  As much as his little 16-month old head can process.

And I just love him.

I love them.
 Also, my name is Alison Moore, and I have a stripe problem.

One of those days bathtime couldn't wait until after dinner because today one of those days means 

we were washing off peanut butter, dirt, chalk, stick pieces and brownie crumbs.  

 

It was a good day.