(Maeve Eloise, in new scarf handmade by Liam)

I can't believe this. Seems like only a few short months ago that I suspected labor at dawn and pushed out a new, mewling daughter by breakfast time. But it has happened, the circle has spun round once more and she is now a year old.

A year old, a year new. Still so much to learn, and to do, yet I feel like something has ended.
She's only a day older than yesterday.

It has been for nine years and nine months that my life has been saturated with babies and babyhood, pregnancy and nursing and waiting and conceiving and birthing. While I can hardly bring myself to face the possible end of this phase, the practicality of the life we lead forces me to consider it. I put a hand up to the side of my face, trying not to see. I don't want this to end. I want to have a baby forever. It seems like all I know.

This being said, I went to Liam's baseball game with just Aoife and Fiona on Saturday. Maeve was at home sleeping, and the girls and I brought a wicker basket full of tea, milk, sugar and snacks. We got out the china and we had a gorgeous, civilized picnic and watched the game. There was no disaster-prevention necessary. Just me and two level-headed daughters having a picnic. It felt so sane, and I could have melted into the grass for how relaxed it made me to not have a baby on the picnic blanket.

But then she reaches for me with her long, wiry, pale arms, and clings to my neck. Her mouth is wet on my shoulder and the back of her dark hair is a little sweaty and damp. Her skin is so smooth and she grabs me with sharp fingernails, clinging to me, her rock and anchor. I am everything to her. I want it to be this way forever.

She reaches for me and calls, Mama. She laughs when she comes into my arms, stroking my cheek. She points at all the things around her, labeling them when she can. Dog, ball, cat. Pop, Bob, Papa. Dad. When she's not sure, she points and says "that". She wants to know. She waves at everyone we pass, offering a delicious, seven toothed smile and a lazy, "Hiii...". She is innocence and beauty. I cannot resist admitting the delerious joy I feel at being her absolute favorite person.

Maeve is one. The baby I rushed to have, thinking that it wouldn't work to stretch things out. The baby that came so quickly, right on the heels of her sister. When Fiona turned one I was four months pregnant. Today I was sleek in new white pants and a green shirt. There will be no new baby. Our family is growing and changing and I miss already the beautiful little baby who is turning into a girl before my very eyes.

Happy Birthday, Maeve. You have brought me immeasurable joy. The beauty and completion you bring to our family is beyond words. May you live for a hundred years, surrounded with light, beauty and love. I love you so very, very much.

May thirteenth has come and gone, the anniversary of the birth of my motherhood stolen has passed me by once again. That her birthday fell on Mother's Day seemed both appropriate and also a cruel joke. I desperately needed a day this year to be honored as a mother; as it was I felt too numb to admit the day was anything but hers and couldn't wrap my head around doing both. We did what we always do, we planted flowers, we puttered around the yard, we baked things to eat. We talked about her, we thought about her, we argued because the grief made us cranky.
This is how we parent the fifth child.
Meanwhile, four hearts still beat strong beneath us, even when we want to crumple and wrap our arms around the shadow of the daughter we might have had. So we parent them, we parent them hard, and we try to be brave when they ask us difficult questions about our journey.

Tomorrow, now, our baby turns one. One whole year of beauty with her. She sleeps now, upstairs, and I can see her on my new-fangled baby monitor that I bought to ease me through the transition of her out of my bed and into a crib (five feet from my bed, but a crib) so that we could try to restore something resembling an evening to our home. Now I can put her to bed at night and she goes to sleep, and I come down here and I can read to the older children, and I can tuck Fiona into her bed and sing to her, and I can parent them all.

It is nearly midnight. I have crafts abound to finish for Maeve's birthday. But while I waited for some photos to print, it seemed right to post on the eve of the last spring birthday. Perhaps another post soon.

What a month of transition, and I have stepped back from anything without a pulse in the wake of some incredible family time.

I will return, quite soon. I have many stories to tell, and many moments to share.

And here, a quote. These are my words, and over the past month I have had to remind myself quite often that mother is almost always right.

What surprised me the most about becoming a parent was that I trusted myself. Like a steadfast mother cat, hauling her kitten confidently to a safer place by the scruff of his neck, I somehow seemed to know what to do with each baby, each time. I never did end up looking at a book, and I've never second guessed anything I did upon instinct. My babies were almost always happy, and so was I.

Soon, my friends. Very soon. Stick with me.

Our daily bread

This is the bread recipe our family uses for our everyday, so quick you don't have an excuse not to make it, bread. You almost don't even have to knead it, and what dough isn't used sits in a big jar in the fridge and can be plucked out, left for 45 minutes on the counter to warm, and thrown onto a hot stone to bake. Fiona loves to make bread and I always give her her own ball of dough to "knead" and "shape" into a loaf. Her tiny bread bakes much faster than my large loaves and she loves to butter and spread creamy honey on her still-warm bread.

Try this at home:

In a large bowl, mix:

6.5 cups flour-- we use 4 cups bread flour, 2 white whole wheat, 1/2 cup hard whole wheat

3 T yeast

3 T salt

Add 3 cups warm water, stir/mix/knead till combined. You can actually knead it for a while if you want to, but this is actually optional. I often do only because I want the dough to seem lovely and smooth and elastic-y, but the truth is when I'm in a rush and I don't it doesn't seem to make much of a difference.

At this point you can either throw the dough into the jar for the fridge, which I usually leave out for 30 minutes or so before putting into the fridge, or you can let this dough rise for a while and then form loaves which I let rise for 30 minutes.

At this point I put the loaves on a preheated, 500 degree baking stone for 10 minutes, and then lower the temp to 400 for another 20 minutes. If you are unsure how long your loaves will take, an instant read thermometer should read at least 200 degrees for an internal temp to indicate doneness.

Yum. And also, keeps us busy for an entire winter morning, if I let it. This morning she even washed all the dishes for me.

Sink or Swim

My little Aoife loves to swim. By the time she was 17 months old, she was crossing the pool at the YMCA with a bubble on, determined to be independent. She'd push my hand away and pedal off. I always thought she resembled a tiny seahorse, her little bobbed head rocking back and forth as she paddled around, upright with the little square bubble on her back.

Nearly five years later, she hasn't actually progressed much. She's an absolute fish, but she doesn't like to get her face wet and she can't swim at all. (Or so she thinks. A few minutes after the above photo was taken last summer, she ditched the life jacket for a boogie board and paddled out into deep water. She fell off the board and swam quite a ways before reaching sand she could touch. But that's another story).

In real life, she swims confidently and with strength as long as there's something for her to hang onto. A noodle, a life jacket, or the old favorite-- the bubble on her back. All of my attempts to get her to swim without such crutches have been pushed away.

This winter, I decided it was time to take the lesson into somebody else's hands. As much as I feel so strongly that I'd like to be my child's primary educator in many realms, the truth is that they just perform better for others. So it was with a long, guilty face that I informed Aoife on Monday afternoon that her swimming lessons would begin that day.

She was angry, but a lollipop in the car (really? but yes, I did...) soothed some of the initial anger. I promised her that it wouldn't be so bad. Liam was coming too. He's a confident swimmer, strong, but unschooled. He doesn't swim with proper strokes yet, because he's never learned them. So he was excited to become more skilled. Aoife not quite so much.

At the pool, they both got dressed and came cooperatively into the pool room with me. A teacher was at the edge of the pool with the 12 or so students, sitting on the side, and 3 teachers were in the water. The idea was that the children would be broken into ability groups. I quietly said to the teacher on the side, "She's absolutely terrified."

"Don't worry," she said, "She'll be with Emily, she's terrific."

And then she proceeded to ask each child to jump in and swim to a teacher.

I wasn't sure what to do. Should I walk back and clarify that Aoife was a non-swimmer? Should I walk back and reassure Aoife that she didn't have to swim, but that we could explain that she was there to learn how to swim?

I watched, my stomach in knots, as each child jumped in and swam to a teacher in the water. Some swam 10 yards, some 25. Some face in, some with real strokes.

I watched, my belly churning, as Aoife's face became more and more stricken with fear as each child dove in.

And then it was her turn, and she just threw herself in, and went all out. She managed to keep her head moderately above water and the teacher advanced to meet her. I could see her face beginning to crumple as the teacher helped her over to the side of the pool. The absolute sheer terror on her face made me want to curl up and die. I felt so awful. I jumped up and knelt beside her.

Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. That scared you so much... I didn't know what to say. I felt as if I had failed her. I thought about advocating for her, but I didn't. Her little heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of her chest. Her tears and sobs were some of the most genuine I'd ever heard. I felt absolutely mean. I couldn't believe I'd set her up for such terror.

Fortunately, "Emily", the teacher, was an absolute gem. She softly convinced Aoife that she'd be with her the whole time, and she'd never let her go. It was only Aoife and one other little boy in her ability level, and he was a better swimmer so she had Emily basically to herself. I rose after she had calmed and moved myself aside.

Without me there, Aoife performed beautifully. She put her face in the water and blew bubbles. She jumped off the side of the pool. She lay on the back with her head and ears in the water and kicked gracefully. She did, in effect, everything I'd been trying to get her to experiment with over the past 4 years in the 45 minute lesson.

When I picked her up, she was delighted with herself.

I congratulated her, and felt like giving her a present. All evening, I flashed back to her terrified face in the water, and her awful, wracking sobs of terror. I wished I could have gone back and leapt up and stood up for my daughter, instead of sitting there not knowing what to do. What should I have done? I should have protected her. Instead I sat there worrying that I would seem like a helicopter parent. You can't win.

It's hard to say what I learned. I learned that I should speak up for my child, but I also learned that by forcing her to try something that was scary, she accomplished something that she had perceived to be beyond her reach, and was incredibly proud of herself. I would never intentionally replay the situation that happened yesterday, but in the end the result was exactly what I had been hoping for. Aoife was pushed, and she succeeded.

And she was happy.

I made a bit of a blunder last night.

There are always moments in my life I wish I could return to and say something different.

Where I stand as a mother, most of those moments have to do with my missing daughter.

I was at a party last night, an engagement party for my sister who will be married in June. It was all the neighborhood moms and dads from my childhood gathered together. Maeve was there with me, smiling and cooing though it was many hours past her usual bedtime. Somehow the conversation led to pregnancy and I commented on how I had enjoyed a "symptom-free" pregnancy with Maeve, even after having had desperately revolting nausea for five months with Fiona.

Well, said one of the mothers, I suppose when it's your fourth time around maybe your body just knows how to do it better.

Fifth, I wanted to say, fifth. I have given birth to five whole babies, all perfectly grown and carved and gorgeous. I was equally pregnant with all five. Pregnancy is, of course, the only domain in which I can claim all my children as equals. It breaks me to deny her in this realm.

But I didn't correct her, not there.

I could be returning to this moment, and there are many like that in my life. I will go home and ruminate over what I could have said or should have done. I will replay scenarios, and imagine myself a bolder, more articulate version of the actual me. Thoughtful, inoffensive words will roll off my tongue, gently setting the record straight with no feelings of discomfort experienced from either party. A far cry from the reality of the situations in which I do speak up, blushing and worrying feverishly about whether or not I've made the other person feel like a blister on a big toe somewhere.

No, last night I just said something stupid, and my feelings weren't hurt, and I worry that I could have left some feelings bruised. Now, or for the future. I was sitting with some of the moms from my childhood, all grandmothers now, my sister and her husband, expecting their first baby in May, and my brother in law, who became a father last June. The conversation had turned to babies and sleep and the lack thereof. I commented on how my children were "notoriously awful" sleepers but that it was completely my fault, due to my total and absolute devotion to their demands in the wee hours, whatever they may be.

I've just never made any attempts whatsoever to help them to sleep better, I said. When they wake up, I just run to them and hold them... because, I don't know, I love them.

Immediately, I tried to pull the foot out of my mouth.

I don't mean to say that if people don't go to their babies in the night that they don't love them, I tried, and continued on from there. But it's one of those things where I feared the damage had been done. Had my statement been blunt enough to imply judgment of those who chose to let their babies cry in favor of everyone eventually getting a good night's sleep? From here, would it be possible to backpedal fast enough to help them to realize that I almost sometimes admire and envy people who can tolerate their baby's discomfort (at a certain age) so that everyone can eventually get a good night's sleep?

Because let me tell you, in my house it takes a good number of years for everyone to get a good night's sleep, and sometimes I wonder if that's for the best.

But last night I just shut my mouth, and said no more. And then all the way home I worried that my brother in law would think I disapproved of them letting their baby fuss, or that my sister, a year from now, would hear my words echoing in her head, wondering if she was making the wrong choice by letting her daughter cry a little.

And really, the reason why I didn't backpedal, is that the true reason why I have no backbone when it comes to sleep training is that I have no eldest daughter sleeping down the hall. I'm funny about my babies now. Even while my skin is crawling to go downstairs to the quiet peace of my evenings with children in bed, I have to hold that sweet baby in my arms until she's blissfully asleep. I have to let myself smell her beauty and brush her eyelashes against my cheek and pat her hair with my lips while she sleeps in my arms a little. I know she's only going to be little for a little longer, and I also still remember, deeply and viscerally, what it feels like to have arms that only ache to have a baby to hold. I don't imagine that feeling will leave me any time soon, and somehow the knowing that someone is there to need me just as strongly as I need her keeps me running hour after hour, night after night, with no end in sight.

So, no. I do not judge you. I truly, firmly believe that each family, mother, and baby has a right to work out a system that brings each party the maximum amount of contentment. My situation dictates that I should therefore hold the baby as often as possible, as long as possible. And I do.

This is the long answer. It's not because I love them, it's because I'm still healing my broken heart.

Which is awkward to say at a party, without people blushing and looking down.

Cold shoulder, warm hand.

It had been coming for quite some time. I could see it in the sideways glances, the shoulder turned a little too quickly away from me when he'd leave me in public. Sometimes, I would give him a casual wave and leave, sometimes a pat on the shoulder, but today, it was clear. His look said, Don't kiss me, Mom. He looked like a calf, panicking in a too-small enclosure as I approached him to say goodbye. I reached out my hand, offering it in a gesture of affection, but he nearly pushed it away. He turned to his friends. I, too, turned away.

I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I knew this was big for him, too. The newness of being self-conscious and aware of what's cool and what's not weighs on him as well. The learning never ends. It took us a long time to learn how to be apart, and this is just the next stage. Now we're apart without pomp and circumstance. Now we will wave, or he will run into the classroom without me. I made a note to talk to him about it when we got home.

I never want to be a source of embarrassment to my children. Of course this is probably impossible, but in so far as we are able to have conversations about their preferences and what feels comfortable to them, I am willing to be very flexible. But it's still sad. The soft, squishy, adoring love of my boy is still so present in my life, but he's moving on in the world that I don't occupy. As a schoolboy he doesn't want to need his mommy, and he needs to look as if he's holding his own. And he is, he truly is.

I did ache all day. I ached for that lost kiss, for the hand that nearly pushed me away rather than squeezing me affectionately. I ached for the sunny days spent doing puzzles on the floor and reading dinosaur books and making spaghetti out of play dough. I remembered how it was only seven years ago that I struggled around issues of dependence and sleep; it was around the President's Day weekend that we started to sleep train him. What I wouldn't give now to have him back in my bed, curled up against me, his warm breath on my face.

I tried to be very cool when I went to pick him up at three o'clock. Casual as could be, I walked to the table where he sat with a book and put my hand on his shoulder. Time to go, I said, would you like help getting your things together? I was expecting a no, I was expecting him to rush out ahead of me as he often does, grabbing his bag out of his cubby and arriving at Aoife's classroom far ahead of me. But not today.

Today he slipped his warm little hand into mine and we walked down the hall together. It was all I could do not to cry. He let me help him put his things into his backpack and carry his coat. As we exited the cubby area, he took my hand once more. He was my boy once again.

I cuddled him extra close last night, just for good measure. He'll always be mine, won't he?