FROM A CAFE IN PARIS

P A R I S , F R A N C E

Ketch has decided that his favorite city is Paris. To be expected I guess from a kid whose most frequently requested food is muscles in butter sauce with frites and who has been obsessed with the seeing the Eiffel Tower since we put together a 3D puzzle of it one day after preschool.

I will not say it’s been an easy place to navigate with children. Clumsily pushing the kids down ancient sidewalks that slope horizontally at a 45 degree angle while attempting to avoid the giant cobblestone curbs fit to knock a two year olds teeth out. Surprised at both the number of people who offered to help me lug the stroller down the three flights of stairs to the metro while trying to hold the hand of an unsteady toddler and keep eyes on a quick-to-dart-into-crowds big kid…and the number of people who did not. The intimidating feeling of requesting a table at a corner restaurant filled with rows upon rows of glassware, easily tipped chairs and even more easily annoyed French people with two wild banshees at my side. The hour train ride back to our Airbnb at rush hour each evening smushed like sweaty sardines in a small smelly box, everyone overly tired and cranky.

But as tough as it has been to get around this city, it has also been equally freakin magnificent. Listening to the boys giggle with glee as they chased pigeons around the courtyard of the Luvre. Watching them devour crepes in the Jardin du Luxembourg, sticky Nutella smudged all over their fingers and smeared from ear to ear. Rowing about in tiny boats in the Bois des Vicenesse, making shapes out of clouds and marveling at the giant swans passing by. Delighting in the accordion music wafting through the underground tunnels and the ever so fascinating feats of street performers. Experiencing the all out astonishment and wonder of riding to the top of the Eiffel Tower through the giant eyes and hand-cupped-over-mouth’d expression of a five year old.

Throughout the week I developed a personal set of rules of sorts for survival. Each day should be started with a chocolate croissant. The number of historical sites visited must be equally balanced with the number of parks galavanted through (this is quickly becoming a world playground tour). Expectations of appreciation should be kept low - after all, comprehending the significance of what happened at the Notre Dame or the feats that it took to build it cannot be imposed upon a five year old. I had to laugh the day we took the kids to Versailles and Ketch took one look at the giant palace, immediately took a big huff and blurted out “looks like a long boooring time.” Fill them with pasta at every opportunity. Ride a carrousel whenever one is spotted. Try not to give a fuck about what anyone thinks of you or your parenting (easier said than done than when you can feel the eye rolls from onlookers being burned into your skin as you try to prevent your boys from pulling each others hair and screaming whilst squished together in the aforementioned sweaty sardine box). Relish in the moments your children are overcome with happiness and discovery. Quickly brush off the ones they act like little shits. And when all else fails there is always ice cream.

I love that you never feel rushed at a restaurant here. That you are expected to linger and savor and practically have to beg to get your bill. I love watching French women out of the corner of my eye on the metro, effortlessly beautiful and confident in their impeccably paired trench coats and scarves. I love the streets lined with small cafes, their waiters all scurrying about balancing trays of beautiful food in their in their black vests and bow ties. I love that every strawberry or peach you purchase from a produce stand is the best you’ve ever tasted - perfectly sweet and sticky, leaving a taste that lingers on your lips. I love the way the limestone buildings glow a burnt orange as the sunset crawls down their sides in the evening. I love that when you get home and shower at night, you can feel the city dripping off your skin.

We’ve had a couple rather memorable hair pulling moments here. First when we arrived to our VRBO after yet another exhausting travel day to find it abandoned and under construction. Thankfully a kind neighbor invited us in off the street and filled us with espressos and small talk for an hour and a half while we got it all sorted. His older children got quite the kick out of our kids crocs…really glad we could represent Americans with our classy footwear choices. West also decided it was time to make his foreign emergency room debut, by proclaiming in the sweet little way that only he could “I swallowed a penny!” at lunch one afternoon. Brad had a work call he couldn’t miss that day so I had to take him by myself which at first felt rather overwhelming - especially when trying to find the damn entrance to the hospital on foot, but I’m happy to report that aside from awkwardly attempting to communicate with the non English speaking nurses in my high school French, the experience was totally positive and felt a lot like being in an American urgent care.

One of the best things Brad and I have started doing is swapping one day a week to explore by ourselves, and my God is it wonderful to spend a morning in Paris alone. I’m writing this blog from a tiny table on the sidewalk in front of the St. Regis - one of those perfect little cafes, with beautiful gold French words and roses scrawled upon on the walls. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a fashion model strutting down the opposing street, a photographer running after her snapping away as she purses her lips and takes a puff of her cigarette. I’m sipping on a flat white and spooning runny egg yolks and salty bacon onto a warm and squishy-just-out-of-the-oven baguette and listening to a language that I cannot understand but find wildly beautiful float around me in conversation. Sunshine is warming my cheeks and I am trying my best to soak it - and everything else about this moment - in.

When we were talking to Ketch about our departure he said “it’s fine because I’m going to come back and live here someday when I grow up.” Then he asked if we’d come live here with him, and all I have to say is “kid, if the offer still stands in 15 years, we’re in.”

P A R I S , F R A N C E - ( T A K E N BY K E T C H ! )

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

P A R I S , F R A N C E

A BIRTHDAY IN BELGIUM

A N T W E R P , B E L G I U M

On the morning of the first day of my 37th year I awoke to the pitter patter of little feet. Two curly blondes smothered me in sloppy kisses and happy birthday mommas. I strolled the rainy streets of Belgium with my husband and my babies stopping for a coffee and a croissant at every bakerie we passed. There was a chill in the air and gloom in the clouds and fall felt wrapped all around us. I kissed everyone goodbye and wandered in and out of quirky shops alone. Bought myself a pair of birthday earrings. Sat in a warmly lit used book store amongst the tattered covers and listened to Tom Waits’ voice crackle. Sipped on cappuccino with fluffy hearts swirled over top and wrote and wrote and wrote about everything I felt. I blew out birthday candles with the people I love the most and ate chocolate cake with the most delicious $5 bottle of red wine. I spent the evening at a fancy pants Belgian spa and sat around in a steam room with a bunch of nude strangers (a weird but wonderful experience) and got a massage. It truly was the best day ever. Birthdays are funny things. Celebrations that mark the passing of your life. Pauses that make you reflect on where you’ve come from, what it took to get here, where that it is you’re going. I feel like I’ve taken a lot of big leaps throughout the years. Leaps that I thought would get me to the life I was dreaming of. Some of them were exhilarating and some of them were terrifying and some of them were heartbreaking and some of them were lonely. But I know now they have all been leading me to this point. I’m living that life I dreamed up, and it’s better than I could have ever imagined. I’m so grateful to be here. In this moment. With these people. The leaps are worth it. Magic is real.

Belgium has been lovely, but not without its moments. We’re staying in the town of Ghent, which was selected because of the very cool, yet affordable loft style airbnb we found. After a long travel day (and by long I mean the kind of body crippling exhaustion you can only feel after muscling children and luggage on and off public transportation for 6 hours straight) we arrived to check in just as dusk was falling and realized the loft was likely affordable because of the semi sketchy neighborhood in which it sat. We also realized we had failed to read the check in instructions, which a.) specified that no children were allowed in the dwelling and b.) required the filling out and signing of about 75,000 forms before access could be given to enter the apartment. We of course couldn’t get ahold of the landlord, airbnb customer support had a four hour wait, the kids were crying and it was starting to get dark. Brad and I looked at each other - both at a loss. This kind of thing is to be expected when traveling, and was fine when it was just the two of us, but man does it add a layer of intensity when you have two small kids with you. We decided to lug everything to the closest restaurant so we could at least feed the boys and be in a lit place while we figured out our next steps. The restaurant was Turkish and no one spoke a lick of English. After fuddling our way through the menu and ordering god knows what Brad finally got a call back from the landlord. We decided he’d take a bag and go figure out the check in and I’d stay back with the rest of our luggage and wait with the boys. He rushed off so quickly that I hadn’t even realized he had taken my phone with him - which let me tell you, makes you feel godamn naked and afraid when you’re alone at night in a bad part of town in foreign country with your kids. A half hour ticked by as we ate our dinner. Then another half hour. As the third half hour passed the kids were starting to loose their minds and I was starting to loose my shit. The apartment was a 7 minute walk away, it shouldn’t have been taking this long. Worst case scenarios started skipping their way through my mind. I tried to stay calm and promised myself that I wouldn’t truly freak out until 8:30. Then what would I do? Try to hand gesture my way through an explanation to the guy at the counter that my husband was missing? Even if I could convince someone to let me use their cell phone I couldn’t call him (our phones both can’t get incoming calls in Europe). Would a stranger help us get an Uber? Where would we go? The police station? A hotel? In this neighborhood? Alone at night? By 8:27 I was spiraling down a dark hole of possibilities. Then I shit you not, at 8:29 pm I caught a glimpse of Brad in the corner window and relief started welling up in my eyeballs. By the time he got to the table I was straight up crying and it took me a good 10 minutes in the bathroom to regain my composure enough to carry on. Turns out getting into the building was tricky.

By the light of day the neighborhood didn’t feel all so bad and an actually quite perfect place from which to explore Belgium. We spent the week bouncing around between Ghent, Antwerp and Bruges admiring the way vines crawled up the ancient brick buildings and quietly laughing at the large groups of men who bellow out tunes loudly in unison as they down lagers under the awnings at the local pubs. We ate French fries and waffles and beer and strolled past houses that looked like they were made of gingerbread and icing. We chased the boys around medieval castles and listened to Ketch giggle with a sort of unhinged glee at the sight of giant swords and suits of armor in display cases. We rode to the top of giant Ferris wheels and peered over cities while West clung to Brad in excitement. It’s been fun.

I didn’t know what to expect knowing Brad would be working in the evenings but it’s actually turned out to be really nice and we’ve fallen into our own kind of routine. We wake up and work out together - squatting and pushup-ing with two little monkeys crawling all over our backs. Then we all catch a train to somewhere and Brad explores with us all morning. We eat a big lunch and he leaves to go back to the apartment to work. I wander about with Ketch & West some more and then just have to figure out how to get us back home, wash em up, feed em a snack and tuck them into them to bed.

Being alone with the kids here is something I’ve gotten used to in baby steps. It felt a little scary at first, and I still feel like my head is constantly on a swivel, trying to figure out where we’re going and what train we need to catch while simultaneously making sure my toddler doesn’t dive bomb onto the tracks. And I think shuffling them on and off busses with the stroller in the point seven seconds you are given before the doors slam shut is something that may always make my heart pump a bit. They are wild things and trying to corral them around sometimes feels absolutely bananas. But it really has been such an amazing experience. One that has made me feel more confident and capable as a mother. And god I just love watching them take this all in.

One morning in Antwerp I ordered a coffee from a barista who was running around like he was on fire, serving everyone in the cafe. “Are you the only one here?” I asked, surprised he was juggling all of the chaos. “Yes,” he replied “but the craziness makes me feel alive.” And oh how I found that small sentence profound.

Me too, sir. Me too.

G H E N T , B E L G I UM

G H E N T , B E L G I UM

G H E N T , B E L G I UM

A N T W E R P , B E L G I U M

A N T W E R P , B E L G I U M

A N T W E R P , B E L G I U M

B R U G E S , B E L G I U M

G H E N T , B E L G I UM

B R U G E S , B E L G I U M

B R U G E S , B E L G I U M

G H E N T , B E L G I UM

ONWARD TO AMSTERDAM

A L K M A A R, N E T H E R L A N D S

Brad and I have a habit of getting a little lit on our date nights, scheming up fairly ridiculous life plans, and then waking up the next morning and deciding to actually hatch them. And while it’s probably not the healthiest of habits, it is certainly not one I would ever want to change, because it has led us to do some pretty amazing things. We both agreed that we cannot pinpoint a day this idea was officially thrown out or decided upon - but it was definitely discussed over many glasses of wine on nights with blessed babysitters. 

The catalyst for this trip was actually a pile of extension cords running from one end of our house to the other, a backed up plumbing situation that the guy from roto-rooter had never “in all of his years in this gig seen before” and a host of other line items in need of desperate repair in the home we purchased a few years ago. We decided that rather than hacking it all apart piece by piece it made more sense to do one big remodel, and after discussing the scope with our contractor learned that it required us to be out of the house for 9 months or so. We were actually pretty undecided on whether or not to bite the bullet and go for it, until one of us (again the details are hazy here) brought up the point that if we were going to rent a house somewhere, why not anywhere. And with that the plotting began. 

The months and days leading up to our departure date were absolutely batshit crazy if I can put it bluntly. I scurried about the house trying to pick out paint colors and sell most of the things we had accumulated in our six years in Livingston, Brad scurried about trying to figure out how we were going to pay for it, and the kids scurried about in their usual feral manner. We were so busy in fact that we didn’t put much thought or planning into the actual trip itself. We literally looked at each other the day before we left with a “no I thought you were booking the airbnb” - and then scrambled to actually book one. There were so many moments I questioned what we were doing…what in the world had possessed us to invite so much chaos into our lives. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my 36 years on this planet, it’s that what I consider to be the very best things I’ve ever done have all required their fair share of chaos, and generally when I get to the other side, I don’t regret any if it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of preparation, the morning of our departure arrived, the final box of belongings made its way to the shed behind our house and I settled into an equally relieved and exhilarated state knowing it was all actually happening.

It was one thing when we decided to jet off on an extended romp around the world before we had kids. It felt like another thing entirely to decide to do it with children. I think any parent would agree that the thought of a cranky toddler on an international flight is frightening, and it’s downright terrifying to think of all the what ifs and god forbids. But comfort isn’t everything and the what ifs and god forbids can happen anywhere. While I always want to keep my children safe, I also don’t want to let fear keep us from doing the things we’re inspired to do. We chose to start in Europe because it felt like a fairly low risk location and a good place to get our feet wet with all of this rearing children on the road business. Amsterdam wasn’t chosen for any specific reason - it just happened to have the flight schedule that made the most sense with kids.

The plane ride over was actually pretty idyllic. West, who usually turns into an absolute ogre at bedtime, curled up in his seat with his stuffed dog, sweetly closed his eyes and drifted off after dinner. I honestly couldn’t believe it. Then I decided to spice things up a little by leaving my wallet on the plane and not remembering until we had officially left the airport. One not-so-quick, not-so-idyllic escort back through security by Dutch immigration officials to scoop it up from the ticket counter though and we were back in business.

It’s always a little jarring landing in a foreign country. Trying to make out signs. Ask for directions. Figure out the train route you need to take. What platform you need to catch it from. It’s exponentially more difficult lugging around tired children who refuse to walk, two car seats and nine months worth of shit. We also, after having splurged on a rail pass were trying to do everything in our power to not spend money on other transportation. Somewhere along the rainy 2.5km walk from the train station to our airbnb I found myself completely and utterly exhausted, my shoulders buckling under the weight of the 30 pound child on my back and 40 pound pack on my front while I struggled to keep up with my at-this-point-crying 5 year old and cranky husband who was cursing the stroller which kept tipping under the weight of the luggage on the uneven cobblestone streets. My chest began to ache. Pretty slightly, but long enough for me to become low key convinced I was having a heart attack. I spent the evening laying on the couch googling the nearest hospitals just in case, and most of the night wide eyed, despite so much sleep deprivation, now really and truly wondering what in the world we had gotten ourselves into. I woke up the next morning just fine and decided it must have been anxiety, which is kind of telling I guess, since I don’t really consider myself to be a particularly anxious person.

But that first day in Amsterdam, as I sat sipping an espresso while our kids plastered their noses against train windows, marveling at the green fields full of sheep and windmills - when I strolled through quaint little markets picking out fresh vegetables to make for dinner - when I watched Ketch’s jaw drop upon seeing a giant wheel of Dutch cheese, I knew I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

I know these 9 months won’t be easy, but if we can make it, I also know that they’ll be worth it. What we’re giving our kids feels like such a dream. Experiences that will shape the people they’ll become - even if they don’t remember. The time we’ll spend together, the memories we’ll make, the stories we’ll have to tell all seem like good enough reasons to me.

T R A I N T O A M S T E R D A M, N E T H E R L A N D S

T R A I N T O A M S T E R D A M, N E T H E R L A N D S

A M S T E R D A M, N E T H E R L A N D S

A M S T E R D A M, N E T H E R L A N D S

A L K M A A R, N E T H E R L A N D S

A L K M A A R, N E T H E R L A N D S

A L K M A A R, N E T H E R L A N D S

A L K M A A R, N E T H E R L A N D S

FOR WEST

You sleep as I write this. A little bundle of torso and limbs and fat squishy cheeks flopped warmly upon my chest. And I sit here and sip my coffee and feel your weight. Brush your baby hair against my face and smell your baby smell. This, us-ness, this you-piled-on-me-ness, this blur between where you end and where I begin is what feels most familiar to me these days because for six months now, I have held you. Snuggled you to my chest, slept with you in my arms. Breathed your breath and soaked up your sweat and felt your pain. Carried you in a front pack to and fro. Bounced you until the balls of my feet became sore and bruised against our hardwood floor. I have never been more in tune with another human being. Never felt so entwined with another soul. Sweet boy, your arrival into this world has been anything but easy, but we have been here together, you and I - and I have held you. 

I remember looking out the window the day you were born and thinking that the sky just didn't know what to do with itself. It would rain and the rain would turn to snow and then the clouds would part and light would shine down and then the clouds would gather and it would rain again. I had spent an entire week 5cm dilated and certain you’d arrive any minute, but you had held your ground. So that morning, three days after your due date and about fourteen days after I thought you’d be here, your father and I drove to Bozeman to see if the midwife could give you a nudge to come out and meet us. 

She did and an hour later you were on your way earthside. We had left the hospital and were sitting on a park bench under some mighty tall pine trees eating cookies with rainbow sprinkles when it all started. You were so low and I was already so dilated that by the time we got to our room everyone told me you’d fly right right out. Your brother had been pretty quick and dare I say easy in the birthing department and I figured you would be even more so, so I changed into a hospital gown and psyched myself up for the world’s fastest labor. Then your dad and I hung out for a while, rocking and rolling through the contractions, until around 3pm when I had reached 9.5 cm. By then things were getting slightly painful and my midwife asked if she could break my water, promising that once we did you’d be in my arms in no time. 

But oh, you little sunny side up thing - you did not come flying out. We didn’t know it at the time, but you had decided to exit the womb face up instead of down which I now know is pretty rare - only 3-5% of babies are actually born posterior, most require forceps or c-section deliveries, and holy effin shit does it make the whole pushing a baby from the inside to the outside thing more difficult. Had I known what I was in store for I would have 100% opted for the epidural, but of course I didn’t, and so I didn’t. 

I honestly have the haziest memory of things after that point - only that it was excruciating and lasted for what felt like an eternity. Eventually cursing gave way to crying as I begged and pleaded with everyone around me to make it stop. I looked at my midwife and wept, told her I was done, I’d hit my limit, I couldn’t do it anymore. Then this I vividly remember - she walked over to the side of the bed, grabbed both my shoulders, put her face about two inches from my nose and in a very stern, and very scary voice said “McKenzie, you HAVE to.” So I clenched my teeth, clawed your dad’s shoulders, yelled like hell and pushed with every ounce of strength I had left until at last, at 6:02pm you reluctantly scuttled out. 

Now I wish I could say that they placed you on my chest and we immediately locked eyes and it was magic, but that didn’t happen. They handed you to me but I was in so much pain that I could barely hold you let alone look at you. A team of doctors had rushed into the room and were all elbow (or at least what felt like elbow) deep inside of me, rooting around, searching my cervix for a tear that they thought was causing a large amount of blood loss. I screamed and howled and howled and screamed until again, my midwife - who at this point had become more of a drill Sargent - threatened to take me to the operating room, at which point I shut up and bared it until at last they had stopped the bleeding, and left me the hell alone. 

Sweat stained and exhausted from the battle that was your birth, I finally took a breath and refocused my attention towards the squishy being that had been placed on my chest. I hadn’t gotten to really see you yet so I shimmied myself up taller in bed and placed your tiny body on my lap. I remember sitting there, studying your face and hands and feet, all of which were perfect and precious, but it was your arms that got me. Because after a minute or two you opened them out wide as if to say hello. And that was our moment kiddo. The one where everything got quiet and the world around me faded away and melted into nothing that mattered. Because the only thing that mattered was you. My heart stretched and swelled and began to ache in the way that it does when it realizes a piece of itself is outside of itself, beating in something as fragile as another human body. And instantly I was head over heels in love. 

And then a wave of knowing washed over me, and I have never felt anything in my bones the way I felt these three things - first, that you were without a doubt the absolute sweetest, most gentle soul that mine had ever met, second, that despite your small size, you were brave and incredibly strong, and third — that I would spend the rest of my life worrying about you. All of which I already know to be true. 

What proceeded over the next two and a half months was a big downy heap of the most pure baby bliss I could have ever imagined. You slept through the night, you nursed, you patiently waited in your swing while I tended to your not quite as easy brother. We took trips to the river and I buried your sweet little feet in the sand. We spent nights in tents and I swaddled you close while you slept through lightning storms. You, my love, were an angel baby sent directly from the stars. You smiled early. Like really early, and more than any other infant I had ever known. And that smile, and your sweet and easy way melted all of us. You were special. And we all knew it. 

Then things started to turn. First nursing went to shit, and it progressed from there. We were told your sudden change of character and need to be constantly held was colic, that your watery eyes and growing sensitivity to light were blocked tear ducts. I went to appointment after appointment at the pediatricians, and was repeatedly sent home, told not to worry. Until at last I was sobbing to the doctors, begging them to do something, because I knew something was wrong. I knew this wasn’t you. 

I had fully been prepared to be the totally relaxed mother of a second child who didn’t Google, but one weekend when we had been sent home yet again and your pain had gotten so intense, I got so desperate that I started to search. I came across congenital glaucoma and the symptoms lined up so perfectly that your father and I spent the rest of that weekend making phone calls and beating down doors until at last we had an appointment for the first thing on Monday morning with one of only pediatric ophthalmologists in Montana. And then again you became my statistical anomaly, the one in 10,000 babies diagnosed with this miserable disease.

I cannot begin to describe the level of torture that your next few months brought. The pokes, the prods, the holding you tight while people pried open your eyelids and shined bright lights into your aching pupils. Watching you squirm, hearing you scream, feeling your hot tears roll down my neck, handing you over to the anesthesia team for surgery after surgery--not being able to talk to you, tell you that it was going to be okay. Going through this with you was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It made your birth seem like a cake walk. I know I wasn’t the one actually hurting, but when you cried out I could physically feel it, and it was so much worse than actually hurting. This terrible, horrible, peripheral sense of pain. Like someone was taking a nail file to every one of my nerves and rubbing them raw. They say that mother’s intuition is a super power, but there were days that it felt like the heaviest burden I had ever carried, and I would have given anything - I would have stood in front of a semi truck. Would have broken every bone in my body. Let somebody pull out my toenails. To take all of the suffering away from you. 

I had hoped to spend your first summer outdoors -  taking long walks together in the sunshine, watching you marvel at tree leaves dancing in the wind and sink your fingers into the wet earth along riverbanks, but instead we spent it inside, in a dark house because any exposure to light made you miserable. I had hoped your whole babyhood would be filled with snuggles and sweet songs and soft things, but instead it became filled with struggle. 

Through it all though kid, you persevered. Sometimes I would stare at your pathetic little face, at your poofy red eyes that constantly watered and would barely open, and I would wonder how you did it. Because even on the shittiest days - the ones filled with covid and stomach flus and surgeries, you always managed to look up and give me the tiniest of smiles, and let me know you were okay in there. 

Finally, after a few miracles and your fourth surgery, things started to look like they were turning a corner, and the pressure was thought to be under control. Your dad and I held each other and cried so hard the day they gave us the good news. Just at the thought that you might be through the worst of it. That the universe might be finally cutting you a fricken break. I have never felt such gratitude rush through my veins and sink into the center of my being.

Now here we are seven months in, and while things are still hard, you are starting to heal. The pain is mostly gone. We see that smile again on the regular and sometimes even get outside. You are scooting along the floor and scarfing down gooey foods and making us all laugh with your laugh, which you reserve exclusively for your brother. You grab peoples’ faces with both of your hands and you hold them and study them and then cover them with open mouth kisses. You are a quiet observer. You are a lover. You are special. And we all know it.

My hope is that you don’t remember any of the last few months. That  we love you hard enough and fill your life with so much joy that whatever imprints it leaves become a small pinpoint on a full and happy existence. But if there ever comes a day West, that you doubt your strength or question your courage, let the record show that I was here and that I remember. I saw you fight. I saw you win. You sweet boy, have walked through fire, and I will always, always be quick to remind you how truly mighty you are. 

Being your momma has brought me to my knees more times than I can count. It has drained me to levels of empty I never thought I could reach. But it has also filled me up to the very brim with the most infinite amount of love. It has made me search my soul and dig deep and realize that I too am strong. It has taught me so many lessons about presence and peace. Shown me what it is to be truly grateful. Made me realize what it is that truly matters. How lucky I feel that you chose me. What a priviledge it is to be part of your journey. I have no doubt that whatever it is you were sent here to do will be extraordinary.  No doubt that we will all be better for knowing you. We already are.

We’re still pretty attached, you and I. But I hope someday I’ll let you go. I hope you’ll run off into the world and you see all there is to see - with your own two beautiful eyes. But until then, and even after that kiddo, whenever you need me, I will be here. And I will hold you. 

THE THIRD 365: THE YEAR OF THE SUNDANCE KID

KETCH CASSIDY BURGTORF ON HIS FIRST BIRTHDAY - SEPTEMBER 7TH, 2019

Someday my love, when you ask me to tell the story of the day you were born, I will say this…

Once upon a time, a boy came to the earth. And the moon and the stars and the sun and the planets all had to stop what they were doing for a moment, to make space for the enormous amount of magic he brought with him. It was like the whole universe stretched a little that day – and we all felt it. Time stood still. And when they placed that boy on my chest, I got to absorb a little of that magic. It was the best moment of my life.

And now – even though I still can’t quite believe it - a year has passed since that once upon a time. Three hundred and sixty-five days of firsts. First smiles and first laughs and first tastes and first snows and first steps. Three hundred and sixty-five days of you.

Here I sit, looking at my happy and smart and strong fluffy haired boy with his single curl on the top of his head and his sweet, silly, four-toothed grin. Wondering where those three hundred and sixty-five days could have possibly gone.

You have turned our lives upside down in the most wonderful of ways sweet boy. Taught us so much about life. You remind us about what matters. And show us what is important. You help us to rediscover things we had long forgotten. And you have most certainly made us realize what little sleep is actually needed for survival. Getting to know you this past year has been our greatest privilege.

And here you are – this ONE year old. Who loves to point at things and climb the stairs and smother us with open mouthed kisses and hide under the table and dance to Paul Simon on the radio. Who snuggles his face in his bunny when he’s tired and cozies up to us to sleep at night. Who studies the world around him with intensity, but who is also jolly and quick to laugh. And who, when really really excited, waves his arms around like a little maniac. You have big hands and big feet and an even bigger heart. I suppose there’s really nothing about you that is small – nothing about you ever was.

I can’t imagine how big you’ll get. But I know that it’s all happening right here in this moment. I became keenly aware of it that day you saw those musical instruments in the bin at the farmer’s market and you walked away from me for the first time, towards them.

I wonder where the next year will bring us and the next twenty. I wonder what you’ll love and who you’ll love and what you’ll do and where you’ll do it. But with all the wondering comes one certain truth. That watching you unfold into everything that is you will be the greatest joy of my life.

So always know – even when you know nothing else, that you are fiercely loved. You make our life complete. We are so lucky to belong to you, our Sundance Kid – who brought with him all the magic of the moon and the stars.