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.

THE NEW LIFE

Sometimes I get nostalgic, thinking about our old life. The one that was just Brad and I. Waking up on Saturday mornings to the roar of a jet boil and the smell of coffee brewing. Gazing up at the morning light streaming through a dew-covered tent and feeling the cool, mountain air on my face. Afternoons spent hiking or climbing or floating or skiing or whatever the hell we wanted really, with the only thought of logistics being which one of us was going to make sure there was beer in the cooler for afterwards. Laying in bed at night, scheming about which country we’d be able to get to next. Before the thought of traveling abroad brought up horrific thoughts of ruined nap schedules in 6-hour time-zones.

The adjustment to parenthood has been one of epic proportions. It really is a whole new life. One where get-up-and-go adventures don’t really exist. Where time spent in the outdoors must be plotted and calculated and planned for. Where chaos must often be tolerated and go-with-the-flow attitudes most absolutely assumed in order to survive.

We’ve tried our best to get out there with Ketch.

We spent our winter dragging hundreds of pounds worth of bottles and diapers and car seats and toys – along with skis and boots and polls and winter coats and hats from our house to our truck to resort lobbies and back – most definitely the hardest I’ve ever worked for a handful of days on the mountain.

We spent our spring road tripping through the desert en route to the Grand Canyon. Brad tolerating his Nazi-wife in the backseat who wouldn’t let him get out to pee under any circumstance if the baby was sleeping and who completely and utterly lost it on the 18 hour car ride back…eventually chugging four Starbucks doubleshots and driving through the night until 6am rather than subjecting that baby to another day in the car. 

We’ve spent our summer exploring Montana by Scamp. Trading in our light-weight camping gear for a 1,500 lb glamp-worthy trailer, which has proven itself quite useful when it comes to things like 96 degree weather and swarms of mosquitoes and sleeping outside with a kid.

And sometimes – to tell you the honest truth – it’s hard as hell. We’ve had nights where we’ve turned around and gone home at 11 pm, hikes where we’ve called it and retreated 15 minutes in. Sometimes it’s stressful and sometimes we argue and sometimes Ketch decides for us that we’ll all just stay home.

But I will say. That everything we’ve done, be it failed attempt or day spent in the sunshine, has been completely and utterly worth it. 

We’ve gotten to snuggle Ketch in sleeping bags while looking up at desert stars. Expose him to the taste of fresh mountain air and the feeling of dirt between his tiny toes. He’s torn apart leaves and thrown rocks and nearly poked his eyes out with sticks. He’s dipped his feet into fast moving rivers and splashed his fingers into cold mountain lakes. And although there have been some tears, there has also been wonder. Fascinations with tree bark and caterpillars and spiders and sand.

And even though it’s tested Brad and I’s relationship a time or two – it’s also given us moments together that we’ve desperately needed. Because as magical as is to raise a tiny human, it can also be so fully enthralling that you loose yourself. You can get so busy filling them up with love and attention and stories and snacks that you forget to feed your soul. And sometimes it takes walking through the belly of a canyon or staring at your husband through a flickering campfire to remember who you were, who you are, and who you want to be.

We always try our very best to respect Ketch’s limits. We always try to laugh through the disasters (or at least afterwards).  We always try to learn from our mistakes. We almost always have a post attempt beer.

Every weekend feels like a learning process. Every forgotten item is forever ingrained in the packing list memory. And now we know things. Like an adult hat can take the place of a baby one with some tissues, duct tape and a little perseverance. Like cheese is the magic solution to buckling a kid in a pack without any tears. Like baby bug wipes are way better than baby bug sprays. And that breaking for a bit in the shade can mitigate almost any meltdown. We’ve learned that progression is best achieved gradually, and that small victories (like getting through a three and then five and then six mile hike) should be celebrated.

And while I know we both miss the days of grand adventure – we’ve come to the conclusion that these small trips can be pretty rad too. That we can continue to do the things we love, all be them in a much modified fashion. The next few years won’t be about finding big routes or pushing ourselves beyond our comfort zones, but they will be about staying active in a way that makes us happy. That allows us to share what we love with our kiddo – who of course is the greatest adventure of all.

And, so – to all of my other outdoor loving parents out there sacrificing climbing years and braving aborted missions and risking ear piercing tantrums. I see you. I commend you for your efforts. I hope what we’re doing is worth it. That the outdoors will teach our kids curiosity and flexibility and perseverance and gratitude. And that the time spent there, helps us remember ourselves – and be the kind of parents we want to be

MOTHERHOOD

Motherhood is a mess.

A beautiful, disastrous, wonderful catastrophe. A land of sleepless nights and spit up covered shoulders and locks of hair tangled in tiny fists of drool. An oh-so-sweet and ever-so-exhausting place - where I am very ungracefully learning to live.

The first few weeks of Ketch were so unbelievably perfect. My mom and sister had flown in and the five of us laid on the couch in a pool of newborn baby awe, snuggling and listening to records and eating all the soft cheeses that tasted like heaven after 9 months of deprivation. It was an Indian summer kind of fall, and the mountains were purple and the leaves were green and the air was warm. And even though I couldn’t take more than 15 steps from that couch without my bladder feeling like it was going to fall out of body, we opened all the windows, loved on our brand-new bundle and soaked in every second of bliss.

But there was also so much that was so unbelievably hard in those first few weeks. The morning after Ketch was born, they told us he likely had a heart defect and would need surgery (which thank God and thank God and thank God again was a false alarm). Then he had an umbilical cord issue that caused him to leak a massive amount of blood all over me one night while nursing, a circumcision scare, which I’ll spare you the details on, an afternoon that lasted an eternity waiting in the hospital lobby for jaundice results and an all-out, hell-bent, full on brawl with breastfeeding.

In all my life, I have never experienced something that just feels so much like everything – all at once. Joy and fear and love and terror, panic and perfection all mixed and swirled and splattered over the canvas that once was your life. 

Here you are, with this utterly amazing little creature. That you love with such depth it can’t even be put into words – that you that you are so viscerally connected to, you physically feel their pain. And all you want is to give them the moon and the stars, to protect them from ever feeling any ounce of hurt, to make their first days on this earth – and every day after beautiful and wonderful and perfect. But you have no fucking idea what you’re doing. And you haven’t slept in days and your poor little body is beat, desperately trying to recover from the pelvic carnage that occurs when delivering an almost 9-pound child.  It truly is weary work. But I have never been so willing to be weary.

And I when I reflect on the newness and rawness of those first few weeks and months, I think there a few things that I wish I could have told myself. That maybe I’m still telling myself. That maybe all mothers at some point tell themselves too. 

First of all, be gentle with yourself. What you’re doing isn’t easy. And the weight of this new responsibility can feel so real and so heavy. Remember you’re new at this. You’re learning. You’ll make mistakes. But those mistakes probably won’t prevent your kid from getting into college or turn him into a serial killer. So relax a little. It will all be okay.

Call the pediatrician. Call your mother. Call the pediatrician again. Pray the worrying is for nothing. Remember the worrying is part of the job. And you are cut out for it. When they’re this little everything feels so big, but then again I’m sure it will still feel big when they’re not so little anymore.

That night, at 4am, when you’re half awake, standing beside the changing table in your lovely gauze underwear mid diaper change – and your baby starts to pee in every direction, while you also simultaneously and uncontrollably start to pee in every direction– just laugh. Because my God, it is kind of funny.

Rock and rock and rock that baby. Stare down the bridge of his perfect little nose and feel his tiny body with his feet curled up under his belly, heavy and warm on your chest. And kiss his little chick fur head and smell his little newborn smell and notice his little baby fingers with their teeny tiny fingernails curled around your big adult one. Because every morning you’ll wake up and he’ll be a little taller, a little chubbier, a little cheekier, a little different. And someday he won’t be this small. Someday you’ll wonder where 8 months went. And I’m sure that 8 months will be 8 years in a blink of an eye. So try to pause every once in a while. Because babies are the best reminder you’ve ever had that time marches on all too quick.

Be patient and understanding with your body. What it did is nothing short of amazing. Embrace the smush where your abs used to be, for it is a pretty comfy spot for a kid to rest. And that morning you notice that the hair along your forehead is all falling out and you’re starting to look terrifyingly similar to Payton Manning’s twin sister, don’t fret. It will grow back – before long you’ll have a whole slew of stick-straight-out-whispies in those bald spots…God, and hopefully someday some regular hair.

And sure, get back on that treadmill and vow you’ll loose the 35 lbs you gained during pregnancy, but really let go of that number, because you have a whole different reason to be healthy now – and it’s more about being able to keep up when that little boy wants to climb a mountain than it is about fitting into those jeans. And don’t deny yourself that pizza and beer either – because damn if you haven’t earned it.

Try not to compare yourself to others and try not to google or research or facebook forum too much. The way you do things is going to be different from the way other mothers do things, and while it’s nice to have guidance, in the end you just have to trust your gut and do what works for you.

When that woman at the airport comes up to you and feels it necessary to tell you that traveling with a baby would be a lot easier if you were nursing instead of bottle feeding, just tell her to fuck right off - or at the very least think it. She doesn’t know your story. And the fact that she thinks how you feed your baby is any of her business is insane. While you’re at it, try to let all of that other unsolicited advice go in one ear and out the other too. For whatever reason people love to tell you how they did things, and sometimes if you can stomach it – a smile and nod can go a long way.

Be thankful for your husband. For he is the ying to your yang. The person that probably keeps you from turning into an anxiety ridden lunatic. The one that reminds you that getting outside for a hike is probably worth the disruption in the nap routine. And that day, when you’re elbow deep in some book about some developmental theory, and you look up and say “Oh my god I just hope we’re doing everything right.” You’ll be thankful for his response, “Of course we aren’t, we’re just trying to love him and not screw him up too badly.” Truth.

When you go back to work, know that it will be okay. Your baby will be fine, and it will actually be pretty nice to get out of the house and interact with adults again. Sure, it will be chaotic. And there will be days when you feel like you can’t keep up with it all – because really, there isn’t a way to keep up with it all. Some things will have to fall to the wayside, but when they do, let them be the ones that don’t really matter. There’s always take out for dinner and that pile of laundry will still be there tomorrow. But that beautiful little baby won’t.

Make sure you keep doing the things that feed your soul. Write write write. Meet up with your momma friends and bitch about the lack of sleep and your pure unadulterated hatred of the breast pump over a glass of wine. Reminisce about all of the things you used to have time for before this. As hard as it is, carve out what slivers of the week you can to read books and do yoga and plant flowers. Take a bubble bath every now and again.

And lastly, when you need to cry, cry. Because holy hell this is hard and sometimes tears are the best release. Life will never go back to the way it was. But it will be better and more beautiful than you’ve ever imagined.

And to all my fellow new moms out there, just know I think you’re magic. You created a human. With cells and organs and eyelashes. One that breathes and smiles and blinks. And if that’s not some kind of wonderful witchcraft, I don’t know what is.

A BIRTH STORY

KETCH, 3 DAYS OLD - LIVINGSTON, MT

I won’t ever presume to speak about anything universally regarding motherhood – because if there’s anything I’ve learned in the four months I have been at it – it’s that the ride is different for everyone. Everyone has their own highs and lows, their own badges they must earn and battles they must wage - whether it be with the gods of birthing or the gods of breastfeeding or the gods of sleeping. And I think the moment you feel like a mother, the moment you experience that big huge love that you never knew existed – it varies. I wasn’t one of those women who got all weepy at the ultrasounds (even though I totally thought I would have), and even when I was 8 and a half months pregnant, I still felt like sort of an imposter wearing the “momma” shirt I was gifted at my shower. I’ve heard for some women it happens the second they see that little pink plus sign. And for some, it doesn’t happen until months down the road when their baby starts to giggle at them with intention, and still for others its hazy – a becoming that happens slowly over time.

But for me, that moment struck with such abrupt-icity, that I swear it knocked the wind out of my very existence.

Our little man scooted into this world on September 7th at 859pm. He was 8lbs 14oz, and 23 unusually long inches. He had ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes, two beautiful almond eyes and a fuzzy little head covered in thick, black hair. We named him Ketch Cassidy…yes, Cassidy as in Butch.

This is his story.

It was around 130 in the afternoon, and I was mid conference call when I became keenly aware that something was going on. My body had been crying wolf about once every two days the entire week prior, and so when the feelings initially started I brushed them off and continued working. We were also whopping twelve days ahead of our due date and I had been convinced from the beginning I would be one of those poor fourty-one-and-a-half-week souls downing cod liver oil and walking in endless circles around the block. But after about 30 minutes or so I shot Brad – who was working across the table from me, an ‘oh-my-god-I-think-this-is-this-actually-happening’ glance and awkwardly excused myself from the call. The contractions were timed and counted and determined regular –and it started to sink in. This was for real.

It’s a pretty ridiculous moment. The one where you realize you’re about to meet the human that has been growing inside of you for the past 9 months. The one where it also sinks in that it is the size of a watermelon and is actually about exit your body one way or another.

Pretty much from the beginning of my pregnancy I was drawn to the idea of a natural birth. And it wasn’t because I’m against medication or wanted to prove how tough I was - but I guess I found comfort in knowing that female body was specifically designed for this shit, and had been doing it for centuries. I liked the idea of letting it do it’s thing – and the whole experience unfolding the way nature intended.

I also – after working in the hospital system for the past five years – wanted nothing to do with it personally. At first I had fallen quite in love with the little birth center in town – with it’s comfy beds and quaint fireplaces and beautiful gardens and and plush quilts and giant tubs equipped with all the essential oils.  But being the overthinking weeny that I am – also envisioned all worst case scenarios, and so we opted for a hospital birth – midwives rather than OB’s, a doula - and a quote, unquote “plan” that included staying at home as long as possible.

All of books and classes and movies I had devoured on birth made it seem like your first one was a marathon campaign that lasted pretty much, like forever – so we tried to calm ourselves down and settle in. Brad ran to the store and bought snacks. We cut up a watermelon. Played a few games of hangman. And attempted to go on a walk – which was quickly cut short because I became afraid I’d scare all of the middle school children passing by on their way home with my periodic pausing and growling. But before long the contractions started to become really intense. I kept insisting I was fine. It was normal. We had a long way to go. They weren’t at the pattern they were supposed to be at yet. And Brad kept insisting I had a high pain tolerance and repeatedly asking me with a nervous tone if I was sure it wasn’t time.

We made it until around 5pm before I gave in and we made a plan with my doula to meet her at the park near the hospital. That way we’d knock out the 30 minute drive from Livingston – and we could weather it out under some pretty pine trees before heading in.  

But as soon as we collected our bags and headed for the truck I changed my mind. All of a sudden, things felt terrifyingly immediate.

Brad flew 90 miles an hour over the Bozeman pass and we were greeted by a very nice elderly woman who took about seven and a half hours to get the spelling of McKenzie Burgtorf. I was given a wheel chair, we were directed towards labor and delivery, and then promptly got lost in a maze of hospital halls.

Once we finally made it to the room, we discovered I was already 6 cm dilated and baby boy was well on his way. The nurses drew me a bath and I got about an hour of reprieve before the party really started, the contractions turned into knife fights, the growls into roars.

I found myself in a myriad of whacky positions – sitting, standing, straddling – anything to relieve the pain. Nurses fawned over me and brought me wet wash cloths, my midwife kneeled for what seemed like hours while I draped my groaning body over her shoulders. Brad, who has an intense hatred of all things ‘feet’ – promised me unlimited foot rubs for life and pushed my hair back and kissed my forehead and told me I was strong.

And then, once my water had broken and the 10 centimeters had been fully achieved, came a suffer fest of such wildly painful proportions that it makes me want to fist bump every mother on the planet for their efforts…the pushing.

Forty-five torturous minutes later, I was at the end of my rope. Spread eagle, permeated in sweat, swapping exasperated curse words with subservient whimpers – thinking my skull was about to split down the center from the sheer force of the effort I was expending with each push. And just when I began to think that couldn’t take another single second, came this white-hot pain and blinding light, a whoosh of release, and a smooshy, gunk covered creature was placed on my chest. My eyes locked with his, and that was it. It felt like earth had been knocked out of orbit. And the universe stood so still that dust particles hung, sparkling suspended in the air. While my heart shifted from the inside to the outside. And my soul began to tell time in a new way. I knew in that moment that there would be a before him and an after him, but there was no going back. I was as new as he was. My life would never be the same.

In a way, I feel like Ketch and I were both born that day. He a child, and me a mother. And - like most worthy things – it was fucking hard. But my God, I would go through it a thousand times over if I had to – to know what it’s like to be somebody’s mom.  

I think that no matter how it happens, right away or over time — eventually the big, huge feeling finds you. And you realize, in the most profound way possible, that it really is everything it’s cracked up to be – that parenthood is love in its purest form – and the whole meaning of life can look right at you – through a pair of almond shaped eyes.