Tradition, Part I

I’m lucky to have a Mom who taught me many of life’s important lessons. How to tie my shoes, for instance. How to make Rice Krispie treats (the only sweet treat I’ve had the patience to ‘bake’). The importance of reading. Of having (read: purchasing) a few neutral pairs of boots—each and every fall season, of course. The importance of bargain hunting and sniffing out a clearance rack from miles away. And of course, the really important things, too: how to stand on my own to feet; the importance of being financially independent; how to love, both myself and others; how to be wife; how to be a mother.

Perhaps one of my favorite lessons my Mom has taught me is the importance of Tradition.

Tradition: noun, “the handing down of statements, beliefs, legends, customs, information, etc., from generation to generation, especially by word of mouth or by practice.”

My family is big on Tradition, especially around the holidays. So you can imagine their disappointment when they heard we would not be coming to Cincinnati for Christmas this year. It was a hard decision for us to come to—it was the first time ever we would not go to Cincinnati for the 24^th and 25^th—but we knew it was the right one.  Why? Because it was time for the Goetz family to start our own Tradition(s).

In the, well, traditional sense of the definition for Tradition, it mentions a handing down of beliefs from generation to generation. I’d like to add to that. I think in a culture and country as varied and hodge-podgey as the U.S., Traditions can be handed across, instead of down, from culture to culture, too. You can pick and choose what you like from one culture to the next and put your own toque, or touch, on it to make it yours. And then hand it down to your children for them to tweak it as they see fit. We are a nation of mutts, we U.S. citizens (melting pot is perhaps more PC, but let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?). Yes, we’re mutts, and so our Traditions should proudly be hybrid and mutt-like, too. After all, our Traditions should be just as much about who we are as where we’ve been, both literally and figuratively. Who we are and where we’ve been are one in the same, are they not?

Some of the Traditions we have in the Goetz family are definitely mutt-like. I imagine many nations and cultures who celebrate Christmas have the days-long Tradition of strewing the Christmas kitsch about their homes—and we are no exception.

Some folks collect angels, some snowman, some Elvis ornaments, some ugly Christmas sweaters and ties. I collect nativities. In our house we have eight so far, and what’s cool about them is that three are from other countries.

Mayan Nativity. Jesus rockin' in a hammock. 

There’s the Mayan nativity, purchased in Mérida, Mexico. I am not Mexican, nor are my ancestors. But anyone who has been to Mexico and known their hospitality will gladly identify themselves as Mexican, since they inevitably surrender part of their heart to the country after going. Plus, I send students to Mexico every summer and thus have come to love the richness of their culture. Again, it’s a reflection, however minutely, of who I am and where I have been. In the Mayan nativity, Joseph and Mary are dressed in traditional Mayan clothing, as are the wise men. Jesusito is appropriately placed in a hammock, flanked by a pig and a cow. Neat.

Then we have the German nativity, acquired in Cologne, Germany on a trip there with Jack this past spring. He’s from Deutschland, and the trip there marked his first time going ‘Home.’ How could we not come home with a German nativity? It’s a more literal reminder of who he is and where he’s from. It’s pretty straightforward, traditional, to the point. Solid. Reliable. Sturdy. Just like my husband. Very, well, German. 

German Nativity. Sturdy and reliable. Very traditional. 

And to round out our multicultural nativities, we have one from Peru. There’s an alpaca, for goodness sake. But of course!

By putting up our nativities, we are learning and recognizing what is important to each of the cultures they represent. We are reminding ourselves who we are, where we come from and what we value. And our children are understanding that la sagrada familia, or sacred family, is the same for all in each place—it’s simply the interpretation that’s a little bit different. In the most basic sense of “Tradition,”  we are handing down a nation’s beliefs and legends. We are telling that culture’s story.

Aside from relishing in our nativities, we have many other Traditions in our house, but there’s a new one we’re going to try out this year. We’re going to celebrate Los Tres Reyes Magos. It is a custom widely celebrated in Spain, a place I have come to know and love. I know it is also commonly celebrated in Mexico, as well as in other Spanish-speaking nations.  While Santa has made his way into the traditions of Spain, it’s really Los Tres Reyes Magos who are the real deal there.

Los Tres Reyes Magos are the three kings (known in our house as the wise men) who followed the star to meet Jesus, the King of all kings, in Bethlehem soon after He was born. They brought little baby Jesus gifts fit for a king—no, The King: gold, frankincense and myrrh. 

The Tradition goes a little something like this:

In December, young children write to the kings (or sometimes choose their favorite between Gaspar, Melchior or Balthasar) and tell them the things they would like to receive when the kings visit their city on the night of January 5^th. They also tell the kings whether they’ve been naughty or nice. On the night of January 5^th, the children leave some food and drink for the kings and for their camels. They also leave their shoes outside so that the kings know how many kids live there and how many gifts to leave—they may or may not leave grass and hay in the shoes for the camels (I guess it depends on if the camels have been naughty or nice). If the kids have been good, the kings leave their desired gifts. If not, they receive coal. On the morning of the 6^th, children wake up early and rush to see if presents have been left for them or not. Sound familiar?

Oh, and the parades, the very many parades that take place in Spain in each pueblo, or town, January 5^th  in anticipation of Los Tres Reyes Magos arriving to Spanish homes are a sight to behold.  Wondering what Spaniards eat during this cherished time? Rosca de Reyes, a round cake whose ingredients vary as much as the individual traditions shared on Día de los Reyes. There’s a baby Jesus hidden in the cake, and whoever finds the figurine is considered blessed—and the king or queen for the day—and considered to have good fortune the whole year long. There are many recipes out there for Rosca de Reyes—including Food Network’s Ingrid Hoffmann’s recipe.   

What the Goetz Fam like about this Tradition is that it follows the birth of Jesus and Him being the Reason for the Season perhaps better than Santa Claus, or Papá Noel, does. It reminds children that Jesus was our present on Christmas—it’s Him we are celebrating. By giving and receiving presents, we are celebrating His life. Does Christmas Day not do the same thing? Well, yes, on Christmas Day we recognize the birth of the King—but it’s just a little bit farther of a stretch to see where this Santa fella fits in with all of it. Los Tres Reyes Magos carries the message in a more linear fashion, at least in my mind.

Los Tres Reyes Magos also culminates the twelve days of Christmas—of course that assumes those twelve days begin on Christmas Day and end on January 6^th, also celebrated in the Catholic Church as The Feast of the Epiphany, or The Adoration of the Magi. Kind of neat how it all comes together.

Lastly, Los Tres Reyes Magos has a day of significance for our own family. It is the day we found out we were pregnant with Joseph. When I told my dear friend in Spain, a priest, about our baby in an e-mail dated January 6^th, 2009, he responded “Vaya regalo de los magos!” (translation: What a great gift from the kings!) What a great gift indeed.

So if you pass our house on January 5^th and see two sets of shoes outside the front door, you know our kids are signaling to the kings their presence.

Good news: when Santa came to visit our house in the early morning of the 24th (that is the Tradition we are starting now that we are staying in Bloomington to celebrate Christmas), he didn’t appear to be confused by the many nativities strewn about from different cultures. Maybe he understands—perhaps Santa is a mutt, too. I’d say so based on the German Christmas Pyramid, or whirly-do, as I like to call it, that he left Jack. You see, when Jack and I went to Germany, we really wanted to buy a pyramid. Jack said as soon as he set foot in Deutschland, he felt 'home.' We wanted to commemorate the occasion by purchasing a pyramid, a definite reminder of where we come from (I say ‘we’ because I’m a Goetz now, too), and  a very German tradition—but we decided against it and bought the nativity instead. I'm glad Santa remembered Jack's want to have a connection to his culture. 

Turns out Jack loved the gift. 

Jack wants to know when we're going back to Deutschland. Maybe Santa could make that happen next year?

And so did Joe.

True Wonder. How Christmas should be. 

Merry belated Christmas, friends. And thanks to you, Mom, and for all the Tallarigo family (and Dad, too) for showing me the importance of Tradition on this camino  that all of us walk. 

Time After Time

It’s December 9, 2012. Today we’re going to French Lick with Double Trouble to ride The Polar Express. Our plan to spend last evening together in French Lick with Nonna and Papoo watching the kids was thwarted due to The Plague that swept through our house. Such is life sometimes, we’ve learned.

We’ve been married six years today. Let me tell you what comes to my mind most about our big day.

Six years ago today the girls and I were getting ready at 2875, painting nails, drinking mimosas, etc., etc. I was not nervous. I was beyond excited. I believe you guys were hanging out at Schutte’s house, probably talking shop as the married boys gave you advice on how not to screw up and the non-married boys tried to get you to drink [more]. The married boys did a good job. The non-married boys didn’t (thankfully). Who cares, the point is we were both on our way to Togetherness and we each spent the last few hours leading up to it as we would’ve wanted to, relaxing as we each saw fit. Earlier in the day, Mom helped me zip up the dress, do the veil, practice in my way-too-high-heels (at least for me). Dad gave me that beautiful bracelet that I almost never wear because it’s too special. I took pics in front of Mom’s Christmas tree with both sets of parents separately, and my favorite pic of all, with me and Mom and Dad together. As usual, my parents were rock stars and genuinely caring towards one another that day. They even hugged and kissed one another upon Dad and Gaile’s arrival to the house. They may be divorced, but they loved one another enough to make me and that will forever mean something to them. And more importantly, I think, that will forever mean something to me.

Some of the gals, my mom and I. I'm the one in the green, not to be confused with my best friend in the world and matron of honor, Lauren, in the black. Kate is the cute blond to the way left, Colleen, my seester, is the spunky strawberry blond, Maria, my hottie cousin, is in the cream, and my Mom is to the far right.

Six years ago today the girls and I were pacing in the church basement waiting to get the show on the road. There was a lot of laughter, visits from the church above from friends and family, many re-applications of deodorant (I’m such a sweaty mess; this you know well). Finally, it was time to head upstairs. Morgan was singing the girls down the aisle. Mary was playing the flute. I love that they were both a part of our day. As the last few girls made their way to the front of the church, Dad was bracing to walk me to you and Aunt Laverne said to me as we were waiting in the wings, “Oh, honey, Jack looks really nervous. Are you sure he’s ready?” Little did any of us know that you were practically pissing your pants because Fr. Don had STILL not arrived (and when he did, he was asking you twenty questions to prepare for his homily). Dad sloughed her off, pulled us both together, and whispered things that I will not tell you, as what a father tells his daughter at this very moment is sacred. You will find this out with P. It will be the ONE time in our lives I do not beg of you to share with me your words. As the doors to St. Bernard Clairvaux’s church swung open and Dad swept me down to you like the perfect gentlemen, I caught a glimpse of all who were there. I remember vividly who was on the left as we walked down, who was on the right. They were there to bear witness. We did a good job fillin’ the place, Goetz. 

My Dad and My Groom, the two leading men in my life

Dad took me to you and I was so overjoyed that I kissed you. That wasn’t part of the script so you acted kind of confused. A very typical reaction from you, my love. You recovered well, shook Dad’s hand, and off we went. I do not remember the look on Dad’s face—my eyes were glued on you. You will know that feeling, too, with P—the moment that your girl turns her eyes to another man. But I will tell you now, my love, speaking from experience, that it does not mean she loves you any less. In fact, it means she loves you more. Because she knows that your whole life you’ve just wanted to see her happy—and she is. Beyond words.

Six years ago today we listened to the readings and petitions, Fr. Don’s homily, Morgan’s sweet voice filling the church, as if we were the only two there. Do you remember when Doc adlibbed his petitions, asking the congregation to pray for the health of our children—and that they have more hair than you? Do you remember the reading of Adam and Eve becoming one (I could hear the eye rolls of my feminist friends in attendance, but I didn’t care, I love that reading and we picked it out together), thinking how that would be us later that night? Do you remember when Julie’s voice quivered during the Love is Patient, Love is Kind reading? I remember it all.

Doc lamenting your last night of singledom at our rehearsal 

Six years ago today we prayed to Mary together, holding hands and resting our heads on one another. We offered her a bouquet. I will not say what I prayed for, but I think you know because she listened. She also listened when I prayed to her during their births. She continues to listen. She has become my prayer rock. Do you remember when I gave you one of my favorite books, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept? That book is what brought me to Mary. It is no accident our daughter is named Pilar. I think Mary likes us—I hope anyway. She will watch out for us, and help us through whatever lies ahead. I sometimes have to remind her that we are human and to not give us anything we cannot handle.  

Mary listened, Goetz. We've got proof.

Six years ago today we exchanged our vows and you could barely fit my ring finger on my hand. I chuckled when you just kind of left it there, half on. I remember slipping your ring on you and thinking how you became instantaneously even more attractive to me with it on because at that moment you were bound to me, and I to you. To this day, you are much better about leaving your ring on than I am. It suits you well, Goetz, that ring and all that it means. More than you used to let on, maybe even more than you had hoped or imagined—but I knew you always had it in you.

Six years ago today we done did it, we got married. We became the fifth generation of your family to do so in that church in Taylor Creek on Harrison Road. Because we are clutzy and uncooperative, we didn’t leave out the front doors of the church like our photographers wanted to. Oops. It’s alright; they need not capture on film what I had engraved in my mind: I had married my true equal (you’re the chef in the house, I’m on dinner clean-up crew; you do the grocery shopping, I do the laundry; we each do middle of the night feedings because I’m awful at producing booby milk, even though I try my darnedest), my travel soul mate (I’ll get you to Asia, I know I will; Mexico may be up next, or perhaps Spain, Part II), my anchor, my gut check, the only human who can make me laugh during a week like we’ve just had, filled with poop and puke and power outages. There is no picture possible to sum up that for-better-or-for-worse kind of love. It’s not easy, this kind of love—it’s a work in progress, a constant effort, like we always tell our engaged couples. But we are fulfilling our vocation, and there’s no greater satisfaction than that.

Two youngins' at the rehearsal dinner, getting ready to follow our vocation. Who is that young, carefree couple? The rehearsal dinner at Pompilio's, well, ROCKED. They even made a special menu for us.

Six years ago today we went up the street to Twin Lanterns (shortest commute from ceremony to reception EVER, go us!) and got down to business. We entered the reception to the MNF theme (remember when we used to watch every game? Member when we had time and energy to do that?), we cut our cake to ‘Back Home Again…in Indiana,” we had our first dance to “Time After Time” (Chet Baker people, not Cyndi Lauper; we are more classic than 80s…just barely), Lauren and Ryan toasted to our lives together. There was a cheesy video of pics put to music. Peace was made. And then I cut a damn rug and you mingled, because that’s each of our style. I didn’t sit down the whole night and I can count on one hand the number of songs I didn’t dance to. Dang, it was the most fun I’d ever had a wedding, and it was my own. I hope everyone has that much fun at their own wedding. I’m glad we listened to all those people who said not to get hung up in the details or drama—you only get married once and so you gotta make it good. Good we made it, even great. At least we thought so.

Cuttin' the cake. YUM, it was good.

Cuttin' a rug. Watch it now, watch it!

 Six years ago today we went to spend our first night as husband and wife together at the Kingsgate Marriott in Clifton. There will be no discussion of that sacred night, but I will say that I’m glad you went Groomzilla on me, raising Cain about me buying the ivory version of my dress. Thanks to your rant, I took it back and exchanged it for the white version. You were right; we deserved for me to wear white (“All this waiting for you to wear ivory?,” you said). Thank you for making me think twice on that one. And thanks for making the arrangements at Kingsgate, where the next morning we had the World’s Greatest Brunch Buffett. And how cool is it that the first person you introduced me as your wife to was then UC head football coach, Brian Kelly? Pretty damn cool. Nice hustle, Goetz (insert little slap on the toosh here). Side note: Brian Kelly, you’re a traitor.

Obligatory bouquet shot

Six years ago today we began the story of Team Goetz. It’s been the best six years of my life, some days easier than others, some weeks easier than others, some years easier than others. Our first year seemed a piece of cake, no cares in the world. Long walks on weekday evenings, followed by late dinners. Lazy Sundays. Spontaneous weekend road trips. Watching hour after hour of Lost episodes or Dawson’s Creek re-runs (I think it’s alright to tell all that you had a crush on Joey—until she married Maverick, then you thought she was lame and/or crazy). And this last year has been our most challenging. Your parents moved out of your childhood home, the only home you’ve ever known besides ours. We learned my Pawpaw is praying for the Good Lord to take him. A new second job and peaks and valleys with the first. Family drama(s), and family fall-outs followed by put-back-togethers. We hit some growing pains. But without fail, every night when I put one of our kids to bed and say prayers with them, you are first on my list. Without you, I do not have them. More importantly, without you, I do not have us. Without you, I am only half of me. Not in the crazy-and-unstable-I-desperately-need-you kinda way, ‘cos you know it ain’t like that.  That's not my style and even if it were, you wouldn't stand for it. You were attracted to me in the first place because I could stand on my own two feet. And well at that. It's just that I'm infinitely better with you, the same way that you are better with me. You are half of me in the you-are-the-nutella-to-my-graham-cracker, the-oreo-to-my-chocolate-and-vanilla-twist-fro-yo, the-homemade-Ranch-dressing-and-goldfish-to-my-Mother-Bear's-salad kind of way. Any one of those tasty delights is good on its own, but it just isn’t great without the other. It’s like that. 

Happy Anniversary, Jack. Thanks for walking this camino with me. To many more.

The Original Goetz Fam in Le Conquet, France, Spring 2012. In the words of Pooh Bear, "If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus a day so I never have to live without you."

A special thanks...

This month celebrates Thanksgiving—also known in our house as the holiday smushed in between the Goetz family rush of birthdays (August 2^nd for P, September 20^th for Joe, October 29^th for yours truly), followed closely by Halloween, and Christmas. It’s the holiday with multiple stops to visit multiple families in our beloved ‘Nati—and multiple helpings of turkey, taters, punkin’ pie, cranberries and such at each. Then it’s off to the train display at the Museum Center on Friday followed by a visit with Dad and Gaile on Saturday. Suddenly it’s Sunday and though we’ve talked about Pilgrims and Indians and Plymouth Rock; and Black Friday and How Many Days ‘Til Christmas and Santa Claus, the weekend has gone by so fast that we’ve somehow forgotten the essence of what it’s all about: giving thanks.

To keep me on the straight and narrow path of thanks giving, and from letting this month go by in an instant, I’m doing the thing where every day I give thanks for something new and different. And I’m posting  most of my thanks on Facebook. I’ve recently had a love/hate relationship with our ubiquitous social media friend, but decided giving thanks on Facebook was the best way to hold myself accountable for not missing a day. Yes, it’s trite and cliché and all that jazz, but, much like my blogging, I’m not doing it so much for others, rather to take inventory and self-reflect. You loyal blog readers (all two, maybe three of you) are just along for the ride—and I’m lucky if I’ll even get you on board long enough to weather the storm that is getting my thoughts down on to paper in a way that makes some kind of sense.

So far my thanks have been a mix of the practical and the emotional kind, the immediate and more profound, long-lasting kind. Every day the theme of my thanks has either been in direct reflection of that day, or something that has been on my mind for quite some time. It really depends on what rises to the surface as most relevant on any given day.

My thanks for today falls into both the emotional and profound, long-lasting category. It’s a thank you I have been carrying with me for nearly four years. It’s been the driving force behind much of what I have done in my professional life. It’s long overdue.

I would like to thank an individual who will remain unnamed and I would like to thank her for lighting an UNBELIEVABLE fire under me that fuels me even on the darkest of my professional, working days.

It’s story time.

Rewind to Friday, December 5, 2008. It’s a cold night in Bloomington. A beautiful, crisp winter night, but darn cold.

I am at the retirement reception of my boss from the previous four summers, the director of the IU Honors Program in Foreign Languages. It’s a night to celebrate her contributions to the Program over the last fifteen plus years. It’s a night for her students to pay tribute and express to her their gratitude for their ‘summer of a lifetime’ with the Honors Program. It’s a night for the University and her colleagues to honor her faithful commitment to the Program.

I am there in the same vein. She was my boss for four summers, and though she only supervised me during the summer, we had a professional and a personal relationship the whole year round. I respect her. And much like the students, I wanted to express my gratitude for affording me an incredible opportunity to teach for such an impactful Program. I am there to, appropriately enough, give thanks.

But it’s also a little weird and here’s why: while I’m attending to pay tribute as a former instructor for the Program, I’m also there as the Director delegate; I’m assuming directorship of the Program that I just spent four summers teaching for. I am taking the reins from my former boss.

I am experiencing a mixed bag of emotions: I’m thrilled to be taking my dream job at age 27; after all when I interviewed to teach for the Program as a naïve first year graduate student in the fall of 2004, I told Jack that the job I REALLY wanted was the director’s job. And now I have it. I’m excited for the challenges of the Program, as well as the autonomy and creativity that I was not getting in my previous position. I’m also daunted by the fact that three of our eight Program sites are in countries in which I do not speak the language (France and Germany). And I’m very, very aware that the my predecessor, though she couldn’t be more than 4’11” and 95 pounds soaking wet with a backpack on, and she has the world’s the tiniest feet, she is leaving me with some incredibly big shoes to fill.

As I make my way around the reception, interacting with high school teachers, students, and University administrators alike, I’m simultaneously stoked about the position I’m stepping into and freakin’ scared pants-less. I learn quickly that I’m being watched, as many people are wanting to know more about the young woman (some might even call me ‘girl’) moving into the Director position. I can sense that many think I’m not up to the task, while others are genuinely intrigued at what brought me to this point and moved by my enthusiasm. In short, I learn that listening and observing is best, and when it’s time to speak, to do so with confidence, assertiveness and conviction.

Some moments I feel on top of my game and other moments I feel, um, stupid. I am having more of the latter kind of moments, so I scan the crowd looking for my anchor—Jack—and find him. He’s mingling with everyone from the janitor to the Vice President of International Affairs. He’s good at this kind of thing. I admire him for that. He smiles at me, and it helps me find the confidence I know I have within me.

Then I overhear a group of individuals talking about the ‘direction’ the Program is taking. As I do my best to pretend I am engaged in the current circle of conversation in which I find myself, I am bending my ear something ridiculous to try and find out what’s being said in the other circle. I hear low mumblings, infused with a tone of doubt and scrutiny. I don’t hear much, but what I do hear loud and clear is the laughter (almost cackling) of one person in particular who predicts the Program will go under in six months.

It is her that I would like to thank.

Thank you for, in that moment, shaking me out of my self-doubt and firmly placing me on the path of moving forward and not looking back.

Thank you for inspiring me to mobilize forces and add another French-speaking site so that we could serve more French students across the state—in only our second year into my directorship.

Thank you for giving me the confidence to even conceive of moving into the Eastern world with our Program, a need that has been growing strong ever since I began.

Fast forward to now. I am fresh returned from  a trip to Hangzhou, China—still not over the jetlag, in fact. I remember when the idea for the trip was first born back in June. I was hesitant, even resistant to the idea of opening a program in China. Why? I’m not sure. I found a number of excuses that seemed appropriate and justified. The model of our Program in China would have to be different. And why mess with the unique, more importantly, highly effective model we currently have in place? Parents won’t agree to send their children to China. If they are filled with trepidation at the thought of their children going to Europe or Mexico, how will they even think to let them travel twice as far? We will be shooting ourselves in the foot if we offer a program in China; Chinese seems to be in direct competition with German, a language we’ve had in our profile since the Program’s inception in 1962. How can we justify what in my mind was pitting the two languages against each other?

But those were all excuses masking the ultimate human fear: the unknown. I was resistant to the idea of China because I didn’t know China. But isn’t that why I got into the field of study abroad in the first place? The challenge of discovering the unknown, of pushing yourself beyond your limits? And more importantly, discovering yourself in the process of discovering the unknown and pushing your limits?

Jack, not only my anchor, but my gut-checker, reminded me of this one day this past summer when I was having a particularly challenging job day. I was dealing with a mini-crisis abroad, and had gone to a meeting about China that hurt my brain to even wrap around. Every meeting about China seemed to bring about more questions than answers. It was all a little more than I could handle at that moment in time. I was also low on sleep, as I was just coming of the heels of a pretty significant student health issue from over the weekend that sent one of our students home. I grumbled something about how it used to be so nice to have laidback summers (note to myself and readers: since I have taught for the Honors Program in the summer of 2005, I have NEVER had a laidback summer, so I must have really been delusional that day), and here I went adding China to my plate when I already had enough to ‘deal with.’ Without missing a beat, Jack called me on it. He said to buck up, that he knew me and thus knew that deep down I was excited about China. I asked him how he knew and he responded “You like the challenge. You would be bored without it.” BINGO.

As soon as those words were articulated (ain’t it funny how you sometimes just need to hear things out loud for them to really click?), I embraced the challenge of China rather than fought it. And here I am. Several days of meeting with the Education Bureau, the University and the Foreign Affairs Department in Hangzhou, and it’s looking pretty promising that we will open a Program in China in 2014. There’s no guarantee we’ll even get this up and running, but I’ve done plenty of research on the ground. Now it’s time to roll up my sleeves and dig, see what can be done. Time to stretch ourselves (myself), move out of our comfort zone, go East. If this does come to fruition, our Program will have to tweak its model, yes. And there will be parent concerns, without a doubt. Will our German Program suffer as a result? I think not. We will be proof that languages can coexist. We will simply fight even harder to promote German, as we have done every year for the past four years.

And to think, the drive for what I do burns so bright partly because of what that woman said. I’ve always been driven, ambitious, more likely to take on more than take on less (sometimes to a fault) and most importantly, passionate about what I do. Combine that with an extremely dedicated office staff who also believes wholeheartedly in what we do and 35 or so talented instructors who have a passion for language and the culture that speaks it, and you’ve got a formidable team to carry out our mission. But you throw a doubter in the mix and DANG!—you’ve just upped the ante. Game on and challenge accepted. Thank you, unnamed individual, for articulating your doubt.

No worries, friends. I’m not a vengeful or spiteful person—not in the least. So I do not think of her and get angry. Or even. No one is keeping score. Instead, I think of her and am appreciative for the external motivation. Her voice resonates in my head on the days when I am not motivated enough on my own or by the idea that the students on our Program are having a meaningful study abroad experience as young and ripe 17 year olds. There aren’t many days that I need to fall back on her words to give me that extra push, but you better believe they’re always milling around in the hidden corners my mind when I need them. They will help me to never be complacent in my work.

And they will help me to always remember that haters gonna hate. Nay-sayers gonna nay-say. And party poopers, well, they gonna poop. It’s how you react to them that makes all the difference.

So to the person that shall remain unnamed—thank you for helping me pave my professional camino, a camino that has shaped who I am as a person and the kind of work I hope to dedicate my life to.

I leave you now with a glimpse of China, a beautiful country, like no place I have ever been before. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore. And that’s not a bad thing.

The sun setting over West Lake

THREE!

My Dearest Joe Joe:

I just peeked in on you and Daddy. You are both soundly asleep, left hand above your head, cocked in that funny sleep position you two always find yourselves in—you in your big boy bed, Daddy in the trundle. You both make me beam, both make my heart burst.

Could you two be any more alike?  

In a little less than 24 hours it will be your official birthday. Your THIRD birthday! And in the last week, I have wanted to say so many things to you—

I will never tire of going out of our way home from daycare at least once a week to pass Bloomington Hospital and say to you: “Joseph, that’s where we met you for the first time!” And then I ask you, “What did we say to you the moment we met you, Joseph?” And you respond, “HappyBirthday, Joseph Anthony!” And you never seem to tire of it, either. I know one day you will, and my heart aches for that time even though it hasn’t come—but for now, you love it as much as I do. You claim to remember that moment. Some days I am inclined to believe you, as you remember every little detail. You are my scientist, after all. Daddy says you see the world differently, the way he did as a child. I don’t care how you see the world, my sweet son, I simply care that you DO see it and that you feel it with all your heart.  

You finally came to us on 9/20/2009. You think that look of joy on my face is something else, huh, kid? I only wish you could have felt how I felt in that moment. I hope you know that feeling one day, Joe. There ain't nothin' like it.

I will always look forward to two moments in my day, even if I have the world’s poopiest, ickiest, crapshoot-of-a-day: you coming into our room when you first wake up in the morning, hair all in a swirly-do and either George, Nemo, or a hammer in your hand (you are always prepared for adventure!) and you running to greet me when I pick you up at daycare (expect for those days you are too engulfed in treasure hunting with your buddies). Those two moments perfectly bookend my work day and give me reason to always, always smile. Thank you, my sweet soul of a boy.

Crazy Joe Joe morning hair. And face. 

I will forever live for those unsolicited “I love you, Mommas” and the ‘just because’ hugs and kisses that you sneak me every now and then without me asking. After all, you are your Daddy’s son, and your shows of true affection are few and far between which makes them all the more special, even though I know you love me more than your words and your deep-thinking mind can possibly articulate. As with your Daddy, I can tell your love for me by the way you look at me (I catch you watching me sweetly), the questions you ask me (‘Do you like the color red, too, Momma? We both love that color, huh, Momma? It’s our favorite color together, Momma, we both love red!’), and the fact that there is no other place you’d rather be on a Saturday than at the market, followed by a walk, and a picnic dinner, with me (and of course your Daddy and Miss P). It is a good thing I adore your father, Joseph, because you are just like him. I have two JAGs, there is no doubt about it, and I’d have it no other way.

I will always cherish your warm little body on my lap as we read a book together. Ferdinand (known to you as ‘Ferdimand’), Caps for Sale, Polar Express, The Little Read Caboose, The Happy Man and His Dump Truck, Pink Me Up, The Giving Tree. Some of my favorites are now your favorites. I have loved sharing with you one of my favorite pastimes—reading—from the very day we brought you home. I’ll never forget it—the night you came home with us from the hospital, after we settled in with you and realized we were ‘for real’ parents (an ‘oh, crap’ moment!) and going this alone (no, the nurses didn’t come home with you!), I took comfort in taking you out of your car seat and laying you next to me on the floor, reading you your first Little Critter book. Daddy made fun of me for doing it, saying you didn’t understand. Joke’s on him now! You followed along in no time—you always paid attention—and now you are our little reader. Just today you recited Caps for Sale to us on the way into school. “You monkeys, you…you give me back my caps!,” your inflection and intonation spot on. *Smile.* Sometimes you ask me to read you a book, and I tell you I can’t at the moment because I’m doing X, Y or Z. In those moments, I’m sorry, kiddo, and I always regret them—please keep asking. And remind me that sometimes (in fact, all times) laundry, dishes, and picking up after you and P are just not important.

Your favorite pastime, much like mine

I will pray and hope for you a long life of joy and wonder, of self-love, self-knowledge, self-confidence. I only ever want to see you happy and fulfilled, my sunshine sugar bear Joe Joe. I will need to remind myself of this, I know.

I have also had some random thoughts running through my head this past week—

Will you ever be potty trained, my dear one? Will we forever be coaxing you to the terlit with M&Ms, Oreos, and stickers? I’m starting to think Pili might catch you, even surpass you, on this milestone. I get it. You just can’t take the precious time to do your business! It’s kind of like when I have to remind your Daddy to eat, otherwise he’ll forget. You Goetz boys just always get wrapped up in your projects, God love you.

Somewhat related, will you always laugh when you toot, and then say ‘It’s from those beans I ate!’ even when you haven’t had beans to eat in days? And will I ever stop joining you in that laughter? Sometimes I forget that I’m the adult.

Will we ever go a week without watching Rudolph or Charlie Brown Christmas or clips of Polar Express or A Very Monkey Christmas in the house? Don’t tell Daddy, but I secretly hope not. I’ve finally found my Christmas soul mate—I just had to give birth to him! I can’t wait to take you to French Lick in December with Daddy, P, and Nonna and Papoo to ride the Polar Express. And I can’t wait to spend our first Christmas in Bloomington together this year. I also love that you and I sing ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Harkthe Herald Angels Sing’ no less than once every few days. Yesssssss.

Our first baby is now such a big boy (but no worries, kiddo, you will always be our ‘baby’). Maybe it’s time for another? We asked you recently if you’d want to have another brother or sister. You said you wanted another sister, much to our surprise. Will she be Lourdes? Giselle? Jude? Inmaculada? Or will she be a he? Another JAG? Or will there even be another? Or will there be more than another? Sweet baby Joe, these choices are not ours to make, but we will be listening closely to God (remember He whispers and the world is a loud place) to see if that’s in the cards for our family. If it is or it isn’t, I hope you and Pili will always be thick as thieves and take good care of each other. Even if that means we’ll have to fish you both out of a heap of trouble, just like your favorite race car, Lightening McQueen.

One big heap of Double Trouble 

How will I ever get you to eat your veggies?

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to tell you if you keep touching your peep in the bathtub it will fall off. I’m not sure why it occurred to me to say that to you tonight—but it set you off on a fit of giggles, which of course set me off on a fit of giggles. And only made you touch it more. Doh.

Did I ever tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes? ONLY EVERY SINGLE DAY! They light up a room and are most certainly the window into your very old soul. Keep smiling with those eyes, handsome.

Will you ever stop drooling and/or putting your hands in your mouth? The best part is you’ve taught your sister this skill well.

Will you ever stop sneaking icing when we make cupcakes? Are you going to turn into a big ole block of cheese one day (because you eat enough of it! And all kinds—Brie, Manchego, Gouda.)? Will you ever like ice cream? I mean, what kind of kiddo doesn’t like ice cream? MY kiddo, that’s who! You are the only kiddo I know who orders a side of Oreo crumbles at Hartzells…and I love that about you.

And the list goes on and on…

Joe, I’ve wanted to tell you these many things and ask you these many questions in the last week. But I have to pick my moments to tell and ask, because I know you are a thinker, a listener, an internal processor. You are always listening, so I choose carefully the things I say to you. When I do tell you things, I keep them simple. I tell you when you are eating breakfast at the island that “I love you thiiiiiis muuuuuuuch,” the same way my Daddy (your Pappy) always told/still tells me—and I do our special motions to go along with it. I tell you when I drop you off at school in the morning, “Be kind and gentle to your friends.” I tell you when we are playing in the evening that I’m proud to be your Mommy. The last thing I tell you at night before you close your eyes and I’m putting you to bed is that you are my bestest boy and biggest helper, and the boy I always wanted. You sometimes respond with words, or with whispers (you are finding your voice, and what a joy that is to see unfold), but always with understanding in your eyes.

Those eyes. That drool! What a keeper. 

I adore you, my Joseph Anthony. You are one of a kind, kid. Happy Third Birthday. You have helped me find my camino; I can only hope to help you find yours. 

Love,

Your Proud Momma

Momma said there'd be days like this...

If you would have told me Wednesday morning that when I went to bed Wednesday night I’d be more worried about Joe than P, I’d have called you crazy. Or cray-cray, as the cool kids say. But so it was.

I’m probably supposed to be worried about both of my kids equally as a Mum, but more often than not when I go to bed at night, one of them is weighing heavier on my mind than the other. I guess this is normal (at least I hope), and I’d say if I took a poll I’d split down the middle the number of times it’s Joe and P. So now that I’ve justified in my head that I worry about them both equally, just on different days, we can move on with the story (stupid mom guilt)—though I should give fair warning: this story is not meant for certain audiences, i.e., folks who want to have kids but can’t decide for sure, or folks who are thinking about having another but are afraid to take the plunge. If that’s you, you probably just want to stop here. Another fair warning: this blog post may contain mental images unsuitable for some. Reader discretion advised. Disclaimer: I’m so grateful and blessed for two healthy kiddos—I thank God every day that the only things we’ve had to deal with so far are ear infections, bouts of pneumonia, stomach bugs and irritating coughs. I’ll take those one thousand times over any day when compared to the illnesses that some parents face. So I’m in no way complaining here. I’m simply sharing our day so that we are reminded to laugh at ourselves—and so others know they are not alone. If we didn’t laugh at ourselves as parents, we’d probably just pull our hair out (that’s not possible for Jack) and/or cry (sob).

Wednesday Miss P was having surgery to get tubes in both of her little earsie doozies (that’s ‘ears’ in Steph speak), so the night before, Pili was heavy on my mind as I laid my head down to sleep. The deal was that I was taking P to the hospital for the surgery, Jack was taking Joe into school, and then Jack would catch up with us at the hospital. We both would have liked to be there, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles when one kiddo needs to get one place and the other to another, our nearest family is 2.5 hours away in the Nati, and we found out about the surgery the day before so couldn’t get anyone to B-town to cover Joe for us. Buf.

Back story: Pilicakes has had an ongoing ear infection since late July. After the first round of antibiotics, Jack took her to the doc for a re-check, at which point the doc said her ears didn’t even look like they’d be treated. Boo. On to second round of antiobiotics. Shortly after the second round, she went in for her one year appointment. No surprise to hear the doc say she had a double ear infection. Argh. Time to pull out the big dogs: two shots of antibiotics, one in each leg, on that Friday, and another two the following Sunday. Oh, and time to go to the ENT to check out the tube option. Tuesday was the appointment with the ENT (mind you, this is after four shots of antibiotics)—he takes a look at her ears and says ‘Yuck.’ Groan. As Miss P looked at him, sweet as can be and smiling, he could see the desperation in my eyes. ‘We’ll get her in as soon as possible,’ he says. ‘And if you think she has a great disposition now, wait until you see what she’s like with her ears fixed!’ He wasn’t messing around—his nursing team called me later that day and said they would take her in the next day. I didn’t have time to worry and didn’t have time to fret, it was happening—and soon.

More back story: Unfortunately, the Goetz kiddos are no strangers to ear infections, and no stranger to tubes either. Joe had his first set right around P’s current age: one year and one month. Joe got a second set less than a year later—just three weeks after P was born. Joe’s also been to the ER on two occasions because of such bad pain in his ears caused by ear infections. As the nurse who attended P yesterday said, ‘You make darn cute kids, but you give ‘em terrible ears.’ Well, thanks, Miss Sunshine, that makes me feel awesome about myself as a Mom. Bottom line: we’d been down the tube road with Joe. Twice. And we saw how much each set helped. Even so, we were hoping not to go down this path with P. I mean, who wants that for their kiddo? She did great the first few months of her life. Her first ear infection was at 5 months or so. But once they started, they didn’t stop. And to think she had a perpetual ear infection since July—and it wasn’t even the bad time of year for colds and snot and such? Yeah, we knew where this was headed.

On with the present story: so the morning of the surgery, I got up, got ready and scooped up our Pilarina chiquitina and loaded her in the carseat, with her little buddy Violet tagging along.

We got there and it was an adventure for P. Ohhhh, the lobby! All the magazines! A nice cold floor to spill out onto! Once admitted to pre-op, she began to charm the staff immediately, ‘Oh, she’s so sweet.’ ‘Oh, look at those eyes.’ ‘Oh, what a cutie.,’ But P is a whipper snapper and could smell something wasn’t right. She looked around then made eye contact with me and immediately reached out her hands and waved her hands upside down (that’s ‘Pick me up!’ in P speak). I picked her up and kissed her and she clung to me like a koala bear. I then got her into her hospital gown and that’s when she really knew something was going down. 

What's goin' down, Ma?

Baby girl went from suspicious to downright pissed after about 25 minutes. We weren’t allowed to give her anything after 12:00 midnight and it was 8:30 already—torture for a little gal who still wakes up between 5:00 and 6:00 for a bottle. So she began to chew on everything in sight, while simultaneously pointing at her purple backpack, to the pocket that she knows holds the bottles, and grumpin.’ She looked at me, then looked at Violet, with pleading eyes. ‘Please, guys!’ she seemed to say. So I took her out to the nurses’ station where she made more friends and got easily distracted. Then the doc walked into the hospital and it was game time. 

Since I’d done this before, I knew the drill. They’d whisk her away and I’d hide into the room until she was out of sight. I hated this part, hated it. My gut tied up into a million knots and I fought back the tears—without Jack there, I had to keep it together. After a few moments, I left the room and went out to the waiting room to sit and wait. I prayed for the doc to have a steady hand and for P to be brave. I’m sure P was brave, she always is. I, however, was not. Tears and more tears.

I tapped my feet, texted some folks and generally fidgeted for the next thirty minutes. Then the doc came back out to report that, while the procedure went well, he found some gunky fluid in her ears that hadn’t drained and had hardened to what he likened to rubber cement. No wonder the gal felt awful. He said her ears were in good shape after the procedure, but that ‘she’s not happy right now.’ I figured as much. P is not shy to let you know when she’s happy—but all the same, she’s not shy to let you know when she’s pissed off. I love my baby girl, she wears her heart on her sleeve (finally, a trait one of my kiddos gets from me!).

P, super hungry and borderline deranged

He took me back to recovery…and Pili was not even crying—she was growling. Mad, hungry, and coming out of anesthesia, she was like a little lion cub fighting the nurse, swatting at her and knashing her two bottom teeth together with her one top tooth. When she saw me, she calmed somewhat, but then gave me a crazed look as if to say, ‘Not cool, Mom, how you gonna leave me and Violet back here with no num nums and in the arms of a stranger?’ I apologized to her with my eyes and my arms, soothing her back to normal. It took almost thirty minutes for her to cool down, and when she did, she drank 8 ounces in less than 5 minutes. She was still not very happy with me—so Jack’s arrival to the recovery room was well-timed. She reached out for him and snuggled right up. Figures. Mom does all the work, Dad gets the glory.

We gave her a few minutes to snuggle with Jack, then packed her up to go home. Violet got to take home some rad hospital gear, and the nurse gave us some gear for big bro Joe, too, so that he could play ‘doctor’ later.

Miss P fell asleep on the way home, and I had no intentions of placing her in her crib or on a bed—in my arms is where she was going. All day. Cuddling my little snuggle buns, I got a call from daycare. Joe was struggling to breath—he had a coughing fit that really freaked out his teacher. Whatty? Rather than wake the sleeping lion cub again, I called Jack and off he went to get Joe. On the way, he made an appointment with the doctor. Right away I began composing a letter out loud:

“Dear Sh*t:

Why must you hit the fan all at once? And why must it be today? Take your whirling, swirling storm of poo and dump it on someone else, please.

Begrudgingly (and not the least bit lovingly),

Steph”

Whoever/wherever Mr. Sh*t was, he did not care and did not listen. Poooooo, I mean, Booooo.

Jack called me on the way home from the doctor’s appointment with Joe and asked me if I cared to guess what was wrong with our son. I knew it was either something totally bogus (Joe falls prey to the strangest things—strep throat in the middle of summer, pneumonia 24 hours after being checked by the doctor and looking fine, things of that nature—and I blame his maladies on the fact that he—still—puts everything in his mouth) or nothing at all. “Strep,” I took a guess. “Nope,” he said. “Nothing at all. Doc says his lungs are crystal clear, ears are fine, and that he’s just got a yucky couch caused by all the drainage he’s had.” Neat.

By the time Joe and Jack arrived home, P had risen and was a little fireball. Almost like she got two brand new ears! She was jibber-jabbering, getting into all the toys, scarfed down a lunch of grapes and cheese, and was getting stronger by the minute. On the contrary, Joe was getting worse by the minute. He was coughing literally every 15 seconds and was holding his sides, telling me his tummy hurt from wretching so much. Jack and I looked at each other desperately. “Anything we can do for him?” I asked, knowing what the answer was. “Not really, but the doc did have a good suggestion for a cough suppressant—honey.” Joe gets one of these colds about five or six times a year, mostly in between the months of January and March—and we’ve tried all the home, herbal and Western remedies we can find. The kiddo takes puffs of albuterol, we elevate his bed, put a humidifier in his room, pump him full of Vitamin C—you name it, we’ve tried it. We’d never tried honey before because, well, we kinda knew he wouldn’t take it. But desperate times call for desperate measures. We tried to get him to take it, telling him it would make his cough feel better, would make him sleep better, etc. No dice. Time to pull out the big guns: “If you take this, we’ll give you M & Ms as a treat.” We are not above bribery in our house.

Joe nodded, a bit hesitant. Jack had diluted the honey with water and gave it to him in a medicine spoon. Joe had maybe half of it down and I began to see The Heave. The Hurl Heave. His shoulders lurched, his throat extended, his eyes began to water, then raaaaaalf. Joe puked up his lunch. He began to get upset at having gotten sick and started to run around the island, stopping to spew every few steps. Really? Really? P was on the floor, and began chasing after him, thinking it was a game. Once again…really? I threw Jack, Joe and P out to the porch and started cleaning up the mess. I glanced outside. Joe was still periodically puking. The kiddo has the worst gag reflex. Ever. What were we thinking trying to give him thick and sticky honey?

Once the mess was cleaned up Jack had to go back into work, since his earlier attempt to do so had been thwarted. So there I was with a fragile Joe and a rambunctious P. Awesome. Joe was so tired at this point (he missed his nap because naptime was replaced by a doctor visit) that he couldn’t see straight. So I took him upstairs to try and put him down for a nap. I was reading him stories, and Miss P was coming up to us groping at the books and playing peek-a-boo all the while. Every time she’d reach for the book, Joe would grump, “NO, Pili!” and P would grump back and start tugging at his shirt or pants—then look at me as if to say, “Mom, it’s MY day to be doted on!” Poor gal, never ever gets her fifteen minutes of fame. Part of being the second child, I guess.

Did she really just have surgery? P's a tough cookie, and she just soldiers on

I tried to corral her and take her into her room with some blocks and clean laundry (she’ll normally play all day in a pile of clean laundry—rub her nose all over it, put it in her mouth and slobber on it, smother it in her grubby post-lunch hands), but five minutes later, she’d push Joe’s door open and charge us, thinking it was a huge game of hide-and-seek. At one point I almost had him asleep, then in she came, bull in a china shop, and his eyes darted open. “Didn’t you just have surgery?” I thought to myself. I was delighted she was feeling so well, but was pleading with the sleep gods to give Joe just a few minutes of shut-eye, and P was not helping. No use. It was almost 5:30 at that point, and we missed the naptime boat, plain and simple. I tried one last time to settle him in and he downright refused…then, to put the nail in the coffin, he wailed “I want my Daaaaaaddy!” Time to move on, clearly sleep was not in the cards.

I asked Joe what would make him feel better. He said to watch Polar Express. Right on, pal, Polar Express it is. I went downstairs only to find that Polar Express was missing. Okay, not funny. Toddler on the verge of a meltdown, P growing hungrier and hungrier by the moment, and also needing a nap herself. Where in the eff is Polar Express and who messed with it? Joe didn’t take the news of no Polar Express well. In fact, he spouted off his favorite insult at the moment: “You can’t come to my birthday party, Mommy!” Grumble, grumble, grumble. I realized I was starting to hit my low point when I almost responded to him, “I don’t think so, buddy, because I’m THROWING your birthday party! Neener, neener, neener!” Thankfully, I kept that to myself, along with the second letter I was drafting in my head to Mr. Sh*t.

“Dear Sh*t:

Could this not have waited till the weekend? Could you not have been so kind as to throw us this curveball of crap when we were a tad bit more rested and not so zombie-esque? If you haven’t guessed already, you are on my sh*t list.

Not so respectfully yours,

Steph”

I managed to convince Joe that Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer would be a fair substitute for Polar Express (we watch Christmas shows in our house year round, you see). He settled into that (still coughing every 1-2 minutes, laying on his side, eyes bloodshot and snot pouring from his nose) and in walked Jack from work. I asked him if he knew where Polar Express was. He walked over to the armoire and pulled out Polar Express and several other DVDs that I couldn’t find for some time from behind one of our picture frames. Well, dang. He put in the DVD. Joe was still moaning and crying, even though his beloved movie had started.

Meanwhile I plopped P in her chair to give her some yogurt, which she scarfed and then proceeded to lick from the bowl herself, attempting to self-feed. It turned out pretty messy. The sleepy-eyes face then became apparent. I told Jack I was going to go out and pick up dinner (Fast Food! A rarity at the Goetz house, and only an option when we’re stressed and need to indulge), hoping P would catch a nap along the way. Ha. Hahahaha. Not so much. P was talking up a storm to Wendy’s and back. She fell asleep about two minutes before we returned home. Perfect. Yet another plan thwarted for the day. Wheeeee!

We all attempted to eat dinner—a few bites in and Joe declared he didn’t want anymore, said he wanted to go to bed. So Jack stopped mid-dinner to take him upstairs and try to put him down. Again. Nope, he came crying to the top of the stairs and said he wanted me. So I abandoned my dinner, and headed upstairs. We did three stories and prayers, but he just couldn’t settle in. And the cough kept coming, a deep, and guttural cough from his toes. Every time I thought he’d maybe settle down, there it crept back up again. Finally, I decided to try something I would have wanted tried on me had I been in his shoes. I pulled up his little white Hanes tee and rubbed Vaporub all over his chest, again and again—and every time I could feel the cough coming on, I pressed down on his chest a little as if to try and suppress the cough with my own two hands. Twenty minutes in and it seemed to be working somewhat. Joe finally closed his eyes and seemed to be on his way to a deep sleep. So was I. I fell asleep holding Joe in my arms, flat on my back.

At 2:30 a.m., I woke up, totally disoriented and with the world’s worst kink in my neck. I got out of Joe’s bed to see what was going on with P. I found P down the hall in the guest bed (she’s been refusing to sleep in her crib lately—it’s awesome) and Jack in our bed, both conked out. They looked peaceful. Joe sound asleep, P and Jack sound asleep—Steph wide awake. I went downstairs to my half-eaten dinner, which I threw out, and then proceeded to clean up the kitchen a bit. Crap, I had a presentation to give the next morning, so I needed to look at that. I glanced over it, and then went back upstairs to curl up to P, who I felt I had neglected all day. I hoped she would forgive me (she did—the next day when I spent all day with just her after my presentation). And I also crossed my fingers that Joe would sleep through the night (he did—thank heavens).

7:30 rolled around and P woke up chipper, as did Joe. I even felt half-way decent, and so did Jack. It was a new day.

A few days later and Jack and I can see the humor in the sh*t storm that was Wednesday—in fact, the days since Wednesday have been calm and normal—but in the moment, we were floundering, drowning, bleary-eyed and fatigued, throwing a serious pity party for ourselves and thinking we were the only parents to have ever had such a bad day. ‘Yeah, right,’ you must be thinking. I know that’s dramatic—but if you’re a parent, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t felt the same at some point. Told ya.

Jack and I have this thing we do at the end of the day to gauge how we were as parents that day, and if we are potentially ready for more kids. We always ask each other “What kind of day was today? A two kid kind of day (meaning it was a bad day—and we’re not having any more kids)? A three kid kind of day (meaning we’re feeling pretty okay at the job we did that day as parents—and our kids even cooperated)? A four kid kind of day (I think that’s only an option when wine is served with dinner and Nonna and Papoo put the kids to bed or when we are on a long weekend alone)?” Thankfully, we didn’t have a chance to re-group that night and ask each other our nightly question.

To whom do I thank at the end of this blog? I always end the blog with a nod to so and so for helping me find my way, or el camino, in this crazy life. I think it’s our kiddos I have to thank. For testing me on that day, for forgiving me the next, and for loving me all the same. They’re two pretty great kiddos, even when they’re sick. I'm blessed. 

As for a third or fourth—let's catch up on sleep first. And let's see if it’s part of the Big Man’s plan. For now, Violet is shaping up to be a nice fifth member of our family. 

Violet, the fifth member of the Goetz family (and P's faithful companion in surgery)