The Beautiful, Little House

It has been so long. There has been so much life that has been happening around here that if we haven’t been on the go, it would first off- be a miracle, and second probably only mean that we have fallen asleep.  

Once spring rolled in it has been nonstop, starting with an amazing trip to Disney World with my cousin and his family.  It was a rare, unicorn-like Disney trip where, honest-to-God, every single kid was happy each day, an the adults didn’t need a massive drink by ten in the morning. It was really wonderful; it has also been all systems go from the moment we returned. Miss Kennedy’s life has all but taken over, with the constant shuffle to and from the various fields she is playing on, pushing gymnastics to the back burner for the spring; but she is happy and immersed in the little life she is making for herself.  My baby no long resembles anything close to a baby, with the exception of his delicious chubby cheeks that are accentuated by his nearly ever-present smile.  He is all too happy to tag along on a jam-packed days and would literally follow is big sister to the end of the earth.  

And then the real reason it’s been so long:  We are moving.  We are doing what I swore up and down we’d never do; we are leaving our home and moving to a new one.  It’s exciting, it really, truly is.  We are moving to the kind of house I never imagined I’d live in at (almost) thirty-four. It’s gorgeous and will be an amazing house for my babies to grow up in and for Sean and I to grow old in.  So, yes, I am so excited.  But, as with everything else in my life the last four and a half years, my excitement and joy is very tightly intertwined with so many other feelings.  

Seven and a half years ago as we sat in a room, signed our names what seemed to be a billion times, and ended with keys in our hands, I really did think they were the keys to our forever home. 

 I was pregnant with Kennedy and couldn’t wrap my head around all that came with that, let alone think there would be more kids.  Our beautiful little house was perfect for a little family of three. 

We spread out, laughing as our girl’s stuff started to take over.  It was the three of us-we had plenty of room-even a guest room!  We loved it; we’d cram people in the backyard for parties and inside when we were feeling bold, shifting all of furniture around to make it work.  And then we decided to expand our family.  We dragged our feet getting the house in order to shift Kennedy over to he extra bedroom and change her, pretty, tiny nursery into a room fit for a little boy.  But we never got a round to it.  Our sweet Jack came too early, and he left too soon and so the door was shut and left untouched for two more years.

In a desperate attempt to change a home that had seemed to me then to be so damaged by the hurt and loss I covered up all of the beautiful warm, dark paint that had drawn us in in the first place.  I painted all of the walls a light gray, I covered the red bricks of the fireplace white; literally trying to cover the darkness that had settled within the walls of the home I had loved for almost three years. And it worked, my little house adapted and felt like home again.  It graciously accepted the roots of the little tree we planted in our boy’s name, nourishing it and allowing it to take hold and grow.  I swore we would never leave it.  

And then a new light came to our little home.  A little boy we needed and wanted so badly came home to our house and the rooms were now as full as our hearts.  And it was perfect.  

But the difference between beautiful little houses and beautiful little children is the beautiful little children grow.  They grow and they grow and they grow.  They run through the halls of a home no matter how small they are.  They fill the rooms with their things, no matter how small the rooms are or how small their things seem.  

And so Sean and I talked about it.  We talked, we argued, we agreed and disagreed.  We looked into making our little house bigger; trying to change it to be what we needed it to be.  It just wouldn’t work.  It just wouldn’t make sense to try and make our beautiful little home anything more than what it was always meant to be for us, even if I would never allow myself to call it such: a starter home.  A home to start our life in.  And we did just that.  

There has been so much life in this house.  There has been so much love, and so much loss that happened within the walls of this home.  

This is the home that my sweet baby was supposed to come home with us to; this is the only house he was ever supposed to be in and my broken heart can’t help but ache knowing we are moving to a place he was never meant to go to.  This home will be the home Sean’s dad visited us, staying in our little makeshift bedroom under the basement stairs, buying Sean the silly little push mower it took hours to mow the lawn with because that was good enough to get the job done; it hearts my heart to leave here.  

And then there is the tree. How am I supposed to leave the tree? I have been asked so many times, by so many people that love us and know how much we love the tree, “You can’t leave the tree!”  As with most things in my life, I have had to stop and have conversations with myself about guilt and not allowing it to consume me.  I will miss my gorgeous little tree; the beautiful little tree that grows in place of and in honor of my son.  The tree that seems to, appropriately, bloom a little later than the others like it around the neighborhood.  The tree that love grew.  But I can not allow myself to forget that the tree is not my son.  Jack is gone, even if I dug the tree up, and it by chance survived the transplanting and took root in a new spot, he is not here. But he lives in my heart, he goes where I go.  And so we will leave the tree here to continue to bloom and grow.

We will leave the little tree with the beautiful house that grew a beautiful family.  We will leave the beautiful little house to a new little family to grow into and likely grow out of down the road as well.  And if that is meant to be the legacy of this little home, to grow families and send them out into the world bigger and stronger and full of love, than I am so honored to have been a part of its story. 

Until next time, which is hopefully sooner rather than later and from within the walls of the new home that the Doyles will fill with memories and love...

Our Boys

I can remember the day so clearly.  My best friend, Jen, had told me she was going to find out whether she was expecting a little boy or girl and that she’d let me know as soon as she left the doctor. I was at work and checked my phone a dozen times.  I finally texted her a pink heart, a blue heart, and a question mark, unable to wait any longer.  After a bit she texted back a blue heart and then right after that she said, “I hope that you’re okay with it.”  And with that my heart broke a little.  Here she was on one of the most exciting days of her life and she was worried about my feelings; I hated myself a little for that.  I hated that I had let my grief push its way to the forefront of yet another amazing moment and it wasn’t even my moment.  I quickly responded, “OF COURSE it’s okay!” And truly, it was. But I would be lying if I didn’t say it hurt something awful too.   The hurt wasn’t born of jealously-not an ounce of that-but that our beautiful baby boys would never play together; that we would never take a picture of them together and look back at it in wonder that they’d ever been that little, as there is no doubt in my mind that Jen and I will grow old together.  

I love me some Oliver; we all do.  Sean gets such a kick out of him and Kennedy has loved him like her own baby brother from the moment she first held him.  And so I was feeling pretty sad that we didn’t get to make a vacation happen with them the way with did last summer and so I made plans to head to Boston for a day or two with Carter since K would be at gymnastics camp.  

So after Kennedy’s first week of camp we made a visit to Long Island.  It was filled with family, boat rides, and pool days.  It was great and needed but all of it was overshadowed by the fact that my baby boy looked at me, while I was putting on makeup to head to a bridal shower and said, “Mama.”  I swear to God I almost cried ever drop of mascara I’d just applied. To hear that sound come from the mouth of a little boy has been something my heart has been desperate to hear for the last three and a half years.  He is a snuggly, mushy little mama’s boy (which I mean in the most affectionate way) and he soothes my soul in ways I can’t begin to put into words. It was a great long weekend but it took its toll on the little girl and so we skipped camp this week.  

I went back and forth about bringing her with us but decided not to, which she was not thrilled with me about.  The thing is, it would make it a very different visit and I felt like I needed it to be low key and low maintenance, neither of which describes my fiery, wild-haired girl.  She was entertained by her grandparents and did just fine through FaceTime calls and some whining.  The little man and me?  We did just fine too.  

The second we arrived to Jen and I saw Oliver’s little face light up as he shouted over the pouring rain, “Hi Baby!” I was done.  Jen parked the car for me and I made my way up the stairs holding one boy in my arms and the hand of the other as he chatted to me.  The second we walked through the door Oliver directed us to sit on the floor and he talked Carter, showing off all of his bog boy moves.  Carter was enthralled by him, laughing and trying to mimic the sounds and clapping.  Separated by one year and one day, they had not yet met face to face as life just got in the way, but they acted like old friends instantly (except when poor Oliver got close enough for a fistful of hair from the Ultimate Hair-Puller). Watching them, my heart was literally fluttering.  Though in this scenario Oliver was the big boy and Carter the baby, my brain allowed my heart to remind me he would have been sandwiched between my boys in a different life and I smiled to myself thinking of the noise level with three and how they’d have been thick as thieves. Just like that, our boys were together.  And it was everything I needed it be all of these years.  

We had a great visit that ended too quickly but we had a little girl that missed us and wanted us (mostly “her baby”) back home and so we got one last picture of the little men together and headed back to New York.

We decided to add another big milestone to month ten for Carter and took him to get his first haircut. While the mullet has always made me laugh I find it less funny on the heads of my children and so I thought a good trim was in order.  I went off the suggestion of a friend and brought him to an honest-to-God Barber Shop in the town next door; the kind where the barber’s were sitting outside waiting for men in need of some grooming.  A guy that could have been Sean’s doppelgänger was “up” and instantly started talking to Carter, making him feel at ease and let him touch the buzzer and combs.  My big guy- my last baby- he never fussed or cried once.  And though every snip of his baby hair’s made me want to scream STOP!!  I knew it was really Time I wanted to stop and not this sweet man cutting his hair.  In a month and a half he will be One and I’m just not ready to be there yet. So he is still my baby.  My baby with a pretty damn cute ‘do. 

As if there just wasn’t enough emotion coursing through my veins as we got in the car Kennedy asked why we were taking Carter’s hair home in a bag.  I explained that we’d done the same for her and that I had a special box to put it in.  Naturally, her mind always loops in Jack when I say “my kids” and so she asked, “Did you keep Jackie’s hair too?”  I could barely breath but managed to squeak out “No” as the tears started welling up behind my sunglasses.  When she asked why, I couldn’t give her a good answer because I was too busy asking myself the same question Why?! Why didn’t I ask them for a lock of his hair? He'd had so much.  It was dark blond and it was beautiful and I suddenly wanted to touch it more than anything in the world.  Grief is funny that way; it comes out at unexpected times and swallows you up.  And so, as I do whenever my heart calls out for Jack, I did my best to take in every second of time with his baby brother and sister, believing that he lives through them.

My summer vacation is winding down with my return to work starting in August.  Time off never feels like enough but there has been some pretty good moments to carry my through until our beach vacation down south the end of August.  Until then, I will soak in the sun and the chaos.  You do the same, my friends.