BamamaPancakes

  I bought a fanny pack this year. I could hear the thirteen-year-old me through the waves of time, gasping in horror, rolling her eyes, and giving wild huffs of embarrassment, but the mid-thirty-year-old me is like YEEEEES, I GET IT MOM!!! Not just for the fanny pack. This year, I kept a note in my phone of all the things that I used to balk in teenager dismay, that I used to do the whole “Mooooooooom. That’s so embarrassing,” thing to. And now, this blog is to say: Happy birthday Mom!!! You were right!! I GET IT!!!  Here’s my list of straight up mom-isms, to which I have crossed over and seen the light: Why yes, wearing high socks does keep your ankles warm if you have regularly cold feet, even if you’re wearing shorts. Luckily the youths have started doing this too.  Wearing your sweatshirt inside out because it just means the next time it will be right-side in. I actually considered this logic last month, which means it’s only a matter of time.  Staying awake whe...

  May 9, 2021 Dear Bria,  Dirtinger digger, worm rescuer, snacker of fruit, yogurt, and chocolate chips.  You are determined, kind, and the silliest of silly.  An almost night-owl, and slow riser in the mornings, demanding only the same small “elsa braid” to hold back that wild bed-head that is constantly your hair.  Busy, builder, champion of Uno and Go Fish.  You feel lots, and you feel it big, and you are not afraid to let your heart show – its blue skies, its stormy frustration, its rainy days. You share it all.  Queen of cotton dresses, a budding book worm, a glowing giggler in the spotlight, relishing its warmth and laughter.  You call “Come snuggle me, Dad!” at night and yell “Sorry Dave!” in board games.  A laugh that can’t catch its breath.  A toothless mouth.  A purple room. You wish we had named you Rosie, so you have named every worm and animal you hold Rosalina without question.  A sneakers-with-the fancy-dress kin...

  Nov 28, 2020   Dear Abram   It’s been four years. I never know what to call today. The day you were born, the day you died, the day we held you. It was the hardest day of my life, and yet I’m so grateful for it.   Addie and Bria still ask if you are turning four or if you are still a baby. Each time they ponder whether you are still a tiny little love, being cradled and passed around by your great-grandparents, or a 4 year old riding a big wheel and building sandcastles. I wonder too. I wonder all the things I imagined – do you have that blonde hair and straight brow; do you look like your brother; are you quiet like your dad? Do you still hear Bria, and Addie, and Bryce talking to you? I hope that one day I’ll know.   Every year of grieving is different. At the beginning, it was so raw. Addie loves Hamilton, and the song “Quiet Uptown” made me cry, cry, cry, when Angelica sings “They are living with the unimaginable” after they lose their son. Even when it’s ...

  October 8, 2020   Dear Adalyn,   If you could spend the rest of 2020 listening to music, you would, bobbing your head and lip syncing in circles around the living room, leaping from chairs, and nailing the small sassy choreographed moments with total satisfaction.   With three loose teeth, but none quite letting go, your high-top flowered sneaks, and Hamilton trivia spewing at every turn, you are eight years old. 8. It seems so much older than 7, though I’m pretty sure I say that every year. We can tell that you’re crossing over, into that next phase of “kid,” when you’re just not little anymore. It gives me all the mama feels.   This year has been a bit of a rollercoaster. You had awesome Mrs. Thompson in first grade, where we had our Monday’s together and you loved learning about Arthur Ash and being in plays. You ran with Kevon, Isaac and Levi at recesses, claiming you weren’t sure if they were too wild, but loving it anyway. Then covid hit ...

Dear Bryce,   Two years old.   When we asked you today, “How old are you going to be tomorrow Bryce-y?” You said, “Wallie!!!” But you were very excited about it.   You may find out one day that life with a 2-year-old is never dull. (Note: it actually can be very dull when putting together a puzzle for the 700 th  time or naming the colors of 60 hot wheel trucks or pointing out every bug on the sidewalk). Sometimes in the midst of the chaos and physical demands and trying to keep up, I remind myself that you are our miracle baby. And aren’t we lucky to being living in this whirlwind that includes your wild, toothy, snuggly self in it.   We had to check our hcg levels every 2 days when we were first pregnant with you. To see if you would stick. Then we got an ultrasound to see if an embryo was forming. Then a few weeks later, we got to hear your heartbeat. Erin’s office was amazing in that they encouraged us – knowing we had lost Abram and had multiple miscarriage...

I’m going to be honest.   I thought we would be through the worst of the covid scare by the end of May. I thought we might need to be a little careful in June, but surely, surely, the world would be going back to “normal” by mid-summer.   Spoiler alert – I was quite wrong.   One of the main reasons I blog is to document our journey as a family. And 2020 is definitely a year that has us shook. This February, we couldn’t make Addie’s school Valentine Day dance, and I told her, don’t worry, there will be so many more events we’ll be going to this year. LOLZ. Sorry, Addie. Less than a month later, all the schools shut down. The world holed up for months in attempts to flatten the curve. We wiped down our groceries we got from pick-up; we researched articles and listened to press conferences; we cherished things like toilet paper and Clorox wipes; we ordered masks; we homeschooled our kids (see previous blog detailing hilarious attempts to educate while entertaining three sma...

A Letter to the LPD 6/1/20 I’m writing in response to the countless stories we’ve read nationwide, not just in the last weeks, but over the last years, that have shown footage of black people being hurt or killed simply because of the color of their skin. Some while jogging on the streets. Some while sitting in their own homes. Some while attending church. Unfortunately, some were killed by police officers who continued using force in situations that simple did not require it. Seeing these videos of murder have shaken me to my core.   I am not black. But I mourn with the black community for these lives so senselessly lost. I am not black, but I am a mother. I cannot imagine knowing my child could never walk through the streets without raising suspicion, no matter their profession, no matter how well they behave. I am not black, but I hurt for my black friends, good people who face bitter racism every day. I am not black, but I know black lives matter.   I was grateful to see y...