Tested: Turning 40 (An Honest Review)

I turned 40, so you don't have to.

There has been much commotion around turning 40. All agree that it’s a major life milestone, but while some regret this transition as a considerable decline, others regard this as the start of the age of wisdom. So which is it?

A little while ago, I was in my late 30s, and one day I just went ahead and turned 40. It’s been two years now, and I can feel a marked difference. If you are considering turning 40, or maybe you’re just curious about it, read on and see if the 40 Series is right for you.

Comfort & Fit
The first thing I noticed about turning 40 was how uncomfortable this model is. Right off the bat, the 40s just felt different: There was a general achiness, sometimes injury from a previously innocuous activity, and heaven forbid I should sleep in the wrong position at night, only to wake up feeling like I’d been run over by a truck.

Let’s talk about fit. This model tends to be wider and heavier than previous models, with no apparent benefit to the added heft. Points docked for this, obviously.

Appearance
There is a dullness to the exterior that I can’t seem to buff out. I’ve done some research and have bought different creams and polishes, but the discoloration and cracks in the surface remain. What gives? This seems to be pretty consistent across the 40 Series, so I don’t think it’s just me. Be aware that this could be a design flaw.

Power & Performance
I’m only two years in, but already I’ve noticed a marked decrease in overall power. Or I swear, the jar manufacturers across the world have banded to super-tighten the seals on all their lids. Visibility has also weakened, especially of objects close at hand and in low lighting. This can’t be good.

But while physical performance has diminished, executive functioning skyrockets. This model is capable of juggling: work; grocery runs; meal prep; housecleaning; appointments; care for aging parents; multiple kids’ soccer practices, gymnastics, piano lessons, play dates; personal care; and so on. This multi-action feature is truly amazing.

Maintenance
Regular maintenance is something you’ll need to invest in after turning 40. Stretching is now paramount before a workout—heck, maybe even before your day! Ice packs have become my friend. And let’s not start on medical appointments. I see my physical therapist next week and my chiropractor next month. Shall we mention mammograms, and later, in the 50 Series—colonoscopies? Good grief!

Energy Efficiency
This model is definitely not as energy efficient as the 20 Series or even the 30 Series. In fact, there are days when energy levels remain low, despite plugging in at night. There might be problems with the software, which seems to glitch in and out, preventing a full, uninterrupted charge. Currently, this appears to be a manufacturing defect and there is not much to be done. Except coffee.

Value
The overall monetary value of this model is usually higher than that of the 30 Series and definitely higher than that of the 20 Series, due to the 40’s extended duration in the workplace, accruing assets. This, of course, is not always the case. But if it is, then you can enjoy some general financial security, which is a feature not to be overlooked.

Optional Accessory Packs
The most popular accessory pack is the Kid Bundle, which is highly customizable with the 1-Kid, 2-Kid, 3-Kid pack, and so on, though they’re all pretty pricey (even the 1-Kid pack). In the beginning, they will strain your engine and drain your battery, but if you play your cards right, the Kid Bundle should start to really help over time, especially when we get into the 70 Series and beyond.

These can be finicky, though, even the best-made ones, and while I wish there was a manual for maintaining them (there isn’t; I’ve checked), their ROI is fairly high, so it is overall worth it to invest in the Kid Bundle, should you choose to go that route.

With that said, the Kid Bundle is most frequently added onto the 30 Series and sometimes the 20 Series (usually the later models). Note that acquiring one in the 40s can be more challenging (see Energy Efficiency above) and even risky, but it can be done.

Overall Satisfaction
Turning 40 has its perks. I do appreciate the overall stability of this series. There is a security in place that is borne from the passage of the earlier 20 Series and 30 Series.

Still, I am only two years in, and I’m already seeing serious signs of physical wear and tear, which troubles me.

What helps, though, is those who have upgraded to the 50 Series and 60 Series and beyond, who seem content with their models. Though certain capabilities decrease dramatically with the progression of each series, these models are not bound by their physical limitations, and performance can be quite impressive. These are the ones who maintain that I, having turned 40, am on the cusp of something wizened and authentic and true.

For now, I’m committing to the 40s a little while longer. I’ll trust those with the higher series models that there might be some valuable benefits that I have yet to unlock.

Overall, though, I still cannot recommend turning 40. Even with its benefits, it’s a hard sell, given the 40’s decreased energy efficiency and low comfort ratings. But if it must be done, it at least has enough backing that attests to the worthwhile experience it can be. Still, I would keep expectations low. And choose a really good maintenance package.

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Follow me for more honest reviews. Next week, I’m diving deeper into the Kid Bundle Accessory Pack. Which combo is right for you? And how hard and fast is the no-returns policy? Subscribe to find out.

Parsimonious

When fall comes around, the California foothills behind my parents’ house become a deep golden hue, saturated with all of summer’s heat and fervor. The streets where I used to pedal my bike are littered with dropped foliage in crimson and rust. And my parents’ persimmon tree will start to bow with the growing weight of its orange orbs. That’s when my mother takes up her watch to ward off the squirrels who also take interest in her fruit.

Though the air is crisp, she is still sweating from her 5-mile hike along the foothills, so she’s in an old t-shirt two sizes too big that reads “Franklin High School A.V.I.D. Program,” a gem she unearthed from our donation pile. (“Why is, uh… your mom wearing my old clothes?” inquired my very weirded-out husband the first time she debuted her new threads.) On her feet are thick, white tube socks that crop out conspicuously from her chunky Reeboks, both clearance finds, the former an extra boon because “your father and I can share.” Her short hair is permed into tight ringlets that are more worth her money—“same money, more curl!”—and home-dyed a drugstore-auburn that will soon fade to an unexpected magenta. Her face is in a perpetual scowl—in either disapproval or from myopia because she can’t be bothered to find her glasses.

She is at once formidable and farcical. With broom handle in one hand, the other akimbo, she stands guard under her tree, lunging at and batting away the greedy, fiendish squirrels who have become her nemeses. But she’s also unflagging, and she stands sentinel until the persimmons ripen to a mellow sweetness, their waxy skin glinting in the sun.

When it’s harvest time, my parents reap the mother lode, ascending the ladder to reach the fruit up high, carefully twisting each persimmon off the tree to preserve their green leafy caps, filling buckets and boxes and bins. Bags of fresh persimmons are given to friends and family. The remainder—about half—gets turned into my mother’s famed dried persimmons. And that’s actually when the real work begins.

My mother painstakingly peels each persimmon and then cuts them into thick ring slices—no more than three, maybe four slices per fruit. She lines her Ronco food dehydrator and then every few hours, she must rotate the trays. One zip-top bag of dried persimmons takes at least two weeks to make. Her dried persimmons are arguably the best—thick and chewy, I have never tasted another dried persimmon like it.

I enjoy them so, that a few years ago, I shared them with a friend, who also liked them so much, I gave her the whole bag. When I called to tell my mom, I expected her to be flattered and pleased by the reception, but instead, she was perplexed.

“You gave a whole bag away?” she sputtered. “Do you know how much work that was to make?”

“I know, Mom, but my friend really liked your dried persimmons.”

“Is this a good friend? I think maybe only good friends can have persimmons. Maybe an okay friend not so much. If she’s a very good friend, then maybe you can give some, but not a whole bag!”

I couldn’t believe how miserly she was over dried fruit.

I have long relied on mnemonics to help me remember new words. Ebullient—overflowing with fervor and enthusiasm—is a bull rider with the biggest grin on his face. Strident—having a shrill or harsh sound—is like Trident gum, what you might offer someone who stridently screams in your face. And parsimonious—exceedingly frugal or stingy—was my mother’s attitude towards her prized persimmons. And she was parsimonious to a T.

We switched to another topic and then said goodbye. In the months afterwards, we debated over the persimmons periodically, until we just didn’t any more… though I carried a hard chip on my shoulder towards my mother’s ungenerosity.

The next year, when the air cooled, my mom stood sentinel again. Same t-shirt and tube socks—a pink poodle in our old gym clothes—fending off the same rascally squirrels. When harvest time came, my parents climbed up and down the ladder again. My mother peeled and sliced hundreds more persimmons and stood watch over her trays of puckering jewels. It was the same laborious process of making her bags of dried fruit, but this time her posture was different.

She came to me that year with seven bags of her dried persimmons, a veritable bounty.

“These are for you—and your friends if you like. You’re right; we should share.”

I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes, feeling the resentment rise in me, and then did the thing a Chinese child must never do.

“No, thanks” I said, coolly. “I don’t want it.” Knowing my mother’s soft spot, I dug in my dagger as deep as I could: I turned down her offering of food.

That night and for many nights after, I laid in bed awake with a gnawing feeling. I had wanted her to know how heinous her previous actions had been. And I had succeeded, hadn’t I? But instead of satisfaction, I was left with an emptiness that only grows from the hoarding of resentment. And then I realized that as parsimonious as she had been about her persimmons, I was now even more parsimonious with my forgiveness, which is arguably way worse.

The next day, I called my mom.

“Okay, Mom, I’ll take a few bags of persimmons.”

I could hear the delight—and relief—in her voice.

“Oh, good! And please share them with your friends.”

I took the bags of persimmons, and I did give them to my friends. I wish I could say I was open-hearted towards my mother, and she was generous always from that point on, but we all take time to grow. We keep trying, though. Forbearance—ample patience—is another word I hold on to. I remember it because it’s like our parents, who aren’t perfect but continually move towards us even when we aren’t perfect either. And who, if you need it, will give you—and your friends—the very persimmons off their drying racks.

Letting Go of the Little Years

I have been waiting for this for 11 years—the start of the academic year in which all three kids are finally on one schedule, at one school. Up until this point, it has been diapers and snotty noses and up-all-nights and potty accidents and Thomas the Train. But I have made it, I have arrived. And from 8:20 in the morning to 2:40 in the afternoon, I am a FREE WOMAN! I have goals and aspirations and a whole house and 11 years’ worth of clutter to clean out and organize. I joined a new gym. I registered for a writing class at our community college. I’m starting to think about and make plans for my career again. This moment is a big deal.

And yet, on the night before the first day of school, when Wayne asked how I was feeling, I realized that I wasn’t as excited as I thought I’d be. No doubt, this marks a huge milestone. I know I’m gaining the much-longed-for freedom that moms with babies still tethered to their hips are giving me the stink-eye for, but it also means I’ve officially moved on to the next stage of parenting. It means no more babies, no more sticky toddlers—just sticky big kids, who aren’t as endearing. With all my children now school-aged, I’ve been purging baby books and toddler toys, and even gave away Caedmon’s once-beloved train set. (Goodbye, Thomas…)

In fact, I knew I was out of the baby stage of parenting when, visiting a friend, her poopy baby toddled towards me, and I tensed and held my breath. Previously, when we were both in the trenches together and elbow-deep in all kinds of bodily fluids, what was a poopy diaper between us? Now, though, her baby was Godzilla lurching towards me. And I knew definitively that I was no longer in the club. 

For the first time, my children—ages 11, 8, and 6—regularly walk to and from school all on their own. When they wake in the mornings, they simply head downstairs and read their books, and with Caedmon's help, they can even prepare their own simple breakfasts. Rare is the night we find them in our bed now, but when we do, we readily split the sea to enclose them in the protection they still come to us for, and I no longer mind the fist in the face, the starfish body positioning, the narrow strip of mattress that's now more than enough for me. Their growing independence is something I wholly celebrate, but how the heart aches just a little over my newfound freedom. Though I’d been looking forward to this stage for 11 years, 11 years is still a significant amount of time to be caring for and loving on tiny humans, and it’s a jolt to the system to move on.

I realize now that I had probably been anticipating this transition all summer. It explains why I’ve been so uncharacteristically insular, even jealous of our time as a family, with our kids. Normally the social butterfly, I subconsciously kept play dates to a minimum. Our summer calendar remained free of camps and classes, which was really a consequence of poor planning and procrastination on my part (those registration deadlines seem to always sneak up during the busiest times!), but one I later regarded as a blessing.

At the last minute, I even dis-enrolled our kids from their school’s summer program, foregoing the three hours each morning I would have had to myself, and instead, created activities that we could do together: writing projects, swim lessons, language instruction. (Showing them Peppa Pig in Cantonese counts as language instruction, right?) It was our happy little homeschool that I never knew I desired. I felt an overwhelming need to soak in as much concentrated time with my kids as possible, a desperation to hold on to the last dredges of their littleness, especially as the new school year loomed.

One day while on summer vacation in Portugal, while we were relaxing at the apartment and the kids were playing in the next room, a memory popped up on Wayne’s phone, and we settled in to watch this video montage of our children from five to six years ago, of a period that spanned the first couple years of Ry's life, when the kids were between the growing ages of 0 to 6: Caedmon, wedged alongside newborn Ry on his playmat, caught in a moment of curiosity, love, and awe for his new baby brother; Addie and Ry in their favorite dragon suits, beaming at the camera while Ry sports an impressive shiner on his left eye, a souvenir from one of his usual antics; Addie caught emerging from my closet, wearing at least 11 of my shirts that hung down to her feet, all layered colorfully, like a maypole ready for a summer festival. 

And then I started sobbing. “We don’t have any babies anymore…” is all I could eke out. Parenthood is lovely. And it’s devastating. And it makes us feel in ridiculous ways, so that even when you’re in the middle of Lisbon, on the most idyllic of family vacations, surrounded by charming, colorfully tiled buildings and cobbled streets, and your children’s laughter literally fills the flat, you can still be so overcome by an impending loss and nostalgia for what hasn’t even completely passed. I know I need to enjoy the present. But it’s only because I also know the present slips away like quicksilver.

Our kids right now are still so sweet and relatively little. Each start of the school year, though, I brace myself, wondering if this is the year it all changes. When Caedmon, now 11, will stop talking to us. If Addie, 8, will have any run-ins with Mean Girls. When Ry, 6, loses the last remnants of his sometimes still-present toddler-speech. (“Mommy, I like wake-upping early.”)

Today on this most typical of school days, after drop-off, I went to my workout. And then I made a stop at Target for school supplies, where I met up with a friend who is also a recent free-mom. We perused the aisles at a leisurely pace, even had time and energy to admire the home décor. At one point, we looked at each other and eyes gleaming, cackled, “We don’t have to be anywhere!!!” It was pretty great.

I remember not too long ago, when entering a store with my children was like an audition for Supermarket Sweep. I’d plop the kids into the cart, and once we crossed the threshold into the store, my mental timer would start, and we’d whiz through the aisles, one arm throwing items into our cart and the other reaching into my stocked bag, doling out treats at strategic intervals. One time—and I don’t know why I did this—I stopped to chat with a friend in the very Target aisles I was now leisurely shopping, and I unleashed the animal that was RyRy and let him down from the cart. (WHY??) I remember it must have been near the Fourth of July, because it wasn’t long before he was grabbing red-white-and-blue pinwheels and, scattering them like daisies, proceeded to roll back and forth on the carpet among his bed of posies. Even though I must have been flustered that day, wrangling my toddler and stuffing pinwheels back into their display, I now look back on that memory with only fondness. Those were the days…

And these are the days, too, I know. We’ll have a good year; I’ll love sharing in what they’re learning, discussing the same books I read as a kid, navigating friendships with them, watching them as they continue to recognize and maneuver the intricacies of life. I know it’ll be a good year for me too, as I get to focus more on, well, me again. But it still squeezes my heart to cross this threshold—every threshold. Friends across my circles are waving to their children as they drive off with new licenses, setting up college dorm rooms, attending bridal showers for their soon-to-be daughters-in-law. This letting go seems to only continue on a more towering scale. And I’m sending out a three-finger salute in the way of Katniss Everdeen to signal a shared gratitude and grief, a solidarity, to all the moms and dads who are letting go in all ways big and small.

It donned on me that even as I was going through these same life milestones myself, I never once looked back, never realized that with all the sweetness in my life, that there might have been any ounce of bittersweetness in my parents’ responses. And I suppose that’s the way it’s meant to be. Moving through life now—as a parent—is such a different experience, as we take on more and more of a supporting role, to allow our children to do their thing and shine. I know I’ll love each stage; I’m going to embrace it. And when it’s over and it’s time to move on to the next stage, I’m going to mourn it too. My heart contracts at these beautiful junctures and milestones in our children’s lives. But then it will expand again, as it always does. And continue to beat hard and strong for what is today and for what is to come.

One of my favorite captured moments...

They still love playing dragons together, just not in these suits anymore.

Addie having a field day in my closet

In Lisbon this summer, where I cried over our kids' waning little years, even as I wholly enjoyed what we have right now.

Garage Sale

This guy. Never ceases to surprise me with delight.

“Mommy, what is that thing that you do when you don’t want something anymore? Can we do it??”

I am working hard at my computer to meet a deadline, but he clambers onto my lap anyway and sticks his face in mine, commanding my attention. “Can we do it? You know, when we don’t want old toys. Can we do that thing?” () 

It takes me a bit to realize he’s referring to a GARAGE SALE. And I say, “Sure!” Because that’s what you say when you’re trying to buy some peace and quiet. And, “Uh, huh,” when he starts digging out bagged up toys and emptying boxes. And, “Okay,” when he says he’s going to the garage, and there’s just a lot of dragging and shuffling and commotion, but it’s not in my office so I’m very okay with it… until there is no more commotion at all. 

I decide I need to be somewhat responsible as a mother, so I head to the garage to investigate. And what I find when I open the door is not what I expect at all: my 5-year-old perched in a camping chair at the far end of our driveway, with his wares gathered in front of him and a bucket (to collect his earnings, I assume) to his left. 

“What are you doing, Ry?” 

“Just waiting!”

I can barely see him; that chair envelops him and emphasizes just how small he is. When I get closer, I see that he’s had the foresight to bring his sunglasses because it could be a long wait, even though he’s priced his products competitively at just “5$¢.” 

He gives me a big grin. Man, that kid is a riot! And I'm tickled that, at least for a brief bit, I was drawn out of my world, if reluctantly, to meet him in his, still brimming with wonder, possibility, gumption... so that when you want to "do that thing you do when you don't want something anymore," you do it with total commitment. 😛 How brilliant it is to be five!

Lover

photo credit: Serena Grace Photography

It’s the slow, steady rhythm of the percussions—that reminds me of a heartbeat—that draws me in every time. It’s deliberate but gentle, swaying but steady, syncopated yet soothing. Taylor Swift’s album, Lover, has been steadily streaming in my earbuds this past year, but it’s this title track that hits a particular chord. In it, she sings about mundane things, like keeping the Christmas lights up on their home until January (don’t we all?), that make up the life she wants to spend with her lover. But it’s the chorus that really gets me. “Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close? Forever and ever… Take me out, take me home. You’re my, my, my… lover.” The requests are so simple, yet suppose a trust and comfort, a security, but also a vulnerability in revealing one’s most tender self. Within the bridge, the “lover” is belted with such girlish glee, I imagine her with arms flung wide open in pure delight. It is young, contented love at its best.

It takes me back to the night during our Freshman year in college when Wayne and I got caught in the rain while delivering my research paper across campus (straight out of a vintage movie, I tell you—complete with the antiquated method of turning in a physical assignment in person)… to the first time he brought me back to his hometown of Sacramento, and we took a long, meandering walk in the evening around the greenbelt levy, only to be eaten alive by mosquitoes and thought it was well worth it… to our drawn-out goodbyes that had a way of stretching into the night.

As I listen and mouth the lyrics, I can’t help but feel a pang in realizing: I relate to this song… as a memory. Sometime along these 12 ½ years and churning out three kids, our marriage grew up and out of the honeymoon phase. These days, my requests to my lover are more, “Can you take the kids where you go? Can you leave me all alone?” (Forever and ever.)

In all seriousness, though, can I just say… marriage is hard. And pandemic life hasn’t made it any easier.

During these last 11 months, my moods have sometimes swung like a wrecking ball. Being home all day, every day with young children—without the buffer of everyday interruptions and interactions to grease the wheel of constant home-life—has turned me into a lunatic. (I know I’m not alone!) Sometimes I want to cry, though I can’t even pinpoint exactly the reason. Other times, it’s a simmering anger. Most of the time, it’s just a general melancholy with bouts of grumpiness. And all of this has naturally taken its toll on our relationship. In these last 11 months, we have fought over a waterslide, a wrong McDonald’s order, how we structure our family devotional time, and most recently, how Wayne agreed with me TOO much. (Yes, I know, but you don’t know the details, okay?)

Though I’ve always felt and known our differences acutely, I haven’t felt our differences so… frequently as I have during this pandemic that has acted as a crucible for probably all of us to some extent, burning away the dross, revealing the core of who we are. And who we are—Wayne and I—has never felt so diametrically opposed.

A few months ago, I came across the poem “Epiphany” by Ted Hughes from his collection, Birthday Letters, about a man who encounters a boy on the street, selling a fox. The man actually contemplates buying the fox, ruminates over how to care for it, how his wife might react, what the fox would bring to his family… In the end, he lets the fox go, but not without looking back at that fork in his life, wondering “what if.” And it seems like such an ordinary, innocuous story, until the end:

“If I had grasped that whatever comes with a fox

Is what tests a marriage and proves it a marriage—

I would not have failed the test. Would you have failed it?

But I failed. Our marriage had failed.”

That ending was a sucker-punch, and I literally gasped and cried at the last line—not because this is true for us in its entirety, but I can still relate to it on so many levels. How many times have we brought home our own “foxes”—becoming parents; bringing home another baby and yet another; making the transition to a one-income household; making the transition to a one-income household with me as the one at home, a woman with so much ambition and extroverted energy that sometimes I feel like I’m dying inside while I care for my children, even as my heart simultaneously overflows; quarantining together during a pandemic?? And each time, these trials test and (we hope) prove our marriage. I cried because I understand that tension, the strain, the trying so hard and still the regret of how opposite two people can be. There is no judgment when I read this poem, no “whoa, that will never be us” rosy invincibility of our younger selves—only empathy and heartbreak, because I understand the precariousness of a marriage meant to last forever.

On the day of our wedding, we had only an idea of what our vows meant. They were words that sounded honorable and right, and so with earnestness and sincerity and stars in our eyes, we uttered these champagne promises, not knowing the full weight they actually carried.

What did I know of commitment? Of forever? Of a covenant not yet tested? What do I know now, except that commitment is weighty, and forever is much longer than 12 ½ years.

And what do we do when the champagne has flattened? When the glitter has rubbed off? When your husband is giving off some serious roommate vibes with his overgrown, shaggy hair? When your wife is circling the cage, snarling and eyeing you with contempt because you didn’t break down the boxes for recycling?

Standing at the alter those 12 ½ years ago, bolstered by youthful invincibility, “forever” was an opportunity, never an oppression. It was young, contented love at its best. But did we know anything about love?

Maybe… we did have an inkling. As a belated gesture towards Valentine’s Day this year (a day that usually passes with zero fanfare around here), Wayne left a video on my computer desktop for me to find. In it he sings “Water Under the Bridge” by Jars of Clay, recalling that this was the same song he had played for me all those years ago when he asked me to marry him. It’s not your usual doe-eyed song of sweethearts, but even as two people who were about to embark on Forever, we knew, at least a sliver, of the effort it would take to get there. And now, it means so much more.

“I do not love you the way I did when we met.
There are secrets and arguments I haven't finished yet.
But it's only that grace has outlived our regret that we're still here.

So maybe we can stay, till the last drop of water flows under the bridge,
We can stay, till the last drop of water flows under the bridge.”

I cried then, too. And I realized that I chose a man who not only fought for me when we were young, contented lovers, but is still fighting for me, clad in all my surliness and the same hoodie sweatshirt I’ve been wearing for a year. And that, I should think, far outweighs all our very real differences that remain, that will probably be there forever.

Someone once told me, before I was married, that we often want to find someone we can go skiing with. We want the excitement, the adventure! But who we should actually marry is the person who, if all the lifts suddenly closed, we could spend the rest of the day with in the lodge. Well……. isn’t it funny that the lifts may currently be open but everything else is closed! And we have been spending days upon days (11 months’ worth of days!) together in this lodge.

A year into our marriage, I had the giddy wisdom to write that marriage was a reflection of God’s love for us and it was a way to hone us, to make us more like Him… and that’s still true 12 ½ years later as we continually lay aside our own rights (even if through gritted teeth) and reach over with grace, just as Jesus did for us on the cross. It will be true 12 ½ years more, if we make it that far, and another 12 ½ years and another. We don’t do it perfectly. Sometimes the hand I offer to Wayne during prayer is like a dead fish, but we fall on our knees together anyway, because if we make it, it is by God’s grace. If we make it, it is because of the grace we, in turn, give to one another. It is what tests a marriage and proves a marriage.

“And the years roll by, and you hold my hand, while the shadows stretch over the land.
Crumble and fall in my arms, and we'll struggle to hold on.
Waters they rise and they carry our hopes and dreams away, baby we can stay, stay.”

So here we are. Twelve and a half years into our marriage, 11 months and counting into lodge-life. Our marriage continues to be tested and refined by fire (if only because I keep setting everything aflame). But we’re still here. Still hopeful, when we can muster it. Still working. Just maybe less naïve than before. And our song, were I to adapt Taylor Swift’s “Lover” to meet us where we are today—less buoyant, though by the grace of God, intact and drawing from a growing depth—is: “I will go where you go… We will keep working to be this close… forever and ever.” It doesn’t have the same ring, but it’s a good place to be. I’m waiting for Taylor, maybe in 10 years, to start writing about seasoned, old-people love, tired love… tenacious love.

Momcation 2019: Bradley House, Folsom, CA

Bradley House in Folsom, CA

The idea germinated at Bible study of all places, about two years ago. "If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?" We all watched and listened as the ice breaker question bounced its way around the circle of women, landing momentarily ("the beach with a good book", "in bed all day", "trekking through Europe") before being batted back up and over to the next in line. When it landed on me, I offered up the first thought that came to mind, something about kayaking along the coast of Kauai (because of a failed attempt during our honeymoon due to a very seasick husband).

But even as the words left my mouth, they felt disingenuous. We had just welcomed Ryan into our lives, and I was struggling with this next level in our juggling act. (Still am!) The new school year had just started, which meant Wayne had abandoned me  gone back to work, and I was tasked each morning with getting four bodies fed, dressed, and out the door (which sounds so simple and straightforward... except I still have yet to master the learning curve). I had barely made it to the study on time, with the youngest two in tow (or maybe I was very late, which was probably more the case), and as I stood there, baby strapped to my body, rocking and bouncing to keep some semblance of a nap schedule while out and about, I kept thinking after my answer, "KAYAKING?? I absolutely do NOT want to go kayaking right now!" What I wanted to do was hand my baby over to the nursery workers and crawl into that dark space in the corner and take a nap. What I wanted was to be somewhere—ANYWHERE—that was quiet, and where I could be by myself.

And so my fantasy was born. That year, every time I dragged my tired body out of bed to nurse the baby, every time I wiped up one bodily fluid or another, every time I ran through the house—gathering jackets and snacks and children—to get anywhere semi-on time, I fantasized about this quiet place where no one needed me, and I could use the bathroom without little hands slipping me LEGO minifigures or picture books. 

Happily, when I confided in Wayne, he was so supportive in helping me actualize my getaway.(Cheaper than therapy.) And that's how I started taking (yearly?) momcations. Last year, I went to the most stunning bed and breakfast in Auburn, called Park Victorian. And this year—just this past summer—I went to The Bradley House in Folsom, CA.

I found the Bradley House by googling "cute bed and breakfast Sacramento area", and this place definitely was that. Built in 1859 in the historic area of Folsom, and then purchased and remodeled in 2015, this house retains its century-old charm but happily incorporates up-to-date amenities and comfort. Mike and Olivia, the owners and innkeepers (also new parents of a not-even-one-year-old and full-time employees of their other day jobs!) are warm and were so fun to talk to. He is your, you know, typical tattooed engineer, Swiss immigrant-turned-innkeeper. She is warm and boisterous and all-American. I think she would have wrapped me up in a bear hug if that weren't so inappropriate for an innkeeper to do. Instead, we chatted for almost an hour about kids, where we grew up, and their aspirations for their bed and breakfast.

During the first day, after I had leisurely finished my coffee out on the wraparound porch outside my room, I walked around the surrounding areas of Historic Folsom, where I was able to catch the tail end of a weekend farmer's market, and then poked around the many vintage and antique shops that line the main street, reveling in the fact that I was able to browse in these stores with lots and lots of small, breakable things! On the second morning, I went out for a run along the American River, pausing at whim to take in the scenery, unhurried in my brisk out-and-back. I ate out by myself and at odd times, on one occasion swapping out dinner for a loaf of really good bread and soft serve. I spent hours reading. I watched TV! (So this is "Tidying Up with Marie Kondo"!) I cleaned not a thing!

In one word, my weekend was self-indulgent, which I feel a twinge of guilt even just typing. But I suppose that this was the goal of my weekend—to simply enjoy some space for myself. Next year, perhaps I'll instill some sort of more structured time of planning and meditation, but for this past momcation, I'm thankful I was able to steal away and hunker down a bit before returning to the home front.

Here's my weekend in a pictorial nutshell:

Slipping Through My Fingers

This past summer, I got to rewatch one of my favorite live musicals: Mamma Mia! And since then, the soundtrack has been on constant rotation in our car. I love that Addie enjoys the music as much as I do, requesting her favorite songs and bobbing her head to the beat. The other passengers in our car seem indifferent, but Addie and I—we rock out: “Dancing Queen”, “Super Trouper”, “Take a Chance on Me”... One song that grabs me in particular is “Slipping Through My Fingers”, which describes so poignantly a mother’s bittersweet regret over her growing daughter. And as I mouth the words, I steal a glance in the rearview mirror and spy my own little girl who is slipping through my fingers.

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Addie is currently three and is such a vibrant ball of sweetness and spunk. Dancing, twirling, singing, massive emotional meltdowns (over minuscule, incommensurate infractions), pink and purple, glitter and fairy wings, dinosaur costumes and rain boots, “Mommy, can I help?” and “Mommy, look at me!”

I have been trying to write about and capture my little girl for over a year now. But how do I fully portray her spirit and energy? Just when I have the words (and the time), she changes into another creature, seemingly before my eyes.

Slipping through my fingers…

What I want to remember is Addie’s big hair, how she sweats a lot and how her hair sticks to her face. How she smells of Johnson and Johnsons and oddly—up until recently—sometimes of cabbage. (I think it was the Miralax she had been on, because after we tapered it out of her diet, she smelled like a little girl should, which is not of cabbage.)

I want to remember, how at this age, she is so fiercely independent, often playing on her own for hours, and yet in an instant, can devolve into the baby that she emphatically says she is not, calling out to me and insisting that I carry her. “I do it! I do it!” is her constant refrain, and yet Heaven forbid if I go downstairs without giving her a lift, as well. Her desperate cries of “MOMMY!!!!” would lead one to assume that she was maimed at the top of the stairs and flames from a house fire were lapping at her heels.

Can I, please, just hold on to the little girl who, with clips askew in her big, puffy hair, brings me a box of Teddy Grahams, and then with hands clasped under her chin, looks up at me, sweetly smiles, and asks, “Please??” (Where did she learn that from anyway?) Though a “no”, no matter how gentle, is quick to reveal her true colors, and all prior sweetness melts along with her composure. Hands still clasped tightly under her chin, her angelic face is now twisted into a ruddy grimace, and we have to peel her off our legs while she demands louder and louder, “PLEASE! PLEASE!!” (So polite, she is.)

Can I hang on the little girl who likes to grab our faces and get up real close, little hands holding both sides of our faces, and whispers, “Hi.” Who, when I return to the car after making a quick porch drop-off at a friend’s house, will greet me with a big smile, “Welcome back, Mommy!” And who, like a bride in a lavish Chinese wedding, goes through at least three outfit changes in a day—I never know what Addie will be wearing when she returns to the room, shouting, “Surprise!”

I don’t know if I necessarily want to remember the afternoon she gleefully ripped up an entire library book during her supposed nap time, and then removed all the evidence, only to be given away by her guilt (or pride?) that compelled her to show me the garbage can, where she had expertly cleaned up after her crime.

I will, though, always hold onto the little girl who loves to run. Last year, when I was adjusting to life with a newborn as well as the demands of having an elementary schooler for the first time (which is a juggling act in itself), when my physical state was especially worn and my emotional well-being was constantly crumbling, my walks with Addie were bright spots in my otherwise frayed existence. Before the weather turned cold, we would walk to and from Caedmon’s school for drop-off and pick-up. Drop-off was always harried and frantic, with me running and pushing the barge that was our stroller, RyRy nestled under a pile of blankets and Addie hanging on tightly as she bounced along on the skateboard attachment on the back. Caedmon barely kept up on his scooter, but goshdarnit, we made it on time for school practically every day, even if I had to flag down the custodian to unlock the Kindergarten gate more times than I’d like to admit. I was “That Poor Mom”, and I lived up to every aspect of the self-imposed moniker. But it was the walks home that were often my favorite parts of the day. If we weren’t rushing off to any errands or hurrying to put Ry down for a nap, I would let Addie walk and run, pick up leaves, check the mailboxes. It is that moment that I want to bottle up, when Addie would ask, “Can I walk?”, and I would pause the stroller, and she would step down from the skateboard and be off—arms pumping, hair bouncing, neon sneakers, knitted poncho from my parents’ last trip to Peru, sometimes her pink footed pajamas peeking out from underneath (a veritable sight in the outfits she picks for herself), and the most contented smile on her face—racing down the sidewalk like the wind… on a completely breezeless day. Last year, at 2 ½, she was still an inefficient little runner, employing the heavy footfall of a toddler and exerting way more energy than should be required for the work actually put out. But those walks—then and now—are such bright gems in this mother’s trove of treasured moments.

And at the end of the day, when we tuck our kids in, it’s part of our bedtime routine that we spend some time in both kids’ beds. Before we installed the bunk bed, if I had been with Caedmon for more than five minutes, Addie would come scampering over, perch at the side of the mattress, and rasp in her smoker’s voice, “Mommy, come lay in Addie’s bed a wibbabit?” Caedmon and I used to engage in a lot more pillowtalk, before Addie moved in as his roommate and usurped my time and presence at bedtime. I’m thankful that he is so understanding… and so tired that he is asleep before Addie and I have finished singing her requested songs. Sometimes, instead of her songs, she simply asks, “Mommy, can we just talk?” And I realize with a small lump in my throat that this stage, my favorite, is already over with Caedmon. And one day—though thank goodness not now, but probably still sooner than I’d like—will be over with Addie, too.

Slipping through my fingers…

One night earlier this summer, when I was having a hard time sleeping, my mind wandered to this past year, as well as Addie’s upcoming third birthday, and all of a sudden, I was hit with the realization that her entire second year (a good chunk of my favorite stage of the little years) had coincided with My Year of Misery. And I panicked. Addie was SO fun at this stage, with her wobbly speech and earnest proclamations that mimicked her older brother’s. Had I been so focused on the baby and on myself that I missed out on this precious time with my baby girl?? I was so bothered that I almost—almost—woke Wayne up to share my reservations and regrets. Thankfully, I had the patience to wait until the (early) morning, and with his eyes barely cracked open, I pounced like the extrovert that I am, starved of an outlet: “Wayne! We should have waited another year to have Ryan! Because Addie! ADDIE!!! She was two! And now will be three! And I wasted this past year! I was too unhappy! Was I too unhappy? Did I fully enjoy her? Please tell me I didn’t miss out!!” (Be thankful that you are not married to me.)

Through slow and slogged speech, Wayne gave me his groggy reassurances, and of course he’s right, I didn’t “miss out”, but there is a legitimacy to those desperate feelings that I think every mother understands. These kids, who take so much out of me, have me simultaneously wishing for them to just hurry and grow up already and to stay exactly the same. Our babies are only babies for so long, and while much of the time, that is the indelible truth that gets me through the day, that is also the curse that has me frantically trying to jot down every milestone and memorable uttering, filling up my phone’s storage yet again with more pictures, and resolving at each new year to dust off my scrapbooking supplies and start creating my family albums again. (And then the reality of caring for these three kids who I’m trying to capture sets in, and my scrapbooking supplies are returned, once again, to the shelf.)

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time

Slipping through my fingers all the time

My little girl is changing before my eyes. I want so fiercely to hang on to her babyness, but of course I can’t. Even as I finish this piece, some of these moments have already become receding memories. But I’ll continue to write and do my best to capture the energy, the essence of my little girl—of all my kids—and temper the desperation that is just the natural side-effect of being a parent and watching our kids grow, develop, and flourish. 

It was so special taking Addie around my alma mater this past summer. 

It doesn't matter that we brought the kids to the Cove in La Jolla to see the seals and sea lions, Addie thought they were stinky and asked to leave almost right away. (insert eye-roll emoji)

Run, Addie, run!

Instead of napping, Addie made little beds for all her dolls and animals. Wayne thought it was adorable; I thought it was creepy, in a Heaven's Gate kind of way...

More nap time shenanigans... how many layers of clothing has she put on?

"Please??"

Helping me choose fabric at Hobby Lobby, though that's not what I would have picked for chair upholstery.

Addie loves our neighbor's Christmas decorations, and every time we play outside, I inevitably find her trespassing on their lawn, singing songs and dancing about. RyRy, though, looks like he's about to commit some serious vandalism on those candy canes. 

Our little bearded lady. How does she manage to eat like that?

Survivor: Ryan's First Birthday

There are certain things you are just not supposed to say. Like, “Ooh, that haircut pretty much turned you into a sheepdog.” Or, “Yes, you do look fat in that.” And, “I don’t like my baby.” The first two, I have never actually felt towards anyone, I promise (so you can stop feeling self-conscious right now), but that last confession… this is me, raising a quiet, sheepish hand.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my baby with the innate reflexive response of a mama bear who will throw her own body in front of a wayward bullet or scratch out the eyes of anyone who even thinks harm on him. But liking him has taken some time. Unlike what seems like most of the moms around me, I did not forge a bond with Ryan right away. Plagued with fatigue, the grief and guilt over ending Lucy’s life, and the loss of the tiny bit of temporarily regained freedom I had experienced just before Ryan was born—when Caedmon was 5 and Addie was at the much more independent age of almost-2—I just didn’t have it in me to appreciate this gift that God had given to us. While others were #soinlove with their babies (and rightly so!), I felt like a monster as I mechanically nursed him, changed his diapers, held him to me when he cried, and then checked my watch to see if he had turned 18 yet. Reading up on postpartum depression now, I recognize that I shared some of the symptoms, including bouts of explosive frustration and thoughts of “Ryan—all of them—are better off with a more competent mom”, though I’m not sure which are legitimate signs of a deeper illness and which are simply a result of a poor attitude. Because Ryan was not a particularly difficult baby; I just had a particularly sour heart. Thankfully, even the worst storms subside, and babies grow (and become easier as a result). It was 8 months before we had what I wrote in my journal as a “budding camaraderie”. 10 months before I could honestly say that I enjoyed him. And now, at 13 months? I no longer feel like I got roped into the worst babysitting gig ever. In fact, you could even say that I like him (most of the time), which considering our journey, is quite a development. But even more significant, I’m learning to be thankful for him.

Recently, I met up with two old friends who, after I shared (and complained) about my difficult year, related their journeys this past year with their babies—the ones with special needs and the ones they’ve lost due to multiple miscarriages—and all of a sudden, I felt like the biggest jerk in the world. But also the luckiest mama to have three beautiful, healthy babies who could have been dropped in our laps by storks, given the relative ease in their arrivals. Talk about a shift in perspective and gratitude. And so I’m thankful for Ryan, our pleasant, smiley, quiet baby who likes to hug us and his stuffed animals, can get past any obstacle to scurry up the stairs, and loves to wake before 5am to hang out with Mommy.

Ryan turned one earlier last month, and it was a day Wayne and I had looked forward to for a long time. We had joked that we should throw an Independence Day party, celebrating our freedom from the most challenging of the little years, but we thought that might be somewhat offensive to our children. So instead, we went with a Survivor theme, because that is exactly how we felt about RyRy’s first year—that we survived… by God’s grace and the skin of our teeth, we survived. Now for another 17 more years...

With little steam left after a whirlwind May, RyRy almost didn't have a party. The thought of putting together a huge celebration was just not in my bandwidth, but I also didn't want him to be that child who grows up and asks, "Where are the pictures from my first birthday party?"... only to be met with our guilty stares. And so less than a week before his birthday, I scrambled together an intimate and simple get-together of friends and family who know and love Ry and who were so essential in helping us survive this past year.

Truth be told, I have been aching to throw a Survivor-themed first birthday since Caedmon turned one, but for one reason or another, I never got to. Here, though, was my chance!

It was partially because I was tasked to cut out leaves for our upcoming VBS anyway, to make vines just like these, that I decided to go ahead with a party, Survivor-style. I figured I might as well put in the work once and get rewarded twice! And then thanks to my friend, Winnie, who pretty much runs a party supply warehouse disguised as a well-appointed home, I had access to this awesome grass skirt and other Survivor-y decorations, like faux tropical leaves and coconut tumblers (because that's exactly what survivors drink from on deserted islands).

Our menu for the day: kalua pig (that was SO easy to make in the slow cooker), sesame chicken strips from Teriyaki Time, a vinaigrette slaw, white rice, Hawaiian rolls, fruit skewers, and chocolate chip cookies with coconut and macadamia nuts. Ry's birthday cake was the chocolate cake I always make; this time, the toasted coconut not only tasted good, but it fit the theme perfectly! (In actuality, Survivors from the show usually starve or "feast" on plain rice porridge... We were pretty kind to our guests, in my opinion.)

What does one wear to a Survivor party? If we were sticklers to the theme, we would all wear close to nothing, but camo pants with a onesie works pretty well, too!

Our one activity for the day—what I called our "immunity challange"—was the same one we played at Addie's first birthday, in which we instructed guests to bring a non-food, non-toy item that would entice RyRy's attention. They were pitted against one another in heats, shaking their objects and trying to get Ry to crawl towards them and choose their object, thus advancing them to the next round until we had one winner, the "Ultimate Survivor"!

Though Auntie Fay didn't win the title of Ultimate Survivor, she gets points for Most Creative "Item"—Uncle Ed!

Here, Caedmon stands in for Aunt Sam with her item, the empty bubble bottle. 

And here Ry goes...

He questions the bubble bottle. Looks at Uncle Ed...

And he goes for the bubble bottle!

Caedmon celebrates with a victory dance!

Aunt Sam is our Ultimate Survivor! That immunity necklace looks good on her.

(Though, it was brought up to us later—by Steven, Sam's husband—that Sam's item, the bubble bottle, was technically a toy originally, so she should actually have been disqualified from the competition. I suppose she outwitted us...)

RyRy with my side of the family. (You can't fully tell, but Wayne and I are purposely dressed like Jeff Probst, the host of the show Survivor.)

Favors: more chocolate chip cookies, but wrapped in whatever tropical island paraphernalia I could find in my closet. Raffia works!

And because we were so busy (and because he's our third??), I forgot to take his one-year photo until a whole month later! But RyRy, know that you are loved and liked, and we are so, so thankful for you! Happy birthday, little boy!