So how is it being a mother of three?

I get this question often.

I'm a little over five weeks into this new gig, and I still don't know how to answer it.

Let me keep it real.

My BRAIN.IS.MUSH.

You've heard of pregnancy brain, right? Well a friend once told me that pregnancy brain never goes away even after you have kids. She was right. But what she failed to tell me is that with each kid, I would get dumber. Not dumber in the IQ sense but dumber in the "oh my gosh, I'm going to forget one of my kids at the grocery store" sense. And no, I haven't done that.

Yet.

Here are a just a few examples of the effect my mushy brain has had on my still living and breathing family.

During my first week home with Miss Greta I left the house without the diaper bag. Twice. Two nights in a row. You'd think I would have learned the first time I left the house without the necessities of traveling with a child who poops through clothes, spits up constantly and requires an endless supply of baby wipes. Not to mention, this nursing mom doesn't go anywhere without her nursing cover. Unless I want to get my Mardi Gras on.

And just today I thought I was getting ahead of the game when I sprayed down the entire bathtub with bleach-infused 409 cleanser. I insisted that my husband bathe the kids this evening as our early summer has taken a toll under their fingernails and on the bottoms of their pigs. As I could hear my children splashing in the bathtub, it hit me. I never rinsed out the bathtub. It was still caked with bleach-infused 409. And now my precious little minis were swimming in it. Of course at the time of this realization I was nursing. So I took my baby-latched-to-boob and bolted up the stairs screaming, "Get the kids out of the bathtub!" The look my husband gave me said it all. I had lost my ever loving mind. I was showerless, spit-up stained, droopy eyed, and now running up the stairs topless while screaming. And you thought Kony 2012s Jason Russell went off the deep? He ain't got nothin' on this crazy lady.

But my husband is a gracious man. As he stared at me and all my lunacy, he knew his best bet was to scoop the kids out of the tub and not say another word.

Oh, and have you heard about the cake incident?

My dear cousin baked me a scrumptious chocolate cake for my 32nd birthday (love ya, Lis). She generously gave me the leftover cake contained perfectly in a plastic cake caddy. Finding no room to store it in my kitchen, I thoughtlessly threw it in the oven knowing I'd pull it out the next morning for breakfast (I'm 32. I can eat whatever I darn well please for breakfast, thankyouverymuch).

But I didn't. Breakfast turned into lunch and realizing my children might starve if I didn't feed them fast, I turned on the oven so that I could serve them an overwhelmed mother's dream meal: frozen pizza.

And then it happened.

You know when people ask you how you are doing after having a baby, and the cliche answer is something like, "If everybody is alive by the end of the day, then we succeeded," well those words have never rung so true as the day that I almost burned down the house because of my birthday cake.

But we are all alive and still in one piece. And no thanks to me.

Because being a mother of three ain't always pretty. In fact, it's usually very very messy. And it requires a heck of a lot more brain cells than I have left (no thanks to my early 20s).

Seriously and truly all thanks be to God. He is the only reason we are surviving. And as evidenced by these pictures, these precious little lives are worth every humbling lunatic moment I've endured and will endure.

Bring.

It.

On.

The santa dilemma

You better watch out. Santa Claus is coming to our house.

And I'm excited about that. The Santa buzz around here is building and I'm eager to find out what that jolly ol' dude has in store for my family.

But here's the dilemma. There's a truth about Santa that some of you might already know, and some folks think that Santa's truth is getting in the way of The Truth. The Truth that is living and breathing and blossoming in my heart. The Truth that means everything to me. And Lord willing, that Truth will mean everything to my precious children.

Recently I read a post here and a post here, and believe it or not, they both resonated beautifully with me. But how can I be moved by one author who doesn't celebrate Christmas with Santa and presents while agreeing with another author who not only celebrates Christmas with Santa Claus, but get this, she flat out believes in the ol' man?! How can I hide elves humorously around my home each night while praying intensely for my dear friend whose non-Santa practicing family is sacrificially spending their Christmas loving on a country and a people who so desperately need Jesus?

I don't know.

But I do.

And for what it's worth, here's where I've landed, at least for now:

1) I love a child's imagination. LOVE. My absolute most magical memories of childhood are my daydreams and make believes. When my childhood was lonely, I dreamed and imagined up a friend of my very own. Her name was Dorothy, and I still love her. My parents never fussed at me about Dorothy. They let her have a seat at our table and they brought her a water cup along with mine. And I thank them for that, for allowing me Dorothy.

I think this is where I find Santa in all this. It's an opportunity for me to engage in my children's imaginations. If only for a few years, it will be delightful to whip up silly stories and fanciful tales about elves and reindeer and chimneys. Some might call me a liar. I call me a dreamer.

2) If I do my job right, there will be no confusion about Jesus & Santa. If I preach THE TRUTH about Jesus all year round, then what's the difference in December? There is no difference. We still celebrate Jesus in December just as we do in February and August. His miraculous and holy birth. His eternal gift of life. His grace and mercy. Definitely His mercy. It was only this morning that I pulled into our driveway and asked my children for forgiveness and we sat there, the van in park, praying and praising because God is merciful when I'm impatient and snippy and wretched. It's the week of Christmas and I'm as broken as ever. Santa might be able to deliver happiness in a wind-up toy, but only Jesus can deliver pure, undeserved joy.

In my world, we can sit on Santa's lap on Wednesday and walk through the life size nativity on Saturday. We can write a letter to the North Pole and paint a picture of the blessed nativity.

It's not an either-or. And yet the two don't get equal playing time. Jesus will always be the King of this home.

For me and my household, we will serve the Lord.

Jesus will always be the reason. The reason we breathe. The reason we love. The reason we celebrate. Santa and his shiny bells are nothing more than a fantasy that we bring to life. Jesus, He is our life. He is our heartbeat and our breath. Fantasy ain't got nothin' on our faith - our daily bread.

In a few short days, my minis will wake from their sugar-plum-filled visions to stockings full of trinkets delivered magically by a sleigh. And we will thank Jesus. Thank Him for blessing us with a loving home, warm beds, a full fridge, and precious dreams.

And don't worry. We paid Santa a visit last week. And one thing's for sure. Jesus has never received this kind of reaction from my kids.

*These pictures are from last year's Santa visit. There was only slight improvement this year. I'll share more soon.

Grandma Hollywood and the minis

During Grandma Hollywood's recent visit to oh-Alison-it's-too-cold-here Ohio, I spent a morning with her and my two minis. The nearly 90 years between them brought forth a range of encounters, some endearing, some frustrating, and some just plain hysterical.

For starters, my kids don't perceive age. They see Grandma Hollywood's thin coarse white hair and say, "Great Grams' hair is funny." Nor do they perceive the limitations that come with age. They expect her to scoop them up to her level, and bless her still beating heart, she tries. And it breaks mine to watch her disappointment when she realizes that her ability to lift a small child is forever in her past. My spunky and gregarious daughter is unaware that when she barrels into Grandma Hollywood's 90 year old legs, she risks knocking my grandmother to the floor, a fall from which Grandma literally might not recover.

And yet Grandma Hollywood lives as if the life-threatening fall would be worth it. When Miss Harper Lynn looked at her and said, "Chase me, Great Grams," Grandma Hollywood looked at me and said, "What did she say?" I responded, "She wants you to chase her." Grandma only grinned, and sure enough, she started her feeble chase, a snail's pace behind my hare of a daughter. And my 2 year old baby girl only knew one thing, she was being chased. The burst of squeals and giggles that ensued were as dramatic and effervescent as if the chase might actually result in a catch.

As I sat with my grandmother listening to her repeat the stories I had heard dozens of times before, I juggled my annoyance of her faulty memory with the constant needs of my kids, "I need to poop! I need to poop! I keep tooting and I need to poop!" No matter how high her hearing aids were turned up, Grandma Hollywood needed clarification on almost everything the kids said, "What is he talking about, Alison?"

Well, Grandma, do you really want to know?

Though I'd love for you to believe that each exchange between my grandmother and children results in pure joy and laughter, there is much harmony to be desired.

Typical of most three year old boys, my son sees pillows and immediately thinks fort. As he pulled the decorative pillows from the couch, Grandma Hollywood became intensely concerned. "Alison, do you see what he's doing?"

Me: "Yes, he's fine, Grandma."

Grandma Hollywood: "But he's pulled all of the pillows off of the couch."

Me: "I know Grandma; he's just playing."

Grandma Hollywood walked away in obvious disapproval of my son's creativity and my kids-these-days parenting. And typical of most three year old boys, it was a mere five minutes before Henry was distracted, leaving the pillow fort glaring at my grandmother. She wasted no time. I've never seen feeble bones move so fast. In record time, she had each of those pillows fluffed and positioned back on the couch ready for a magazine cover shoot, thankyouverymuch.

There wasn't much to say when my son ran back into the room and blurted, "What happened to my fort?!"

I took one look at my now-playing-dumb grandmother and turned back to my son, saying what every good granddaughter would say, "Go play."

As I sat across from my 90 year old grandmother, a woman whose grace has deteriorated while her opinions have intensified, I wonder if she remembers the days when her four children were small, imaginative bursts of energy. "Alison, Henry didn't finish his lunch." "Alison, what is that noise?" "Alison, where did Harper go?" "Alison, don't your children wear socks?" "Alison, Henry went into the bathroom." "Alison, Harper is climbing on the table." Alison. Alison. Alison. The thoughts swirling in my mind were not of a very good granddaughter.

The sweet and gentle Mrs. Claus of a grandmother who I remember has evolved into a nosey, nagging, negative Nancy. And yet as I gather my minis to say goodbye to the woman who still travels solo 2000+ miles from California to spend time with us, she clasps her thin-skinned hands around my face and directs her macular degenerated eyes directly into mine. With pure sincerity and warmth, she says to me, "Alison, I love you and your family so so much." She doesn't let go. She stays there for what seems like minutes. And I begin to melt, remembering only a fraction of what she has survived in a near century: the loss of a twin and mother during birth, the horrors of a wicked stepmother, the passing of a spouse, and the sudden death of a child.

And it's no surprise that within minutes of her departure, I long for her company once again, kicking myself for the moments squandered because of my irritability and impatience. The distance now between us truly does cause my heart to swell, and I become saddened as I think of her now home alone, her only companion the chiming clock that strikes every 15 minutes, a sobering reminder of the minutes passing, her memory fading, her brain diminishing, and her body failing.

Thank you, Jesus, for Grandma Hollywood. Wrap her in Your comfort and peace as she suffers the countless losses that come with her age. Help me to remember the blessing it is to still have a living grandparent. And give me patience and a controlled tongue in those moments when I want to load her back on a plane destined for California.

Proud to be a Buckeye MOM!

We are 13+ years away from the day Henry will declare his commitment to The Ohio State University, accepting a full athletic scholarship, thankyouverymuch. And I imagine that will be one of my proudest days as a Buckeye mom.

But even at 3 years old, my little Buckeye is already making his mother's scarlet and gray heart swell.

For those of you who don't know, my incredible husband recently cycled 100 miles in the Pelotonia - an event that raised money for cancer research. Matt was a member of Team Buckeye, and two weeks before the ride, Team Buckeye hosted a Biking with Brutus event at the Horseshoe.

It. Was. Awesome.

AWESOME.

One end of the stadium was converted into a carnival with tons of activities for kids. The highlight of the evening was a bike ride for children, allowing the kids to ride the perimeter of the football field. Present that evening were plenty of Buckeye All-Stars: Brutus, the cheerleaders, the pep band, Dr. Gordon Gee, and ARCHIE!!! The event was only open to families of Team Buckeye, making for an intimate atmosphere.

I tell you what, the riders had to raise a LOT of money for Pelotonia, but each rider committed $100 of their own to cover the cost of the ride (that allowed for all financial support raised to go directly to cancer research). The Team Buckeye event alone was worth the $100 - it was such a blast.

Brutus & Henry - my heart skips a beat.

Though Harper loves Brutus, she was a bit skeptical of the live-and-in-person version.

My son in the end zone. Surely this is a glimpse into his future :)

Oma & Opa joined us. Opa was also a member of Team Buckeye.

Henry plays OSUMB daily. Lately he's been obsessed with the sousaphones. I tear up just thinking of him dotting the i.

Brutus, Archie and a few other characters rode on giant tricycles. Brutus was such a good sport - slowing down so that each kid passed him. Henry still talks about how he beat Brutus in the race.

Every good sporting event needs a cute cheerleader.

Notice my Dad pointing? He's telling Dr. Gee, "That's my grandson!"

And they're off!

Typical Henry, distracted by an airplane.

The final stretch.

You see a medal. I see a Heisman Trophy.

By far the best picture of the evening. Even you freaks non-Buckeye fans can appreciate the awesomeness of this moment.

Thank you, Team Buckeye! And thank you to all the Pelotonia riders. I adore you all for making such a commitment to eliminate this horrific disease.

Family Picture FAIL

At our Fourth of July celebration, we tried to get a family picture.

It was painful - literally.

And an epic fail.





Until the next time . . .

Grandma Hollywood turns NINETY!

Remember Grandma Hollywood? The matriarch and queen bee of my family? Did I mention that twice a year she travels over 2000 miles from beautifully pleasant California to Grandma-really-likes-to-complain-about-the-weather Ohio - and she travels ALONE?! I know, I know, she's amazing.

So this year she flew out in June, one month before her 90th birthday. And let me tell you, my grandma looks damn good for 90. When I realized that my maternal grandmother was turning 90, I first thought, "Crap. I don't want those genes. I don't want to live until 90." But then I looked at the gal and thought, "Shoot! Screw 90. I'll live until 100 if it means looking like that." She's pretty hot, a fact that has been confirmed by her neighbor who has offered to "keep her company" if she's ever interested. The man can't keep his paws off of her. But don't you worry. Grandma Hollywoood's lived in Southeast LA for over 50 years making her the Mamacita de Samoline Avenue Locos and she ain't messin' wit no hombre.

So where was I? Yes, my hottie-bo-bottie almost 90-year-old Grandma flew out for a visit, and my always hospitable mamma decided to throw Grandma a surprise birthday bash. It was touching to see how many people gave up their Friday night to celebrate my Grandma - most of these people only knowing her from Grandma's occasional visits.

Her actual birthday isn't until July 24th, so she was obviously surprised to know that all these people showing up were there to honor her.

It was one of those amazing nights where I sat back and breathed in all the love that my family shares.

And I thank God that Grandma Hollywood is still around to share in that love.

While everyone was gathering outside, my parents' dog, Heidi, sampled the birthday cake.

And naturally, these two had to sample the key lime pie. It's a good thing that the dog and kids are cute.

We spent most of the night in my parents' backyard. It was beautiful.

The only thing missing was the rest of the family. My Grandma has three daughters and one son (her son has passed). Aside from my mom, her family, and my cousin Jared's family, everyone else lives in Southern California. The California family would celebrate Grandma's birthday at a later date.

9 candles - one for each decade.

Grandma with her youngest great-grandbaby. 88 years between them - amazing.

It's not easy shopping for a woman who has already started giving away many of her valuables. Nonetheless she had some wonderful gifts to open.

Bless my mom's heart. She read each and every card to my Grandma. Grandma can only read when wearing her magnifying eyeglasses and she can't hear unless her hearing aids are cranked to the max.

Grandma laughed a lot. It was such a blessing to watch her so joyful.

That's Pauline playing with Jenson. Pauline is one of my mom's dearest friends, and Pauline just happened to be my middle school guidance counselor. Pauline is really really good with middle schoolers and toddlers. It's peculiar, really.

My sister and dad. Love.

If you want your face to look thin in a photograph, stick your neck out. See?

I gave my grandmother a framed picture of all 7 of her great-grandbabies. Needless to say she couldn't tell who was who in the picture. She said, "I'll have to get out my magnifying glass and look at this later."

This is what happens when you give a 90-year-old a pair of white capri pants, elastic waist, size 8. She was ELATED. No seriously, she was so thrilled to be given those darn pants. Apparently my mom and Grandma had been to several stores only days before and could not find a pair to save their lives. All it took my fashionably savvy sister was a visit to ONE store to find the perfect pair. Thank you Penny's!

Here Morgan explains how she is awesome and found the magical pants. My Grandma's face says, "I'm in disbelief that you found white capri pants, elastic waist, size 8."

What kids don't love a party? Our friend, Aaron, came over with his niece, Audrey. The four minis were instant friends.

Getting four minis to sit still on a hammock proved impossible as you can see by how blurry the kids are in this picture.

I'm fairly certain this was their second helping of cake.

Harper had some very important "older women" questions to ask Audrey.

Crazy cuteness.

That's Susie. Another dear friend of my mom's. I just adore these women for loving on my Grandma so stinkin' well.

Did I mention that Pauline is also really funny? At least my 90 year old Grandma thinks so.

Audrey really wanted to be in our family picture. We kindly kicked her out.

Grandma with the Nameth clan.

Grandma with her Ohio family. Jared was in Cambodia and Ella & Jake were in California so only Lisa and Jenson made it to the party. Pauline is standing behind the camera trying to get the kids to smile. She was playing peek-a-boo, and instead of smiling, Harper was imitating.

Happy Birthday, Grandma Hollywood. I would not be surprised if in 10 years we are celebrating your 100th. You're a lifer.

The Hooper Family

What can I say? The Hooper Family - they are so so so dear to me.

They are my husband's family. Technically they are my husband's family on his dad's side. My father-in-law, Roger, has one brother and a half sister. Between them there are 7 kids and 10 grandbabies.

What I love most about them is that they have loved this sheltered city girl from the minute they met me. These folks are country bred, still living and breathing the sweet country breeze, and yet they don't treat me like the foreigner I am. Not only have they embraced me, but they've opened my eyes to a different way of life, where slowin' down means savoring each moment and simplicity brings a greater appreciation of each opportunity.

Memorial Day weekend we traveled south for the annual Shrimp Boil at Matt's cousin's Scott's house. The first time I went to Scott's house we came home with one of Scott's dead birds - alive only minutes before we loaded up for home. Scott gave it to Matt so that Matt could train our new pup to fetch birds. It was a learning curve for me like no other. Not only was I learning that my sweet labrador puppy needed a freshly-whacked bird to fetch if he was gonna be a huntin' dog, but I was also learning that it wasn't uncommon to keep birds for the purpose of training dogs. Like raising a rat to feed a snake or keeping live crickets to feed a pet lizard, some folks keep birds as eventual bait for training dogs. And now our cooler full of Stella Artois had been overtaken by a very dead and bloody bird.

I remember driving home that night in disbelief. I was raised in the 'burbs, for goodness sakes. We lived on a cul-de-sac ruled by pages of zoning laws and building codes - uniform mailboxes, three-inch grass lawns, city-approved fencing, and absolutely no hunting.

Now I'm married to a man who moved a refrigerator-size gun safe into my home. There was a time when I celebrated seasons by shopping Banana Republic's new fall line. Now the seasons in my life are defined by doves and ducks and deer.

But here's a secret. And please don't tell my husband (because there's a gorgeous leather purse at BR that I've been drooling over), but I actually like my city girl meets country boy life. I like it a lot a lot a lot. I love that my husband taught me to shoot a gun in his parents backyard. I love that my kids are growing up surrounded by four-wheelers and above-ground pools. Even though I'm still learning to stomach some of the country life, I'm so thankful that my kids will have exposure to both the city and the country - making memories that I never had the opportunity to make.

Honestly, I didn't think I'd feel this way when I married Matt. I assumed our urban surroundings would gradually take their toll, pulling him farther away from his firm country roots. But God has shown me that He has no such plans. In fact, God has slowly tugged on my heart, revealing Himself to me in the most precious ways on my in-laws 400-acre property in a small town that the Hoopers have called home for well over a century.

Through my marriage, I have been given the blessing of experiencing a different culture. And it is an honor to watch as that culture seeps its way into my own, a merger were the dividing lines are blurring, creating a family that has a love for things both here and there.

For that I am so thankful.

I love this family.

Community.

It's one of my favorite words. Honestly, truly. Not because I like it phonetically or linguistically, but because I love what it means.

I love that we can be in a community and of a community and those two can look drastically different. I love that when I look out the window, into my community, I see my many neighbors and know that each of them represent hundreds, maybe even thousands, of different communities to which they belong.

I love that I live in a small Midwest American suburban community and yet feel strongly a part of an infinitely-enormous multi-cultural multi-ethnic multi-lingual eternal community.

Community.

Recently, we spent an evening with some folks who share both our physical community and our eternal community.

We live in a small condominium development that sits directly across the street from a large neighborhood of single family homes. The neighborhood is great, and in fact, it's on our list of neighborhoods we'd consider moving to if/when we sell our condo (Lord willing). I wouldn't say it's at the top of the list, but it's up there.

At least that was the case until recently.

Last month we gathered with five other families who live in that neighborhood. It just so happens that a handful of our friends from our church community live in the neighborhood-across-the-street. And it was this recent gathering of friends that made me yearn to live in their neighborhood.

There's something so special about spending the evening with dear friends who share so much - school, mayor, zip code, seasons, neighborhood association dues, floor plans, grocery store, church, and most importantly, Jesus.

I left there begging God to take away my covetous spirit - I have never wanted to move out of this condo and into a house so badly.

For now, I am thankful that these friends are kind enough to include us in their community. Though we don't technically live in the neighborhood, we are literally a stone's throw away. And for that I am so very blessed.














Acts 2:46-47
They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people.

Worst moment of my life.

If you're a parent, then you've probably been there. The moment you realize that you lost your child.

It happened to me. In my home. Sort of.

Let me set the scene. We allow our son, who is 2 years old, to play on our screened-in back porch unsupervised. On this particular morning, I could hear him playing, and playing, and playing, and then silence. But it was one of those moments where the silence didn't hit me until it had been minutes of silence.

I'm sick to my stomach even thinking about it.

What made this moment so awfully nightmarish is when I realized that he was outside and we live only feet away from a busy road.

Sick. Sick. Sick.

I was nursing my daughter at the time. I flew out of the house, with her still attached. The minute I realized he was gone, I yanked her off and set her down. I set her down so fast that she fell over and hit her head. She was screaming. I was screaming. As I ran down the back steps into our backyard, I heard the cars rushing by. I kept screaming and screaming.

And then I saw him.

He was running my way, parallel to the street.

Thank you, Lord Jesus. Thank you. Thank you.

He was safe. He was alive. And apparently he had been having the time of his life.

He was covered, absolutely covered, in mud.

I didn't care. I scooped him up so fast, and finally, I breathed.

It was then that it hit me that my heart was racing and my baby girl was on the ground, still screaming.

But I couldn't let go of him. I just couldn't.

I had just endured the absolute worst moment of my life.

As it turns out, I had failed to lock the back door (he can open the door if it's not locked). You better believe that I'm obsessive-compulsive about locking that door now.

Hours after the incident I was still edgy. No longer shaking, but I could still feel the pit in my stomach.

The thought of losing my son had become a reality. If even for a minute, it was a reality that I never, ever want to experience again.

I gave in.

Here's the truth:

I'm a lot more over-protective than I'd like to admit.

Helicopter parenting makes me bonkers, while the term free-range-parent is music to my ears.

But that was all before my son met the four-wheeler.

I first heard about it after a weekend away from my son. He and his father (I refer to my husband as "his father" anytime the two of them are getting into trouble, which happens to be more and more frequently) had gone down home (my in-laws' house) for a weekend of hunting and shooting and other city-absent activities.

I called my in-laws' house to check-in, and it was no surprise that my son and his father were unable to talk because 400 acres of pure nature are much too inviting for two trouble-making boys (I refer to my husband as a boy when he is getting into trouble with my other boy. Again, this happens to be the case more and more frequently.)

So my in-laws gave me a few updates, assuring me that both boys were doing well and having too much fun to be missing me (as evidenced by the neglect to check-in with us girls).

But in talking to my in-laws, I was suddenly blindsided with a tidbit of information that only a city-girl can appreciate.

My son, my itty-bitty baby boy, had been on the 4-wheeler. And by 4-wheeler, I mean 500 pounds of off-roading DANGER.

Oi vey.

I tried to pull myself together. Inside, I was spinning. All I could think about . . . Was he strapped in? Was he wearing a helmet? Was he, was he, was he ALIVE?

Can you tell I was raised in the city?

Fast-forward to that evening when I FINALLY spoke with my boys, and I was able to address my irrational and ridiculous rational and normal concern excitedly and fervently calmly and gently with the boy's father my husband. He listened (bless his heart), and he agreed to waiting until I was ready before my sweet, sweet boy could ride the death machine again.

You would think we were deciding on whether or not our son was old enough to ride his bike all by himself to Seven Eleven. Or use his allowance to buy a M-rated video game. Or borrow the car to take his girlfriend to a late night movie.

Breathe, Ali, breathe.

Needless to say, I had some settling down to do.

But something happened as I began to settle.

I started to realize that I wasn't really afraid of what could happen. In fact, my fear had nothing to do with my baby falling off the beast-on-wheels.

No, instead of fearing head trauma, my fear had everything to do with letting go. Letting go of my baby. And knowing that part of my job as parent is allowing him to have experiences that have nothing to do with me.

Breathe.

Sure, there was the possibility that something terrible could happen to him. But he was in the care of his grandparents and daddy who love him more than words can express.

And it's that very love that makes letting go of my little man so heartbreaking.

Knowing that my baby is beginning his journey as Henry, not as my baby. And the fact of the matter is that I won't be there for every Henry moment.

So when my son and his father went back down home for another weekend of weapons and dead turkeys, I didn't fuss. I didn't whine and search for excuses why my baby shouldn't ride the four-wheeler.

Nope. I gave in.

And if I couldn't be there to witness another of my son's Henry moments, I insisted that they at least take lots of pictures.

I love you, boys . . . both my son and his father :)