Family first

Inside our wedding bands, Bill and I inscribed "my favorite thing" (well actually, the old immigrant in the back of the jewelry store did it) to always remind us how much we mean to each other, even when life got hard.

We've learned that life is hard, and it's gotten exponentially harder since our little bundle of joy came into this world. It still amazes me how much chaos a tiny little ball of miracles can create. From the moment I learned he was in my belly, I loved him for the rest of my life. And now ... how could you not love him? Look at him. He's perfect.




















But he makes it so much harder to do everything else. Convenience is gone, and all of our efforts elsewhere have been redistributed. Work is more painful than usual, sharing our precious home time with others is touch-and-go, and all conversation centers around the baby, making our family dynamic a bit one-sided. Bill and I have felt the stress. As much as people tell you it's going to be hard, and you don't think it'll be that hard for you because you're different ... well, it is hard, and you aren't any different. We're all human.

A colleague of mine died this week. I didn't know him well -- just from saying hi around the office -- but in the way he touched so many people here, it's obvious what a good person he was. We had a memorial today and several of the people who spoke touched on how fragile life is. He was only 41, with a young son, and he was healthy -- his death was sudden and tragic. The office has become a different place in just a few days.

I've been thinking about this a lot this week -- how could you not -- and looking at my own family and the people I care about. I've been thinking about my grandmother, and what an effect her death continues to have on our family, years later. One friend, who lost his father way too early, said that something of that magnitude numbs you to any kind of surprise related to death. That statement latched onto something inside me. If it's no surprise that any one of us could be taken at any time, then what keeps us from appreciating every moment we have with each other?

It's easy to get caught up with the everyday. It's easy to pass Xavier to Bill as soon as he walks in the door, as I run to the kitchen to make a bottle, or to switch the laundry; it's just as easy for Bill to pass him back to go outside and clean up dog poop or take out the garbage. I get Xavier dressed in the morning and hand him off to Bill, who straps him in the carrier and drops him off at daycare before we both rush off to work. In all that time of running seconds (or half-hours) late, do we stop for a kiss? Do we even look at each other? Sometimes.

But sometimes isn't good enough. Those two guys -- one big and one little -- encompass my whole life. And while there definitely isn't enough time in the day to work and sleep and cook and clean and blog (sorry, ex-loyal followers) and relax, what does any of that mean if I don't connect with the people who mean everything to me?

It means nothing. My family -- related by blood, marriage or heart -- is my life. I want to make sure I raise my own young son to realize that too.