Dear Calvin,

Happy Birthday Baby Boy – Big Boy. People have asked: “can you believe he’s already three?” And I think, “he’s ONLY three?” Because I cannot remember life without you. In my heart you have always been here, and it’s as if life before you came was somehow before – a fuzzy, irredescent dream that only vaguely resembles me.

Now life has really begun, for both me and you. You are three, and it is practically ordained to be a time of great adventure. I feel as if there will be very little Daddy and I can do to stop you in your curious and exciting discoveries that are to come. I am excited for you, a little aprehensive for me.

I also want to tell you, because I want you to know, because you probably won’t remember much of this year of your life. But I want you to know, because in the years to come, when life will get stormy and hazy and hard to navigate at times, I want you to know, that when you were three – just three years here on earth, three years from leaving Heavenly Father, which is hardly a heartbeat in the whole of time – that you, you, who you are, and what you are: is so good. I want you to know that at age three you show so much love, goodness, and compassion to those around you. I am astonished at your sensitivity to others, your small heart is so great. I love you little boy. Remember that you are wonderful, loved, and precious. Remember it all your days, even when it’s hard. Take my word for it.

I love having a three year old boy.

Oh, dear summer time . . .

The other night I was putting my babies to bed. It had been a long day. A good day, a normal day. But I was so ready to be done. Jammies were on, teeth were brushed, books were read. I knelt with my three little ones, ready for prayers. This last part of the ritual proved to be the breaking point. Calvin started crying, wailing, at the impending bedtime. Everett joined in, not knowing why he was crying, just sure it must be done with gusto. Olivia, upset at the symphony – no, rock band of noise accompanying her prayer, began to pray louder and more whiny with each word. Then she stalled. “Thank thee . . . . um, thank thee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .” looking at the ceiling, around the room, “thank thee . . . . . ”

“Olivia, finish your prayer!” I hissed in a voice too loud to be a whisper.

“Thank thee . . . . . . . . ”

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, I thought. This isn’t right. I couldn’t even conjure up the strength to say my own prayer. I just thought of how the whole thing was all wrong.

Where was my soothing, motherly spirit? The one that could whisper away every tear and sadness, the one who taught reverence by every aspect of my being, the one who had simple faith that emulated – no, radiated, from my being, giving peace to all in my presence?

Five years ago, I was ready to have kids. It’s about time, my in-laws said. Even Wyatt, who had said from the start “when you’re ready, I’m ready,” had begun to wonder.

Thou shalt not put off having children – saith the Mormon Doctrine. Thou must create temples of clay for the children of God.

Very imposing. Very demanding. Very, very intimidating.

No way, jose! I told Wyatt as we dated. Not until I’m ready. I don’t care about finances, or education, or pressure from other people (we received adequate of all of those). I won’t have kids until I’m ready.

See, here’s the thing: I knew I wanted children. I’ve always wanted children. I’ve always wanted a family. I knew I would love having babies, that I would adore them and revel in my role of mother. But . . . not until I was sure I was enough. Let me clarify: prior to the moment of crowning glory (serious pun), no one is enough for motherhood. But I wanted to be enough for me. I wanted to know that I had developed and persued and explored my life, to look back fondly, to draw chuckles in the future, and to exclaim with full joy, I had lived.

I remember the night I told Wyatt “I was ready.” The moment came after months of serious contemplation. As soon as the words were out, tears started streaming down my face. They weren’t no tears of joy either! They were tears of fear, intimidation. I had an overwhelming sense of a tidal wave about to crash over my head.

Six weeks later I threw up for the first time. Heavenly Father didn’t give me a moment to reconsider. In spite the never ending nausea, and the general stress of aformentioned circumstances, excitement, thrill, jubilation took over. I was about to step into the light of the highest glory God has given- a gift reserved for only his daughters – a glory that would become a part of me forever.

And then the sacred day came, Olivia was born.

Fast forward four and a half years, three children are under foot. One is usually in need of a bum change. Occasionally all three are crying at the same time. More often all three are happy as can be. That tidal wave has crashed. The waters have receeded. I have been sucked out into the ocean, with no sandy floor beneath my feet. Sometimes I can barely keep my head above water. Sometimes I float on my back and marvel at the glory of the endless possibilities. Sometimes I’m just (metaphorically speaking) sea sick.

Prayers were said, babies were put to bed. I bit my tongue and held my breath as I kissed each good night, then rushed to the peace of my front porch, where weeping and wailing could not be heard. I wondered at my inability to sooth, to teach reverence in that moment of prayer. And then I thought, triumphantly, that no harsh words were spoken, no voices I would regret later. A smile spread across my face, I had endured to the end . . . of the day. I had endured it well. Perhaps the radiating faith thing was meant for the sage. Perhaps motherhood was meant as an everyday glory.