Portrait of a (Little) Lady

(Photo by Cami Dickey Jones)

A common scene:  I hear Amelia stirring in her bedroom in the early hours of morning.  I open the door, watch her lingering between asleep and awake as the sun kisses her hair through the window.  I walk over to her bed, and say, “Good morning, Sweetie.”  She sucks her thumb a few moments more, then suddenly springs to life.  “Mommy, did I growed up yet?”

She is fixated on growing up, and assesses everybody we meet by whether they are more or less grown than she.  Her determination to become big breaks my heart, as you must know.

But the girl is growing up.  She has changed so much, even in the last month.  Gone are the frequent tantrums. Gone are the constant power struggles that so recently plagued us night and day.  She is, for the most part, reasonable.  She listens.  She considers.  She comes up with solutions to problems, and talks about the process in those terms.  She knows the difference between real and pretend.  She suddenly knows that animals don’t talk and that houses don’t fly.  She is getting so much braver when it comes to, well, everything.  Oh, it grieves my soul.  Truly, it is the end of an era, of her toddlerhood, and toddlerhood is my very favorite stage of human-ness.

But she is blossoming, and it is magical to watch.  She paints.  She sculpts.  She sings and dances and “whistles.”  She spins magical tales of monsters and monkeys and little girls and boys.  She watches Curious George and Caillou and Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood with a concentration of which I am incapable of mustering.  She reads stories, and studies every last detail of the pages.  She remembers everything.  She knows the words to songs after listening to them twice. (Her favorites are What does the Fox Say, Roar, Cups, and All the Single Ladies.) 

She is sweet and sensitive and shy.  She watches everybody and hears everything.  Everything.  Everything.

We go for walks and play games like “I spy” and “Be on the Lookout for Halloween-y Things.”   We go on hiking exploration expeditions, and hunt for treasures like rocks and leaves and shells.

We explore zoos and botanical gardens and parks.  We roll down hills, play, “You’ll never catch me,” and lie on the grass to watch the trees rain leaves or the clouds moving across the sky or birds and airplanes flying.

 

I treasure every second that I get to spend with my girls.  I know how transient this phase of my life is, so in the same moment I kiss Amelia’s hair and breathe in its apple-flavored deliciousness, my heart breaks because I know this child is leaving me a little every day.  She has been leaving me her whole life, really, since the moment she slipped out of my body three and a half years ago. 

Occasionally when she is having a rough day she reverts to baby talk.  I gather her in my arms and start saying “Goochy goochy goo!” and the likes.  She giggles but then solemnly asserts, in her sweet, sing-songy voice, “Mom, I’m not a baby anymore!  I growed up.”

Grow on, baby girl.  I’m behind you every step of the way, wiping my eyes just a little bit as we go.

(Photo by Melanie Isaak Photography)

Preservation

My super-talented cousin Melanie (of Melanie Isaak Photography, highly recommended) took some family photos for us.  Because I’ve been anxious about Tim’s blood clot, my emotions have been a bit raw the last couple weeks.  As a result, I’ve tried to make the happy moments with my family last as long as possible.  Just up to my old antics, trying to freeze time and such, except with increased fervor.   So when Melanie sent the CD with our photos, I may have cried a little.

Photos are important to me – documenting memories, capturing developmental stages, recording happiness.  Photos help me do the impossible – they freeze time. 

Thank you Melanie!

Blood and snuggle parties

It’s been several hours and five days since Tim texted me with the news that his doctors found a very large blood clot in his leg – the same leg that was shattered earlier this summer and required major surgery.

We knew this was a post-surgery risk, and he took all the usual precautions: elevating his leg, walking around frequently, doing heel-toe stretches, etc.  We’re so surprised he developed a clot at all because he has a tendency to bruise very easily; in fact, we thought he might have a clotting-deficiency disorder. 

And now this.

Deep vein thrombosis is scary.   If a part of the clot breaks off and travels to his lungs, it could be fatal.  My sister-in-law Jill lost her best friend earlier this year to a pulmonary embolism.  The statistics are in our favor (especially now that he’s being treated with blood thinners), but I am still terrified.  Like, I can’t sleep.   I can’t really write about it without my chest tightening and feeling like I’m going to choke.

I need my Tim.  There is nothing like a crisis to make you appreciate the mundane.  Tonight at dinner I  felt like I just never wanted to stop eating potato and leek soup together.

Here are Tim’s legs – one is quite swollen due to the clot preventing optimal venous return:

Tim thinks the swelling has actually gone down, so hopefully he is on the mend.   Thank you for your thoughts and prayers and calls and texts – they mean so much.

In the meantime, I’m trying to take things one moment at a time.   Luckily, there are a lot of good moments, like spontaneous snuggle / tickle-fight parties.

Lily.

My beloved baby broke my heart and turned a year old.  A whole year old.   I made her a slide show with the song that inspired her name – Lily. To me, this song is about a mother mourning the loss of her baby as she grows up (could also be from the perspective of somebody who has lost a child, but I prefer my interpretation for obvious reasons). 

We had a nice party – family and friends came, we ate cake, and Cami and Bryn staged a delightful photoshoot. 

As per birthday tradition, I wrote a letter.

My dearest, sweetest, funniest little Lily Love,

You have been with us for one year. One giant year, but also such a small, fast blink of a year. How did we ever live without you making us laugh so many times a day? We love you - in case there is any doubt - you are loved, loved, loved, loved, loved.

You have never cared much for sleeping by yourself, so you sleep snuggled with me every night. When you wake up in the morning you crawl over, pounce on my belly or neck or face, and start giggling. You are such a happy little girl.

You are courageous - you want to try every activity, go everywhere, taste everything. You love grapes and cheese and yogurt.

On June 30, 2013 you took your first steps at a birthday party for your cousin Mary Kate.  Soon you were walking, then walking backwards, pivoting, running, and running with objects. You love to gather up several toys and go running across the floor shrieking with joy.  Oh my, you love shrieking. You sound like a baby bird or pterodactyl. You fall constantly. Usually you just look annoyed before getting up and carrying on with your adventures.  We call you "Honey Badger" because you hardly ever get hurt or cry.

You love your older sister Amelia so much. You follow her everywhere, demand to try anything she's eating, and attempt to be part of her every movement. She loves you, too. If she ever wakes up and you're not around, she bursts into tears and cries, "Mommy, where's my sister?" You are already best friends. You play dolls, and "pets" (Amelia ties a rope to one of you, and the other holds the other end like a leash), and you play doctor quite often. Amelia's number one complaint is that you won't hold still very well while she's giving you shots and taking your blood pressure and such. BECAUSE YOU NEVER HOLD STILL! You are constantly running, crawling, rolling, or climbing.

You love books so much. About twenty times a day, you bring me or Daddy a book and say, "Read a book!" Your favorite books are Goodnight Gorilla and Goodnight Moon, but you like any books with animals. Especially dogs.

Your first word, in fact, was "doggie."  We go walking every evening, and often stop at a playground near a dog park.  You dissolve into uncontainable giggles and shrieks when you see the doggies.  Once, a woman let you pet her black Labrador retriever. You were content to pet it for a few minutes, but then you threw your whole body onto the dog and gave her a full-body hug as you patted her back.  It made me so sad we don't have a doggie for you. But you have plenty of stuffed animals and dollies.  And you call them all "doggie."

You can say quite a few things now:

- Doggie
- Mama
- Daddy
- Read a book
- Thank you
- Give me the ball
- my ball!

This is not surprising - you have not stopped babbling since the second you were born. On and on and on, you chatter the days away. I love the sound of your babbling, your laughing, and your giggling. You are even noisy when you go to sleep. You make a funny humming noise and stick your chin out. So adorable. You love songs and often "sing" along with songs (it is hilarious and sweet at the same time). You are remarkably good at banging your toy drum in rhythm with songs or chants. We are sure you have lots of music in your future. You love dancing, and your favorite dancing song is "All the Single Ladies" by Beyonce. You bounce up and down, shake your head back and forth, clap your hands, and stop along to the beat. So, so cute.

You have the funniest laugh ever. When you were in daycare, you would often start cackle-laughing, and the other babies would join in with the cackling. The women who took care of you while Daddy and I were at work absolutely loved you and said you were the class clown that made everybody laugh.

You love being outside - you often go to the door and pound on it for me to let you out. Once outside, you run around like a crazy child, inspecting every rock and flower and leaf and bug. You love nature, and it's a good thing, because you and I are going on a week-long backpacking trip in a few days! I am so excited to be able to spend so much time with you right by my side (or on my belly as the case will be when we're hiking with you in the Bjorn).

You are the most determined little creature I have ever met. Once you have set your mind to something, you do not give up. Daddy once watched you try to put on one of Amelia's shoes for a solid hour. Finally we gave you some of my shoes - you got them right on, and my goodness were you pleased with yourself!

Lily, you make our family so happy. You are beautiful and lovely and sweet and funny and delightful. We love you so much and are so glad you are here. At Mary Kate's birthday party, you suddenly started chasing her golden-doodle Winnie across the floor. I kept saying, "Where are you going, Lily? .. Lily, where are you going?" Finally, you paused, turned around, shot me an exasperated look, and shouted, "DOGGIE!" before crawling furiously after the object of your desire. It gave me a glimpse into your future, you tenacious, silly, crazy, busy, dizzy baby.

I love you,

Mommy.

The consequences of going up against The Brynster

At a recent mini family reunion, my family went out back into my parent’s backyard for a game of kickball.  It started out pretty mellow, but my family tends to get pretty competitive when it comes to… ummm… everything.  Including children’s games.   Tim fits right in.

During one particular play, Tim was running to second base.  My nine-year-old niece Bryn had the ball and was trying to tag him out.  Tim planted a foot in an effort to change directions and avoid the out.  His foot stopped, but the rest of his leg kept going.  Everybody present heard a loud “pop,” and all sources report that Tim very calmly fell to the ground, grabbed his ankle, and with barely a grimace, stated, “Yep, it’s broken.”

Zack and Peter rushed him to the ER, where he continued to be a stalwart patient and apparently had correctly diagnosed the damage before the doctor even saw him.

“Broken” turned out to be an understatement.  He has a classic maisoneuve fracture, which means that he has a distal tibula fracture (of the media maleolus) a spiral proximal fibula fracture, a syndesmosis (interosseous membrane) rupture, and a deltoid ligament rupture.  Basically, his leg is a hot mess.

A few days later, he underwent surgery:

They placed three screws and a “tight rope” in his ankle.

Two weeks post surgery:

I have to say Tim has been really, extremely easy to deal with given the extent of his injury.  He has barely complained at all, and has continued to help with the girls and the house work as much as possible.  He has also humored me and my distaste for staying cooped up inside the house for too long.  In the last two weeks, we’ve been jet skiing (he mostly didn’t go jet skiing and played with the kids on the sand), camping, and out for several scenic drives even though car rides are pretty painful for him with all the jolting and such (I’m not the smoothest driver, turns out.) 

He’ll be using crutches and a neato knee scooter for a few more months.  We’re grateful that it’s not worse, and VERY grateful to all the family who have helped out over the last couple weeks with kids and unpacking – especially Cami and my parents. 

The end of an era

Commencement weekend was fantastic.  I love graduation – it’s about closure for me. 

Pomp and circumstance. 

A speech.

………………………………………………………………………………………..

I grew up in the mountain west in a rural community as one of seven children.  As you can imagine, having such a large family involved a great deal of organization and work, so my mom would make up lists of chores for each of the kids to complete every day.  These chore lists began at a young age and included tasks such as mowing the lawn, finishing our homework, practicing the piano for an hour, or helping to re-shingle to roof.  Quite frequently, I would complain that I did not want to do a certain chore, citing it as "too hard."   My mother's nonchalant response was always the same: "Do it anyway."

At the time, I thought she was being mean; however, I now understand that she was teaching me one of the greatest lessons of my life: that I can accomplish difficult tasks.   A friend of mine has a distressed, wooden sign on a shelf in her home with the phrase "We can do hard things" painted on it.  I don't know where this phrase originated, but I think it's the perfect motto for graduate school.  We can do hard things - we have done hard things.

Early in our graduate training, we took courses designed to hone our analytical reasoning skills.  We read hundreds of scientific papers, and were grilled in front our classmates - sometimes, we felt, rather ruthlessly - about the authors' hypotheses, methods, results, and conclusions.  Inevitably, we were singled out to critically analyze the one figure in a paper that we had thought was unimportant and had therefore skipped over.  We learned not to skip figures.  Some of our courses were hard, but we completed them anyway.

We spent months studying and preparing for qualifying exams.  We poured through scientific literature, and exhausted Pubmed and Wikipedia and Google to make sure we had considered every modicum of information needed to pass.  Qualifying exams were hard, but we took them anyway.

We conducted research.  We planned large experiments, labeled hundreds of tubes, meticulously prepared reagents, and planned every last detail. We came in on holidays and weekends.  We stayed up all night collecting samples for time courses.  We ate popcorn out of vending machines for dinner, and slept at (or under) our desks.   At last, when we analyzed our data, hoping to obtain the exciting and groundbreaking results that would land us a Nature paper, we discovered instead that the experiment we had put so much time and thought into hadn't worked.  So we did it all again.  And again, and again.  Our cells died.  Our microscopes and cell sorters broke.  Our test subjects didn't show up.  Our radiation didn't show up.  The number 1 bus didn't show up (until an hour and a half later, when six showed up at once).  Some of our setbacks were not our fault; others were.  We broke flasks, spilled samples, used the wrong antibodies, pipeted into the wrong tubes, tore our gels, and cracked our coverslips.  We started over.  We learned to "keep on keepin' on."  Research was often very hard, but we did it anyway.

But here's the thing - we didn't do it alone.  We accomplished our goals of obtaining doctorates in our chosen fields with the help of a lot of people; with the help of the people here today.  You: our advisors, our administrators, our friends, and our families.

Our advisors not only taught us the mechanical skills of the trade, they taught us how to think; to look deeper; to ask the right questions.  You weren't afraid to let us know when we needed to work harder.  You weren't afraid to give us a kick in the pants... metaphorically.  But you also weren't afraid to give us the freedom to grow into scientists.  You watched us fail.  You watched us make huge mistakes.  This was probably a little frustrating at times. You watched us waste grant money.  This was probably more than a little frustrating at times.  But when we fell flat, you helped us up, brushed us off... and told us get back to work.  To our advisors and other professors who have taught us so much - we thank you.

Our administrators at BU have been outstanding.  You have maintained a consistent dialogue students to improve the training graduates students receive at the BU school of medicine with regard to coursework, opportunities to share our research, and helping students balance schoolwork with other demands.  Within a few weeks of becoming the new Associate Provost, you - Dr. Linda Hyman - worked with a steering committee to implemented the GMS program's very first parental-leave policy for graduate students, a policy that not only speaks highly of the program, but also has made an enormous difference for several of us who have found ourselves the lucky and exhausted recipients of tiny, diaper-wearing humans.  To our deans, provosts, department chairs, and directors of graduate studies - we thank you.

Our friends in and out of school (do any of us still have friends outside of school?) have saved our sanity during these years.  Once or twice, we may have complained to you about graduate school.  You buoyed us up and helped us maintain perspective during discouraging times.  We spent countless hours laughing, and making memories at Clery's and JJ Foley's.   As Dar Williams sings, "Through the peaks and twisty canyons, [we've] made many great companions."   I have no doubt that the friendships we've made during our studies will persist throughout the years.  Friends, thank you.

Our spouses and significant others have put up with a lot.  You have suffered through our long hours at the lab, our last-minute cancellations, and our inability to stop obsessing about our research.  You've (hopefully) forgiven us for forgetting our anniversaries and for working late on Valentine's Day.  We know we have been difficult partners at times, and we are so grateful for the sacrifices you have made while we've been in graduate school.

Finally, our parents, siblings, and extended families have made this day possible in a thousand different ways.   We have been in school for a long, long time, which means that you have been supporting us for a long, long time.  You have given us encouragement, helped us through financial difficulties, taken care of our children as though they were your own, and cheered for us every step of the way.  We love you and are profoundly grateful to you for every large and tiny way you have helped us pursue our dreams.

I'll end by reminding you that "commencement" means "a beginning."   We are finished with our degrees, and now it is time to use what we've learned to make the world a better place.  We face discouraging statistics with regard to the economy and funding available for research in the biomedical sciences, but we owe it to those who have helped us so much along the way to go out in the world and be excellent.  It will be hard, but we'll do it anyway.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Tim, Erin, and I started our PhD programs on the same day.  We also graduated on the same day – this is a pretty rare occurrence since doctoral programs in our field are wildly variable in length.  I was so very happy to be able to walk with them.

The hoodings (photos put on 10 pounds; graduation robes put on  50 pounds):

 

 

It is an understatement to say that we made some memories during our years together.  We’ve bonded for life.

My advisor and I:

Tim’s mom very generously hosted a celebration dinner.

Thank you to Cami and Karen, who used some kind of witch magic to keep my girls quiet to commencement.

Thank you to Lance, Cami, my mom, and my dad for the photos.

Thank you to Karen and Tim’s sister Jen for flying out from Denver and Georgia to hang out with us for the weekend – meant the world to us!