By the time I started to have kids in my late 30's, I was 100 percent ready to be a mom. Once it finally happened with Dax, it was rare for anyone to hear me complain about not "having time for myself". I had wanted children for so long that when it finally happened, I found turning the focus from myself to another human being didn't feel like a sacrifice at all, it felt good and it felt right. And now the second bundle of cooing bubbles is here and again, I'm ready.
But there has been a shift in me and that shift has to do with making myself a priority again because if I don't, my emotional and physical health will suffer. I can't have motherhood be the only thing that defines this once very complex human being, ME! (I know Dax wouldn't believe it but I do have passions and interests outside of potty training, playgrounds, and Rec Center pools.)
I'm making a commitment to myself to set aside a few minutes to a few hours a day to inching my way back to the old Ki. I need my kids to know who I was before they came on board and who I still am today: a B&B manager (I miss this challenging work), an avid backpacker and camper, a gourmet cook, a yoga student and once teacher, a writer and a big-time reader, a loyal friend, a tennis player (I was actually getting good before I got pregnant!), a trail runner (oh, how I miss the obstacle course of roots and rocks), a more stylish chica (the overhaul of the closet has begun!), a Spanish speaker and a decent editor. Where did I disappear to?
So now, when I wake up in the morning, I'm setting my intention for the day to find little ways to nourish my soul. I want to merge my old self with my new self as mother-of-two.
A few days ago, the nourishment came from baking Toll House cookies with Dax and letting him stir the batter, crumble the walnuts and lick the mixer spoon. Yesterday, it came from a stroller jog with Skylar preceded by a telephone conversation with my best friend and a hot chai in my hand. And it always feels great to write. I must keep it up.
I think that by taking care of Ki, great things will happen. And loved ones around me will be happier because I'm ultimately happier.

Right before Skylar was born, my life felt out of control. We had no renters for our Santa Fe home which meant going in to debt by $1,300 every month - something we could not afford to do, Dax had decided that pooping on the floor instead of his toddler potty was where he wanted to conduct his "business", and I was worried that as a couple we weren't going to be able to handle another addition to the family. As a way to comfort myself, I started to do one very simple thing: I began to sing Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" to Dax before his daytime nap and before bedtime. The lyric, "singin' don't worry about a thing 'cause every little thing, gonna be alright' became my new mantra - if I sang it enough times, then I'd have to start believing that every little and big trouble I had would right itself. And you know what? They did. It all worked out. Repeating a mantra, saying a prayer, thinking positive thoughts are all ways to keep the irrational and terrifying fears at bay. Every time I'd start slipping in to that dark place, I'd begin to sing Marley's uplifting words. We have renters now and even better, they wire the money each month to our Wells Fargo account, Dax prefers the potty to the parquet floor and Tim and I are finally finding our rhythm in raising two boys.

Skylar turned five weeks this past Sunday and amazingly, he is already showing his personality. He squeaks, squawks, coos, whimpers, meows, sneezes, hiccups, and best of all, he now smiles these big circle smiles while squinting up his eyes. He always wants to be held - vibrate seats, swings, and play gym mats don't cut it - he wants the warmth of a body and a beating heartbeat. With a little head or back rub, Skylar can fall asleep in anyone's arms. When he's hungry, he brings his little fists up to his mouth and he looks like a squirrel nibbling on a handful of acorns. He excitedly starts kicking and waving his arms when Dax comes near and doesn't protest too much when his big brother plants a wet one on his lips or lays his hands on his cheeks. He's a light sleeper and prefers sleeping on his belly to his back just like the rest of his family. He hates being swaddled (I thought ALL babies like being swaddled!) and if a noise is more sudden than it is even loud, he jumps out of his skin. He gives his daddy a big sideways grin in the mornings when he first lays eyes on him and is ticklish everywhere, especially the neck and behind his meaty thighs. He's already growing out of newborn onesies and even 0-3 month clothing is fitting snug. His wave machine knocks him in to a deep sleep and he's learning how to push the binki (he ONLY likes the green hospital "soothies") back in to his mouth by using his fist. He's starting to rock on to his side and back and he can follow a voice or a face across the room. Of course I'm going to sound like a proud mother when I say this, but I swear he already knows his name and Dax's name and when he looks at me with those dark blue eyes, I'm sensing he understands a lot more than he's able to articulate! I can't wait to see what the next five weeks brings.

Both my sweet boys are sleeping so I thought I'd finally update my blog for the first time since giving birth to Skylar Drake Murrell.
I can't believe our second son is finally here and he's healthy, robust, and just bursting with cuteness from his fingers to his tiny toes. I gained just about 40 pounds in my pregnancy and when the labor and delivery nurse noted what a big baby he was as he was entering in to this fine world, I realized where a lot of this weight had gone. He was 8 1/2 pounds at birth and when given his first taste of milk, he latched on with a powerful clamp. Ah, now I've witnessed with my own eyes how much easier full term babies are than early babies. Skylar latched right away, sleeps well, has nice fat on him for warmth and has a very congenial disposition. Dax was three weeks early and didn't have the muscles in his mouth to latch properly (it took him two months to breastfeed), his tear ducts weren't fully developed and so his eyes clogged easily, he needed to eat ALL the time because he was making up for his small stature and he had breast milk allergies to my dairy intake. And it goes on and on. I am so thankful that Skylar made it to 40 weeks and one day - the time incubating has helped him enormously. And unlike going totally natural with Dax during the delivery, I opted for the epidural this time and I've never been so happy with such a decision. I was able to enjoy and remember Skylar's birth and I feel like as a result, he came out less stressed and healthier because of it. I earned my badge of honor going au natural with Daxie - but this time, I knew I needed my pain to be mitigated. I made a promise to myself that I was not going to end up on the floor on all fours trying to rock away the overwhelming waves of intense contractions - ones that had me moaning but speechless and worrying Tim to no end.
Now we are a family of four. How silly of me to think that I wouldn't be able to love a second boy as much as my first. Oh, how wrong I was. They are so uniquely different that I'm already loving them each for all their differences and of course, similarities too. And having Skylar has made me appreciate Dax even more. I adore Dax for lavishing wet kisses all over Skylar's silky dark brown head of hair, for helping with bottle feedings (yes, I'm having to supplement with formula because I'm not making quite enough breast milk but my supply gets better each day!), for propping Skylar up in his lap in the big leather recliner and watching as Skylar slips in to a restful sleep in Daxie's arms and for climbing in to my bed every morning saying he wants to see "baby Skylar". The brotherly love is already there. For the first two weeks home with Skylar, I would silently weep as I fed him in the rocker. And my tears were always tears of gratefulness. I'm so incredibly grateful that at the age of 41, I could give birth for the second time to such a healthy, gorgeous baby boy. It makes me believe that there is a god or presence out there and that this spirit is closely watching over my family. I hold Skylar close and repeat over and over, "thank you thank you thank you" to whoever is listening to this teary-eyed mama.

My midwife checked me this morning and big changes have happened in just one week - I'm now 2cm dilated, the baby's head is low and it may only be a couple more days now before he arrives. I was shocked. Just last week, my uterus was posterior and it seemed like I was weeks away from delivering. But I have noticed that this little guy is moving like crazy. The Braxton Hicks last night were the strongest I'd had. He's really starting to get ready to meet us and the big big world. And I should be feeling joyous and excited but instead this amazing moment in my life is a bit tainted by something. We found out last week that our renters will not be staying till the end of October but that they are now leaving at the end of August and Tim is now scrambling to find good renters to fill their shoes. And I'm beyond stressed about it. We have a beautiful house to show but I'm worried that the competition is high in Santa Fe and landlords are competing for the few good ones that are out there. Our realtor who has been trying to sell our house has also agreed to show it to renters. That is a plus. And interestingly, he's a born again Christian and has said to Tim on a number of occasions to trust in God that everything will work out like it should. I really do want to believe that and I really do wish it were as easy as trusting but that's so hard for me to do. Don't we need to make things happen rather than standing back and trusting that the Lord will make it alright? How is this savior of ours going to find us renters for a year? But I know he's on to something because whenever I've just breathed and let go of nervous energy and angst, things do seem to work themselves out eventually. Maybe there will be a rough patch. Maybe we'll be set back financially for months to come but eventually we'll get where we need to get to, right? God, I hope so.

When I was in my 20's and early 30's, I had dozens of healthy friendships with women. Many of these girlfriends are still a part of my life and very dear to me. I wouldn't be the woman I am today without their guidance, love, and loyalty. But there was always one or two who had a quirky, narcissistic personality. It was this friend who would call me in a panic or in tears and proceed to dominate my time with her self-induced drama and like a fool, I gave her my ear, I gave her my sympathy and when the conversation was over, I felt completely used up. These women were crazy. They spent their entire lives completely consumed by their own issues - they had unhealthy relationships with their families, they had eating disorders, self-esteem problems, boy problems, school problems, and work problems. Like a idiot, I kept listening and worse yet, I kept befriending other women like them. And what I'm trying to figure out is what was going on in my own life for me to be drawn to such nuts? I think the answer is I had so much going on that when I was bombarded with their complicated stories, I was given a temporary pass from my own perplexing problems. I could focus on their doomed fate and feel lucky I wasn't them. But with age does come wisdom and I am happy to report that I stay clear of female friendships that even have a hint of drama to them. If I detect that these women have serious anger or psychological issues just brewing below the surface (tip: you can see it in their eyes), I run the other way. The old me used to agree to get a cup of coffee or go on that first date, if you will, to see if we connect. Now I pass on getting together if I sense that a particular woman has a lot of turbulence going on in her life. I can't go there anymore. I don't have the patience, the interest, nor the time. And that feels like such a weight off my shoulders. I now surround myself with bright female friends who are real, down to earth, laid back, and who are far from being drama divas. They don't psycho-babble at me and they don't eat me up alive. These friendships are balanced - there's a give and take if you will - and that makes me happy.

I think I was born with an old soul because I often connect on a deeper level with folks twice my age than I do with my own peers. My mom passed some of these geriatric genes down to me. She was a lover and an appreciator of anything that had a layer of dust on it and historical relevance including homes, antique furniture, past lives, archaological digs, ghosts - you get the point - she liked things that creaked and groaned. And on a cold winter day, I would often find her sitting in our family home's window seat wrapped in a throw knitting while re-reading one of her favorite Victorian novels like Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre. She liked to escape the modern world, losing herself in these novels, and perhaps romanticizing about being swept away from her hum drum life in Vermont by a Mr. Darby. I think my mom would have been happier living out her life in Victorian England than in the 50's and 60's as a California girl and later as a grown woman raising kids in the 80's and 90's. As much as my mom loved to learn about the past from books, I'm more apt to have one on one conversations with the elderly. The thing is I don't see these folks as old. I see past the wrinkles and hunched over backs and find the giggling little girl or spirited boy still glowing strongly within. Most of us never stop being kids; it's just our exterior that starts breaking down. One of my favorite things to do as a young girl was to sit next to my grandfather in his winged-back chair and listen to stories of what it was like to be a kid growing up in NYC before there were cars, refrigerators, and paved streets. He'd get animated talking about hot summer days in the city chasing trucks delivering blocks of ice to people's homes and catching the ice chips as they fell off the back or playing stick ball in the dusty streets. But it's not just the stories of how different things were "back then". Some of the conversations that have moved me the most have been with much older women and how their life experiences are timeless and hence, not much different than my own. I was very close to my ex-husband's grandmother, Nan. She was probably some 50 years older than myself when I knew her and yet I felt like a giddy schoolgirl when we chatted. She shared everything from marital secrets with me that brought her to tears as well as what life was life in Austria before WWII took that all away from her and her husband. We were friends and I miss her terribly. And I have such joyous memories of my own grandmother, Gannie, taking my sister and me on nature walks and identifying every little thing we found on the ground and high up in the trees. Or swimming at the Dartmouth pool and laughing so loudly in the showers later that our voices echoed off the walls. She was spunky and full of life. I wish more people would look at our elders not as decrepit, aging people but as young people trapped inside a crumbling body. We have so much to learn from them and I can't wait to have more moments where I'm moved by my talks with these wise people.