This day.

Three years ago.

I've said it before and I will say it again and again. He is the diligent, strong and faithful man I could not live without. And I am blessed to be on this adventure called life with him. 

He encourages me, he challenges me, he spurs me on. He inspires me. He is my better half.

 He compliments me, and he completes me.

This is my beloved, and my friend. He's God's goodness poured out on me.

Happy anniversary, my treasure. 

Christmas.

Darn lights get tangled every year. Thanks for helping, guys.

new wheels from Mimi and Grandpa in Michigan.

blocks from Mama and Papa.

Christmas shoes.

Not a flake of snow, but a week+ of rain; we enjoyed our second Scottish Christmas. It was thoroughly merry and bright this year. Love and laughter abounded. My brother flew in from New York City to celebrate the season with us. Surprise gifts arrived in plenty from our beloved homeland. And we are feeling especially blessed this blustery holiday season.

[half] finished.

This man deserves a huge award for all he's done this semester. Today marks the last day, and he finished so well.

He gets student-, father-, and husband-of-the-year awards. For long days and late nights, for perseverance and strength I didn't know existed. For being so diligent, so fervent, so selfless, and loving each and every one of us just how we needed most through it all.

Peter Hopkins, your love and faithfulness are great. You are an inspiration and I am honoured to be your wife.

Cocktails tonight?

39 days with Philippa Byrde

Crying is uncommon.

Smiles are not.

#423 newborn cries that never get old.

#424 the smell of her head.

#425 Skin to skin in the early morning.

Buttery baby breath. White milk tongue. I could write a thousand things I love about our baby.

It all goes so fast. So very fast. I want to remember it all.

She smiles when we talk to her now. Her happiest time is the evening, somewhere around 9. And the smiles and coos last until her Papa swaddles her tight and puts her to bed under the fairy lights.

She's a calm baby, with by far, the biggest eyes and the littlest ears I have seen. Her head is still full (really, full) of dark, dark hair.

She endures 3,749 kisses a day. Per sibling. And I busted Sebastian lifting her off her blanket on the floor just the other day. And today, putting (read: shoving) his paci in her mouth. (He's so helpful). Katharina likes to run to the side of the baby basket when she's crying and rock it back and forth, back and forth. Kind of like a sea storm.

We've all come to love her in thousands of ways. She is just completely adored. Her chubby hands and skinny feet. Her soft, rosy cheeks. The roll in her neck, and her little bird legs.

We are blessed to have been given such a sweet, sweet life.

Baby feet.

If we could bottle them up just now, we would in a heartbeat. Since we can't, we like to capture what bits we can of their little selves.

Our latest Christmas project: Christmas tree feet!

Their reactions to Mama encouraging painted feet were priceless. Sebastian was open minded about the whole business. Like he could totally do it again if the opportunity presented itself. Katharina jumped at the slimy green mess all over her dainty little girl feet. Then she wanted to lick it off. And Philippa, well she hopes it never happens again. It was so not worth being woken up for.

Fun things happen when Mama is on the phone...

Her favourite part is the crinkling paper beneath her feet.

The things we encourage for baby giggles!

Merry Christmas!

Bit of life.

It's been busy around here and we're all quiet tired. I spent the past week or two wishing I believed in those 5-hour energy drinks, to get me through the second half of my day. I do seem to be climbing out of that little rut with the end (and beginning, still) of the semester in sight, and thankful we are!

Peter and I fall (and I think I do literally mean "fall") in bed at night and we say we remember being tired finals week last year with two newborns, but not this tired. And we say we can't wait for rest and why are we so tired and where did the sun go already? This semester has burnt us all out; we are wiped and this coming break is more than welcome.

At some point I'll have to backtrack and write about things not so recent, like my sister's 3-week visit and my first days solo with my three (1 and under). I am very behind. 

But I leave you with these.

tummy time is exhausting.

Sebastian learned a new game.

St Andrew's Day celebrations.

first fireworks.

Scotland!

big eyes and a Christmas jumper.

We try to take a walk to the beach every day. One morning
we left just after breakfast and caught the sunrise. My kids
eat breakfast around 9. Now see if you can figure how many
hours of daylight we have here. ;)

Philippa discovers the sea.

See Sebastian and Katharina at the sea here

1 month || 4 december

She has two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears. Two chins.

We call her 'Byrdie'.

Her cheeks are big and chubby, and her face is perfectly round. She is entirely kissable.

She smiles when we talk to her, and has eyes for her Papa. She notices him before anyone else, and turns her head when she hears his voice.

Clearly, she takes mealtime seriously. She wakes once at night, and has fallen right into our daily routine. I am thankful.

Her siblings adore her. While Sebastian is protective and gentle, Katharina would like to be her mother by lifting and hugging and pinching her cheeks, thank-you-very-much.

Life is wonderful here. Happy December!

A birth story.

A sleepless night of tossing and turning, 3:30AM I wake with pains I know can't be false. Drag myself to the bathroom. Everyone said there would never be a doubt in my mind when it's the real thing.  I confidently climb back into bed and curl up behind my husband's warm body. "We are going to have this baby today." Proud to know I was experiencing for the first time what it was like to feel my body go into labour on its own.

We try to fall back asleep, but excitement and contractions keep us awake. I'm back in the bathroom to empty my bladder and relieve the unending pressure. And to apply makeup. My photographer friend is coming to document the birth, and I cannot be caught on camera looking like this.

 I bounce and rock on my yoga ball, dot frankincense on my back and stomach during contractions; have Peter massage my shoulders, knead my back. Then an all-consuming urge to push, as contractions become harder and closer. 

All photos credit: Veloshoot Photography

7AM. I tell Peter it's time to call our midwives letting them know things have begun and progressed, that they should probably head our way. It was a planned home birth, because our twins were born in a hospital.

I collapse over the kitchen table, bearing a contraction all my own while my husband hurriedly answers the questions he's asked. And I crumble. Get the hell off the phone.

He's behind me, raising my arms up and over his neck, swaying my hips side to side. And I'm reminded of the beautiful books I passionately perused the past 9 months. Orgasmic Birth, my ass, I groaned to my husband. He muffled a laugh into my knotty, tangled, bed-head hair. I was trying-- the flower petals, opening and closing. The dripping faucet. The dimly-lit room decorated just as I dreamed. I just couldn't see it.

In through my nose, out through my mouth. "So this is what it feels like to be cursed?"  My husband rubs my face tenderly and smiles. He nods with a slow blink of his eyes. "But you're doing great."

7:45 AM the first midwife arrives, unpacks her things and assesses the situation. She phones a midwife at the clinic up the street from our house. There is no time to wait for the on-call midwife. "I think you'll have a baby before she can get here."

The second midwife arrives and is immediately at my side, coaching my breathing, rubbing my arms, kneading my back. Sebastian and Katharina's adopted grandparents here in Scotland arrive to care for them while I deliver. "Perfect, perfect timing!" Debby whispers as she walks into the bedroom. She dots oils on my head and neck. Whispers prayers through contractions, holds my hands. 

In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Breathe the baby down. It was doing something, I could feel. The pressure. Oh! the pressure. Crippling.

 In through my nose, out through my mouth. No, not hyperventilating. 

Midwife Janet insists pressure will be relieved when my waters break. I lay sideways across our bed and ask her to break them. My eyes are pathetic, and I can feel it. Like an old basset hound.

"No, you don't want me to. They will go. They will go. It will be better." No artificial rupture of water. No unnecessary internal examination. It was all in my birth plan, and I knew it. I couldn't succumb to being the labouring woman that abandons everything she held important in a moment of weakness.

I carry on.

Our friend and photographer arrives.

"I want to get up. That will help, I know it. Help me move. . . The gravity. It will help, the gravity. It will break them." Standing at the foot of the bed, my husband hoists me off the bed. My feet hit the ground, a quick pop!, a warm gush. My legs, the floor and his suede loafers-- bathed in amniotic fluid. I sing passionate praises while everyone laughs and photographs wet shoes and talks about drying the floor. Thank you God. Oh thank you dear Lord! And just like that, the pressure is gone.

Then it's really pushing time. 

A couple more contractions standing, and my midwife suggests laying to help ease the head past my tailbone. The baby crowns, everyone smiles. I ask if there's hair, because these things are important to know during delivery. "Oh yes. Black!" Then her head slips back. Nothing to be seen.

I ask for a mirror to be held so I can watch delivery. As people cheer and encourage, I expect to see an entire head of hair, the tops of ears, maybe even a little nose. "Great progress" was redefined in my mind. I was staring at a half dollar-sized patch of head and black hair. Suddenly I feel tired again. 

And I laugh, "I think it's a biiig head!"

There's time for one calm breath and the next wave of contractions is upon me. I'm determined to make this the last. I expect burning; everyone talks about it. I don't experience Cash's Burning Ring of Fire, but pressure. Oh! the pressure. My midwife tries to encourage, "I promise you, in a moment you won't feel any of that. I promise."

 She crowns, more of that beautiful black hair I prayed for. And more. More. Then her body begins turning, we know because her head is. We all watch in awe as this tiny head is rotating, half in me and half out. 

The pressure is back. A hard push; we have a head. Blue skin, black hair. Cord is wrapped, tight. Midwife whispers, "Let's get her out." Another push, shoulders, more cord wrapped around her arms. And the body follows with ease. 

My eyes are glued to the mirror in front of me. And words fail.

A miracle.

In seconds the midwife has the cord unwrapped from her neck, arms and torso. She's on my chest, and suddenly there's no pain.

And not a care in the world. 

All I feel is my husband's body behind me, his arms around me, and tears rolling down my cheeks. And this baby. Oh, this sweet, sweet miracle. No pricked heel or slapped bottom, my warm body prompts her first cry. Her first cry ever. Her brand new lungs-- they work. Oh, do they work. 

It's not glamorous, but oh, it is! My mascara has run, my foundation is gone. My hair is  knotty and my lips are chapped. My bump is suddenly gone, and so is every problem the world holds. And there, clinging to me, is a fresh little miracle. Brand new, given just to us. 

She nurses, ravenously. There are smiles and tears. My husband is beside himself with awe and joy. His cheek is pressed against mine, and our eyes-- we can't take them off of her. 

We introduce her siblings. They're cautious but excited and have a thousand kisses to share. Friends and midwives trickle out, and then it's just us. Our family of five.

And I'm left to rest and recover in my very own bed. Each night my husband crawls into bed beside me, and I'm not fed microwave haggis. No trips to the NICU, no IVs. No visiting hours, or nurses calling at all hours. And I heal as we see best. I bond with my baby, and my babies, and we enjoy the new life together, all of us. 

We're thankful for all of it.

Day 18.

She gets sweeter and sweeter every day.

(And Happy Thanksgiving, you Americans! We'll be indulging ourselves on Saturday...)

Philippa Byrde

With joyful hearts we welcome our newest daughter. She was born at home in St Andrews, surrounded by loads of love and the tenderest of care.

She has a gentle big brother that loves to watch her and hold her, a big sister that adores kissing her nose and rubbing her hair, and a very smitten Papa that can't get enough. We're all quite taken. She's a little gem.

I would like to write more on her birth at some point. While I work on that, here are stats and photos:

Philippa Byrde

8 pounds, 6 ounces

20.5 inches long

Born at 10:46 AM on

Sunday, 4 November

Photo credit: Ashlee Wells

Carpe Diem

  Every night I put my little ones to bed and wonder if today was my last day with just them. If it is Katharina's last day as our only girl. If Sebastian will be outnumbered come morning.  I wonder if its my last night putting them to bed as a mama of two. 

It's bittersweet to think of. 

I sometimes wonder how I will have enough love. How can I even be any fuller? My heart bursts daily with love and happiness, how could one more fit?

But they always do. I have seen this grace consistently in my life.  Too soon you think you can't change, can't deal, can't go any further, then suddenly you need it-- the love, the patience, the strength-- and it's there, when only a moment ago it wasn't.

He works that way; so often slower than we think He needs to. Because we are so sure He doesn't know what He is doing and we could really take care of things better ourselves, couldn't we?

I was at a visit with my midwife this morning, and on my way out I noted how it is easier to believe in all-things-natural when you're not quite so near the end. And my word choice made me think this was applicable to other aspects of life as well. I have found my faith to be that way. It's easy to hold on when the sailing's smooth. It's easy to preach it, to live it, to believe it. But what do I do when it's hard? When knees are under my ribcage? When I wear thin and doubt that I can go further? Is it like the hands to the sky, the labour pains moaning the child's eviction notice?

You must think by now I am at my wits end with this pregnancy. But hardly. I am still comfortable, and incredibly grateful. I'm trying to slow life down, and savour time as a family of four, ever-mindful it could change any moment. All too soon, their hands will look giant, their steps will be longer, their faces-- rounder.

They pretty much grow up more and more overnight anyway. Every morning their feet look longer, their voices sound matured, and we wonder where in the world did you learn that?

Motherhood is such a joy, but the time passes so quickly. And my am I thankful, that with every sunrise are new mercies and new beginnings.

Carpe Diem. It's a new one. Seize it.

Sometimes it's tiring, sometimes-- chaotic. Let me tell you, we know chaos over here. But really, let it be beautiful. I don't always. Hardly. But with such undeserving gifts,  I do try to catch myself and wonder, why not?

The four of us snuggle together in our big bed every morning and my heart swells. My husband- the greatest man, faithful husband and tender father; and next to him- our daughter, next to her- our son. And there’s me. Belly bulging, another little treasure within days of joining us. And I choke back tears and kiss each one of them.  Undeserving.

 While I make breakfast, every lower cupboard in the kitchen is emptied. While we eat, half of the slimy banana pieces fall to the floor. Little Girl’s oatmeal-covered hands reach over and grab her brother’s face. Little Man continually calls out for his ball, frantic it may have disappeared overnight.

Their sweet, tiny hands wave goodbye as their Papa leaves for the day. They watch from their bedroom window as he walks all the way down our street and out of sight, their hands still waving. And I tell them Papa’s gone to study and work, all for us, because he loves us so much.

Tidy up the bathroom. 4 seconds into the job, “Uh-oh! Ma!” I turn around to fish a tiny blue toothbrush out of the toilet.

As a mother I’ve developed a new appreciation for nap time, and my routine for nap time is about to change. I do realise that. But right now, it’s my time to fix my bobby pins and straighten my pants and wipe the banana stickiness off the floor. I slow down, steep a tea bag, read a Proverb. It’s a time to refresh and regroup, so I can be the Mama they need when nap-time ends.

And it does end.

But it all blows past, quicker than nap-time ends. And one day my cupboards will be tidy, my towels will be neatly folded, there will be no audience while I shower. The shoes will always be where they belong, and toothbrushes will never need fished. No baby board books dropped in the hallway or broccoli florets under the table legs.

This tells me smiles were shared, bellies were filled. That they were busy; that we’ve made memories. That they’re happy, and that my tasks are not meaningless. That every single moment is important. Absolutely every one. 

That's a hard truth to grasp, in the midst of the daily hustle and bustle-- that the moments mean more than we take time to notice.  My life moves fast; we're fast-paced and busy. It poses challenges, like pausing to cherish the little moments, and even the big sometimes. Like realising with the completion of every moment, I'll never, ever, have that one back. How was it spent?

I confess I've cringed and fought thoughts of how it would be faster, easier, to pick up the veggies and refold the towels myself. I daily battle the urge to fold laundry during naps, just so it can be done in a fraction of the time. And not very long ago, for once, I remembered I was pregnant. I was feeling  pregnant, and black was not a slimming colour.  I wanted my feet propped, I wanted to close my eyes, I wanted to relax, and both naps seemed an hour too short.

You know what I did? I turned on Walle. Walle. For my 1-year-olds. I know what you're thinking. I'm a great Mom.

For 3 minutes they sat and watched the computer-generated image squeak and roll around on the screen. Then they were by my side, Sebastian with a block in each hand, wanting to build a tower in my palm. Katharina had stood up and needed arms stretched out, cheering her on while she toddled across the living room.

And so I rubbed my eyes and rolled off the couch. And I had to refocus, because I know I believe it: don't even blink. Live it.

I’ll miss picking up peas off the kitchen floor, I’ll miss diapers. I’ll long for tiny hands to pull at my legs, to beat against my hardwood floors. I’ll wish laundry took three times as long because baby hands wanted to help load each and every item into the washing machine. I’ll wish grocery shopping wasn’t such a quick trip. I’ll miss tiny voices calling for me each morning. I’ll miss scrunched-up noses and new-tooth grins. 

 One day, my home will be empty. And that time will come so much faster than I can even believe. And with the quiet and the emptiness, the days of toothbrushes in the toilet and keys in the trash, little ones sitting on their knees, watching and waiting while I shower-- gone.  

And what if this is it? What if today is my last? My last day to roar and chase to the pitter patter of little tiger paws across the hardwood? My last to kiss rosy cheeks and tiny feet, to swaddle them tight and read their favourite stories?  This always gets me, and during our time at night, I replay my day to my husband. How have I loved them? How have I nurtured them, directed them, instructed them? Am I purposing to live worthy of this high calling? (And it is a high one, Mamas. We should feel honoured).

I have to live life, to love fully, to trust that with every hurdle and storm, there is sufficient grace to conquer. To find the lesson and the beauty in every moment-- because I am sure it’s there-- and drink it whole. And just to smile as I mop the shampoo off the bathroom tile, because chances are it needed washed anyway.

Carpe Diem.

Little Katharina

Suddenly, our little girl has curls!

...and she just may be turning into a redhead!

The Visionary.

I was sitting up straight, cross-legged in the middle of the bed and his eyes were gently, seriously, piercing mine. He named a few things he hopes to accomplish in this life, all great things that won't come easily. And then he said:

"I may not be able to accomplish them, but if Sebastian does, or Katharina, then they are still being accomplished, and that is what matters-- not that I myself am the one to do it. That's being a kingdom-builder."

There's the planting of the seed, and then there is the sowing of the crop we may never witness in our lifetime. It's seeing the things that are to be done. Having the vision, then planting it, and releasing the weight of the harvest to our next generation. Peter is all about the next generation.

And he's a visionary with a vision that far surpasses anything I could have ever imagined to accomplish on this earth. But together, he's confident we can be used for great things, and if not us, then our children, who will pass these dreams down to our grandchildren. And the legacy begins. That is why he takes fatherhood so seriously.

He was at the sea and called me from the end of the pier, the fierce wind blowing into the phone, I could barely make out what he was saying. But this I heard: "We need to start a book, a bucket list of sorts, of things that we hope to do, places we would like to go, things we want to accomplish, things we hope to change, all before we die. There are too many things to just keep mental notes."

He's inspired when he's out there. The deep, dark sea tossing waves up and over the edge of the rocks beneath his feet. He comes home with wet loafers and soggy socks. He's happiest when he is out there, on days when the skies are heavy and overcast, when the sea is mad, the wind, angry. He has taken me out there before, and points at the horizon-- where the grey sky meets the magnificent waters and it looks like the earth drops off. He tells me about another great plan he's thought of, and how the children and I are a vital part in it. In fact, he says it cannot be accomplished by him without us.

And by grace, we are enabled. I am blessed to toil and struggle and sow this vision alongside him, wherever life takes us. I'm thankful for him, this man with great plans and an ever-rolling mind. There is something terribly attractive about a man with a multi-generational vision, and the reality I sometimes cannot grasp-- that he is my husband. What a beautiful thing.

Our house, plus a little bit of life

Here you have it. Some low-quality photos of our new place, and a whole bunch of photos of just life around here.

kitchen. Where I spend most of my time at home.

Kitchen nook

Nursery. Little Girl will join Sebastian and Katharina once she's sleeping
through the night. Until then, she'll be in a bassinet in our room.

Bathroom. Complete with a tub. American's have
no idea. . .

Master bedroom. We've got some decorating planned for in here. Not bound
to happen before Baby Girl arrives.

Living room.
This photo doesn't nearly capture the
beauty of this room. Surprisingly I don't spend a whole
lot of time in here during the day, but in the evenings it's
where we hold family worship and pillow fights and wooden
car races and wrestling matches. It's a good place to be.

Castle Sands at the North Sea.

We took a family walk out the pier and saw this sweet family of swans.

Lazy Sundays.

The sea has been fierce lately. 

Peter took Sebastian out on a man date before he
becomes a big brother again.

St Andrews from the end of the pier.

drinks and cheese after a date to see Anna Karenina. 

One-year photo.

An afternoon at the Sea.

. . .and then the playground. 

Sebastian meets blowdryer.

All ready for our little girl!

What is not to love about this place?