40

I’ve been thinking about this day for a while now, as it has grown steadily closer.  And now that it’s here, I have two things to say.  First, to those over 40 – you were right.  Everything you said about turning 40 was right.  Secondly – to those under 40 – they are right.  Everything you heard about turning 40 is right.  So listen to me, because as I write this, I’m still just 39.  I’m still one of you.  Except you punk twenty-somethings who already think you know everything.  (Oh no – I’ve got to hurry – the 40 is starting to take over…)

I write because it seems so absurd that I’ve reached this point in life.  I want to go around and show it off, like I did as a kid when I found something so bizarre that it had to be shared.  “Look at this!  Isn’t this so weird??”, we would compel those around us to join in the observation of whatever rock or fungus or fossil.  And so I share with you this absurdity – I am 40.  WEIRD!  How can it be? I don’t feel 40.

But as I observe myself, there are too many details to ignore.  My hands are not the hands of youth.  They wrinkle and pucker, I suppose with the years of sun that they have absorbed (SPF, young'uns - it's true).  My waistline is certainly nothing like it was 20 years ago.  Five children, a serious love affair with peanut butter, and little time to exercise (see: five children) has insidiously padded my frame over the years.  My eyesight is steady, although I notice my focus takes a moment or two more.  Forty years of life have begun now to show on my face, etching themselves around my eyes and mouth, and a particularly annoying crease near my jawline on the left.  Google has suggested that I sleep on my back to prevent more of these from occurring.  Sorry Google, sorry face - side sleeper for life.

I look again and more details show themselves.  My compassion has expanded, my empathy deepened, and my knowledge has grown.  My life that I have lived has allowed me joys that soar to the heavens, hurts that have gutted me, and stretches of ennui that have lasted longer than I anticipated.  I see people and the hurt behind their eyes and actions.  I see the world and the ugliness and brokenness.  I can give grace to the young, I can give mercy to the hurting, where I couldn’t before.  I move slower to judgement and quicker to love.  I know how to deal with what matters, and let the other things go.  I can stick to my guns, I can step up and do what needs to be done. 

And I look back at myself 20 years ago – the one with smooth skin, and narrow hips, and glossy hair – and I love her, but I don’t wish her back.  My skin may be wrinkled, but it’s comfortable.  I’m happy that I’ve made it this far.  I am pleased that I have grown and changed.  Even if I could turn back the clock, I wouldn’t want to give up all that I have gained in these years.  And so with that, I embrace 40 and however many years beyond that God allows me.  And I’ll keep growing and keep changing.

Oh, the beauty of age!

My friend, the Editor

Yesterday, in the middle of a regular, innocuous Tuesday, I got a Facebook notification that a high school friend had mentioned me in a comment.  I clicked over to find that she had tagged me on the thread of another high school friend.  The original post was cryptic, yet obvious at the same time.  It turned out to be his final goodbye, as we soon found out.  He took his own life at the age of 38.

My friend, Brian, was a close friend all throughout high school.  I first met him my freshman year, most likely the first day.  Our last names being Dubbs and Edmison, we were pretty close in the alphabetical lineup.  I think only Tri Duong ever separated the two of us in the roll book.  In addition to that, our schedules aligned similarly: we were both signed up for Spanish II, GT English, GT History, and Journalism I - four out of six classes together.  He had just moved into the school district the previous summer and didn't know anyone.  I was coming in with the rest of my jr high classmates, but my friends were scattered among the larger crowds of high school and very few were in classes with me.  So we became friends.

Journalism, however, was where our friendship really developed.  Once you got past Journalism I, you became part of the newspaper staff.  It was the last period of the day, and the most relaxed.  The staff was small, no more than a dozen, and we spent hours and hours working together.  Well, the ten days before an issue was published, we spent hours and hours working.  The rest of the time, we spent hours and hours goofing around.

High school, to me, was not something I overtly enjoyed.  I didn't attend many football games or participate in extracurriculars other than the newspaper.  I was never a big crowd kind of girl.  But in the small circle of people on the staff, I shone.  My fondest memories of high school in general revolve around that back room where we wrote our stories, typed them up on that huge, ancient copywriter, pieced together the layout, and thought up headlines.  For three years, we poured our lives into the paper and into each other.

I think all of us on the staff, to some degree, fit in so well together because we didn't necessarily have a fit elsewhere.  We were a silly bunch, to be sure.  We gave out ridiculous nicknames, we rubber cemented a Bianca can to the wall, we examined our student teacher's lunch when he wasn't around and kept track of what his wife packed for him, we were crazy about holiday border tape, we ran to Taco Bell on press nights....all silly, teenage stuff that we laughed uproariously at, while Brian shook his head at us.  But he always laughed in the end.

Our junior and senior year, Brian was the Editor-in-Chief.  I held the title of Features Editor, and two others from our Journalism I class took Sports Editor and News Editor.  We ruled the roost.  Brian was a great editor; he had a knack for reporting and was great at jumpstarting my thought process when I couldn't get a story started.  I never once turned an article in on time; he had a soft spot for me and I exploited it endlessly when deadlines came up.

The evening of graduation was the last I saw of him for ten years.  I was ready to be done with high school and move on with my life.  We lined up alphabetically (Duong, Tri still separating us); it was a hot, humid sticky night where the looming threat of rain forced the ceremony inside the cramped gymnasium.  We sat through the entirety of the speakers.  I kept whispering that I was walking off the stage and out the door once I got my diploma.  He kept whispering back that I wasn't.  Finally, it was over.  The class was asked to stand, pronounced official graduates, and I looked at him.  He knew I didn't want to lose my cap when we all tossed them in the air. Wordlessly,  he passed his to me.  That's the one I threw.

Those were the days before email and Facebook made connecting so easy.  We lost track of each other until our ten year reunion.  He sidled up to me and put his arm around my shoulders.  I didn't even recognize him until I saw his nametag.  I remember laughing as we recounted memories of our glory days.  A few years later, Facebook opened their ranks to the masses and we friended each other.  I watched the pictures of his new home being built and congratulated him on the news that his wife was pregnant.  At some point, my right leaning sensibilities and his left leaning opinions led to an unpleasant exchange and he unfriended me.  I just rolled my eyes and thought that if he didn't want to be friends, I wasn't going to chase after him.

I'm sad that Brian is gone.  I'm sad that his wife, young daughter, and teenaged son are hurting.  I'm sad that he felt that this was the only option.  I'm sad that I didn't pursue our friendship.  I'm sad that I won't be able to reminisce with him at our twenty year reunion, or our twenty-fifth, or our thirtieth, or any more.  I'm just horribly sad.

In his final note, he said something about the past 30 years leading to this moment.  This is the saddest of all to me in this whole sad mess.  I wish I knew he felt this way.  I wish I realized he was hurting back when we were friends.  Teenagers are so self-absorbed; they walk around thinking their own problems are the biggest, often not realizing that their friends beside them are dealing with problems as well.  And sadly, we adults can be the same way.  We're more sophisticated about it, more subtle about focusing on ourselves.  But all around us, people hurt.  Friends are broken hearted, hopeless, hurting.  It doesn't take much to see, if we take the time to look.

I think Brian was happy in the time that I knew him.  I think that he had dark times that I didn't know about as well, but I think that the years spent on the newspaper staff were good ones.  They certainly were fun.  They were what got me through high school, and really, I believe, him too.  In the midst of the swirling cauldron of adolescence, we found our niche.  And we found some friends.

Inner monologue

"Bread and coffee.  Bread and coffee.  Bread and coffee...wow - how much are those planter pots?  They're beautiful!  Oh - too much.  I bet I could find those flowes at Lowes.  They always have good flowers.  What did I need again?  Right - bread and coffee.  Bread and coffee.  Bread and....are we out of batteries?  I just got the AAs; do I need Cs or Ds?  Hmm..better check before I buy.  Bread and coffee.  Bread and coffee.  Bread and....Score!  Food sample!  Mmmmmmm....this bread is so good.  I wonder what butter they use?  Oh man, I remember that Irish butter I tried once.  Where was that?  Oh - here's my bread.  Two loaves, $3.99.  Better get four.  I can't believe how fast we run through it these days.  Maybe I should get more?  Wait - where am I going to put 6 loaves of bread?  Four is fine.  Got the bread; what else? Right - coffee.  Coffee. Coffee.  Coff....pork tenderloin, $3.00 off total price.  Ok.  So $3.00 off means that each pound will then be....am I dividing or....$3.00 off, 7 lbs, so I can divide it in half for two meals with leftovers for about $7.00 a meal.  That'll work.  Back to coffee.  Coffee.  Coffee.  Juice?  We need juice.  Nope - Giant had better prices this week.  I'll run over there tomorrow.  Coffee.  Coffee.  Coffee.  Wow - look at those strawberries!  This seems early in the season to have those out.  $6.49 is a great price for 2 lbs.  The kids will be happy.  I could use them for that dessert I have to make too.  When was that?  Hmm..what else do I need?  Maybe I'll do an appetizer instead.  I've been doing lots of sweets lately.  How much flour do I have?  Ok - back to coffee. Coffee.  Coffee.  Coffee.  Ooo, we're out of peanut butter. What row is that in?  Eh, only Jif.  I thought they carried Skippy.  I like that Skippy.  I really like that Peter Pan.  Have I ever tried the Planters kind?  There was a coupon in the paper last Sunday.  I should try it.  Oh wait.  I think we did try it.  Did I like it?  Why don't they carry Skippy here?  I'll check Target later this week.  Mmm..I love those frozen spring rolls.  The last time I got them, though, everyone loved them at the store and couldn't stand them once we got home.  Fickle kids.  Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.  Ah ha - coffee.  $12.99.  This should last us a while.  I wonder where those strawberries are from?  I bet they're from Chile or something like that.  California?  Huh.  They really are huge.  I can do those for lunch tomorrow.  Ok.  To the checkout.  What did I need again?  Oh right - bread and coffee.  Good!  Now what was it that I was thinking about for dinner tonight?"

Death of a Campus

A few months ago, I received notice that my alma mater was closing.  The reasons are unimportant, for the deal is already done.  The academic programs have been transferred to another institution and classes have begun under the new administration.  This past Friday, however, a photo was posted to an alumni site, showing a moving van in front of the building.  That image caught me by surprise and almost undid me.

As sad as it was to hear about the college closing, the move from the campus was much worse.  My collegiate time there is done; college campuses are fickle in a four year cycle.  Wait a few years to go back and it's almost as if you were never there at all.  The new students have moved in and claimed it as their own.  It doesn't matter if you were the Student Body President or Newspaper Editor or Sorority Sweetheart four years running - someone else fills those shoes now.  Pull a good prank and you might get a flicker of vague recognition: "Oh, that was you?  Yeah, I heard about that one."  But by in large, once you're gone, you're history.

But the campus, oh the campus.  That's another story.  Because the campus is always there.  The campus is the backdrop to my undergraduate years.  It's the third party in all my pictures.  It's the constant for each class.  No matter how long ago I attended, I lived in the same rooms as the most recent class, studied in the same classrooms, ate in the same dining hall.  We all skipped out of chapel through the same door, climbed the same fence near the front gate, and hopped over the same clogged drainpipe outside the classroom door.  My pictures of the place are suddenly not adequate, for they all show the campus only in the blurry background.  The physical setting wasn't important at the time - why would it be?  It's not like its going anywhere, reasoned my younger self.  Today I rake through the piles of photos, all showing smiling college students in the snow, on the soccer field, at the picnic tables, at the basketball games....all blocking the background that I'm now so desperate to see.

Even if I had a plethora of photos to remember, though, there's no substitute for the real thing.  We as humans love to be where things happened.  There's just something about being in the same proximity to certain events.  It's why we visit historical battlefields, pilgrimage to Graceland, flock to monuments.  Something important happened right where I'm standing, we think.  And now I'm part of it.  And something important happened on my campus.  I grew up, I discovered myself, I learned more than I bargained for, I made lifelong friends, I had my heart broken, I cried as if there would be no tomorrow, I fell in love, I felt like I could take on the world, I was changed... And I remember all these things as I walk around, as I step into the basement classroom and get that first musty whiff, as I catch a glimpse of the scoring table, as I run my hands over the piano that I spent so many practice hours on, as I walk down the halls that I walked tens and hundreds of times over my years there.  This was the door that I was opening when I was bombarded by waterballoons on the way back from play practice.  That was the window that we accidentally broke minutes before the Dean of Students walked by.  Here is the door you could sneak out of after hours because it was far enough away from the RAs room.  This is the corner of the classroom that I was sitting in when I first met my roommate.  That is the soccer field where we dragged that old couch to the middle and hung out until the night was dark and deep.  This is the parking lot where I walked right past my newly acquired car because I couldn't remember what it looked like.

All these memories are triggered by simply being there.  All these stories that make sense to only me and my fellow alumni.  All these landmarks that I won't be able to share with my children anymore.  The older ones have been to the campus many times; they have heard some of our stories and seen our old haunts.  The younger ones will grow up listening to the stories we tell without any frame of reference.  They won't get the chance to kick the soccer ball on the same field dad did, or walk into the office where mom worked, or drive around the back of the gym where we would sneak a quick forbidden kiss.  All these moments live on for me while the campus still stands.

Strangely enough, I am the second generation to live this.  My parents are also alumni of the same institution, although they attended when it was located elsewhere.  For years afterwards, my sisters and I would find ourselves in the back of the station wagon, not knowing where we were going, when suddenly the car would slow to a crawl on a block of vacant, dilapidated buildings.  My parents in the front seat would murmur to each other and point to places in the past, scenes only they could see.  They would occasionally narrate their memories to us, but we just rolled our eyes and whined to go home.  Then the inevitable day came when we turned on the familiar block only to find that it had been completely razed.  Where they once lived and worked and learned and lived was now nothing but an empty lot.  Surely we can go home now, we thought.  But once again, the car slowed to a crawl, and my parents pointed out to each other where the buildings used to be, and the memories still came.  That was the last time we ever went down there.

And so my memories will be one day gone as well.  I'll always remember my years spent there, always have friends and fellow alumni to jog my memory.  But the campus itself will no longer be my talisman, able to conjure up a thousand thoughts just by driving through the gates.  It's sad, much more sad that I expected it to be.  But life goes on.  And it will be converted to a new purpose and others will make their own memories there, far different than mine.  But it will always be my campus.  

Someone has taken my baby.

Someone has taken my baby.
I know, for I left him here just a moment ago
In his footie pajamas, his sweet mouth puckered
With droplets of milk, his eyes half closed in sleep,
His lips still nursing my breast not there.

Someone has taken my baby.
I know, for I just smoothed my hand over his
Peach fuzz head, pried his sweaty fingers from
My flesh, felt his sticky tree frog toes,
Breathed in his baby smell.

Someone has taken my baby.
I know, for I just laid him to bed, and when
I blinked, he was gone, and a boy lay in his place,
Legs stretched long and lean, arms dangling here and there,
Lashes laid dark upon his cheek.  The peach fuzz
Has moved from his head to his jaw, the belly
Now is sinewy muscle, not the sweet chub that I kissed
Over and over to the sound of bubbly delight.
His face is shadowed no longer by the nightlight, but by the
Man that he will be.

 Someone has taken my baby and left me with memory.

 6-28-2011

Learning to love

Many years ago, when I thought about my life with kids, I imagined our house to be The House. You know, the house where all the kids end up hanging out? I wanted to be the mom who could be mom to my own kids and Second Mom to their friends. I never wanted to be 'Cool Mom' or try to be buddy-buddy; I just wanted to be The Mom.

Fast forward to present day.

Turns out I don't really like other kids.

Well, that's not totally true. Let me back up for a moment: My husband and I made the decision to put our kids into public school for a number of reasons, one being that we are looking to build relationships with people. We've gotten to know a few families and have had the opportunity to have their kids in our home. One family in particular has visited quite a bit. The son is a classmate of our oldest, and his sister is two years younger. She can be a little.....much. Like when she opens my cabinet to ask for something to eat. Or when she tells me that my baby doesn't want to be in her high chair anymore. Or when she tries to take my 2 year old to the bathroom. I feel my ire rising, and feel the need to put her in her place. This is my house, not yours; keep your hands to yourself. You may be thirsty, but I will be the one to decide what we're going to drink, not you. I'm the mom, thank you, I'll figure out when the baby wants to get down.

Oh yeah. I'm getting territorial with a six year old. Not my finest hour.

Right in the middle of my snit fit, God tapped gently on my shoulder and reminded me that this is what I wanted. This is the reason that we chose public school, this is the reason that we wanted kids in our house. She doesn't need me to correct her, she needs me to love her. She needs me to show her Jesus. She doesn't know that's what she needs, nor does her brother or mother for that matter, but Jesus is what they need. And this is how I show Him, by loving her.

How in the world do I think I'm going to stand having all these kids in my house over the years? Kids come from all different places in life, all different backgrounds, all different personalities, habits, you name it. My job is to love them, to show them the One who can love far better than I ever can. My job is to give them the love that they might not get anywhere else. My job is to be a mom who is capable of all this love because I'm not concerned with besting a six year old, but rather I've laid down my self to take up Christ.

And that's The Mom that I want to be.

Grace and gift cards

Sometimes I just don't like my kids. This is something that lurks deep and dark in the back of every parent's minds, but we just don't say it aloud. Ever. I love them deeply and I really do like them quite a bit. They're funny and charming and sweet and fun to be around...mostly. But then there are just....those days.

To be specific, a series of snow, ice, and sick days had stranded us in the house for close to a week. School was cancelled, the roads were too slick to drive anyway, and another storm was bearing down on us. Cabin fever was hitting hard, and kids were squabbling with each other, melting down over the smallest issue, and generally behaving miserably. I did not like them. One bit.

Salvation came in the form of a late Christmas present from a dear friend. The mailman delivered a package containing Toys R Us gift cards for each kid. Perfect, I thought - a chance to get out of the house and get a new toy to tide us over during the next shut-in.

The plan worked perfectly. We got to Toys R Us and spent a leisurely hour walking through the aisles, each child carefully examining their options. The tension was broken; tempers were cheered, words were kinder, moods were brighter.

Everyone finally had their choice and to extend the benevolent feeling, we even stopped in the candy aisle for an additional treat before proceeding to the register. All was going well. And then I realized that I didn't have my wallet with the gift cards.

Hoping it had just fallen out into the van, I lined the three older ones up against the wall, and ran out to check. No luck. I hurried back in to find my sweet angels sitting quietly where I had left them. They looked at me expectantly and asked if I had found it. I shook my head no, then called home. Sure enough, dear husband found it on the dining room table. I hung up, turned to the kids, and braced myself. "We have to leave the toys here for now. I don't have any money. We have to go home."

And they took my hands and walked out without even a whimper.

Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that. On the drive home, it occurred to me that they probably didn't like me too much in those days either. I was sick of being at home too and it showed; I was sharp with them, less forgiving than I should have been, my irritation showing outright. And when my mistake was on full display, they simply loved me. They had every right to be upset. I can't imagine a situation more disappointing to a child than to have to leave promised toys at the store. But they understood. They understood and they loved me, and I was humbled to accept their grace.

I trip over my own shortcomings, tangle myself in self-satisfying sin, and justify my selfish whims time and time again, and I back-pedal furiously when I'm confronted with the truth about myself. But God gives grace generously, lavishly. And He gives grace through little children, who sometimes give their mothers a gift they don't even know they are giving.

We drove home, picked up the wallet, drove back, got the toys, and picked up a special fast food dinner to boot. And we survived the next ice storm with new toys. We even liked each other this time.

Growth spurt

The family needed a little 'pick-me-up', so we piled the kids in the car, got a dog-sitter for the night, and headed west about 45 minutes to a hotel with an indoor pool and a breakfast buffet. The kids loved it. They swam with dad, tried out the mini golf course, and we got to eat dinner at Uno's.

As we pulled back into the parking lot, we noticed a big tour bus filled with kids stopped in front of the hotel entrance. Sure enough, a middle school group was bunking at the hotel for the night. It wasn't five minutes after we had gotten the kids in bed that we heard the pre-teen revelry begin. Our room overlooked the pool courtyard, which the group had quickly discovered. Our 7 year old was indignant; "Why do they get to stay up and go swimming?" My response: "When you're in middle school and go on an overnight trip, you can go swimming at night too."

While Dad did bedtime cuddling, I took the baby out on the balcony and watched the group. It was cute - the girls played in the pool, while the boys claimed the hot tub. One brave boy played the hero and ventured into the pool, getting splashed by all the girls for his efforts. Some non-swimmers lingered by the pool, shouting to their friends in the water. Others gathered around the ping-pong table, starting short-lived games. All around, animated smiles, nonstop chatter, shrieks of delight. Their faces were still so young, but their arms and legs were gangly, especially the boys. I watched them for a while, enjoying their joy in their momentary freedom, away from mom and dad and home, testing their (well-supervised) independence. Swimming at night! No parents to obey! All the vending machine drinks and snacks you want! I remember this pseudo-liberation and the bravado that went along with it.

As I stood watching this scene, I thought about my own dear 7 year old and tried to imagine where he would be in this group. Ping-pong? Hot tub? Would he be the one to brave the girls-only pool or would he be on the bench with his friends, eating Doritos and chugging his Coke? What kind of a kid will he be in five years? Will he be the funny one? Will he still like school? Will he maintain his friendships with his girl friends, or will he shun them? Is he going to hit his growth spurt early or be the late bloomer? Will he be as articulate as he is now or withdraw into himself? I felt impatient to know, to figure him out.

I thought all this while nuzzling the milky head of my almost 2-month old. She is holding her big bobble-head up pretty well, and has just recently started to give us tentative smiles. I love it - and loathe it. Every week takes me further from the newborn stage. Every week turns into every month turns into every year...and then she's crawling and walking and talking and she's not a baby anymore. No more gummy smiles, no more tiny fists, no more tiny bodies. I'm not ready for it to end.

And I realize that this is the way life is. I have to give up some good stuff to get some other good stuff. The sleepy newborn gives way to the smiley infant. The gummy smile gives way to the cute little first tooth. The tiny body gives way to the growing girl. The sweet baby gives way to the chattering toddler who gives way to the funny preschooler who gives way to the clever 2nd grader who will eventually give way to the future middle schooler who I can't wait to know.

Bring it on.

Hands full

The baby was asleep, the 2 year old down for her nap, and the 4 year old settled into his computer games. I was ready to tackle some work. Then the phone rang. It was the school calling to let me know that the 7 year old had a fever and would I please come pick him up? So sleeping baby into the snowsuit and carseat, 4 year old lured away from the computer with the promise that we'll be gone for just a few minutes and of course he can do computer games as soon as we get back, and at the last possible moment, the 2 year old gently awakened and coated and into the car - socks, no shoes.

Of course, nothing is easy, so when the 7 year started screaming in pain as soon as he was picked up, I called the doctor, and we didn't even go home. One and a half hours later, we had a diagnosis and a prescription. I checked the time, hoping to get right to the store to avoid rush hour, and realized that the baby needed to nurse. So home after all, feed the baby, give out snack, listen the the forecast for snow, realize that preparing dinner isn't going to happen tonight, and remember that we're out of milk and toilet paper. Quick decision to dine at Chick-fil-A on the way to Target to get all errands done at once.

Chick-fil-A first, three kids meals, baby gets hungry while we're eating. Visions of a quick dinner fade as I settle in for the minimum 30 minutes. 2 year old drinks brother's lemonade while he's not looking. Brother gets upset. 2 year old then drinks other brother's chocolate milk while he's not looking. Other brother mildly annoyed. 7 year old asks for ice cream, which 4 year old and 2 year old quickly second. Send all kids up to counter to trade their toys for ice cream. Watch helplessly from other side of table with nursing infant as 2 year old makes ice cream mess. Get everyone cleaned up and back to the van in 42 minutes and on to Target.

7:12 p.m. Bedtime was supposed to be 7:00 because of shortened naps today. 7:00 turns out to also be the time that the pharmacy closes. Errand #1 shot. Milk and toilet paper still on the needs list. Baby seat in the cart, 7 yr old and 2 yr old in the cart too. 4 yr old hanging off the side. Quick quick quick, I think. Almost to the toilet paper aisle, 4 yr old shouts "I need to poop now!" U-turn back to the bathrooms. 2 yr old says she needs to go too. I look at her bundled up in her coat, and decide that her Pull-ups will suffice for the bathroom this time.

Second attempt to get to the toilet paper aisle, baby starts crying, 2 yr old wants out of the cart, 7 yr old complains that 2 yr old is stepping on his hand, 4 yr old is asking if we can buy every product that we pass. I put my head down and resolve to just power through when an older woman catches my eye.

"You have your hands full!" she says.

Ear infections, interrupted naps, grouchy kids from said interrupted naps, inconvenient nursing schedules. Entertaining two well kids in a doctor's waiting room for far too long, explaining to a sick 7 year old that we can't go right home, pharmacy hours that are 12 minutes too short for my schedule.

Laundry that piles up seemingly overnight, crayons constantly underfoot, dinners reheated, refused, and sometimes regurgitated. Bickering, hitting, screeching, wrestling, crying.

Sweet morning breath, fish kisses, sticky hands against my cheek, colored pictures just for me, silly faces, baking helpers, mixers, and tasters. Awkward somersaults, hopping, jumping, climbing, toddler races, 'look at me, Mom!'

Quiet bedtime cuddles, boo-boo hugs, papers from school with 'Great job!' across the top, brothers holding their little sister's hands, laughing, giggling, smiling, snorting even. A 2 year old surprised smile as she exclaims, 'I di it mom! I di it!'

Hands around my waist, my leg, my chest, my arm, my neck. Sleepy heads on my shoulder, sleeping infants heavy on my chest.

"Yeah", I smile back at the woman in the aisle. "I really do."

King and God and Sacrifice

I've long looked down on 'We Three Kings' as a Christmas carol. Sure it's traditional, but it's long, the melody line is hard to sing with a group, and it is so boring to play. I've never heard it and liked it (apart from the stellar version from the Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLaughlin; but try getting your local church to play that version!) My other beef with the song is that it doesn't really give any spiritual insights to the Christmas story. Sure, it's about the journey of the wise men to see the Christ child, but that's about it. It's mostly a narrative of their trip. Look at the chorus even - it's all about the star that they followed, not even Jesus!

It was on the other day in the background, one of the many songs playing over and over on a Christmas only station, when one particular line nearly knocked me off my feet. "King and God and Sacrifice." Three words, linked together inequitably. King and God go together. Sacrifice does not. King and God are high positions, upper eschelon, top of the food chain. Sacrifice is the lowest of low - what you present to kings and gods. How amazing that Christ can be all in one equally - king and God and sacrifice.

Today we gloss over this fact. We've grown up hearing and reading about the sacrifice of God for us. God became flesh and dwelt among us. Christ took our sins upon himself, becoming the sacrifical lamb for humanity. We know this basic fact of Christianity like the back of our hand. But think about the radical idea that this was back at the first Christmas. The Jews were waiting for their King and their God to arrive boldly, to throw off the oppression. Instead, He came meekly and mildly, a helpless baby born to a young girl, with the spectre of death in His future. A sacrifice, yet King and God as well. This is the mystery and majesty of Christmas.

King and God and Sacrifice. All equal, all linked, all fulfilled in one Person.

Merry Christmas.

Thanksgiving

Hard times breed contempt and complaints. I'm certainly not exempt from this, so in light of that, a deliberate list of thanks to change my perspective.

I'm thankful for piles of dirty laundry, for it means that my house is full of active people.

I'm thankful for toys underfoot, for they are the flotsam and jetsam of my dear children.

I'm thankful for dirty dishes, for they are daily reminders of the meals we have in abundance.

I'm thankful for paying taxes, for it means that we are making enough money to contribute to our country's infrastructure.

I'm thankful for colds and runny noses, for these are mere nuisances compared to the myriad of diseases that most of the world faces.

I'm thankful for doctors bills, for we have immediate access to great healthcare.

I'm thankful for my shortcomings and failures, for they push me closer to the One who is continually perfecting me.

Happy Thanksgiving. May today be a day rich with blessings as you consider all that you have.

I Thessalonians 5:8 In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God for your life.

I suppose it's all my fault.

It started out harmless enough: as we'd wait for the stoplight to change, we'd say, "Green means go! Red means stop! Yellow means sllllooooooowwwww dowwwwwwnnnnnnnn!"

Little did I know that I was creating two backseat drivers in carseats.

A few months ago I took a right on red. "Mom..." I heard from the back. "Yeah?" I asked. "You just turned and the light was red." I caught his eye in the rear view mirror. He was not amused. "Oh no, honey. That's ok to do." I never thought that I'd have to give a lesson on driving to my 1st grader, but then again, there are a lot of things I never thought I'd have to do as a mom. He seemed pacified, although still a bit dubious at my explanation, as if maybe this was just some big story that I was inventing because after all, I was the one that had taught him 'Red means stop!'

A few days later, it happened again. "MOM!" "What??" I shriek, convinced that a projectile has come crashing through the back window and skewered my child, based solely on the sheer terror in his voice. "YOU TURNED AND IT WAS RED!" My pulse returning to normal, I managed to calmly reiterate the 'Right on red' rule. He also calmed down and seemed to accept my explanation a little easier this time.

The next week I turned left on a green arrow. From the back, a familiar, "Mooommm..." "Yes?" "You said that you could turn right on red, but you turned left that time and it was still red." "Didn't you see the green arrow? If you are turning left, sometimes we can make our turn even though the people going straight are still stopped." His mouth was set in a grim line, but he nodded.

"Mom?" "What, hon?" "How do you know how fast you can drive?" Thus the speed limit saga began. "See those signs with numbers on them? They tell you how fast you can go."

"Thirty-five, Mom. It says thirty-five." "Thanks." "Are you going thirty-five?" I glance down at my speedometer hovering just over 40. Moment of truth. I lick my lips. "Nope - but now that I know that it's just 35, that's how fast I'll go."

"Fifty-five, Mom." "Twenty, Mom. I just saw twenty." "Mom, did you see that? It said forty-five now. You can go forty-five." The 3 year old has begun to chime in too: "How fast, Mom, how fast?" My thoughts while driving now involve how hard it would be to make my back windows completely opaque and just how insane that would sound to explain to the car guy.

Next up, we bring the police into the mix. "Mom, what happens if you go faster than you're supposed to?" "The police will give you a ticket." I watch him in the rear view mirror as he digests this morsel. Lip quivering, he asks in a small voice, "Will we go to jail?" I assure him that we will absolutely not go to jail over a speeding ticket. It's only after I clarify that the driver is the only one who will be in trouble that he perks up.

Perhaps the most insulting query comes from the mouth of my 3 year old as we are en route to our weekly errands, a routine trip that I've driven for years now: "This is the wrong way!" I bite my tongue and sweetly repond, "Trust me; it's the right way" to which he reponds even more sweetly, "Are you sure?"

But I'll have the last laugh. The countdown has begun: only ten years until it's their turn in the drivers seat....

Renovation

I'm about 95% done with my first major renovation project. (And by 'I', I mean 'my dad'.)

We have two active boys, and one baby girl who recently became mobile. We do not have a big space indoors for them to expend their energy, stash their toys, play with their friends, etc. We do have a big unfinished basement. We do not have construction abilities. We do have a dad who does, along with a can-do attitute on our part (well, one of us at least).


The plan in my mind was simple, easy, and quick. The other grandparents invited the two boys to their house for a week in July. The timing couldn't have been better. Get Dad up here, slap up some walls, a little paint, perhaps some trim -- boom - finished basement. And the best part was that I could work along side him and learn how to do things myself.


My week of work was great. It was the start, I was full of energy and excitement for the project, and it showed all over me. I hauled lumber, carried sheet rock, made chalk lines, leveled for plum, drove screws into the studs. I worked 10 hour days and I sweated. And I loved it. It was coming along.


The week ended, we brought the boys home, and life got a little more complicated. Now we had two active boys here, a construction site in the basement, and all the toys piled up in the living room. 'No problem', I thought. 'I can go back and forth between the work and the kids.' It worked...sometimes. Probably more times, not.


And now we are almost a month into the project, a month of my house looking like someone took a pitchfork to it, a month of being absolutely exhausted, a month of splitting my time between my mom duties and my renovation duties and giving neither the proper due. I am tired of this. I want it over. I want to say, 'I don't care anymore - it's too hard - just leave it the way it is.'


When I near my breaking point, I have begun to say to myself, "It's worth it. It's rough now, but it will all be worth it at the end. Be patient." And I can overlook the drywall dust everywhere, the toys that are ankle-deep everywhere I step, and the general chaos that a project of this size brings. I can endure.


The most astonishing thing about this project, though, is how it has given me perspective in my spiritual life. I've been through the early days of being saved - the excitement, the can-do attitute, the feeling that I know what I'm in for, the confidence that I'm ready for what is to come. I've also been through the part where it starts to dawn on me that maybe I've bitten off a bit more than I could chew, and that it's a little harder than I once thought. I'm currently in the part where I think to myself, 'I'm tired of this. It's too hard. Just leave me the way I am.' And it's hard to say to myself, "It's worth it. It's rough now, but it will all be worth it at the end. Be patient." But that's exactly what I need to do.


My spiritual journey is not a quickie project, slap up some walls, a little paint, perhaps some trim, and boom - done. It's a lesson in endurance. It's a long project full of hard work and sweat. It's a life lived with heartache, and hardship, and chaos all around. But in the end, it's worth it. It's worth it. It's worth it.

Girl meets boy

Girl meets boy
I first laid eyes on my son seconds after he was pulled from my body, still covered in blood and goo, a little blue around the edges, and tears pricked my eyes. They rushed him away to clean, weigh, and whatever else they do, and I marveled to myself, "I have a boy".

I had been apprehensive of him ever since I found out that he was a 'him' rather than a 'her' around the fifth month of my pregnancy. I grew up the oldest of five girls, with no boys around except for my dad. I was not a girly girl, but I wasn't a tomboy either. I was just…a girl. Our childhood play was very orderly and nurturing. Store, school, doctor, house, carnival, baptism (my dad was a pastor – what can I say? You play what you know.) Dad played the dual role of father and big brother by roughhousing with us, barging into our store with a gun and announcing a stickup, shoving a football in our gut and yelling 'Tackle!', among other things. I was secretly glad we didn't have a real brother, if this was how boys were.

Then I got a boy of my own, and with him, my own personal invitation to BoyWorld.

At the beginning, there wasn't much of a difference. Infants are infants, no matter what the sex. The diapering took getting used to, but that shock was minor. He cuddled up against me in the middle of the night, and in my love-clouded haze, I thought, 'Bring it on'. Then the boy-ness kicked in.

He jumps, he runs, he hurls himself from the highest heights, just for the fact that he can. All day long I hear, 'Watch me, Mom! Look at this, Mom! How fast can I go, Mom?' He stops for a moment to rest and that moment turns into a wrestling match with the dog. He launches himself at me daily, with the blind faith that I will catch him, no matter what, even if I happen to be completely turned away from him with an armful of groceries and a pitcher of water at the time. I can almost see his energy brimming over the top of him at times, ready to burst forth and flood everything around him. And I have yet to see him walk by his younger brother without delivering a nudge, push, or bonk on the head.

The silliness of a boy knows no bounds when it comes to potty humor. I was expecting to deal with it around age six or seven...not three. Favorite words of girls: princess, bride, sparkles, kitten, cute. Favorite words of my son: butt, poop, pee, punch, penis. Followed by gales of laugher. I have to lay down the law when it comes to these words in inappropriate settings, but I have to fight my laughter each time he joyfully recites them.

He loves bugs and animals and notices them long before I do. He digs for worms in my garden, squatting down to let them squirm over his fingers. He is always willing to let whatever insect has gotten in the house crawl onto his hand in order to take it back outside. The other day, we were leaving the river and my husband was throwing bait fish back in the water. I watched him toss them one at a time until I realized that there were two splashes. I looked down to see my son gleefully plunge his hand in the bucket, close his hand around a wriggling fish and throw it out as far as he could.

And in the middle of all the exploring, the running, the jumping, and the silliness, he suddenly grabs my neck with such fierceness, presses his flushed cheek against mine, and says in my ear, "I love you mom', and for a brief moment, I get to hold my son still. And then he's off running again, pulling me deeper into the mysteries of BoyWorld.

October 14, 2007

fishing and hunting

I finally have an answer to a question I've been asking for years: is there anything more boring than a fishing show on T.V.?

Yes.

It's a video game about fishing.

My husband loves fishing. He goes every chance he gets. He makes regular pilgrimages to Bass Pro, the fisherman's mecca. He talks about jiggers and reels and line weight with passion. He watches fishing shows on cable.

These fishing shows are so boring. Every one I have seen has basically one or two guys fishing. Yes. Just sitting there with a line in water. Occasionally they catch a fish. Then it's mildly entertaining. More often, they don't. The tedium is overwhelming. I couldn't imagine anything more boring.

Then he came home tonight with a game for his Playstation. In this game, he gets to fish and hunt. The controller allows him to steer his boat around a lake, and then cast his line into the water. He then uses the controller to reel the line back in. He has been playing this for 35 minutes now. He has not yet caught anything yet. I am now watching a simulated man sit on a simulated boat in a simulated lake, casting a simulated rod to try and catch a simulated fish.
The hunting portion, however, was hilarious. He got a shotgun to go hunting on a snowy mountain complete with pine trees and little cabins, and a cheery 'friend' to add commentary to the game. He took his first shot. The friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your first warning.' He took a second shot. His friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your second warning.' He took a third shot. His friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your third warning. I'm shutting this session down because you didn't follow the rules.' And the game ended.

He started another game. He took a shot at an elk. His friend said, 'Whoa - you don't have a license to shoot at that animal.' He tried to go a little deeper in the woods. His friend said, 'Whoa - you need to put on the appropriate clothing before you continue.' He put on the appropriate clothing. And then a cougar attacked him.

I love it.

gimmick

I'm a gimmick girl. The best way to get me to spend money in your place of business is to throw out a New and Improved item. You'll have me hook line and sinker.

The mountain of coolers that I own (and have owned) is all due to gimmicks. I buy a cooler. It is functional. It holds all the food I need it to hold. It keeps everything cool, just as promised. I'm happy with it. Then I happen to be in the store and wander by the cooler section. Hmm. Look at that cooler. It has a SIDE ZIP POCKET! Think of what I could store in there!!!!! And another cooler joins my coffers. And don't get me started on the coolers with wheels, an easy open top flap, and an expandable bottom compartment, apparently in case you get more food once you get where you're going and need the extra room. All of which I have.

My oldest child just turned three. I am on my fifth diaper bag. The first one was given to me as a gift at my baby shower. I registered for it. It was very gimmicky. Two side pockets for bottles, front pocket with Mom organizer, including a key fob, and a diaper changing pad, with a clear plastic 'dirty clothes' bag to complete it. Upon actually using this bag, I decided it was too big, and went for the complimentary diaper bag I got in the hospital. It worked for a while, but it was just one big space. I needed compartments, without going overboard, of course. The next diaper bag was just right….until I found out I was expecting #2. Now I needed a diaper bag to hold not only the infant diapers and wipes, but also the crayons and juice boxes of the older one. Some would say that any old bag would do. Not me. I found the perfect bag, full of compartments and organizers for the big kids stuff, and lots of empty space for the little one's stuff. That lasted about a year. My latest one is a sight to see. You know what won me over? It has 'stroller attachable straps'. Oooo…I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Plus, you should see the zippered pockets on this thing.

And my fascination with gimmicks extends to the food world as well, where it probably exists in its most extreme form. I was the first on the bandwagon to try the different permutations of Coke and Pepsi when they went all Lemon, Lime, and whatever else. I've tasted the Dr. Pepper with Berries and Crème, the Fresca peach and black cherry, and more vanilla sodas than you can imagine. Back in 9th grade, I had one very specific request for my birthday dinner: Crystal Pepsi. What a concept! Pepsi! But it's clear!!

Wendy's has suckered me a few times. I've eaten their crispy chicken sandwiches quite a few times and thought they were good. Then came the commercial with an irresistible tag line: Now! CRISPIER! Crispier??? There's been crisp that I've been missing out on??? My latest Wendy's gimmick involved their Frosty, recently introduced in a vanilla version. Which, of course, is nothing more than a vanilla shake, something that can be found at any fast food restaurant across the nation. But it was more than that – it was a Frosty, but vanilla! I had to taste it for myself.

White chocolate M&Ms? Check. Reece's cups 'inside out'? Check. Special edition White Chocolate Kit-Kat? Check. McDonalds chicken ranch snack wrap? Check. Pepsi One? Check. Coke Zero? Check. Cherry Coke Zero? Check.

I feel like there may be a lesson in this for me to learn. But first, I noticed something the other day while I was driving home. Seems McDonalds has a new chicken snack wrap. This one has Honey Mustard. I'm in.

February 3, 2007

independence

A fun fact about me: today was my due date, some 30+ years ago. Instead, I chose to bide my time, appearing ten days later on the 12th. I was supposed to be a Groundhog Day arrival and ended up a Lincoln baby.

My son came in my room the other morning, as he usually does when he wakes up. I had been up quite a bit during the night with the baby, so I was still very tired, and when he said in his little cheery voice, 'Good morning, Mom!', I just wanted him to go away. Half-asleep, with my eyes still closed, I told him to climb up in bed with me and cuddle a little bit, hoping to score a few more minutes lounging in bed. He did, and as he nestled into my chest, I ran my arm around his backside to pull him in closer and got a little surprise. Rather than the flannel jammie bottoms I expected to feel, my hand instead cradled a little bare bum. I opened my eyes and asked him, 'What happened to your pants?' He smiled at me and said, 'I peed in them so I took them off!' He paused a moment, perhaps for dramatic effect, then added, 'All by myself.'

All by myself. AS parents, part of our job is to move our kids to that phrase in every aspect of their lives. It starts almost from birth. Don't rock your baby to sleep, or he'll never learn to fall asleep on his own! Be sure your baby gets plenty of tummy time, so he can learn to hold his head up by himself. We're given these helpless creatures who are completely dependant on us and expected to turn out independent young adults in the 18 or so years that we have them.

Working towards this independence is quite a job, especially in the early years. My three year old can now go to the potty himself, relieving me of the diaper duty that kept him dependent on me. He can undress himself for the most part, and we're working now on getting dressed. He can put him own undies on, and most of the time his pants too. He can feed himself, but he's been doing that for a long time now. Not too long ago, he surprised us at how little he needed us to help with the TiVo, as he nonchalantly paused his show to run and get some milk.

It's so cute to see this little person develop. I can't believe this is the same newborn that we brought home a little more than three years ago. All of a sudden, it seems, he's doing his own thing. He tells me, 'Just a moment, Mom, I have to go check something.' Or he'll say, 'I've got a good idea! Maybe we could go eat some pizza!' Just this morning he told me, 'When the clock gets on seven, then it will be time for you to play with me.'

But each step towards independence is ultimately a step away from me. Soon he won't need me to help him put his shoes on. He won't want me picking him up from school, or hanging out on a Friday night. I am pouring my life and soul into these years with him, only to know that he will be leaving me in the end.

And that's the kicker. Every parent knows that the day is coming; it's lurking somewhere in the murky future when your child's life is no longer dependent on you. It's sweet and sour – the ache you feel at being not necessary is tempered by the wonder that is this new, independent person that you helped shape. I feel it now, even as my son is still a toddler. I miss shoveling cereal in his little mouth, but look how great he is at using that spoon himself.

So as you grow, dear son, I'll keep pushing you to do it yourself. Because one day, sooner than I'll be ready for, it will be all you. And I'll be content to sit back and admire my handiwork.

February 2, 2007

Christmas wish

My 3 year old sat on Santa's lap and Santa asked him what he wanted for Christmas. He replied, "A candy cane." That was it. Nice and simple. I joked to the mom standing next to me, "I guess it will be an easy Christmas for me this year!"

I think back on that day with a tinge of melancholy, for I know that it will someday be lost in a whirlwind of memories and cute stories. I think on it with melancholy, for the innocence that allows him to wish for a candy cane for Christmas will also be gone someday and it tears me to pieces to think of it.

In the three short years since becoming a parent, I am amazed at the transformation in me. The little things that used to bug me are somehow smoothed over, the silly grudges I harbored have been released, the selfish nature that I laid claim to has been purged, all for the love of this child of mine. I don't allege to have become perfect by any means, but suddenly life has a bigger purpose than just my whims and indulgences. My life is this child. I rejoice to see him happy, I sympathize when he is sad, and I hurt to see him in pain.

Right now his world is so easy. His parents love him, he has a few friends that he likes to play with, and he gets a lollipop when he poops in the potty. Throw in a little 'Candy Land' and a trip to the playground and life is good...very good. He thinks everyone likes him, we're all laughing with him, and the hardest thing to deal with is having to turn the T.V. off after just one show.
But as the rest of us know, everyone doesn't always like us, they're not always laughing with us, and there are a lot harder things in life to deal with than a T.V. restriction. I feel almost physically sick to think of the day that will inevitably come when he is rejected by a friend. When he is excluded from the group. When he is the object of laughter. When his heart is broken. When life seems to be closing in on him. My precious son....

Life isn't fair, life isn't easy. I'm pained to know that he will have to learn these lessons. I want for him to know sunny skies and shining waters, not stormclouds and droughts. This sweet smile of his will fade and the sparkle in his eyes will dim. The only thing I can do is teach him that it doesn't have to be a permanent thing.

I want for him to keep the innocence of childhood in his heart forever. I want him to see beauty in a smooth rock on the sidewalk. I want him to know a true friendship. I want him to appreciate the simple things life has to offer. I want him to know that this life isn't the end.

I want him to get his candy cane.

December 20, 2006

4:00 a.m.

One of the fun things about having kids is never knowing if you'll get a full night's sleep or not. Kind of like some sort of cruel lottery - 'Ooooo - maybe tonight's the night!'

Last night was not one of those nights. Around 4 a.m., I had just put the baby back to bed after feeding him, when I heard cries from the older one coming from the next room. Since I was already up, I went over to see what was going on. We're at Grandma and Grandpa's for Thanksgiving, so I guessed that he had probably woken up and forgotten where he was. So I go in and he's sitting up in his bed, crying his eyes out. I sat down next to him, rubbed his back, and asked him what was wrong. He just kept crying, so I pulled him close to me for a hug, and that's when I felt the wet pants. Yup - he had peed in his bed. He's pretty new at the potty training thing, but up to this point, he hadn't wet the bed. But he was crying the most heartbreaking cry and he was wet and the bed was wet, so I stripped his pants and got him some new underwear, and then stripped the bed and was ready to tuck him back in, when I realized his pj top was also wet. So the poor kid already has no pants, and I'm taking his shirt also. I told him to hang on a moment while I got him a new shirt. I went back into my room, and when I came back, he was curled up on the floor shivering, and still sniffing a bit. I picked him up, put on his warm shirt and gave him a big hug before tucking him back into bed.

I went back into my room, where my husband had woken up, so I briefly told him what had happened. Then I laid there, trying to get back to sleep, but all I could think about was my poor little boy, sitting in his own pee, so sad and helpless to do anything about it, and I thought, "This is the time when I love being a mother." Strange, but true. It's not that I enjoy waking up in the middle of the night to change a boy and a bed, but it's the fact that I can take care of my son, who at that moment needs me desperately. My child, who is utterly helpless, laying in his own filth and misery, and I can make all that go away. This child is just pitiful -- and yet my heart swells with love to see him and want to help him.

And then my thoughts started to wander again, and a view of God cleared in my mind. How much more so are we pitiful little children, mired in our own filth and sin, wallowing in our helplessness and stench, unable to do anything about it, when He walks in, and is stirred with compassion and love for us. He lifts us out of it all, cleans us off, and gathers us in His embrace. I know my son was grateful for my help; I saw the look on his face as he snuggled into a dry bed once again. Where's my look of gratitude for my Father? Or am I so calloused to His mercy on my pitiful estate that I shrug it off, or worse, consider it unworthy of my thanks?

Just my thoughts in the night.....

November 23, 2006

Bedtime musings

Ask any mother what her favorite time of day is, and I'd say that majority of your answers will be 'Bedtime'! Anyone who says otherwise is secretly thinking that anyway.

As much as I love my two boys, I'm ready for a break once bedtime rolls around. Tonight, two books, one music CD, and last minute trip up to administer cough medicine and the promise of a spanking should I hear the tell-tale patter of feet on the ceiling, and finally it is quiet. But before I get into my projects, I have to make sure that sleep has indeed stolen them away.

First up, the toddler. My first baby, not a baby anymore,pushing even the boundaries of toddlerhood. He moves nonstop during the day, drawing from a reserve of energy that I marvel at constantly. He is still only in sleep. And yet, not still. He's decided to sleep curled up on the floor in the corner between his bed and the wall. It's tempting to leave him there, but I haul him up to his bed anyway, tucking in arms and legs that flail lifelessly this way and that. He's getting heavier. I can still manuever him for now, but how much longer?. One side of his head is damp and sweaty from being ground into the carpet, and it puts off a faint soapy scent from a pre-bedtime bath. I lay him on his back, and he readjusts himself onto his side, groaning softly. From the light in the hall, I can make out the traces of the infant I brought home three years ago. His mouth is slightly agape, drool pooling in the corner, threatening to spill over at any minute onto his beloved bug pillowcase. He sighs once more and settles into the deep breathing of sleep. I'm convinced.

On to the baby. Not yet three months old, we're still working on the concept that night is for sleeping, and sleeping for long stretches of time, at that. In fact, last night was the first six hour stretch that he slept and it was like cool water to my parched, tired body. I'm hoping he repeats it tonight. I creep up to the bassinet and peek over, half expecting to see bright eyes staring back at me and - thank you God! - he's out. I'm struck by how small he is, especially in comparison to the toddler I've just visited. And yet I can see how much he's grown, even in the twelve weeks since we brought him home. So small, so big. He's wormed his way out of his swaddling. I wrapped him tightly when I put him down, I know it. And yet somehow this tiny being who can't even support his own body weight can squirm out of this straightjacket of a blanket. He's only gotten one arm out, though, and his tight fist rests gently beside his head. His head is slightly damp too, perhaps sweaty from the struggle it took to liberate that one fist from the confines of his bedding. In the semi-darkness, I realize that I'm straining to see his chest rise and fall with each breath. He seems unnaturally still all of a sudden....wait....a big intake of air.....and back out again. Ok; still breathing. And then a fluttering of eyelids, a contorted face, and a cry that never quite makes it out....a few seconds later, his face relaxes and he's still once again. I'm convinced.

Back downstairs, I'm ready for Me time. I fix my tea, cue up my TiVo....and all I want to do is wake up my babies and revel in their sweetness.

November 2, 1996