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Friday, September 28, 2007And the Genetic Link Is VerifiedMy mother bakes wondrous things: Christmas Nut Tussies, Rhubarb Pie, Poppy Seed Roll, Zucchini Bread. She arrived on Sunday evening, fresh from the airport, bearing a loaf of homemade, pre-sliced zucchini bread, which our family absorbed into its various digestive systems within minutes. So Mom graciously announced that she would bake two fresh loaves of zucchini bread as soon as we picked up the necessary ingredients. Two days later, I happened upon my mother in the kitchen, stirring a congealed mass in my lime green plastic bowl, her face reflecting consternation. "What's wrong, Mom?" "Ohhhhhhhhh." (That was a Class One whine.) "This didn't get right. This is supposed to be thin. I pour this stuff into the pans. But this! This is..." She lifted the spoon. The brownish stuff in the bowl in no way resembled a thin, pourable batter. It looked more like a dough ball bathed in oily slime. "I think maybe it's your flour," Mom continued. "When I first looked at it, I thought, this isn't as silky as it should be." Silky? "Uh, Mom, it's just flour. Are you sure you measured everything right?" "Yes, I measured everything right!" Mom's tone was only slightly defensive. "Maybe it's the humidity. Maybe it just makes the flour, you know, flat." Flat? "Well, is there something missing from the recipe? Something you didn't copy?" "This is my original recipe! I've gone over and over it. Maybe it's the sugar. I couldn't find that other sugar..." "What did you use?" "It was in here." She sidled up to the pantry door and began to peruse my haphazard collection of Tupperware containers. "This one. I think." She handed me an empty container. I bent my face to it and sniffed. "This smells like rice," I said. "It wasn't rice! I know what rice looks like!" She grabbed another container. "Here. This one." She swiped her finger over a slight, crystalline residue on the bottom of the container and licked it. "See? Sugar." She offered me a taste, which I declined. There was no telling what had actually been stored in said container -- or when. I didn't keep my current sugar supply in there. "I don't know what to tell you, Mom." Actually, I wanted to tell her that she had obviously made a big boo-boo, and it wasn't the fault of my flat, non-silky flour or mysterious sugar supply. But I had no answers for her, so I left the kitchen in the hope that everything would turn out all right in the end. Later, I sauntered downstairs, drawn by the delightful scent of cinnamon. Two golden loaves sat cooling on the kitchen counter. "So, did they turn out okay?" "Oh." Mom's expression was half disappointed, half sheepish. "Well, remember you said the container smelled like rice? Jonathan figured it out." She took a breath. "It wasn't actually rice rice. It was Cream of Rice." "You added Cream of Rice instead of sugar??" "Well, it looked just like sugar. It's white!" I wasn't sure if it was okay to laugh at this point. "Mom. Cream of Rice doesn't look anything like sugar." Nope. She insisted that the Cream of Rice did, indeed, look precisely like sugar. Which is why she added it to the bowl. And of course, the whole thing was my fault for not keeping my sugar in a well-marked container in the first place. I just never dreamed someone would try to sweeten a recipe with Cream of Rice. Otherwise I most certainly would have labeled my staples in bright red lettering: "FLOUR" and "SUGAR" and "CREAM OF RICE -- NOT TO BE USED TO SWEETEN ZUCCHINI BREAD." Yes, we tasted the bread. I had to spit mine into the garbage can. It was that bad. My dad, on the other hand, ate an entire slice. "MMM. It's not bad." The man's taste buds are dead. I swear. Naturally there have been a string of we-can't-let-this-one-die comments. You can't make a mistake like this in a household of snide people and expect to not be reminded hourly. We've offered my mom Cream of Rice for her tea; we've asked her to make another loaf of Zucchini/Cream of Rice bread; we've asked my dad to remember to pick up some more Cream of Rice at the grocery store. Poor Mom. Not really, though. She was kind enough, after all, to pass the genetic code for this kind of thing directly to me. I am allowed to laugh at her, you see, because it's like laughing at myself. And fortunately, my mom laughs, too. She finally did make two fresh loaves of zucchini bread this morning. Less than a minute after she'd popped them in the oven, I heard her moaning and lamenting to herself. "What happened, Mom?" "Ohhhhhhhh." (Another Class One whine.) "I forgot to add the zucchini." And so it goes... Tuesday, September 25, 2007To Be BluntLong time readers will be well aware of my son Spencer's penchant for blurting out whatever happens to be on his mind. No matter how bizarre. Or blunt. So he was happily chatting with his grandparents yesterday afternoon (who, by the way, are his "two best friends" and don't you forget it!). "When I'm a grown man," he said, "you're welcome to come and visit me." Pause. "If you're still alive." I clapped my hand over my mouth and left the room, leaving my parents to respond without my making choking noises in the background. My mom didn't miss a beat. "Well, sure. It would be a little hard to visit you if we weren't still alive!" Never a dull moment. Thursday, September 20, 2007Remind Me Again What I'm Supposed To Be DoingOh, that's right -- I'm supposed to be writing. Like, stories and things. And sending queries. And status checking Material At Large. And all that. Or maybe I'm supposed to be cleaning something. Like, my children's tub, which once-upon-a-time was white instead of black (why do children's tubs get so inordinately dirty?). Or my stove top, which seems to have been largely ignored by my in-house kitchen brigade over the past couple of weeks. Or maybe even the guest bedroom, considering the fact that my parents are arriving on Sunday for a week-long visit. Obviously I haven't even been blogging for the past week. It's not because I've been tired or overwhelmed by Life With Baby. No. It's simply because I haven't been able to think of anything to blog about. Brain fog. I'm living in a state of perpetual brain fog. You know what, though? As I meander through my days of nursing and diaper changes and the occasional sentient thought, I have a husband who is taking tremendous care of me. Telling me daily that I look beautiful (oh, please!). Bringing me bowls of Phish Food before bed. Taking charge of the kids-on-kitchen-duty routine. Sponge-bathing the baby. Rubbing my back. Handing me glasses of wine before dinner. Telling me that I'm a good mommy. And all of the above serves to remind me that I'm not supposed to be "doing" right now. I'm supposed to be "being." Being an around-the-clock mommy to a newborn. Being here for all of my other, less dependent children. Being committed to the life God has given me. Being a wife. Being a woman. I'll be back to "doing" in no time. For now, I simply need to "be." Easier said than done, considering my personality. But sometimes when I write wise things, I actually pay attention to what I'm saying. Like right now. Please pardon me while I continue to "be" for a while longer. It's where I am, and when I really think about it, it feels good. Thursday, September 13, 2007Praying For PoopAnd that about sums up the State of Things right now. Molly didn't poop for four days. And this following an explosion of 8.0 Richter Scale proportion! And I was okay after the first two days, because I am an Experienced Mommy who doesn't stress about small stuff any more. And after the third day I started to get a little worried (where might such a small tyke be storing all that poop??), but I refused to succumb to true angst because I am an Experienced Mommy who doesn't stress about small stuff any more. And lo, the fourth day was upon me, and I bottomed out, despite the fact that I am an Experienced Mommy who doesn't stress about small stuff any more. And my Beloved Husband received a frantic "Where's the Poop?" email from his despairing, postpartum wife. What did Beloved Husband do? He dove into some women's forums online and soaked up the wisdom of the nursing mommies on the World Wide Web. (Yes, he did. Yes, he loves me.) And he copied their words on the Absence of Poop in Breastfed Babies, and pasted it into an email for me. "It's just like I said," quoth he. "She's absorbing so much right now that there isn't much left over!" And I was slightly less stressed. But the Lord knows that I prefer evidence-based parenting (and pooping). So I prayed for poop. "I don't care if it's in the middle of the night," I emoted. "I don't care if I have to do two whole loads of laundry because of it. I'm just asking you for a poop." There it is -- the pinnacle of spirituality. I asked the Lord for some poop. And He loves me, and He's faithful (even to poop prayers). And at 1:30 in the morning, with great joy, I changed a poopy diaper. And later that morning, I changed another one -- a fresh, beautiful poopy. And I didn't have to do a single load of laundry on account of it, because it stayed inside her little diaper. So. Am I back in the swing of Regular Life? Am I cooking tasty meals for my family and running the household like clockwork? Am I editing my stories and continuing to pursue my writing goals with ever increasing gusto? Ur, no. I'm nursing a baby and counting poopies. That's where you'll find me. And for now, it's where I'm willing to stay. Because, oh. The joy of Molly is indescribable. With or without poop. Friday, September 07, 2007Bliss
 Nothing is sweeter. Life may be a continuous cycle of baby care right now, but in the midst of the nursing-in-the-wee-hours and catching oozed poop before it spreads all over the sofa, nothing is sweeter. No, nothing. We are undone by the presence of this precious child. I am late to announce the winner of my Guess the Birth Date contest: Congratulations to Tarie, who guessed the birth date and Molly's weight to the exact ounce. Downright scary, that! Tarie, pop me an email and we'll work out getting your prize to you. Also, I welcome you to visit Nicole's blog to read her beautiful account of Molly's birth. Reading about the birth from my doula's perspective definitely has been one of the highlights of my First Week With Molly. Nicole is not only a skilled and sensitive doula, but she is also a gifted writer. Do take the time to read my story through her words. And now I'm off to eat a tomato sandwich, fresh from the vine and lovingly crafted by my son Jonathan, who, by the way, has been treating both Molly and me like royalty all week long. I could get used to this. (Though I'd better not.) Have a wonderful weekend! And I promise I'll write more when I'm less sleep-deprived.
Sunday, September 02, 2007The Beautiful Birthing of Molly RebekahLabor began a little after seven in the evening. Having gone through two (count 'em -- two) rounds of Ha-Ha-This-Isn't-Really-Labor in the past six days, I chose to give the contractions as little attention as possible. Ah, these were different, though. They demanded some attention. Even as Eric and I hunkered down to watch Chocolat, the contractions continued to come, every ten to fifteen minutes or so. And I couldn't ignore them. They made me concentrate, demanded that I breath deeply and close my eyes. Anything that causes me to close my eyes when Johnny Depp is on the screen has got to be serious. By the time the movie was over, Eric was ready to pack the car. Not me, though. I'd been burned twice; I wasn't going to be fooled a third time. Call it denial; call it Fear of Looking Stupid. But I was insistent that we hang out and time a few contractions. They were still Serious Contractions. Naturally, nothing about me is ever going to be "text book." The contractions were still coming only ten minutes apart, but they were long and strong -- sometimes a minute and a half and NOT feeling too fun. Nothing in the This Is Your Labor charts talks about really strong contractions that aren't coming close together. (And the Lord's gentle voice whispers, "Stop trying to fit into a chart. Trust Me.") And so we called our doula, packed the van, woke the children to let them quietly know that This Was It. As if on cue, the contractions began to pile up on one another, even as I made my way down the stairs and into the garage. By the time our starlit drive had taken us to the hospital, I was fairly convinced that I had entered transition. Transition is not fun as one is wandering across parking garages and through meandering hospital corridors. But my dearest Eric, my beloved Birth Coach and Love of My Life, was with me with every heartbeat. Even as I hung upon his shoulder, pulled him toward the nearest bench, or breathed yet again, "Here comes another one," he was there. Unwaveringly, unhesitatingly, wonderfully There. My first words when I walked (yes, walked) into my private room were snarky: "Turn off that stupid T.V." (Well, I ask you -- who in their right mind would leave a television blaring for a laboring woman?) After a quick trip to the bathroom, I curled up gratefully on the bed as another contraction rushed over me. Briefly, I saw the smiling face and heard the greeting of my midwife Linda, who had just entered the room. "Hi, Sweetheart," I said to her, right before closing my eyes to breathe through the contraction. No, I've never called my midwife "Sweetheart" before. But she didn't seem to mind. After the contraction, Linda checked my progress. Heaven sang and my spirit soared when she announced, "Eight centimeters!" Yes! I was stoked. Things were moving rapidly. Nicole, my doula, arrived, and now my Birth Team was complete. Our assigned nurse was sensitive and attentive. The lights were dimmed, the nurse whispered, Nicole spoke soft words of encouragement and stroked my arm, Eric caressed my hair and loved me through every moment, Linda was an ever-present voice of support and a reminder that all was being orchestrated just fine. Except. I found, in the depths of my heart, that I was doubting myself. How could this be? I never had felt anything but confidence in the weeks and months leading up to Birth Day. Even in the midst of continual words of affirmation and praise from Eric and my Birth Team, each contraction brought with it a pain that I found myself hating, wanting to fight. I knew everything was going well; I knew I was staying physically relaxed and responding to my coach and my doula in a positive way. But a deep, inner part of me felt like the pain would break me any moment. I felt, briefly, as though I were failing. It was time to change my position. I'd been lying in a left-facing relaxation position, and thought perhaps it was time to switch sides. As soon as I'd switched, though, it didn't feel right. I knew instinctively -- somehow, in some primal way -- that it was time to open my legs. I feared not knowing what a sensation to push would feel like; feared I would miss it somehow. How could I know? I'd always been drugged, numbed, removed from my own body for my other births. An "urge to push" isn't something you can teach a woman, isn't something you can tell her about. She needs to experience it for herself -- to write her own story afterward. But it was never really an "urge to push" for me. It was more of an "urge to open my mouth and vocalize my way through the baby's exit." And so that is what I did, without really knowing what I was doing. I only knew that it was right because I could hear Nicole and Linda praising me. I had to trust that they understood better than I did what was going on. In the few moments of clarity before the baby emerged, I heard Linda giving Eric some instructions, and I knew that my precious husband was getting ready to catch his child. A wave came, I opened my mouth and "pushed" with my voice and tried to will myself to direct my energy downward. I didn't even know that Molly's head was already out by the time this wave had ended. I only knew tremendous pressure, only knew that I wasn't finished yet, only knew that I wanted to keep going so that it would be finished. My bag of waters, which had bulged its way forward, still fully intact, with the baby's head, burst in a magnificent explosion all over Eric's hands. Linda and Eric were both calling my name, and I finally listened. "You need to stop, or you're going to tear," Linda said. Stop? She had to be joking. But I stopped. I panted. Then I began again. Yet even at this eleventh hour, I felt suddenly as though I needed someone else to do this for me. This was so much bigger than me, so infinitely physical and mental and emotional all at once. And I tried to protest through my vocalizing. "Ahhhhhhh... I can't. Ahhhhhhhh... I'm tired. Ahhhhhhh....help me, I'm tired." No one paid my words any mind. They all knew that I could, and that I would, even if I, in those last few seconds, didn't quite believe it. And then Molly was born, and the ecstasy of release washed over me. Eric caught her, warm and slippery, and placed her on my belly. And the joy of her arrival superseded all. I had no tearing, no damage to my body. I was on my feet again in about half an hour, using the bathroom and getting dressed for our trip down the hallway to the nursery. I drank some orange juice and smiled for pictures and fell ever more deeply in love with my new daughter. Molly Rebekah Boehme. Molly: A pet form of "Mary," which comes from the Ancient Egyptian name "Mr," meaning BELOVED. Rebekah: From the Hebrew name "Rivkah," meaning CAPTIVATING, BEAUTIFUL. We were back home by 10:00 the same morning, greeted by "Welcome Home Molly" signs and a toilet-paper-bedecked foyer (hey, it's cheaper than crepe paper). And so we have become a family of seven, and life is sweet and precious in these early hours and days of Baby Molly's life. I am blessed and thankful and filled with the immeasurable joy that only a new child -- a new gift from God -- can bring. Thank you all for allowing me to share this joy with you.      Labels: baby, birth, family, pregnancy Saturday, September 01, 2007She Has Arrived At Last!It is with great joy and thankfulness that I announce the arrival of our new daughter! Molly Rebekah was born at 2:20 this morning. She weighs 7 pounds, 8 ounces, and is 19 1/4 inches long. We are home now, and I'm going to take a nap while Molly is sleeping. I will post pictures and the story of her birth as soon as I can. Here's one wonderful tidbit that I must share right away: Eric CAUGHT her! A wonderful, amazing moment for Daddy Boehme, and I'm sure he'll be blogging about it in his own time. I'm off to be pampered by my loving family. Oh, what a precious day! Labels: baby, family, life, parenting, pregnancy |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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