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Wednesday, November 28, 2007No B@@bs? No Admittance!It's time again to give me your feedback on something. Because, you know, sometimes it's just...me. Our church has an awesome room for nursing mothers. This past Sunday, I experienced it for the first time: Soft red sofas, dim lighting, and a closed-circuit television piping in the service so the nursing mommies don't miss anything. It felt like a sanctuary -- safe, quiet, peaceful. Until a man walked in. Now, I'm pretty much the nurse-anywhere type. I've nursed babies at restaurant tables, in malls, and at the zoo. So it's not like I have a problem nursing around other people, regardless of whether they're male or female. I do admit to being a little more "private" this time around, though. Maybe it's my age, or maybe it's that I've lost my need to somehow "prove" that I can nurse anywhere. Because I've already been there, done that. It's almost a non-issue. And, well, I really had a problem with the Man In the Nursing Mothers' Lounge. He walked in with his wife and two children, neither of whom were nursing infants. They quietly sat toward the back and began to watch the church service on the TV screen. Now, I can understand a new mommy wanting her husband's help and support while nursing at church. I wouldn't mind if a hands-on daddy accompanied his wife into a quiet corner to help her nurse their newborn. After all, I credit Eric with an amazing amount of support during my early nursing weeks. But this dad wasn't helping anyone nurse. He was...watching TV. I didn't even nurse downstairs when my father-in-law was visiting a few weeks ago. Why would I want to nurse in front of a strange male? And this is coming from someone who ultimately doesn't care. There were other mommies in there, and one of them looked very young and had a very new baby, probably her first. She exuded self-consciousness, swathing herself in a huge blanket and sitting apart from everyone else. And I'm sure she didn't appreciate the appearance of Mr. Hang Where The Boobs Are. Naturally, I didn't say anything. The guy wasn't sizing up our breasts or asking us personal questions. In fact, I'm fairly certain he was a decent man, a loving husband, a good daddy. Heck, his children were well behaved, and that speaks volumes. But the question remains: Why did he think it was okay to hang with a roomful of nursing mommies? "Hey, dude, where're you headed?" "Hi, Jared. I'm just gonna go hang out with lactating women for a while. Wanna come?" So. You tell me. Was I having a hormonal moment? Or does a sign on the door that reads, "Nursing Mothers' Lounge, Private" mean that the male members of our church should stay clear? I await your responses! Thursday, November 22, 2007This Year's Biggest Blessing
   And may the blessings in your life be equally rich and immeasurable, today and every day.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007Taking a Back Seat To TechnologyI take my marriage vows seriously. Naturally there's been more "worse" of "for better or for worse" than I would have liked to believe back when I sauntered down the aisle. That's life, and we either move on and continue to grow in love, or everything falls apart. Right? Right. And while it's true that I've never had to contend with "another woman," I now find myself contending with something almost equally threatening: Eric's Macbook Pro. It's beyond trying to get his attention while his eyes are glued to the screen. It's beyond begging him to put it away and come to bed already. For you see, I have been physically displaced by Macboy. It happened a few evenings ago. Eric came home early from work especially so that we'd have time to go grab a beer and a cider at our favorite pub before Molly's 6:30 nursing. I was ready to go when he arrived, down to my leather boots, which I haven't worn since pregnancy first threw me off balance. I clunked my way across the driveway toward the door on my side of the car. And that's when Eric stopped me. "Oh," he said, sounding a bit sheepish. "You're going to have to sit in the back. Macboy's in the front." Dumbfounded, I stopped in my tracks and gazed through the side window. There, propped lovingly on what was supposed to be my seat, was the Macbook, its monitor angled for perfect viewing from the driver's seat. He absolutely had to be kidding. The lure of a half pint of cider being stronger than my indignation, I slid into the back seat without arguing. Eric's lame explanation about being in the middle of downloading this-or-that did nothing to take away the sting of having been dethroned by a laptop. "You know, if we were dating right now, there is no way you would make me sit back here." Granted, comments like that never accomplish much, but I was too flabbergasted to say anything remotely sharp-witted. I watched helplessly as my husband caressed Macboy's mouse and carefully balanced the time he spent gazing at the screen and actually driving the car. I can't remember the last time he caressed me and fought to tear his gaze from mine while driving. Heck, I'm not even sure it happened in the first place. I think I've always preferred that Eric keep his eyes on the road while we're moving upward of forty miles per hour. And so I entered McCreary's in a state of disgrace -- Queen Catherine following quietly behind Anne Boleyn. The entire date was centered on MacBoy. Granted, Eric was setting up a new Paypal account for me (and that, I am sure, is his primary defense of the evening). But you know, it's a perfect cover when you think about it: "I'll tell my wife that I'm busy doing work for her while I make passionate love to you, Mac." So I sipped my cider and nibbled my chips while Eric's face shone softly in the glow of the monitor. It was almost time to leave when Eric finally shut Macboy down and slipped him into his canvas bag. And you'd better believe I sat in the front seat on the way home. There you have it. I've lost my place in the pecking order and I don't know how to get it back. I suppose I could drop MacBoy from my third story office window, but it would be awfully hard to make that look like an accident. Besides, Eric does spend a lot of time doing intelligent things on Macboy while I doze off in the early evenings, which makes me appear far less useful in comparison. When it's all said and done, I suppose I should hang in there. We all know what happened to Anne Boleyn in the end. Thursday, November 15, 2007"Baby" Sister Meets Baby
    I've never seen my sister so relaxed. And, except for her wedding day, I've never seen her so beautiful. Soft, self-assured, slender, and smiling. (That was a lot of S's.) Here are a few pictures from her all-too-short weekend visit. All I can say is -- my brother-in-law rocks. Thank you, Tom, for sending my sister to Tennessee when she and I needed it most. Tuesday, November 13, 2007Too Easily AmusedWhile driving with my husband and daughter to an early appointment this morning, I happened upon a van, sitting at a red light, that sported the name "Twin Brothers Electric." The name itself wouldn't have caught my eye -- it was the incredibly dorky logo that went along with it; namely, two lightbulbs, side by side, with identical, goofy faces on them. "Look at that!" I tend to sneer too quickly at less-than-clever things, which isn't a good example to set for my impressionable, way-too-much-like-her-mother daughter. "Is that dorky or what?" Maggie agreed that the lightbulbs were dorky. I rambled on about the dorky lightbulbs and the fact that I'd never noticed a vehicle advertising "Twin Brothers Electric" before, despite the fact that it was a local company. Eric was less than interested in my early-morning diatribe, but on I went -- until it occurred to me that there might be an actual reason for the company's name. So as we pulled out and drove by the still-waiting van, I craned my neck and squinted my eyes to get a good look at the people sitting behind the front windshield. There were two identical men inside the truck. No, I'm serious. "Twin Brothers Electric" really is what it claims to be. The brothers in question were as alike as the dorky lightbulbs painted on the outside of their van. It was a weird moment. I gasped. I shrieked. I exclaimed with uninhibited delight, "Ohmygosh they really are twins! They're identical! I mean, they're identical!" I laughed like an easily amused toddler. Then, expecting him to share my glee, I turned to Eric, whose eyebrow was raised in a distinctive, "Do I need to ask you to calm down again?" attitude. How could he not find this even remotely funny? Am I that sleep deprived? "Maggie, you saw them, didn't you?" I wanted to make sure I hadn't dozed off and dreamed up the whole thing. "Yes, I saw them, Mommy." She wasn't laughing much, either. In fact, I think I was simply hearing sympathetic chuckles. Honestly. What were the odds of noting the silly company name and then discovering identical twins driving the van? It's me, isn't it? Yeah, it must be me. I'm way shorter on sleep than I'd like to admit. Humor me, will you? Tell me how amusing/unusual/interesting/fill-in-the-blank it is to discover twin brothers driving a van advertising electrical work by "Twin Brothers." Because I'm still not over it. I mean, twin brothers inside a "Twin Brothers" van! Ya know? Okay. Never mind. My next blog post will be about something slightly more intelligent. I promise. Thursday, November 08, 2007There Are No Words To Express...how much I love this child.  Tuesday, November 06, 2007Claiming the BabyIt was bound to happen sooner or later. Jonathan, the girls, and I were leaving the church building via the side door. Maggie was holding Molly in her arms while I walked jauntily ahead of the gang toward our parked Sienna. The sun was shining, the baby was fed, and we were heading home early, sans Daddy and Spencer, so that Molly's next nap wouldn't be trashed. The extra-large man standing in the parking lot was no stranger to me, though I still don't know his name. He's a kindly soul, hanging out before and during the service to help with parking and general traffic-and-people directing in the church lot. I smiled a casual hello as I walked by, aware that he was watching us as we began to file across the macadam. That's when he said it: "Whose baby is that?" I stopped and turned around. Maggie had also stopped; being the baby-bearer, the question had been directed at her. It seemed, however, that she didn't quite know what to say. So I jumped right in. "It's mine!" I allowed a smile to spread across my face to make it seem like I enjoyed being questioned about my child's parentage. "It's my baby!" So. Whose baby did he think it was? The extra-large man, my children, and I were the only folks in the immediate vicinity. Maggie was obviously too young to be the mother, and I was obviously -- I can't say it. Now, to be somewhat fair, our church is overflowing with babies. Some say it's in the water (Eric won't let me drink it anymore). Some say it's a special blessing on our church family (Eric says we'll have to find a new church). And just about everybody in the fellowship can be seen holding a baby at one time or another, and it may or may not be their own. Still. If someone had handed me her baby, why would I be leaving the church building? At any rate, I continued the small-talk-about-my-baby with the Baby Patrol Officer for a minute or so, agreeing with him that it's easy to forget how tiny they are when you've got older ones of your own. "Mine's twenty," he explained. I half expected him to say, "I'll bet you have a twenty-year-old tucked away somewhere, too." Because, after all, this couldn't possibly be my baby. Why, I was herding a gaggle of teens-and-preteens out the side door. I was obviously their mother. I fit the profile of mom-with-children-of-two-digit-ages. And that diaper bag slung over my shoulder? Why, it must have looked like an attache case. Or maybe I was carrying it for the real mother. Honestly, I got over the "I'm too old for this" by the time I hit my second trimester. I don't feel "too old" anymore, and, unless you get way too close, I don't look too old. But I'm not delusional, either. I don't have the "spring chicken" look that first-time mommies have when they're in the midst of their twenty-somethings. And despite my refusal to look frumpy or middle-aged, I do have that "mom of older kids" look about me. How could I not? I've got a houseful of them. Indulge me just a little bit, though. I mean, even if you don't think the baby belongs to the mommy, don't say anything! Manners 101, you know? Okay. I feel a little better now. A little better. And the next time someone asks us whose baby Molly is, I'll just smile sweetly and say, "We bought her in the black market. You won't tell anyone, will you?" Whose baby, indeed. |
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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