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Thursday, October 23, 2008A Girl's Best Friend...?I had just finished changing a poopy diaper -- a remarkably large load, I might add -- and was on my way out of the bathroom with just-washed hands. Little Molly, of course, had followed me into the bathroom (no matter how fast I move, she's always quicker). I scooped her up and began to smother her in kisses. That's when I noticed she was in the process of putting something smallish and distinctively non-baby-friendly in her mouth. I grabbed it before she completed the move. It was my diamond engagement ring. Now, I only remove my diamond ring when I'm making dough. I shower in it, sleep in it, and do every household chore imaginable in it -- mainly because, if I took it off, I would be sure to lose it. (You all know this is true.) Which means that the obviously dropped ring was the result of one of three things: 1. My fingers have lost weight. 2. My knuckles are shrinking. 3. Molly was born with criminal instincts. Since my fingers are as short and stocky as ever and my knuckles continue to appear at least twenty years older than the rest of me, I'm going to assume that my daughter couldn't resist the diamond. The poop was a ploy to distract me while she greased it off my finger with her own saliva. Yeah, that must be it. It was a stomach-dropping moment for sure. Because if Molly hadn't picked it up and decided to taste it, I'm not I would have noticed it was gone. And I can just imagine the sheer horror of looking down at my left hand and noticing the absence of the one thing I own that has real monetary value. Now I'm paranoid. I keep checking -- is it there? Has it slipped off? I'm still not sure how it happened, or when. Part of me wants to take it off and put it in my jewelry box. But if I do that, I'll forget that I did it, and I'll panic when I realize the ring isn't on my finger. I can't win. Maybe I should attach it to my wedding band with florist's wire. Or solder. And maybe I shouldn't tell Eric about this. Or...maybe I should stick to cheap costume jewelry. Oy. Friday, September 12, 2008Don't Scare Your Mama Like ThatI was in my office when I heard Molly cry -- one of those loud, long, I'm-hurt-and-upset-and-inconsolable cries. "What happened?" I yelled to Spencer, who was with his baby sister downstairs in the hallway. "She fell, but she's okay," came the sweet reply. But the cry had had the "I need my mommy" tone to it, so I got up and made my way down the steps. Molly was lying on her back in the hallway, right at the bottom of the stairs, where I'd stuck the safety gate two steps up to give her a little "safe practice" with step climbing. As I hurried toward her, something felt dreadfully wrong. And as I approached her, I realized what it was -- she had stopped crying. Not only that. Her face was a strange, purplish color, and her little arms, bent in front of her, were sort of twitching. I sank to my knees and leaned over to assess her. Her little body was limp and her eyes were rolling. My world stopped. "Molly." I leaned close. "Molly." Fearful of a neck injury, I didn't want to touch or move her. The hour-long seconds passed, and there she was, looking up at me with normal eyes, completely awake. She began to cry again, so I gently scooped her up. There was no sign of injury on her head. No goose egg, no redness, no gash. For the rest of the evening, she was completely fine. Playing, crawling, cruising, jiving to Telemann. Molly went on as though nothing had happened. Mommy, on the other hand, was an emotional wreck. I had a theory, deep in my gut, but I had to research to be sure. It seemed to me that she had somehow "asphyxiated" herself with too deep a cry. Because, ya know, the child can really go there. Those deep, will-she-ever-breathe chasms between wails that clutch at a mama's heart. And wonder of wonders -- I was right. You want to know what happened to my baby? It was a Breath Holding Spell. Yep. My tiny drama queen held her breath and caused herself to pass out. To be fair to Molly, babies don't do this on purpose. Only about five percent of children have this kind of physiological response to sudden pain, fear, or frustration. It will often occur after a fall or a sudden injury like a pinched finger. And if you react by giving them the world on a golden spoon every time they go through it, they will learn to do it on purpose. Guess who's going to play it really cool if this ever happens again. Despite my frenetic personality, I'm not a nervous type of mama. I don't run my children to doctors when they have a fever (what can a doctor do, anyway?); I don't wring my hands if they fall and hurt themselves; I've cleaned up fresh blood from the bathroom tile (head gash) without blinking more than twice. But you know what? This. Really. Scared. Me. It just looked so...wrong. And from what I've read, every mama who experiences this for the first time feels that way. Scared. It was downright creepy. I needed extra chocolate after this one. Oh, Sweet Baby. Don't do this to your mama again. She's too...old. Well, old-ish, anyway. Tuesday, September 02, 2008And Here's The Princess...
   Labels: baby Monday, September 01, 2008Sweet Molly Turns OneIf I lament about the rapidity of the first year of my baby's life, it'll sound trite. Yet it's true. Sweet Baby is decked out in pink and brown, toile and ruffles, big bow and smiles. First cake, first presents. Seventy thousand photographs. Some of which will end up right here. Oh my precious daughter, my Bohemian Princess, my Earth Baby. How I love you! One of the best days of my life happened exactly one year ago today. God is so very good. Friday, August 22, 2008Microscopic YuckiesAh, the things we forget with the passage of time. Things like the pain of childbirth...the sleep-deprived haze of the early weeks of infancy...the uncanny ability of a not-quite-one-year-old baby to find the teeny-tiniest things on the floor. Even right after I've vacuumed. Even when, fifteen seconds earlier, nothing was there. I swear. And in the midst of all these other children and a house that has more square feet than I care to keep up with and a vacuum cleaner that is missing one of its wheels, I am rediscovering the delight of Molly's carpet-dropping munching habits. You know what I mean. Brittle bug body parts. Metal screws. Hair. Miniscule slips of paper. Fuzz. String. Toenail clippings. Pencil shavings. Staples. Barbie shoes. Ancient crumbs. UFO's. (That's Unidentified Floor Objects.) Gagsghghskfft. I've done really well with over-40 motherhood so far, but this one may do me in. Add to the constant vigilance the drama of Oral Object Removal. You'd think I was trying to tattoo her tongue. Oh, the offense of Mommy's finger in that little mouth! I've retrieved a few items, though. So it was worth the tears and anguish. Hers, not mine. So I'm considering buying a four-man tent and setting it up in my family room. Do you think Molly could live in there until she's old enough to realize that bee wings and bent hair pins aren't supposed to be eaten? Probably not. So I'll just have to save up for that Dyson I've been dreaming about. And then I'll teach my daughters how to use it. Including Molly. Can you tell I'm glad it's Friday? Tuesday, August 12, 2008L'Enfant Gourmet
 Sometimes she eats better than we do. Molly, that is. Pictured above: Braised lamb with fresh rosemary and baked sweet potato. She loved it. Snarfed it, even. Gourmet meets gourmand. I need to requalify my first statement. Molly ALMOST ALWAYS eats better than we do. We're talking organic raisins and applesauce. Unpasteurized aged Gouda. Whole-grain, sprouted bread. If we sold our house and bought a big tent to live in, I could afford to feed my whole family this way. As it stands, I'm giving the best to my baby. As she gets older, I'll have to compromise. I'll trust her body to better handle the pasteurized dairy, for instance (much to my sorrow). I'll slum it and give her regular ol' raisins like the rest of my deprived offspring. But for now, she's my Earth Baby. Breast milk and Really Good Food. Eleven months later and I'm still completely ga-ga. I intend to stay this way for quite some time. It's keeping me young! Labels: baby, natural foods Friday, June 13, 2008The Length of a Pregnancy?
   Why did her first nine months zoom by...unlike my nine-month pregnancy, which took its sweet time (particularly the final third)? Not that I didn't love being pregnant. You all know that I did. It's just that...wow. She's nine months old. And the little outfit she's wearing in the photos? It was Maggie's. Who happens to be fourteen. Nine months. Fourteen years. Life. But who's counting? Labels: baby Friday, May 23, 2008Blowing Off The BlogThere's no other way to put it, really. In an effort to make excuses, it's not the only thing I've been blowing off lately. There are emails waiting for responses (I think I've got almost 500 messages to weed through in my inbox -- all of them read, many of them delete-able or file-able, a bunch still waiting for answers.). Then there's that little thing called -- ur -- writing that I'm supposed to be working on daily. Daily. Hah! So maybe I'm learning -- possibly for the first time -- that the seven-to-nine-month stretch of a baby's development is a bit on the challenging side. Not from a behavioral standpoint, mind you. Molly is sweet as can be, and is responding well to the word "no." It's just that -- well, she's awfully busy. Awfully, awfully busy. Throw in last week's nursing strike and you can see why I'm dropping the ball on a few things around here. To be fair to myself, I was not pursuing a career when any of my other children were this age. The only "writing" I did was the occasional thank-you note or a humorous poem for an unwitting family member. So. Here I am, floundering. But loving every minute of it. Well, maybe not every minute. This isn't some sort of Donna Reed utopia. But I do have a husband with enough sensitivity to buy me a scoop of Bananas on the Rum in a waffle cone at Ben and Jerry's during Molly's nursing strike. And I've actually cleared off enough of the mess on my desk to have room for my left arm while typing. And...and...and...I think I'm starting to get just the tiniest bit organized. Organized, as in, all I really need is thirty minutes a day to keep myself on track in the writing arena. Thirty minutes! I've been known to write four solid pages in thirty minutes. Yes, it can be done. Despite diapers and eighth grade Grammar tests and gargantuan loads of laundry and no fresh fruit in the house, it can be done. And that's where I've been. Blowing off the blog for a bit, with every intention of not blowing anything off again. It'll happen one day. In the meantime, thanks for checking in. Thursday, May 15, 2008More Spinach, PleaseI'm a firm believer in sign language for babies. I mean, who needs to listen to a very short person screaming every time she wants something -- or doesn't want something? So as soon as Molly was introduced to the high chair, she was introduced to the signs for "more" and "all done." Her older sisters are particularly good about working with her as they feed her. Mind you, we usually get blank stares coupled with eager "uhhhhh" sounds that signal Molly's desire for another spoonful. But we've plugged on, trusting that she'd "get" it sooner or later. So today was another Big Day in the life of baby. Today was Let's Have Spinach For The First Time day. My family members were quite pessimistic about the spinach, which I didn't find particularly encouraging after having cooked, pureed, spooned, and frozen my four-dollar bag of organic spinach. The general consensus was, in fact, "She's going to hate it." I, however, was determined to maintain a positive attitude despite the very, very, VERY dark green slop sitting in my ice cube tray. Oh. Such green food. I mean, it's just so...green. Dark green, like toad poop. So the menu for today's Baby Lunch consisted of apples and spinach. Cameras were rolling. Big Brother Jonathan took spoon in hand. Molly's unsuspecting mouth opened wide at the sight of the first spoonful. Mouth closed. Brow furrowed. Eyes upturned. And then. She chewed, swallowed, smacked. Opened her mouth for a second spoonful. Wow! Molly liked the toad poop. Spoonful after spoonful, Molly sucked down the spinach as though it were the sweetest thing to cross her lips since breastmilk. And the best was yet to come. Because about two-thirds of the way through lunch, Molly asked for more. She did. She brought those little hands together in her own, sweet version of the sign language, and asked for "more." More spinach! Then she did it again. It must have been the uproarious applause that spurred her on. Or maybe she simply loved the spinach. I'd like to think it was a combination of both. The best part? Rachel got it all on film. I have double proof: Proof that my child actually ate her spinach, and proof that she asked for more -- twice. So my writing career may be on hold, my office may be a study in acute disorganization, my life may be in baby-induced disarray. But Molly ate her spinach and asked for more. And I'm as happy about this as I would be with a stellar book deal. Ur. Almost. Labels: baby Tuesday, May 06, 2008I Need A Refresher Course
  Okay, somebody help me out here. Somebody with lots of experience with breathtakingly cute babies. I've done this baby thing before. So far, it's been dandy. Beyond dandy, actually. Because every waking moment that I spend with Molly is a blessing beyond my wildest imaginings. And I really do mean that. Except there are more "waking moments" now. And I'm running out of ideas. Let me explain. Molly's always been on a wonderful schedule (thank you, Babywise!). Morning nap at 9, afternoon nap at 1. And for the longest time, she hung onto her third nap. It used to be a 5 to 7 nap. What perfect timing! Plenty of time to make and eat dinner before having to get her up for her 7:00 nursing. Gradually, she was able to stay awake longer after her afternoon nap, so I began to put her down around 6:00 for this final "mini-nap," which could range anywhere from fifteen minutes to one full, blissful hour. Well, it's history. I knew the time would come. Molly is, after all, eight months old now, and most eight month old babies do perfectly fine on two naps a day. And truly, she does do "perfectly fine." It's her mama that isn't doing "perfectly fine." Because, simply, I don't know what to do with her. Do I sound like a clueless mama or what? Yet this 3:00-to-bedtime stretch has me catatonic by the time my own bedtime rolls around. Take today. We wake up a little before three. We come with Mommy when she drives the girls to ballet. We stop at the grocery market on the way home while Mommy buys a couple loaves of bread (we like that; grocery stores are endlessly interesting). We come home. We eat peas and applesauce, and we nurse with gusto. We go into our pack-and-play and do just fine until, halfway through our time, we fall over and get upset. Mommy rescues us and we go upstairs to play together in the nursery. And it's only 4:30. So Mommy brings laundry into the nursery to fold it while she watches you play. She brings you with her while she runs upstairs to check her email. She practically yells with glee when Spencer offers to play with you for a while so that she can finish making the salmon salad. She grabs your blankie and snuggles with you for a while. She thwaps you into your highchair with a few toys while she finishes getting dinner on the table. She realizes that allowing you to yell during a meal isn't too cool, so she puts you into your crib with your blankie for a little bit of down time while she tries to finish eating. You are not happy. And this is the way it goes, and something must change! And since Molly is already practically perfect (a la Mary Poppins), that "something" must be me. "Something" as in, throwing dinner into the crockpot in the morning so that I don't have to worry about cooking when Molly needs me. "Something" as in pulling out the safety gates and creating some "safe spaces" for Molly to explore. "Something" as in going to bed at 9:00 so I don't poop out during the long stretch. "Something" as in giving myself grace as I readjust to this extremely active baby phase. Because Molly is not a "lap baby"! She's a climbing, crawling, wiggling, reaching, standing, rolling, moving at lightning speed baby. And. Her. Mama. Is. Over. 40. And I just need a little help here. What can I "do" with my baby when her older sisters aren't home to entertain her? How can I create a "safe space" in a downstairs with doorways that are way too wide to accommodate a safety gate? How many walks-with-a-stroller can one woman take in a day? I'll tell you what, though. I am thoroughly, completely, irrevocably delighted that I get to go through this one more time. It's by far the best thing that could've happened to me; it's by far the best thing I could be asking for help with. (Is it me, or did I sound like Sydney Carton just then?) So I'm all ears. Tell me, sweet mamas -- what should I do with my baby? Though for tonight, at least, I've solved it. I handed her to Daddy and came upstairs to write this. Funny, though. I can hear them playing downstairs, and I'm aching to be with her. So I think I'll just sneak down there and hang out with them for a little bit. Crazy? Yep. I am crazy in love with this little girl. Absolutely crazy. She's worth every "waking minute" it takes. Labels: baby Monday, April 14, 2008Avocados
  It was finally time. When Molly turned six months old, I balked at the idea of starting her on solids. This is my fifth child, mind you. I've done this first-spoonful-of-goo thing four other times. Yet this time, it was different. I was remarkably conflicted. Eric, in his matter-of-fact way, said, "Well, don't do it, then." So I didn't. And after a little bit of research told me that babies who wait another whole month before introducing solids do really well, I knew I'd made the right choice. Molly's First Food wasn't going to be the nutritionally void rice cereal that my other fortunate children had to swallow. No, indeed. My little Earth Baby was going to have only the finest, organic avocados known to man. I hate avocados. But my sister has been successful in raising two little ones who love fresh avocado. So I went to her with all my questions and she filled me in on all the avocado wisdom I needed. Seriously, I had no idea that avocados turn brown the way bananas do when they've hit the air. I thought maybe they'd, you know, gone icky on me. So on April 5th, Molly had her first taste of avocado. And it was a marked success. She didn't exactly love it. She was apparently stunned by the first spoonful. But by her third feeding, she was showing sure signs of pleasure with each mouthful. Now she's onto carrots (organic, home cooked and pureed by this over-40 Earth Mama) and tomorrow it's organic yams. And you know what? Molly has two older sisters who beg to have a turn feeding her. So once again, this later-life-baby thing is turning out to be more wonderful than one could imagine. I won't talk avocado-and-carrot poopies. Not yet. I'm still adjusting. *shudder* Labels: baby Wednesday, March 26, 2008Out Of OrderMost babies sit up before they stand up. It's logical, really. It also makes things easier on mommies. Not that parenting is ever meant to be easy on mommies. Of course, I did say "most babies," which excludes our Molly. Yes, you guessed it -- she's pulling up. As in, all the way up to her feet. She only does it when she has a handy human to use for grabbing and climbing. But stand she does -- and she's mightily proud once she's upright. Mind you, she's not quite seven months old yet. So I'm wondering why God decided to give me such an energetic, go-get-um, moving-around-early baby when I'm on the downswing of my childbearing years. Right. Staying young and all that. Other hands to help and all that. But what about "enjoying this special, surprise baby and savoring each day"? As in, let's not rush the babyhood thing. I'm so loving the babyhood thing. And I've got this teeny-tiny, uber petite powerhouse who is rolling, army crawling, and pulling up before her seven month mark. She's got two teeth, too. But those are right on schedule. I can't even run upstairs to check my email while she's on her play mat anymore. The last time I tried, she had unplugged a lamp in my absence. I wasn't gone that long. The girl is fast. So we're into the I Need Constant Supervision phase. Which is particularly difficult on ballet days when my two main babysitters aren't home. Waa. Fortunately Molly's been trained to stay in her pack-n-play for twenty-five minutes, twice a day. It's amazing how much one can accomplish in twenty-five minutes. I smell a book deal: "The Twenty-five Minute Housewife" by Jill Schafer Boehme, in a Very Nice Deal to... Then again, I don't think I could squeeze another book into my twenty-five minute time slots. And naptime is for...blogging. And cleaning bathroom grout. And folding laundry. And, oh yes. Writing novels. Which is what I really ought to be doing right now, before my standing-before-she's-sitting baby wakes up and wants to climb me. I love being a mom. Labels: baby Tuesday, March 18, 2008Destined
 When we built this house eight years ago, the smallest bedroom was given to our smallest family member. Spencer -- sweet, sweet baby with big, big eyes -- was eight months old when we moved in. His "nursery" wasn't more than a room with a crib in it, really. The walls were "painter beige." The curtains were recycled from a room in our old house. The diaper deck was the same, rickety piece of pseudo-furniture we'd use for all of our babies. The only truly beautiful thing in the room was Spencer himself. And, of course, that's all that mattered. I remember the day he first clambered out of the crib, unassisted. His siblings were playing in the front yard during Spencer's naptime, when one of them informed me that Spencer was peeking out of his bedroom window. "That's not possible," said I, the all-knowing. "He must be peeking from his crib." Silly me. Spencer was actually standing on the floor by the window. That night, Eric dismantled the crib for what I was certain was the last time. My womb wept. I was determined to transform the room into something more pleasing than a blank-walled nursery. So I painted it (myself) and put up a border (myself) and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars all over the ceiling (myself). (Oh, you noticed that I'm a little proud of the fact that I did it by myself? If only you knew how un-Jill it is to do those sorts of tedious jobs...) So the tiniest bedroom remained the domain of our not-so-tiny-but-still-smallest family member. At one point we talked about doubling up the boys in Jonathan's room and using the smallest bedroom as a sort of crafts room or office space. It never happened. And though I certainly thought from time to time what I might be able to use that Smallest Bedroom for if we did some room-shifting, I never dreamed that it would one day become my Dream Nursery, housing my Dream Baby. Oh, she is a delight. As soon as I knew that she was a "she," I planned the Perfect Nursery. I'd never had one, you see. Not a Perfect Nursery with Coordinating Everythings. And while it wasn't my intention to spend thousands of dollars and choose only the best-of-the-best (I didn't), I knew that the nursery had to be simply...perfect. It is. Simply perfect, I mean. Naturally, the only truly beautiful thing in the room is Molly herself. And, of course, that's all that matters. Still. It's immeasurably satisfying to stand in her lovely little boudoir and think, "Oh. Oh! I have a sweet princess in my life. Pink stripes and hair bows and tiny dollies and ruffled blanket and all." And my heart overflows with thankfulness. The smallest bedroom was, all along, destined for yet another blessing. Who knew? Friday, February 29, 2008It's Leap Day, After All...And I suppose that's reason enough to blog. One can imagine the claptrap that's out and about today, though -- 29 of this, 29 of that, 29 forever. Ad nauseum. So in an attempt to be slightly more creative (emphasis on "slightly"), I offer you the following list: 29 Reasons To Have A Baby And Pursue A Writing Career After Forty 1. Unless they stand too close, people will assume that I'm much younger and more energetic than I really am. 2. I have two built-in excuses for maintaining my mostly-hermit existence: "I'm nursing a baby" and "I'm a writer." If one of them doesn't cut it, I can fall back on the other. 3. Folks look at the baby in my arms instead of the gray at my roots. 4. Afternoon naptime is a perfect time for getting some writing done. Unless I'm the one who's asleep. 5. Two words: Older. Siblings. Two other words: Built-in. Babysitters. 6. When I'm not having a productive writing day, I can blame the baby. 7. When I'm not having a good mommy day, I can blame it on the writing. 8. Having a cleavage again after 40 is a boost to the feminine ego. 9. Except when nothing fits right. Which is a perfect excuse to buy new clothing. 10. Posting a picture of the baby counts as having blogged for the day. 11. People feel like they need to admire me. Which, though misguided, is their prerogative. 12. I don't feel quite so old when twenty-something puppies land big book deals. 13. I may actually have a picture book in print by the time my baby's old enough to read it. 14. And if that doesn't happen, I won't have to wait too much longer to read it to my grandkids. 15. When I shop at organic food stores, nobody thinks it's weird that I have a baby. 16. I have a husband who's mature enough to regularly help out with the baby. This time. 17. When the World of Publishing makes me feel like going sociopath, I can cuddle my baby instead. The World -- all of it -- goes away. 18. Spit-up working its way deep inside my keyboard is a viable excuse not to write on any given day. 19. Any moment now, a publisher is going to snatch me up as the next hot Amazing True Story Of My Life author. 20. I haven't gotten this much reading done since I nursed my last baby eight years ago. 21. I didn't have any taste in clothing until I was about 39 years old. Now I can shop at Old Navy and buy baby/mama matching clothes. And I'm old enough not to care if someone thinks it looks stupid. (No, really.) 22. We have one more dependent to claim. So I can continue not making a salary as a writer and still say I've contributed to the family income this year. 23. My dad has one more thing to brag about (he's already been bragging about my writing for years). 24. I can watch old family videos without crying about the days-gone-by. The whole diaper-drool-baby-laughter thing is still going on here. 25. I can share baby advice with Very Young New Mommies and they won't automatically assume that there's no way I could possibly remember what it was like when mine were little. 26. It doesn't matter if I smell like baby-stink. I can write in the privacy of my own office. 27. I have acquired a real "business voice," which I can flip into at a moment's notice. So I'll be ready when that Big Phone Call comes. 28. Unless I can't hear my cell phone ringing over the cries of a hungry baby. 29. In which case I will console myself with fine wine and organic chocolate, because I'm old enough to know that they're both good for me, and wise enough to find any excuse possible to ask for them -- like, being over 40, having a baby, and aspiring to be a widely read, beloved, pre-geriatric children's author. Friday, February 22, 2008Bright Eyes
 I want to look at life this way. Alert, expectant, filled with wonder. Ready to smile at what you show me. Eager to embrace everything I see, touch, experience. Unconditionally loving everybody who loves me. With daily sunshine like this, do I ever have an excuse to be grouchy or ungrateful? Any reason to let my heart wander into sad and empty places? I think not. Oh, the sweetness of Molly. I'm wrapping it round myself like a fuzzy blanket. Who knew I'd have this huge, tiny blessing at this stage of my life? I think God is chuckling at me -- enjoying my surprised delight. Have a blessed weekend! Saturday, February 02, 2008
 Hello, my name is Molly Rebekah.My mommy thinks I'm cute, distracting, and all-consuming enough to use as an excuse not to spend time writing stories. I don't know. I kind of like stories. I wouldn't want to be a deterrent to her success as an author, you know? Still. My siblings tell me that Mommy smiles a lot more since I've been born. That can't be a bad thing. And I've been letting her sleep through the night for over three months now. Maybe it's time she gets back to work. I'm sure she'll drop everything the moment I call her. I mean, that's the way it works, right? When you want something, you make a really cute sound and everybody comes running. Yeah, I like that. Go for it, Mommy. Write your stories. I promise not to poop until you're at a good stopping point. Unless Daddy's home. Labels: baby Wednesday, January 09, 2008Profound Love
 Fingers soft as a butterfly's wing. Eyes with the depth of endless oceans. The scent of love and baby skin and dusting powder and warm, milky breath. I am undone. Labels: baby Friday, December 07, 2007Baby Einstein -- The Marketing CoupSomeone out there is brilliant. For the past few years, I've only been vaguely aware of the Baby Einstein products out there. You know -- stuff for your baby that will make him a genius. Videos and games and toys and whatnot. I didn't pay it much mind; just sort of rolled my eyes and went on to think about something else. I've reentered the world of Baby Gizmos, though, and I've paid more attention to the Stuff that's out there. And a lot of it is...well, beyond ridiculous. They said "Mozart makes you smart." So ZING! Out comes the snappiest, Mozart-playing baby videos and baby toys that you've ever seen. And, well, nobody wants HIS baby to lag behind the little smarties who are listening to Mozart whilst watching brainless images float by on their parents' plasma screen, so ZIP! Out Mommy runs to the nearest toy store and stocks up on Baby Einstein for her own budding prodigy. And another Toy Empire is born. You know what? I'm a musician. My children have been exposed to Mozart -- and Beethoven and Brahms and Handel and Debussy -- since birth. Not in the form of digitally recorded, primary-colored, developmentally-gauged baby toys. Nope. Just plain ol' CD's in my CD player. Fancy that. These days, it's even easier to find classical music, thanks to online music meccas like iTunes. So if you hear someone say, "Hey! Your baby needs some Mozart!" you can choose a few symphonies or chamber pieces, burn them to a CD, and voila! Instant genius. It's hard for the masses to resist the slick packaging of the Baby Einstein products, though. I should know. I just bought a Baby Einstein toy for my daughter. You know me well enough to know that my choice had nothing to do with the Baby Einstein craze, or even with an insatiable need to raise a genius. It's a lot more straightforward for me: I hate idiotic "baby tunes" and electronic blippity-bleeps. So when I discovered the blue octopus who plays one Baroque and two Classical pieces and recites eight colors in three languages, I was sold. Not only will my baby be able to distinguish between Telemann and Beethoven, but she'll be speaking French and Spanish by the time she's two. No, seriously. Okay, not really. I did buy the octopus because of the music and language choices. But I mostly bought it because of the price: $8.99 at Walmart. That was within my budget. And I've been searching for some sort of interesting toy for Molly's pack-n-play, which gets kind of boring for the poor little girl with nothing but a rattle in it. And, hey, it's Christmas. It gave me an excuse to put something under the tree for my baby-who-is-too-tiny-to-really-care-yet. Right. I'm not kidding anyone. The Baby Einstein octopus is for me. I pressed its little face, it started to play a piece by Telemann, and I was hooked. I may share it with Molly from time to time. I might even tell people that it's hers. But make no mistake: Mommy is reliving her childhood, which was completely devoid of brainful toys that played highbrow music and taught her how to say "brown" in French. How did any of us survive with IQ's above 100? Ah, well. Now you know. I still think the Baby Einstein videos are a waste of money. You won't find me spending time looking in the baby aisle for classical music choices. Molly's going to have her own CD player with a collection of good music to listen to, just like her sisters. And I'm not totally without heart for these products. I mean, it could be worse. They could be promoting toys that play John Denver or Boy George or songs from Oklahoma! I'm utterly thankful that I could buy a toy that plays lovely melodies from some of the masters. So while I continue to roll my eyes and cluck my tongue at the Baby Einstein goofiness, I also whisper a "thank you" for my beautiful, blue octopus. Ur...Molly's beautiful, blue octopus. Saturday, December 01, 2007My Bohemian Princess
 She's three months old today. We can't remember what life was like before she arrived. Would that I could will time to slow down, if only to savor each moment more thoroughly, to drink in the precious sweetness one drop at a time. And in less eloquent terms: Ain't she adorable? Labels: baby 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.
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. 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. Friday, October 26, 2007It Just Keeps Getting Better
 I keep meaning to write witty, thought-provoking posts. Really, I do. But look at that little face. Would you be able to stop gazing at it long enough to form coherent thoughts on a blank screen? Would life apart from caring for such a wee, endearing creature mean very much in the grand scheme of things? So you see my dilemma. I want to be creative and productive. And I want to pour myself into my tiny daughter. Revel in her tinyhood, as it were. It's really a no-brainer when you think about it for half a second. Or just glance once more at the photograph. Like I said. A no-brainer. So bear with me. And allow me, if you will, the occasional Mama Brag. As in, "Isn't Molly the most intensely adorable thing you've ever encountered?" You won't agree, of course, because your own children will (and should) take precedence in your heart. But nod and smile anyway, would you? It'll make me feel like I'm saying something...useful. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go nurse my angel. Have a wonderful weekend! Labels: baby Tuesday, October 23, 2007Boehme HeadlinesLook at me! I'm chipper. I'm lucid. I'm stringing more than two words together at a time. Why? Because.... Molly is sleeping through the night! Sure, she still has her little "I'm awake but I don't really want to be" crying spells around 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning, but she gets herself back to sleep. Today she didn't wake up again until 7:00, which is her ideal Wake Up Time. And she dropped her 3 am nursing three nights ago. No, we're not just "lucky," and yes, she is an angel -- but the reason she's doing so well is the tried-and-true success of Parent Directed Feeding (think Babywise). My little dolly is happy, growing fat, and sleeping when she's supposed to sleep. And oh! Her wake times are astounding. Alert, pleasant, smiling at everyone. Delight personified. Story Number Two: My husband was on the news on Sunday night. I'd gush about how darn cute he looks with those inane bubbles floating behind him, but I'll let you judge for yourself. Remember, Eric's the one squinting in front of the bubbles. I make no claims on the other gentlemen. That's it, really. A sleeping baby and a broadcast husband. It doesn't take much to make me crow a bit. Before you know it, I'll be blogging regularly again. Thank you to my faithful readers who keep checking in every day (yes, I'm watching you!). I promise there will be more to read soon. I promise! Monday, October 15, 2007Sympathetic Sleepiness?I'm sleep deprived and I don't make a big deal about it. It's part of being the mother of a newborn, you know? Molly's on a great schedule; she only nurses once at night and has the occasional "oops, I woke up too early" thing going, when she needs a bit of intervention to get her back to sleep before it's actually time to nurse. So, yeah, I get up at night. And by 9:00 in the evening, I can barely keep my eyes open. That can get tricky, since Molly's last nursing before I go to bed is at 10:30. Evenings have turned into a muddy, fuzzy blur. Frustrating at times, but no big deal. It'll pass as quickly as my sweet baby's tinyhood. Interestingly, Eric seems to be suffering from symptoms of sleep deprivation, too. And I'm not sure why. Sure, he hears Molly when she cries at 3:30 in the morning. But he rolls right over and goes back to sleep. I know this because he often starts snoring several minutes later. I can't kick him or pinch his nostrils shut when I'm over on the upholstered chair nursing the baby. So I have to listen to him snoring. One night a couple of weeks ago, I threw a Hardy Boys book at him. It was the only thing I could reach and I figured it wouldn't hurt him if I accidentally beaned him on the head. Fortunately, it landed safely on the bed with enough force that he stopped in mid-snore and rolled over on his side. Last night, in the midst of less-than-human-sounding snores, I hissed his name in a stage whisper, to which he actually responded, "Huh?" And when I told him that he was snoring, he dutifully rolled over and stopped. So. The man is sleeping at night. When the alarm goes off at 6:00, I get up. Okay, sometimes I allow myself one, eight-minute snooze; but mostly, I get up at 6:00. Life goes on; I have to start my day regardless of how long I happened to be awake the night before. It's not always easy, but it's not a big deal. And what does my not-nursing-a-baby-in-the-middle-of-the-night husband do? He rolls over and continues to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. Lately, he's been rolling out of bed around 7:00. An entire hour of extra sleep for the parent who has not been on night duty. It's even worse on weekends. "I hear Molly when she wakes up at night," Eric explained just yesterday. "It's affecting me." It's affecting him? Forgive me if I don't show any empathy for my dear husband. He is the love of my life, but this I'm-as-tired-as-you-are thing is not holding water. So while some husbands tend to gain weight sympathetically during their wives' pregnancies (mine did not), others, I suppose, tend to fall asleep sympathetically while their wives are dealing with middle-of-the-night feedings. Is it me, or is this weird? Maybe he needs attention. I'd love to give him some, but I'd need to be awake in order to do it. Last night around 10:00, I had dozed off once again on the sofa. When I woke up twenty minutes later, Eric told me that he'd been bumping me in the face with my Boppy and calling my name. Evidently, I was non-responsive. "You just kept going, "MMMMMMM," he said. "You wouldn't open your eyes." Do tell. Not only is he claiming sleep deprivation, but he's laughing at me when I'm not even conscious. I guess he was too tired to think of a more effective way to communicate with me. (Was bumping me in the face with my Boppy some kind of amorous move, I wonder?) I don't know. Maybe, in a way, it's better that he's sleepy. I imagine it would be beyond annoying if he were jumping around like a nut-gathering squirrel on speed, and expecting me to keep up with him. At least when I'm zoning out over coffee in the morning, he's zoning out with me. It takes the pressure off. Still, it would be nice to know that, should the intelligence and clarity of a well-rested adult be required, at least one of us would be up to the task. I'm down for the count, so it falls on Eric. And at this rate, we'd better hope that nothing requiring a great deal of thought or energy will be required of either of us. Because he's almost as sleepy as I am. And I make no excuses for him. Maybe he'll get the hint if I start complaining about my sore muscles after he's been lifting weights. You know, a kind of sympathetic muscle ache. "You've been to the gym three times this week," I'll say. "It affects me." It's worth a try. Labels: baby, family, marriage Monday, October 01, 2007A Month of MollyHow can a whole month have passed already?         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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