The Write Way Home

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

And On The Way Home...

"Daddy, that trucker was signaling to us."

You know how it feels when another driver is wildly gesturing, and you've got no idea what he's trying to tell you? It was one of those moments.

Immediately, Eric feared for the bike rack. It was the first time we'd used one, and he admittedly had spent the majority of his driving hours worrying that it might, you know, fall off. Or something.

The bikes were still clearly visible through the back windshield, though.

"Maybe the bikes are loose." Poor Eric. I could see the tension around his eyes.

We drove for a minute or two, Eric all the while eying the bikes and wondering what the trucker had tried to warn him about. He had pretty much made the decision to pull over at the next exit to check the bike rack.

That's when we saw the trucker. He had pulled over to the side of the road, right before the exit. He waved to us as we passed him.

"Why did he stop?" Eric sounded panicked. "Why was that trucker still waving at us?"

Honestly, I wasn't worried about the overly friendly trucker. If anything, it seemed to me that he was looking out for us.

We pulled into the first empty parking lot we came to. And as Eric pulled on the brakes, our trucker friend pulled into the lot right behind us.

"Why is he following us?!" If I had ever suspected Eric's paranoid tendencies, this clinched it. "Why is that trucker following us? Why did he follow us?"

"Ur, maybe he's just trying to help us." I don't know what made me so particularly calm. It was probably a complete lack of coffee over the past forty-eight hours.

Sure enough. About six or seven miles back, the guy had noticed something blow off our roof rack. Two somethings, actually. He knew we were completely clueless, so he did everything in his power to get our attention. Everything, including following us off an exit ramp.

I wanted to hug him.

It seemed as though my stellar packing of beach towels and bed sheets didn't quite hold up to the 65 MPH sheer winds on top of our van. The garbage bags (yes, garbage bags...I know, I know...) had shot off the rack like overheated popcorn kernels.

"As far as I could tell, they were still intact when they landed," our trucker angel told us.

So. What to do? Were beach towels and bed sheets worth turning around for?

At first, we were less than inclined to do so. In the end, Rachel's emotional attachment to her beach towel turned the tide.

"Let's just go back ten miles," I said. "If we don't see them, we'll give up."

We returned to the highway and began to travel back north, eyes peeled. Three miles passed. Four. Five. Five-and-a-half.

"That's Maggie's beach towel!" We all saw it at once, on the other side of the highway. And not far from it lay the rest of our ejected linens, in a haphazard line on the shoulder.

We exited, turned around, pulled over next to our lost goods. And of course the first thing I thought of was the camera. It's a good thing, really. Because how many of you have pictures like this from your family vacation?

We gathered all but one item -- Spencer's beach towel -- which we were willing to accept as a loss. But just as we pulled out onto the highway again, we spotted the errant towel. It had blown across the road and was nestled against the cement barrier. Eric risked life and limb to retrieve it.

And so we got everything back, and went along our merry way.

I wish I knew who that trucker was, though. Think about how far he went out of his way to help us. It's a redefining of "Good Samaritan," surely. I thanked him profusely; of course I did. But it doesn't seem like enough. He was an amazing example of loving one's fellow man.

It's not that beach towels and bed sheets are irreplaceable. They're not. It's that a complete stranger cared enough about our family to interrupt his own life to honor ours.

And, yeah, I won't use garbage bags next time.

Labels: family, life

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Oh, Vacation, Where Have You Gone?

We've left our hearts in Cape May...

Live Long and Prosper

Legs and arms and a little bit of boy

Frying eggs in the condo

Tell me again how cute I am...

And again...

Date Night

Two enduring loves: My baby and the ocean...

I dare you not to love me

Daddy and son

Final evening...

Labels: family, life

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

And We're Off.....

....on vacation, that is.

We're leaving at the cheerful and reasonable hour of 4:00 am.

Well, it's just easier to get an early start. For one thing, after the initial excitement, everyone usually dozes off for a while, giving us some quiet miles in the early hours.

Eric is not allowed to doze off, of course.

If everyone doesn't doze off, it's going to be a long morning. "Everyone" meaning "Molly," naturally.

14 hours in a van with a 9-month-old should be interesting. We're well seasoned with this kind of thing, though. And we've got her carseat way in the back between her two older sisters, who are beyond excited about being her primary caregivers during the journey.

Heh. Little do they know.

And so we embark upon another family adventure, and you will surely be inundated with Cute Beach Pictures upon my return.

Blessings to all!

Labels: family, life

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

This Is Not Prophetic

I was lying on the floor of Molly's nursery while she played happily among random toys. After a while, Spencer joined us.

He must have been bored.

This, of course, made a light catnap possible, so I rolled over and got a little more comfortable. Spencer was busy trying to get a Very Old Crib Toy to play its ancient wind-up music. It seemed to have made him a bit nostalgic.

"Did you ever think about being pregnant again after you had me, Mommy?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "I wished for it for a long time."

"I would love to have another baby." Do tell. "What if you had another baby when Molly was three or four or five?"

"Ur, that's a little old for having a baby."

"Well, maybe you could have one sooner."

I continued my attempt at a catnap.

"You could start being pregnant at any minute and only God would know. You could start being pregnant two seconds from now and you wouldn't even know it."

That would be interesting.

"Or you could start being pregnant in a week. Or in two months! Or --"

I desperately wanted to stick a sock in his mouth.

"Then the two babies would be in one bedroom."

"Well, what if it was a boy?" Might as well play along.

"Then we'd paint half the room for a boy and half the room for Molly."

He's got it all figured out, doesn't it? Funny how mommies don't "get" pregnant when children don't know about the *S* word -- they "start being" pregnant. Like, you just lie on the nursery floor, minding your own business, when suddenly, poof! You start being pregnant.

Just like that.

What a frightening thought. I mean, it's been a dream with Molly. I've gone on and on about what a blessing she's been. But...sudden pregnancy on the bedroom floor?

Mercy.

I'll tell you what's really scary, though. When Jonathan was only two and a half and his baby sister was -- well, a baby, he told me that there was a baby in my belly. Smiling, I asked him who had told him that.

His answer? "Jesus."

Guess who was pregnant one month later.

No, we weren't "trying." Yes, I was shocked. Though, to be sure, I shouldn't have been. Because my toddler had given me fair warning. God was sending another baby, ready or not.

So. Do I discount Spencer's pregnant-in-two-seconds rant?

In a word, yes. My sanity dictates that I do so. And anyway, as of tonight, Eric will be permanently moving into the guest room.

Instant pregnancy, indeed.

*shudder*

Labels: family, life

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Geography

"Mommy?" Spencer said between mouthfuls of dinner. "How do people live in Greenville when it gets soooo cold there?"

"Greenville?"

Pause. "I mean Greenland."

Greenville. Greenland. We're splitting hairs, right?

Erik the Red is rolling in his grave.

Labels: family, homeschooling

Monday, May 26, 2008

Real, Honest-to-Goodness Friends

Aren't they beautiful?

Maggie invited her "ballet buddies" for a day-after-my-fourteenth-birthday pizza party. Not just any "pizza party," mind you. Eric made individual-sized gourmet pizzas, and we had extra toppings on the table so that each girl could add what she wanted.

It was a hit.

Girls are funny, though. You'd think I'd given them food ration tickets or something, considering the amount of toppings they put on their personal pizzas.

Four pepperoni slices? Three sauteed mushrooms? I could have made a five-quart casserole out of the leftovers.

"They didn't put much on, did they?" Eric seemed dismayed.

"Oh, well they're girls," I said. "You know, it's a girl thing."

He didn't know.

"Well, I mean, women are the same way. When we go to a party, we take a teeny bit of this and a teeny bit of that, even if we really like it. We want to be...dainty."

I don't know why I try to explain these things to Eric. All I know is, if this had been a boy party, my kitchen table would have looked like the remnants of a recent explosion, with little or no leftovers. I'll take a girl party any day.

Anyway, I love these girls. I love that Maggie loves these girls. I tell her often what wonderful friends she has.

When I was fourteen I didn't have friends like this.

These girls are bonded -- bonded through dancing together, bonded through their shared faith. In whatever direction the Lord leads each of them, I believe that they will set out with lifelong deposits from each other.

It's just that cool.

So there you are -- a little tribute to my beautiful daughter and her sweet friends.

Life is good!

Labels: family, life

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Scenes of Wine and Family

A little glimpse of the Boehme Couple at Arrington Vineyards (if only to prove that we actually made it there)...

And another little glimpse of my beloved parents with my offspring.

What joy it is to keep passing babies into their eager hands. Not that I need to do it again. It's my sister's turn.

Enjoy.

Labels: family, life

Friday, April 04, 2008

Boy Talk In The Kitchen

I'm cutting up a cantaloupe and Eric is standing behind me wearing his head weights. (Chiropractic care -- I highly recommend it).

Nine-year-old Spencer comes downstairs, all morning freshness.

"Hey!" he says to his daddy.

"Good morning, Spencer!"

There are a few seconds of belly-fart sounds. I've come to the conclusion that this strange ritual is some sort of male bonding thing. I'm not sure I'll ever understand Spencer's need to blow raspberries on his father's stomach, but I continue to slice fruit as though the room is silent.

"What's that thing on your chin?" Spencer says.

"Huh?"

"There's something sticking on your chin. It looks like a boogie."

I swallow hard and keep slicing the cantaloupe.

There's a bit of shuffling. Eric walks up to the garbage can and tosses something in.

"So that's where that boogie went."

And I'm supposed to feel like eating breakfast after this.

Labels: family, life

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Destined

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?

Labels: baby, family, life

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Reason Number Thirty

I've got a great addition to my 29 reasons for having a baby (and being a writer) after 40: My chances of living to the age of 100 have quadrupled.

I know this because my wonderful mother (who isn't anywhere near 100) just sent me a small article that contained this wondrous bit of news. Men who sire children -- particularly those men who start raising families from a young age -- are also prime candidates for hitting the Five Score club.

In which case, Eric and I will both be driving each other nuts for a long, long time.

Missing from this article, however, are the reasons for this supposed longevity. Why would giving birth after the age of forty afford me all those extra years of wrinkly existence? Does it have something to do with waking up a sleeping uterus and fooling it into producing life-giving hormones beyond its normal capacity? Keeping my cardiovascular system up and running by matching pace with my own toddler right before matching pace with an onslaught of grandchildren?

Or might it be that women who give birth after the age of 40 have a compelling reason to continue to take the very best care of themselves -- for the sake of a tiny person who needs them?

I wonder.

But as long as I'm physically fit and my brain hasn't gone dotty, I wouldn't mind living another six decades. I'll be sure to see all five of my children married by then (since Eric will, of course, make all the girls wait until they're 40). And as long as Eric's not wearing diapers, I won't mind having him around, either.

He is my best friend, after all.

And an extra six decades might be just what I need to get my books published, at any rate. Who knew that having a later-life baby would give the publishing world yet another excuse to move at a rate that only exists outside of our space-time continuum?

Imagine. Fifty-eight more years of "The Write Way Home."

Anyway, thank you, Mom, for boosting my spirits today -- I needed that.

Labels: family, life, writing

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Seven Sentences

That's what I've written today.

I'm not complaining; I'm rejoicing. That's seven more sentences than I wrote yesterday. It's seven more sentences than I've written in a long time.

And I owe it to my thirteen-year-old daughter.

"You're going to write today, Tiny," she said. (Yes, she calls me "Tiny." It's short for "Tiny Mommy.")

"Oh, Sweetie, I can't. I can't write today."

"Yes, you can. And I'm going to open Google Talk while I'm writing, and we will send each other messages to encourage us while we're writing!"

I insisted that it wasn't possible. Why, I was behind on the laundry. There was too much to do between Molly's feedings. I simply couldn't write. It wasn't going to happen.

But that's been the story of my life lately, and my oh-so-clever daughter knows it. With wisdom beyond her years, she didn't press the issue. She didn't have to. Her words had already pierced my heart.

Had reminded me that I am, after all, a writer.

I am a writer! And writers...write. Right?

I didn't say a word. I crept up to my computer, opened my (dusty? crusty? moldy?) Word document, opened Google chat. Waited.

The chat box sprang to life moments later when Maggie discovered me. Her words?

TM!!! You good girl! I'm so proud of you!!

And you know, that's all I needed. Affirmation really does work both ways. Mother to daughter. Daughter to mother.

Writer to writer.

Thank you, sweet daughter, for the gift of seven sentences. When this chapter is finished, you'll be the first person to read it.

And when the novel is complete, you'll be the first person I'll thank.

Labels: family, writing

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Another "Kitchen Ditz" Moment

I'm not sure I should even tell this story. You may lose any shred of respect you might have had for me.

Ah, well. What's life if not a vehicle for making others laugh at me?

So. I decided to roast a turkey breast and mash some Yukon Golds for supper. Naturally, turkey isn't turkey without some homemade gravy. And since Spencer had specifically requested the gravy, I poured the fats and juices from the roasting pan and mixed together some cornstarch and milk so that my thickening agent would be ready as soon as the gravy came to a boil.

As I've done dozens of times before, I began to slowly drizzle the cornstarch mixture into the boiling liquid, stirring all the while. It doesn't take long for gravy to thicken, and cornstarch makes it nice and smooth -- not lumpy like flour sometimes does.

Funny, though. This time it wasn't thickening quickly. In fact, it didn't seem to be thickening at all.

I added more. Stirred more. A full three-fourths of the mixture had been added and my gravy was still thin as milk.

That's when I got just the tiniest bit suspicious.

"What's wrong?" Eric peered over my shoulder.

"Ur. My gravy's not thickening. I'm wondering..." I picked up the cornstarch container. "I'm wondering..."

"It's not cornstarch?" I wasn't looking at his face but I could hear the smirk in his voice.

"I'm not sure."

I peered into the container, shook it around a bit. Sniffed it. Then I dipped one nervous finger into the white stuff and touched it to the tip of my tongue.

"Oh, no." I put down the container and closed my eyes.

It was powdered sugar.

"Let's go have a glass of wine," Eric said. He was still smirking.

Having a glass of wine wasn't going to solve the problem of my having used up every bit of turkey drippings for the gravy-that-is-now-a-meat-flavored-dessert-sauce. But upon taking those few minutes to compose myself, I came up with the brilliant plan of adding some flour to thicken the gravy and serving it up, anyway.

I mean, who would know?

So I thickened the gravy and slopped it into the gravy boat.

"Hey," said Spencer as we filled our plates. "The gravy tastes sweet!"

"Oh, does it?" I tried to look casual.

"Yeah! But it still tastes good."

Oh, good.

Then it was Rachel's turn. "Does the gravy have sugar in it or something?"

Okay, I had taken my children for a pack of palate-less fools. There was no way I could pull this one off and get away with it. I was fried.

So I came clean. Told all. I could see Jonathan's brain storing the information for use against me later. And Eric was still smirking.

That's what I get for not labeling my Tupperware containers. Gravy, anyone?

Labels: family, life

Friday, February 15, 2008

Jill?

Yesterday we had our Boehme Valentine Celebration. It's a close second to Christmas around here -- the big Valentine box sits for two weeks on the buffet table, and everyone sneaks love notes and little presents into it. Then, on Valentine's Day, the treasures and treats are distributed and opened.

It's quintessential Family Time.

I was busy nursing the baby while everyone was opening their valentines, so I was pretty much on my own when I got to my pile of homemade cards. The ones marked "Mommy" were the most endearing, of course, and the ones marked -- well, never mind what Eric calls me. I was a bit confused, though, when I picked up an envelope with "Jill" written in cursive handwriting.

Eric doesn't call me "Jill" (unless he's introducing me at an office party) and he doesn't know how to write in cursive. My sister calls me "Jilly" and prefers printing, and my parents' card came in the mail addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Eric Boehme." So, unless a secret admirer had slipped in overnight and deposited the card, this one was a stumper.

I opened the envelope. Nestled inside was a jewel-bedecked card marked "Mommy." The card was from Spencer.

Which leads to the obvious question: Why did he write "Jill" on the envelope?

I didn't realize I was on a first-name basis with my eight-year-old. I thought of asking him about it, but the possibility of a Very Strange Answer has put me off.

Maybe my new, organic, all-natural, anti-vax, drug-free childbirth, chlorine-free diaper lifestyle warrants my being known as "Jill" to my offspring. Sounds kind of "hippie" to me.

"Hey, Jill, can I have the car keys?"

"Jill, will you check my math problems?"

"Jill change Molly's diaper?"

I can just see my parents' faces.

No, thank you. I think I'll just add Spencer's informal Valentine to my ever-growing list of Spencer Oddities.

And next time, I might actually blog about one of my other children. Unless Spencer provides me with fresh material. Which is highly likely.

Labels: family, life

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Vinegar Milk

"Mommy," said Spencer over breakfast this morning, "on New Year's Day we should have had vinegar milk."

Silence.

It pays not to respond too quickly to odd things. For one thing, Spencer tends to be a bit sensitive. For another, it's likely I've not heard him correctly. And since I had absolutely no idea what he meant, I didn't say anything.

Maggie came to the rescue. "Vinegar milk?"

"No, I said vanilla milk."

I smiled. "No, you said vinegar milk."

"No, I said vanilla milk." The words were spoken as if they were straight from the Gospels. No arguing. No negotiating. Spencer hath spoken.

"Spencer, we both heard you. You said vinegar milk."

"I said vanilla milk! You're contradicting me!"

Love is patient, love is kind. I took a deep breath. "Spencer, it's okay. Sometimes our brains think of one word but our mouths say another. It happens to everyone."

"I. Said. Vanilla. Milk."

"Spencer, you said vinegar milk!"

"I-said-VANILLA-MILK! You all need to clean your ears out!"

"Spencer, Mommy and I both heard you say vinegar," Maggie joined in.

Spencer growled, clenched his fists, rose from his seat, and ran away from the kitchen table.

"I said VANILLA MILK!" he called from the stairs.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

"CONTRADICTORS!!"

It took a valiant effort not to backsnort my coffee. Not having been the least bit chastened by the derogatory title (which sounds like it could be the latest action film), I was in the midst of belly laughing over the scene that had just unfolded, when Spencer suddenly reappeared in the kitchen.

Sotto voce: "I said vanilla milk."

I turned to my left, where Spencer had silently approached. He stood, jaw taut, eyes piercing mine, holding a ballpoint pen with locked arms, like an impotent assault weapon, two inches from my nose.

This was getting weird. There's passion, and there's absurdity...and then there's blatant disrespect of one's elders.

So, upon pain of a day-long grounding, I put an end to the vinegar/vanilla debate.

Note to self: Pick your battles.

Labels: family, life

Thursday, January 17, 2008

From The Mouth Of a Five-Year-Old

Well, I currently don't have a five-year-old. This is a piece I wrote three years ago, when Spencer was five. Yes, I'm recycling old "stuff" today. But we had so much fun listening to Eric read this aloud to our family last night (including Spencer) that I thought I'd post it today for those of you who weren't devoted, beloved readers back when I was publishing my E-zine.

Without further ado:

I'VE LEARNED IT ALL FROM MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD

Spencer is an unusual child. I know what you're thinking -- how could I possibly raise anything but an unusual child? I can assure you, though, that my youngest has definitely broken the mold. And, of course, I absolutely love him this way.My hazel-eyed dream child with a vivid imagination has a tendency to state things -- all kinds of things -- as if they are indisputable, written-in-stone fact. Not his ideas; not his opinions; not even his suggestions -- but FACT. And since I have, over the past couple of years, been privileged to learn these essential pieces of information, I thought I might do my readers the service of sharing them, so that you, too, can ponder their depth.I am sure you will be as amazed and enlightened as I have been.

"Jesus has very long legs."

This statement begs for an explanation, and Spencer readily gave one: Jesus has long legs because he lives in heaven but he has to be able to reach down to us. Hence, the long legs. Forget the whole omnipresent, spiritual nature of Jesus -- it's all about those long legs!

"It's not okay for parents to be angry with their children."

Not ever. Angry parents make their children sad, and that is very, very bad. Of course, one must understand that Spencer's definition of "angry" includes "someone speaking in a firm tone of voice." What Spencer really means is that it's not okay for parents to correct their children's bad behavior. It is also not okay to say "no" to a child or to take away a child's privilege. Such behavior may easily lead to the child calling the police (so I've been told) and throwing the offending parent in jail. It might also lead to said child's never, never, never coming out of the van ever again.

"Sometimes trucks smash into cars and that's not okay."

Well, sure, that's true enough. I'm not quite sure what has given Spencer the idea that it's only trucks that do the smashing. Eric has done a fairly good job smashing other cars in parking lots with his little BMW over the past couple of months (leading to a doubling of our car insurance rate). Cars smash into trees sometimes, for that matter (as I can attest to), and into anything else that might be in the way. Spencer's main point, though, is that this car-smashing is most definitely "not okay."

"When we see a police car we need to sit up really tall so they can see us in our carseats."

Okay, I blame myself for this one. I think I went off a bit when Tennessee changed its carseat laws last year, and a certain, small boy was obviously listening with large ears. During the time or two that I discovered, much to my dismay, that Daddy had driven off with the carseat and left me with a carseat-less van, I am sure I lamented loudly over the fact that I would be in trouble if I got "caught" shuttling my five-year-old around in an old booster seat on top of a folded towel. (Come to think of it, according to Tennessee law, I should be in a carseat as well.)

"When I grow old and die and go to heaven to live in a palace that looks like a castle, I am going to be a Real King."

He's completely serious, too. To top it off, he has already declared that I will be his Queen (you mean I'm not a queen now?). My favorite part is Daddy's role in this afterlife fantasy: "You will be a REAL JESTER!" Spencer exclaimed to a less-than-amused Eric. I tried very hard not to smirk. Okay, I didn't try that hard. Actually, I didn't smirk at all -- I guffawed.

"The night is too long."

This is a serious issue for Spencer, and I think he's about to take it up with God himself. In fact, the other night he asked me if I would please pray that God would make the night only ten minutes long. I assured him that, while I certainly wasn't going to do that, the night would certainly FEEL like only ten minutes if he went right to sleep and stayed that way until morning. He claims that he feels lonely when he's in bed, and when I remind him that Jesus is always with him, he comes back with, "But I can't see Him." Must be those really long legs of His, keeping His face at a distance.

"I am too old to be spanked."

This has been unequivocally stated, and I'm sure that Spencer expects me to comply. Most assuredly, my three older children have passed beyond the age of "spankability," and I think that Spencer has assumed that he has been included in this group by default. I'm not even sure what led Spencer to this conclusion in the first place; I can't even remember the last time I had to spank his bottom. Perhaps he has concluded that he has passed out of the realms of spanking by default -- you know, six months of no spanking and you're home free.

"Smarshmallows have chemicals. We need to buy organic smarshmallows."

A "smarshmallow" is, of course, a marshmallow, and yes, they do have chemicals in them. I have not, however, been able to find the organic variety (okay, I've never even heard of an organic marshmallow), so Spencer is going to have to slum it when he enjoys his homemade hot chocolate (which isn't organic, either, but at least it doesn't have any chemicals in it).

"Mommy, you have BEARD growing on your face!"

Naturally, this was in reference to a few stray facial hairs that I had obviously missed. I'd rather not comment on this one.

"Some people live to be a hundred, and then they are bigger than God."

I had to set him straight on this one -- NOBODY is bigger than God. I can't seem to get Spencer to understand, though, that grown-ups don't keep growing taller as they age -- they just keep getting older. He remains convinced that I will one day be "as taller as Daddy." I don't think I'll tell him that my mother seems to have shrunk a couple of inches -- that would really confuse him.

"I love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very much!"

Can't dispute this one -- these are the words every mommy craves. This little guy makes me feel like the most beautiful, treasured star in the universe; and if he's a bit on the quirky side, I'll take him anyway! He brings laughter and joy to my life on a daily basis.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put on my crown, strap Spencer into his Tennessee-mandated carseat, avoid all madly swerving trucks, and go shopping for organic shmarshmallows (while refraining from becoming angry or spanking my five-year-old).

Who, me? Charmed by my own son? You bet!

Labels: family, parenting

Monday, December 24, 2007

The Merriest of Christmases

....to you and yours, from me and mine.

Labels: family, life

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Amazed By My Own Son

And no, I'm not taking any credit. His "engineering mind" -- or whatever the heck it is -- is well beyond my comprehension. He's completely self-taught, too, so I can't even claim any kudos from a homeschooling standpoint.

Watch the video and you'll see what I mean. The kid's got the makings of a successful entrepreneur at the ripe ol' age of fifteen!

And his balloons are pretty cool, too.

Labels: family, fun

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Jane Austen: Another Heart Captured

There's a hard-and-fast rule in this household: You can't watch the movie until you've read the novel.

There's one exception to this rule: Eric. It is sometimes painfully true that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. And while I'm certainly grateful for my husband's passionate enjoyment of various period movies, there is a part of me that views him as -- well, almost blasphemous. How can one continue, in good conscience, to enjoy film adaptations of novels by Austen and Dickens and Forster and such, and still refuse to read the books?

However, I digress. For in whatever way Eric may be falling short of literary bliss, my daughter Maggie is certainly stepping to bat.

It's true. My thirteen-year-old daughter has fallen in love with Jane Austen.

Admittedly, the love affair had a rocky start. At my encouragement, Maggie began reading Emma several months ago. "Then you can watch both versions with us," I said, "and let me know which one you think is truer to the book."

She got a few chapters in and stopped dead. I don't know what killed it for her, but something certainly did. I was brokenhearted, but I knew that nagging would not produce an Austenite, so I let it be.

Strangely enough, the book that supplanted Emma was Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell -- a tome three times as long and wordier than Dickens. Maggie read it from cover to cover in record time.

Okay, slight confession here. We all watched Wives and Daughters prior to having read the novel. But I've got a simple explanation. I didn't know it was a novel.

I mean, have you ever heard of Elizabeth Gaskell?

Anyway, it took me seven months to wade my way through Wives and Daughters, and after being blown out of the water by my speedreading daughter, I casually pointed out that Jane Austen would seem like a much easier read now that she'd tackled Gaskell's masterpiece.

Wonder of wonders -- Maggie picked up the spurned Emma and read it.

And loved it.

So we watched Gwyneth's version, and we watched Kate's version, and I watched my daughter fall in love with some of the best actors and actresses to ever grace the screen. She has some fairly strong opinions about the different versions, too. And she won't mince her words if you ask her about it.

Just like her mama.

So now she's reading Pride and Prejudice. Oh, the joy of asking her, "So, where did you stop reading? What just happened?" and hearing her respond, "Well, Charlotte just said she'd marry Mr. Collins!" And then joining together in shrieks of disgust and horror at the thought.

Ah! I've hatched an Austenite! My life is just that much more complete.

Daddy (the inveterate non-reader of Jane Austen) is excited to watch A&E's magnificent Pride and Prejudice with our newly Austenized daughter over the Christmas holiday. Will she swoon over Mr. Darcy? Clench her lips indignantly at Lady Catherine de Burgh? Fall in love with the breathtaking views of northern England? Long for the days of silken gowns and proper courtship?

I'm confident that she will.

Will Eric ever actually read the book? I doubt it. But at least he was smart enough to buy me a red leather Easton Press copy of it a few years ago. And if you count his enjoyment of my reading the book out loud to him in my best British accent, I suppose you can safely say that he does, after all, appreciate the genius of Jane Austen's writing.

I love being a book snob. Really, I do!

Labels: books, family

Thursday, November 22, 2007

This Year's Biggest Blessing

And may the blessings in your life be equally rich and immeasurable, today and every day.

Labels: baby, family

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Taking a Back Seat To Technology

I 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.

Labels: family, marriage

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.

Labels: baby, family, life

Thursday, November 08, 2007

There Are No Words To Express

...how much I love this child.

Labels: baby, family

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Raising Butterflies

It all started when Jonathan came home with a container full of Monarch caterpillars.

Yes, he knows these things. He knows what Monarch caterpillars look like, and he knew just what to do in order to ensure that the caterpillars would thrive, leading to the formation of a chrysalis and, ultimately, an adult butterfly.

The photos speak for themselves. The caterpillars feasted on milkweed leaves (and pooped accordingly) until, one by one, they crawled up the sides of the box and formed a chrysalis. The jewel-green pods remained suspended until yesterday, when Jonathan announced that two had darkened -- which, evidently, they do just prior to emergence.

Yes, he knew that, too. Jonathan blows me away with his depth of knowledge of things like this.

By midmorning, we had two Monarchs-in-a-box, drying their wings. A third emerged later, and there are more to come.

I never dreamed I'd have freshly emerged Monarchs fluttering about in my living room.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love my life. There is more pleasure in watching the birth of a butterfly than I could have imagined. Would that every day brought such wonders.

(And yes, I realize that a butterfly is an insect. I don't get close enough to get a look at those ugly little faces and beady eyes. I just enjoy their vibrant wings and the fact that they don't bite or sting.)

In a warped, entomological way, I've become a grandmother.

Labels: family, homeschooling, life

Monday, October 15, 2007

Sympathetic 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, 2007

A Month of Molly

How can a whole month have passed already?

Labels: baby, family, life

Friday, September 28, 2007

And the Genetic Link Is Verified

My 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...

Labels: family, fun, life

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

To Be Blunt

Long 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.

Labels: family, fun, life

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Praying For Poop

And 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.

Labels: baby, family, life

Friday, September 07, 2007

Bliss

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.

Labels: baby, family, life

Sunday, September 02, 2007

The Beautiful Birthing of Molly Rebekah

Labor 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, 2007

She 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

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Casual Barfing

Just an ordinary day in the life of an eight-year-old boy -- playing, eating, barfing.

I spent yesterday morning running errands and arrived home after the children had already eaten lunch (okay, so maybe I planned it that way). I hadn't been home long when Spencer started complaining about a "gas pain." His description and the location of the pain, however, led me to believe that it was some sort of tummy distress. He didn't seem overly put out by it, so I let him be.

"If the pain comes again, try to poop," I said. Ancient Motherly Wisdom, that.

Later, the come-and-go pain had become enough of a bother that I found him lounging on his bed. Not a good sign. Still, he wasn't acting particularly ill. I invited him to come snuggle with me for a while in the living room (for we all know that tired, pregnant mamas are always up for a good snuggle). He was bright-eyed and chatty, and after a while said he'd like to watch Milo and Otis. He happily set about getting the DVD, and I slipped into the laundry room to play catch-up on my ironing.

Moments later, Spencer called out, rather casually, "Oh. I feel like I have to barf."

"Well, hurry up," I said. "Run to the bathroom."

He did. Upon his return, he announced, "Yep. I barfed! It came out three times." Then he ran into the family room and popped in his DVD as though he had simply gone pee.

And that was that.

I didn't allow him to eat supper, which didn't seem to bother him. Before bed, I offered him a banana to keep his blood sugar from plummeting overnight. He wasn't hungry. Not a good sign, but again, he was completely nonchalant about the whole thing, and claimed he felt okay.

Around 10:30, Eric checked on him. Not being the kind of daddy who can resist smooching on a sleeping boy, Eric ended up waking Spencer. Spencer, Eric informed me, was pleasant, chipper, and took some sips of water from his cup upon Daddy's recommendation.

A few minutes later, Eric heard him coughing in the bathroom.

"I barfed again!" Spencer told him when it was all over. He crawled into bed, fell asleep, and that was the end of it.

I'm not quite sure what happened yesterday. Was my son actually sick? Or did something aggravate his belly for a little while and work itself out quickly? All I know is, that was one of the easiest barfing bouts I've ever dealt with.

I guess I've never placed throwing up on the list of things-I-announce-casually-to-my-parents. "I rode my bike around Carphilly Circle." "I found a female cricket." "I finished cleaning my room." "I barfed."

Whatever! I'll take it. Spencer has always been decidedly the most unusual child I've ever known. I love him this way. If he wants to barf casually, that's fine with me.

Isn't motherhood the grandest of callings?

Labels: family, parenting

Monday, May 28, 2007

Every Little Girl Needs a Prince Charming

I wish you could see the love affair in action. For as much as I love my own daddy, I can honestly say that our relationship was never like the one that Eric and Maggie have. Theirs is a beautiful example of what God had in mind when he gave little girls to daddies, and daddies to little girls.

Maggie was invited to a birthday sleepover party last Friday. These are her best buddies -- her ballet counterparts. But Maggie had another priority in mind. For you see, her daddy was due to come home after having been out of town all week long. She couldn't bear the thought of not spending time with him that night.

So she worked out a plan with her friends. She'd meet them at 5:30 for the swimming part of the party -- and then she'd come home. Because nothing -- no, nothing -- was more important to her than snuggling on the screened-in porch with her beloved daddy.

And you know what? That's just the way it should be. Childhood is fleeting, life is precious. And one day, way too soon, Maggie's heart will belong to a new Prince Charming, who will love her and cherish her just the way she needs to be loved and cherished.

Because her daddy has taught her what it means to be loved and cherished. And she'll never settle for anything less.

Labels: family, parenting