She-friend

Women bond over complaining and criticism. We grumble about men and their infantile obsession with explosions, violence, and mayhem. No one could bond over such atrocious behavior! Yet women are worse. Without the grace of our Savior and the love of Jesus Christ in our hearts, we bond over interpersonal explosions, emotional violence, and petty complaining mayhem. It's uglier than any video game, more brutal than any slasher flick, more appalling than a night watching the WWF. But bad attitudes and petty disputes bring women outside of God's mercy together like peanut butter and jelly.

This is the kind of female relationships I am used to. I grew up with unbelieving, incredibly liberal dancer friends. Each of them beautiful, empathetic, gentle, and amazing in her own way. Combined, all this femininity has the disastrous potential of C-4. I couldn't relate to the women at church, those who seemed to have it all together, like I could to the women in the trenches, trying to survive like me. Rarely, did I partake in the slamming, complaining festivities. But there I sat: listening, absorbing, thinking this kind of gossip and malice were normal, were what made girls close.

For mother's day Justin (bless him all the way to his socks) stayed home with the kids while I went out with a wonderful friend. We saw a movie and went out to eat. Over a delightful (and somewhat ridiculous) amount of sushi we chatted about life and got to know one another better. Then, she said it... "I've always felt you were your own person, not swayed by the crowd, not compromising." (Paraphrase. She was more eloquent. I wish I had been wearing a wire, so I could catch her exact phraseology and meaning... I imagine wearing a wire would have cancelled the possibility of Indian food next week, though.)

She complimented me. Un-solicited and with sincere admiration, she gave me a true compliment. I don't know what external Abi was doing. Probably, she smiled thankfully, or shook her head as if to say 'oh thank you, but not really.' Internal Abi was panicking.

What do I do now? She is so nice. I should compliment her back... You too? I think you're smart? Sweet? Cool? The kind of person who wouldn't point out that COOL hasn't been cool since the 90's?

I think the best of this friend, but I am so unused to receiving and giving genuine compliments. And isn't that a little sad. What a difference to be in the presence of a sister with a genuine heart and wonderful spirit. She is not the church face that most people show; she is in the trenches. But she is not alone in the trenches. The One who makes us family has given us hope and that hope let's us see with a spirit of goodness and compassion and patience... sometimes. Often enough to make this woman look different, sound different, live differently than every other close female friend I have had.

So we will be having more coffee or sushi or whatever other excuse to hang out. Because I need practicing reminding people of how genuinely incredible they are, and I imagine she needs practicing hearing such things.

Spidey Sense

I have never liked Spiderman much. That has nothing to do with this blog, it is just something I told a friend today and felt would be worth repeating. Irrational, much?

Often, my children prove to me that they are far more in tune to the extra-physical world around us than I, and often I am wondering if they have been bitten by a sense-heightening, radioactive spider. Okay, perhaps 'often' is an over statement. There probably aren't many folks on the planet who think of sentences like that 'often'. But I've thought it at least twice. And thoughts are so few and far between as of late that thinking the same thing twice makes that idea, regardless of how bizarre, a majority of my collective ideations. So there. The majority of my brainlings are about radioactive spiders, my kids, and superheroes I don't even like. How very unspiritual of me.

Justin has class Monday and Wednesday from 6:00-8:00pm. Noah's bedtime is 7:30, and Hannah generally goes down to sleep shortly after that. Mommy feeds them and gets jammies on them, mommy tucks them in, and if screaming ensues ('if'... haha), mommy rocks them, shushes them, hands them milk, or starts cramming towels under the door to block the sound. As far as reality presents they don't know where daddy is until the next morning.

But somehow they feel he is there.

The first clinical rotation for Justin's class started Thursday night at 6:00pm and ended at 3:30am. From there he drove to work and played with ecoli and other viruses until 11:30am. To my foolish and ever optimistic assumption, this night would be like any other. (Except Dumpster would get to sleep on the big bed with me because, I am, in my heart of hearts, a coward, afraid of the dark, the light, and staplers that make too loud a crack. If I still lived in the deep south with all its toothless flora and fauna, I would most certainly be accused of being 'yella'.) I got the younglings into their beds, got myself ready for bed and laid down. To my surprise Dumpster did not come and offer his courageous (albeit stench-ridden) presence on the bed to guard his mistress from the foes of night. And from there nothing went as I had foreseen.

Noah woke up screaming. And again. Third time's the charm. And third time he brought Hannah with him. And then she decided the day ought to start at 3:00am and sleep was no longer an option.

If you want to see a desperate woman, imagine this blogger, scampering back and forth from room to room, scratching Noah's back and shushing him, diving next door to give Hannah her pacifier back, dodging a curious bulldog (traitor!) as she runs back to re-wrap Noah in his blanket. One would finally be quiet, and the other one would let out a shriek just piercing enough to awaken the first, and start the strange series of events again. The carpet in our hallway is now sadly worn, the warpath through the jungle, showing the slogging of two tired boots from battle to battle.

How do they know that daddy is away? It has to be extra-sensory.

Justin is a presence in the house: a strong tower, a source of security, and encouragement, and provision. He isn't perfect, he doesn't make perfect decisions, but there is never a time when I wish he was somewhere else. I never want a break from him. Even when he spends hours studying in the basement, or working in the yard we know he is a whisper away. I suppose the kids are just like me. I don't sleep when he isn't here. It's not just that he calms our fears. It's not that he is some megawatt superhero, and I'm laying down beside ... I just realized there is no superhero name with which I can complete this sentence and not draw serious repercussions... . He's just a dad. A good one. And everything is better when dad's around.

I went out with some ladies to see the movie Mom's Night Out (more on this to come). I had the thought that someone should make a movie like this about dads. Then it occurred to me that would be the worst selling movie ever. Moms want to see movies where moms are lifted up. And dads... dads want to see movies where stuff is blown up. That knocks out almost all of the potential audience

Dads are important, more than we as a society are willing to believe. I'm as feminist as the next girl. I know I am smart, strong, capable, beautiful, a fighter, independent (all and only by grace). But I cannot imagine trying to accomplish this impossible task of raising two children filled with potential all alone. So this Mother's Day, despite the fact that he gets a day in June, I want to honor my husband, a dad, a good one, who makes everything better.

Scrubs, Socks, Mittens, and the Wizard

A glance at the current state of our family through four articles of clothing(ish):

Scrubs - The Husband: Justin is embroiled in a tear down, drag out, shoot 'em up street fight with nursing school. This semester is the peak before we start getting to head downhill to the blessed light at the end of the tunnel. He has to wear scrubs to every class and his clinical rotation. The thing is, despite being given high blood pressure and elevated cortisol levels from school, my husband is built like a Greek statue. He keeps grumbling about stress (and my cookies) making him fat. Right, like if the 'David' put on a couple after arm wrestling a bear and a lion. He is tall and trim. Ever since I've known him he has been tall and trim. There are certain less civilized regions of the world where men have been executed for lesser crimes. Like Hollywood. I digress. We buy him size X-Large scrubs because he can't stand the tantalizing glimpse of tube sock peeking haughtily out from under his cuffs. While X-large pants are long enough (barely)*, both he and I and Dumpster could stand in the waist with room to spare... now there's an image. And here's one: my scrubby clad adonis:

(He's the tall cute one in the back.)

Socks - The Blogger: We decided since our softball team tends to disappoint in the winning area of the game, we should try to make it excel in the fun area of the game. Step one: get Abi some awesome softball socks.

Really, what else needs to be said. I traipsed about the field all night in hot pink knee-high socks. It's a living.

Mittens - Baby Girl: Shortly after her four month doctor appointment, Hannah developed some skin problems. It started on her face and has spread to most the rest of her body. A lesser (meaning less cute)  girl would be in a sad state, but Hannah wears her rough, flaky, and red skin like a champ (an adorable champ). The worst part is she scratches at her face when it itches. For any of you who have little ones, you know how hard it is to keep baby nails short enough that they can't claw themselves to within an inch of your sanity. So, in order to save her face and my nerves we have been putting mittens on her for the last few weeks. We take them off so she can play, and if her skin has a good day. Otherwise, Hannah has some version of mittens on most of the time. Like so:

And yes, she is wearing boy clothes. That's what happens with babies: they wear everything they own in one week and then spit up on the last God-forsaken outfit... or worse. Usually worse.

The Wizard - Baby Noah: (Before we get to the explanation, I apologize that I don't have a picture for this section. I'm having a devise transferring issue. Next post about Little Man, I'll get a good Noah pic up. Until then, our imaginations are woefully underused; dust yours off and make this as cute, funny, or boring as you want.) Noah loves his blankets. He's on a sure path to being the next Linus in Peanuts. He's not partial, and will drag any available scrap of fabric around, but there is one for which he has a slight preference: It is white with blue and silver stars all over and a blue trim. Lately he has taken to wrapping this blanket around his shoulders before scampering about the house chanting all manner of incomprehensible incantations. Shy of one pointy hat, he looks like a little wizard ready to turn Dumpy into a toad (not too much challenge, really entry level magic. The same thing could be done with a razor and a bowl of water).

There you have it: us by garment.

* Justin spent a year in New Zealand. I swear he left at a respectable 6' 2", but returned at an uncanny 6'4". And this was when he was 25 years old. It is just wrong for anyone to have a growth spurt that late in life. I swear he found the One Ring that instead of unusually long life, makes someone concerningly tall.

Baby Mutant: Tornado

The last thirty minutes have been spent with me holding baby girl tightly to my chest and trying to prevent heart attack aftershocks. I'm sure this is one of those moments I probably shouldn't blog about because child protective services will be banging on my door seconds after it is published.

Children are miraculous in their ability to learn, experiment, and live without defeat or fear. Miraculous: always, but not necessarily the good kind of miracle.

Hannah has been rolling from her tummy to her back for a couple weeks now. She is much more optimistic about tummy time than Noah was. Sometimes, we can't keep her on her back. I have only seen her roll from her belly to her back once. It seemed an exhaustive effort, and she was disinclined to ever try it again. Therefore, from past experience, I assumed my daughter to be capable of moving at her best about three feet in either direction.

I want her to be able to move about and explore her world, so I will lay her down on a big blanket in the middle of the floor. Tonight the blanket was positioned like so:

Any of you who have had young children can probably already see where we are going with this. In my defense, the perspective on this photograph doesn't show that the blanket is five feet long, the distance past that to the left corner of the stairs is over six feet, and I was sitting next to Hannah playing at the edge of the blanket furthest from the stairs.

From the kitchen, Noah started begging for some milk. There was a cup ready in the fridge for him, so I got up to grab it, and hand it to him. It took me all of one minute.

I heard Hannah make a noise from the living room, so I patted Noah on the head and looked over. There was my baby girl at the far left corner of the stairs (because that's the highest point, silly mommy)  one leg dangling over the edge, most of her body laying under the railing, trying to roll over and away one more time. I freaked. I don't think that the English language has the letters to form the sound that I shrieked as I dashed into the living room, slid baby girl out from under the railing, and crushed her to my chest. Noah, baby girl's fellow daredevil, looked at me with big eyes that said, "What is your problem? That looks like fun!"

Still, I am trying to conceive of how she could cover more than eleven feet in less than sixty seconds. I think I have an X-Men child, who's mutant name is Tornado. She has some kind of super stable inner ear canal and super-physics rotational musculature. I've started designing her hero outfit in my head. "The Pink Tornado." It's adorable.

She's fine.   See:

I had a coronary, but she's fine.

After strapping her tightly into her bouncer (just in case the Pink Tornado decided to strike again), I retrieved the walker from the basement and the pack n play from Noah's room. She has lost her free range Hannah privileges. Blanket time only occurs now when mommy or daddy is within arm's reach.

Beauty and the Beast - meow

It's Friday night, and I am standing in my nothings staring into a dresser full of blessings (you can call them clothes if you're feeling dull). Big date with the husband? Night out with the girls? Yes and no. I'm sure Justin considers the first softball game of the season a date, and if by "the girls" you mean my hardcore fellow softball chica sluggers, then yes to both. April games are always tricky. You don't want to wear long pants and give everyone the impression that your legs haven't seen the sun or a razor since sometime in September (they have, right?). However, you also don't want to traipse out onto the field in your lil' shawty shawt shorts, and be standing on two perfectly Else icicles five minutes into the game.

Yeah, because I'm totally that girl who empties her wardrobe onto the bed looking for the perfect softball outfit to play in what weather.com claims will be a torrential downpour. And really, bright yellow jerseys built for a size small, who is six feet four inches tall: not helping.

So now I am at the softball game and the little droplets have starting splashing down. I am in knee length white shorts, a long sleeve gray t-shirt, a hoodie, and my jersey. I am wearing socks that only barely sneak over my heel and shiny black cleats. This will all come into play as I come into play.

Five minutes into the start of the game the following things will happen:
1. Friendly little droplets will turn into Hurricane Irene.
2. My gray shirt will ride up to the middle of my ribcage.
3. My batting gloves will be soaked, so there is NO WAY I am reaching up to fix said offending gray garment.
4. A player will slide into me at first spraying my white shorts with nice sandy red mud.
5. Nice sandy red mud will lodge itself between the flesh of my achilles tendon and the heel of my cleats, rubbing my ankles raw and, as an added bonus, bloody.

Do you have the visual picture? Just imagine a kitten in an over sized bright yellow smock, drowned wet, frozen cold, and starting to hiss at inanimate objects.

Now, it is Saturday morning. Formerly drenched kitten has her long hair curled/waved and pulled up Princess Buttercup style. She is in a bright pink dress (say what?!), four inch white heels with bows on the top (get out!), and she is wearing... wait for it... make up (shut the front door!!!).

In January our women's ministry team decided to hold a generations women's conference on April 26th. I must have, in a moment of temporary dissociative disorder volunteered to speak at this conference. Or they may have kidnapped me and forced me to speak at gunpoint. Someone should pat down our team for weaponry before I claim any responsibility for my actions. Either way, today I stood there in pink and heels with big hair and war paint, speaking.

It was all very surreal. In my mind I am the drowned kitten. People will say things like, "Oh you look lovely," and I have to try very hard to not stare at them like a dog listening to a high-pitched whistle. In my mind I am still the tomboy sliding through mud, and making fun of girls who do insane things like wear four inch heels they will have to stand in for forty-five minutes in front of fifty women. I suppose there are hints of our every reality marking us as we drift from form to form. Under the strappy stilettos are the scrap marks of red mud. The graceful, slender hand holding a microphone as I share a distinctly feminine story is starting to turn blue with the bruise of a misplayed out at second. And the sweeping locks falling in waves about my shoulders are only really that curly because I left them out in the driving rain far too long.

A mentor of mine once told me, "First God made you a woman, then He made you an athlete." Actually, first I think He made me His, and everything else (make up or mud) is just window dressing.

Oh... and we worshipped. Lots. Which is nice.

My Minion

Disclaimer: I don't own Disney, Despicable Me or any actual minions. If I did, my family would live on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, shouting scalawagian threats at one another over tourists' heads, and stealing their mouse shaped creamsicles.

Noah has become that guy who poses questions to himself and then answers them. However, English is not his strong suit yet, so it sounds like my son is one of those Disney minions from Despicable Me having a conversation with himself. What is even funnier is how much he looks like a minion, sort of like a round, pale pill with big eyes. And adorable. Cute up-to-here adorable. The conversations go something like this:

Curious Noah: "Da brag?"
Noah Know-It-All: "Da basho yang ana."
Curious Noah: "Oh..."

Curious Noah: "Da Ding?"
Noah Know-It-All: "Dish duc wanna brag da nana."
Curious Noah: "BA!?"
Noah Know-It-All: "NANANANANANA..." giggles "Head!" (smacks himself on the noggin')

This posing and answers of questions with himself will go on for a good ten minutes before he has sorted out all the mysteries of the universe (including why the duck wants a banana on his head [why to brag about, of course]).

Justin thinks that Noah has a minion language all his own that makes perfect, eloquent sense in his head and to other minions. Since they do not make Munchkin Minion Rosetta Stone, I have to struggle through deciphering his sentences all on my own. The worst part is he will spew out a good fifteen word sentence with a subject and predicate, prepositional phrases, demonstrative adjectives; the works. Then he will stare at me with those big beautiful minion eyes in anticipation of a response. The longer I delay in confirming or denying his theory of reality, the more that cherub face falls. To reduce the number of these heart crushing misunderstandings, I have translated several key words below:

Du - 'Duck'
Ish - 'Fish'
Nana - 'Banana', or my mother, this word is contextually dependent.
Long, loud, glass-shattering shriek - 'Well, that didn't go as I had planned, perhaps this world is not the malleable, gently solace I had imagined... And why would anyone put the silverware drawer way up there, where I can't have at the spoons. Crazy people.'

How to Have A Morning

Wake up at 3:00am. Roll first on your right side, then on your left side, then your right side again. Recognize, even in your bleary state that those are lyrics from mewithoutyou. Try to return to sleep. Fail. As the alarm "waca waca's" a beckoning call at 4:30 sit up (it's not graceful, but no one is awake to judge). Realize that your right ear is completely plugged. Shake your head, amazed, that no one told you pregnancy induces deafness. Determine to write a book for all young women after you, explaining the truth about pregnancy. With a sigh, realize this will probably bring the world's population boom to a staggering halt. Can't have that on your head.

In the process of getting ready, realize that you have no clothes that fit, and so determine to rescue a work appropriate outfit from the washing machine. In the dark, forget you put up the gate for Noah, find it with your shins, nearly tumble head first down eighteen stairs into the basement. Express gratitude to your Maker that you and Hannah are not now dead. Hurrah!

Complete the getting ready process, scoop up your sleeping boy, and head out for Nana's house. Stop to get gas. This is not relevant to the process of Having A Morning, but will perhaps seem an ironic reference point in the future. And it's cheap! Woohoo!

Drop off your boy, kiss him and request he behave as best he can. Realize that you rather need to go to the restroom, but determine that getting on the road and getting to work is far more important. It can wait.

Close to the freeway entrance notice that the temperature gauge on your Subaru is reading rather high. Flip the heater on high, and comfort yourself: it always goes down once you get moving. Drive. Watch the gauge climb. Pray. Pray hard. Hear a football commentator in your head: "She's at the yellow... she's at the orange... she's in the red... BREAK DOWN!" Push on the gas and get no response. Crank the wheel with all your might to navigate the sputtering Behemoth off to the shoulder. Smoke will pour out of every crevice in your car. It will smell terrible, and probably give your unborn child cancer. But it's kind of pretty.

Did you mention it's snowing now? Full on blizzard? Can't leave these important details out.

And you still really need to go to the restroom. Just not on the side of the freeway in a blizzard illuminated by the scowling headlights of oncoming mac trucks and your own trusty flashers. ... You can't find the flashers? Well, there's only one thing to do: scream. When no flashers turn on, scream again, just in case they didn't hear you the first time. Whimper.

Call your husband. Put on your calm, wise, optimistic voice. Ask him very kindly what you should do. Smile and nod often; because people can hear a good attitude and a happy demeanor through the phone. (Stop almost crying!) Be very grateful to your Defender that you have a liter of water in the backseat. Listen as your husband instructs you to pop the hood, poor said water into the coolant tank, let the whole thing cool for five minutes, and then try to limp it off the freeway. Pretend you are not utterly terrified by every step in the process he just outlined. Wish him goodbye (hopefully, not forever), climb your nine month pregnant self over the center console to get out on the passenger side so as not to be flattened by early morning traffic, and then remember the hood-popper thing is inside the vehicle. Climb back over the center console, pop the hood, climb again, and stand to face your smokey Suba in the snow.

It is now snowing heavily. And it is cold. And you still need to use the restroom.

Locate coolant tank. Unscrew cap. Do not get sprayed in the face by boiling coolant. Do be very thankful for that point. Empty a liter of water into the tank. Realize it is not enough. Sigh. Climb back over the center console once again, start up the car, pull into traffic, and start praying. Hard. Manage to limp the traitor vehicle to your parking spot across from the train stop. As you stop, ridiculous amounts of smoke will pour out again. And the lights will not turn off. Oh, you can try, try all day if you want, those buggers are staying on.

Notice how haunted your car seems with the snow swirling down around it, smoke billowing from under its hood, the rebellious lights eerily glowing in the night. Suppose that if your car is haunted that would make you the ghost. That can't be right: ghosts don't have to go to the bathroom really badly. Understand that the only other reasonable option is that while owned by you here on earth, this car is the property of the anti-christ in the spiritual realm. Consider a nickname for the demonic Subaru: the anti-christ mobile. No, that's not very catchy. The Beast Wagon! Haha, Beast Wagon. Think yourself very clever. Pray for the demolition of your pride.

Walk through the driving snow to your train, climb aboard. Despite the fact that you are pregnant out to here, no one will offer you a seat.

Have contractions.

Put on a face of deep discomfort, even moan a little and hold your belly. No one will offer you a seat. Curse them. Curse them, we hates them! (Turn into gollum in your mind. See yourself shrinking, getting skinny and vile.)

Pray. Pray hard. Pray that your worldly, diabolical self will go up in smoke. Smoke. Haha. Think yourself very clever. Pray for the demolition of your pride.

Arrive at work: still deaf, still needing to go to the restroom, smelling of engine and forest fire, still contracting. Wonder what exactly you are going to do at the end of the day (or if you go into labor). The Beast Wagon is parked fifteen minutes away, filled with all manner of demonic intentions. Don't care. Really, don't. "For who of you can add a minute to his life by worrying." Just have some breakfast, drink some cool water, trust in Your King of Glory, and for goodness sake, woman, go use the restroom!

The Dog Park

Initially, we bought an English Bulldog with visions in our head of our lazy, lumpy hound laying idly on the couch all day, only moving to begrudgingly trudge to his food dish. In our naivety, we didn't realize that putting an 'Olde' in front of 'English Bulldog', turns the sluggish pooch into a hyperactive, attention-hungry, hihihihilovemelovemeloveme assault on the senses. We do love him so much, but it has been a learning process. Expectations rarely match reality.

With me being pregnant out to here (envision my arm fully extended away from belly), the husband working, in school full time, and doing clinicals, and a Noah discovering the world is amazing (in a danger around every corner kind of way), Dumpster has been somewhat neglected. I can't wrangle his bulk well enough to make walks safe, so Justin has to steal 10-15 minutes a night to run him around in the back yard. We're trying to make life fair for him (and we continually remind him that other dogs as endearingly offensive as himself have to sleep outside in the cold instead of on a fluffy, warm couch [what's left of our fluffy, warm couch]), but my first born, human child takes precedence.

On Saturday, as a treat, we loaded up the family and took Dumpy to the dog park. We'd never tried this before, so we were somewhat unprepared. Dumpster didn't seem to care. He LOVED it. There were at least 12 other dogs there running around, and he could not get off the leash fast enough to go make friends. This is problem number one with our beloved bully: he thinks everyone in the universe wants to be his best friend, so he just strolls right up and introduces himself. (In the same way that a monster truck strolls up to a sedan in a demolition derby.) Someone had brought a herd of little yorkies, who were incredibly well-behaved. They trotted nobly by their master as he strolled around the perimeter of the park. Until Dumpster went to say hi that is... Just picture a big fuzzy white bowling ball, and a bunch of terrified, yipping, bowling pins.

The other problem with our Dumpy is he thinks he is exactly the same as every other dog. He thinks he is just as big as the Great Dane. He thinks he is just as fast and tireless as the hound. He believes himself to be as well-groomed and well-mannered as the little yorkies. He ran and played more than any over-sized bulldog probably ever has. I would love to see the self-image Dumpy has of himself. I imagine it looks something like this: 

                      

In reality, once we got him home, this is how our bully looked for the rest of the day... and even part of the next day: 

Not to mention the smell. Dumpster had at least ten other dog's drool on him, not to mention his own delightful bouquet. Imagine wet dog, mixed with raw trout, and a touch of a tummy ache. Voila, Ode de Dumpy.

Preparation for Labor

A dear friend loaned me a Lamaze video series when we first got pregnant after she found out I wanted to deliver naturally. I can’t explain this compulsion to needlessly endure pain. Perhaps it was fear of a giant needle being excruciatingly laced under the metalwork in my spine and through inches (which might as well be miles) of scar tissue. Perhaps I liked the idea of being able to lilt and skip about after pushing out what my doctor assured me was a “hunky” baby. The most likely reason (and this says far too much about the kind of person I am) is perhaps I just wanted everyone to gape at how tough I am, to be impressed. I wanted to win. There’s no medal in labor and delivery... But if there was it surely didn’t go to those women who got an epidural at a 3.

Yes, I may just be that stupid at times.

I learned many things from the video classes. I learned the about a high water break versus a gush. I learned the three breathing techniques, which accompanied each phase of labor. I learned about dilation, effacement, focus objects, forceps, C-sections, and a host of other concerning paraphernalia that they don't tell you about until after you're lugging around your precious bundle.

I'm now trying to recall these lessons because, although I am still 23 days away from Baby Hannah's due date, I go to bed each night hopeful that I will awaken in a pool of amniotic fluid (wow, that's quite the eww), and deliver my little 6 pound bundle (yeah right) an hour later. As you may imagine, mornings tend to hold a great deal of disappointment.

I don't remember that much. I remember the breathing patterns still... 'cause yeah, those really work. I remember that they APGAR your baby after birth... so we can be defined first in life by a number instead of a smiley face or frowny face. But mostly I realized that there is no knowing what will be at the hospital, when you first see your child, or for the next twenty-six years. So while prepping is good, the best defense against the insurmountable unknown is a laugh, a love, and an attitude problem.

Thirty Minutes

There is a great deal of whining, and fussing, and otherwise grumping about our house this week. The, for the moment, littlest Ririe is teething and has a nasty little cold. It's difficult to explain what the general unhappiness of a child does to his mother. It's exhausting, heart-breaking, frustrating, utterly grrrsome. Said mother being the size of a walrus with a glandular problem, doesn't help. The husband, realizing that my nerves were shot and my patience was thin, offered to take the Little Sicko, so I could have thirty minutes to myself. I just laughed.

What would I do with thirty selfish minutes? Take an uninterrupted shower? Make something sugary, delicious (and at this point nauseating)? Lay in bed trying to watch old episodes of "What Not to Wear", while my daughter does the marimba against my lungs? None of these seems like as good an option as reading The Monster at the End of this Book for the two hundredth time, or catching my wobbly walker and wiping his belligerent little nose. (FYI: he knows where his nose is now. It's all coming together.)

I worry about being a good mom. I wonder if I'm teaching him enough and the right things at the right times. I question my choice as I drive to work each day. I pray that I am patient enough, firm enough, fun enough. It's hard being imperfect (dreadfully imperfect) when you have another life in your hands.

But it's a little easier... everything is a little easier... when you have a wonderful Little Man.