30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 10

Today is my son Ryan’s second birthday, so today, I am thankful for him.

I didn’t get married until I was 39, so by then I was fairly certain that my chance to have children had passed me by. But God in His graciousness sent me a wonderful husband and enough assurance that he was the right one for me that our whirlwind courtship and marriage gave us the chance to become parents. And there was never a more anticipated, more wanted, or more loved baby than Ryan.

I can’t lie and say that raising him has been all sunshine and roses. He is a sweet, engaging, funny, and affectionate child. But he is also strong-willed, obstinate, disobedient, easily frustrated, and temperamental. (The strong-willed he gets from his father; everything else he gets from his mother.) Naptime is an hours-long battle every day. The trash can is a irresistible magnet for toys. Changing a diaper is often a full-body wrestling match. And yet, an indescribable joy fills my heart each night when I hear his small, sincere voice chiming his litany of “God bless”es: “God bless Mama, God bless Dadda, God bless Katie, God bless May-May, God bless Bammy, God bless Pappy.” Or his happy laugh and big pumpkin grin when he finds something funny. Or his sheer excitement when we drive past some construction equipment and he screeches, “Oh!! Big giant dump truuuuck!!! Digger truuuuuuuck!!!” Or, best of all, when he snuggles against my neck while he’s falling asleep and he murmurs, “I love you, Mama.” I am so thankful for the opportunity to not only raise, but to experience this amazing gift from God that is my son.

As I reflect on this 30-day exercise in thankfulness, I am reminded of a story from Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Little House on the Prairie” series. Laura has a job teaching in another school district, and is boarding with a mean-spirited and unhappy woman whose bitterness and unfriendliness makes Laura miserable. She gets to go home for a visit, and when she wakes up in the morning, she hears Pa’s and Ma’s pleasant voices downstairs, and remarks that she never realized that simply saying good morning makes the morning good.

In a very similar way, I am finding that simply saying thanks makes you thankful. The simple process of thinking about something to be thankful for makes you realize not only that you have a lot to be thankful for, but also that you are thankful for it.

So today, I am thankful for all the wonderful books of my childhood that made me think – books like “Little House on the Prairie” and “Little Women” and “The Chronicles of Narnia”. I am thankful for all the wonderful books of my childhood that I can already share with my son – books like “Goodnight Moon” and Richard Scarry’s “Things That Go” and all the Mother Goose stories. And I am thankful for all the wonderful new books that we’re discovering and enjoying together – books like “Stella Luna” and “If You Give a Moose a Muffin” and “I Love You Through and Through”.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 9

Today I am thankful for another long-time friend, Dana Siegal. I first met Dana when I performed in a show she was directing. That show led to another show, and another, and then a cabaret troupe, and somewhere along the way, a friendship. And a few years later, she found herself needing a roommate just as I was looking to move to the area where she lived. Despite the fact we were both well past college age, it was like being back in college, living with your girlfriends, gossiping and giggling late at night, giving each other advice on friends and work and dating and anything else that was going on in our lives. We had many late-night conversations on love, religion, friendship, family, and fashion in the doorway to one or the other of our bedrooms. Over the course of that year, we both fell in love and ended up getting engaged within 24 hours of each other. I sang as part of her proposal, and she videotaped mine. We were married within 6 months of each other. I sang at her wedding, and she was my matron of honor.

We don't see each other as often as we used to, and we don't talk as often as we used to. She is busy with work and theater, and I am busy with my children. But our friendship is as deep as ever. I know I could go to her for advice any time and she would make time for me. And she knows she is welcome to come to me for a chat any time. A friendship forged the way ours was doesn't need the constant contact that some friendships do to stay alive. It is always there as an undercurrent, like the backdrop of a theater scene. You aren't consciously aware of it, but it is always present, coloring everything around it, making it richer and sweeter. I am thankful that she is, and always will be, part of my life.


The three things I am thankful for today are things that I realize I am thankful for because they are - or recently were - currently missing from my life. The first is a baby monitor. Our baby monitor is currently not working, and it's making me realize how much I rely on it every day. With it, I can easily play in the basement with my son (who is often very LOUD) while my daughter sleeps upstairs, and I don't worry about missing a single quiet peep. The second thing I am thankful for is a good night's sleep. These days, some nights I'm woken three or four times by a hungry baby who doesn't want to go back to sleep after she eats, and I end up getting only 3 or 4 hours of sleep over the course of the whole night. But every once in a while she has a night when she sleeps for 5 or 6 hours straight and I get the same long, uninterrupted stretch of sleep. But those bad nights serve to remind me of how thankful I am for those good nights when I wake up refreshed and revived. And the third "thing" I'm thankful for is my mom. She passed away before my daughter was born, but my daughter will still experience her influence, because of my mom's influence on me as a parent. I am thankful that my mother was such a good role model as a parent. She was loving and tough and devoted, and she tried her best but never claimed to know it all. Because of her, I can be an imperfect parent and know that my kids will still turn out OK.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 8

Today, I am thankful for my friend Maryellen Kenney. M’el and I became friends about ten years ago, when we were in a performance of “42nd Street” together. The director wanted the authentic look of seamed stockings on the showgirls (of which I was one), but didn’t want the seams to get crooked with our many quick costume changes, so we had to draw the seams on with eyeliner. M’el volunteered to help me with mine, not realizing quite how far up the seams needed to go. You can’t not become friends after that kind of experience together.

In the past ten years, we’ve seen each other through the losses of parents and friends and friendships and boyfriends and jobs, and through life changes and health changes of every imaginable kind. We’ve laughed together, we’ve cried together, and we’ve called each other in the middle of the night to laugh or cry. I know I can call her any time, day or night, and talk to her about anything, and she knows the same about me.

Everyone needs a friend like that, and I am so thankful that Maryellen is one of mine!

And after this weekend’s crazy October snowstorm, three things that I am thankful for today are heat, electricity, and no damage to our property! I am sending out prayers for those who are not as fortunate.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 7

Today, I am thankful for everyone who is a part of my church family at Belmont United Methodist Church. When Herb and I got married, we started looking for a church we could both be comfortable in – not an easy task, given my Baptist background and his Episcopal upbringing. We agreed that we needed a church with solid Biblical teaching and theology, a strong music program, and an open, welcoming congregation with a varied demographic including families with young children. And after visiting a number of churches in the area, we found what we were looking for at BUMC.

From the very beginning, the people in the church went out of their way to make us feel welcome and included. The music director recruited us to sing in the choir, the pastor invited us to serve on various boards and committees, the worship coordinator asked us to sign up as scripture readers. When I was pregnant with my son, a fellow parishioner generously offered me her old maternity clothes. The ladies (and some of the men) of the church often asked how I was feeling, and offered both sympathy and wise advice. When Ryan was born, he (and our whole family) was immediately embraced and adored by the entire congregation. And when Katie was born, she was as well. Several families gave us gifts when each of the kids was born, and many people sent us cards. And when Herb’s brother and later, my mom, passed away, we received dozens of personal condolences and cards offering love and support.

The expression “church family” truly applies to this congregation. I have always felt loved, embraced, supported, and appreciated by everyone at BUMC. My thankfulness is expressed best in the words of Paul and Timothy in their letter to the Philippians (Phil. 1:3-6):

I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Jesus Christ.

The three things that I’m thankful for today are: the love of God that is shown to me through others, the opportunities I have to show the love of God to others, and the Word of God that teaches me how to both give and receive the love of God.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 6

Today, I am thankful for my neighbor Roberta. She was already a good friend of the family when Herb and I got married, but she embraced and accepted me as soon as I came on the scene. As soon as we both discovered Facebook, we friended each other. In fact, Roberta also friended my mom on Facebook as soon as they met. I think that’s one of the reasons she and I click so well: she’s a kindred spirit to my mom.

Roberta has a beautiful, sunny outlook on life that never fails to boost my spirits. She is always posting cheerful, inspirational posters, quotes, and Bible verses. Even when she admits she’s having a rough day, her sweet spirit shines through with a positive outlook and assurance that things will get better.

She gave us lovely, thoughtful presents when each of my kids was born. She openly adores them and loves when we come over to visit. What better way to a mom’s heart is there?

She is a faithful reader of this blog and often comments on how much she enjoys reading it. That appreciation means a lot to me, and I don’t know that I’ve ever told her that. So Roberta, if you’re reading this (and I know you are!), thanks for your support! I’m thankful that you’re my neighbor, and I’m even more thankful that you’re also my friend.


The three things that I’m thankful for today are: the smell of the first fire in the fireplace of the season, the taste of a perfectly cooked steak right off the grill, and the sight of the first snowflakes of the year silently drifting past my window. I thank God for all the beauty in the world around!

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 5

Today’s entry on thankfulness is a little different. One year ago tonight, my husband Herb and I were out to dinner with a friend, and when we arrived home there was a garbled message on the answering machine from my brother-in-law’s phone number. It was an unfamiliar voice, and the words we could pick out were “Glen” (my brother-in-law), “heart attack”, and “hospital”. Herb immediately called back and the phone was answered by Glen’s work colleague, Rob, who sadly informed us that Glen had suffered a sudden heart attack and had passed away minutes before. I will never forget my husband’s voice as he hung up the phone, turned to me, and said, “Tell me that did not just happen.” It was the most horrible and stunning thing that has ever happened to me.

So how can I be thankful on such a sad anniversary? How can I look at the faces of Glen’s wife and daughters and be thankful?

I can be thankful that Glen was a devoted husband, father, son, brother, and uncle. I can be thankful that he raised his daughters to be strong and independent enough to weather such a hard blow at such a young age. I can be thankful that his wife was and is strong enough to take charge of her family, to lean on the support of her extended family, and to be brave enough to start fresh in a new place.

I can be thankful for the few years I had to know him. I can be thankful that I heard him laugh, and sing, and play the guitar. I enjoyed the hospitality of his home, and he enjoyed the hospitality of mine. I had the joy of watching him play with my son. I had the pleasure of benefitting and learning from his gourmet taste in food and wine. And I had the pleasure of knowing that he recognized how much I loved his brother, and that he appreciated it.

So as much as my heart breaks that he was taken away so young, I will be thankful for the life he lived, and for the legacy that he leaves in the form of his two beautiful daughters.

And so the three “things” that I am thankful for today are not things, but people: Glen’s family, his wife Pauline and his daughters Valentine and Emma. I am thankful that they are happy and well. I am thankful that they are part of my family, although they are far away. And I am thankful that they are, and always will be, part of Glen.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 4

Today, I am thankful for my sister-in-law, Holly. Holly and I first met when Herb volunteered me to help out with her Halloween haunted house. Herb and I were performing as a demented knife-thrower and his assistant, and I think I gained her respect by “dying” on her brick porch several dozen times that night. I think she realized that anyone crazy and devoted enough to do that was just crazy and devoted enough to be her brother’s perfect match.

But beyond accepting (and celebrating) me as her brother’s wife, we’ve also become friends. She volunteers to babysit on a regular basis, invites me to join her for lunch or a show or a movie. She’s gotten me involved in helping out with her studio’s website, marketing, and public relations. She shares her family’s adventures with me, and I share mine with her.

Just like with my mother- and father-in-law, my sister-in-law is a wonderful fringe benefit of marrying Herb.


As I thought of the three things I would be thankful for today, the first thing I thought of was Miss Clairol. (I’m sure that some of you will be shocked to learn that I color my hair. I’ll wait while you regain consciousness.) And then I wondered, is it “okay” to be thankful for something like that? But then I figured that God made red hair, even though he didn’t make my hair red. And having red hair doesn’t hurt anyone, and it makes me happy. (It also makes my husband happy.) So I’ll go on being thankful for the little boost that being a redhead gives me. And I’ll be thankful for the bath salts and bubble bath that make me relaxed and happy. And lastly, I’ll be thankful for brownies, that also make me relaxed and happy. As much as the big things like food, clothes, and shelter are important to that, and as thankful as I am that God provides them for me, I am thankful that He also provides me with the small touches that make life not just bearable, but pleasant. And among those things are hair color, bubble bath, and brownies.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 3

1. Find a person/cause to be thankful for and thank them in person and/or in writing.

Today, I am thankful for Herb’s daughter, Rosemary. She arrived in Massachusetts the same day that Katie made her appearance, and has been a big help with both kids ever since her arrival. She uncomplainingly babysits so Herb and I can have a night out, or go to a doctor’s appointment. She takes Ryan on walks to visit the construction equipment that has been up and down the street all fall. She brings the kids to the playground. She takes Ryan to gymnastics class. She keeps an eye on one kid while I’m busy managing the other. She adores her little brother and her little sister. And I am so thankful that she is getting this opportunity to spend time with them and get to know them.

2. Find 3 things for which you are thankful to God and post them where you can see.

Today, I am thankful for comfortable shoes (I have weird-shaped feet, arthritis, and terrible bunions, so this is more of a big deal than one might think). I am thankful for pleasant neighbors. And I am thankful for washable crayons (for exactly the reason you suspect).

3. Keep a daily journal of your thanksgiving including situations where you are challenged to be thankful.

This is only day 3 of the 30-day challenge, and already I am spending several minutes thinking of three things to be thankful for. I came up with some rather trite things and feel like I’m copping out, but then I thought, aren’t we supposed to be grateful for the small things? God made ladybugs as well as giraffes, and intended both for our enjoyment. Washable crayons might seem like a dumb thing to be thankful for, but they’re saved my furniture on numerous occasions, not to mention clothes, rugs, and paint. Small things can be more significant than they seem! So I’ll keep being thankful for the small things.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 2

1. Find a person/cause to be thankful for and thank them in person and/or in writing.

Today, I am thankful for my mother- and father-in-law. They have accepted, loved, and treated me like a daughter since they first met me. They have gone far and above the call of duty in not only babysitting whenever we ask, but in offering when we don’t, just to encourage Herb and I to have a date night, or to give me some free time to run errands, take a shower, or go out for coffee away from the kids. They’re also big supporters of Herb and me whenever we perform, and rarely miss a show or concert.

2. Find 3 things for which you are thankful to God and post them where you can see.

Today, I am thankful for my minivan, which is comfortable and reliable. I am thankful for Internet recipe sites that make last-minute meal planning easy. And I am thankful for warm, cozy clothing.

3. Keep a daily journal of your thanksgiving including situations where you are challenged to be thankful.

Parenting is always a thankfulness challenge for me. I struggled with thankfulness today as I was in a long line with two fussy children. I distracted Ryan by finding letters that he recognized in the signs around the store, and in practicing naming the colors of fabric and thread, so although it was frustrating, I was thankful for time to spend teaching him.

30 Days of Thanksgiving: Day 1

Today is the first day of my 30-day Thanksgiving challenge. As outlined in my previous post, the daily challenge has three parts: 1) Find a person/cause to be thankful for and thank them in person and/or in writing; 2) Find 3 things for which you are thankful to God and post them where you can see; and 3) Keep a daily journal of your thanksgiving including situations where you are challenged to be thankful. So here goes today’s round.

1. Find a person/cause to be thankful for and thank them in person and/or in writing.

The person in my life for whom I am most thankful is my wonderful husband. Those who know me know that I was married later in life, at age 39, and I had reached the age where I wondered if I would ever be married. I had passed through various stages of my life where I had accepted that likelihood, where I had despaired over that likelihood, and where I had been completely puzzled by that likelihood. I had spent countless hours in prayer on the subject without receiving a clear answer from God. (I suspect this was due to a defect in my receiver, rather than one in God’s transmitter.) I finally realized, at age 37, that I had been waiting for God to drop Prince Charming into my lap, when God had given me the tools to go find him myself. And so I did. And here is my open letter of thanks to him.

My dearest sweetheart,

For the past four years, you have been a constant source of inspiration and support to me. As you promised me in our wedding vows, you have stood by me and loved me for better and for worse and in sickness and in health. You have been my cheering squad when I was laid off. You have been my shoulder to cry on and my pillar of strength through my mother’s long illness and her death. You have been my patient companion through two difficult pregnancies and a chronic illness. You love and accept me despite my many faults. I am so thankful that you are a part of my life.

I am grateful for all the things, large and small, that you do to make me happy. I am thankful for all the times you’ve gotten up to feed a baby in the middle of the night so I can get some sleep. I am thankful for all the times that you brought me a coffee or a pastry on your way home from running errands. I am thankful for all the times you stayed home with the kids so I could go get a haircut, or a massage, or just go shopping unencumbered.

Most of all, I am thankful for your endless, patient love for me. I love you.

All my love,
Your Sandy

2. Find 3 things for which you are thankful to God and post them where you can see.

Today, I am thankful to God for the blessing of a loving and supportive extended family. I am thankful for the beauty of autumn in New England. And I am thankful for two children napping at the same time!

3. Keep a daily journal of your thanksgiving including situations where you are challenged to be thankful.

Today’s greatest thankfulness challenge is simply the exhaustion of parenthood. I am thankful that I am able to stay home and take care of my children, but some days they try my patience and my thankfulness. But I am trying very hard to be thankful that it’s MY patience that they’re trying, and not a paid stranger.

A Thanksgiving Experiment

Yesterday I received an invitation from my pastor to participate in a program called “30 Days of Thanksgiving”. The challenge invites the participants “to make a covenant with God and with those who are participating three promises to keep during each day of these 30 days.


• Find a person/cause to express thankfulness in person and/or with writings. Tell them reasons for your thanksgiving.

• Write 3 things for which we are thankful to God. Post this on places where you can see.

• Keep a daily journal of thanksgiving. This can be a short reflection/prayer. Write not only your thanksgiving but also places/circumstances in which you were challenged to be thankful.”

Looks pretty easy at first glance, right? Tell someone that you’re thankful for them, think of three things you’re thankful for, and reflect on giving thanks and its challenges. Piece of cake.

Piece of cake for the first few days, anyway. Maybe even for the first week. But think about the numbers as you get toward day 30. Thirty different people or causes that you’re thankful for. NINETY things that you’re thankful for. Writing down what you’re thankful for every day for thirty days. That’s a lot!

And yet, aren’t Christians called to be thankful every day? How many of us are really, truly, consciously thankful each and every day? I’ll step up and admit that I’m not. I’ve got an awful lot to be thankful for – a wonderful family, a comfortable home, a loving husband, good health, financial stability – and yet there are days when I go to bed feeling decidedly unthankful. So I’m grateful for this little kick in the pants to refocus my thinking in the direction of thankfulness.

So, starting on Monday, I will be using my blog to fulfill this challenge. I am charging you, my readers, to keep me accountable. It won’t be easy for me to find time to complete the challenge each and every day, but I am publicly committing to do it. For the next thirty days, I will be writing a daily blog entry fulfilling the three challenges outlined above. I have no doubt that the challenge will grow more and more difficult as the time goes by, both in terms of finding subjects and in terms of finding time. But I believe it is a worthwhile challenge, and I look forward to fulfilling it. Come along with me – it should be an interesting month!

Cut Your Toenails, Grandma

The title of this blog entry is from a song my mother used to sing to me. The lyrics, in their entirety, are: “Cut your toenails, Grandma, you’re ripping up the sheets.” I have no idea if she made up the song herself, if she learned it from one of her parents who made it up, or if it’s an actual song that other people know. What I do know is that I found it absolutely hysterical as a child, and I find it absolutely hysterical now. And it’s time for my son to discover its hilarity.

Ryan has gross toenails. He has since he was a baby. They’re lumpy and striated and constantly ragged. But it’s getting easier to take care of them now that I don’t have to do stealth clipping while he’s asleep. Not only is he cooperative, at least once a day he climbs onto my lap when I’m at my desk where the nail clippers are, solemnly offers me his foot, and politely requests, “ Nip it pease, Mamma.” (Translation: “Snip it please, Mamma.” He has trouble with diphthongs.)

He’s reaching that age of independence (and boundless energy) when he rarely wants to sit still long enough to snuggle, so I love this daily pedicure moment. I’ll admit that I even milk it so he’ll sit on my lap for a few more precious moments. While I clip, I marvel at how much those feet have grown over the past two years. I wonder at how quickly this child transformed from an adorable but uncommunicative blob into an independent, free-thinking, verbally expressive human being. While he immerses himself in the fascination that is toenail clipping, I immerse myself in the fascination that is a child growing up.

I just hope he never grows up so much that he forgets the hilarity of Grandma’s toenails ripping up the sheets.

I Ate a Bug and I Liked It

Yesterday evening Ryan saw an ant climbing the wall behind his toy box and excitedly announced, “I see a BUG!” Daddy told him to catch it, and he did – by squashing it with his hand, of course. He carefully examined the tiny corpse in his palm and brought it to each of us in turn, proudly informing us, “I caughted the bug.” (He hasn’t quite mastered the art of the past tense yet.) And then, almost too fast for the human eye to see, he pinched it between his fingers and popped it in his mouth. And grinned. Yes, my son has eaten his first (but probably not his last) bug.

Being the mother of a boy, I suppose I should be prepared for such things. Let’s be honest: little boys are gross. They are fascinated by their own bodily functions. Their favorite pets are slimy instead of fuzzy. They live for snot and farts and poop jokes. They’re just gross in a way that little girls rarely are. And if you’re the mother of one, you need to accept that grossness will be part of your life for a number of years to come.

I’m pretty sure I can survive a fair amount of grossness, though. I already do things I thought (and in some cases, SWORE) I would never do, like eating off Ryan’s silverware and finishing his leftover (and often somewhat mangled) lunches and dinners, not to mention changing some pretty nasty diapers, wiping some really disgusting noses, and cleaning up various bodily fluids. The grossness is part and parcel of parenthood. And if eating bugs is as gross as it gets, I think I can live with that. I just really hope that he doesn’t ever decide to adopt a pet centipede!

Toddlers and Trade-Offs

Being a parent means often accepting periods of extreme difficulty in exchange for periods of reward. Sometimes the difficult periods are pretty even exchanges with the rewarding periods. For example, I regularly have a one- to two-hour battle of the wills with my 2-year-old at the beginning of nap time, but then I get a two-hour respite while he sleeps. In other words, it’s a fairly even exchange.

Sometimes the difficult periods are considerably longer than the periods of reward, but the rewards are more intense. For example, when my two-month-old wakes up at 3am and wants to play after she eats, but she gives me that heart-melting grin while I dandle her on my knee. That gummy grin is easily worth the lost hour of sleep. Again, it’s a fairly even exchange despite the disparity of time.

But sometimes the difficult period is short and the reward is long, and those are the moments that make it all worthwhile. This morning I took my son to his gymnastics class, and the first five minutes or so of class were an absolute disaster. He was wailing and squirming, shouting over the teacher, running amok through the gym, knocking other children out of his way as I chased after him. But once I caught him and forced him to sit and watch the teacher and the other children, he calmed down, and the rest of the 45-minute class was pure pleasure for both of us. He paid attention as the teacher walked through each obstacle course. He tried hard to do all the activities. He waited his turn (most of the time) and didn’t push any of the other kids (intentionally, at least). At one point, after mastering a difficult apparatus, he even called over to the teacher, “Hey, Adrian! I did it!” He did such a good job that after class I let him explore the collection of construction trucks in the parking lot. He stood in the bucket of the diggers, clambered a few steps up the ladders to the cabs, poked his fingers in the sand stuck in the buckets, and patted the giant tires and treads. And when I told him it was time to go home, he obediently held my hand and trotted over to the car. It was a rich reward for both of us.

I’ve only been a parent for two years, but I suspect that all of parenting consists of this kind of trade-off. No doubt there will be many battles over doing homework that are rewarded by good grades. There will be battles over chores and rewards of responsibility. There will be battles over clothes and manners and friends and activities, and there will be rewards of good taste, good manners, good friends, and good choices. There will be battles over bad behavior, and rewards of good character.

When my children are grown, I plan to look back over my parenting journey and be able to say, “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have remained faithful.” (Timothy 4:7) It is a good fight, it is worth finishing the race, and the faithfulness is what makes it all worthwhile.

Of Literature and Love

I’ve always been a reader, and at least as an adult I’ve always been a fan of great literature. My favorite book is Jane Eyre, with books like Little Women, The Chronicles of Narnia, and Jungle Book close behind on the “favorites” list. So this past weekend, when I got the opportunity to see some friends perform in a production of the musical “Little Women”, I jumped at it. And it was wonderful.

“Little Women” is delightful to me, not so much because of a fascinating plot or even a particularly eloquent writing style, but because of the love story. Most people don’t think of it as a romance, but to me, the love story between Jo March and Professor Bhaer is just about as romantic as it gets. Maybe it’s because I see so much of myself in Jo: a late bloomer with a love for writing and a temper that gets the better of her. Like me, Jo watched those around her marry and begin families, with (in her mind, at least) no prospect for the same. Words were her love and her stories were her children. But just as she had resigned herself to spinsterhood and begun to achieve real success with her writing, love came into her life in the form of Professor Bhaer.

Another reason that I love the love story of “Little Women” is that Professor Bhaer is not a typical romantic hero. He is, in Jo’s words, “old” and gray-haired. He is no dashing rake, but instead dresses neatly but shabbily. He woos Jo not with his words but with his wisdom. She falls in love with his sweet gentleness, his love for children, his admiration of culture and the arts. He offers her not a splendid castle full of servants, but a school full of students. I, like Jo, would much prefer the latter.

I think I also love the romance in this story at this point in my life because I see so much of my husband and I in both Jo and the Professor, and I see so much of our relationship mirrored in theirs. Like Professor Bhaer, my husband is older, more worldly, more cultured, and more experienced. He opens my eyes to new thoughts and new experiences. And like Jo, I am impetuous and unguarded in a way that allows him to be spontaneous and to occasionally act without thinking. Like Jo and Bhaer, we are alike in terms of our character and moral backgrounds, but sometimes vastly different in our ways of thinking – but in a completely complementary way.

So reading (or watching) “Little Women” is like seeing my own love story. What’s not to love about that?

Sandy and the Bee

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were flipping through the channels and stumbled across a charming movie called “Akeelah and the Bee”, about a young inner city girl who competes in the National Spelling Bee. She has a spelling coach who notices that every time she spells a word, she slaps her hand rhythmically against her leg with each letter. He realizes that the rhythm and pattern help her learn the words, so he teaches her new words while she jumps rope, one letter for each jump. And at the pivotal final scene, where the last word will determine whether she wins or loses, she begins to spell the word, then falters, then we see a quick flashback to her learning to spell that very word as she jumps rope. She smiles and confidently jumps with an imaginary jump rope as she correctly spells the word to win the bee.

I particularly appreciate this movie at the moment because I’ve just reached the Spelling Stage of motherhood. And the main reason I’ve reached it is that my son has reached a milestone in his development: the Instant Gratification Stage. He doesn’t deal well with not getting what he wants RIGHT THIS SECOND. He has no concept of “soon” or “after” or “later”. He wants what he wants and he wants it NOW. And heaven forbid that I put an idea into his head of something that he might want, because there will be a meltdown if he doesn’t get it immediately. And so enter the magic trick of spelling things.

Yesterday we were celebrating my sister’s birthday at my grandmother’s house, and I had offered to bring the cake. So before we left the house, there was a large chocolate cake sitting on the kitchen table. Naturally, as soon as Ryan saw it, he demanded “CAKE!” And when I told him it was for later, he hurled himself on the floor and sobbed. When we were ready to leave and I put him in the car, he saw the cake in the front seat and again pleaded, “CAKE!” and when I told him we’d have some after dinner, he sobbed again. By the time we arrived at the party, he was happy again and I wanted to keep him that way, so I carefully told my husband, “I’ll bring in the baby and you bring in the C-A-K-E, then I’ll come back for him.”

Now, “cake” is not such a difficult word to spell, but there are other trigger words that are a bit tougher. “Playground”, for example. It’s not that complicated a word, and I’m a pretty good speller, but I have a very hard time spelling words out loud. If I can write a word down, I’m fine. But if I have to spell out loud without paper and pencil in front of me, I struggle. So it’s no surprise that I recently asked my husband, as we were on the way home from running errands with the kids in tow, “Do we have time to stop at the P-L-A-Y-G…uh…blah blah blah?”

I guess I’ll have to work on my verbal spelling skills. So if you see me out and about with my son and I suddenly start pantomiming jumping rope, you’ll know why.

My son with three of his favorite things: M-I-L-K, C-A-K-E, and a T-R-U-C-K.

Backfield in Motion

Yesterday morning, we took Ryan to the gym for his first “Tumble Tots” class. His big sister Rosemary won the honor (or possibly drew the short straw) of being his buddy for the class. And by “buddy”, I mean “wrangler”. I wouldn’t say that it didn’t go well, but I will say that it didn’t go as intended.

The group of kids began by sitting in a circle with their parents and listening to the instructor. Except Ryan, who refused to sit but ran wildly around the gym with Rosemary hot on his heels.

Then they moved on to an obstacle course, once again listening patiently to the instructor explain what to do on each piece of apparatus, and politely waiting for the child ahead of them to finish before taking their turn. Ryan continued to run wildly around the gym, occasionally pausing to cut in line and slide down a slide, throw a hula hoop, swing on a bar, or roll down a ramp before once again running wildly around the gym.

After that, the class moved to the trampoline, all sitting carefully on the edge while each child took a turn bouncing with the instructor. Except Ryan, who struggled in Rosemary’s arms yelling “STUCK!!!” until it was his turn.

The final apparatus was the pit full of foam blocks, which Ryan at last chose to participate in. He jumped in with both feet, nearly squishing several other children in the process, and proceeded to throw the foam blocks in the air with great relish. I suspect the only reason he wasn’t running around wildly is because it’s physically impossible to run around in the pit.

And at the very end of class, as the children were lining up and sitting quietly waiting to get their coloring paper and a stamp on their hand, Ryan was…running wildly around the gym with Rosemary chasing close behind.

Lest you think I’m exaggerating for comic effect, here’s an excerpt from class:

The wonderful instructor was totally unfazed and assured us that six weeks from now he’d be sitting nicely with the rest of the class and we’d hardly remember how wild he was. I’m not sure I believe her, but what I am sure of is that we’ll be making him run around the building 15 or 20 times before his next class…

Brother Trucker

My son is fascinated with trucks. More accurately, my son is OBSESSED with trucks. He can’t say, “I love you” in any comprehensible way, but he can say the words, “backhoe”, “excavator”, “cement truck”, “bulldozer”, “dump truck”, “pickup truck”, “trash truck”, “police car” and “fire engine” perfectly clearly and can identify them all correctly. The first words out of his mouth this morning were “digger truck”. I’m pretty sure that qualifies as obsession.

Not that I didn’t see this coming. He’s a boy, to begin with. When he was only a few months old, my mother bought him a little wooden pickup truck because, as she very sensibly stated, “A boy needs a truck.” And as soon as he had enough control of his hands to grab that truck, he did. He spun its wheels endlessly. In fact, his fascination with wheels (and anything else that can spin, for that matter) was a blatant precursor to his fascination with trucks. I had to be careful whenever I brought him to a playground where there were other strollers parked, because he would march up to one of them, grab a wheel, and hoist the stroller (and occasionally its rather startled occupant) into the air so he could examine – and spin – the wheels. He loves grocery carts, industrial wheeled trashcans, and moving dollies. He’ll stop in the middle of a walk to admire the tires of any parked vehicles that we pass. So when he discovered the joy of trucks, it came as no surprise.

This love of trucks was cemented last week when there was a road construction crew working in front of our house. The city is putting in new water pipes, and after the crew had dug up the street and laid the new pipes, they brought in a backhoe, an excavator and a roller truck to repair the hole. I know that those are the exact trucks they used, because my son and I spent a good deal of time sitting at the side of the road watching, and he made friends with the overseer, who was very happy to point out what each truck was doing, and carefully said the name of each truck so my son could repeat it. The kid who says “yesh” instead of “yes” and “muck” instead of “milk” managed to get “backhoe” and “excavator” out properly on the first try. (Well, technically, he said “escavator”, but since so does every construction worker in Jersey, he gets a pass on that one.) He was absolutely in his glory watching the trucks dig and spread and smooth and tamp the dirt. Every time one of them clunked or groaned, he excitedly announced, “Noise!” Every time one of them backed up, he happily “beep beep beep”-ed right along with it. The day they moved on to the next block was very sad for him. I explained that they’d finished their work and were somewhere else, and he must have understood because he got up from his nap that day, pointed out the window and said sorrowfully, “No more digger truck. Truck all gone.”

Luckily for him, we live in eastern Massachusetts, the Land of Perpetual Construction, so pretty much any time we get in the car we see some big construction equipment, either working or parked on the side of the road. And when we’re at home, he has a whole collection of books with pictures of trucks (thank you, cousin Henry!). Plus, Daddy showed him a YouTube video of some construction vehicles at work and now every time he sees a computer screen he begs, “Big truck? Dump truck? Digger truck?”

At some point, I’m sure he’ll grow out of this obsession. I just hope it’s before he gets his driver’s license and grows back into it.

I Sing the Body Electric

I’ll admit it: I take my body for granted. I have for basically my entire adult life. It’s pretty middle of the road, looks-wise: slim but not especially spectacular. Not athletic, but not terribly out of shape. Not particularly healthy, but reliable. I’ve never been proud of it and I’ve never been ashamed of it. It’s just always been there.

When I developed rheumatoid arthritis at age 25, I resented my body a little. It ticked me off that it had let me down. But the flip side of a physical ailment is a recognition of how amazing the body is when it’s healthy. The intricacies and complexities of a system that thinks, moves, and heals itself is almost beyond comprehension. But what really made me recognize the amazing nature of my body was having a couple of babies.

There are two parts to that. First, going through the physical changes involved in carrying and giving birth to a child can’t help but make you aware of the miraculous nature of the human body. But second, watching that child explore his or her own body is a brand new revelation of how…well, cool the human body is.

At only 5 weeks old, Katie is already experimenting with and discovering what her body can do. Every waking moment, she is wiggling her feet, kicking them against anything close by, testing their strength and flexibility. She is constantly stretching out her arms, waving them in front of her face, grabbing at anything within reach. Her tongue is an endless source of curiosity. She pokes it out over and over, as if wondering, “What is this thing in my mouth and what am I supposed to do with it?” She turns her eyes toward bright lights, colors, and familiar voices. Her body is new to her and she is fascinated by it. As am I.

And at 22 months old, Ryan continues to be fascinated with his body. It’s no longer new to him, but the skills he’s learning every day are new and exciting. Just the other day, he discovered that he can reach up and hang from the supports of the treadmill with his feet in the air. He can turn a somersault. He loves the feeling of being dangled upside down, and of spinning around till he’s dizzy. He’s taken to experimenting with playground slides, going down feet first on his backside, then feet first lying on his tummy, then head first on his tummy, then head first on his back (Mummy does not encourage this position), then running down standing up (Mummy definitely does not encourage this position). He revels in identifying each body part: ears, nose, eyes, hair, head, chin, mouth, tongue, teeth, elbows, hands, fingers, knees, feet, toes, belly. He wiggles his fingers and toes for the sheer pleasure of it. He bonks his head on the wall just to experience what it feels like. He makes nonsense sounds with his mouth, blows raspberries (very WET raspberries), and tries to whistle. He is determined to figure out all the cool things he can do with his body.

Watching the two kids revel in their bodies reminds me that I should do the same. Being over forty and having had two babies in the past two years, one of whom was born only a few weeks ago, it is all too easy for me to rue the state of my body. My belly is soft and mushy and still bears the telltale dark line of pregnancy, my skin is blotchy, my fingers are beginning to show the ravages of arthritis, my lips have a few wrinkles around them, my chest is showing the signs of inevitable droopage, my hair is more grey than brown and is starting to sprout in places where it doesn’t belong. But my flabby belly is still a wonderful place to lay a sleeping baby. My mottled skin still delights in rubbing against a baby’s soft, downy hair. My gnarled fingers can still tickle a small belly. My wrinkled lips can still kiss away a hurt. My chest can still make a cozy pillow for a tired toddler. My hair…well, my hair has enough brown left that there will still be some to turn grey when my kids hit adolescence.

Yup. I sing the body electric.

Who's Driving This Bus?

When I was pregnant with my son, my husband and I took a one-day “Childbirth Preparation” class. The instructor was an experienced labor and delivery nurse with children of her own, and her teaching combined her medical knowledge with good, old-fashioned common sense. One of the wisest things she told us was, “Go ahead and write up a ‘birth plan’. Put down on paper exactly how you’d like your birth experience to go. And then rip it up and throw it away, because you’re not the one who decides what happens. Your doctor isn’t even the one who decides what happens. Your baby is now calling the shots. Get used to it.”

And she was right. When you have a baby, the baby determines your schedule to a great extent: when you sleep, often when you eat, even when you talk. The baby’s sleeping? Keep your voice down. The baby’s hungry? Wake up and feed her. The baby’s fussing? Put down your fork and let your dinner get cold while you figure out what’s bothering her. Once the baby gets a bit older, you can ease her into some kind of an eating and sleeping schedule, but you still have no control over fussy times. And if your child needs a nap NOW, it’s going to happen whether it’s convenient for you or not. Once you’re a parent you are, quite simply, no longer driving the bus.

And that is why I am writing this blog at 6:30 in the morning, with one child eating his breakfast in the next room, having just put the other down to sleep upstairs a few minutes ago. I am sitting at my computer with the baby monitor on my left and a cup of coffee on my right, wondering if I can sneak in a shower before my son finishes his breakfast and yells to be freed from his high chair, and before my daughter decides this is a one-hour sleep break and not a four-hour sleep break and yells for my attention.

But I don’t mind that they’re driving the bus for now. With the two of them driving, who knows what fascinating avenues this bus might explore. So I’m just going to strap on my seat belt and enjoy the ride!

First Child vs. Second Child

When my son was born, I think I filled in the information in his baby book the day I came home from the hospital. I dutifully looked up all the data for the “On The Day I Was Born” page – I googled the most popular song that day, the top news stories, the current world leaders of various countries, the hit television shows and movies. I wrote up bios for myself and my husband. I filled out the genealogy page with names and dates. And I carefully read through the “milestones” page nearly every day, so I wouldn’t miss my chance to record his first smile, his first trip to the zoo/the mall/church/his grandparents’ house, his first tooth, his first step, his first everything.

My daughter is over a month old and her baby book doesn’t even have her name in it. In fact, the only reason she HAS a baby book is that we got two at her brother’s baby shower.

I am a bad mother.

Actually, I’m really not. I am simply the mother of two instead of the mother of one. I honestly thought I understood what a difference that would be. Ha ha ha ha ha. It’s hard to write in a baby book when you’re holding a nursing baby to your breast while chasing a laughing toddler around the room shouting, “Spit out that penny! Spit it out! Now!”

But there are also benefits to having been through an older child’s infancy. You understand the crucial difference between the “I’m hungry/tired/wet” cries and the “I’m bored” cry, and you know which need to be attended to within two minutes and which can wait for ten or fifteen. I hadn’t realized how much I’d absorbed that idea until I was at a neighborhood yard sale over the weekend with my daughter in her stroller. She began fussing, so without even looking at her, I started rocking the stroller back and forth with my foot while I continued browsing. The mom running the sale laughed and commented, “This must not be your first.”

Another benefit to having had a child already is that you have an arsenal of tricks to use on a cranky baby. It took a couple of months of thinking of various way to soothe my son during his cranky times, but with my daughter, I had two or three months’ worth of tricks up my sleeve the day she came home. I already knew that “just any lullaby” wouldn’t work. My son’s preference was “Old McDonald”, which I didn’t figure out until he was 6 or 7 weeks old; after going through my full repertoire, I knew within a day or two that my daughter could be soothed only by “Moonshine Lullaby”. And I figured out right away that she shared her brother’s need to be held standing up, not sitting in a chair. That tidbit took several weeks with her brother.

But the ultimate benefit to having an older child is that you can look at that older child and realize that even though you had no idea what you were doing, he grew up to be a healthy, happy, well-adjusted toddler with no physical or emotional scars to speak of. So chances are pretty good that your little one will survive your incompetence just as nicely.

A Perfect Day, or, One Hot Mama

Today is already a fantastic day, and it’s going to get even better. It actually began in the wee hours of the morning, at 1 am. Katie was wide awake until then, but at 1am, she fell sound asleep, and so did I. She slept until 4:15am, ate without any hysterical slurping or stopping to cry mid-nurse, burped quickly and completely, and promptly fell back to sleep so I was back in bed by 5am. She didn’t wake up again until 8:15am, at which time my wonderful husband (after offering to give her a bottle himself so I could sleep) brought her in to me so I could nurse her without getting out of bed. Once again, she ate, burped, and fell back to sleep immediately so she was done by 9am.

My husband planned to visit his parents in the morning and had offered to take both kids with him so I would have my morning free. Being in desperate need of a haircut, I took him up on that offer. I took a long, hot shower (I even shaved my legs for the first time in – well, I’d rather not admit how long), got dressed, and headed for the hairdresser. There was no line, so I got my new ‘do within a matter of minutes and headed off to breakfast.

Going out to breakfast is one of my very favorite treats. I love going with family or friends, but sometimes it’s a special treat to go alone, just me and my Kindle. I chatted with the waitress while I savored my steaming cup of coffee, thinking how nice it was that I didn’t have to drink it from a closeable travel mug and periodically rescue it from a curious two-year-old asking, “Hot?” and attempting to dump it out all over the couch. I dunked my fluffy pancakes in syrup without sticky fingers poking at my plate and a small voice piping up hopefully, “Bite?” I read my book on my Kindle without getting any “help” turning the pages or someone pushing my hand aside to reach the buttons. It was wonderful. (Let me just say here that I love and adore my son, but he can be a bit exhausting and I love him even more when I get a break from him now and then. And I’m sure he feels the same about me.)

After breakfast, I headed over to my beloved Dress Barn. Oh, Dress Barn, how I’ve missed you. I love Dress Barn clothes, but since they don’t carry a maternity line, I’ve been in withdrawal for nearly the past year. I’ve been away for so long that I got a discount for re-upping my store charge that I haven’t used in more than a year. And since I was getting a discount, it only made sense to pick up some jewelry to go with the dresses I bought, right? I found a beautiful, flattering dress for church and more casual wear, and then I hit the jackpot: the perfect post-maternity date dress.

This dress probably wasn’t intentionally designed for the post-partum figure, but it might as well have been. My years of watching Stacy and Clinton on “What Not To Wear” (sorry, sweetheart) have taught me many tricks of how to choose flattering clothes, and this dress hits all the right notes. Slimmest part of dress at slimmest part of my figure? Check. Hemline hitting right above the knee? Check. Silhouette skimming my body without being tight? Check. Little design pouf falling right over (and therefore camouflaging) my post-baby pooch? Check. Sufficient support for current generous endowment of the girls (Stacy’s term, not mine)? Check. Plus the added bonus of being a gorgeous, rich color that compliments my hair and brings out my eyes. Throw in a pair of great shoes and the perfect accessories and hubba hubba, I am one hot mama!

And the best part of the day will be going out for a romantic, child-free (see “loving my children” comment, above) dinner with my husband tonight - putting on my beautiful new dress and my beautiful new bling, topping it off by wearing makeup for the first time in a month, and maybe even a spritz of scent, and watching my husband beam with delight, not only because I look fantastic, but because he’ll be so pleased that I splurged on myself.

Wait a minute, that’ll be the second-best part of the day. The very best part of the day will be when I come home, kick off my fancy high heels, and slip into my children’s rooms to give their angelic sleeping faces a good-night kiss before giving my husband a good-night kiss and slipping into bed myself. THAT will be the very best part of the day.

Fuzzy Baby Heads

God knew what he was doing when He designed babies. Babies are very demanding. They require an awful lot of time and attention. They can be very loud. They extrude noxious substances from various orifices, often all at the same time. He needed to provide them with some endearing traits in order to make us, their parents, not want to abandon them at birth. So He gave them big eyes, and cute round faces, soft skin, and sweet rosebud lips. But perhaps best of all, He gave them Fuzzy Baby Heads.

My son Ryan had really good Fuzzy Baby Head as a newborn. In fact, Daddy would sometimes blow-dry his hair to give it its full, fuzzy-headed, Muppet glory:

Katie has even higher quality Fuzzy Baby Head, since she was also born with a good deal of hair, and at one month of age, it is already fairly long. But not only is Katie’s hair a bit finer than Ryan’s, she also has the advantage of having inherited the Riesen cowlicks, which means that even without blow-drying, she has several patches of hair that stick out and create a natural, endearing fuzziness:

And just in case that weren’t enough, she has very strong legs and likes to “swim” up the chest of whoever is holding her and nuzzle her Fuzzy Baby Head directly under the chin of her holder. And since when she’s fussy, she’s an even stronger swimmer, she has a built-in countermeasure for how upsetting it is to hold a fussy baby, because the best solution for the stress of holding a fussy baby is a good solid dose of Fuzzy Baby Head.

As the mother of an extremely high-energy almost-two-year-old and a one-month-old who still has her days and nights reversed, I am often sleep-deprived and somewhat stressed out. But I am saved from losing my mind, every single day, by a few doses of Fuzzy Baby Head. No matter how exhausted and stressed out I am, rubbing my face against that soft, sweet-smelling Fuzzy Baby Head relaxes me. It’s as if the fuzziness is a magnet for stress, so touching the fuzzy draws all the tension out of my system the way a magnet draws away iron filings.

I am convinced that if someone could figure out a way to package the magic of Fuzzy Baby Head, it could become a vessel for world peace. After all, who can resist Fuzzy Baby Head? I bet that even Adolf Hitler and Genghis Khan snuggled a Fuzzy Baby Head or two in their lives. And probably if they had snuggled a few more, the course of world history would have been somewhat different.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I hear a Fuzzy Baby Head calling my name. That call, unfortunately, is currently in the form of an unhappy, screaming baby. But it’s okay, because as long as the screaming is coming out of a Fuzzy Baby Head, we’ll both be fine.




 

28 Days Later

Four weeks ago today, I got up in the morning certain that by the end of the day I would go from being a “mother of one” to being a “mother of two”.
Four weeks ago today, my husband and I got out of bed, packed a bag, dropped off our son at his grandparents’, and went to the hospital where I was scheduled to be induced. When we arrived, the doctor told us that everyone and his brother (or, more accurately, “everyone and her sister”) had gone into labor and there was no bed for me, so they did a quick “non-stress test” to confirm that our baby wasn’t in any kind of distress (and also that I was having strong and regular – although still unfelt – contractions), and then sent us home, telling us to call at 2pm, hoping they’d have room for me at around 3pm.
Four weeks ago today, we spent the day with Herb’s daughter and our son, checking out various playgrounds and enjoying our last few hours as a family of four. At 2pm, we called the hospital and were told to come back at around 5pm, so we spent a few more hours relaxing at Bammy and Pappy’s house before we headed off to try, once again, to convince this baby to make an appearance.
Four weeks ago today, my husband and I kissed the kids goodbye and headed back to the hospital. At 5:30, they turned on the Pitocin. At 8:45, with little additional progress, the medical team hooked me up to an epidural, broke my water, and cranked up the Pitocin. Finally, I could feel the contractions, although they were still painless. At 9:45, the contractions finally became painful – I was thankful for the pain, and also for the epidural.

Four weeks ago today, at 10:08pm, the doctor examined me and announced that I was fully dilated and effaced, and on the next contraction I could try pushing and we’d see how things went. As the next contraction approached, I braced myself and began to push, as the doctor and the nurse chanted in unison: “Push! PushpushpushstopSTOPSTOP!!!” I would have been scared by the urgency of their voices except that they were both laughing as they told me to stop. Apparently, the baby and I were more ready than they were. The nurse turned on the baby warmer as she headed for the door to call in the rest of the team, and the doctor retrieved the delivery cart from the corner of the room and removed its sterile drape. About a minute later, everything (and everyone) was in place and as the next contraction approached, I once again braced myself. I don’t remember hearing the instructions from the doctor or the nurse, I was simply aware of my husband by my side, and knowing it was time to take a deep breath, drop my head to my chest, and get this reluctant baby to join the world! I pushed through two contractions, and on the third, the doctor said, “OK, look down here!” I remember wondering what on earth I was supposed to see, and then I saw the doctor lifting this beautiful, long, perfect baby into the air and hearing voices announce, “It’s a girl!” and “10:12pm”. Hands placed her on my chest and as her first cries filled the air, everyone in the room laughed and told us how beautiful she was.

Four weeks ago today, I saw my beautiful baby girl for the first time. I touched her downy hair, I counted each perfect miniature finger, I marveled at the impossible tininess of her wee toenails. I gazed into her face and examined every feature. She looked very much like her brother, which is to say that she looked very much like her father. As I took in the nearly-invisible brows and lashes, the tiny purple veins in her eyelids, the pore-less perfection of her skin, she struggled to lift her head, then opened her eyes and looked toward me in that vaguely cross-eyed, unfocused newborn fashion. I whispered to her, “I’m your mum, and I will always take care of you.” For a moment, I thought of my own mum, and tears filled my eyes as I wished she were here to see her beautiful granddaughter. But then I felt my husband’s warm hand on my shoulder as he gently caressed our new daughter with his other hand and whispered to me how beautiful she was and how proud he was of me.

For a few moments, the three of us stayed still, simply taking each other in and appreciating the wonder that is the miracle of birth. All too soon the nurses took her back to weigh her and clean her up. But in just a few more moments they had brought her back, swaddled in a warm blanket and wearing that silly little pink-and-blue-striped hat that is the hallmark of all newborn babies. I guided her to my breast and she immediately clamped on, making me laugh with pleasure and relief. Apparently I wouldn’t be going through the same difficulties I had with feeding her brother.
Once again, I marveled at her tiny perfection. I reveled in the impossible softness of her pale chestnut hair, the pert upturn of her nose, her curly rosebud lips, the way her ears faded from pink at their tops to pure alabaster at her earlobes.
Can it really be true that all those things happened four weeks ago? It seems like just yesterday, and yet it also seems like she has been a part of our family forever. Our daily routine feels like it has always been this way. Haven’t I always eaten my meals with one hand while jiggling a persnickety baby with the other? Haven’t my nights always consisted of sleeping for two hours, then feeding and rocking a wide-awake baby for another two? Haven’t I always spent half of my time with either a baby or a breast pump attached to me? And haven’t I spent my whole life loving this child, loving this amazing, wonderful, perfect little family?
Maybe it’s only been this wonderful and perfect for the past four weeks, but I have no doubt that it will stay this wonderful and perfect for the next four, and the next four, and the next four. Even when it doesn’t quite feel perfect, it still is. After all, how could it possibly ever be better than our perfect full house?