Worth Reading

This post is very funny. That is not so surprising. Lots of posts make me laugh, and Amy is very good at being funny.

No, what's remarkable about this little piece is that it makes me laugh, and then suddenly makes me stop laughing.

And then laugh again, gently and joyously, without a trace of bitterness... laugh at myself for laughing.

Pass the carrots.

It's 10:00... way past her bedtime. I should be getting to bed, too. But oh, the glowing of her grin, the softness of her skin... and where on earth did she get that strange little tender pout, and that achingly sweet little croaky voice?

"Mama-bunny, I love you."

My baby.

It's 10pm, way past her bedtime. I should be getting to bed, too. But tomorrow she may not be such a baby, and tomorrow I may have another baby in my arms. Time slips away so preciously, and I must hold her while I can.

Fruit of my labor

Having put in a week or so of gentle warm-up contractions, and 12 hours or so of intense labor, you'd think I'd have a baby to show for it.

Not yet.

But I do have this cute little bag for September's birthday.

Jessica linked to an adorable granny square tote, which inspired this (much simpler) project.

In digging the newborn clothes out of the attic, I realized just how much fantastic material I have for rag crochet. This used to be a skirt and a shirt. Much cuter this way.

It was good distraction... and it feels good to have something to show for it, anyway.

No news is... no news.

I've been slipping in and out of labor... it's been very, very slow.

I actually got a pretty good night's sleep last night, but Saturday night I kept having contractions strong enough to keep me from sleeping, just not strong enough to actually have a baby. As I lay there groaning, my husband (still asleep) sat bolt upright and firmly shushed me. It's a good thing I'm used to his sleep-talking. We had a good laugh about it in the morning. =)

Through church, I was contracting gently but insistently, and I was utterly incapable of concentration. It was a good sermon... I think it may have had something to do with the Apostle Paul? This is a very strange experience for me, to be so utterly averse to rational thought.

Afterwards, the ladies of the church threw a lovely luncheon and shower for baby and me, which September and I greatly enjoyed. The contractions were quite easy to ignore as long as I had lots of distraction that didn't require the use of my suddenly nonexistent rational capacities.

Until the very end. I didn't need to leave early... but we sure packed up in a hurry, and the pastor's wife did go over the speed limit driving Timmo and I home.

The midwife met me at home, and one of the ladies from church stayed to watch the kids.

I went upstairs and contracted until I felt like I was going to split in two, and then I contracted some more... and then it stopped.

Second verse same as the first.

This could take a while.

It's frustrating and discouraging... but all the same, I'm very glad for the good night's sleep. I feel much more ready for whatever it is that comes next.

I did NOT expect to be live-blogging labor.

But then again, I didn't expect everything to stall out after 6 hours of hard labor.

I guess I get a break. Which is okay, because my water didn't break, so we aren't on any sort of urgent timetable.

The midwife went home, but the kids still stayed the night with Uncle Paul and Aunt Lorre.

So we had ourselves a date night. Except that our idea of an ideal date involves way more intellectual activity than is possible for a woman under the influence of labor hormones.

Which I still am, just not powerfully enough to produce any major contractions. The world is warm and gentle and a little bit blurry--maybe the hormones are supposed to help me empathize with baby. Or who knows, maybe during one of those enormous contractions, some wires got crossed, and baby would like nothing better than to help Daddy out with that geometry problem.

In any case, we rented a movie.

And now, for a few observations on labor from the middle of things:

1. It's true. The first thing the midwife does when she walks in the door is tell somebody to start boiling water. Apparently midwives have known to sterilize their instruments for a very, very long time. Go figure.

2. They call it labor for a reason. It hurts. A lot. It's not like cutting-off-your-toe hurt, though... more like weight-lifting hurts, or running a marathon. You know, "feel the burn." Except that you don't get to choose when to stop "feeling the burn." You just keep right on exercising through to the point where it's torture, and then beyond. Way, way beyond. I feel like I have a better idea what the Children of Israel were going through in Egypt.

3. My own personal slave driver seems to be pretty merciful, though.... for better and for worse. I really don't need quite this many breaks, and they don't have to be quite so long, either. But that's the the thing about labor--you don't get to pick your pace.

4. I like ripe strawberries, grapes, and almonds way better than ice chips. Way better than ice chips. =)

Turn, Baby, Turn!

No, he's not breech.

But at my last appointment, the midwife pointed out that he's facing frontward. She said I should keep my spine as straight as possible to encourage him to turn around.

Well, working on my posture is always a good idea, but I couldn't see how being front-facing could be bad thing. After all, it's fun to feel lots of arm and leg movements--not to mention reassuring. Surely it can't make that big a difference which direction he's facing... right?

But now I completely understand.

I'm not even in labor yet, but last night had me ready to beg for an epidural.

I'm pretty confident about the contractions. I know it's going to be hard, but I feel ready to face it.

The back of baby's skull grinding against my spine? Not so much.

Please pray for mercy, and a rear-facing baby.

Turn, baby, turn!

The Stories that Weren't

"Mama, I'd like to tell you a story tomorrow morning."

My firstborn flung his arms around my neck and grinned at me.

"You could tell it to me now, if you wanted to. I'd love to hear it."

"Well... okay."

"So what's your story about?"

"It's about the Veggie Tales and the train."

"Oh, that sounds like a good story. So what happened."

"Well... nothing happened! Because the train didn't fall into the water, and the bridge didn't fall into the water!"

How frequently do I forget to marvel in gratefulness, for all the horrendously eventful happenings that don't.

Life on the Inside

They asked if Baby Jack had a home inside my belly. (Baby Jack may well turn out to be Baby Jill, but you have to call the child something...)

I told them that yes, Baby Jack has a nice, cozy home inside me.

And so ever since, they've been speculating about the sort of facilities he might have.

Does he have a bed? What about a potty? You know, surely Baby Jack must be busy building a log cabin, and a suspension bridge. Every baby needs a suspension bridge.

Perhaps this is why my skin isn't fitting very well.

Last night we finally made use of our community pool, having discovered the reason why it never seemed to be open when it ought to be. The spot where the lifeguard naps when nobody's at the pool happens not to be visible from the gate, that's all. I can certainly understand why he would rest in the shade when there is nobody about, but the situation seems to be rather self-perpetuating. Perhaps this might also explain the heated arguments at the HOA meeting over whether or not the pool was ever open last summer. But in any case, once you figure out that he's there, he does come let you in when you holler, so having solved this mystery, we put on our suits and went swimming.

As she skipped happily toward the door, September paused to pat my belly.

"Baby Jack's going swimming, too!"

I nodded in affirmation. We've talked before about how he's swimming around in amniotic fluid; also, Baby Jack would definitely be coming along on this excursion. I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by the phrase, but one way or another, Baby Jack was definitely going swimming.

Her next question had me flumoxed, though.

I have no idea what color his bathing suit is.

Causation

It's hot outside, because Isaiah is sweaty.

Oh yes.

Poetry in reverse

I've been thinking a lot about childbirth lately.

Might have something to do with the little feet that keep pressing insistently against my ribs, warming up, as it were, to help catapult new life into the world.

As I think about birth, my mind can't help but turn to other concepts, more abstract and more familiar. And like so many other times, my "new" thoughts are expressible only by the old words and phrases I've heard a thousand times before.

I think perhaps that being born must be something akin to being born again.

And certainly my midwife's role is highly Socratic, being someone who has walked this road herself a number of times, and now guides other women through the births of their children. You could almost say that being a midwife is like being a "midwife of ideas."

The poetry of birth is all around us, inescapably so. So many deeply important things are impossible to discuss without talking in terms of birth. Can we really understand them without understanding birth?

And so it is that I'm quivering with impatient excitement, eager to dance that poem with this, my littlest child.

Gratitude

Our food has been thoroughly blessed of late. Every night the kids argue about who will pray, and so most nights, they all do.

Tonight, after Nathan said grace, Isaiah offered up the following prayer, reproduced to the best of my memory:

"Dear Jesus, thank you for this food. Please bless it to our bodies."

Nathan gave a hearty "Amen" to this, but his brother wasn't finished.

"Thank you for the orange juice. The orange juice. Thank you for all the orange juice. Thank you for the pot lid, and the pot. Thank you for the silverware and the plates. Thank you for the plates and all the food on the plates. Thank you for the orange juice. Thank you for the table and the chairs, and thank you for the light bulbs."

At this point, we lost it. We'd been trying so hard not to chuckle, but we just couldn't hold it in any longer.

Isaiah didn't mind, though, and joined in the laughter, a natural outflowing of his unselfconscious gratitude.

It was a fitting prayer for such a meal. There are some crock-pot experiments that just shouldn't be made.

Thank you, Jesus, for the silverware and the plates and the orange juice and the light bulbs. And for Kraft Mac 'n Cheese.

We're back...

...after a wonderful and refreshing summer jaunt.

I really, really like Texas in the springtime, but summer... well, let's just say that summer is a great time for travel.

I got to take a 3 week summer class on Ephesians, while Andy took the wuggies to see Gramma and Grampa.

It was blissful, and the very best part of the whole trip was seeing my dear family again after being away for so long.

It is good to be home again.

Standards

"May I be excused?"
"Yes, but first you need to put your dishes in the sink."
"But not the knife."
"Yes, the knife, too."
"But it's still clean."
"Um, actually it's covered in egg."
"But this side is clean..."

What I wish we'd known before buying a home

Everybody says you need to have your home inspected by an independent inspector.

And we did. Oh yes, we were very conscientious, looked into everything a responsible home-buyer is supposed to look into. We researched the neighborhood, the crime rates, talked with the constable, thoroughly analyzed the flood risks, and hired a reputable, unbiased professional to go over the home with a fine-tooth comb.

And he was very thorough. He checked everything, and gave the house a clean bill of health, with the exception of a few minor-but-urgent repairs to the exterior.

He checked the plumbing, said everything was in working order. The hot water heater had been recently replaced... at least that's what he said.

I have no doubt that the guy was very professional, and did quite as good a job as any other home inspector would have.

But he wasn't a plumber, and as we are learning the hard way, when it comes to plumbing, the opinion of a non-plumber just isn't worth a whole lot.

We've just replaced one toilet, and the other two are on their way out. The seals were shot on all three of them... fortunately only one of them leaked through the living room ceiling.

And that hot water heater? Rusted on the interior, and on the verge of disintegration.

Thank God for the leaky toilet that got us to call a plumber before we were surprised by a river of hot water pouring down from the attic. I suspect that might have been a rather more disastrous repair.

As these things go, it could have been much, much worse. We still like the house, we're still glad we bought it. But it would have been nice to know about these things before while we could have negotiated with the seller to help out with some of the repairs.

We'd never heard anyone recommend a specific plumbing inspection, but if and when we ever find ourselves buying another older home, we're definitely getting Mr. Rooter to check things out before we sign on the dotted line.

Meanwhile, if you could spare us a bit of prayer, we could use it. This comes just as I'm recovering from heat exhaustion, which sent me into preterm labor. I'm okay now, and more importantly so is "Baby Jack," still snuggled safe inside for another 10 weeks at least, God willing. But I'm still trying to take it easy until I'm fully recovered.

And there's a mild fever running through the family.

When it rains, it pours.

Straight down through the living room ceiling, to be precise.

Tantrum

His sobs come crashing in on one other, wave upon wave, each subsiding only to collide with the next in a foaming froth of spray.

Beyond his briny tears, I can almost taste the sweet, sweet sleep to come, when all strivings have been spent.

There is no lullaby like the rhythm of the surf.

Don't poison the primates!

We had a fun trip to the zoo the other day, with a family from church.

It took some careful arrangement, but we were able to fit everyone AND the quad stroller into the doopah-mobile. I felt quite bad for my poor friend who was stuck sitting in the 2/3 of a seat that was left over next to the carseats, but I was very glad indeed that we carpooled. For one thing, I learned how to navigate the HOV lane, and avoid rush hour traffic--it's more complicated than you'd expect. You know how in California they have carpool lanes? Well, in Texas, they say HOV (short for high-occupancy vehicle) and there's only one per highway, and it changes directions with traffic flow. So in the morning it goes south, and in the afternoon it goes north. But don't worry, it's closed during mid-day, so I presume everybody's had time to clear out before the cars start going the other way. I hope. Anyway, it can save an awful lot of time, but it's also something of a gamble, because if anybody breaks down, the whole line of cars is stuck--I would have assumed that in such an urban setting, one would be immune to the hazards of one-lane roads, but apparently not. However, nobody broke down in front of us this time, and we happily zipped past the bumper to bumper traffic.

Once we got to the zoo, however, we had to circle for nearly an hour before finding a parking spot--another reason I was glad we were carpooling. Such ordeals are much more bearable with good conversation--and who knows how long it would have taken to find TWO parking spots.

But the zoo itself was a good deal of fun, particularly the reptiles and primates. The giant pythons were truly spectacular, and the baby chimpanzee was heart-meltingly adorable.

And somewhere in the primate section (I think it was in front of the howler monkeys, but I'm not quite sure) I found some food for thought.

There was a big educational display describing the dietary habits of some species or other--again, I think it was howler monkeys, but it doesn't really matter, because it was mostly about what it means to be an omnivore. So the monkey (or whatever it was) has his preferred foods, but if they aren't available he'll eat just about anything. There was a display of the foods they eat in the wild--they can't digest the cellulose of mature leaves, but they love tender young greens, as well as sundry fruits--and next to it, a display of their zoo diet. At the zoo, they feed them corn, and carrots, and lettuce, and fruit, and eggs... a nice assortment in fact, of optimal human foods. But then there was a third display, full of danger foods--soda pop, corn dogs, candy bars, etc. All things that this omnivorous creatures would greatly enjoy, but would make them sick. And all sold at the zoos numerous concession stands, for human consumption.

The irony was striking, and I remarked that perhaps the advice was generally applicable to ALL primates.

My friend was a bit shocked that I would refer to humans as primates, but really, I wouldn't dream of suggesting that there is not a very great distinction between man and the rest of God's creation.

I merely suspect that perhaps the image of God deserves at least as much respect as the howler monkey.

Or whatever omnivorous primate it was.

Looking for Piggie

I wouldn't have gone back in the house--not when she was asking so rudely--but I really had said I'd look, and I really had forgotten. And I knew that if I didn't give in, another meltdown was immanent. I absolutely had to get the reference form to Pastor--along with an overnight envelope--and Pastor was going to meet me at the church on his way to lunch, at 12:15 exactly. There was very little margin for error, especially since I had to allow time for a potentially lengthy stop at the Post Office.

No, I definitely couldn't afford a tantrum. So I went in to (quickly) look for Piggie.

I didn't find him.

I did, however, find the reference form sitting atop my dresser--not in the car, as it should have been. I was very glad indeed that I'd gone back in.

I tucked the wayward form in with the rest of the paperwork I was carting around, and offered Zebra to Tembo, knowing full well that no substitute would be satisfactory.

"Where's Piggie??!!"

I could see it coming. This car ride was shaping up to be yet another battle of the wills, pulling over every few yards to put my tantruming little escape artist firmly back into her seat.

Today, there just wasn't time to invest in all the firm, loving discipline that the situation called for. Today, those errands had to happen, and quickly.

Suddenly, in that split second of sheer panic, it came to me.

"Maybe Piggie went to check his mail. Shall we go to the Post Office to look for him?"

And so we did.

We went to the post office, and after obtaining an Express Mail envelope, a book of stamps, and sufficient quarters to feed the toll meters, a quick but thorough search of the building showed us that Piggie wasn't at the Post Office.

"Maybe he went to church to swing on the swings."

Piggie wasn't there either, but as it turned out, a sweet little playmate from our small group was, and after our picnic lunch, they had a wonderful time frolicking in the light rain together. Piggie was forgotten for the afternoon.

It's a good thing, too, because Kinkos was the next stop after that, and I'm not sure how much longer I could have kept the game up.

Everybody knows that piggies don't use fax machines.

The Gospel According to September

They wanted yet another Bible story. Under normal circumstances, I'd happily comply, but company would be arriving shortly, and I needed to tidy the living room.

They all leaned in together, as Isaiah flipped through the book. When they'd reached a consensus, he handed the book back to me.

"Mary and Joseph. Read us the story of Mary and Joseph."

I handed the book back to him.

"Why don't you read it to us?"

"Nope. I can't."

But September cheerfully volunteered for the task.

And so, without further ado, I present a two-year-old's version of the Christmas story--short and sweet and to the point.

"They carried a donkey and stuff, and they had a baby and stuff. Mary and Joseph loved God. And He loves Meepo."

Spring

It is spring, now, and the very air is alive with vibrance and unpredictability. All the greenery I'd forgotten to miss is suddenly back again, and I am living within a great shimmering emerald. A great shimmering, living emerald, speckled with wildflowers.

A faint mist caresses my skin, and the air is deliciously warm and cool all at once.

Spring is here, and oh, it is good.

Boundaries of home

I'm at the library again... this time alone, without any kids in tow.

Well, just one. But this one doesn't get into too much trouble yet. =)

But with or without the wuggy-crowd, I like going to the library for my internet stuff.

The internet is an amazing thing. All you have to do is wonder about something, and google is just a click away, and wikipedia, and link after link after link.

But having the internet only at specific times, I find myself keeping a running list of stuff I need off the internet.

And then, once I'm at the library, it's just as easy to find all that wonderful information... except I'm more focused. I come to the internet knowing exactly what I want out of it, and knowing exactly how precious my time is. I'm more focused, less likely to follow trails of links into abscure topics I don't really need to know about.

And, since I don't have the information flood on tap in the house, I actually have to trek to the library. And going to the library frequently is a very good thing for all of us. Truth of the matter is, I love reading lots of unfamiliar childrens books to the kids. I don't love reading Gertie the Green Cab for the 47th time. Course what the kids really want is another iteration of Gertie, but they're generally satisfied with something completely new to us. The more often we go to the library, the better a mommy I am.

Going to the library is a good thing, and since I can just check out a laptop and sit right there in the children's section while supervising the wuggies, it's the perfect time to do internet stuff.

Living without a pipeline to the internet in our home is a good thing so far, and I think we're going to keep it that way.

Strangely enough, living without a landline telephone has been a good thing too. Up until the move, we've relied mostly on our landline, using our prepaid cell phones very sparingly. But through the move, we've been relying on our cell phones, and you know what? That's been a very good thing.

Lots of times I'll be on the phone, and chaos breaks out. "Should I call back at a better time?" But usually, sadly, the answer is no, there really won't ever be a better time. Either there's chaos, or it's a lovely moment of tranquility in which to catch my breath and play the flute for a few minutes. Talking is good, but there's no good time to do it.

On a landline, that is.

But while the kids are playing on the playground? That's a great time to talk.

So I think we're going to ditch the landline, ditch the internet, and just get a good cell phone plan.
And I find the idea strangely beautiful. Home is home, and outside is outside. Of course the membranes are quite permeable--it is a lovely thing to invite books and friends inside. But there need be no pipes flooding the outside into our home, when we can simply open our door, breathe in the scent of the wildflowers, and go explore the wide world.