Mar 13, 2018

What Do I Do With a BOY?

I am happy to report that since my last post {3 years ago!}, we were blessed with another baby on June 12. We were excited about this little one's arrival on so many levels. Since we kept the baby's gender a surprise until birth, it was so much fun to speculate and have others predicting what this little one would be.

John's due date was possibly the most inopportune time of our lives to have a baby. At the end of February, the home we were renting sold MUCH quicker than either us or our landlord expected. In fact, we had 17 showings the first day, and he received multiple offers that day. I was in Seattle at the time, 25 weeks pregnant, and my husband called me to tell me that we had 30 days to pack, find another home, and move.

On April 1, we moved most of our stuff into storage, and the bare essentials went with us to an apartment with a 3 month lease, in anticipation of purchasing a home. In case you were wondering, I was now 30 weeks pregnant. On May 24, we became the proud owners of a lovely colonial, but it needed some cosmetic updating. The walls and carpet were interior throwbacks to the early 90's, and I wanted to freshen things up a bit before we moved in. Since we had 5 weeks left on our lease, we threw as much as of our free time before the baby's arrival into the renovation. I spent the next 3 and half weeks tearing wallpaper from the walls of nearly every room in the house. Many kind friends came and helped out, so that by the week of my due date, the wallpaper was down, we had purchase zero VOC paint, and I was full-steam ahead on the next phase of renovation.

 My parents came into town the Thursday before my due date to help with the house and children. On Saturday, the evening of our 12th anniversary and fully 40 weeks pregnant, my husband took me on a date to P.F.Chang's and, hot date that it was, Home Depot. I remember walking around the store telling my husband that I ate too much and that I did not feel very good. The next morning I awoke at 5 a.m. to the WORLD'S. WORST. HEARTBURN. I had not experienced any heartburn the entire pregnancy, so this caught me by surprise. I woke Ben, and told him I had to run to the grocery store and buy Tums. On my way there, I remember thinking, "What the heck?! I'm gonna die!" Side note: I now know that I was actually having a severe gall bladder attack, but at the time, I just thought I was suffering Hades-grade heartburn.

I got home and writhed in bed until it was time to get up and prepare to go to church. At that point, I was beginning to wonder if this heatburn was food poisoning, or maybe actually labor. I had never experienced this kind of pain outside of childbirth and I was 9 months pregnant, so maybe this was it. I told Ben to call my parents and see if they would take the girls to church, because I just didn't think I could make it. I laid in bed, putting on a brave face and trying to hide the level of pain I was experiencing from 3 very wide-eyed little girls who came to kiss me good-bye before they left for church.

Around noon, I decided I couldn't take the pain anymore, and I wanted to at least be checked out by the midwife. Unfortunately, our recent move landed us in Akron, and our hospital and midwife group were in Westlake, a mere 50 minute drive. At the hospital, my least favorite midwife was on call. She admitted me, checked me out and put me on the monitor. I was 2 cm and having regular contractions, but that was not the pain I was experiencing. By this point, I could not even stand erect from the severe abdominal pain. She offered to break my water and gave me some Pepcid for the heartburn.  I took the Pepcid, but declined having my water broke, as I wanted to wait till my regular midwife was on call the next day. Since nothing of consequence was happening, there was no reason for me to stay, so I asked if we could discharged. Just as we left, I threw up the medication, which left everyone scratching their heads a little.

After leaving, we decided to wait it out around town, rather than drive all the way home. I was still trying to figure out what in the world was happening to me. The pain I was experiencing was like heartburn, but more pressure than burning sensation. The pressure was too constant and high in my abdomen to be contractions. Was it the flu? Food poisoning? Unusual labor?!?

As with Elise's pregnancy, we ended up at the thrift store, but I felt too terrible to go in, so Ben went in and found a few deals. The one deal that he passed on was a small hutch for $15.15. I was grateful, consdering we only had my parent's van (they took ours so they didn't have to switch car seats), and I was in labor and all. We sat and waited and drove around and sat and waited some more. We went to Denny's for lunch, where I ate two or three bites of cheesy hashbrowns. I couldn't stomach anything. By the afternoon, we asked my in-laws if we could come over and spend the evening there, since they were only 25 minutes from the hospital. I remember being relieved to be in the air conditioned house. I didn't want to talk to anyone because of the pain, so I just disappeared in the guest room. Every time I would come out, I was the central focus, as I breathed through contractions. By that evening, the contractions picked up in intensity and interval, so we started off again for the hospital. Halfway there, they fizzled to nothing. I asked Ben to turn around. We got home and they started up again and increased in intensity again. I was so exhausted from all the pain that I told Ben that I just wanted to go to the hospital and have my water broken. Poor Ben. He is so incredibly patient when I'm in labor!

Of course, once we got to the hospital again, as a laboring woman's perogative is, I changed my mind. I didn't want to deliver with this particular midwife, and I still wasn't sure what was going on with my body. I hadn't eaten anything except a couple bites in 24 hours, and I was already drained. I knew that was no way to start labor. We sat in the parking lot, and I sobbed as again my contractions completely fizzled. My phone was drained, so I went inside and called the midwife. She gave me the good advice to go home and try to rest as much as possible between contractions. She may have been the least favorite midwife, but that was the best advice ever.

So we made off for my in-law's house again. By now the gallbladder attack had mostly subsided, but the pain had left my abdominal muscles so sore that I really, truly could not stand upright or get up from the bed by myself. The contractions were consistent but manageable as I lay in bed, drifting off briefly between contractions but unable to sleep through them. I thought the night would never end. I called my regular midwife early the next morning, and she suggested we come into the office where she could assess me. At ten, I finally decided to go in. By this time, I had decided that I had had the flu, and I was probably dehydrated, which was causing the constant but non-progressing contractions. When we got there, she manipulated me to a 3. I told her that I was done, and I just wanted this baby OUT. She agreed and sent me over to the hospital to be admitted and have my water broken.

I was done with all the pain by this time. I was too exhausted to stay on top of contractions, so I opted for an epidural. The midwife came in at 11 o'clock and broke my water, which was stained with meconium.  She immediately said we had made the right move and notified the on-call pediatrician to be on stand-by. I had the same anesthesiologist as my botched epidural with Elise, but thankfully, it went smoothly. By 12:30, the epidural was working perfectly after a second dose of medicine was added, and my midwife said she would be back at 2 to see how I had progressed. Around 1:50, Ben left to get some lunch, after I assured him that nothing was happening, and he would be fine to take a break. Famous last words.

The midwife showed up and asked what I thought was happening. I miserably assured her that I thought a lot of nothing was happening, and I doubted that I had progressed at all. She donned a glove, felt around a bit, obviously calculating in her head, and said, "Well, you're an 8. Where's your husband?" I gasped in shock, then told her I'd sent him to lunch. She said, "Well, I would have had you start pushing now, but I'll come back at 3. He'll be back by then."

When Ben returned from lunch, I was giddy with delight. Sure enough, at 3 on the button, Colleen showed up. I was 10 cm and definitely feeling pushy. They broke down the bed, and I started pushing. I pushed for 10-15 minutes and our sweet babe slid out into the midwife's arms. She held him out to Ben to show him the genitalia and allow him to announce the gender, and he said with complete shock, "IT'S A BOY!" It really was shock, because he leaned over a couple seconds later and whispered, "It really is a boy, isn't it?" After 4 girls, I don't think he believed we actually could have a man child.

We named him John Oliver Newman. We like to give our children at least one Bible name, so we named him for John the Baptist. Ben's grandfather, a POW in WWII, was also named John, which also made it attractive. Oliver was my choice. When Grace was born, the surgeon who performed her emergency anastomosis was so kind and had amazing bedside manner, and I have loved the name ever since. John arrived at 3:21 p.m., weighed an even 8 lbs. and was 20 inches long.

I am just now finishing John's birth story, and he turned 9 months old yesterday. Is that any indication of how full our lives are now? It's good. It's a blessed life. And we are so thankful to be entrusted with another little one.

Jan 3, 2015

Pain, Puddles, and Praise: Elise's Birth Story Part 2

Back at the doctor's office, I was hooked up for a non-stress test, so they could track the baby's well-being and my contractions.  By this time, the contractions were beginning to ramp up, so I was completely uncomfortable.  Added to that, the air conditioning had broken in the building, and the little exam room where they had us was stifling.  I begged the nurse to send the midwife to check me and get me out of there.  She came, and she said I had progressed to four cm.  That was not what I wanted to hear, but her exam seemed to set the labor into serious mode.

The contractions began to come every 3-4 minutes, and I had to stop and work through them.  I wasn't ready to check in yet, though, so the midwife recommended that we go for another walk, and she would expect me in an hour or so at the hospital.  I wanted to try for a water birth, so she called to let them know to set up the room.

The next hour was golden. We went back to the little winding path that I had walked earlier in the day by myself.  The afternoon was humid, but the temperature was surprisingly mild for the end of June.  The shade from the trees covered most of the pathway, but occasionally the sun would pass through the leaves in a glorious cascade of rays.  We slowly walked a couple of laps hand-in-hand, stopping every 2-3 minutes till the contraction passed. Towards the end, I began to moan and want counter back pressure.  Ben recognized this from past labors and recommended that we check in. It was around 6 o'clock.

Just before we checked in!
We arrived in the room, and the nurse checked me and said I had progressed to 5 cm.  With the midwife's blessing, I got into the portable birthing tub.  The warm water felt wonderful, but it was very shallow, maybe eighteen inches, and I couldn't get comfortable.  My favored positions during active labor are on my feet with Ben providing counter back pressure, and the tub did not accommodate that.  Looking back now, I think I should have gotten out of the tub, since I could not stay on top of the contractions. I was clearly transitioning, and I had mentally checked out.

I decided I wanted an epidural, so an IV line was started, and I was told the anesthesiologist would be called once the liter of fluid was infused.  This took well over an hour, so I moaned, groaned, and cried through the contractions, The midwife, the student, the nurse, and Ben all tried to help me.  They infused essential oils, rubbed and massaged my hands and neck with oil, pulled my ponytail really tight (a mental distraction for pain relief), and offered me much encouragement and praise.  Really, they were an amazing team.

I did not know a single hour could pass so slowly. Once the anesthesiologist was called, it took another half hour for him to show up, and I think it was about 8:00.  The midwife asked if she could check me again, as I was having bloody show.  I told her I didn't care what my dilation was, I wanted a epidural, for pete's sake!

I was 7 cm, maybe 8, and the midwife, the anesthesiologist and the nurses all encouraged me to hold out.  I couldn't.  I wanted pain relief, and I wanted it two hours ago.  I told the doctor to shut up, to which he retorted that he was the one that held the key to pain relief, and I ought to be nice.  I suppose that would have been funny to me if I hadn't been in labor, but circumstances as they were, he just made me mad.  I had to be completely still while he inserted the epidural and spinal block, and unfortunately, the contractions were so close and intense, that stillness was impossible for me.

Ben studying the Bible, hoping for a little name inspiration.

Sitting up on the side of the bed, I squeezed Kristen, my nurse's hips, so tight during the contractions, I was afraid I was going to hurt her. Later, she told me I had given her the best cardio exercise she'd had in a long time. Apparently, I still moved, and the needle punctured my dura, and spinal fluid began to flow into the needle.  He said he would have to try again and asked me if I still wanted it.  I wanted to scream at someone by this point, but I resisted and tersely insisted that I did.

He tried again and was able to place the needle where it was supposed to go.  After he completed the procedure, I lay down, waiting for the pain relief to wash over me.  And waited. The only waves I was feeling were contractions, and they were not pain free.  He gave it a few more minutes, trying the wet and sensation tests to check success. Failure--I felt everything.  However, my bottom became numb, and my legs felt tingly, the way your hands or feet do when they've fallen asleep. The anesthesiologist asked if I wanted to try another one, but I declined. I'd had enough of him.

Look at all that hair!
The midwife checked my cervix, and this time, she asked me if I felt the urge to push.  I did, but I hate pushing, so I denied it.  I was just not ready. I laid on my side, clutching the bed rail and secretly pushing with each contraction.  Finally after fifteen minutes of contractions and secret pushes, I worked up enough courage to tell her that I was ready to push.

The epidural did accomplish one thing.  It numbed my nether regions enough that I had the best pushing experience I had ever had.  I couldn't believe it; I was actually excited and enjoying it!  I asked for a mirror to watch the progress of each push.  The student midwife was attending, and within just a couple of pushes, the baby crowned.  My midwife said she crowned so fast they weren't quite ready for it.

With the next push, she was out!  They all collectively held their breath, as they waited for Ben and I to see the gender.  Both of us were still a bit dazed from the birth, so it took a few seconds for us to register what we were seeing.  Another girl!  We all laughed at our perfect score of four girls!

They let the cord stop pulsing, then Ben cut it.  Since we had a student attending the birth, she demonstrated the different parts of the placenta and cord, which was a neat little bonus.

Elise Magdalen was born on Wednesday, June 25, weighing 7 lb. 12 oz. and measuring 20.5 inches.

Nov 26, 2014

Pain, Puddles, and Praise: Elise's Birth Story Part 1

I suppose this story began last fall when I realized that the Lord had chosen to bless us with another child. Anne was 10 months old, and while I felt decidedly unready for another pregnancy and delivery, the anticipation of a sweet, soft baby is always joyful. I tend to worry during pregnancy, but this was my first completely uneventful pregnancy, and it was a blessing to fully enjoy those precious kicks and hiccups.

As my due date neared, I was again dreading labor and delivery, but Modern Modesty shared a great post of verses on fear that I read and meditated on each time I felt that nagging panic. Since we decided to keep the gender a surprise, our family began to revel in the excitement and mystery of the new baby's arrival as we counted down the days.  The girls were unified in their desire for a little sister, and Leah had already settled on the name Cinderella.

My due date was June 26, just five days before our insurance year restarted. Our plan has a high deductible which we would have to pay again if she arrived on July 1 or later, so we prayed that this little one would arrive in June. My forty-week appointment was scheduled with my midwife on June 25 at seven in the morning, and her office is thirty-five minutes from home. Now showing a presentable face before the sun does has never been my specialty, but with three little girls to arouse and dress, I knew leaving the house at 6 a.m. was bordering on the impossible.  So we asked the ever-so-accommodating grandparents to keep the girls overnight, which was a delightful arrangement for everyone. Grace was so excited, she packed their backpack with clothes and (necessary!) toys two days early.

Wednesday the 25th dawned rainy and cool.  Ben was leaving for work at the same time as I was leaving, so we walked to our cars together, and he gave me a parting hug and kiss and reassurance that God is in control.  I was a brimming cup of emotions and tears, and his reassurances made  a few of the tears slip over the rim.

I arrived on time for my appointment, and I waited anxiously for the midwife.  She is a bustling whirlwind of confidence and realistic positivity, and morning hours did not seem to dampen her enthusiasm.  She brightly asked if I was ready to have this baby; while I most emphatically did, I was none too excited about the process of  arrival. I lay on the table, willing her to find me much further progressed than I had reasonable hope for. No sooner had she begun the exam than my water broke, and it was no mean trickle. It was more along the lines of a gushing spring.   At my last exam, she had stripped my membranes and pushed me to 2 cm, and today she said I had progressed to 3 cm.  She sent me home to walk and wait, giving me an adult diaper, her cell phone number, and instructions for encouraging contractions to begin.

As I got in to the van, the tilting of my pelvis made a small river rush down my leg, and I felt an intense gratitude for the morning rain that hid the puddle I just made on the black top.  I called Ben, and asked him to come home from work.  He wanted to make one more stop in Cleveland, but I insisted that I needed his moral support.  Behind the hospital and the midwife's office is a lovely wooded walking trail.  It is a small area, but the path circles and loops, making the most of the area. I took a lap around it, hoping that maybe contractions would start right away, and I wouldn't have to walk home.  I was really hoping for a repeat of Anne's birth--surprisingly quick, but it wasn't following that pattern.

I got into the van and headed home.  Ben met me there about 10:30, and it felt so good to have his presence.  We laughed as I cut up Leah's night-time PullUps to use to collect the flood of amniotic fluid that continued to gush.  A sweet friend stopped by, leaving me encouraged by her fellowship. After some lunch, a call to the midwife, and a little rest time, Ben recommended that we drive to the park and go for a walk. It was a great suggestion.  Except for the whole labor and gushing puddles part, it was a lovely date.

As we neared the end of our walk, the contractions began to fall into a more regular five to ten minute pattern. It was about 2 o'clock, so we decided to drive to Westlake where the hospital is, since the midwife had asked us to check in at the office at four.  Halfway there, we realized this was probably going to end with a hospital admission, so we turned around to switch vehicles with my father-in-law, so they could have the car seats.

We still had some time to kill before the appointment, so we went to Volunteers of America, one of our favorite secondhand stores in the area, and nabbed a few deals.  Ben found a box fan, and I found seven hardback Bobbsey twin books for the girls and a hardback edition of Oliver Twist. Score! Pushing a cart down the aisles, breathing through the contractions and praying that I wouldn't make a puddle or a scene was a little awkward, but the shopping was a great diversion.

To be continued....

Oct 1, 2014

Why I Don't Take Selfies With My Husband

Dialogue that accompanied this montage:

"Honey, will you please take a picture with me? Just turn your head towards me and smile."

"Honey, c'mon, look normal and smile."

"OK, you don't have to smile, but could you please look normal?"

"Ben, C'MON ON!  Open your eyes, and take a nice picture!"

"Benjamin, I said a NICE picture. You could at least look pleasant."

"You better take a nice picture or you will have to pack your own lunch for work tomorrow."

Jun 19, 2014

Pregnancy Progression: 9 months in Photos

18 weeks

19 weeks

 20 weeks

20 week 3D scan

22 weeks

24 weeks

27 weeks 

32 weeks

 34 weeks

 35 weeks

37 weeks 

39 weeks 

Aug 30, 2013

The Raging Mama

We had been reading through the kindergarten science textbook, the girls and I, and we came to the chapter on animals.  We read the page about insects and spiders, and the text noted that insects have six legs while spiders have eight.  We talked a little bit about this, counted the legs on each, wrote down 6 and 8 next to the respective bug, and then I attempted to review, the book still open in front of us.

I start with, "How many legs does an insect have?"
She replies offhandedly as if we hadn't just been talking about it, "I don't know."
I try again, pointing to the number 6 jumping up and down on the page, "A spider has eight legs, how many does an insect have?"
She counters again in the same casual manner, "I don't know."

I can feel the steam building, my armpits sticky and my face blushing.  I'm half-amazed that she could not remember two numbers that we had just spent 5 minutes discussing and writing. The other half of me is irritated that my daughter is not taking me seriously. My voice is starting to grate, and I feel a lump form in the back of my throat.  I tell her I am in earnest, and now is no time for fooling around. I continue to question her, unwilling to just move on.

By the end of the incident, I am red-faced and ticked off, and she is in tears.  I am  a n g r y.  ANGRY.  The temper that I didn't think I had rears its ugly head.  I have it.  And not just that time.  When a sweet gift from a dear one, just received, is broken by careless hands.  When the milk is accidentally spilled for the second time in five minutes.  When the older ones make the youngest cry from unintentional roughness. When sisters provoke and agitate repeatedly. When I have been up countless times in the night and I am, and little faces and hot, sticky hands will not even let me eat my breakfast in peace. In the heat of the moment, I feel so controlled. So controlled by my emotions.  I say hurtful things, barbed words that stick in the soul, unfiltered by the Spirit and dictated by the demands of my passion.  I'm exactly what I had purposed never to be--an angry, yelling mama.

Five years ago, as my belly swelled with the beauty of new life and dreams that I had thought might never be mine, I had pored over child-rearing books, and all of them agreed that anger has no place in the home.  I knew it, mentally assented, and for the first few years, never struggled.  Now, three precious bundles later, I still agree, but now I labor to live truth, stretched thin by the relentless onslaught of dirty dishes, clothes, and diapers, and the demands of loving, teaching, and caring for three little ones who take, but give little at this point. I've asked for help from friends and mature mothers, sought God's Word, and counseled with my husband.  I'll share with you what I have been learning.

  • In the moment, just stop.  Step back long enough to rationally respond, not instinctively react. You make the choice to allow anger or truth to determine your reaction.
This was the beginning of small victories for me.  I began to pray for the Spirit to give me an awareness of when I was about to blow up.  Often, I was so caught in the moment, I had already reacted before I was even cognizant of my decision.  The Holy Spirit is so good to me, and He has given me a real consciousness of my mental state.  Proverbs 29:22 says, "...a furious man aboundeth in transgression."

  • Choose humble gratitude. 
As I name my blessings one by one, out loud, it is much harder to maintain an angry heart. Remembering that what I have is more than I deserve serves to humble my offended, proud heart. 
I love the following thought by Nancy Leigh DeMoss--
"One of the fundamental qualities invariably found in a grateful person is humility. Gratitude is the overflow of a humble heart, just as surely as an ungrateful, complaining spirit flows out of a proud heart. Proud people are wrapped up in themselves. They think much of themselves and little of others. If people or circumstances don’t please or suit them, they are prone to whine or become resentful." (quotations are mine)

  • Actively forgive.  

Many times my anger was not based on the singular incident in which it happened to appear, but it was the climax to a series of events.  I had been saving my anger from the last run-in, nurturing my irritation.  My frustrations were just piling up in my heart until I just exploded either in ugly, quiet tones or loud, uglier words.  I was in the midst of this battle when I read Matthew 18 in my devotions one morning.  I read the passage in verses 20-22 where Peter asks Christ how many times he should forgive his brother, and he thought 7 times was a reasonable limit.  Christ's response really struck me. He wants me to forgive my little hedonistic children countless times.  Even when they aren't sorry.  Even when she gets in to my purse and eats gum and breaks my chapstick three times in the same day.  Till seventy times seven.  Forgive. Again. And again. And again. 

  • Find joy.
I asked an older mother about my situation, and she encouraged me to enjoy my children and cultivate times of fun and bonding.  Often I feel like I can't take time to do this, because hellloooo, the laundry pile has reached epic heights and dinner doesn't feel like making itself tonight.  Regardless, having those moments when they flash a smile of appreciation and they bring you bouquets of flowering grass and wrap their chubby little arms around your neck are priceless.  Writing down their adorable pronunciations and delightful words make the hard times more palatable.  Watching them sleep, catching them doing right (even if it's momentary), and treasuring their artwork are all ways that I have found to create joy.

Jun 27, 2013

Anne {6 Months of Bliss}

1 month:

2 months:

3 months:

4 months:

5 months:

6 months:

A side-by-side of all three girls at 6 months:

Jun 19, 2013

Keep Yer Chin Up, Grandma! {Epic Faux Pas}

My dearest Leah,

You never cease to amaze me by your innate knack for stirring deep emotions, but today you outdid yourself. It started this morning when you woke up with bed head, and I realized with an acute twinge of motherly fondness that the bangs that you cut for yourself last night really are charming.  As I braided your older sister's long hair, the falling clumps that you snipped from her pony tail yesterday were a fresh reminder of the dread I felt when daddy told me you'd found scissors.

 Later, as I made a pie in the kitchen, I looked over my shoulder to see you quietly washing the dining room wall with a dirty rag from the laundry basket.  I smiled to myself, remembering how industrious you are and delighted that it was momentarily bent in a constructive direction. Three minutes later, the purple crayon in your hand circling the freshly painted front door made me gasp with dismay. My horrified choke served to warn you to cover your eyes with your chubby little hands as I found the full extent of your handiwork, that I now realize you were trying to clean off with that rag. The giant purple scribbles on the walls, tile and grout provided more emotional trauma, only slightly offset by your guilty reaction.   An hour later, you stir me again by climbing all by yourself into your sister's bed, the top bunk, using the play kitchenette as a stepping stool to the grand height.  I shudder, considering how that kitchen must have wobbled under your weight.  You beam at me from up there, quite pleased with your latest conquest. You clinch the afternoon by running out of your room in a panic, adamant that you had stuffed a Pez candy up your nose.  I couldn't see or feel anything, so for now, we are waiting to see the doctor tomorrow to see the collateral damage from that experiment.

But you were merely warming up, and you saved your crowning moment for an audience.  This evening we invited daddy's mom (whom you call Baba), dad and grandma over to our house for dessert.  Momma wanted to make it an extra special evening, so I made strawberry rhubarb pie and homemade vanilla ice cream.  Great-grandma Newman, at the venerable age of 90, has traveled from Arkansas for a two-week visit, and we wanted to make this a memorable time.  Thanks to you, it surely will be.

As we finished up dessert, you crawled down from your perch at the table to get better acquainted with great-grandma.  You showed her your newest toy fascination, a tiny mother cat and her mini kittens, all resting on their royal pillow.  You meowed with great fervor to the accompaniment of great-grandma's supreme amazement at your volume.  Your interest in the toys began to wane as you turned your attention to great-grandma's person, curious about her earrings and slacks.  I chatted with grandpa and entertained baby Annie, only half-aware of your conversation with great-grandma.

I was dimly aware that you were repeating a singular question to great-grandma, but Baba's reactionary face-dive into the couch catapulted me into hyper-consciousness. My first reaction was disbelief, then horror.

Again, you repeat it in your sweet toddler accent.

Grandma, frustrated, replies that she can't understand you, honey.

Louder, you innocently ask the unspeakable again, "You have two chins?"

I flinch as Great-grandma looks over to me, her face pleading for understanding.

With alarm, I realize that I am being drawn into this conversation.  I resist, stalling, hoping and praying that I am struck with inspiration to mask the awkwardness and rescue tact.

Nothing comes.  The whole room seems to momentarily freeze, waiting for relief.  Now both of you look at me for interpretation.  I nervously laugh, hoping that you both will just forget.

My laugh sets great-grandma on edge; she suspects it's at her expense.  So she urges audibly, "What is she asking?"

I cannot believe I must ask this lovely little matriarch such an awful question, but seeing there is no way around it, I plunge in, "She wants to...she wants to know if you have two chins."  I stutter, willing the words to mean something less awful.

Eager to know and excited that you are finally understood, you nod your head encouragingly, offering an agreeable, "Yeah, yeah!"

Stunned, great-grandma ponders the full weight of your question, then graciously but a little confusedly replies, "Why, I guess I do! I'm not sure why..old age, I guess..."

I try to play it off, joking that I'm sure I'll have sagging chins too, as I think they run in my family.

The room collectively squirms during the ensuing silence, avoiding eye contact.  Thankfully, daddy walks into the room, and we all turn our attention to him, excited by the diversion.

And that, my dear middle child, is why I anticipate my own grandchildren.  I take no small pleasure in the thought of your children inheriting your delightful, daredevil personality, your zest for life, and your boundless curiosity.   I relish the prospect of exasperated phone calls from you as you tell me a mother's woeful tale.

I have no doubt that justice will be served.

With all my love,

Your mother

May 23, 2013

12 Legitimate Reasons I Haven't Blogged {Picture Proof}

 I've been instructing in proper ink placement...

...and correcting misplaced stamp art.

(Note the blob of toothpaste on the toilet.) 
We have thoroughly explored oral hygiene

and gotten hands-on experience with canned cricket anatomy.

Runways have been strutted in true fashionista style...

meanwhile maintaining healthy habits and sanitary surroundings with liberal doses of non-fluoridated toothpaste--{thank you, Lord!}

We've waded through sticky situations,

and returned for another course in the remedial ink placement class.

Now we're actually considering a PhD in that ink placement study...

 and follow-up with a solid study in clean water sourcing.

We rounded out the month with a texture and taste test in the field of non-edibles...

...and finished with a small exploration into sensory development through painting with alternative materials.

Any questions?