Serendipity

We went back to where we began.

  The small town we started in when we first got married.

  We drove around gravel roads nestled in the foothills, remembering old running trails and walks with our first baby.  

The air was thick with nostalgia, and it was sweet.

And then we drove past this:

Would you have had to investigate this?  Would it be compelling to you?  "Are you serious?" Bill asks, and then decides to humor me and pull over. "I'm not sure this is public property," he cautions.  "I intend to find out," I tell him without looking back.

This structure is a dovecote.  It is designed to house pigeons or doves.  If you look at the top, you can see the windows they fly in and out of.  I know this because I opened the door and climbed the ladder that led through the ceiling.  Landon needed to check it out, too. 

 Bill was tasked with keeping watch over the less intrepid Micah.

The garden had a plaque that explained the particulars and invited us to stay and enjoy the peace and beauty that a family had created to honor and remember their peaceful son.

It was beautiful. Unexpected. Poignant.

Across from the garden bench was this little gem:

This begs to be part of a novel

For a few minutes, Ordinary slipped behind the tree and we glimpsed a bit of the strange and wonderful.  Why not an empty phone booth in the middle of the woods?  Why not a Medieval-styled dovecote honoring a beloved?  Why not a little plot of whimsy and beauty tucked away and unexpected?

serendipity  1. the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this

 

It is along the way, and not upon arriving, that life is really happening, isn't it?
Serendipity reminds me to keep noticing that we really are traveling along a beautiful path.

Let's Pretend that You're the Mom

Summer Time and Bed Time are not fond friends over here at my house.

Maybe at yours your kids still go to bed at their regularly scheduled times without regard to the light, or if they slept in, or if you all had dinner late because you're fond of eating outside on your deck after the heat has gone over the hill and is creeping away.

Or maybe not.

At any rate, it was no surprise to me that Landon didn't want to go to bed again tonight. Finally, drawing from one of his newer versions of "Let's pretend..." I said,

"Let's pretend that you're the son and I'm the mom and it's bed time."

"Ok.  Good idea."

"Okaaay, Toby. (what I call him when he is my "pretend" son) Let's go pick out pajamas for you!" I said a little too brightly.

"Ok, Mom. But could you say it in a normal voice so that you sound like a real person?"

Umm.  Sure.  Got a little too caught up in my character there, I guess.

We "pretended" to brush our teeth, get our pajamas on, read stories, pray and get tucked into bed with less fuss and hassle than I've seen in a week.

"Good night, Toby."

"Good night, Lulu."

As I walk out of his room,

"Oh, and mom?  Good night for real, too."

Midnight Santa Sightings

"Give Mom a goodnight hug and kiss, too," Bill says to Landon.

"I don't have any more hugs or kisses left today." he answers with a giggle.
"Can I just squeeze one more out?" I beg, going in for a tickle.

"No, Mom.  I have to go to sleep and get some more put into me."

Awww....that is so cute.  And such a good reason to go to bed.

And then he adds,

"Yeah, Santa Claus sneaks into our house and gives us each hugs and kisses to share with each other."

Wait....what?? What's Santa Claus doing in the narrative in June?

I've studied Greek and Roman myths. I've read some Norse ones, too.  I've read African folktales and Native American legends.

But it is Landon who introduces me to this new way of explaining the world: the hybridization of everything he takes in....and then he mixes it with love and makes the world go round.

When my Dad Saved my Life

When my dad saved my life I did not thank him. I did not stop to acknowledge that he had jumped into the pool, fully clothed, to rescue me from certain death.

I say "certain" because I had slipped under a huge black inner tube and was pinned underwater by my swimsuit snagged on the air valve.

I was a little kid, and the tube was oversize.  Hidden from view, I flailed around underwater, unable to free myself, and unable to figure out why I couldn't escape.

His dad radar must have activated. He could scan the pool and see that I was missing.  Was my little foot splashing around?  Did he see a hand?  Maybe it was just the shadow of me not surfacing that caught his attention.

He dived in and tore my suit off and away from the valve.

When I got out, all I can remember is how sad I felt that my Strawberry Shortcake swimsuit had a large tear across my belly. I did not thank him. I did not acknowledge the fear and adrenaline he must have felt to realize his little daughter had been submerged for who knows how long. I just mourned my suit and the fact that swimming was over for the day.

 I didn't get a new suit that summer.  Instead, my mom stitched it up--an unforgiving fabric for repairs.  It was a pink scar that I was both ashamed and proud of.

That scar reminded me that there was someone who had my back.  Push come to shove, my dad would do anything in his power to keep me safe, suffer any indignity, and take any measures.  The scar reminded me that there was someone else who would not allow me to let self-pity to take over.  "It's a perfectly good suit. Don't be so worried about what others think," my mom would say when I whined about how embarrassing it was to have a sewn-up suit.

Thirty years later, we have all played musical chairs with our roles. At the moment it is my dad who flails. It is our family who dives, and it is still my mom who reminds us all not to feel self-pity for any of the ways that life gets torn apart in ways that don't seem pretty.

At the end of the day, I won't need any thanks, either.  He's already saved my life once.  I think I kinda owe him.

The Honeymoon is Over

She's letting it all hang out.  All her control issues, past hurts not healed properly, baggage from old relationships, and a few new issues she didn't even realize she had.  It was a quick romance, and she put her very best foot forward, but now the other shoe has dropped.  She's not hiding anymore. She's past her prime, is high maintenance, and can't keep up the illusion of being uncomplicated any longer.

Who am I talking about?

Our house, of course.

We met her nine months ago, fell in deep like and knew it would be love if we gave it time.  So we signed on the dotted line--over and over-- and took the plunge to begin a relationship with the smart-looking one with the big yard.

But just how every romance finds itself contending with previously unmentionables like bad breath and loud gas, our house is settling in and getting comfortable enough to show her rougher side.

A sprinkler system with busted pipes--even though we had a professional clear the lines before the first cold snap hit.

The swamp cooler that is pouring water all over the roof as I type this--even though we drained it properly, as well.

A washing machine that never works when I need it to, but only when it's good and ready...usually hours after the load begins.  

Closets that never smelled are now emitting mysterious and unpleasant mustiness.

A missing screen door that didn't seem so important at the time.

Pine trees whose shade creates dead patches on the grass.

So yes, we are a little dismayed.

Our dream home is a little (lot) more work than we imagined.  She requires more time, personal sacrifice, and the willingness to realign our priorities with reality.

Just like our marriage.

And yet, there are so many things we love about our house- more to love than to be hassled by.

Also, just like our marriage.

So while we're not happy we're going to have to slow down and do the work to repair, maintain, and improve, it's still worth it with this dear old house....even if she is a tad past her prime, a bit high maintenance and a little complicated.

Because when it comes right down to it, so are we.

So here's to you, you wonderful, impossible, perfect-fit of a house.

And here's to another five years with you, Bill.  Anywhere with you, I'm home.

                                                           Happy Anniversary, Love.

Almost a Textbook Scenario

"Ok, you're clear to go," I said to my sister as she started backing out of her driveway in her SUV.  Children accounted for.  Until he wasn't.  Instead of holding my hand like I asked, Landon insisted he wanted to see Daddy and pulled away and into the path of the moving vehicle.

Yelling ensued. Enough adrenaline to satisfy even the most hard-core adrenaline junkie shot through me.  And my extreme fear morphed instantly (as it usually does) to anger when the danger was past and Landon was safe.

At that moment I was sick and tired of having a kid I cannot count on to obey.  (Do those kind exist somewhere that I don't know about?)

In a calmer moment Bill and I talked with Landon about what happened and emphasized the need for him to trust that when we ask for something, we have his best interests in mind.  I don't think I micromanage him.  So mister, if I'm making demands, it isn't because my ego won't let you walk out of the house with your shirt on backwards.  I'm picking my battles, buddy, and they are ones I demand to win.  Running around moving vehicles: that's a no.  Wearing long sleeves and pants in hot summer weather?  Well, if you must.  Sweat it out, I guess.

Landon's response to our conversation?

"The answer is stuck in my brain mom, and I can't get it out."

The question was the super-complicated, "What are you going to do the next time we ask you to do something?"

Hmph.  Are we getting through to this guy at all?

Fast forward to tonight.  Landon and his cousins were given goody bags of noisemakers and other kid kitsch. Kids love it.  Easily overstimulated moms like me wonder if the giver hates us.  Noise issues aside, Landon bagged all his up when he was done playing with it. I told him to keep it in our diaper bag or it would get thrown away since it didn't look like anything special and everyone was cleaning up.

I turn around, and his plastic bag and toys are strewn all over the counter.  My swoop instinct takes over and it all goes in the garbage.  (confession: a teeeeny part of me was happy to be justified to throw that kind of chaos away)

As we were leaving Landon asked, "Where are my toys?"
"They should be in the diaper bag, where I asked you to leave them," I tell him innocently. (My poor nephew beheld the swift swoop moment and is a little puzzled)
But they are not.  And Landon knows they are not because he didn't leave them there.  I didn't gather them. I didn't retrieve them. He knows I am not taking responsibility for them.

When we get home I tell Bill what happened.  I am happy.  Now here's a lesson that I think is really going to hit home for my little boy. I am willing to sacrifice one bag of plastic trinkets if it means Landon will be more likely to obey next time.  Because next time might be like last time: a situation with high stakes.

I am fed up with negotiating.  I am done wheeling and dealing.  And I think we sometimes couch being softies in the phrase, "showing you mercy" to justify being pushovers.

Request. Disobedience. Logical consequence.  Textbook scenario.  This should work.

Bill gets a funny look on his face.  "Umm, Jodi?  Cam (Landon's cousin with a heart of gold) showed me the garbage and told me that Landon's toys had gotten thrown away so I fished them out for him and we took them home with us in the green car."

Ahaahah!  Foiled again!

Good thing I have a new set of plastic hand clappers I can use to shake out my frustration.

Roots and Wings

Roots and wings. They say this is what a good family will provide you.  Stability and independent autonomy.

But nobody tells you exactly how to provide this for your own kids.  

Lately the wing part has been particularly challenging.  I love to see my three-year-old growing up, growing more autonomous, gaining confidence and initiative. 

But sometimes it seems like it goes too far.

It starts out with him cutting soft fruits under my supervision to add to the fruit salad.

Next thing I know, he's standing at the cutting board with a sharp knife trying to cut raw carrots.

It starts out with my encouraging him to use a stool, get his own cup, and dispense water from the external dispenser on the fridge.

Next thing I know, he has used that same stool to climb onto the counters, and then Spider-Man up the cupboard shelves to get more attractive snacks or treats.

It starts out with my letting him face the natural consequences of not putting his shoes on in a timely manner by having to walk to the car barefoot.  The next thing I know, he is in love with running about half-dressed.

It starts out with my giving him easy access to his art supplies. (a decision overturned here) The next thing I know, he has used a blue marker to color in every paint chip on his blue bed.

It starts out with my letting him help me unlock the trunk to get the groceries out.  The next thing I know, he is in the trunk, thinking it grand fun.

It starts out with me seeing him as my baby bird, nudging him to flap his wings a few times and try something new.

Next thing I know, he is piloting a jet plane and I'm caught in the "whoosh" of him buzzing past me.

Not always the kind of wings I have in mind.

What about you? What are your kids doing to test their wings?

In Defense of a Dangerous Childhood

Everywhere I go around young children I hear adults telling their own, "Be careful." I hear them telling mine, "Be careful."  I haven't gone to a public kid-oriented place this year and not heard this catch-all phrase.  I use it myself.

I ask myself, "Is be careful a worthy enough mantra for the childhood of my sons?"

I take Landon to the park.  The recycled tire ground is almost softer than my couch. The play structures are secure, well-designed and appropriately scaled. And yet, all around me mothers are admonishing children to be careful of this and be careful of that.  You might fall. You might get hurt. You might get going too fast/high/happy on that.  Meanwhile, a kind of compliant listlessness sets in. Perhaps it is simply not engaging to interact so mildly with an environment so tame.

These parks encircled by attentive parents don't feature in my memories of childhood.  When I think of the quintessential moments, I don't remember carefully mulched surfaces and bridges with narrowly spaced slats. I remember trees.

Mysterious, beautiful, daunting and dangerous trees.  A willow that rewarded the curious with a secret world unto itself. A Japanese maple that was too delicate to climb, but too gorgeous to ignore. Towering prickly pines that dared you to climb so high you would sway in the wind, unable to see the ground below. Oaks with their sturdier branches, but trickier access. I was a tree-climbing monkey fiend, whose escapades, had they been known, certainly would have made the adults who cherished me uncomfortable.

Tree-climbers are problem solvers, because the path up and down has to be decided and navigated entirely on your own.  Unlike play equipment whose use is obvious and concrete, trees ask you to decide, choose wisely, and both conquer and heed your own fear. By painstaking increments, you find out what you are made of in the branches of a tall tree. At the top, you find out you are both smaller and braver than you thought. And you learn confidence--not from a generous parent praising your tiniest effort on a primary-colored tube of plastic, but in a solitary moment with the wind blowing your hair and the branches swaying enough to tell you that they can't sustain your going any higher. You feel more primal, less primary.

So when I see Landon discovering his first awesome "come-climb-me-kid" tree today, I have mixed feelings. I'm born into the "Be careful," parenting generation coming from an "embrace challenge" childhood.

I believe that a person learns confidence and competence by experience, not by praise and support. (as valuable as those gifts are) If I "Be-careful!" my kids out of taking any risk, no matter how small, because I want to protect them from harm (no matter how small), I'd also be robbing them of significant opportunities to grow.  And could there be a correlation between a person developing physical courage while they are young and a person developing more important kinds of courage later? What about the moral courage to stand up for what you believe in the face of opposition? How do you get the guts to do that? Or consider how much confidence you need to have to start a new business, relationship or degree program. What's more likely to get results, careful or wise? Careful or creative? Careful or confident?

Can a person grow wise, creative and confident if they are never allowed to find out whether they can do anything that scares them?

Can I let my kids do "dangerous" things for a greater good? Can I be ok with the fact that my kids will get hurt, disappointed, frightened and fail?  Well, I've a tree-climbing childhood that tells me that some of the best things happen when you stretch a little past comfort.

I'm willing to try.

Investing Time vs. Time Management

I haven't even read the whole book and already I am thinking, "This author is on to something.  I think I can learn from her."



But does anyone besides me find irony in the fact that a mere three secrets take 246 pages to explain, and thus a considerable time investment on my part to discover?

Irony aside, I think this book is intriguing and has insights to offer.
(I just may share some of my favorite if I ever invest enough time to read the whole thing!)

Simplify by Radical Reduction, an Experiment

I thought I might make it a facebook survey, but then I decided to trust my gut and make it a personal experiment instead:

Hypothesis: one leading cause for my three-year-old's perpetually messy room is that he simply has too much stuff to successfully manage
(Upon consideration, the same could probably be said for most of us)

Hypothesis #2: by radically reducing the number and variety of things in Landon's room, he will enjoy and appreciate his belongings more

I have no idea what is developmentally appropriate as far as how independently this age should be able to put away their things without needing to be
reminded
asked
cajoled
bribed
asked again
threatened
asked
wheedled
needled
poked and
prodded
to do such a thing.

In the end, I start to feel like I'm stuck in a revolving door-- unable to move into the room of "Success" or out into the fresh air of "This doesn't matter to me."   But before you think me a woman of unreasonably high expectations (we are talking about a three-year-old, after all) I just don't want to put myself in dangerous peril simply walking across the room. Most of all, I don't want the task of tidying up his room (with or without his help) to feel like such a momentous project.

I mean really, should the heights of my achievements on a daily basis be, "Wow, we got Landon's room up to normal living conditions, yet again.

So today, we began The Experiment.

What would happen if we reduced his bedroom possessions by at least 75%?
(We have a play area downstairs that we didn't address)

If a bedroom should be a peaceful haven--a place to read yourself to sleep and good dreams--then shouldn't it  feel peaceful and uncluttered?

Process:        1. Reduce everything by as much as Landon can joyfully accept.
                     2. Don't second-guess any of his decisions. If he wants to part with the animal I would have         chosen, let him.
                     3. Celebrate the spartan new room and observe results.

Here's what that looked like for a few areas:

Matchbox cars: Landon has a large collection.  When I asked him how many he wanted to keep, he chose 12.  (woo hoo- bonus that he doesn't count that high yet!)

Crayons: He could furnish a classroom with crayons.  We chose his best 12 and bagged the rest.  (Stifling creativity? We'll see.)

Stuffed animals: A well-loved menagerie lived on his bed. (or under it and around the room) I suggested choosing one for every year of his life and letting the others take a vacation together.  I was stunned when he went with this idea.

Art Supplies: no longer a suitcase he will be allowed to take out any any time, night or day.  (In hours of insomnia the crafty bug gets him and we'd wake up to find his room looking like several aisles of Hobby Lobby had exploded in it.)

Paper and pen supplies: reduced his paper supply from a full ream, plus 3 years' worth of Bill's old paper planners, to what can fit in a file folder and a few pens and pencils in a ziplock bag.

Books: every shelf needed at least 6-12 inches of breathing space.  Weeded them until that was true.

Bed blankets: he's such a big "nester" that it is several loads of laundry to wash his bed linens.  We removed three of the blankets.

Even typing this out is making me uncomfortable.  It sounds rigid and spare. Who doesn't want to have 24/7 access to a suitcase brimming with supplies to make both messes and magic?   Who doesn't want to have dozens of cars to sort, count and align?  And only one shade of purple? Is that even right?

But here's the thing:
I'd like to spend more time enjoying our time together and less time on Tornado Recovery Patrol in his room. I want more intentionality and less random chaos.
I'd like to see more gratitude for what he has and less "What else?" on his mind.
These are mindsets I'd like to nourish in myself, as well.

Disclaimer: None of his stuff got thrown away, merely relocated to an inaccessible box.  He knows that we can rotate in his animals, coloring books, and cars.  He knows he can get more crayons, markers and paper as needed. And he knows that he can ask for that suitcase and work at the table just about any time I'm awake.

So what do you think?  I'm not sure, either.  I'll be sure to post a follow-up regarding the outcomes of this experiment.

I'm hopeful.
And curious.
And happy to peek in on my sweet sleeping boy without having to stifle pseudo-expletives as I step on parts and pieces strewn across his room.

Smiles

"I've heard they say that true bonding begins when your baby smiles."  My friend said this at Micah's baby shower and it was like she just programmed my psychological gps, "Bonding: straight ahead in 3-4 weeks.  If you get to laughter you have gone 2 weeks too far."  It's nice to have a map for this kind of thing.  Especially if you feel a little lost and wonder if you missed a turn to Bonding somewhere along the way.

Today I can tell we are getting close.
To the smiling.
And thus, truer bonding.

Micah's smiles are like trying to watch a hummingbird land.  Did I just see that?
Micah's smiles are like a shy boy who isn't sure if anyone else thinks he's funny.  Just a flicker of one, gone before the eyes crinkle.
Micah's smiles are like a dog wagging his tail while he sleeps, involuntary and endearing.
Micah's smiles are a prelude to the real sweetness: like shellacked desserts on the tray are interesting, but the real deal is indescribably better.
Micah's smiles are like the song of the icecream truck, just as it turns a corner far away and is out of earshot again.

But we know he's coming around.
In the meantime, I think I'm getting a little hungry.

Fireflies

Yesterday (or early this morning, if you think of 1 AM that way) I posted about how my stir-crazy, angsty journey in motherhood led to an abrupt, if brief departure from my home and away from my kids.

It was a dark night.
And you, my friends, are the fireflies.  Facebook friendships cross such spans of years in our lives.  People who have known me since I was five are now sharing about their kids in high school or college.  Facebook friends cross such distances.  Mine are across the country and world.  Facebook friends are little glimpses of each others' lives, flickering in and out of each others worlds. We often share the best, occasionally the worst, and often the normal, mundane stuff that makes up a large part of of our lives.

But when I post about something close to my heart, and a bunch of people chime in that they have been there, (or are there), when they remind me of what is good about the season I am in, encourage me (and anyone else reading their comments), share themselves with a "like", a comment, a nod...

These people are the fireflies that light up my darker hours

And I find my way home.

My friend said the profoundest thing to me today about facebook:
It is like fire.
You can warm yourself by it's glow
And it can burn your house down.

It's all in how it's used.

So dear facebook friends,
You are the fireflies that wink in and out of my life
As I wink in and out of yours
With sparks of truth and encouragement and hope
And I'm as dazzled by your generosity now, as I was by real fireflies as a child.

Small connections made wondrous
Best seen by fading light of dusk, or maybe in the dark hour before dawn

Thank you for shining in my life.

Breathing

Children take us by storm.
Sometimes it is lightning love,
Bright and blazing, sudden and illuminating.
Sometimes, it is like the fog rolling in off the hills into the valley.
All-consuming, all-encompassing, all-covering.
Sometimes, a bit heavy.

Tonight I left the house for two hours.
Abruptly.  Shortly after Bill got home.  My baby was asleep and peaceful.  My oldest would be ready for bed soon.

"So you got this?  You can heat up some leftovers for dinner? Because I just need to leave for a little bit.  I just need to get out of this house."

By myself.
Without it being a project.
I don't even have a destination in mind.

He knows I'll come back.
Without even asking when.
He knows this nursing mama will painfully fill up again and I'll find my way home.

When I was in labor with Landon I hit a spell when the contractions seemed to double up.  I'd have one, and without the break that would save my sanity, another one would come right after.  I remember my fear that I couldn't hack this new pace and repeating helplessly to my doula, "There's no break! There's no break!"

"Keep breathing.  Look at me.  LOOK at me.  Keep breathing," she said.
And I did.
Raspy, frightened breaths,  barely holding on.

A lifetime passed, and then one minute more. The pain went back to its ebb and flow. Those double-back contractions finally went away.

Micah's birth was not like that.  But something about this second round of motherhood is.
At least today.

My eyes are watery and my nerves flail.  My hormones take me on wild rides that jangle my confidence.  When he sleeps or is peaceful I think I'll find my center again, but there is another sweet guy who'd like some attention, too.  He asks so sadly, "Mom, please, can we DO something?  Mom, I don't want to be upstairs by myself.  I get so lonely.  When are you going to get up?"

And I hear my frightened self saying inside, "There's no break."

Spending time with my kids is not painful; please don't stretch the metaphor that far.

It is, however, relentless.

With two, the ebb and flow of it has been temporarily disrupted.

So I left my house tonight for two hours.
Abruptly, shortly after Bill got home.

God, I'm looking at you. 
And breathing.    

What to Take to the Hospital When Having a Baby: the Unpublished Items

I've not ever written a "how-to" post on this blog before, but since I feel like I have true insider information this time, I feel compelled.

You: headed to the hospital to deliver a baby
Me: was there last week, and fresh on my mind are the things I was especially happy (or would have been especially happy) to have.

Now before you judge too quickly, this post won't tell you anything about slippers or chapstick and your own pillow or your cell phone charger.  We know all that stuff.  And if you don't, you can find it on any checklist you choose to google or look up on Pinterest.  And you should google or pinterest-search those lists because they are helpful.  (Although some are so extensive you wonder if the person thinks they are going away to baby-delivery camp instead of a short stay at a hospital already equipped with many modern wonders)



1.  Attractive pajamas-- You can wear the hospital-issued gown and feel like an unwell patient, or you can wear something pretty and feminine and feel like the glowing new mama that you are.  I figured that even the small weight loss I'd enjoy after birth would be enough to boost my confidence to feel like I deserved a satin robe with pink trim.  And I was right.  Bring something light that you can layer and with the little clip-down feature that allows easy access to nurse.  As long as the staff can access all your tubes and wristbands, I don't think they care what you wear.

2. A digital watch with a face that lights up--You will partner with the nurses to track everything your new baby does after birth, and most especially the number and duration of all of his feedings. It gets written down on your baby's chart and you will feel smart and capable if you can provide this information accurately.  So picture this: It is the dark middle of the night and you are feeding this little bundle bent on survival and need to note the time.  It is too painful/too big of a hassle/too likely to wake your sleep-deprived spouse to get up to turn on a light to see the wall clock, and your cell phone is not within easy reach, either.  If you were wearing a digital watch with an indiglo face, your problem would be solved and you could note the start and stop times like an old pro.

3. Speaking of charting things for your baby, bring a small spiral notebook (picture 3x5 inches) to record all that baby data and a pencil that clips onto it.  When bubbly, cheerful nurse comes in at 7:30 am to update your chart you won't stare at her in bleary oblivion.  You can whip out your little book and remind yourself of each wee-hour feeding. Even if, come morning, it all blurs together as one long night punctuated by different decibels of hungry baby desperation and snuffly, satisfied baby noises, you'll have proof that you accomplished your mission.

4. An emery board/nail file--You won't be able to trim baby's nails because they can be kinda fused to the skin underneath, but they can still have sharp edges that can scratch your baby's face.  (For an extra obscene amount the hospital photographer will be happy to photoshop that scratch right out for you, though) Besides, filing a sleeping baby's nails feels productive and lends the feeling that you're keeping up with the details.

5. Gum--for when you can't brush your teeth but the nurses still get within range of your breath to help with any number of intimate things.  Or you have already thrown up and you still can't brush your teeth.  Because sometimes brushing your teeth is really an epic accomplishment.

6. Baby oil, rubbing alcohol and a loofah-- These are things I really wish I had.  (Maybe I should have listed them first)  You will get lots of things taped to your body for this adventure.  An IV needle, a catheter, gauze bandages, band aides from places they draw blood...And all of that tape is super secure (good), but hard to fully remove when the time comes (bad).  You might wish they made goo-be-gone for humans.  But baby oil and rubbing alcohol works for most of the adhesive stuff the hospital-grade tape leaves behind, and I wish I had some with a scrubbing loofah while I was still at the hospital.

7.  A thank-you card -- If I could wish anything for your hospital stay, it would be that you are cared for by a team of nurses as awesome as the one I just enjoyed.  I would have loved to provide them with fresh brownies or a cool snack basket or decadent flowers, they were that good.  Considering these were the kinds of things other angels were doing for us, I figured the least we could do was write them a heartfelt thank you.  I know that if I had left the hospital without writing that card, it would have been just another good intention that got left at the intersection of Busy and Life.  Having a thank-you card (ok, asking my husband to bring one when he came back from sleeping at home one night!) was a good move.  I hope your heart will have reason to overflow enough to make this a must-have item, too.

8. Your living will/advance directive/power of attorney paperwork-- Why in the world did we go to all the trouble of creating these documents only to leave them in some file at home?  Because we don't even want to go there in our minds, of course.  Seems like if you have already worked through some of the issues those documents force you to confront, you won't want to have to think them through twice if you don't have to.  Now you know we didn't need those papers.  But I know we would have been glad we had them if we did.

9.  Lanolin.  The hospital provided this nipple-soothing lotion and I'll definitely be buying more when this sample size tube runs out.  On the sad chance that your hospital doesn't offer this as a free party favor, I would recommend you have some with you.

10. A detachable keyring that has just your car key on it-- What?!  I put this on here in case any of you are married to someone who shares my beloved's quirk of not wanting the valet parking attendant to have any of his keys but the one to the car.  In his haste to get back to the action, Bill gave the guy all of them. He was bummed that he had to go retrieve them when really he just wanted to stay with me in the hospital in those opening minutes when you are getting checked in and the butterflies are starting to migrate out of your stomach and into your whole body.  This is definitely not a "must-have" item; more like a freebie to round out this list that just might save you some hassle if  you happen to be in the secret single-key-to-the-valet club.

So there you have it.  Never before gathered on one list--ten items that might round out your getaway bag and make your hospital stay just that much better.

But in the end, you know and I know it isn't about what you bring there at all.

It's all about who you walk away with.









Oh, and if you've already made the round-trip journey to the hospital, will you pay it forward, too, for the others who may read this post? (Or just to satisfy my curiosity)  What was your essential item?

Micah and mini-Micah

The newest member of my family made his grand debut six days ago.  A post after such a momentous event could take so many different tones: rapture, delirious sleep-deprived nonsense, contentment and gratitude, angsty hormone-hectic overload, awed wonder...and likely some like those are still to come.

But today,
It is funny.

And yes, it is Landon, and not our sweet little baby who never ceases to amuse. 

I read somewhere that one way you can help your child adjust to a new sibling is by involving them as much as possible in the pregnancy and care of the newborn afterward.  Let the older make some choices for the baby (Landon has picked all of Micah's sheets each time they get changed: "I'm going to let him have this one, Mom, because it is mine and he will like having a big-boy sheet.") Landon enjoyed putting lotion on Micah's cracked feet, feeding him a few drops of breast milk they had me pump at the hospital, taking his picture, and "holding" Micah on his lap while studying his teeny parts.

My mom intuitively knew the same advice because she showed up at our house with a plastic doll that Landon could help take care of to get in on the action.  He was thrilled to learn he could wash his baby in the real baby bathtub, put a real diaper on it, and dress it in real preemie newborn clothes that we don't need.  He calls it his "premiere" baby.

I was charmed.  Bill was uncertain.  Landon seemed enthralled.  He oh-so-creatively named his baby Micah (that's not confusing or anything) and miniMicah began draining the battery on the baby swing, borrowing receiving blankets or hanging out on the boppy for the next few days. 

He and my mom discovered that miniMicah could take a bottle (medicine dropper) and he would "pee" out the other end.  Landon was exclaiming with such nurturing delight over this; my mom said it was quite endearing.  Bill might have said, "See?  You are feminizing him with all this babycare stuff!"

He needn't worry.
Just after his delight to discover miniMicah's abilities to fill a diaper Landon said,
"Now let's squirt water up his butt to see if it comes out his mouth!"

Not Color Blind

A woman Landon has met once came up in conversation because she taught the Music & Movement class Landon attended, and I was telling him she would be leading the story time we wanted to attend, as well.  She's a curiosity to him because she works at "my" library doing "my" job, but now he gets the benefit of enjoying me at these programs in a different way.

"Mom, she is so pretty--she reminds me of hot chocolate.  And I really love hot chocolate."

"I know you do, and you're right, buddy, she is so pretty."

"Will our baby have skin like hot chocolate?  Or maybe we could get one like chocolate milk, maybe?  That would be nice...could we, Mom?"

"I don't think we will, Landon.  It's a nice thought, though."

"What color will our baby be?"

"Probably something close to your skin color, hon."

 "Oh.  Well I guess that will be ok.  What about our baby's hair?  What color will that be?"

"What color do you think it will be?"

"Purple?"

He lives in such a possible, beautiful world, my three-year-old. 

Beached Whale

We are nine days out from a scheduled c-section to welcome our son.

And here's the unglamorous truth: I am more excited about relieving the pain, discomfort and sleeplessness of this last trimester than I am about anything else.

I know I should be more excited to meet our baby and get to know him and hold him and fall in love with every little snuffly noise and half-formed gassy smile.

Instead, I'm counting down the days when I will be able to sleep for two whole hours uninterrupted by the feeling that someone is blowing up a beach ball under my unpliable skin.

I'm looking forward to the time when I  don't calculate the risk/reward ratios of letting my cell phone ring versus going downstairs to fetch it.  When I won't lose heart contemplating the return trip, listening closely for a tone indicating a voicemail and avoiding the stairs if I don't hear one.

 I'm anticipating the day when the floor will come back to me as a reachable entity; when something falls there now I feel like it has to be of immediate essential need to attempt recovery; otherwise, it is like space garbage, allowed to float away and out of my orbit, it seems so far and perilous to go there.  I might not have the oomph to get back up, you know.

And most of all, I dream of the day when I won't be in near constant discomfort, sliding into long bouts of pain that don't do much for my ability to be loving and gentle and a joy to be around.

People have been really puzzled about that last one.  Pain?  Really?  Where?  What does it feel like?  At my last appointment my doctor even decided we should strap a sensor to my belly and make sure I wasn't in labor.  "You shouldn't really be in pain," she told me sincerely.

Oh Lady, this pregnancy has never really been a "should"-following ordeal.  It has been boot camp.  And I'm almost done.  I'll be so happy to be done with all the parts of it that made it hard, I haven't yet embraced the excitement of the prize at the end.  The infant who even now is acting like it is imperative to practice all his Yoga poses, all his breakdance moves, all his synchronized swimming acts, before he has to leave his little swimming pool and wait for his muscles to get strong enough to be graceful again.

Nearly every night I think, "Surely this is the pain that is a prelude to labor.  Surely I wouldn't feel this badly just because."  Sometime around 4 am when my exhaustion overcomes the discomfort I have to concede that boot camp is not over and another day of dragging myself around awaits.

So the little accomplishments seem monumental.
I take a shower.
I make dinner.
I iron exactly one shirt of Bill's.
I sit and watch sweet Landon play.

And I wait for the miracle of the mindwipe a newborn will have on me and make all the trials and tribulations fade away to almost nothing.  Almost forgotten.  Like a planet finding a new star to orbit, I will be caught in a spell as powerful as gravity, as compelling as a law of physics: falling in love with a son.

In the meantime, please don't mind the spray and fuss of my griping.  I am a miserable beached whale who can't remember the bliss of the ocean and feel helpless in this in-between, unnatural place of pain.  Just as soon as I get off this sand and find my way to the ocean depth of mother love again, you'll see.  I'll stop acting like a baby and begin cherishing one.

He Could Be Amelia Bedelia's Cousin

Discussing Thanksgiving details with me, Bill's dad said, "I'm going to fix the turkey..."
And before he could continue the menu Landon pipes up, "What's wrong with it, Grandpa?  Why you need to fix it?"

Watch out, folks.  We've got a tool-lovin', problem-solvin' toddler on the loose--and he might just want to help you fix what you didn't even know was broken.

(I suddenly am seized with the urge to just give him a bunch of broken appliances and electronics from the thrift store with a few more real tools, safety goggles and wire cutters and say, "Have fun, my little fixer man")

and don't plug anything back in when you're done

The Halloween That Almost Wasn't

I've just never been that into Halloween.  Not when I was a kid, not now.
Even so, sometimes I can sense that I'm leaving gaps in my son's childhood that he may feel wistful about later.
Most times, I don't really mind. I figure we'll fill them in with our own traditions and memories that will be just as meaningful and evoke enough nostalgia that will make up for the fact that his parents weren't always culturally mainstream.

But this year I decide to give a nod to one of the biggies and have Landon participate a little in Halloween.   Translation: I really want to justify buying a bag of snack-sized chocolate.  Three, actually.  We should be prepared and do this right.

So I tell Landon that in a few days some kids are going to come over in costumes and ask for candy and would he like to pass it out?  This idea is thrilling to him and I get no end of reminders to buy the candy.

All afternoon he is running around talking about how it's all going to go down.  He preps the foyer with the candy bowl, a chair to set it on, and one for himself so he can camp out and be ready for each kid.

I dig out a doggie costume my sister gave us last year (or was it the year before?) to snap a few pictures of Landon as proof that we didn't totally neglect his childhood.  He seemed happy with it; happier still with the prospect of my putting "cara" on his face for a few whiskers and nose.

At the last minute he decided to wear some new footies my mom had bought him that had a racing motif on them.  "I want to be a race car driver, mom.  Can you draw a number on my face instead?"

Sure thing, buddy.  Two eyeliner-drawn threes coming right up.

We are ready.  I stopped counting how many times Landon climbed to the back of the couch to check the front window to see if any kids were coming.  I lost track of how many times he asked me where the kids were.  I was in awe of how many times he asked if he could have a piece of the candy himself: once.

My in-laws called to say that their neighborhood was beginning to get active (and fearing that mine was going to be a complete dud) we packed up the half-prepared dinner and the candy in a cooler and drove over there in hopes that some kids would come.

We were ready.  They had way better candy and had already had one group stop by; I felt hopeful that the real event was just about to happen.

But darkness got darker, minutes kept ticking and things were not looking good.  Am I the only nonHalloweener wishing I lived in a neighborhood smitten with it?

Finally the doorbell rings.  It's Landon's face I wish I could have photographed at that moment; not any costume.  We ran to the door a little wildly and flung it open in such happy anticipation.

There was my father-in-law, on his knees, hands up by his chin like little paws and wearing black mouse ears squeaking, "Trick or treat.  Trick or treat!"  I started laughing so hard my belly hurt.  Landon was completely befuddled.  Even after he gave him some candy.
When he came in he said, "You are such a goofball, Grandpa," and I had to to agree.  In a good way.  Oh the lengths we'll go for those we love.

Landon settles back in to eating one of the custom-decorated lollipops when the doorbell rang again.  Here we go, I think.  So I ramp it up even more; you would think I thought we were being filmed for a million dollar prize or something.  Grab the candy.  Fling the door!

It is some guy with his jacket pulled up over his head saying in a raspy, creepy voice, "Trick or treat.  Trick or treat." and for a moment both Landon and I are taken back.  Until I realize it is Bill, trying to be the headless horseman (I think).  Landon looks at me like, "What is this, mom?" and asks quite innocently, "Where are the kids?"

Does young at heart count, buddy?

At long last we get a group of bona-fide, costumed children who are properly delighted that we have double doses of candy for each of them.

My favorite line as Landon troops back to the kitchen to finish off that lollipop,

"I knew they would come mom.  I knew the kids would come."

He seems so genuinely happy that all this hoopla has been for all of six kids diminishing our outsize stash by precisely 12 pieces of candy.

I don't know what his take-away from all this is going to be, but I know I won't soon forget the two goofy guys who tried to make sure there was one.

Taking a Millimoment to Ponder the Solar System

My neighbor's backyard is a birthday cake whose trees are the candles that flame up in staggered succession.  It's like all Autumn they have been making good wishes for our house's 40th birthday this year.  At least, that's how I see it.  How I had time to see it because Landon and I were sitting quietly on the deck watching the sun make dappled patterns as it moved across the sky.

"Hey!  Where did the sun go?" he asked.

"It has moved across the sky," I told him.  (Yes, I know this is inaccurate but I'm ok with that for now)  "It's going down." I continued.

"Under our deck?"

"No, to the other side of the earth."

"What's earth?"

"The planet we are on, out floating in space."

"I don't feel us rocking, mom."

I pause. I've lost the thread.  Ahh, yes.  "Floating" would suggest that we're on some kind of boat.

"All pretty amazing, don't you think?"

"Yes.  It is, mom.....Hey!  Can we get out my water guns?!"

Annnnd, he's off!