The Over-On-the-Shoulder Boulder Story

Because this particular story has a moral to it, it is worth telling even though it leaves me looking a little...inept.

The year was 2000-ish. We had a big maroon car-boat that was constantly giving us trouble (the worst of its faults was when it would turn its own lights off as we were driving down the highway at night).

I was driving the car-boat to a reservoir to meet up with my husband and my friend's husband who were fishing. As I drove along, I saw a rock in the middle of my lane. It looked small enough to straddle, so I headed straight for it. However, the closer I got to it, I realized it was bigger than I first thought. A little too late, I decided to dodge it. In my near-success, I hit the rock with the right front tire, which pummeled the rock into the side of the car and knocked the strip of paneling off (it was one of those skinny plastic strips, not the wide piece of pretend wood paneling you may be picturing).

Anyway, I pulled over, retrieved my piece of whatever-you-call-it (tossing it into the trunk that was big enough to haul eight bodies at once), and resumed my trek to the fishing spot. My friend, who witnessed all of this from the passenger seat, found the whole thing to be hilarious.

When I bashfully went to confess to my husband, I began, "Um. There was this rock in the road and..."

Without a pause he answered, "I know the rock you are talking about."

As it turns out, as he approached the same rock earlier that day (when he tells this story, he calls it a boulder, but I assure you, it was NOT a boulder...just a big rock), his friend said, "Should we stop and move it?"

His answer was, "Anybody dumb enough to hit it deserves to."

Maybe I could stop there and let you decide upon your own moral, because I'm having a hard time picking one:

"Always be a pioneer because the one who comes along behind you might be your other half."

Or "Keep the pathway clear because the dummy who follows might be the woman who uses your checkbook."

Or I could quote the Bible and say, "Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these..., ye have done it unto me." Except I would replace "me" with "yourself."

Or something completely different like: "Objects in the road are bigger than they appear."

We could take votes.

Because of this experience, when I see a rock in the road, I pull over and move it.

I think the moral to this story is really the golden rule, don't you?

Quoting the Cute: Page Four

Five-year-old: I can't remember exactly how, but she asked me something about taking care of my "young." I think she got it from watching kids' animal shows on the internet.

Two-year-old: "Aw, C'mon!" (She got this from her big sister and it's so funny.)

Five-year-old: Today our neighbor said he thought she was a monkey in the tree & she reminded him matter-of-factly, "Yes, but monkeys don't wear shoes."

Two-year-old: "I wan play play-doughs!"

Eight-month-old son: "Da da da!"

My First Job

When I was twelve, I started a Saturday/summer job at a motel. I'm guessing most motels don't hire so young, but my aunt was the head housekeeper and she vouched for me. My cousin/friend worked there too (we called ourselves "cuz buds"--doesn't that sound so twelve and thirteen?). Most days, my cousin and I got to team clean. It was always a hundred times more fun than cleaning alone. We could work the day away with giggles and races to see who could make a bed faster (she could). And hairy bathtubs and skid marks didn't seem so bad when I had someone to laugh about it with.

Each room had a hanging rack on the wall by the vanity. I usually hit my head on it when I cleaned the vanity. You'd think I would have learned, but I worked at that same motel for eight years, and I never really did. My cousin laughed every time. You might also think after all those years, it wouldn't have been so funny, but it always was to her.

My aunt was a blast. She has this laugh that makes you want to laugh. I miss those days with them. I rarely see them or talk to them now, so those days are nostalgic to me.

Cleaning the same fifty rooms (but it was like cleaning the same one room because they were practically identical) over and over for years on end was good preparation for the life I live now. I gained useful skills like how to spread a sheet on a bed in just the right spot without having to walk around the bed to smooth or straighten, or how to scrub a bathroom from top to bottom in seven minutes flat. And even though hairy bathtubs and skid marks are pretty gross, so are poopy diapers and puke in the carpet.

But most of all, I got used to the idea that most days have pretty much the same routine. After awhile, things will change a little (like new bedspreads or a new baby), but the to do list doesn't change a whole lot from day to day. It might be fun to compare routines from different life phases.

This is the one I'm in now:

Wake up. Feed kids. Change two diapers. Dress kids. Feed me (at computer). Exercise (70% of days). Put baby down for nap. Shower. Dress me. Clean. Feed kids. Change diapers. Dishes. Feed me. Laundry. Snack. Clean. Change diapers. Make dinner. Eat dinner. Dishes. Change diapers. Brush teeth. Jammies. Stories. Kids in bed. Movies with husband. Pray. Me in bed.

I've been working on inserting "Pray" and "Make bed" between "Wake up" and "Feed kids," and "Make kids laugh" (more points if I can do it without tickling) between "Dress me" and "Feed kids." Once I've accomplished that, I'd like to squeeze in: Finish unfinished projects. Work on family history/genealogy. Scrapbook. Crochet. Mend. Clean more. Read. Bake. Paint. Build shelves. Learn Finnish.

And a bunch of other things I've forgotten about (like the hanging rack by the vanity).

Birth Stories: Forward

After years of infertility, I joined an online support group. I was looking for encouragement, but I found more than that: I found friendship. For a few years now, I have built relationships with twelve online friends. From my computer, I have witnessed joyful events and tragedy in their lives. I could write pages about each friend, but to briefly tell you about each one:

1. She suffered miscarriage after miscarriage and is now patiently waiting (already months longer than originally planned) for her son who will come to her family through adoption from Korea.

2. She lost her miracle baby, and then found out she had one chance to conceive through IVF before she would need a hysterectomy to rid herself of cancer. The IVF was unsuccessful. Now she and her husband are saving money to pay for adoption.

3. After enduring eight years of infertility, then a miscarriage, then another two years of infertility (all while she ran a daycare in her home), she now has a sweet little girl of her own to take care of.

4. She was blessed like me and has two young children, eighteen months apart.

5. I could hardly believe my eyes when after she was told by doctors that she would never be able to conceive, she DID ANYWAY.

6. A mother of an adopted daughter was elated to be expecting a baby, but lost her at fifteen weeks. She has since adopted a son, but she still grieves.

7. At age forty, she experienced a miscarriage and several failed reproductive procedures, but she carries on, hoping she can turn her only child into a brother.

8. Her first child, Kierstyn, died after only two weeks of life. My friend now has two sons, but she still struggles as she faces a world that not only does not have her daughter in it, but also lacks support for her to keep Kierstyn's memory alive.

9. She has lived nine years of infertility with miscarriages during the first half and no pregnancies during the last half.

10. I cried when one friend faced the birth of her twin boys at twenty-two weeks and rejoiced when she later gave birth again to twin boys that made it.

11. After 3.5 long years, she finally became pregnant. She miscarried within the week.

12. She has been waiting for a baby for nine years. I cheered her on as she successfully met her goal of losing 130 pounds.

All of these women stood by me even after I changed from an infertile woman to a mother of three small children.

I have noticed (with an ache in my heart during the years I was longing for children), that when mothers get together for a long conversation, the talk always leads to childbirth. I have heard some amazing stories. But, because I have felt the pain of longing for children, and I have friends who still do, it only feels right to acknowledge them before I share the stories of the birth of my children.

I love my children with all of me. I cherished carrying them, but I want to say wholeheartedly, carrying them was NOTHING compared to having them in my arms. It was like a means to an end--the reason why I loved my pregnancies was because they were going to bring to me A CHILD. Those nine months are almost insignificant when it comes to the years I have spent and will spend caring for them and loving them. If I had adopted my children, I would tell the story of how they came to our family just as passionately.

I love birth stories and I love adoption stories.

Here are a couple of adoption stories I enjoyed reading:

This one and this one...

And this one made me cry (happy tears).

Birth Stories: First Child

I could hardly keep the good news to myself: I was expecting our first baby after more than five years of trying. We savored our secret for about a month so we could tell our family members face-to-face when we visited.

I had planned to wait until twelve weeks to tell our friends and neighbors about the change that would come to our family. Then I caught a cold that would not go away. After three awful weeks, I went to the clinic to see if there was anything that could be done. When I told the Physician's Assistant I was pregnant, he kind of shrugged his shoulders, as if to suggest that colds that will not go away are just part of the facts of pregnancy life.

One of my good friends is the wife of that Physician's Assistant. At community choir practice, she asked what I had found out at the clinic. After I told her they said there was nothing they could do for me, she "hmphed" sympathetically.

The next morning I got a call from her husband. He said, "I am so sorry. I think I did a bad thing!" Surprised, I asked him what he meant. He said, "I think I let the cat out of the bag!" Then he explained how after early-morning family scripture study he went back to bed to catch a few more z's before getting ready for work. He had been almost asleep when his wife had indignantly asked him why he couldn't help me get better. He told her, "I can't help her...she's pre...I mean she's sick. She's really really sick!" He told me he tried to cover it up, but he wasn't sure if he had been successful or not. I laughed and told him not to worry. The rest of the day, every time I thought about it, I couldn't hold back a smile.

I decided it was time. It was a few weeks sooner than I had planned to announce it (I was looking forward to telling my friends on April Fools Day to see if they would believe me or not), but I was ready. I called my close friend and asked her if I could stop by later. Then I went for my weekday morning walk with two other friends, one of them the wife of the PA. As it turns out, my husband and I are not good at lying. I don't remember the particulars, but the other friend who walked with us had been perplexed by contradicting information she had received from my husband and I (all I remember is that it had something to do with going to the doctor in the city--an hour away). It was relieving and exciting to tell them how our dreams were finally coming true.

My midwife recommended a couple of cold medications that were safe to use during pregnancy. I tried one and it made me upchuck. A few days later I tried the other kind and I was puking again. I called my midwife and she told me not to take any more medication. I just have to say here that I HATE to throw up. I LOATHE it more than anything I can think of. Even though I had queasy, nauseating sometimes all-day morning sickness, the fact that I only ever puked three times in my life while pregnant (all three during my first pregnancy), is something for which I will be forever grateful. And thankfully, the cold did go away after that.

I read every pregnancy book I had from cover to cover. I was constantly reading online about pregnancy. I wanted to soak in any and all information about it. So when the nausea went away precisely the day after I made it to the twelve-week mark, I thought, "Wow, the books were right on!"

I experienced heartburn for the first time in my life when I was six months pregnant. I ate dinner, and then went outside to pull weeds in the flower bed. BAD IDEA...but a learning experience. Heartburn became my companion after that, but I found that fruity Tums were a better friend.

My sister came to stay with me when the baby's due date arrived. A week later, there was still no baby and apologetically, she left to return to work. I was still pregnant when I went to church the day of my sixth anniversary, nine days after the due date. I would be exaggerating if I said that everyone asked me why I was there, still pregnant, but it seemed like I could read that question on each face even if it wasn't asked. That was the first day I could say that I was truly miserable. My body ached everywhere. I was tired because I had felt contractions the night before and had stayed up late to time them. After so long, I had come to the point where I almost believed I would always be pregnant.

That night, I made peace with eternal pregnancy (even though I was scheduled to be induced at the hospital at 6:00 the next morning) and climbed into bed. Before I could fall asleep, I felt my first contraction. It was midnight. Even though my contractions were coming only semi-regularly, I became nervous because we lived almost an hour from the hospital. I woke my husband at 2:00 am and said we should go. I had called the hospital and they said it was fine for us to show up a couple of hours early, just in case. I had contractions up until the time they put me on the monitor (about 4:00). Then they stopped. Lesson learned: I should have slept!

I made slow progress all day long. I tried to rest, but it was hard with all of the excitement (and pitocin) running through my veins. My husband was good company and had me laughing a little too hard. The contractions were becoming more painful, so I rocked in the rocking chair. After awhile, that didn't help anymore, so I tried walking. That only made me feel worse. When my midwife asked if I'd like a bath, it sounded like just what I needed.

I was on my second bath of the day (after being only five centimeters dilated for hours) when I called to my husband (who was reading a book in the hospital room) to help me get out. He came into the bathroom and in a panicked cry I begged him not to make me go through the birth without pain medication (even though I had made him promise to help me do it without the aid of drugs). I told him that I would never make it. I had so long to go and I was afraid I would never make it to transition, let alone through it.

Soon after, my midwife (who had been assisting another of her patients, who was having an emergency cesarean section of twins) returned to check on me. She coaxed me to the hospital bed. I was pleading for drugs. When she encouraged me with the words, "You can do this, you are at a ten! You made it through transition all by yourself. I am going to break your water and then you can start pushing," I cried with relief. My husband denies it, but I remember vividly that he cried too. He told me shortly after the birth that he felt sorry that he had left me to go through it alone. This moment was tender to me. I hadn't needed him until I called to him, and when I did, he was right there, but knowing that he wished he could somehow help me was a reminder of how much he loved me.

If I had known how long I was going to have to push, I would not have felt the relief I did. After twenty-two hours of labor, an hour and fifteen minutes of pushing, and so many "I can't do its" they couldn't be counted, I became discouraged and disoriented. I kept asking the midwife how many more pushes. I was so tired and in so much pain, that I forgot why I was even pushing. So when the baby was finally born, I looked at the little bundle of tiny pink body parts and said, with awe in my voice, "It's a baby." My husband still makes fun of me for that. "What did you think it was going to be?"

At first, the midwife forgot to tell us what kind of baby it was, but we discovered soon enough that a sweet little GIRL, seven pounds, nine ounces, had finally made us parents. After she was born, I encouraged her to eat, but she just wanted to sleep. My husband went home to prepare for his substitute at work the next day, so I put her in her bassinet and closed my eyes. I couldn't sleep because my body had obviously released a huge dose of mommy endorphins, but it felt good to soak in the peace of my room: my labor music playing, the lights turned low, and my whole life's desire sleeping soundly close by. When she was three hours old, I opened my eyes to look at her and she was staring at me with her tiny dark eyes open wide. I will never forget that moment. I said, "Hello, Baby," and gently picked her up and held her close to me. This experience was so FULL, I could never put it into words. It was a speck in time that overflowed with love, bliss, contentment, joy, gratitude, purity, glory, awe, and beauty--

and so much more.

Birth Stories: Second Child

Because my second child was conceived by "basting," we had the treat of two early ultrasounds at the fertility clinic. I have decided that an ultrasound at ten weeks is the most fun. I loved being able to see the whole baby (instead of the typical, "This is the head, this is a foot..."). My child looked like a squirmy little Kewpie Doll and he/or/she was absolutely adorable.

I assumed pregnancy the second time around would be easier. After feeling sick for most of the first half of the gestation, I had given up on the nausea giving up. Thankfully, at twenty-two weeks, it started to subside. At that point, I wanted to eat everything in sight because food finally looked good again.

I had an appointment with the midwife on my due date. There weren't any sure signs of the baby coming soon, so she told me to come back in a few days. The contractions started early in the morning the day after that. They came every seven minutes, so at 3:00 a.m. I got up to take a shower. I french braided my hair while I timed contractions. A little after 4:00, the contractions seemed to stop and I felt tired. Because I had learned my lesson from the last time, I decided to go back to bed. The contractions woke me up every fifteen minutes, but I did manage to get a little bit of sleep (or should I say some little bits of sleep?). My three-year-old daughter joined me in the bed around seven and I told my husband he might as well go to work and I would call him if I needed him. So he did.

My daughter and I snuggled and snoozed until about 9:30. After I was up and moving, I tried to do some housework. I talked on the phone. I wrote down how far apart my contractions were and how long they were lasting. In the afternoon, the contractions were still between ten and fifteen minutes apart. However, by this time, the contractions were so painful that I had to get on the floor on my hands and knees to make it through them. Noticing my strange behavior, my daughter started to mimic me, blowing out slowly as she swayed on her hands and knees by my side.

By 2:00, I couldn't take it anymore. I called my husband to come home. He still had one class left to teach, but someone covered for him. He arrived home and anxiously gathered the bags, the laboring wife (who was trying to finish the dishes), and his little girl into the car. Within the hour, our daughter was playing at a friend's house, and we were on our way to the hospital, almost an hour away.

I hadn't predicted how uncomfortable that car ride was going to be. Each contraction threatened to send me through the roof. I wanted to get into the back seat, but I knew it would be impossible to get my swollen body back there without stopping the car--and there was no way were were stopping the car!

When we got to the hospital (about 4:00 p.m.), my biggest fear was that they were going to send me home because my contractions were still ten minutes apart. When the nurse checked my dilation and declared in a somewhat surprised voice that I was already to an EIGHT, I almost let out a happy squeal.

The nurse called my C.N.M., who was just on her way out of town. She arrived a short time later, checked my dilation and accidentally broke my water. While I was on the monitor, my husband entertained me by going through the bag to see what I had packed. Among other things, there was a bag of Western Family jerky for him. He read from the package: "Inside awaits the most tender beef jerky you'll ever eat!" Then he opened it and tried to bite off a piece. His head vibrated as he applied all of his tooth pressure to take a bite. I laughed so hard it hurt. Maybe you had to be there, but it was one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I guess it was just meant to be because every piece after that first one was tender.

When they were finished monitoring the baby, I got up to walk around the room. Labor became quite difficult. I was disappointed I could not get into the bathtub (because my water had broken). As I transitioned, I rocked in a rocking chair, with my husband holding one hand and my midwife holding the other. The rocking chair was obviously not a good place for me because I was in so much pain that I wasn't breathing correctly and my hand started to go numb.

They put an oxygen mask on me. By 7:00 I was fully dilated. I was helped onto the bed. Although it seemed like an eternity, I only had to push for eleven minutes. My midwife guessed I was going to have a big baby boy, so when she saw a nice round head crowning, she encouraged me to push HARD. I did, and the feeling of my baby passing through me in one sweep is indescribable.

I listened to hear if it was a boy or a girl. My midwife said something like, "Boy, look at how short this cord is!" In a small voice I asked my husband, "It's a boy?" He then looked at the baby, and the midwife said, "I forgot to look!" (I don't think doctors or midwives are used to announcing the gender anymore because most parents find out before birth.) She looked at the baby and said it was a girl. Then I said, still breathless, "It's a girl?" (At least I didn't ask if it was a baby!)

She had a nice loud cry and a perfect round head. And fat rolls on her legs. A baby sister (I couldn't wait to tell my daughter)! Seven pounds and fourteen ounces of pure sweetheart (Coincidentally, she was also born at 7:14). My labor (from the start of the contractions) was seventeen hours: five-and-a-half hours shorter than with my firstborn.

When I replay that night in my memory, the only word I can find to describe it is LOVE. Love multiplied by infinity. Instantly, I was able to love TWO children with my whole heart, and that love expanded out into the world: I felt love for all of the infants (every one of them as pure and holy as my new baby). I loved them too, and I cried when I remembered that many of them were cold and hungry and unloved. I kissed my baby girl on her soft head, clothed her, wrapped her tight, and promised her I would try to be all she deserves. And then I said a prayer for all the mothers on the planet. I know that is a big prayer, but I also know that God heard it.

I missed my oldest child all night long. I couldn't wait to see her again. When she came quietly into the room the next morning, with pigtails and a gentle smile, I was so happy to see her. Thankfully, even though my baby had been born the night before, they let us leave the hospital by early afternoon. My mother-in-law had sent matching fleece blankets, and the girls slept under their soft comfort the whole drive home. When we arrived, we carefully took them out of their carseats and laid them on the warm floor of the front room, covered them with their new blankets (what good sleepers!), and ran for the camera.

Birth Stories: Third Child

Third time's a charm. And it was. Everything about my third child was easy. Well, pretty close to easy anyway, when compared to other pregnancies/births/babies, not when compared to things like pie or pieces of cake. During pregnancy, morning sickness paid a short visit, heartburn was kept at bay by my fruity friend, and I had loads of energy. What a blessing that was, since I was in the process of chasing my daughter who had just learned to walk.

We had moved to a new town with a hospital (and an OB clinic) within walking distance of my house, which was a nice change. Many days I put my daughters in the double stroller and walked to my appointments with the doctor. I was a little apprehensive about having to switch doctors, especially after all the attention I had received from my excellent midwife. But I decided that I could be big (no pun intended), and do this whole pregnancy and childbirth thing pretty much by myself.

I liked my new doctor a lot. He was friendly, patient with my girls (who came to most of my appointments), and efficient. He used my name when he spoke to me, and was supportive of my personal preferences. When I saw the doctor on Monday, five days after my due date, he told me to make an appointment for a couple of days from then. When I talked to the receptionist to make the appointment, I asked her if I needed to cancel this appointment if I had the baby before then. She said no, that she would automatically do it if I had the baby. Even though there weren't any signs of the baby coming soon, I think I knew then that I wouldn't be making that appointment.

My bags were packed. I had a little pink and a little blue, and unfortunately, a whole bag of cough drops. I had a head cold that I was hoping to kick before the birth of my baby, but it didn't seem to be working out the way I had planned. The next day, my contractions started at 2:00 in the afternoon. This was unexpected, since my contractions began in the early hours with my first two children. I waited until my husband was done teaching school before I called him. I set things up with my close friend who was planning to watch my girls. I tried to put my house in order.

At 8:00 that night, I brought my girls to a sleep-over at our friends' house. I laid by my eighteen-month-old for almost an hour before she finally fell asleep. My contractions seemed to be getting closer together, but I couldn't time them while I was laying in the dark. When I got home, I continued to time them, surprised at how close together they were. I didn't tell my husband how close together they were because I really wanted to finish the dishes (déjà vu?). By 10:00, I decided I had better let him in the loop.

We then had a conversation about when to go to the hospital. I knew that if I went to the hospital before midnight, I would be charged for the entire day. I told my husband I thought we should hold off until after midnight. I could tell this was difficult for him. I had never felt contractions this close together before while still being at home. But, I didn't feel like the baby was coming yet, so we waited.

We got to the hospital at 11:45 because I wasn't sure if they would count the time from when I checked in at the front, or when I was actually in my room. The receptionist said they count it from when I sign in at the front, so we sat in the waiting room until midnight. My contractions were less than five minutes apart.

After checking in, my husband and I both realized how tired we were. By this time of night, both of our girls had already been born. We tried to get some rest, but this is very difficult to do in a hospital room. My contractions would not let me sleep or lay down, so I walked laps around the OB wing, sometimes alone, and sometimes with my husband. I was only dilated to a three or four at check-in, which was disappointing to be sure. I was anxious for my labor to progress so I could be done. Time seemed to be moving in slow motion. The labor music I had spent hours preparing was of no use because my MP3 CD player decided to croak right there in the hospital room.

By 3:00 a.m., I found walking to be too painful. The most comfortable place was on the floor with my head on my husband's lap. He would stroke my hair as I breathed. After a while, I found that sitting forward on the birthing ball helped also, but as exhaustion settled in, I was on the verge of falling asleep while perched upon it. I decided I would try to lay on the bed so I could at least rest in between contractions. My husband helped me onto the bed. When the next contraction came, I screamed in horror, "HELP ME!" over and over. My husband tried to give me a comforting hug, but I yelled, "Stop! Stop! You are smashing me!" As soon as the contraction was over, I was off the bed and back on the ball as lickety-split as an overdue laboring pregnant woman can. The nurse said she had talked to my doctor on the phone and he had said that he would come in at 7:00 and break my water. My husband and I looked at the clock and then the floor. 7:00 felt as far away as truly owning your home does when you sign papers on a thirty-year mortgage (I know, because I've done that twice).

Somehow I survived. The contractions were very painful, but I was having little breaks in between. I told the nurse that I was worried about transitioning and not having that relief in between contractions. She assured me that I could very well go through transition without feeling that my contractions were right on top of each other. I don't think she had any idea the hope that gave me. The doctor arrived right on time. When he broke my water, I felt the baby drop down in an instant. The doctor said that the baby was ready to come, so he and the nurse began to convert the hospital bed into a birthing bed. Because I was already on the bed, my husband was holding up one leg while the nurse held up the other.

The bed did not want to convert.

I'm sure the nurse did not realize how much she was moving my leg around in the air while she jiggled the bed parts. This would have been very funny to me at that moment if I hadn't been about to give birth. All I could say was, "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow." (I have decided that if I ever give birth again, I would like to be more eloquent.) After they got the bed set up, the doctor and the nurses told me I could push. It was only a few pushes when the baby's head was out, and I was done. At least I thought I was. The doctor told me I needed to push again and I remember thinking, "AGAIN?" With my girls, once the head was out, I was done pushing. With a little encouragement, I pushed again and a NINE pound (and three ounces) baby BOY was born! He was born at 7:07, seventeen hours after labor started (just like last time!).

Some who read my birth stories may wonder why I chose unmedicated childbirth every time. There are actually many reasons. I am always filled with a happy exhilaration right after my babies are born and it lasts for days. From the process of natural labor and childbirth I gain humility and power both at once. I feel closer to my husband than at any other time, and closer to God. Plus I don't like to feel numb (and it costs less to have a baby without anesthesia). All of these reasons make it worth it to me.

After my son was born, he only wanted to sleep. I didn't get to hold him as much as I wanted because I was coughing and sneezing and sniffling so much. He had bruises on his eye and cheek where he had rammed into my bones when my water broke. When I told my dad about that, he sort of chuckled about how my son had come into the world with a punch in the face for a welcome. The baby had also swallowed a lot of amniotic fluid, so it was about ten hours before we could get him to eat. But he was oh, so sweet. Because I grew up with sisters and began motherhood with daughters, I was worried I wouldn't know what to do with a boy.

But I figured it out quickly: I am completely, unashamedly in love with him!

I Could Have Sworn

I could have sworn that box of markers said "washable" on it!















This is after three washes!

An After-School Obstacle Course

I don't know what it was about the bus ride home from school that made me need to use the bathroom, but it seemed to happen a lot when I was young. On one such day, my sisters and I hurried home from the bus stop only to find we were locked out of the house and no one was home. This happened often enough that we stored a butter knife on the outside windowsill of the bathroom so we could use it to pry open the window. This window was one of three windows that actually opened in our house, and it was the easiest to get through. I, being the oldest, would open the window and crawl through, or lift one of my sisters to climb through. The inside person would then open the front door for the two of us.

So on this day, I was in quite a hurry (see first two sentences). I wasn't sure if I was going to make it in time. I opened the window as quickly as I could (while doing the potty dance), and chose to go through the window myself (the TOILET was in there!). Relieved to be through the window and almost there, I jumped from the window into the bathtub...but it was full of cold water from someone's morning bath. My sisters heard the splash and began to laugh. I also laughed (so hard I couldn't breathe), and just so you know:

I didn't make it.

Lullabies

I remember three songs my mother sang to me when I was little.

The first was her own version of "Rock-a-bye Baby." I have seen other censored versions of this song, but I still like my mom's the best:

"Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock
When the bough swings, the baby will too
And she'll keep on sleeping all the day through."

She also sang "Brahms Lullaby," but because she didn't know the words (I don't either--are there words?), she would sing:

"Lullaby, and good-night. Won't you please go to sleep?" Over and over until the song was over. This makes me smile now as I sing it the same way to my little ones.

The last song I remember comes from a Korean folk song called "Doraji." She learned it in elementary school. These are the words:

"Toraji flower of light
What makes you climb so high?
Do you say that I should be a cloud
And then I'd know why?

(Chorus:) Hay-yay-ya (repeated three times)

Toraji flower of light
What rings your little bell?
Do you say that I should be the wind
And then I could tell?

(Chorus)

Toraji flower of light
What makes your fragrance grow?
Do you say that I should be a bird
And then I would know?

(Chorus)"

It is has a lovely melody. I found the original version HERE (the song called "Doraji") that has the same melody for the verses (the first two lines), but a different melody for the chorus (the original version doesn't have a chorus), and different words.

One more thing about lullabies: my husband is usually the one to sing our children to sleep. His wonderful singing voice and strong, firm arms have always made him the preferred parent for bedtime rocking, for all of my children. His concerts always begin with, "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam," and "Jesus Said Love Everyone." Then he branches out into songs varying from Finnish Christmas songs to "Ave Maria."

It is hard to describe how it delights me to see and hear this ritual. I think St. Francis de Sales said it best when he said, "Nothing is so strong as gentleness, and nothing is so gentle as true strength." Amen.

The Princess Who Became the Queen

I was laying next to my 2-year-old daughter at nap time with my long hair falling over the side of the bed. When my eight-month-old charming prince used my hair to pull himself up to stand, I realized how much I am like Rapunzel.

Every time I do a load of laundry, I lose the match to at least one pair of socks. So even though I don’t own a pair of glass slippers, I can sympathize with Cinderella.

Sleeping Beauty’s awakening kiss didn’t have anything on the slobbery kiss that pulls me from my two-minute accidental nap on the playroom floor. Especially when it is accompanied by a firm bite on the nose with six sharp baby teeth. That would wake up any princess, no matter how strong the sleeping spell!

This life is my dream come true.