Love That Kid

Pin It Here's what I've been up to the past six months...his name is Truitt:



Although I certainly didn't intend for it to happen in quite this fashion, he's kind of taken over our lives. It's All Things Truitt here in the White House.



And that's okay, because we've managed to journey from the hellish land of colic to a veritable funhouse. Truitt is a jolly baby, most of the time, which is fabulous because it helps the fact that he refuses to sleep during the day.

He has just started his attempts at crawling, which are hilarious to watch.



Who can resist a bear on the bootie? Not me.



In all seriousness, we've been busy. To give you the short version of the past six months:
--Truitt arrived.
--He cried.
--He puked.
--I did massive amounts of laundry.
--He cried some more.
--He puked some more.
--I washed more clothes.
--He cut some teeth.
--He stopped crying when he received his share of magic fairy dust.
--He started to chortle at the dog.
--And recently he started trying to crawl.


That's pretty much it. And, oh--he believes he can fly. He believes he can touch the sky.

Merely Surviving

Pin It I watched the film version of Cormac McCarthy's The Road last night, Truitt snoozing docilely in my lap and the kids playing Battleship in the other room. I'd read the book several years ago, working my way through it fits and starts, unsettled by the sadness of its story and message. It's one of those works, though, that deserves a second, closer look. There is so much there in way of character and symbol, image and theme.

The film version was no less beautifully "written" than the text, the actors and cinematography all poignant words on the screen. There was this one scene that tugged at me, a flashback where the protagonist recalls a pivotal conversation with his wife. In it, she raises the question of survival in their post-apocalyptical world. They live in a world where humanity is all but non-existent, and existence itself is marked by constant struggle for food, shelter, and protection from bands of cannibals. As a mother, she comments that the day their son was born was both the best and worst day of her life. She means to end her life as soon as she has the opportunity.

"It is not enough," she tells her husband, "to just survive." Unspoken is her desire to live fully, and see her son live as well.

Later, as they make their way through a barely recognizable ash-strewn world toward more southerly climes, the father pauses for a brief stroll through memory lane in his old childhood home. While his son looks on in confusion, he touches a doorframe that bears the faint measurements of a growing boy. He reveals the holes in the mantle where stockings once hung. He traces the pattern of a sofa cushion lovingly. His son,though, does not and cannot understand his attachment to these things. He has never known this childhood. His own has been filled with tramping through a barren world, scavenging for meals, flinching from human contact. He does not know what it means to have holidays, and relationships, and comforts.

He knows how to survive. But is he truly living?

It's hard to envision a world such as this. As a mother, I hate to think of a time when my children would need to be consumed with survival over living. There's a Suzy Sunshine part of me that holds on to a faith in the greater good of the human race...I have to believe that we wouldn't simply give way to that tiny terrible ego that's in us all, but would instead take whatever circumstances we were dealt and turn survival into living.

I Love You. Please Go To Sleep.

Pin It

Dear. God.

And I don't mean that in the irreverent "OMG!" sort of way, but rather a prayerful, on-my-knees sort of way.

It's been nearly three weeks since Truitt was born. I haven't had a nap since the Tuesday after I came home, which would be...let's see...precisely ten days ago. Do you realize what ten days with no nap feels like when your child does not sleep at night? He alternately smiles (and I am thoroughly convinced it is not gas, but a precocious sense of the absurd), coos, fusses, screams, guzzles milk, poops, pees, blinks, watches CMT, sticks his hand down my shirt to grope me, and pees or poops some more, necessitating another diaper change. This is usually around the time he falls asleep, naturally. All of this generally occurs over the course of a two hour span of time, two to three times per night.

I can't nap during the day because there's just too much to do--laundry, making bottles, picking up yesterday's mess, making supper--all of this to take care of the other members of our family and just to keep myself sane with some semblance of order, honestly. And to keep it real, Truitt really doesn't sleep all that much during the day, either.

I am coming to the realization that I was pretty spoiled with Autumn and Lawson as infants. They were what I'd term "low-maintenance." They'd be finished with a bottle within ten or fifteen minutes and you could lay them down in the crib, where they'd drift sweetly off to sleep for another five or six blissful hours. Not so with Truitt, this child of my heart. He clings to contact, falling asleep in my arms and jerking to instant alert upon being laid in the crib, demanding that I spend just a little more time holding him, even as my back aches, and my arms feel like spaghetti, and my eyes are heavy with three a.m. grit. I almost wonder if the urgency of his need isn't linked somehow to the power of my own longing for him all those months ago.

I know God is smiling at me, full of gentle good-humor when I feel like screaming in the middle of the night, "Was it really necessary for you to fill your britches right then? Couldn't you save it for, say, the five a.m feeding?" He's smiling, and in the face and form of that wriggling baby is the knowledge sent: this too shall pass. So enjoy it.

D-Day

Pin It It's D-Day. (That's "delivery day," for those unfamiliar with my shorthand.)

Finally. This has seemed the neverending pregnancy, welcome and longed for but exhausting all the same. (I now know why women are more fertile in their twenties.) To make matters even more interesting, we learned that Truitt was breech around six weeks or so ago, and while we've tried just about every method out there, it seems, to get this little stinker to turn, he seems to be pretty happy just where he is. So today Dr. P will at long last remove him from his happy place and make his mommy very thankful indeed.

As much as I am anticipating not being pregnant anymore, a caesarean is an interesting, and not-exactly-fun thing to look forward to. Both Autumn and Lawson were accommodatingly head-down, and thus their births were simple and "natural" by comparison, if you discount the epidurals. I was standing in the kitchen last night at quarter to twelve, chowing down a bagel with cream cheese and around a gallon of grape juice, because I'm not scheduled for surgery until mid-afternoon and I can't have anything to eat or drink after midnight. (As if that bagel will really last until lunch time...) It's traumatic, people. Denying a pregnant lady food? Barbaric! If I hurl on you by accident, I'm apologize profusely in advance.

I'm also being deprived of my usual morning shower....blech. It wouldn't bother me so much, except there are no lotions or deodorants allowed after a shower the night before. Instead, you have to use these really nifty wet wipes laden with some sort of cold, sticky anti-bacterial mess that will hopefully protect me from staph. That's the theory, anyway.

While I must also avoid any attempts at making myself more lovely with the aid of cosmetics, I am permitted to brush my teeth--provided I don't accidentally on purpose swallow any of the toothpaste in an effort to quiet my growling tummy. Clean teeth: that's a good thing. You can handle anything life throws at you provided your teeth are clean, right?

Into the midst of all of these terribly inconvenient deprivations, though, will rise a thin, welcome cry. Into the painfully bright lights of the operating room will emerge a baby, blinking angrily at being pulled so summarily from a warm, dark womb into such a cold new world. It's okay, though. Although I won't be able to hold him for a few hours, his daddy will be there to soothe those wounded feelings.

All in all, pretty worth the loss of a couple of meals and a single hot shower.

Playing Catch Up

Pin It Okay, so I think I've done a pretty good job of not boring everyone with every little twinge, spasm, ache, pain, anxiety, thrill, and so forth during these past seven or eight months. That I've managed to do so by posting once per trimester...well...we all have our coping mechanisms. Right? Anyhoo...I had a little break in between classes, and thought I'd give everyone the third trimester update. Months eight through ten (yes...there are ten months in a pregnancy) Pretty.Much.Suck. Let me count the ways.

1. Big. Ungainly. Awkward!


2. Your thighs persist in chafing p.c., not understanding that they should just get a room. A big one.


3. Every Braxton-Hicks sends you running (...er...make that shuffling painfully) to the clock with a piece of paper and pen, convinced that This.Is.It.


4. Lower back pain.


5. Cankles.


6. Heartburn.


7. Bending over to...umm, let's see...put on socks, lotion up cankles, clip toenails, shave...is an exercise in asphyxiation.


8. Nesting. As in: must clean inside of washing machine, oil cabinetry, and steam clean carpets NOW, regardless of the fact that...


9. ...energy levels are non-existent.


10. Popped belly buttons.


11. People think you're hormonal. Just because you wig out every now and then. Honestly!

Now, if you just loved being pregnant, even during the home stretch, I've already had my puking episode for the day, so feel free to confess all.

All that aside, it is the home stretch, and it can be pretty cool, too. Baby showers, baby clothes, baby stuff...naps that offer thirty minutes of oblivion, and strangely enough, a huge awareness of and appreciation for all that the body is capable of.

Without getting too mushy, the ability of this machine that is my body to grow and nurture a life and soul separate from my own is incredible. It's inescapable, felt in every labored breath and round ligament pull...seen in the skin that roils and ripples with every hiccup or full-body shift.

So....seven weeks and counting. I'm cool with that. Cankles and all.

Kicking and Chortling

Pin It I'm sitting here trying to watch The Bachelor (what is wrong with me that I still watch this show?) and simultaneously attempting to compose an essay on the New Testament canon-- which isn't a great combination to begin with--when all of a sudden the belly starts dancing.

Forget the canon and Brad Wommack...I can't ignore the belly when it begins its weird internal tango...immediately, the shirt comes up so I can see the skin rippling and popping in time to a music that I can't hear. It never gets old.

It began a couple of months ago as faint "popcorn" bursts deep within. Now, as muscles strengthen and bones continue to form, it's more like a persistent little alien is working on making his presence very known. Although a little disconcerting, this is one of my favorite things about pregnancy--right up there with seeing the baby on ultrasound and hearing the heartbeat.

Truitt started making his presence known in church service Sunday morning, and for a while I contented myself with just resting a hand lightly on my stomach and pretending to pay attention. Lawson was sitting on Duane's lap next to me, pretending he was still little enough to take a nap in church. I took his hand and placed in under mine, holding it there for the few seconds it took Truitt to kick strongly.

He chortled. There's no other word for it. He gasped, snatched his hand away, and chortled with delight.

Love it.

Untitled

Pin It I pondered titles for this post. Manic Monday, which I think I've used before. Holly Jolly Stressed Out Holiday. @#$%&! (A personal favorite.) Other Mothers That Yell, Please Tell Me I'm Not Alone. It's Not Hormones, I Swear. And the Moral of the Story Is...(always carry Nilla Wafers). I couldn't decide, hence the "Untitled."

I yelled at Autumn today.

It was just one of those things. You know...you've waited ten minutes past time picking the child up from yet another athletic activity that stresses you out, manage to make it five minutes down the road, and the child realizes that she left every single personal belonging she owns back at the gym. And if you don't go to get it right this very instant, it will be thrown away.

I might not have been quite so close to the edge of reasonable behavior if the pick-up time hadn't been right in the middle of suppertime. Our meal was currently sitting in the oven, while I sat in the car, heaving intermittently and nibbling desperately at a stray Nilla Wafer I discovered in the console. I was going to puke up my stomach acids if I didn't get some food. Now.

So I lost it a little, was instantly ashamed, and sulked in silence the entire thirty minute drive home, even when Autumn offered a sheepish, "thank you for taking me back." I managed to choke out an "I'm sorry I yelled" about the time we made it to the driveway, but still.

Bad Mother Award Candidate: there she blows.

I'm not going to chalk it up to pregnancy, even though my husband swears I'm never as irritable and difficult to please as I am when I'm gestating. I think it had a lot to do with it being the first day of Christmas Break and my asinine decision to tackle Sam's Club and Wal-Mart in a single fell swoop to get the grocery shopping done.

What a moron I am. Who goes to Walmart and Sam's the week before Christmas? EVERYONE. And their brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and redneck cousin twice removed. My baby will probably develop hypothermia from having to walk from the far reaches of the parking lot, and brain damage from the twenty people that shoved my cart into my stomach. What should have been a relatively simple morning shopping expedition took us until 1:00. The entire time was spent wrangling my two offspring into some semblance of appropriate behavior, which involved threatening bodily injury if they didn't stop rearranging the shelves. And/or inspecting every carton of eggs.

It was a day, and I yelled.

But I'm okay now. I've had a caffeine infusion, some food, and I'm considering chocolate. Autumn emptying the dishwasher without being asked and wrestling her brother into submission in the other room didn't hurt, either.

Here's to the next two manic weeks. May we all survive intact.

Week End

Pin It You know how sometimes you start a blog post and it just doesn't quite work?

You've spent close to an hour laboring over two paragraphs, and they actually sound okay...they just don't go anywhere.

That's sort of what I've been doing this morning.

I'm tired, I think, and it's affecting my ability to be witty and creative. I'm coming off of one of those weeks, filled, as the one following Thanksgiving always is, with frenetic, non-stop activity. Preparing for Autumn's birthday party, decorating the house for the holidays, shopping for a family our Sunday School class sponsors, accompanied by the normal business of keeping things going.

And then there was the weekend. All I can really say about the weekend is that I survived intact. Sort of, anyway--I do think I may be missing a few brain cells.

It was a weekend full of shrieking sixth grade girls, high on sugar and slumber party mayhem as Autumn ushered in her twelfth year. It involved baking a cake, making pizza, and carting those same sixth grade girls to a movie. I fell into a three hour nap Saturday afternoon, succumbed to puking Sunday morning and went on to teach Sunday School, clean a church closet, and decorate our classroom for the youth Christmas party that evening.

I stumbled exhausted into bed at nine 'o clock, fully anticipating that a good nine and a half hours would be enough to renew me, but I dragged upon the heralding of the alarm clock. But it was a new day nonetheless, so I dragged myself into it, whining only a little.

And so now, I find that I have nothing really to say except I'm glad the week is done, and a new one begun.

Ode to Pickles

Pin It I have discovered the most wonderful food in the world. Really. It's pickles.

I have to smile at myself for fulfilling the single-most laughable stereotype regarding pregnant women and cravings. I've never really dealt with cravings before. Aside from the occasional "I'd-really-like-a-steak" or "man-McDonald's-french-fries-sure-sound-good" sensation, I've pretty much been able to eat as usual during my pregnancies...if a little more.

But suddenly, in the last few days, I have discovered the Wonderful World of Pickles. Sweet pickles, dill pickles, pickles with sharp cheddar cheese, pickles in the morning, pickles at noon, pickles in the evening...just pickles.

It actually occurred to me this morning after my third Clausen dill that perhaps I was actually doing damage to myself by ingesting so many pickles. After all, if I had a craving for milk, I wouldn't worry. I'd just tell myself that I must need the calcium, and carry on. But pickles? What health benefit to pickled cucumbers carry? Is brine good for you?

So I did what any normal woman would do under the circumstances: I ate another pickle, and then I Googled. "How many pickles in a day is too much?" I felt kind of silly typing in the query...how many answers, really, might I find? How many people were as paranoid and slightly demented as me?

Er...quite a few. Apparently I'm not the only one with pickle cravings. The landscape of answer.com, justask.com, and several other sites were littered with the same general question, including one hysterical chat from a husband who was concerned about his pregnant wife's massive pickle intake. According to kBg and ChaCha, eating too many pickles can cause stomach cancer and/or hypertension, due to the sodium content. According to other people, you can simply garner an upset tummy.

According to several pregnancy sites, though, there is a reason for the pregnant lady/pickle craving thing. In the second and third trimesters, a woman's blood volume increases, which creates a need for more sodium. Voila! A method to the pickle madness. More pickles equals more sodium to satisfy that higher blood volume.

I feel much better now.

So good, in fact, I may go eat another Clausen.

Mommy Love, Or Lori's-Got-a-Big-Ole-Butt

Pin It Okay, so my post is late.





I have a valid reason.





The dog ate all of my timepieces, including the little digital clock in the bottom right-hand corner of my laptop, and I had no clue that it was already a little past eight o'clock.





She was hongry.





Actually, I spent the morning hours driving around town (and a neighboring town) taking care of various things--the weekly bank trip, the post office, fundraiser collections, dog to kennel--so I could then spend several many more hours in the car as I made my way to grandmother's house for Thanksgiving. That's the kids' grandmother, my mom, who lives in Columbia, SC.





Normally, I make a four and a half hour trip just four hours. I'm special that way. No bathroom breaks and a respectable ten over usually does the trick. Today, though...what a day.





I had carefully planned on leaving Monday for SC and returning to VA on Friday, figuring that most families would have left either over the weekend or on Wednesday, and would be returning the following weekend. And I think I was pretty accurate in that...I only saw four cops and the traffic was fairly doable. Until, that is, I got to Charlotte, NC.





You see, my morning errands ran over just a bit, which unfortunately put me close to Charlotte around rush hour. If you've never been in or around Charlotte during rush hour, just close your eyes and imagine a Walmart parking lot on Christmas Eve. And there you have it: H-E-double hockey sticks.





My four hours ('cause I was making good time, people) quickly turned into five hours. We've all been there. It's adjusting your seat so you can stretch your legs and feet, rotating your ankles, which are screaming from all the back and forth brake and gas action, cracking your knuckles to relieve some steering-wheel-grip tension, and answering the same question from your eight year-old twenty times in the space of three miles. "No, Lawson, this is still North Carolina."

I won't even mention the various Morons who attempted, more frequently than I've ever experienced, to sideswipe me and push me off the interstate. I'm not sure what the problem was...I must've forgotten to remove my invisibility cloak before leaving home or something. At any rate, I very politely slammed on my brakes to allow the Morons to assume my position in the long line of cars we were currently in. And I didn't mouth anything about checking blindspots or putting your glasses on, or anything like that.

But we finally made it. We limped into Mom's driveway somewhere close to seven p.m., and made our way into the house, loaded down with bags and suitcases and as many of Lawson's thirty stuffed animals he couldn't live without. Mom was waiting. "There's my fat girl!" she screamed, throwing her arms around me and everything I was carrying.

I swallowed a retort. After all, I was cranky, hungry, tired and well aware that as the granddaughter of Myrtle Elliott, niece to four Elliott sisters, and daughter of the fifth, I was fair game for rude and insensitive comments regarding my weight and any fluctuation thereof.

I didn't have to wait long for more. "You have really gotten huge!" Mom said, a big smile upon her face. She curled her fingers around my bicep. "Even your arms!" I cringed inwardly. Rub it in, already. I can't do push-ups anymore, for Pete's sake.

The torture continued. "And I mean this as a compliment, but I have never seen your butt so big!"

A compliment? Really? "Thanks, Mom. Really. You do understand that my butt has to grow bigger in proportion to my stomach, right?"

"Well, I didn't mean--"

Lawson giggled. "Your butt is bigger?"

"Yes, Lawson. You see, you can't carry around this big ole belly Mommy's getting on scrawny little chicken legs. So my butt is getting bigger to help balance things out." He laughed.

"And you are aware that I am still a size six, right--my pre-pregnancy size?" Mom's eyes grew wide,

"Really?"

I sighed inwardly. Relatives. Gotta love 'em.

Right?

*Guys, I am so sorry this post is late! Mom's wireless is experiencing problems, so I am currently in PANERA Bread trying to get this posted...albeit late.

"

The Back-Seat Tell All

Pin It A conversation with Lawson on the way home from school Friday:

"So, Alia told me something today. She said, 'I want to tell you something, but I'm afraid you're going to faint.'"

"Hmm," I reply. "So what did you say?"

"I said, 'I won't faint. I'm a boy.' " His voice is deep with the importance of the facts he is conveying, and if you listened closely, edged with just the faintest hint of embarrassment, and yes...pride.

"Alright. So what did she tell you?"

"She said, 'Ooookaaaaay,' and leaned really close to me, and she told me she loves me."

I gasp, but there is Silence from the back seat. Finally, I ask, "so what did you do?"

"Well, I didn't faint, but my eyes got really big, like this--" he demonstrates in the rear-view. "And then I ran."

That's my boy.

My unwilling, unwitting, and utterly bewildered Casanova. He came home today and stood before me, backpack hanging from one arm. In a voice laden with accusation, he reported, "She said she wanted to kiss me today! Kiss me!"

I tried not to laugh. "Well, I hope you didn't let her?"

"I told her heck, no!" He let the backpack fall glumly to the floor. "And now I have three other girls after me. Four in all. Alia, Leah, Carson, and Savannah. Alia said she wants to marry me."

I would like to tell you that I had all sorts of sage motherly wisdom to offer my child, but I had nothing except giggles repressed with difficulty. "I think it's early days to be thinking about marriage," I told him. "How about a snack?"

He considered. "Yeah, okay."

"Keep your grades up. Don't let all those girls distract you."

"Yeah, okay."

Goody Bags and Wide Open Spaces

Pin It I love Halloween. It's the whole "autumn" thing, I think...crunchy leaves, glowing streetlamps, a crispness in the air...it's my favorite season.

I love this time of year where we live. I'm surrounded by trees that are shedding their summer glories, fields that are slowly turning golden, and a lovely quiet in which to enjoy it.

I have to confess, though: if there were one time during the year where I wish I lived closer to people, it'd be Halloween.

Each year, I pile the kids in the car and drive away to a location scouted out for particularly worthy Halloween loot. We've discovered some really great neighborhoods and some not so great ones. There's one inhabited largely by older people that we gave up on, despite really cool decorations. I think that whole fixed-income thing had a lot to do with the "single Tootsie roll per child" rule that seemed pretty par for the course.

Then there were the really ritzy neighborhoods that actually had pretty good candy...if you were willing to trek a quarter-mile driveway to achieve each benefice.

The best, I've come to believe, are the standard middle-class neighborhoods that are full of kids. I'm wondering if there's some unspoken competition going on for Best Haunted House, Best Mums, and Best Halloween Handful. We went to such a neighborhood last night, and the kids racked up.

I'm always a little sad, though, that I can't stay home and hand out candy. Nobody comes to our house, because it's a quarter mile away from anyone else's. And then that person's house is a quarter mile from anyone's. It may sound silly, but I would LOVE to stay home and pass out Halloween goodies to adorably decked out kids.

I would make the best little Halloween goody bags, filled with a cool mixture of useless plastic things and truly excellent candy--Reeses' Cups, and Twix. No Tootsie Rolls for me. My yard would be decorated with all of those cool Halloween things...if there were a competition for best decorations, I'd win it for sure. I'm just saying. I'd probably even have a table with hot chocolate.

But alas, it is not to be. When you trade the neatly ordered driveways of a neighborhood for wide open spaces, there are certain things you lose. Neighbors, for one. Instead of little Johnny just running over after school, you carefully coordinate playdates that work with everyone's schedules. Instead of impromptu backyard barbeques, your community becomes your church, and groups of friends with whom you (again) carefully orchestrate lunch dates and girls' nights.

You lose the motivation of someone else's perfect lawn spurring your husband (or yourself) to measure up.

You make up for it in other ways, though. There's that whole "wide-open" thing. Instead of the neighbor's teenage son blaring his stereo, you get to listen to a symphony of squirrel and bird chatter. No one cares if your yard is less than perfect. You're left alone, for the most part, to go your own way and do your own thing, with no subtle community pressure to be a "joiner". You can sip your morning coffee in your underwear in the front yard, and no one would be the wiser. (Not that I do that, of course.)

So. I suppose I'm trading goody bags for peace and solitude. I guess I can deal.

The Slacker Mom and Her Offspring

Pin It I am such a slacker.

I admit it: I just plain stink at this whole "trying to live life as usual while pregnant" thing.

I can't even seem to blog about anything except being pregnant. I'm sorry, really I am.

I apologize profoundly for my slacker-ness (read: not blogging, cleaning, doing laundry, exercising, or anything else remotely productive) but let's face it--I can't see it changing any time soon.

Energy levels are at an all-time low, which essentially means if I have the choice of sleeping or scrubbing a toilet, I will choose sleep every time. Add in the fact that I cannot take my ADD medication, and you have a complete Slug. It's so bad, I actually had Lawson bend down to pluck a can of chicken gravy off of the bottom grocery store shelving unit this afternoon...I just felt it would require too much effort to lever myself back up.

Now, theoretically, I know that it is indeed possible to live life normally while pregnant. I understand that you can exercise (in fact, you should exercise), you can bend and straighten, mop the floors, haul laundry out of the washer, and do any number of other things.

I just don't want to. I want to revel in my first trimester fatigue, and have an excuse to block out the world for a little while with a nap. (Do you know how long it's been since I took a nap? When I was pregnant with Lawson. That's eight-plus napless years, folks. ) I want to delight in my awkwardness and shifting center of balance, and baby it with frequent "feet up" moments. I want to concentrate on gestating with minimal interruptions.

Now, this is very difficult to do when there are two smallish humans who have become pretty well established as your kids. Lawson is entering the world of "you're so cute; will you be my special friend?" with the little girls in his class, and is requiring many lessons in how-to-talk-to-girls. Autumn is entering the world of we-must-straighten-the-hair-and-find-the-perfect-polish before school every morning. I love that Lawson comes to me for these man-to-Mom talks, and that Autumn wants my fashion advice. Their interruptions of my Gestational Concentration are fierce and lovely and anything but minimal.

That's okay, though. It's funny...I think I want to focus so intently upon this time because, having been there before, I remember all too clearly how fleeting it is. And this time, it's not miserable for me. I'm not assaulted with nausea and/or puking 24/7. While a little draggy, I'm not finding it necessary to slip into a coma to cope. So instead of shutting my small humans out in favor of hermetically celebrating this bond I'm forming with this new small human within me, I'm bringing them in to share it.

Showing them the illustrations, and measuring a growing distance between our forefingers and thumbs. Discussing names. Letting them laugh at my awkwardness, and enlisting their help.

I love that they're willing to help, and so ready to celebrate with me.

And I promise that I'll try to write about something other than being pregnant next week. I'm kind of in a one-track-rut right now. :)

Solid Gold: Just a Little Funny

Pin It I missed Lawson's Saturday morning soccer match this past weekend...I was off in Roanoke, enjoying some inspirational and kid-free time at the Extraordinary Women conference. When I returned, though, we all piled in the car to go out for a family supper.

Duane peered into the rear-view mirror. "Hey, Lawson. Did you tell Mama about your soccer game?"

"I blocked three goals!"

"Wow!" I murmured. "That's awesome, Lawson."

Duane snickered. "Tell her how you blocked the goals."

Lawson smiled placidly. "With my guts."

"With your guts?!" Autumn giggled.

"I think it was a little lower than your guts, son."

"Well...yeah..."

Duane was busting up at the memory. "He doubled over, said 'uuuuuhhhhh,' and was rolling around on the ground. The ball was just beside him, but he had stopped the goal...I said 'get the ball, son! Get the ball!"

Lawson laughed. "And I did!"

I looked askance at my husband. "I am surprised you are finding such a thing funny, being a guy and all. 'Get the ball!?' Really?"

He shook his head, still laughing.

We were all silent for a few minutes, until Lawson finally broke the quiet. "I told Coach I was going to ask Santa for a pair of solid gold underwear."

I'm not sure if Santa will be able to find a pair of solid gold underpants, but she sure will look.

Pants on Fire

Pin It I'm having some issues with one of Autumn's teachers.

Issues that cause me to send emails, make phone calls, and schedule conferences with the principal.

I'm trying to be nice (well. okay. maybe not "nice," per se. I'm trying to be civil.) but what do you do when your child comes to you and tells you that a teacher is just plain mean. Not once. Not twice. Several times.

There was the whole "if you don't stop taking notes, your life is going to get really bad, really fast" comment. And now "shut up" and "you kids are the dumbest ones I've ever taught." There's a good friend, who teetered on the edge of pulling her child totally out of this teacher's class, but in the end decided against it, because it would necessitate changing his whole "team" of teachers. There are the parents from the past, who have informed me that this person has been in three or four different schools in the past eleven years, and that I should save every piece of paper because a grade may not be entered in the gradebook.

I've never had an issue like this with a teacher before. The teachers both of my children have had have been amazing. They have cared about their students, contacted me immediately if there were concerns with homework or whatnot. They've been the kind of teachers that you really just had to buy a Christmas present for...that good. This one, though, is a different animal.

It's a case right now of "she said"..."she said," in which the teacher is saying that what Autumn said occurred absolutely did not occur. Perception is a curious thing. Depending on what side of the fence you're sitting, I suppose that different words and intonations can carry different meanings for individuals. There's unfotunately not a lot of ambiguity in "shut up," though. I feel fairly solid as far as what Autumn is telling me. I can generally spot a lie from this child ten miles out--she's that terrible. In the passage of this story, though, told several different times to both her father and myself, there was no guilty shifting of the eyes or body language to indicate a falsehood. She looked at us straight on, and told us exactly the same details, time and again.

Someone, though, is clearly not telling the truth.

It will be interesting to see just whose pants are on fire at Thursday morning's conference.

Babies

Pin It I'm watching Babies, which came out some time ago and I've only now bothered to view. It follows the infancy of several babies, each from a different culture. Showcased is Africa, rural Mongolia, urban Japan, and the United States.

It's fascinating.

While the differences in cultures are remarkably, sometimes painfully portrayed, the babies themselves are almost interchangeable.

The babies in Mongolia are driven around, with their toddler siblings, on motorcycles. They mouth wafers, and tug on the tail of the cat that lives with them. They gaze in wonder upon the rooster that visits them in their bed, strutting along the edge of the mattress curiously. As they grow older, they are actually leashed to the bed post, with just enough room to play with a roll of toilet paper upon the floor.

The babies in Africa roll, gleeful and naked, around in dirt, lowering their faces to mouth up whatever might be laying around. They wear no diapers, stick their hands in the mouths of the canines that live with them, and battle each other for a worn out plastic water bottle. Their bottoms are wiped dry with a corn cob, which is then tossed back into the dirt. There are no fathers present.

The babies in America and Japan are cocooned in webs of protection--car seats, a neatly vacuumed floor, sterilized bottles. They are carefully weighed and measured each month. They have bedrooms and cribs, brightly decorated with stimulating articles. They are read to, and played with, by both mother and father. They belong to Mommy and Me groups, where they look with disdain upon the woman singing strange things and making weird faces.

All, though, are curious explorers of the worlds around them. They converse with expression and attempts at language with their caregivers. They do the same "I'm sleepy" eye rub, and throw the same tantrums over an uncooperative toy. They stand to walk on the same tottering legs, and clap hands proudly when they succeed. They cry, gurgle, giggle, and coo just like their counterparts around the world.

They're really kind of an amazing look at the wonder and marvel it is to be human.

Riding the Wave

Pin It I've been riding a wave for quite some time now. It tosses me up to its crest for days of positivity and then rips me back into an anxious, despairing trough. I can see the shore in the distance, sunshine glinting on a white sand beach, but no matter how hard I try, I just can't quite get there. For every stroke I make, there's a counter-tug of the current that pulls me back.

It has sucked.

I've wanted to plant my feet on that sand so badly for so long that I've been consumed by it. My yearning has been so single-minded that I've avoided or neglected many other aspects of my normal self. I couldn't think about other things. There just wasn't enough room in my ocean.

Don't get me wrong. I've taken care of business. I've paid the bills, put supper on the table, tended to the children, washed the clothes, cleaned the toilets...I've tried to distract myself with soccer practices and Youth meetings and a new meatloaf recipe, but a part of me--some would say the most significant part of me--was off riding a wave. Wondering if this would finally be my time to land, all briny and flushed with exhausted triumph, on that beach.

I'm finally there: two beautiful pink lines on a pee stick.

Some of you, that remember http://hintonrae.wordpress.com/2010/04/03/beauty-from-ashes/ , are probably wondering what the heck happened. Why have I been yearning after a baby all this time, when I made this decision to shut the door on that? That's a long story, and really the only one I've been able to write much on in the past several months. It's where my heart has been, plain and simple. I'll post a bit at a time, once I've done a little editing, to my own blog. To be very brief, I never really felt as though giving up was what the Lord wanted me to do in this situation. I prayed ceaselessly for wisdom for both Duane and myself, and ultimately Duane ended up agreeing to give me a little more time. Rather grudgingly, but still... My two pink lines are a testament to God's faithfulness.

The Life of Riley

Pin It According to my husband, I have the life of Riley.

I'm not really sure who Riley is, but he (or she) stays home and does whatever the heck he (or she) wants to do, whenever the heck he (or she) wants to do it. And writes blog posts in between.

Now, I could lie and tell you that this was said very gently, as to not hurt my feelings, but you may recall that we have been married for fifteen years. There's a certain syllogism there that many of you may be familiar with. Where there is marriage, there is discord. Where there is fifteen years of marriage, there is voluble discord.

So I have the life of Riley. I get to get up past the bootie crack of dawn, I get to work out, I get to take lunch whenever I want, I get to watch Tivo'd television, play on the computer, and...there was something else. Oh, yeah--take a nap if I want to take a nap. AS IF.

All of this was to say, simply, would I please just put his underwear in his drawer while I am busy having my life of Riley. I have no problem with that, really. It's just that...dang. Laundry is just so futile. You wear it, toss it in the hamper, sort it, wash it, dry it, fold it, sort it, and store it neatly in the correct drawer, and within a day or two, it's right back in the hamper. I mean, really. What's the point? Why can't you just pick it up off the floor from it's neatly folded stack?

It's kind of like making the bed. What is the point of making the bed in the morning, anyway? You're just going to un-make it and mess it all up around twelve hours later.

I don't think I really have the life of Riley, though. Staying home is tougher than people think. Cleaning toilets...total ick. And working out: I tried it once and I was sore for three days. I don't think I'm cut out for it.* And then, you have to be super-organized and remember things like when the kids' lunch accounts are about to run out, and which days the one has soccer practice and the other has tumbling, and which days you're supposed to carpool with Cici, and then there are Truly Terrible Things like cleaning monsters from the refrigerator...

All he ever sees, though, is me in a puddle at the end of the day. Maybe I should save all of the hard labor for the four-o'clock hour?




*And actually, I'm totally teasing. An awesome, quick workout is Jillian Michaels' 20-minute, 30-Day Shred. She'll kick your butt for around 4 days, but then you'll get into a good groove and stop feeling like you're going to die and start feeling like you may possibly make it.

Back To School

Pin It The house is a little too quiet. No t.v. murmuring from the playroom, no DS pinging from under the kitchen table, no voices raised in perpetual disagreement or simple Zip It and Hear. Me. Now. I have managed, in the few brief hours I've been awake, to shower, make up my face (because the real one is just not good enough, folks), dress in real clothing with zippers and buttons and things, eat breakfast, go by the bank and the post office, dust, vaccuum, and mop two rooms in my home, answer my email, clean a toilet, load a dishwasher, do a load of laundry, make a bed, and exercise.

Oh, and write half a blog post.

This is madness. This is wonderful.

This is the first day of school.

Would I be a bad mother if I said I'm sort of enjoying this solitude? This lovely peace and tranquility that is my home, with my cinnamon scented candles and quietly snoozing dog? My newly polished floors that will not have a gob of jelly on them until after 3:30 p.m.? Is that a bad thing?

Should I feel guilty for allowing a tiny sigh to escape as I settle down for a few moments to enjoy a little mug of tea, knowing that the only interruption might be a ringing telephone, which I can easily ignore if I so choose?

Nah. I worked hard, all summer long, for this mug of tea. I earned this mug of tea. I deserve to enjoy this mug of tea. And darn it all...I kind of...sort of...miss the little boogers. I'm wondering how Autumn is doing with her lock. She practiced all the way to middle school this morning, using the round air vent in the car as a pretend-lock, turning thrice to the right, twice to the left, once more the right. I wish I could be there to help her.

I wonder if Lawson has found a new buddy in his class, seeing as how his best friend Corb is in a different second grade class this year. Heartbreaking! It killed me. I almost requested a change of teacher, but then I stopped, considered that this was a character building experience for my son. Boys can act so tough, and yet be so fragile. I hope he's having a good day.

I bet it's pretty loud in those schools. I did mention that it was too quiet in this house, didn't I?

The Things We Do For Love

Pin It Nothing has the potential to make a fool out of you like motherhood. We're talking big ole scarlet M emblazoned across the chest Motha-in-the-Hood. It's a disease, I think. An illness that seeps into your bloodstream as swiftly as the hormones build during pregnancy. Its hallmarks are a cheerful abandon of any and all energy, dense volunteerism of time, and extreme amnesia when it comes to actual experience. I've got it in spades.

Tuesday marks the first day of fall soccer practice for Lawson. We'll battle into cleats and shin guards, pack him onto the field with his well-loved blue ball, and settle in for two days of practice plus one game per week.



It's a familiar routine: while the children practice the adults settle in on the sidelines with camp chairs, bottles of Gatorade, cameras, and cell phones for texting during the truly tedious moments. The only difference is that this year I will not be sitting on the sidelines in my comfy camp chair with the other parents.



I will be coaching instead.



As I know absolutely nothing about soccer, this falls under the category of Stupid Things I've Volunteered To Do In My Life. (Which, incidentally, is how I could categorize most things I've volunteered to do, but let's not go there while I'm bashing myself over this current operation.) I did try to tell the individual organizing the league this minor fact, but apparently he was in dire need of coaches, and any warm body would do. It really did not matter that the only thing I know about a soccer ball is that it is significantly harder than a volleyball, and you should absolutely refrain from setting it with your fingers, or passing it with your forearms.



So I am the U8 warm body for Lawson's team. I'm currently trying to figure out the difference between a forward and a center, much to my husband's amusement, and reminding myself daily that it's all about having fun at this level. Or so I've been told. That wasn't totally the sense of things I got when I went to pick up the balls and walked into a room full of very intense looking men talking about past years and people I didn't know.



I got a really bad feeling when the room fell silent and I noted that I was the only one wearing stacked heels. Of course, I was the only female, but still. A little synchronicity would've been nice.



But that's okay. Lawson's excited that his mommy is his Coach. Let's just hope that his team doesn't end up the Bad News Bears of the soccer league.