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The Last Time?

I always told people I wanted “at least 3 kids.”

Granted, I didn’t expect to have ALL THREE before I turned 28, but nevertheless.  Here I sit.  Three kids.

Sometimes when I told people that I wanted “at least 3 kids” they would tell me, “You say that now – just wait ’til you HAVE ONE.”  When I was pregnant they added, “You might change your mind after labor!”  (Which, by the way, is a really stupid thing to tell a pregnant woman.)

10 minutes after delivering Madeline I looked Dan square in the eyes and said,

“Just so you know, that wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t do it again.”

After we’d lived with a baby for a little while, and especially after we received Madeline’s diagnosis, people continued to ask, and my answer never changed.

“Yes, I want more.  Yes, I want at least 3 children.  Yes, I’m sure.“

“Just wait,” they said.
“Wait until you have two,” they said.
“Then you’ll see,” they said.

I smiled politely and suppressed the urge to roll my eyes.

PSA:  Please, parents, stop telling people in different stages of life to “Just wait.”  It’s kind of patronizing and rude and it never, ever makes anyone feel better about anything.  Stop saying “Wait ’til you have two, wait ’til you have three, wait ’til they start walking, wait ’til they start throwing tantrums, wait ’til they’re teenagers.”  If you want a cookie, just ask for one.  But stop telling everyone else to “just wait…”

Thank you.
Now back to your regularly scheduled blog post.

In the delivery room, holding Sam for the first time, I knew:  I’m not done.  I’m not done being pregnant.  I’m not done having kids.  This family is beautiful and perfect, but it is not finished.

As I sit here, 36 weeks pregnant with my third child, for the very first time in my life, if someone asked me if I thought I’d have more kids I’d have to answer honestly,

“I don’t know.”

I know that I don’t not want more kids.  But this is the first time I’ve not known with certainty that I do.   This is the first time I’ve even been able to entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, I won’t be pregnant again.

And now, the what-ifs that tag along behind “the unknown” are here en force.

As our little boy gets bigger and bigger, as this pregnancy draws nearer and nearer the end, I can’t help but think:

Could this be the last time I feel a baby do a somersault inside of me?
The last day he bumbles around for 30 minutes straight?
The last time I sit on the couch and watch my belly twitch?
The last time I feel the  l o n g,  s l o w  rolls?
The last time I push down and find a foot, or feel a knee bend beneath the pressure of my hand?
Could this be the last time my womb is full?

I don’t know.
It might be.

That is maddening to me.

Pregnancy is hard for a lot of reasons, but to think that this might be the last tiny baby that I whisper private whispers to, the last baby that lives on the inside of me before he lives on the outside of me, the last baby that sticks his toes up into my rib cage – it makes me stop.

I know that, sooner or later, this too shall pass – this season of baby-bearing.  God knows I won’t miss 98% of it.  At the risk of sounding terribly, awfully, embarrassingly vain – I mostly want my body back.  My breasts have been completely out of control for the last five years (and don’t even bother making cheeky comments like “share the wealth,” because believe me when I say:  if I could afford the surgery, it would have been done yesterday).

But to think that this could be my last tiny little baby makes me forget about the giant bras and maternity pants.  It makes me forget, if only for a minute, the discomfort and fatigue.

Because I’ll never know whether or not this is the last walloping kick before he’s born.  The last walloping kick ever?

This is the trouble of having to live life forwards instead of backwards – we just can’t know.  I could never have known “This is the last time Madeline will fall asleep on my shoulder.” I don’t even know when that happened, but somewhere along the way – it did.   I could never have known, “This is the last time I’ll swaddle Sam.  The last time I’ll nurse him.”  I’ll never know when it’s going to be the last time he will call me “Mmmmmm” instead of Ma-ma  -  then Mommy, then Mom.  It just…happens.  They grow up.

I suppose I’m feeling extra nostalgic, not because this is my last baby, but because it might be.

And so – I’ll just soak it up.  I’ll cry because I’m so happy with this little boy floating around inside of me.  I’ll try to memorize every sensation and know that, in 30 years, despite my best efforts, I won’t be able to recall it, not perfectly anyway.

I won’t wish him born, or wish to not be popping quite so many Tums, or wish for my face to stop puffing up with swelling and baby weight.  I’ll just love it – because I can only live life forward, so I’m going to live it.

(7 months pregnant with Madeline.  At the time I thought this was a “big” belly.  Oh, firstborns.)

(5 months pregnant with Sam.)

(8.5 months pregnant with little brother.)

The Pregnant Sadist

Next week I enter “the home stretch.”

For those of you who have not been 36 weeks pregnant before, the “home stretch” is the time when kind, nurturing mothers turn into sadists.

At 36 weeks, it is not enough for my husband to be kind to me.  It is not enough for him to be patient and “understanding.”  It is not even enough for him to bring me dinner and rub my back.  No,

I want him to KNOW. 

When Dan tells me that I’m awesome for carrying this baby, I want him to know just exactly how right he is.

It would bring me great, immeasurable joy for Dan to feel my pain.

(Did you think I was kidding? Because I’m talking about actual sadism here.)

Now – I don’t want him to experience the home stretch symptoms all at once – that’s too easy, like diving into the deep end of a cold pool.  I want to introduce each malady separately, to give him a minute to “appreciate” each one.

I would start with fatigue.  Third trimester fatigue.  A fatigue that no long day at work, no string of sleepless nights could ever match.  A fatigue that clouds your head and your eyes so thickly that you have to lean on the walls to remain upright – flopping back and forth between furniture and major appliances just to keep from breaking your nose when you do a narcoleptic face-plant into the living room floor.  And mid-yawn, just when he’s thinking, “Sweet Lord,  I’ve never been this tired in my life…,” BAM!  I’m going to hit him with the pelvic pressure.

You know, the hip-widening.  When you feel like your hip bones are grinding against each other as if they are being forced apart by an unyielding foreign object – which they are.  When his hazy brain wraps itself around the sensation of grinding bones and the suspicion that all his organs are about to fall out of his pelvic floor, I’ll add the back pain.

The lower back pain that aches whether you sit, stand, squat, lie down, or hang by your toes.  The kind that is only alleviated by floating in a large body of water, because that is the only way to lighten the 30lb load hanging off the front of your torso, dangling by your back muscles all day long.

Once he’s wrapped his mind around the fatigue, the hip-widening, and the lower back ache, I would like for his sciatic nerve to shoot a lightning bolt down his leg once every hour or so – just to keep him on his toes.  I would also introduce intermittent punches to his bladder and imaginary cervix at this time.  I would be even happier if he peed himself a little bit.

Now that all of that is going on, I would like for the lower right quadrant of his abdomen to become completely numb, like a dead foot that won’t wake up no matter how creatively he tries to contort himself to restore circulation.  This way his entire torso, back-to-front, top-to-bottom, would be in a total state of disaster.

You see how much he would miss if I just flipped a “symptoms on” switch?  He would just think his abdomen was wigging out.  Yes, it is much better this way.

Next, I would like for him to experience one minute of false labor.  I think a single, 60-second contraction should do it.  I want him to feel like everything from his ribs down to his man-parts is seizing up.  A strange sensation at first, then uncomfortable, then worrisome, then “WHAT THE…I CAN’T WALK!”

At this point he’s probably forgotten about the fatigue, but is very confused about what is happening to his body.  With all the leg/pelvic/lower back/abdominal pain he probably suspects he has a large tumor growing right between his hips (interestingly, right about where a uterus would be).

Next I would like to introduce swelling.  I would like for his hands and feet to become white-hot and itchy, and for his skin to feel so tight that he is actually afraid that it might split open – like in that disturbing scene from Seven.

After the swelling,  I would introduce the heartburn.  It should be incessant, as if his stomach were being forced back up his esophagus by an unyielding foreign object, which it is.  I would like for a little bit of lunch/gastric acid to make it all the way into his mouth every time he leans forward or bends over, angering the foreign object.

Okay, so we have fatigue, hip-widening, lower back pain, shooting sciatic nerve, bladder punches, numb torso, a mild contraction, swelling in the extremities, and persistent heartburn.  I think all we’re missing is a wicked, wicked Charlie Horse.

One so fierce that he can SEE THE MUSCLE crumpling up underneath his skin like a fleshy sink hole.  I would like for him to claw the sheets and scream a little bit, and I would like his calf to be sore for at least 3 days.  It should be the worst muscle contraction ever – except for uterine contractions, which won’t  arrive for another 4 weeks.

At this point I’d like for him to be crying, and when he tries to explain his frustration to someone, I hope they tell him,

“Poor thing, you’re so emotional right now.”

I hope this ENRAGES HIM.  Unfortunately he’ll be so emotional that he won’t be able to punch them, he’ll just burst into tears afresh.

I think that should about cover it!

Pregnant women in the home stretch, does that not sound like your wildest dream come true?!?

Here’s the best part.  Right as he’s maneuvering himself onto the couch to turn on ESPN – as he’s trying to figure out a way to lie on his left side and simultaneously prop up his heartburn-y chest and his swollen feet – right as he’s beginning to close his exhausted eyes, wishing he could take something stronger than a Tylenol, I would like to come into the room and say,

“Hey, honey!  Here are the kids!  They’re really excited to play with you ALL DAY LONG.  Madeline wants you to get out her play-doh, but you have to make sure Sam doesn’t get it and carry it into the living room because that will make Madeline scream, plus the play-doh will get smushed into the carpet and won’t ever come out.  They’re both a little grumpy because they need to eat, but there’s plenty of stuff in the fridge for lunch! You’ll figure something out!  There’s a load of laundry that needs to move from the washer to the dryer, but you’ll have to fold the stuff in the dryer first.  Welp, I’m off to work!  Oh, and don’t forget to make tea for our small group tonight!

Okay, bye!”

I am smiling a big Grinch-smile just thinking about it.

You all pray for my husband over the next 4 weeks, he’s living with a pregnant sadist.

 

**I would like to be clear:  Dan has never spoken the above paragraph to me.  In fact, he LEFT DURING THE SUPERBOWL to go bring me a milkshake.  This post isn’t about a state of affairs, it’s about the crazy sadism that sneaks into every single mother in the history of ever at 36 weeks pregnant.  It’s about the common experience – the phenomenon.  Also, my husband rocks.  Thanks, Mgmt.**

Braille, yo!

Hello, my name is Kate, and I am a braggy mom.

I had to – HAD TO – share this video of Madeline practicing her tracking and her sight words tonight.

Not from memory, not using her vision.
This is legit braille reading, y’all, and this momma is proud.

(Apparently proud makes me speak southern.)

YouTube Preview Image

(Yes, Sam is systematically emptying the entire pantry in the background of this video.  I promise we feed him.)

 

Ophthalmologist

I’m 27 years old, I have a college education, I’ve been raising a daughter who sees a dozen vision specialists every year, and I JUST NOW learned how to spell the word “ophthalmologist.”  There is an extra “h” in there, and an “l.”  For the longest time I could remember one superfluous letter, but two was too much.  NO MORE!  I must be growing up.

This morning Madeline had her yearly check-up, and today was the first time I didn’t go with her.  There were lots of reasons, including Sam’s schedule, writing work, rush hour in ATL, and more.  It was the best of all our options, but there have been lots of Mom-tears over the last 48 hours.

I got up at 5:20.

I’m sorry, did that not resonate with you?

I GOT UP AT 5:20.  That is how much I love my child.

Madeline was in remarkably good spirits considering I normally have to lure her out of her bed with breakfast foods.  A trail of little zucchini muffins all the way from her bedside into the living room, like Hansel and Gretel.  Madeline does a lot of things well; waking up is not one of them.

I put her in her Light Up The Darkness shirt, because it brought me joy.  It brought Madeline joy too, until she got in the car and realized that her shirt did not actually light up the darkness.

Dan put me on speakerphone when the doctor came in, and I went crazy-mom.  I asked every question that Dan had already asked and gave him way too much information/opinion/commentary about the size, shape, color, distance, contrast, and velocity of every single object Madeline appeared to have noticed in the last 365 days.

I birthed her; such is my right.

This was the first check up where Madeline was verbal enough and cooperative enough to give us some solid information.  As in, “Yes I can see that letter.”  This was the first check up where they were able to check each eye individually.  It was the first check-up without me.  The first check-up that we did not have to man-handle her little head into that giant machine with the chin-rest.   Big day.

Madeline was chipper, enthusiastic, vocal, and cooperative.  She is the best.

Her greatest disappointment of the day was not the early rising, the drive, or even the eye drops; it was that her class was learning about spiders today, as this is “creepy crawly insect” week at school, and she had to miss it.  She requested that I go to the library and get “a really good book about spiders” while she was at her appointment.  I will oblige.  Because I love my child.

Here are some quick thoughts about vision loss today:

1. It’s okay with me if Madeline never sees any better than she can right now.  That’s called peace, and it’s amazing.

2. Madeline continues to blow everyone’s socks off with how well she uses her functional vision.  No vision teacher or doctor has ever interacted with her and not left astounded.

3. I wish that you could know how it feels for me to sing the words to Amazing Grace.  I wish that you could feel the anguish and joy of “was blind but now I see.”  Or to read Psalm 139: “The night will shine like the day for darkness is as light to You.”  Or 1 Peter 2:9: “…That you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light.” Or any one of the hundred other references in scripture to our lost-in-the-sin-sick-darkness and to God’s bright and morning star, light-of-the-worldness.

Everybody can experience God’s bright rescue – Dan and I don’t have any advantage in that department.  You certainly don’t need a child with vision loss to feel the deep, deep darkness in your soul or to see it in the world.

But - we do have the great privilege of seeing blindness, literally, every day.  We get to see how it affects everything.  We understand the fullness of joy we would experience if our daughter’s vision were completely restored – if she could see like we can see; we can access that emotion easily.  I was thinking about this just the other day, about how badly I want to be there when Madeline sees, fully, for the first time.  I want to watch her face.  That thought/emotion is never far beneath the surface.

Because of our understanding of literal blindness, we are able to translate that insight and emotion to spiritual blindness.  We can apply what we know (feelings of grief, loss, anger, injustice, hopelessness, desperation, dependence, need for healing) to our own spiritual condition.  Like copy/paste.  When God says that our eyes are blinded by sin and mortal-humanness, that we live in darkness – we are fortunate enough to understand the level of lostness and need that He’s getting at.  I get what what happen if Madeline wandered out of the yard; I have to push the thought out of my mind often because the fear is not healthy.  It would be dangerous for any child, but magnified for my darling.  She could not see roads, cars, ditches or ant hills.  Unlike most school-age children, she could not find her way home.

Oh, we understand fully, the depth and desperation of our need.

And therefore, we are able to understand the sweetness of The Light.  

This is why I cannot read a single verse or sing a single stanza about God opening the eyes of the blind, or delivering us from darkness to light, without crying.   I never have to pause and imagine what that would feel like – I already know.

The Light feels like – like joy so full it makes your ribs ache.  Like a thousand tongues to sing a thousand praises would never be enough.  Like body-rocking-sobs.  Like relief so big that your knees give out and you fall on your face because you can’t stand up under the goodness of it.

It feels like glory.

It feels like salvation- because that’s exactly what it is.  

“You are a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness and into his marvelous light…once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found; was blind, but now I see.”

Michael Jordan and Grandma

With this post I hereby declare a blog series on strong women.   Not motherhood or house wifery or gender roles, but on crazy-strong, pioneering, brave, practical, funny, interesting women.  In the next few posts I’ll tell you how badly I want to talk to Hillary Clinton and about what.  I’ll tell you what I want to learn from Britney Spears.  I’ll share stories about beating cancer and not beating cancer, about speaking up and shutting up, about raising ten kids and about trailblazing career paths in male-dominated fields.  I invite you to join in the conversation, share your heroines with me, and celebrate these women that make me proud to be a girl.

Here goes.

_____________________________________________

While we were in North Carolina over the holidays, Dan got the flu or something like it.  He laid on the couch in a near comatose state for three days without so much as a dinner break.  ESPN was on the entire time (obviously) and not long into his couch-laying a commercial featuring Michael Jordan came on.

To be more specific, it was footage of the 1997 NBA finals game in which Michael Jordan had the flu.  During what is now known as “The Flu Game,” Michael Jordan scored 38 points, finished with 7 rebounds, 5 assists, 3 steals and 1 block.

Dan watched this commercial, turned his groggy head toward me and croaked,

“Well, now I feel like a giant pansy.”

I share this for two reasons.

1. My husband is funny.

2. This is precisely how I feel when I think about my Grandma Canfield.  I feel like parenthood is the flu; it makes things hard sometimes, so I moan and take medicine (which is representative of lots of coffee and Chick-Fil-A in this analogy) and write blog posts about surviving, while, two generations ago, my grandmother was raising NINE children without the conveniences of fast food drive-thrus, microwaves, disposable diapers, or dishwashers.  She was the Michael Jordan of mothers, and I am a giant pansy.

This came to mind a lot last month, as Dad and I talked about his mother, my Grandma.

My Grandma, Juanita Fern, had 10 children.  Numbers 5 and 6 were twins, and her eighth died at birth.  I cannot wrap my mind around that kind of heartbreak.  There can’t be more than 14 or so years between all of them, which means that at one point, she had my dad as an infant (who would be diagnosed with polio at 10 months old), the twins still in diapers, and FOUR MORE as three through seven-year-olds.  INFANT.  TWINS IN DIAPERS.  FOUR OTHER KIDS.  I didn’t take time to do the actual birthday math, but can you even imagine?  Can you imagine the noise?

Oh, and then she was pregnant three more times and raised two more children.  No big deal.

Dad has memories of bags full of ironing sitting at her feet as she stood there: all-day-ironing.  He can picture the entire back yard filled with dozens and dozens of cloth diapers drying on clotheslines, like a forest.   He’s told me about the home-cooked meals they had every night, and about how his older sisters used to feed and rock the babies.

This is a picture of my Grandma’s oldest 6, my aunts and uncles:  Ron, Cheryl (with her hair beautifully braided), Dave, Patti, and the twins, Jan and Judy, as babies (one of their little bald heads is at the bottom of the photo).

 

 And Madeline thinks that Sam is crowding her personal space in the bathtub.  She could use a quick lesson in the relativity of bathtub space.

The older I get, the more I wish I had the opportunity to know my Grandma as an adult (she died when I was 8).  I wish that I could talk to her about marriage.  About a husband whose job is ministry.  I want to talk to her about finding joy and fulfillment in mundane tasks.  About finding your identity in Christ.  I wish I could learn from her about diligence and hard work.  I wish I could watch her cook.  I wish I could learn about patience, parenting, priorities, and letting the little things go.  I wish I could talk to her about heritage – about the extraordinary blessing of many children and grandchildren.  I wish I could talk to her about parenting a child with a disability.  I wish I could talk to her about loss, trial, tribulation – about strength – about surviving some stuff.

When I think about women who must have a backbone made of solid steel, my Grandma Canfield is one of the first to come to mind.  She was the Michael Jordan of mothers, and I’m so proud to say that I come from that kind of stock.

______________________________

Who is your Michael Jordan?  Whose accomplishments (at work, home, play, or legacy) inspire you (and also sometimes make you feel like a giant pansy)?  Comment to share!

In Which Madeline Inherited My Math Skills

The following conversation indicates that Madeline inherited my math skills.

Madeline:  Maybe the air will stay in the balloons for ONE HUNDRED WEEKS!

Me:  One hundred weeks is two years.

Madeline:  Why is one hundred weeks the same as two years?

Me:  Well, that’s just what it adds up to be!  There are seven days in one week.  And there are 365 days in one year.  That means that there are 52 weeks in one year.

And 50 + another 50 = 100.  So if 52 weeks equals ONE year, that means that 100 weeks is about TWO years.  Because twice as many weeks equals twice as many years!

(long pause)

Madeline:  I don’t think you’re making any sense.

Me either, baby.  Me either.

 

I Was There

Today was the fourth and final celebration of Madeline’s fifth birthday: the school party.

You must know that Madeline’s school is militant about what kinds of foods parents are allowed to bring to a party.  They pass out a supplemental nutrition form in the beginning of the year, which parents must turn in and receive approval for at least a week in advance.  Foods with any amount of fat or sugar get the axe.  Cupcakes and ice cream need not apply.

This is an actual excerpt from the “suggested food for a birthday party” list:

Small deli wraps or sandwiches
Whole grain or fruit muffins
Vegetable sticks with dip
Sugar-free Jello snacks
Sugar-free Angel Food Cake with fruit
Yogurt
Milk

Thanks a lot, Michelle Obama.

I was requesting permission to bring in little bags of 99% fat free Kettle Corn and cups of mandarin oranges when I found a note in Madeline’s folder which read:

We will be having our Christmas party on Monday, December 17.  If you would like to bring something for the class, feel free to do so.  This is one of the few days a year that we are allowed to have sweets.  We have 10 boys and 7 girls in our class.

You better believe I wrote a note to the teacher and hitched Madeline’s shindig to that party faster than you can say “cupcakes.”

(Although, I was not allowed to MAKE CUPCAKES without going through 14,596 miles of red tape.  I had to buy cupcakes that had a list of ingredients on the package, which is incidentally less healthy, more expensive, and also tastes gross – but whatever.)

Things got interesting when, 45 minutes before I had to BE at school, I impulsively decided to make cupcake toppers.  These were not just Christmas party cupcakes, these were “Celebrating Madeline Who, Five Years Ago, Was Born With Sparkle In Her Veins” cupcakes, and I could not have them getting lumped in with the Cheetos and Christmas cookies.

Nevermind that I hadn’t showered or eaten, and, like Sam, was still in my pajamas.   Where there’s a will there’s a way, and I have nothing if I don’t have will.

I parked Sam in his high chair munching a piece of toast and watching Veggie Tales Christmas movies and got busy.

I traced lumpy circles around my pepper shaker with a broken red crayon.  I cut out my circles, hot glued toothpicks to the backs of them, and then tried to write on the fronts with a Crayola marker – over the toothpick bumps.  So classy.

 

 

I am so sorry for the people that had to witness me running into Madeline’s school in the nick of time.  Picture this:

A very large pregnant woman who has not showered or brushed her hair in two days and is not wearing even the tiniest smidge of makeup.  She is wearing the same outfit that she has been wearing for the last two, now three, days (and this is not an exaggeration).  She has shoved two containers of store-bought cupcakes sideways into a bag which is slung over her shoulder, smashing all the icing, and she is carrying a baby on one hip.  The baby and the cupcakes are bumping along as she runs, panting, through the rain without an umbrella.

And so – I arrived to Madeline’s Christmas/Birthday party looking like a drowned rat.  A very pregnant drowned rat.

But I was there.

And when I walked in, my baby girl lit up and shouted, “MOM!!!!”

In that moment I felt no shame, no embarrassment, and no regret because I chose what mattered; I chose to be there.  I chose last-minute cupcake toppers over makeup.  I chose being on time over being late, and I’d do it a hundred times over.  This is what ultimately matters to our kids, this is what they’ll remember, whether or not we were there.

I am not a perfect mother, but I am a present mother, and at Madeline’s class Christmas party – I was there.

I would be happy if today were exactly how Madeline remembered me forever:  big, tired, a total mess, but there for her – on time and with cupcakes.

 

Sam

I’ve never written out a love letter to Sam, not in the way I’ve done for Madeline in the past.

The reason is, I was afraid that it would seem like he is my favorite.  I was afraid that if I was honest about how much I love him, it would make everyone question the love I have for my husband, for Madeline, for Jesus.

The thing is, when I think about how much I love Sam, the only words I can access are “favorite,” and “best.” If there were better words, words that could somehow simultaneously express how much I love Jesus and Dan and Madeline, I would use those words.  But I can’t think of any.

And today I decided that it would be an absolute shame, disgrace, failure in parenting if I never articulated how much I love my son just because it would sound too outlandish.  The love I have for him IS outlandish, and he should know that.  When I die, whenever that may be, I want him to have a written record, along with a giant box full of pictures, to remind him of just how madly and crazily in love with him I was.

So this is my love letter to my second child, my first son, Sam.

 

Sam, you are my best.

I tell you a hundred times every day, “You are it for me.  You have ruined me.  I am done.”

Sam, you changed everything.

You changed how I feel about having boys.  I wasn’t sure about boys.  I’d heard rumors about how much they love their mothers, how they are easier.  But I also know boys.  I know wild, rough and tumble, off-the-wall, uncontainable, uncontrollable boys that make babysitters call parents who are out on dates and say, “YOU HAVE TO COME GET THIS BOY.”   And, to be honest, I was nervous about changing diapers and circumcision and everything happening down there.

But you changed everything.  You ruined me.  Now I want only boys, boys forever.  But that’s not even true – I want only Sams, Sams forever.  I’ve wanted to freeze you at every stage of life, so that I could keep infant Sam, 4-month-Sam, 7-month, 10-month, and 14-month Sams.  You have always been perfect, and I cannot let you go.

You are the dangerous kind of baby, the kind of baby that makes me think that I could have a dozen more babies without batting an eyelash.  But it’s a gamble, because the next one might not be so easy.  Exhibit A: Your Sister.  She is also my favorite person and makes me crazy with love, but she is the most spirited creature I’ve ever been in contact with.  Wild mustangs are a distant second.  Gamble is not the right word, because if we have another Madeline, we win – but in the event that your little brother inherits her spirited gene, I’m going to need more coffee.

The precious thing is, she loves you will all of that spirit.  She cheers for you, loudly, every day.  “SAM LEARNED HOW TO SAY BYEEEEE!!!!! YAAAAAYYYYY SAMMMM!!!!”  She laughs at you and disobeys me constantly to do dangerous and unmannerly things that make you laugh.  She, too, is addicted to your giggle.  She, too, would do anything for it.  Anything for you.  She kisses you every night and tells you that she loves you.  Last night you leaned out of my arms into a very impressive back-bend and giggled as she kissed you all over your face and head.  You laughed and laughed together; she told how how cute you were, and you leaned further and further back for more kisses.

You changed how I feel about staying at home.  I want to be around you all the time; I have to tear myself away from you.  You are my best buddy.  Not my “buddy” as a term of endearment, but my buddy as in the person I want to be around the most.  We understand each other.  There is a knowing between us – a secret language.  We laugh together, like friends. I think that you have an old soul, and that our souls have been friends who love each other for a long time.

You are so affectionate it slays me.  You toddle up to me and lay your head on my knee, wrap your arms around my thigh, and pat me – a little Sam-hug.  You do this a couple times an hour, like you notice me sitting there and want to remind me every 20 minutes that you love me and that you’re my best.  You climb up into my lap a lot, because you’d prefer to be there than anywhere else.  I know that this will change, I’ve heard it does, as you become more adventurous, and that’s why I want to freeze you.  Because I might actually die inside the day you stop climbing into my lap for no reason.

I cannot keep my hands off of you.  I can’t stop combing your hair, squishing your arms, grabbing your fingers.  I can’t stop stroking your cheek and your back.  I can’t stop munching your toes and nibbling your ear lobes.  I can’t stop tickling you or hugging you or kissing you.  You are the softest, sweetest, most beautiful boy that has ever been. I cannot have you falling in love with another woman.  I absolutely cannot have it.  I am going to have to pray really hard about this for a lot of years in order to make peace with it.  But not yet.  I can’t even pray about it yet.  Maybe next year, but probably not then either.

I have dozens and dozens of pictures of the two of us with our faces smashed up against each other.  None of them are particularly flattering, because I take them with my phone, but it’s the closest thing I have to freezing you.  I’m very serious about this freezing thing.

 

I can’t remember ever having loved ANYTHING this much, ever.  I know I must have, because I love Jesus more than anything, and I love your Daddy so much it’s made me do more than a few crazy things in my life, and your sister – your sister made me a mommy and I have letter after letter about how desperately I love her.  But when I’m around you, I can’t love anything more than I love you.  You are a heart-stealer.

You are my buddy.  My darling.  My best.

You are it for me.  My favorite person.

I am so, so, so, so, so thankful that I had a boy.
I am so, so, so, so, so thankful that I had a Sam.

I love you with my whole heart, forever.  I will never stop loving you.
Mom

Woman vs. Kitchen: A New Venture

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One time, I set a kitchen­­­ towel on fire while making pasta.

Yes, pasta. The easiest food in culinary history (besides Pop-tarts).

Boil water.
Add pasta.
Pour out water.
Voila.

Somewhere in there I managed to drag a totally unnecessary kitchen towel over a burner and LEAVE IT THERE LONG ENOUGH for it to catch on fire. ­­­­ To my everlasting shame, there were three witnesses.

“Hate” is not a strong enough word to describe the way I feel about cooking.

Loathe, detest, abhor – all are too tame to describe the feeling I get inside when it’s 4:00pm and I need a dinner plan.  Or when it’s 4:00pm and I HAVE a dinner plan which means I have to spend precious, valuable moments of my life dicing things.

Here is a short list of things I’d rather do than cook:­­

  • Vacuum, dust, mop, fold laundry
  • Scrub toilets
  • Change diapers
  • Go to the dentist (for a root canal)
  • Go to the doctor (to get weighed, or to get shots.  Or to get weighed AND get shots.)
  • Balance my checkbook
  • Watch Thomas the Train for the FIVE MILLIONTH TIME
  • Run

I have a friend who watches Julie & Julia every single month and swoons when Julie says,

“I love that after a day when nothing is sure… you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. It’s such a comfort.” [Julie & Julia]

My friend ACTUALLY gets teary-eyed.  (It is a wonder our friendship has lasted this long.)

Let me be clear: mixing egg yolks is NOT A COMFORT.  Chinese take-out is a comfort.

I know I can’t be the only one.  I can’t be the only person who decides what’s for dinner based on how many dishes it will require me to wash.

I cannot be the only one who searches through online recipe databases and thinks:

“Brown the meat…”  Nope, not that one!
“Mince 4 cloves fresh garlic…” Not happening!
“1 Tablespoon coconut oil…”  HA HA HA!  Next!

My cooking aversion boils down to a very basic business principle:  There is simply not a high enough return on investment.  If I’m going to plan a meal, buy the ingredients, thaw meat, dice and sautée veggies – if I’m going to mix, drain, and simmer things – if I’m going to pre-heat and tinfoil and bake things – if I’m going to wash cutting boards, knives, pots, pans, mixing bowls, plates and silverware then FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, it had better be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.  It should be rapturous, because otherwise, I’d like my two hours and my clean kitchen back please.

But because I have not won any lotteries lately (which would afford me the privilege of hiring a personal chef) I have to cook.  As such, I’ve developed a loaded arsenal of recipes and coping mechanisms that work for me – that work for my family.  Over the next several months, I’ll be sharing my secret arsenal on a sweet blogging community called Fancy Little Things, for those of you who, like me, are just trying not to throw temper tantrums in the kitchen.

Here is what you can expect to find there.

  • Humor.  At least if you consider the mental image of a grown woman waving a flaming kitchen towel over her head and shouting “Fire!  Fire!  Fire!” funny.
  • Health.  I don’t care for processed foods, AND I’ve got 3 kids’ worth of baby weight to kick, so any recipe that we rely on regularly will have at least a moderate amount of nutritional value.
  • Simplicity.  You will recognize the names of every single ingredient and know where to find them in a grocery store.  You will not have to let anything refrigerate overnight or marinate – at all.  You will not have to make your own sauces out of ¼ tsp. of 12 different spices.  Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat.
  • Deliciousness.  Because I want cooking to be WORTH IT, I don’t do bland.  And the meals in my rotation have received the picky-child-stamp of approval.
  • Dish Count.  At the end of every post, I’ll tell you exactly how many dishes you’ll have to wash.  This is deal-maker/deal-breaker information, I know.

And I promise that if I set anything else on fire, I’ll get my husband to snap a picture with his right hand as he wields the fire extinguisher with his left.  He’s got skills.

My segment on Fancy Little Things will be called Woman vs. Kitchen, and my first post/recipe goes up on December 15th.

I hope you’ll read, participate, and share along with me for the next couple of months.  We’ll be like a team.  No, A BATTALION!  A battalion of people surviving the kitchen and swapping hilarious pictures of flaming towels (and chickens and casseroles and crock-pots) along the way.

 (In the meantime, Fancy Little Things has a huge variety of blog features in addition to community groups and a small business/blogging directory.  There is style, photography, gluten-free cooking, DIYs, a marriage segment, and a faith segment, among others.  Basically all the delightful domesticity you don’t find here.  If that sounds like your cup of tea, you should go check it out!)