RERUNS

Because Mommy is a huge Ginnerd (that's a Ginger Nerd, for the sake of the ill-informed) and is on a holy mission to convince Daddy to take her out to see the new Star Trek movie, tonight's blog is one huge TREK RERUN of pics from cutenesses past!  YOU'RE WELCOME, AND GO TEAM MOMMY!

"Highly illogical."

"We have engaged the Borg."

"Please, Captain, not in front of the Klingons!"

"It seems, Admiral, that I have all his marbles."

"It's worse than that -- he's dead, Jim!"

Baby Talk

"Owwwwwwwww!":  "It's like a million screaming knives of fire in my gums!" 

"Mmmmmuuuummmm." : "I can't say daaaaad yet, so this will have to suffice."

"Yyyyyyyeach!": "Look, ma, I just pitched my paci under the oven!  I wonder what other things hiding under there belong in my mouth..."

"Yyyyeeeeh!  Yyyyyeh!": "This used to be a good place to get a bottle, 'til the yuppies found it."

"Ggggguh! Huh!":  "I did my trick, and you weren't watching!  Put it back on me so I can pull it off again!"

"Mmmmmmmmh!  Ahhhh!":  "You're gonna need the industrial strength stuff to get the stink offa this one!"  

 "Aaallen Ralph!!!" (??????)

"Guhguhgghhuhhhhh.":  "Nothin' like the smell of Desitin in the morning."

"YYYYUH!  AHH!  NYhuuuuuuh!  Eeeeeeeeeeee!  Wah!  Mmmmmmmmmmmmm!   Yyyyyyuh!":  "Milk."

(High-pitched and soft) "Ah ah ah ah.": "I don't care what the salesgirl at Victoria's Secret said.  I like 'em."

After the Storm

After the torrential rains of yesterday, with the departure of the sickly sticky humidity that made the cool comfort of the Sassafras House feel like the bowels of the caves found to our north, we fling open windows this morning and invite fresh breezes with the yank of a screen door.  Gone are Mommy's anxieties about power outages and lightning-crisped goats; today we can nap with both eyes closed.

On days like this one, I forget that there are appointments to be made and bills to be satisfied.  Since I've slept like a volcano and satisfied my homesickness with dreams of the town I grew up in, I am refreshed and enthralled with the simplest pleasures: watching my eighteen-week-old daughter mesmerize herself with her own frantically waving hands, make up baby talk lyrics to Django's Rhinehardt's lazy version of "Moonglow", giving Honey a belly scratch with my toes from the
comfort of the nursery glider, etc.

For one blessed morning, life is peaceful, unpressed.  There lies an undercurrent of sadness in the quiet -- last Saturday, after weeks of awaiting the discovery of the right candidates, I drove to the Texas state line with Ava's Aunt Jess on pacifier duty in the backseat and delivered Amos and Delilah into the waiting arms of their new Mommy and Daddy.  Without them here, the house seems dimmer and oddly pristine, like an office.  Sometimes I think I hear their impatient barking, and I'm still not accustomed to using their former quarters as the bathroom it was intended to be.  

Something of their pleading eyes and lop-eared smiles will never leave that room where they slept snuggled up with one another in a knot of snot and fluff, leaving me to wonder if it's the memory left of habit or some kind of pug life-force residual that causes the knot in my throat to rise when I pass by that room.  

I know they're being cared for properly and likely being carried from room to room like the roly-poly royalty they are, and that assurance reminds me that we did right by them, but I don't know if I'll ever shed the conviction that giving them up for adoption was the kindest option because I had failed them.  They needed me, and all I could pause to give them was food and the occasional head scratch.  I hope that as I rock my Ava Leigh in this quiet hour of the morning, they linger in the laps and arms of their new owners, reassured of the Master's provision and that the world is as it should be.

 

Ava Style!

Oh, yes I did....a year after it was cool.

Mother's Day. Happy.

She held you close.

She baked you chicken rings.

She wiped your nose

(Amongst other things!).

Tell her how much she means to you today!

Tiny Terrors

Tiny Terrors

If by some miracle of modern science we could interpret the electrical impulses of a baby's dreaming brain via a viewable medium, the series of pictures we would be shown would probably look something like this:

Purple bear.  Spinning color thingy with face.  Boob.  Earring.  POOOOOO!  Mustache.  Bottle.  Dog nose.  Floor fuzz.  Boob.

And then every once in awhile, some snake-eyed, razor-toothed creature will slither out from the cobwebbed corners of baby's rosy dreamworld and terrorize the wee thing, resulting in a seemingly random shriek that sends Mommy dashing for the crib and chihuahuas howling throughout the neighborhood.

Ava's recently begun experiencing such episodes.  As tempting as it is to blame such unpleasantries upon some undigested blob of formula or intestinal gas bubbles as prolific as the opening sequence of the Lawrence Welk Show, my Mommy intuition points to fright as the cause of these ear-stabbing shrieks. 

Consider this: when you're Lilliputian and the world you inhabit is adult-sized, things that appear perfectly flawless to eyes accustomed to the bigger picture can look garish to those whose world is considerably smaller.  Just imagine what a grown-up's nose looks like to a four month old -- I can only speculate along the lines of a moldy, misshapen strawberry or a greasy light bulb.

While a parent can guard their child's windows to the world by limiting exposure to unsuitable entertainment and unscrupulous older cousins who like to repeat things they hear in the grade school bathroom stalls, there's no way to completely anesthetize a child from all frights.  On the contrary, a medicinal dose of the boogie man can be a valuable parenting tool.  I know of one wise momma whose made-up booger, "Onetha", was just the thing to keep mouths from back-talking or little hands glued to the shopping cart.  As in: "If you don't quit complaining, I'm gonna drop you off at Onetha's house!", or "If you don't stay with me in the store, Onetha's gonna get you!"

Brilliant.  

Why deceive your child in such a manner? you gasp.  Tell your reservations to Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and Mickey Mouse.  You deceive your children during every major holiday anyway for your own amusement and theirs!  Why not influence a kid's personal mythology as you instill a healthy fear of baby snatchers, ill-tempered pets, and dark alleyways?  After all, apparently even infants have the capacity to be manipulated by their own imaginations.  

Things that make her go "YIIIEEEEEEE!" are going to happen at every age, even if you are astrally projecting yourself into your baby's dreams armed with one of those seriously awesome proton packs from Ghostbusters.  You might as well harness the poo-scaring power of those spooks and specters and make them work for YOU!

Good thing I'm wearing a diaper!

Home-ly!

I awoke unaided by the alarm this morning for the first time in months; my eyes focused, greeted by the dim austerity of our master bedroom (which is the only room in the house deserving of such a subdued description -- the rest of the place is as ostentatious as Mae West).  The light was new, and the homefront peaceful and still with nary a loping Dane or frolicking pug in sight.

I looked to my right, where our daughter was sleeping contentedly, all rosy-pale with her mouth pursed like Cupid, wrapped in a soft pink swaddler.  I looked to my left, where few spikes of dark hair peeking from the border of our quilt confirmed that my husband was floating through the dawn with the consciousness level of a paperweight.

I was alone to spend a few moments as I pleased.  

As most new mothers will tell you, this is a rare occasion.  So I did what I've been meaning to do for two weeks -- I located the verse and chapter locations to some scriptures that have been rolling around in my pinball brain, fortifying my transition into motherhood.  

When offices refuse to return phone calls, the mail bin is a jack-in-the-box of medical bills, the caffeine in coffee is no longer effective, my hair is a neglected knot of snarls, my knees scream at the thought of another stair climb with baby and laundry in tow, and three dogs in the house is just too much slobber, hair, and kibble underfoot, I fortify my heart (and my joints) with inarguable wisdom:

"He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.”

- Isaiah 40:29

“She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.  Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.  Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.  Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.  Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates."

- Proverbs 31:27-31

....and just when I think it will behoove me to trade precious hours of recuperative rest in favor of doing one more load of burp rags and fret over frustrations evoked by pressing commitments:

" It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.”

- Psalms 127:2

It does you no good to disregard bedtime, He reminds me.  Blue is not your color, kid.  At least not under your eyes.  Just ask for my help, and I'll lead you to steadiness and rest.  And when it's time to face that toppling pile, I'll strengthen you sufficiently to see your task completed.

It's all in His hands, anyway -- the laundry, the next "wholesome" activity begging precious time better spent attending to my child and my household, the medical professionals who choose not to follow through on their promises to follow up on Ava's case....

Shh.

Coffee.  Sunrise.  Stillness surrounded in love and comfort.

I'm butt-kickin' busy, but I thank God that I'm absorbed with the work of supporting my household and those in it.  It is truly the most satisfying occupation I have ever had.  I see how my family prospers when I lay down my ambitions in order to serve them, and I've noticed how the restlessness that used to drive me to go out and therapeutically shop or get crazy haircuts has matured into a contentedness derived from recognizing that truly resonant transformation is achieved by sacrificial love. 

My husband, though incredibly busy, seems thrilled to come home at the end of the work day.  We have time to sit on the porch and talk.  Dinner's ready.  The house smells spiffy.  He knows that he won't have to Febreeze his least dirty pair of socks in the morning, because most of his clothes are clean and put up.  His daughter is clean, fed, and so excited to see him that her eyes sliver like half-moons and she smiles back at him so hard, you could practically hear it with your eyes closed.

Even though she struggles to achieve her strength and coordination related milestones, I can already see the benefits of every day we spend singing and babbling to each other face-to-face.  (We think she has her own jargon, consisting mostly of celebrity names like Mary Steenburgen and nonsense words like "apple soup".)  To our amazement, her initial therapy evaluations revealed no lag in Ava's communicative or cognitive abilities.  In fact, even more shockingly, she was found to be at a four month old level at three and a half months.  This was tremendous affirmation to us that the constant parental interaction and attention to her sleep/eat/play schedule has paid off.  

It was a tremendous leap of faith for us to let me stay at home with our daughter -- one that we hadn't foreseen when we planned to have a family.  But now that I've taken the organizational skills and self-discipline I gleaned from my last five years at the bank and have applied them to running a household, I can see exactly why The Father led me down the path to learn what I did, when I did.  If our daughter had arrived five years earlier, I would've been a hopeless goose.  I'm so grateful for the example of frugal, godly mothers and homemakers that surround me both here and within my family.  

Thank you for living out your ministry, gals.  If you've ever noticed me tagging along behind you, buzzing like a gnat with a thousand and one questions concerning how you do the everyday things you do, consider that a confirmation that I'm talking about you!