Thursday Thirteen Redux

Thirteen ThingsI've learned since becoming a Mom 1. Privacy? What's privacy? Doesn't everyone shower with a 4 year old's face pressed to the frosted glass door and pee with the door open? 2. If you think giving birth was messy, you're right, but you ain't seen nothin' yet. Once your sick infant throws up in your mouth or, say, your pre-schooler says he "found poop" on his bed, come and talk to me. (All hypothetical situations, of course.) 3. Your body WILL NEVER be the same. Even if you get back to your pre-pregnancy weight, there will always be something just a little off from the way you were before. It's like a little "Baby wuz here" sign. 4. You can go ahead and put all your cute, little purses into storage for a few years. You won't be carrying anything smaller than a duffel bag for a little while. But the upside is that you can pretty much take an entire turkey dinner into the movies if you want -- oh wait, scratch that, you won't actually be going to the theater anyway. 5. Your house will not look like it belongs on HGTV. It will be furnished in early Little Tikes, and whatever is not molded plastic will be charmingly "hand distressed." (But cheer up-- it might deter robbers if it looks like someone beat them to it.) 6. Children born of and raised by calm, polite parents will still, on occasion, act like they were raised by wolves in a public place, preferably a very public place that is supposed to be quiet, like church. And even though you feel the embarrassment creep up into your cheeks like a fire, it doesn't mean that you're a bad mom. 7. When you are nine months pregnant with your third child, and you are in the Motherhood store trying to buy cute slipper socks so the L&D nurses can't see your not cute feet, and a woman, who looks to be about 4 months pregnant, holds up a pair of XL maternity pants and says "OMG, if you ever need pants this size you have a serious problem," and those are the exact pants that you are bursting out of at that very moment, it's OK to want to heave yourself onto her and scratch her eyes out. (Another hypothetical situation.) 8. When you are in labor and you are pushing, and your doctor says "Don't push, just blow" your leg might accidentally slip and kick him in the head. It's more common than you think. 9. Postpartum depression happens to A LOT of women. It's normal, it's treatable, and it should be something that draws us closer to other moms, not separates us. (This is not a hypothetical situation.) 10. The cleanliness of your child's face and clothing is directly proportional to the number of people who will see her that day. If you are just hanging out at home, scrubbing toilets, chances are she will remain pretty decent looking. But if you are taking her for pictures or to the doctor's office, it will look like you picked her up off of the trash heap on which you let her play and hit the road. 11. Going from man-to-man (1-2 kids) to zone (2-3 kids) defense is hard, but it's nothing compared to being tapped to leave the bench for the first time and join the game 12. Corollary to #10: The urgency with which your newly potty-trained child needs to use the bathroom is directly proportional to your distance from the nearest bathroom-accessible exit on the highway. 13. I've learned to never underestimate my children. They see more, hear more, feel more, and do more than I think they possibly can, but they also love more and forgive more than I ever do. They are so cool. This was originally posted on November 9, 2006. Way back in the day when I used to actually do a Thursday Thirteen. Now I'm lucky if I remember that it's Thursday.

We've Got To Get Out of This Place

Well, the time has come, my friends; it's time for the annual Family Vacation. This year we are taking a road trip that combines children-centered fun with stops at sites important to American history. I know this itinerary is not shocking to those who know us - we take this kind of trip every year in an effort to not have our children caught on Jay Leno saying that the tenth president of the United States was Chester Cheetah.

We will hit the sites of Baltimore, mostly the Inner Harbor/Aquarium, Mt. Vernon, and then, as an added twist this year, we will be heading to a swanky resort and spa on Maryland's eastern shore. I know nothing says resort like three wild kids, but Rob will be speaking at a conference and they are paying for the hotel. So while Rob is enlightening his fellow medical professionals on Prenatal Care and Pediatric Rashes, I will be chasing rich women from the infinity pool with my own three pediatric rashes darling angels. Good times, my friends.

I will be going dark for a few days, since I have many obligations to fulfill in my role as Chief Executive Packer for the HomeFront Corp. I take my duties very seriously, since my employees depend on me to provide them with every imaginable creature comfort of home. Haven't touched the stuffed otter under the bed in at least six months, but finding it impossible to sleep in the hotel without it? No worries, it's in the duffel bag. Need to sleep in the shirt that used to belong to your father even though it is too big and falls off your shoulder and you hate that and you wake up in the middle of the night crying because your shoulder is sticking out and your arms are trapped? Never fear, it's folded there at the bottom of the bed.

I have mounds of laundry to do before packing, because taking dirty clothes on vacation is not the way to go. Oh, and don't forget the obligatory Pre-Vacation trip to Wally World for Things We Need, like diapers and first aid ointment, and Things We Don't Need But Are 97 cents and May Buy Us Five Minutes of Silence, like tootsie pops and pinwheels.

This is what I will be about for the next few days, and I will miss you all, but take heart: Swanky Eastern Shore Resort and Spa, and even Not Very Swanky But Much More Practical Hotel in Baltimore will have wireless and we will have a laptop. Oh, the joys of technology! I can check in on all you dear ones, and I may even write a post or two on location. It's all the rage in Blogville these days. I even thought about hitting up my archives for a post or two that could bridge the gap, so maybe you will get to see how awfully humdrum the early posts were. As opposed to now, where I write about my life on the edge.

I'll leave you with the sentiments I leave with my children when they are staying home with a babysitter:

Be kind to one another, help each other out, be on your best behavior, and you may have ice cream before you go to bed.

My Craftiness Revealed

I'm not especially crafty, but I do like making things and I can follow directions with the best of them. I've wanted to try my hand at carving a watermelon for some time now (who knows how I come up with these aspirations?), and my sister-in-law's baby shower provided the perfect opportunity. I downloaded some instructions, asked Rob to help me draw the template, and went to town. Some things I learned about watermelon carving:

• watermelons are much easier to cut than pumpkins. If you can carve a pumpkin, then you can do a watermelon




• the inside of a watermelon is much easier to scoop out than the inside of a pumpkin - and it's less stringy, less smelly, and tastier. It's an all-around good deal.




• fruit salad just tastes better when it is served inside a piece of fruit. It picks up all the watermelony goodness.




• It's a good idea to have lots of paper towels on hand during the carving and transporting. They don't call it a watermelon for nothing.




• Wear an apron, or something other than the nice outfit you planned on wearing to the actual shower, while you are carving. See above reference to watermelon.

Overall, I was pretty pleased with the outcome and if you want to try it, here is a good place for ideas and templates. (I had to promise Rob that I would carve the Viking longship for a future party if he would help me draw the template this time.)

And because T asked for some photographic evidence, here is my watermelon baby carriage:

Note the orange slice wheels with the hot lime hubcaps? Deliciously au currant, if I do say so myself. (Oh Lord, please bless me in my inveterate geekiness . . .)

Thanks for the Meme-ories

The weekend and the beginning of this week have been so busy that I am copping out. I have tried writing a post about Baby Girl's birthday hi-jinks, or about the brave way The Boy sat to have his first round of blood drawn, or about the massive baby shower we threw for my sister-and brother-in-law, complete with a watermelon baby carriage carved by yours truly; but I am so tired that everything I write seems to turn out the same way: First we did this, and then, it was so funny, but the kids totally did that. And after that, we did that other thing that was so hilarious, but you had to be there. As you can see, I'm having a little trouble pulling it off.

But I have been tagged by Angie, and I like to answer my tags in the spirit of kindness and reciprocity. And also because they give me a little extra time to reset my brain. So this, my friends, is what you are getting: A piping hot dish of screwball answers to random questions. Enjoy!


Were you named after anyone? Hmmm... my middle name, Catherine, is my aunt's name. My first name was not supposed to be Aimee. It was supposed to be Kathleen, but when I was born, my dad looked at me and said, "There's my Aimee." My mom, taken by surprise, is the one who didn't want the A-m-y spelling, so they agreed on Aimee. I've always liked the way my name looks, but I've always felt that it sounds like a little girl's name.

When was the last time you cried? Believe it or not, I can't remember, and that is remarkable for a crier like myself. I cry about everything, because, as my mother always says, Better out than in.

Do you like your handwriting? Yes and no. If I am careful and I have the right kind of pen, I do like it. But if I am hurried - like at the doctor's office where you have to fill out seventy forms in triplicate only to be asked the same questions when the doctor finally comes in to see you - well, then I don't like it so much. I feel like it looks messy and childish.

What is your favorite lunch meat? I don't eat much lunch meat, but I guess roasted turkey breast, or black forest ham.

Do you have kids? Three, in all their glory.

If you were another person, would you be friends with yourself? Who came up with this question? If you say "Heck yeah I'd be friends with me. I rock at friendship!" - then you sound conceited. If you try to be humble and say something like, "Well, I'm not the best, but I try to be a good friend" - then it sounds like you are fishing for compliments. I guess I will say yes, because I have friends, so they obviously picked me for some reason.

Do you use sarcasm a lot? Ya think? Yes, I do, but I come off sounding nastier than I want to, and I end up regretting it.

Do you still have your tonsils? Yes, but my gall bladder is a distant memory.

Would you bungee jump? No, I'm afraid I'd dislocate something I might need later.

What is your favorite cereal? Anything with sugar listed as the first or second ingredient. Growing up, my parents did not buy sugary cereals for the simple reason that they are not good for you. That logic didn't sit well with us kids, so we lobbied hard for Super Golden Crisp or Fruit Loops every.single.week. On the rare occasions that sugary cereal was purchased, we confirmed my parents fears about our rampant gluttony by eating the entire box in a day.

Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? No, but the only "tie" shoes I wear are my sneakers when I am on the treadmill. They are so old that I can slip them on and off without untying them. Everything else I wear is a slip-on because it's summer and I'm allowed.

What is your favorite ice cream? Starbucks Mud Pie is ambrosia. I am powerless to resist it, therefore, I cannot buy it.

What do you notice first about people? If they are male or female, then their eyes, and then their mouths.

Red or pink? What?! Um, pink I guess . . .

What is your least favorite thing about yourself? The fact that I have a laundry list of things that I don't like about myself, and almost all of them are about the way I look.

What is the last thing you ate? Breakfast - left over pancakes with sugar-free syrup.

What color pant and shoes are you wearing? I'm not wearing pants or shoes. I'm wearing my nightgown.

What are you listening to right now? Revival by Gillian Welch

What are your favorite smells? lilacs, lily of the valley, baby powder, honeysuckle

Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? Rob

What are your favorite sports to watch? college football

What is your hair color? A golden brown base with some dark auburn highlights. If left to its own devices, it would be gray.

What is your eye color? green

Do you wear contacts? No, and no glasses either.

Scary movie or happy ending? Happy ending - there's enough real scariness out there, I don't need to see it in the movies.

What is your favorite food? chocolate

What was the last movie you saw? In the theaters? I can't remember that far back, but we do get movies from Netflix. The last thing we saw was Thank You for Smoking, and we have had Babel sitting here for three weeks, but have not watched it yet.

What color shirt are you wearing? A pink striped nightshirt.

Summer or winter? That's a dead heat. I like winter because my birthday and Rob's birthday are in January. I am a hibernator by nature, but the summer has become much more fun now that the children are here. Plus, their birthdays are all in a row - June, July, and August - so we have a little something fun in each month.

Hugs or kisses? I've been known to enjoy both - occasionally at the same time!

What is your favorite dessert? Oh, it's so cruel to make me pick just one. I wish dessert was its own food group. I guess I will go with ice cream, since I have never met an ice cream I didn't like.

What are you reading? The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith

What is on your mouse pad? Nothing, because I am boring like that.

What did you watch on TV last night? Nothing, I was too busy filling out paperwork for The Boy's upcoming appointments.

Rolling Stones or The Beatles? The Beatles

What is the farthest you've been from home? Houston, Texas. Not very far, globally speaking, but I have big plans for traveling in the future.

Where were you born? Abington, Pennsylvania


Now comes the part about tagging other people. I am not going to specifically tag anyone, because everyone I know is doing something fabulous and fun this summer, but if you want to play, let me know so I can come over and poke around your answers. I'll even promise to leave you a comment that is wittier and more coherent than this post. Tall order, but I think I can manage.

A Full Year

Happy First Birthday to our darling little dumpling of a baby. You are a delightful, toothsome, lurching wee beastie and we wouldn't have you any other way. And now, just imagine your brother and sister singing this favorite song to you:



Well we never really knew,
How much we needed you,
Before you came into our lives,
Things were pretty nice.
All the presents 'round the tree,
Were mostly meant for me,
Now we'll split 'em up evenly,
That's how it's gotta be,
Because you're worth it,
Maybe more . . .

Who knew a baby sister,
Could come along and make us realize
how much we always missed her?

'Cause now we're doing cartwheels
And somersaults,
And it's all your fault,
Yeah it's all your fault,
It's you we love
(Mama, can I hold her?)
It's you we love,
(Just put her on your shoulder)
It's you we love . . .
Love . . . .
(from the Justin Roberts CD, Meltdown)

I Know What You Did Last Summer (or: How We Met Baby Girl)

Apologies to those who are squeamish about birth stories, or who are preparing to go through childbirth for the first time (I'm looking at you Little Mama C!)


Some things you never forget . . . .

The day dawned sunny, warm, and sticky - late June would not be forgotten or ignored. I was heavy with the humidity and my body's nine months' work. I was ready to be finished with gestation; I was done with all of the dull throbbing, the aches, the burning muscles, the sweaty neck, the itchy skin so impossibly stretched beyond its usual girth.

I was scheduled for an induction, and I was not thrilled with the prospect. I wanted to be done, but I wanted to be done on my own terms, my own schedule. I still had not relinquished my grip on the dream that I had control over how and when my child would be born. I had been induced with The Boy - aka The Child Who Applied For Permanent Uterine Residency - and everything went very well. So well, in fact, that I figured the Wheel of Fortune was bound to spin around and land on Heinously Long and Painful Labor Induction. I am nothing if not an optimist.

My fears were not quelled by the fact that we had to call the hospital four times to see if they had any room for us. Apparently, people were pushing out newborns like it was going out of style, and since I was not in active labor, I was persona non grata. I told Rob that if they told us to call back one more time, then he could tell them to forget it, I wasn't coming. Then I rolled over and sobbed into my pillow, because I was upset that the induction I didn't want was not going to happen after all. Stupid hormones. He called one more time. This time they said, "Sure , come on over. We'd love to have you." As if they had been hanging out there, breathing on their nails and buffing them on their scrubs all day, just waiting for someone to have a baby to liven up the place.

We left my mother with Older Girl (who back then was Only Girl) and The Boy, and drove into the hospital to have the baby. Since I was already four centimeters with nary a contraction, and this was my third baby, everyone predicted a swift labor. I came perilously close to punching people in the mouth, just knowing that they were jinxing me - dooming me to an eternity of stalled dilation. I was scared that the pitocin was not going to work, or that it would work too well and my uterus would just explode from the force of the contractions. Either way, it sounded uncomfortable.

My mood lightened when I met my nurse. She was funny, warm, and an easy talker, but not pushy or nosy. She knew when to chat and when to just slip in, get her "numbers," and slip back out. I liked her so much that I wrote I heart Cindy on my bag of pitocin. When she told me I had pretty hair, I may have asked her to go steady, but I'm not sure.

We started out at with low level of pitocin around 2 pm, since I was already dilated and even the hospital janitor seemed to think I would have the baby in about 3.7 seconds. While everyone chatted about how we'd have a baby in time to get a dinner tray from the cafeteria, I prepared myself for a lengthy labor resulting in a c-section. Again with the optimism.

To take my mind off of the fact that my veins had been slurping up pitocin for an hour and I still wasn't having any real contractions, I turned to the quality periodicals that I had packed: People and US. There is nothing like looking at photos of celebrities with $5,000 handbags walking down the street with their children and nannies in tow under a caption that reads: Celebrities! They're just like US! to distract you from dwelling on your situation. Then I brushed my hair (because Cindy said it was pretty) and talked with Rob and applied some lip balm, all of which took about three and a half minutes.

Cindy kept cranking up the pitocin, and I was feeling discomfort, but not anything that I considered hard labor. I hung out in the rocking chair, breathing and chatting and sometimes squeezing Rob's hand. My doctor, who had been stopping in regularly, thought we (meaning her) should go ahead and break my water. She felt like things would really go fast since the baby was so low, and I was already halfway to the full ten centimeters. I was hesitant, because I knew that breaking my water was The Point of No Return. Once the water was out, that baby was coming out by whatever means necessary. Up until this point, I had been harboring a fantasy that if the pitocin didn't work, Cindy could just turn it off, remove my IV, and I would skip back home to try another day, tra-la-la-la-la.

But who was I kidding. I knew this was it, so I agreed and the doctor reached for the ten foot long knitting needle they use to break your water. Oh, wait that's just what it feels like, it's really only about eight feet long. I could feel the warm rush of fluid and I knew it was the beginning of the end. (time check: 5:30 pm)

With my water broken, I was pretty sure that something would happen to let me know I was in labor. I was not disappointed, because the moment my water was gone, my brain apparently registered the fact that I was a bucket full of synthetic labor accelerants and telegraphed a message to the uterus that maybe it should get the show on the road. My uterus, whose motto is I live to serve, got right on the Labor Bandwagon and I was hit with some contractions that felt like I was in a vice grip. It was at this point that Cindy suggested the epidural and I might have tried to kiss her. (time check: 5:50 pm)

I had had epidurals with the first two, and they worked well, and I asked God to bless the person who discovered anesthesia. I don't consider myself a real wimp, but my first two labors were long, both involving overnight laboring until the baby showed up the next morning. I didn't know how long this labor would be, but I did know that pitocin should be marked with CAUTION: CAUSES INSANELY INTENSE CONTRACTIONS. There was no mild build-up of pain; it was more like la-la-la-feeling pretty good -la-la- OH SWEET LORD I AM GOING TO SPLIT IN HALF SO THE BABY CAN JUST CRAWL OUT ITSELF!

So I opted for the epidural. Cindy, who was wearing something akin to the BatBelt, was all loaded up with gadgets, including a phone. She called, but the anesthesiologist couldn't come, he was in a c-section. Apparently, C-Section trumps Raging Pitocin Fueled Labor, what with all the cutting and stapling and whatnot. I can see that now, but I remember thinking it was mighty cruel to dangle an epidural in front of me and then tell me I couldn't have it. I think it was at this point that I first begged Rob to hit me in the head with a hammer. (time check: 6 pm)

Not expecting any Happy Juice any time soon, imagine my surprise when Dr. Feelgood strolled in with his cocktail cart. He had someone who could step in for him on the c-section, so he thought he'd just pop over. He got me all set-up with my handy catheter, and assured me I would be feeling good in fifteen minutes or less. I knew it would be less, because I am highly responsive to pain medication and my other epidurals started working immediately. I laid back on my pillow and waited. And waited. And waited. The only thing that was getting numb was my left leg, and having done this twice before, I was pretty sure that was not a crucial part to have numbed. I grabbed Cindy and panted, "It's. Not. Working!" (time check: 6:15 pm)

Cindy, not wanting to die by manual strangulation, gently removed my hands and consulted Dr. Feelgood, who suggested she give me an extra big dose of his secret recipe Super Numbing Agent. She did this, and nothing happened. My left leg was so numb that they could have cut it off and I would have been none the wiser until I tried to run away. But I could feel everything else. All of it. En todo. (time check: 6:30 pm)

Dr. Feelgood said it sounded like the catheter was crooked and not delivering the medicine to the right spot. Gee, you think? I really wanted to kick him with my good leg. He said that he could come back and take it out and start from scratch. I remember thinking that it wasn't worth it. I also remember that I started crying and praying the Rosary because I was tired and scared at this point. I still didn't know if I was dilated enough, and I was afraid that the monstrous contractions would cause my body to turn inside out. Rob told me it would be all right, and I looked over at him and said, so sweetly and with such love, I think I might throw up. Rob and Cindy looked at each other and said, in unison, Transition! I knew that it really was too late for Dr. Feelgood's do-over, but I didn't care. (time check: 6:50 pm)

All of a sudden, I felt like I must push or I would die. Cindy took a look below-deck, and she was practically shaking hands with the baby. My doctor came running in, and threw her arms in a gown and some gloves. I started pushing at 7:01 and Baby Girl was in my arms at 7:06. The fastest, smoothest, most painful birth of the three. I heard my doctor say "It's a girl!" because we had elected to wait to know her gender, and I was crying, saying "I knew it!" I felt like she was so small in my arms, a tiny little bundle of dark hair and red lips, but when they laid her on the scale it read 9 pounds 3 ounces. Maybe not such a tiny bundle - no wonder I was so uncomfortable at the end!

As they were cleaning her up, and putting everything away, my dinner tray came. I really did make it in time for the dinner tray, and I put that food away like I had been stranded on a desert island. It wasn't pretty, but no one was looking at me anyway. My leg was still numb, but otherwise, I felt great. I was so awash in endorphins that had someone suggested I get up and jog around the post-partum wing a few times, I would have reached for my running shoes. I think euphoric is the word I'm looking for.

Now, almost one full year later, I still love looking back on that day. I have been looking through Baby Girl's (sparsely filled) baby book, running my fingers over her hospital bracelet and holding her tiny cap up to my nose. I can't believe a whole year has passed; that my season of growing her is so thoroughly behind me. She is now a raucous, joyous, almost-toddling ball of fire, but at this time of year, I'm always taken back to that little bundle of swaddling clothes, still so fresh from heaven. And I'm thankful and humbled by my blessings.

What Parents Do

After we settled the kids in bed last night, Rob and I went out to the front garden so that he could dig a hole for me. I tried to do it myself, but between my lame toe and the compacted, clay-filled soil in our area, I needed to bring in the big guns.

While he dug, I blathered about the kids and our trip to the pool and the crying in the pool and the crying out of the pool and the crying when we left the pool because everyone was crying at the pool. You get the idea.

Rob must have been listening attentively, because it was only after I stopped talking that we heard even more crying. From the house door inside the garage. All the crying sounded a lot like this: Mom! Dad! Dad! Mom! Mom! Dad!

We went to the door and found Older Girl, distraught, and The Boy, curiously calm. Where were you guys?, Older Girl demanded. I've been calling you. Ah, yes, nothing matches the charm of the imperious seven-year-old.

We were right here, I explained. Dad was helping me in the garden and we are coming in now.

Oh, she said, slightly chastened. I thought you guys just went out for a drive or something.

Next time, my love, next time . . .

Lazy, Hazy, Crazy . . . Minus the Lazy

A friend and I were recently talking about how we loved the idea of summer; the chicks are in the nest, there are fewer commitments, and the days are replete with possibilities for spontaneity. This should be a carefree time, full of laughter and alternating periods of frolicking and lassitude. Note the should be part.

The reality of summer is this: all that spontaneity takes a mammoth amount of work. That sunscreen doesn't slather itself liberally over the kids. Those snacks won't pack themselves. Jumping up and saying, "Hey! Let's go to the pool!" is an invitation to the best Keystone Cops impersonation in PA; everyone runs pell-mell trying to squirm into their swimsuits, while I chase each one in turn, brandishing my SPF 495. As I lube my children, each one with skin whiter and more transparent than the last, they twitch with excitement. When I tell them that I have to get a few more things ready, there is a palpable threat of behavioral implosion as they jockey for position at the garage door. It has come to fisticuffs and we haven't even left the driveway. When will I learn to SAY NOTHING about possible post-lunch plans until we are pulling into the pool parking lot?

Despite all of this chaos, we still subscribe to the Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Philosophy. We may not achieve it, but we still believe it. This summer promises to be busier than most due to all of the medical adventures in store for The Boy. I began to schedule them this afternoon, after his therapy double-feature in the morning. I was already in a foul mood because the dishwasher is broken, as well as my toe. (No, I did not break my toe kicking the dishwasher, but that thought did cross my mind.) I didn't feel like scheduling thirty different appointments, I felt like succumbing to something quintessentially summery by sprawling out on the couch with my book and a sweet tea. I am not on the cusp of becoming a non-compliant parent, but I do feel like all of these tests are cramping our already spontaneity-deficient lifestyle. It's fast becoming a fun-free zone around here and it's a drag. It's not what summer is supposed to be.

I hate to sound like I am complaining, I really do, but it just bubbles up to the surface every now and then. I have not lost complete perspective; I can still keep my bearings in the forest despite the fact that we are hemmed in by trees on all sides. I am so grateful that, in the grand scheme of things, my child is undergoing relatively simple tests. He's not on an organ donor list; I'm not clutching his hand while he receives chemotherapy; and I have not been asked to return him to heaven, as some of my friends have been. I don't have to endure the heartbreak of knowing that your child may not be fixable. It's why I don't dwell too much in the future, the realm of protracted what-if scenarios.

So our summer is shaping up like this: lots of sun and chlorine, mixed with a generous dollop of a couple of organized vacations, and flecked with equal amounts of day trips and doctor's appointments. Sprinkle everything with some raucous laughter, and I am hoping that we've got a recipe that will sustain us through the roller-coaster of a summer we've got in store.

Dear Old Dad

Happy Father's Day! I am fortunate to have my Dad with me on this day; my funny, quirky, salty, beloved Dad. My kids are fortunate to have their Dad with them on this day, and I know that Rob is thinking of his Dad, now at rest with God, on this day. I looked around for some pertinent quotes for Father's Day, and to tell you the truth, I did not like very many of them. None of them got to the heart of what I feel about my father, or what I feel when I see my children with my husband. Much of what passes for entertainment in America centers on fathers who are oblivious at best, and outright negligent at worst. I know there are oblivious and negligent fathers out there - my own father and his three siblings were raised by my tireless grandmother after my grandfather left them. Maybe because of this, my father did everything in his power to be the antithesis of that kind of parent. My experience has been with a loving and devoted father: one who is always there, one who has never left.

Rob also had a very loving and present father. I never had the opportunity to meet my father-in-law, but knowing his children, and the way they speak about him, has shown me the kind of father he was. It has probably shown me more than I might have known were he still with us in life.

So for all the fathers and grandfathers and godfathers and expectant fathers and men who act like fathers for the children who have none, I wish you a Happy Father's Day. And to my own Dad and husband, I say We love you more than you know. Since I was dissatisfied with so many of the "dad" quotes, I will leave you with something a wise man once said. He was counseling someone on the way to speak to another, and how to know if, by speaking up, you are doing the right thing. He said:

Before you speak, ask yourself three things:

Is it true?

Is it necessary?

Is it kind?

That is great advice, and it has served me well. Thanks, Dad.

It's Flag Day!

And, coincidentally, it is also my tenth wedding anniversary. We picked Flag Day as our wedding day to ensure that we would never forget the date, what with all the fanfare surrounding Flag Day every year. It has worked like a charm.

I remember my wedding like you remember every momentous occasion; every birth or death. There are moments that are frozen in my mind with a crystalline clarity; so present to me that can I still see the sun glinting off of my new ring or feel the rumble and whoosh of the bagpipe bellows deep in my sternum. Yet for every thing I'll never forget, there is a counterpart, a moment that has slid by jumbled and blurred by time and the vagaries of memory. I remember hugging my seven year old brother as he sobbed and begged me not to move away, but I cannot remember the flavor of our wedding cake. It's the way of life.

Every anniversary is a chance for me to recapture that day, and also to let that day go a little bit. These past ten years have been the sweetest of my life: they have brought me a husband and a partner, my darling, dimpled babies, my long-legged children, my place in the world, my vocation. My wedding was just a day, but it was the day this union, this grand adventure, this life began, and I know without a doubt that I would do it a hundred times over again.

Ten years ago today, I . . .

• spent a sleepless night in curlers



• felt like a princess in ivory matte satin



• trembled on my father's arm



• very carefully offered the brimming cup of the Blood of Christ to my family and friends



• waved at a procession of Harleys as they blew their horns and cheered for us



• watched my husband spin his unfamiliar wedding ring around his finger all night



• laughed when our very large caterer dove to the ground to catch the top tier of our wedding cake as it slid off of its pillars (I never did get a real piece of my wedding cake)



• cut what was left of the cake and then smeared it on Rob (we are not a dainty, decorous people)



• sat for two solid minutes in awe of Rave extra-strength hairspray. After my headpiece and hair pins were removed, my hair remained curled atop my head in the same position. Rave defied the very laws of gravity, and for less than a dollar, to boot.



• thanked God for every minute

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person,
having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out,
just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will
take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness,
blow the rest away. --Dinah Craik

Happy Anniversary, Robert. I love you.

What Else Can I Say?

I was tagged for the 8 Things Meme by Sara of The Estrogen Files. She tagged me about 23 years ago, but I haven't forgotten and I am here to make good on my threat promise for more inane tidbits about moi. The permutations of this meme have spread logarithmically, and I think almost everyone has done the 5 or 8 or 76 weird/random/gross/felonious/habitual things about themselves, and I think I may have completed the "5 random things meme" at some point. However, just because Sara is early pregnant and sick, I will come up with 8 completely NEW and IMPROVED things about myself. Did I not just make your day? Thought so. As an added bonus, I will make this "The Anniversary Edition" in honor of the big number ten that I will be celebrating with Rob tomorrow.



The Rules:


Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.



Just The Facts, Ma'am - Anniversary Edition:

1. Rob and I have dishwasher-loading styles that are diametrically opposed. I can't abide the way he puts the dishes in, and he is none too fond of my method, and, both being convinced that our own way is the right way, we are unwilling to change our methods. So it has come down to this: We cannot be in the kitchen together if one of us is loading the dishwasher. We are talking matter/anti-matter here, friends. It's a good thing that we recognized the enormity of this situation early in our marriage - it may have saved one of us from spontaneous combustion.

2. I have man hands. They're not beefy, but my palms are very broad and my fingers are long. My hands are bigger than almost everyone I meet - except for Rob. That's how I knew to marry him.

3. Rob wore a kilt to our wedding. He has some smokin' kilt legs -- it must be all the running. Luckily, my legs were decently covered. It was the least I could do for my fellow citizens.

4. Rob talks in his sleep, as do his sisters, and our children. He once asked me, What does the EKG show? It must be a genetic trait, just like sleep-drooling on my side. Our children's future spouses are in for some interesting bed-fellows. And yes, I do hear the secrets that he keeps. When he's talking in his sleep. (Name that song and artist!)



5. We delight in using obscure historical references in our daily conversations. Rob has always said that his interest in me was piqued when I actually understood a joke he made about the Maginot Line. That was at dinner the night before we toured Gettysburg with his sister. 'Cause that's how we roll . . .



6. If we are watching television or a movie, and something funny is going on, I always look over at Rob while I am laughing. I am checking to see if he is laughing. I used to think this made me some kind of weird, co-dependent laugher or something, until I realized that I laugh at funny things even when he is not around. I am obviously capable of independent laughter, but I still look over at him every single time. I finally realized it's because I want him to be enjoying the program as much as me. That, and because laughing all alone just makes you seem crazy after a while.



7. Rob has an amazing ability to block out all ambient noise and concentrate on one thing, like reading a book or journal article. I absolutely cannot do that. Even though I am the biggest multi-tasker in the family, I cannot read while the television is on, and, sadly, it is always the book that gets the shaft in favor of TV. (Although it's a little better now that The Boy broke our upstairs television. I enjoy TV, but not enough to drag myself to the toy-riddled basement.)



8. We have spent a lot of time apart in the course of our relationship. We dated for three and a half years, and in all that time we did not spend more than seven consecutive days where we saw each other. We were a thousand miles apart for the whole year before our wedding, and we spent nine months apart when he was called up for the reserves. Plus, there have been all the smaller separations due to the Navy or his career. I am always so happy to see his car pull into the driveway at the end of the day, because I know the alternative. Absence certainly made this heart grow fonder, but I'm pretty sure I can maintain our level of fondness without the separations. (Hurry home, honey!)





So there you have it, and that plus $3.50 will get you a (small) coffee. I am not going to tag anyone, because I know everyone has done one of the variations. But if you catch a wild hare and want to come up with another list, let me know in the comments.

Fruit of the Womb

Proof that some things breed true:

Older Girl: I like that movie Cars because it is so funny. I think it's really funny how 'Mater uses bad grammar and everything, because you're really not supposed to use bad grammar.

Weekend Update

Whooosh . . . . .


Hear that? That was me - blowing in the door from being on the road for 75 straight hours. Well, maybe not 75, but certainly more hours than are allowed by federal trucking law, I'm sure. I ought to just get a CB handle, a John Deere hat, and take this show on the road. I won't bore you with the details of my weekend travels, but if my backside does not meet the van seat for the next three weeks, that's fine with me. Unfortunately, Rob is away in Kansas City, learning how to be betterstrongerfaster at work and admiring the flat Kansan landscape from the sixteenth floor of his swanky hotel. (He is also eating KC steaks and buying his wife some shiny, shiny baubles, right honey?) All of the above means that I will be planted back in the van sooner than I would like.

The most interesting news of the weekend actually happened on Friday, so this is really more of a Late-Week Update, but let's not split hairs, I say. We had The Boy's appointment with the neurologist on Friday afternoon, and I am still a little shell-shocked by it all. I'd like to say this is the long story short, but I'm sure it will turn into long story longer due to all of my personal ruminations. Take a deep breath, we're jumping in:

I had been very nervous about this appointment for many reasons, not the least of which was the possibility that Dr. L. would look across her desk and tell me I was crazy. (And she's a neurologist, so she's seen some whacked-out brains) I had heard varying reports of this doctor's bedside manner, so I was already feeling intimidated. Some people loved her, and some people loved the other neurologist with the seven month waiting list. I opted to listen to a dear friend and The Boy's occupational therapist, both of whom extolled the virtues of Dr. L. I also admit to being swayed by the fact that, while Dr. L. is no longer taking new patients, she made an exception, for a reason that can be nothing short of divine intervention, and gave us a coveted appointment within a week of cold-calling her. Yeah, that had a little something to do with it.

I dropped the girls off with the aforementioned friend, who agreed to keep them in addition to her own five darlings, then hauled it over to the doctor's office, where I met up with Rob. Two and a half hours later, we were leaving the office and heading back to see if L. had put the girls out on the curb for the gypsies yet. She hadn't - and she even gave us Diet Cokes as we spilled our guts about the appointment. Thank God L. could decipher all of the medical jargon we were throwing out and nod at the appropriate time- I'm not sure I even understand it all. Here's the long and long of it:

We went in to the neurologist because some of The Boy's behaviors have been popping up like madly waving red flags for Pervasive Developmental Disorder. There are too many to go into, but these behaviors have been increasing in intensity and frequency, despite his regular therapies, so I felt that some closer scrutiny would not be amiss. Boy, did we get the closer scrutiny. Dr. L. is nothing if not thorough; she spent an hour with Rob and myself, picking our brains for every detail of The Boy's life. She then spent a half hour with The Boy; we could hear him talking and singing and laughing at the end of the hall. She then brought us back to tell us her thoughts and recommendations, and to answer our questions. I had 4300 thoughts running through my head at the same time, but do you want to know the one lame question I actually asked her? Am I crazy? There are definite things to be concerned about, right? And God bless her straight-shooting, no-nonsense heart, she looked me directly in the eye and said: You are definitely not crazy.

She also said all of this: The Boy has pronounced motor planning delays, coordination delays, modulations delays, apraxias in almost every area, and "pictures" of Asperger's, but not classic Asperger's. She is also concerned about his low muscle tone, poor strength in his hands, and his growth - his feet haven't grown in a year. She wants blood work - lots of blood work - everything from a complete blood count to thyroid levels, carnitine levels, and chromosome work-ups for things like Fragile X. She also wants an MRI of his brain, and a swallowing study due to the hyposensitivity he has in his mouth. If the blood work should come back indicating a need for it, she would also want him to have an upper GI series to see if he has gastric emptying problems. In addition to all of this, she feels very strongly that he has visual perception problems that go beyond your yearly visit to the neighborhood ophthalmologist. She wants him to see a neuro-ophthalmologist to determine if he is even seeing things and processing them properly (she feels that he is not). Breathe, Aimee.

But do you want to know what else she said? She said he is a great kid; one who is tremendously interesting, incredibly intelligent, and heart-breakingly sweet. She said he was so eager to please her by trying everything to the best of his ability. She also said that he will have a great life - that he already has a great life - he will just need to make up extra ground to achieve it in its fullness. There is no reason why he won't be able to do what he wants to do, with the right amount of support and instruction now. She said exactly everything I've always thought about him and wanted for him from his birth. Dr. L. is not a fan of labeling kids just to have something to call them; she feels that it pigeon-holes them with people's perceptions of whatever that label encompasses. She wants people to see The Boy, not a condition. She was also very honest about the fact that we may never have a name, a condition for him. We may never know why the intricate pathways of his brain do not deliver the information in the way they should.

I feel overwhelmed, and scared, and oddly relieved. I feel relieved that she saw all the things I see about The Boy, both his delays and his golden treasure of a heart. I am overwhelmed with all of the medical stuff that needs to be scheduled and completed. And I am scared. Scared that something will come back on his blood work that we won't be able to fix, something permanent or malicious.

But most of all, I am hopeful. I feel that we have been led to this point for a purpose; like a hundred different tumblers have fallen into place so this door could be opened. Despite my fear and my exhaustion and my lack of knowledge, my hope springs eternal.

Look Who's Talking

Baby Girl has entered that delightful phase in which she splices real words with her own patois,expressions, and gestures in an effort to communicate. It is an endearing time because she hasn't yet learned any slang words, crass idioms, or eye rolls. The worst thing she might say is Tib!, which I have come to interpret as a remark of frustration over her thwarted attempts to eat yesterday's waffle crumbs from the dining room floor. (Oh who am I kidding - those waffle crumbs have been there since '04.) She may be on to something: I have found that a heartfelt Tib! is a surprisingly satisfying way of swearing without swearing.

She has a stable of reliable English words that have gotten her pretty far. She says Mom and Dad - always the two front-runners in language acquisition. She says hi and bye, which sound remarkably similar: breathy and high-pitched, but with subtle differences in intonation and arm movement, almost like Baby Mandarin. The hi is a small hand wave with her head cocked to one side and a little smile on her mouth. The whole routine makes it look like she's contemplating the perfect spot for the tiara she's about to win. While claiming the same long i vowel sound, bye is accompanied by the full arm wave, and no coquettish tilt of the head. If she could handle a fan, she'd already be the court favorite.

She has of course mastered the No, although she says it in perfect imitation of yours truly. I will see her reaching for some paper or string, and I will call her name. She will turn to me, with her arm stiffened in front of her, purse her lips, and say NONONO! - just like me, except I am not rocking the early-Pebbles, single, central ponytail look. Then she will laugh. This does not bode well for the teenage years. And of course, I cannot overlook the reverent way she calls to me when I am filling her bottle or cup. It's as if she is invoking Yahweh when she sits in the living room and whispers Bee-Baaaah.

But sometimes the best words are those of her own invention. She's exuberant and vivacious, and to hear her prattle away to her reflection in the patio doors is priceless. There are clearly some expressions that mean a great deal to her. While talking to herself, she will often exclaim something that sounds very much like Pyong-yang!, after which she will laugh in short barking bursts. Then she will lean in and try to French herself. We're hoping that this Kim Jong-il impression is just a phase.

She will crawl up to me when I'm at the computer, pat my leg, and ask, very earnestly, Hub-Dub? To which the only response can be, "Absolutely!" But do not confuse Hub-Dub with Dub-Lub DA?, which is more of a rhetorical question anyway. As a variation on the theme, she will scoot into her lair under the dining room table, and, once she has found some little smackerel of last night's dinner, will raise her hand triumphantly and announce DUB-DUB-HEH! before she crams it into her mouth. Is this a blessing? A simple proclamation of success? Who knows.

The interesting part of this language explosion has been the family's reaction. We are wild with trying to teach her new words or trying to match her inflected chatter, and the children and I will gather around her like she's an old-time radio; uncharted sounds coming out at us in pops and squeaks.

I don't remember doing this with Older Girl. It wasn't so much that I did not want to teach her new words, I think I just took it for granted that she would begin to speak as I spoke to her. She was my partner in the conversation; my articulate, precise, shrunken version of myself.

The Boy's language development was so convoluted that I am sometimes amazed that he even speaks at all. He rarely spoke or babbled as a baby, but we weren't concerned until he turned two and still did not call me "Mom." That single linguistic omission sent us on an odyssey that led us to the discovery of his reversible hearing impairment, to his speech therapy, and eventually to the discovery of his SPD and occupational therapy. When he was smaller and I agonized over why he didn't speak, or why he spoke, but no one could understand him, I knew there had to be a reason that his development was unfolding as it was. There is now such an enveloping comfort when I look back and realize that if he had not had hearing trouble and he had spoken clearly from the beginning, he would have never been in speech therapy and his SPD would not have been recognized as early as it was. The ways of the Lord are mysterious, indeed.

Maybe that's what makes Baby Girl's early speech so special for me. To watch your child blossom in their age appropriate stage of development is wondrous, especially after seeing another child struggle with a more circuitous route. I can't wipe the grin off my face when she cruises by me and says Yahyahyah - heya, Mama. I want to scoop her up, kiss her all over her face, and tell her what a darling she is. What a babbling, gurgling, laughing darling of an ordinary child she is. She just makes me want to say Lub-Dub with all my heart.

Lub-Dub, Baby Girl.

All the News That's Fit to Print

Look what I found! A big article in The New York Times about Sensory Processing Disorder. There's no new information in it for us, but it is uplifting to know that there's an article out there that is not coming from a scientific or medical journal.

Just when I was getting all sweaty thinking about The Boy's appointment with the neurologist on Friday . . . OK, I'm still sweaty thinking about the appointment, and I don't know that much will change that other than meeting the challenge head on, but I still felt a little validated when I read this.

Did Someone Say Raffle?

Well, yes I did - and so did Danielle Bean, the Raffle Hostess. Let's get down to the nitty-gritty, shall we? This is the inaugural charity raffle for Danielle's website, and she has picked a worthy cause. St. Gianna's Home, in Warsaw, ND, is a safe place for mothers in crisis (and of all religions) to seek shelter and medical assistance. The home is run entirely by contributions; it receives no money or support from the government, Catholic parishes or dioceses, corporations, or social service agencies. The home's survival is dependent upon the generosity and kindness of individuals - that would be us! Just think of the difference you might make in a woman's life if she can leave a dangerous situation and retreat to the safety of a home where she will be supported and nurtured throughout her pregnancy and delivery. Pretty sweet.

Know what else is pretty sweet? The 45 raffle prizes listed on Danielle's site. Everything from gift cards to books to baskets - there's a little something for everyone. 100% of your money goes to St. Gianna's Home, and for every $5 you donate, you get a "chance" to throw into the virtual raffle bucket. Danielle will "draw" the prizes on Tuesday, June 12th, and all of the other details are posted over at her place.

So come on - click over and drop a little cash in the bucket. It's for the babies . . . The cute, cuddly babies . . . You are powerless to resist the babies . . . . You are getting sleepy . . . . very jaslkfjaopjfoijsfoijfi. .......................................................................

This Is What We're Really Like

(after tickling me mercilessly):


Me: Now I get to tickle you.

Him: No. You get to try to tickle me. I tried and succeeded. Vini, Vidi, Vici, Baby. Although with you it becomes more like Vini . . . Defeated. It's so easy.

Me: Baby Girl, go bite Daddy.

(Baby Girl looks up, smiles, and then goes right back to foraging for some papery snacks.)

Him: Looks like your Attack Baby needs more training.


*****************************************************************

Him: I need some new shoes for casual Fridays at work. Maybe some new hiking shoes, just like my old ones.

Me: You can't wear hiking shoes with work clothes, even on casual Fridays.

Him: Why not?

Me: Because you'll look like a . . . a . . . hobo!

Him: A hobo, you say. Ah yes . . . I can see it now: 'Sheriff, what do you make of this? Well, he's obviously a hobo. You can tell by his shoes.'

******************************************************************

(Older Girl and The Boy, playing "camping"):

Older Girl: You have to carry this backpack. And you have to carry this bag, too.

The Boy: No.

Older Girl: If you don't want me to lick you, you better carry this.

The Boy: Okay.



******************************************************************


Older Girl: Mom, I have a bug bite that really itches me. I need some of that calzone cream.


Me: Cortisone cream? Coming right up.

To The Victor Go The Spoils . . .

If by spoils you mean the satisfaction of knowing that you can pass a second grade math final!

First, let me begin by saying that I am positive that any answer that may have flitted through your brain, whether left in the comments or not, was probably far more accurate than anything that flitted through my brain. Considering the only thing in my brain while reading over the exam was an intense wave of PTMD- Post Traumatic Math Disorder. I had to lie down until it passed. I am sure you fared better than that.

Secondly, I also had to look up congruent. Here's a little definition refresher: congruent means superposable so as to be coincident throughout. Much better, right? I think I need to lie down again . . .

Thirdly, Amy, I am uber-impressed! I know that sounds condescending, but it is not meant that way. I figured your brain was so crammed full of Ulysses and Middlemarch, that there would be no room left over for other subjects. At least that's how I justify it to myself. Plus, your suggestion of a refrigerator box was genius, my friend.

And last, but certainly not least, the winner of the Second Grade Math Champ title (to be shared with Older Girl) is Johanna! You correctly answered all of the questions, and in doing so have become my Go-To Gal for all things geometric. Aren't you excited?! (A note to the rest of you erstwhile mathematicians: Don't feel blue. Johanna is an engineer and pretty brilliant, and I'm not just saying that because she comes to my house and watches my kids and occasionally cooks me fabulous food.)

I hope you all enjoyed this little mathematical detour because it may just be the last time I mention this leg of the three Rs. Ever.

Remember Geometry? Eu-gotta be-clidian me!

(argh . . .)

Cha-Cha-Cha

This is a little happy wish for my sister-in-law, who is at work this afternoon. On a gorgeous Sunday. On her birthday.

We are late with the card, as usual, but she did get a phone call in which the shrill voices of my children, carried over one hundred and fifty miles of cable, may have possibly pierced her eardrums with their rendition of the Happy Birthday song, complete with their own flava. Beat that Hallmark.

Happy Birthday, Dr. P!

Can You Pass Second Grade Math?

I think maybe Older Girl has surpassed me in Math knowledge. She came home with a 100! on her Math final (finals! in second grade!), and I knew that my days of helping her with her 'rithmetic were quickly drawing to a close. I'm all right with that, because I'll totally knock it out of the park when she gets to essays and comparative lit, but I still feel pretty lame. I do know this stuff, but I was appalled at how long it took me to answer them. I may need summer school.

So I'm putting you to the test: Can you pass Older Girl's math final? I'll just give you a sampler of the material, and you can leave the answers in the comments. I don't have a prize, but you'll have the knowledge of your mental superiority to keep you warm at night. I'll post the answers later this weekend, if you dare to participate . . .

• Give two reasons why a triangle and a rectangle are not congruent.
• Identify the solid figures:
• I have no flat surfaces, vertices, or edges.
• I have two flat surfaces that are circles. You can roll me.
• I have 6 flat surfaces. They are all squares.
• I have 6 flat surfaces. 4 of these surfaces are rectangles.
• A cube has ___ flat surfaces, ____ vertices, ____ edges
• I have more than 8 edges. Only 2 of my faces are squares. What am I?
• One of my flat surfaces is a square. I have 5 vertices. What am I?

Good luck, Mathletes!