The Arrival of our 10th Child

A week ago Sunday morning found me sitting on the edge of a small, stiff couch gazing out of a fourth-floor hospital-room window. Room 4107 — with a hushed little view looking out on a scenic pond and a somewhat-unused road winding around the south side of McKay-Dee Hospital. A mix of rain and snow was coming down. It was quiet. No nurses had been in for several hours. (The longest disturbance-free period I’d had since arriving at 11:45 p.m. that Friday.) And do you know what I had in my arms? A brand new baby daughter. My tenth child. Still nameless. She’d come in the middle of the night between Friday and Saturday (though her 3:38 a.m. arrival time technically gave her a fully Saturday -- March 23rd -- birthday). As I sat looking out that window — rubbing my cheek against her smooth new skin and repeatedly kissing her head and cheeks, she was just approaching her 31st hour of mortal life. She was utterly new.

In that moment, there was no fear or exhaustion; no possible future stress, mess, or heartache that wouldn't be made whole and right. There was simply: the certainty of this child.

Here.

And I’d brought her!

I’d done nothing more important; nothing more beautiful. There was no better thing I might have chosen from among the vast array of mortal possibilities before me. I caught, for a minute, a hold of some strong eternal thread. It was made of light — as they always are -- and, tugging on it tightly, I found myself not in the least surprised by its strength. For a minute I could hear my own dad’s voice: “We’d have taken a dozen more had the Lord been willing.” That’s what he always said when questioned about the chaos of having had all of us. And, in that moment, I felt and understood the same things he had. Perfectly.

But! . . . On either side of that moment of powerful peace and clarity existed a thousand complicated and less pure emotions. And a thousand moments of trying to grasp that thread of light . . . with all the worries and struggles of the world crowding in and spinning me into dizzied knots.

Getting this tenth child here was an incredibly complex business.

All of it.

And the last parts? Her labor and delivery? They were no exception!

One would think that, with nine labors under my belt, I would have formed some firm opinions about the matter. But, instead, I had a thousand thoughts and fears and wants and emotions that I kept barricading behind walls to prevent them from going to battle in my head.

I'd had powerful experiences with my natural labors. I worried I'd be cheating myself of some vital part of this child's birth if I opted out of that route. But I'd experienced pain with Summer and Mette's births that I couldn't bear to consider again.

I'd had a c-section -- which, in it's way, was another powerful birth experience for me, but a hard one, and not one I ever wished to repeat.

I'd had happy and calm epidural births with no complications, but, in all my research going into natural childbirth, and in reading up on how to avoid putting myself in another c-section situation, I'd become perhaps overly aware of and alarmed by the many routine labor interventions that make no sense and increase risks.

But at the heart of it all was, I think, fear. I was terrified of repeating agony that memory hadn't erased and that still made me shake to think about. I couldn't confront it. There seemed to be a giant barricade in my mind whenever I'd consider labor at all that would cause me to balk and turn away fast. It was a pit full of fear that I kept reburying lest I fall right into it!

Yet I felt discouraged for not feeling something with certainty; discouraged for not having some sort of strong birth convictions and for not boldly wanting to insist on or demand anything particular; for wanting, simply, to follow the path of least resistance.

But, in the midst of this discouragement, as often occurs, I had one small, gifted moment of surprising peace and clarity. It came the morning after being at the hospital to photograph my niece birthing her third child. I was thinking on the experience of being at her child's birth when I felt, suddenly, this novel realization that my conglomeration of birth experiences served a purpose. More than I could yet know. I had this vast array of very different birth stories allowing me to relate to mothers in nearly every modern birth circumstance. It felt as if Heavenly Father was gently comforting me. Or maybe it was Heavenly Mother. In any case, I felt I was being told it was OK that I didn't have one absolute, unvarying birth plan that I followed -- that God had made allowance for that and given me experiences that I could grow from -- and gain compassion and understanding from -- through the arrival of each of my children.

Still, for all of my inability to let my mind linger on the birth process beforehand, I still, desperately, wanted labor to come! Particularly once I hit 37 weeks.And it wasn't that I felt I should go into labor that early, but, at that point, I, quite quickly, began experiencing the full array of pre-labor symptoms. And nearly every night I would wake to contractions . . . not strong enough to be labor, but strong enough to possibly become full-blown labor. And, while the majority of my babies had come after my due date, my last three had all arrived before, so I now considered that a possibility.

It was exhausting. Emotionally and physically. I wasn't sleeping. I was expecting labor (and then despairing that it would never arrive) off and on day after day after day. Mike had various work obligations and things he needed to be out of town for that made me anxious about timing. I had a house and nine kids that I wanted somewhat prepared for the event; and the constant re-readying and re-tidying was maddening.

It was a bit spiritually exhausting too. I'd had my own ideas for why certain days or certain times would be ideal, and I certainly didn't hesitate to let God know. And yet? No baby. Every morning I'd wake and feel like I'd somehow personally failed. (Which, of course, I knew was ridiculous, but I felt all the same.) I read several talks on timing, and felt that God wasn't unaware or ignoring my pleas (and that He wasn't even dismissing them for the irrational nonsense of a very-pregnant woman that they were); rather, He was at work here and that, just as we have mortal missions to complete, I couldn't presume to know the timing of completion of this little one's pre-mortal missions. I felt it was important for me to trust and be patient for how things would all play out. Still . . . my mind found ways to twist even that peace into, "He will require you to be pregnant . . . FOREVER." (haha) -- particularly as I continued to draw close to my actual due date!

However, when Friday, March 22 (my official due date) actually arrived, I was in pretty good spirits. Because I was actually there, I had finally reconciled myself to the fact that I would not be having my baby early. And I determined to make the most of the day. I had an OB appointment that morning. We made plans for her to see me the following week and for us to discuss my options (at that point, I fully expected arriving at that appointment). I had her check me -- as I was curious if all of that pre-labor was making anything happen (though I knew it might only get my hopes up falsely). I was already dilated to a four and we laughed before I left about that being active labor for some women. I sat in my car before heading back home and gave myself a few minutes to write a little Instagram post about some of my feelings regarding Abe's mission call. I stopped at the grocery store and bumped into a woman from my ward. We chatted about it being my due date and laughed, as we parted, that I'd probably see her on Sunday -- though I'd rather not. I chose out some snacks for a movie night for the kids. Later, Abe picked up pizza for us for dinner. And by 6:00 p.m. or so we had the house tidied up and the younger kids all downstairs watching Cinderella.

Mike came home, and he, Abe, Daisy and I discussed what movie we might want to watch together (Goldie was at the closing night of her Wizard of Oz play). I decided to go on a little run first though. It had been raining off and on all day and, while it was getting dark, it wasn't showing signs of a downpour at the moment. I had no thoughts of this run putting me in labor. I'd run plenty of times during all the labor-like symptoms of the past few weeks and it had made no difference. I mostly only went because I had decided I would do something good with the following day (rather than grump about no labor) and go early to the temple; so I wanted to fit a little run in Friday night (knowing a Saturday-morning temple visit would cause me to miss the only reliable run I ever get in a week). But I will say it was a particularly uncomfortable run. Despite its short length, I had to stop and walk -- just out of pure discomfort -- several times. I even had to find an open church building so I could use their restroom. And of course, I did wonder if all the intense discomfort could be something coming. But . . . I'd wondered that about a million discomforts for weeks.

I got home and showered. And felt fine. We started a movie around 9:00 or so (after getting all the younger kids to bed). But about half way through the movie I could no longer stay snuggled on the couch next to Mike. I kept getting up and pacing and not feeling comfortable. Mike kept asking if I was all right or in labor.

I didn't know.

At one point, around 10:30, I stood in the bathroom -- rubbing my belly, trying to make sense of everything. Part of me truly did know labor was finally beginning (though another part of me still questioned it) because suddenly I was hit with total panic and began to quietly cry. I was going into labor! I had been pining for it -- not realizing what it meant! . . . It meant, well, actual labor! And, at the end of that? A real live baby! And, that quickly, life would be new and unknown and infinitely more complicated again. Everything was about to change! I had no idea if I was ready for it. Of course I wasn't ready for it! The reality of it all hit me for maybe the first time, and I felt consumed with fear over the enormity of what was ahead.

But immediately I knew that was not the mindset I wanted as I embarked on that journey. I let my mind focus on a little visual of light coming directly from my Savior and surrounding me in a force-field of safety. And I prayed -- asking for angels and peace to surround me. I also wanted this baby to feel . . . I don't know . . . unquestionably welcome as they arrived. I didn't know this baby's gender, but I could not get it out of my head that we were having a girl -- and I worried, if it was a boy coming, my strong "girl" image would make him feel unwanted. Also, due to my age, and several other things, I had confronted more seriously than ever before the possibility of having a child with a chromosomal abnormality. The thought had terrified me initially, but I had prayed a lot and felt that, if that were the case, God's purposes would be in it and all would be well. And, if this baby had some type of disability, I wanted them to know they were loved and wanted.

Every time I'd woken in the night with contractions those past few weeks, I found myself reassuringly whispering over and over to this unborn child that they were welcome and wanted and not to fear coming. And I didn't want this sudden fear I was experiencing to place a barrier between baby and those feelings of love and welcome.

All of those thoughts were shaping my mindset as I felt labor beginning, and I was working very purposefully to choose light and trust -- for me and for this baby -- despite all the things that felt unknown ahead.

I went back out to Mike and the kids and our movie -- and paced, and replied uncertainly to their questions. I didn't want to leave to the hospital if these contractions were just going to peter out like others had on other nights. But I also didn't want to wait 'til I was absolutely certain (as I had with Mette) and spend the car ride dilating fully to a 10. And labor is such a funny thing. When a contraction would come (which one would -- every few minutes), I would think, "Oh! Goodness! Of course I am in labor!" But then . . . the period between contractions is always so fine that suddenly doubt creeps in. "How can I be in labor when, at this exact minute, I feel perfectly normal again?"

The movie ended a little after 11:00 p.m. I was still uncertain what to do. But Mike was nervous that I might wait too long and that, having already been dilated to a four before true labor even started, we might not have too long, so he encouraged us to get going.

Daisy climbed into my bed to sleep in case kids woke in the night and couldn't find us. And Mike and I headed out the door with me mumbling things to Daisy like, "I'm not really sure. We might be right back. We will text you if we stay. . . ." (It is always such a strange feeling -- walking out that door and down our front porch steps, knowing that, the next time I go up those steps and in that door, I will have a new human being with me and the world I knew will be completely different again.)

During the drive any questions I had (about whether this was labor or not) left -- as contractions began demanding all of my focus. There were still small breaks between them, but by the time we pulled up to the hospital, I told Mike to go ahead and bring my bag in with us as there was no longer any chance of this stopping.

As we checked in on the maternity floor, things became even more intense. I recall them asking questions and needing some things signed. But did I answer those questions? Did I sign? Or was it just Mike? I don't know. That's all foggy. I was leaning into him, holding tightly to his right arm, and turning my mind inward. There was this tight ball in me with a baby inside -- separate from the rest of my body it seemed -- and I was trying to wrap it in air and light and allow it to do its work.

They never take me to triage any more. I tell them this is my 8th baby. Or my 9th. Or my 10th, and, every time, they take me straight to a delivery room (which makes me chuckle a little). This was no different. A nurse got me settled. She asked if I wanted an epidural. I told her I did (and I think I already started nervously asking questions about how soon the anesthesiologist could come), and so she started an IV on me. She strapped the monitor for baby's heart beat to my stomach (that sound! how I associate it with birth!) and another little device to monitor contractions. Then she told me she'd be back in a few minutes.

Right after she left, however, my contractions, quite quickly switched from a minute or two of a break between them to one starting right after the other. And it's a funny thing not only feeling them, but looking over at that computer screen and seeing them -- the previous ones with a good amount of space between them, and the current ones . . . a new hill rising up on the screen just seconds after the last one curved down. I began to feel a little panic again. I kept thinking about what a body actually has to DO to get an entire baby that has been snug inside of you . . . suddenly OUT of you. And I was afraid my labor was maybe moving too fast and I would have to experience that process fully without pain relief. (And yet, even now, I feel occasional stabs of regret that I didn't! There was something powerful about the times I have experienced it. What a contradictory bundle of emotions!) But at the moment, I only felt fear that I might have to. Mike could tell I was getting anxious and asked if I wanted him to go see if the nurse had called the anesthesiologist yet. She came in and called for him to come -- as I nervously questioned if he was in surgery or anything or if he was free. She assured me he would be right up in just a minute. And to my relief he was. Still, I was feeling a little panic about contractions coming so close while having the epidural put in (which is not a pleasant process anyway -- and coupling it with contractions [though these were still mild in comparison] again brought to mind my experience with Mette). But I prayed my contractions might slow down while I got the epidural in, and they truly did. It was as if a pause was put on them just long enough for him to get me all set. I felt very grateful for that little mercy.

It was now around 12:30 a.m. (this baby was officially coming a day after their due date :)). Once I was comfortable, Mike called and told my mom so she could come up. For some reason our labor room was huge (much bigger than the postpartum rooms we end up in -- which seemed a little odd to me since that's when we have visitors, etc.). Almost all of my labors have begun in the middle of the night -- waking me from sleep and sending us to the hospital in the early morning hours. I'd never had labor start late at night (resulting in a middle of the night baby) before. It felt so quiet and dark. There were several large windows looking out on the night and distant lights. I could now think and focus on what was really happening -- this baby coming so soon. It was a strange thing waiting to find out if it was the girl I couldn't quit imagining or if there had been a little boy coming to us all along and wondering if we were about to have any other problems revealed, etc.

The last bit of dilating went a bit more slowly. But by about 3:30 a.m. I was fully dilated. The epidural had run out, but I wasn't in pain, only able to feel that contractions were happening and able to feel a lot of pressure (which was encouraging as my babies tend to remain up very high until far far into labor). I pushed through one contraction and then, on the next one, out our baby came! At 3:38 a.m. -- just a few short hours after my due date. 21.5" and 8 lbs 6 oz.

Someone said, "It's a girl" I'm sure. Maybe several people did. But it didn't quite register and there was just this bundled, balled up little person being set low on me. I can still picture that curled up tiny person exactly. That little image is just . . . one of those I have clearly stuck, I hope forever, in my mind. "Is it a girl?" I questioned again. "Did they say girl?" It was. I felt such a calm relief that it was truly her. The very girl I had been waiting for. And then she was being placed up on my chest and a warm towel put over us and everything was just immediately completely peaceful and calm. She was whole and complete and the very soul I had felt was coming all along. I think I could have fallen asleep with her on my chest right that minute everything felt so absolutely right (and also . . . I was exhausted ;)).

And that is the story of our Starling Eliza's arrival.

But, a tiny postscript . . . because I love it.

A woman from my ward -- a recent convert who I currently serve with in Young Women's -- texted me a few days after Starling's birth. March 23rd, she told me, was also her birthday. Like Starling, she was even born in the 3 o-clock hour of the night. She told me she doesn't typically have vivid dreams, but, on the night of Starling's arrival, she had a very clear dream. In it, she was at my house for some big celebration. She said she kept asking what the party was for and everyone just kept saying, "The little one is coming! The little one is coming!" She told me it affected her tremendously that there were SO MANY friends and family members there to celebrate -- and that there was so much JOY. She said the dream was so specific that she woke up and began praying for me.

I love that sometimes the veil is so thin between this world and the next, that what is happening can be felt radiating down around anyone open to it. I love that all of our spirits are capable of recognizing and responding to the almost-forgotten familiarity of light and power and angels. And I love knowing that, despite my worries about what was ahead and fears over how I was choosing to go about it, all along, there was only joy and rejoicing and love and support radiating down on and surrounding Starling. It all confirmed just what I'd felt on that Sunday morning in the hospital -- nothing better or more absolutely good and right has ever happened.

Plodding Along Towards Week 39

Between writing my last post at 37 weeks of pregnancy (when I felt, matter-of-factly, that having a baby was still a million miles away) and week 38 of pregnancy, I experienced, quite suddenly, pretty nearly all of the catalogued pre-labor symptoms that suggest labor might be coming. (Well, if you google them [which trust me, I did . . . a ridiculously unnecessary amount of times] what they actually suggest is this: "labor might be hours or several weeks away".) 

Which of course I already knew. I've had one hundred babies after all. But I kept on googling . . . hoping that somehow I might suddenly read something new that would narrow the window between hours and weeks to . . . "precisely this time on this day".

I didn't find it.

But all at once, despite my former inability to believe anything, it was real! This baby! Coming! Labor! And delivery! And our entire lives changing! It could all suddenly happen in HOURS . . . or weeks.

Hours or . . . weeks.

HOURS OR WEEKS!!!

Nothing in my life has ever driven me quite so mad as the ten times that I have lived through something this enormous coming in hours or weeks.

I went from having done nothing to prepare (because no need to act rashly . . . we still had all the time in the world and I? a picture of calm) to packing a hospital bag, and pulling out the baby cradle, and washing baby sheets, and analyzing a thousand emotions and physical symptoms, and alternating days between cleaning like a mad woman because baby might be here any minute and . . . dejectedly doing absolutely nothing at all because what was the use when it would just get undone and no baby was ever really coming anyway.

But! I've calmed a bit. I've quit looking anything up on the internet (I may have read it all at this point anyway), and I have quit panicking about having things done (or panicking about them not being done). And I've allowed that this baby most likely will follow the pattern of all of my other babies (saving Mette -- that two-week-early curve thrower) who arrived within about four days (one side or the other) of their due dates. And I've determined to spend at least a little chunk of time every day this week doing something creative. Life is so full of so many demands that I often tend to feel guilty if I am doing anything other than what needs to be done, but I read something from Elder Scott the other day where he talked about his love for painting and how using our creative abilities adds depth and meaning to the monotony of life's demands, etc. With that approval, I dropped my guilt and . . . I'm writing a blog post! And determining to pull out my camera this week! And I even played the piano yesterday and today! (Which is a slow and painful process as I have to pause and think about every note beyond the keys between middle C and the Cs on either side of it. As I was slowly working out an arrangement of Nearer My God to Thee today, Summer came in and asked, "Why are you playing the piano?" When I told her I just wanted to, she called, "Mette! Come on! Let's dance!" Mette excitedly joined her. After about 30 seconds Summer leaned over to her and whispered hopefully, "Don't worry. In a minute it will get exciting.") 

In other news, and speaking of Summer and Mette, they have become the best little playmates! Summer is four and Mette three, so it isn't as if they haven't been interacting with one another for a long time, but something has just clicked between them the last month or two and they are able to play and entertain each other for hours. It's a very satisfying development and makes me incredibly grateful that I had those two girls so closely spaced. 

Notwithstanding all of that, there are still a few glitches: They tend to make a tremendous amount of mess in their adventures together. Poor Hansie is perpetually left out (as they don't want his curious little hands anywhere near their Calico Critter arrangements or Little Pet set ups). And, . . . I overheard this matter-of-fact portion of a conversation coming from the kitchen the other day:

Summer: "But Mette, sometimes it's hard to be your best friend. Because you just scream at me all day." 

Anyway, that's all for now. 

37 Weeks

I'm 37 weeks pregnant.

37 weeks!

It is unquestionably the most surprised I have ever been to reach this point.

I don't know why 37 weeks is such a big deal exactly, but it is! I mean this whole pregnancy is counted in terms of weeks, and, even 36 weeks still sounds like . . . a month . . . and earlier than a baby should safely come. But 37 weeks is just . . . not even a month! And suddenly it seems nobody worries it might be too early for a baby's arrival. (Not that I expect a baby to come right away. [In fact, it's the furthest thing from what I expect at the moment!] True I had one out of nine babies come at 38 weeks, but my other eight all came within days [before or after -- mostly after] of my official due date.) But it's just three weeks is such a small space of time! Why, just three weeks ago, on this very day, Goldie was busy breaking her leg. And that was only . . . one second ago it seems. It just happened! There are still gifted flowers on the counter and Mylar "Get Well Soon" balloons floating above the fireplace mantel. So 37 weeks? Three weeks to go? It just feels like: we are at the end!

Only I don't feel at the end at all! It seems actually impossible that in a few weeks I might suddenly go into labor or that within a month there will be an actual new person here, in our family! I can't wrap my mind around it at all. I can't make it a reality!

I haven't pulled out the car seat or bought a little pack of baby diapers to have ready. I haven't packed a hospital bag and other than the pack of plain white, side-snap onesies I purchased months ago I haven't bought a single cute new snuggly outfit or swaddling blanket. (Though admittedly that's partly due to my inability to see anything as "gender neutral". Had we known if a boy or girl was coming this time around, I probably would have purchased a thing or two.) But I keep thinking of earlier pregnancies when I had big project lists and chores all lined up to be accomplished by this point. "Forced nesting" I called it in my anxiousness to get everything ready and in control before baby arrived. I long for that same type of productivity and feeling of preparedness, but I can't seem to force anything! (Particularly when present life circumstances make doing anything above and beyond the minimum necessary to maintain order . . . almost impossible. With a family this big, that alone is truly work without pause.) And I feel unsettled knowing that there is so little time left . . . and I haven't done any major cleaning or readying. Only . . . I still can't make myself believe in this business of: not much time left.

Mike did pick up an umbrella stroller last weekend (our others having long since broken all their wheels or had the fabric of their seats ripped out). And, because he is amazing at noting anything I ever mention possibly wanting, he also brought a DockATot home to me. (I'd seen these trendy little portable baby sleepers/beds popping up everywhere recently, but looked them up only to be shocked at the ridiculous price tag that clearly showcased their trendiness more than their actual value. But when Mike saw one, oddly placed in the middle of all the other random things at this deeply-discounted BDO Outlet near us, he knew it would be a fun surprise for me.)

Anyway, I don't know what any of that has to do with anything really. I just suddenly see this big thing . . . suddenly almost real . . . and it doesn't feel real. And I feel this anxiousness like I am running out of time to understand what any of this is all about. It really was just so recently that I was still almost certain our family was complete. At this time last year I was truly 99.9% certain our family was truly complete. A baby wasn't on my radar at all. What a lot of unexpected wildness God can present in your life in just a small year's time! 

I don't have much more to say, but I'll copy here what I shared on Instagram early this week:

3.5 weeks. Which kind of makes it sound like this is really going to happen. Someone should buy some baby diapers. Or pack a hospital bag. Or check the car seat. Or do some "nesting". But I can't make it seem real. Just last May -- only ten measly months ago -- I was still 99.9% certain I'd brought all my babies here. And I still haven't really wrapped my mind around any of this. (Who on earth has ten babies anyway? Most of the time I don't even believe I have nine.) All I know is God presented me with an opportunity. He showed me something beautiful. Just this sliver. A glimpse. And then He stood back and let me decide. And I cried for three weeks straight. Because I wanted to choose it -- this huge thing that I'd only understood . . . almost nothing about. But I was too scared. Much much too scared. And then . . . somehow I wasn't. And I chose it. But even in the choosing, it hardly occurred to me that it would ever really be only 3.5 weeks away from becoming something far more than a brave idea. 

A Missed Opportunity to Knock on Wood. And a Snowy Bear Lake Weekend.

There’s that old phrase about knocking on wood. And I should have. I should have knocked on wood. Because when my OB asked how I was feeling just a few short weeks ago, I cheerily (and prematurely) replied something along the lines of, “So great! Not any back pain or anything! Just feeling super great!”

Ha! “Fool of a Took!” 

That very night my back went to pot. Too much baby up front it seems. And then so much dizziness set in (with an accompanying feeling of overall not right. . .ness). Shortly thereafter my doctor called to tell me that, while my gestational diabetes test came back showing no signs of diabetes (hurrah), I had managed to become anemic (ah-hah!). And off I was sent to fetch iron pills. And now? Several hours of nausea and stomach cramping accost me most days. I assumed it was some type of unlucky third trimester morning sickness (trying to teach me a lesson for being so la-dee-da about first trimester nausea). And perhaps it is. But also perhaps, in a sorrowful case of the cure being worse than the disease, it is the iron pills! Also every time I roll over in bed, I wake fully — as it seems to require a massive exertion to heave my belly from one side to the other (and in doing so, I regularly get some Charlie-horse/round ligament spasm that freezes me, mid roll, in pain for a solid ten minutes). 

Anyway, there. I’ve done it. 1000 billion words of sheer whiney complaining. Where is the dignity and grace in all of that I wonder? Nowhere, that’s where. But, what can I say? (Well, besides all that I just said.) This being an old woman and seven months pregnant with a tenth baby is not, it turns out, for the faint of heart. And also, perhaps, some part of me felt eager to earn my pregnancy stripes. After all, my pregnancies have been primarily easy — and all around me, friends and family have suffered in unthinkable misery to get their babies here. I suppose I just wanted to finally give a weak little, “I hear ya’, sisters. I’m with you. Pregnancy is rough. Amen.”

But mostly I’m actually fine. As in most hours of most days. (It felt dearly comical when I showed up to help clean our church building on Saturday and the brother in charge felt so clearly appalled to suggest I exert myself in doing anything so rigorous as empty a garbage can or mop a bathroom floor with a light weight mop.) So. Keep your sympathies. Or empathies. Or whatever they might be. I see now how exaggeratedly I was trying to claim them! A few short weeks out of however many hundreds of weeks (egads!) I’ve spent pregnant in my life and suddenly I think everyone should be patting me on the back, exclaiming “poor dear”, and feeding me bon-bons. Nonsense. (Except for maybe the bon-bons part. I’ve never had those. They might be nice.)

Anyway, who cares about backaches and stomach pain when there is this:

And this!

And Goldie cheering Mette by telling “snecrets” during a weekend getaway to the cabin:

And this funny moment:

(Mike asked the boys if they wanted him to read to them. They said they did. So Mike began reading. After awhile he began making up words. No one noticed. Then he set the book down altogether and joined me in the kitchen. Again, no notice by the boys. “I had no receiver,” he told me. And I hugged him and we laughed.)

And a just-waking Daisy (with her hair somehow gorgeous even in a slept-on half-braid) entertaining Hans.

And Jesse going skiing with the older kids for the first time:

(We can’t park at our cabin in the winter as the snow is one million feet deep, so we have to load and unload our things and each other, tramp a trail across that million-foot-deep snow, and park our vehicles in a snow-plowed parking lot down below us. When I followed the skiers out to take a picture of all my little skiing folks before their departure, they were aghast that I would take a shot without Abe, but I could see what they couldn’t: Abe in the background arriving with the truck that Mike had sent him to retrieve.)

And a Sunday walk (when everyone seemed to be feeling a little cabin-fevery – despite our earlier excursion to the Garden City ward for church -- and we determined they needed to get out again) that included sledding every time the snowy roads turned steep (and a lot of work for Abe who was often left to pull the big, black sled . . . and whatever children decided to pile in it):

Blessedly I am not pictured in any of these photos. I was still wearing a mid-calf length maternity church dress, but had added large boots and some ill-fitting snow pants to my ensemble – along with a puffy, brown coat (zipped up tight and riding about half way up my pregnant belly), a big beanie I had borrowed from Mike, and some large black gloves. Mike may have said something about my looking like a bag lady, but he leaned in to kiss me as he did so, and . . . perhaps that's true love. Or possibly pity. I accepted it all the same. 

Speaking of Mike, there was this. I wanted the moment stuck fast in my mind forever:

When the wind had made Hansie’s cheeks twice as red as they were here, and he’d thrown his gloves off of his freezing and chapped little hands for the tenth time, and was sobbing wildly because we still had a long way to walk, and he was cold (and didn’t understand how gloves helped anything), and too little to pull a sled by himself, and disillusioned by the whole snowy business, Mike held him snug in his left arm, cupped Hans’s tiny hands securely and completely in his big right fist, and puffed warm air on them ‘til we got back to our cabin. It soothed and fascinated Hans completely. And I wish he’d forever have that memory of little, cold him and his rugged, strapping dad warming his hands while trudging tirelessly through the snow.

And that is all for now.