Disconnected Offerings

My mom emailed me a little reply, as she often does, in response to my last blog post. I know the story well — the beginning of my mom’s reading of chapter books to her kids — but it’s such a dear, happy image (and I love so much that the tradition continues with her own kids reading the very same books to her grandkids) that I wanted to keep her comment recorded here:

Watership Down!  Oh, memories!  You might not remember but I think what started all of this was a baby gift Penny sent to newborn John -- a copy of The Hobbit, with the following inscription:  "This is a rather dangerous book, and should be previewed by John's older brothers" (who were five and four at that time).  So in the evening when it was time to nurse the baby, I read to them, and somehow nobody felt neglected because I had to spend time with the baby.  Oh Penny -- the wisest of all!  And the older brothers took their responsibility seriously.  When the trolls had captured the hobbits and had them hanging in bags in a tree while the trolls decided whether to boil, mince, or fry them, Tony stopped me.  "I think this is getting too scary for the baby!"  he insisted, trembling.  Checking ahead, I was able to assure him that Bilbo was about to rescue them in just a minute.  But those big brothers were really on guard!

And it was kind of wonderful to re-read some of these best ones to a second or even third generation of little ones who had never gone hobbiting or to the Downs, or to the Mines of Moria with their older siblings!

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I continue to have various frustrations in regards to this coronavirus pandemic of course, but not fear any more. But when things first began and stores were running out of things and there seemed to be a bit of hysteria, I did feel some initial fear. After praying for several days, I quickly jotted down these thoughts and feelings. I came across them again the other day and found they applied to more than just that space of time and decided to put them here as well:

There are things God has for me and each of my kids to do ahead. Plans he has for us. Any natural disasters or trials or calamities aren’t just independent things that might interfere with that truth. Wading through them, and choosing how, and learning from them will strengthen our faith and become an important part of the journey towards the things He has ahead for us. These things are preparatory and God will use them to strengthen and teach me and prepare me to do and understand even more ahead. That will be true with any future difficulty or disaster. He does not relinquish his control and the quicker we work to trust him and seek what he would have us do with where we are at (even if we feel guilty for not being as prepared as we should have been) the sooner he can mold this to good and use us and train us for his purposes. Don’t feel fear. Feel hope and trust and determination to rise to the challenge and see what he will do through and for you. And what it will lead you to. All is well. All is well. We are in his hands and not forsaken and the quicker we turn to him and trust that that is true (rather than let fear or guilt put a barrier to that belief) the sooner we free ourselves from Satan’s chains and rid ourselves of the lies and fears he tries to quickly wrap around us. There may be difficult things ahead. But Christ already sees them and will hold us by the hand and lead us through each one — showing us what to do and giving us help and hope. So we don’t need to fear. (Also! Be determined and excited! You WERE prepared for these very things! You might balk and feel discomfort or fear initially. But it doesn’t change the fact that you have work to do in and through these hard things! And the Lord will lead you by the hand reminding you of all of it!)

I think the idea that jumped out at me as I re-read these thoughts was that the troubles that come are not interruptions, rather they are part of the journey towards all we need to accomplish and become and all we need to learn about trust and hope and our Savior's power to mend. It reminds me of one of my favorite things Howard W. Hunter ever said: "Our detours and disappointments are the straight and narrow path to Him."

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Kids and chalk. They typically manage to coat the seat of their pants with it and then run right in to sit on our blue couches.

Hans. Some days we don't manage to get him settled for a nap. But then ... he seems to settle himself to one all right.

I took some pictures of kids in our van in May and June. I think I was planning to do a little "scenes from the van" photo of each of them for Instagram. But I never got Goldie. Or Hans. And Abe left on his mission again. And the ones I got of Daisy I posted in the farm post awhile back. And I forgot about them for awhile. Anyway, here are a few from the van. Perhaps I will re-visit this idea afresh later.

Kids playing around outside.

Hansie after a tumble into a table edge and several stitches. "I'll be brave if the doctor gives me a shot," he said through his sniffles as he was carried out the door with a towel pressed firmly to his bleeding head.

The End.

A Dream

Last night I dreamt that it was late evening – totally dark as winter evenings are -- and I was pulling into my parents long driveway. I was surprised to see their Christmas lights -- already up and shining into the night with the same happy familiarity they did during all of my growing up years. Off to the left I thought I caught a glimpse of the Christmas tree glowing through the living-room window. A small spark of excitement struck me as it occurred to me that it might be one of the 16 foot tall ones we had during the years when we were all still living at home. Thinking of what might be inside seemed to immediately transport me there. As I stepped inside the door, I heard familiar Christmas music coming from the record player in “the pit” (as we always called the cozy area with the wood-burning stove and couches just before the kitchen). My parents were there – as strong and happy and able as they’ve ever been. They looked up from whatever they’d been busying with and smiled – ready to welcome me. My younger sister stood in the kitchen. Noticing her, I again had no need to transport myself any physical distance (even one as short as the distance through our entryway, past the pit, and the long dining table to the kitchen). I was simply taken right next to her. We hugged each other tightly and both of us cried and cried. We didn’t need words. We understood each other’s emotions. Here we were. Everything as it ever had been. Every happiest thing still whole and there – none of it faded or part of some distant past. My parents, I knew, were standing behind us – smiling at us and at each other with happiness and some amusement, but mostly joy over their daughter’s reactions. I knew that the minute Megan and I parted, we’d be hugging them and there would be more tears.

And then I woke up.

It’s always interesting to me that dreams illicit real emotion – emotion that doesn’t know to go anywhere just because one has woken to a different reality. Every time I’ve thought of that dream today, I feel that familiar thickness in my throat and I start to cry again.

Only, . . . I can’t explain this perfectly, but it doesn’t just feel like tears of nostalgia – tears of loss over sweet stages now past. It also feels, strangely, like teary impatience. Like anxious expectation of things still to come; of a time when I will finally understand that there never truly were any endings. There were no goodbyes. And that all of this – every good thing and perfect joy is somehow still there. Still real. Still part of me. Still continuing. I think I’m crying over the wait I must still have before I’ll see that nothing is gone at all, and all of this is mine . . . forever. 

Honky

One early morning, years ago (and a few weeks into our first experience as homeowners), I pulled open the long white drapes covering our Spanish-style front windows and was met with a strange sight: a small black goat tethered with a short, frayed rope to our mailbox.

It might have been an omen – something like the black cat crossing your path or the owl flying over your house the wrong direction at just the wrong time. And it had to be a federal offense. (Surely our esteemed US Postal Service wouldn’t put up with goats attaching themselves to the sacred receptacles of our precious post.) But beyond that? I was at a loss.

So, I called Mike – absolutely certain he would know what this was all about.

After all, he was the one who made the offer on this small piece of county land we now called home. And, having grown up visiting his grandparents’ farm and having once rather seriously considered life as a sheepherder, wasn’t he educated in the ways of the country?

Surely he would know exactly why and how a goat came to be tied to our mailbox. Perhaps goats and and mailboxes were run-of-the-mill – something to be expected -- when living the country life (even if you were only a narrow strip of “country” surrounded mostly by suburbs).

But Mike did not know.

He merely acted (as any country dweller worth his salt would do when confronted with such a situation). How it got there was irrelevant (perhaps it was a gift from the gods). What to do now – now that the goat had landed in our arms (or close enough) -- was what mattered.

Of course, when I say “he acted”, what I mean is, “he instructed me to act”. He was at work and could only serve as a voice of instruction and encouragement at the precise moment when goat needed confronting.

The only reasonable thing to do, apparently, was to untie the goat --  keeping a firm hold on the rope and a stubborn resolve to continue dragging and pulling despite the goat’s bleating and determined resistance – and stick him safely in the fenced portion of our yard.

We would put up a FOUND sign later, certainly (though Mike was shocked at my naivety when I suggested a description for the sign. We would not be giving too many details -- color and size and the like -- as that would surely bring throngs of the unscrupulous who would be willing to lie and deceive – sacrificing any integrity -- all  for a chance at a free goat).

In the meantime, toddler Abe fed the goat various leaves and twigs from about the yard and named him Honky.

And when, within a day, a call did come (with a matching description) from a young family around the corner whose goat had chewed through the rope that held him staked in their yard, I was surprised (having been a bit skeptical about the hoards of goat seekers, and a bit too certain that sensible folk would only be thrilled to wake and find their goat missing), but Mike and Abe were only disappointed.

And it was not much longer at all before I found myself the proud (or perhaps “reluctant” would fit better) owner of two pygmy goats – cleverly named Brownie and Whitey (and if you use your powers of reasoning and intellect, you might be able to deduce their colors)

Mike and I recently celebrated our 13 year anniversary. (I know this seems quite a leap from Honky the goat, but it’s all tied together in my mind.)

13 years seems an incredibly long time to have passed since wearing that gorgeous white dress and securing myself forever to Mike, and, simultaneously, a ridiculously short amount of time to have experienced so much: to have lived in five homes, and three month-long temporary abodes; to have grown from two to eight; to have finished degrees and worked various jobs; to have known stress and worry and loss, and joy and peace and gain; and to have developed so many memories – so many shared stories – chasing horses trotting down busy roads, vans stuck in deep snow, delayed flights keeping us apart, bunnies hopping around outside hotel windows, Christmas trees purchased at the last minute, holes dug and fences put up, broken water pipes and surprise gifts from strangers; ER visits; tears (from a child) over the sell of an old couch. And, of course, goats tied to mailboxes.

It all makes me rather nervous and extremely excited to contemplate what stories there will be to tell in 13 more years of life together -- what things we will learn and overcome, what people we will meet, and what moments, yet to have happened, we will look back on and laugh about. Daisy, of course, would be hoping that one of those stories includes a bunny tied to our mailbox (and with no owner to claim it), but I suppose we can’t know yet. We can simply dig in – take the bull by the horns (or goat by the chewed through rope as the case may be) -- and go about living!

Childhood Memories

I was sorting through some old computer files today – looking for something I had once written and stored. I never found it, but I did come across a page of writings that looked to be some random bits from my childhood. I had written them in April of 2010. I imagine my intent had been to record more. Instead, they were altogether forgotten. They are probably of little consequence to anyone, but as I read these bits, it occurred to me that I have often had grand dreams of recording my whole history, but it always feels too daunting – the whole starting back with earliest recollections and moving towards the present; trying to miss nothing of great significance or leave out small bits of insignificance that still paint a clear picture of a life. Maybe I still will some day when I have limitless time for all the projects I would like to complete. In the meantime, I think I will institute a little occasional post theme: Childhood Memories. Wherein I will recount any small pieces I want to so that, at least, some parts of my growing up will be recorded and kept safe in my little printed blog books.

Anyway, here are the two small recordings that I found today. Don’t be surprised to see this theme regularly. Or . . .  somewhat regularly anyway.

Warm Milk

A good hour after she should have been sleeping, Goldie whispered to me (as I checked on her one more time), “Maybe if you could just get a little glass of milk from the fridge and then put it in the microwave for like 20 seconds, that would help.”

She knew about the wonders of warm milk putting you to sleep from Mike – who had warmed it for her on several other sleepless nights.

As I walked downstairs to make her some, it struck me as strange that warm milk was really being used in my home as a means to induce sleep. I liked the idea of it – it sounds like an old wives' remedy and has a wholesome feel about it, but I never would have thought to institute the use of warm milk in my house.

I was offered warm milk myself growing up on occasion, but I always politely declined – warm milk sounding slightly revolting to me. However, maybe it was simply the fact that it would have been the powdered milk we grew up on. If the glass of warm milk offered had been whole milk, it might have been a completely different story.

My mom did make something rather lovely when we were ill. I don't recall what illness exactly it was to treat, or what symptoms it was to alleviate, but it was a little mixture involving honey and possibly lime or lemon juice, and I recall being slightly comforted by the concoction on several late night occasions.

The Pool Table

We had a pool table in our basement during my growing up years. I don't know how long before I came on the scene it had been there, nor do I know, oddly enough, when exactly it left. It was so enormous and was such a main feature in the downstairs “playroom,” that it seems impossible to not have noticed its leaving. And yet, the room is open and pool table free now and I wonder how it ever came to be that way with out me having paid it any mind. I also wonder how it was removed at all. It was no ordinary pool table. This was a heavy duty serious pool player's table. I doubt I could have even lifted one end off of the ground, and I recall being surprised that the small spindly-legged things I came across every now and then at friends' homes were also considered pool tables.

It didn't just have little netted pockets to retrieve your balls from. The balls actually went down the holes where you would then hear them rolling their little trek through the unseen pathways inside of the beast before being dropped out in a central front opening where all the balls stayed stored after games.

You could crawl and hide fairly well under either of the long pool table sides (and someone was sure to be hiding there at any point during many of our night time “cops and robbers” games), but you couldn't see who might be hiding on the other side as the middle portion went solidly to the ground and must have contained the mysterious paths the pool balls rolled along.

Unmowed Daisies

As we drove to my family’s Christmas Eve party last Saturday afternoon, Mike told me, briefly, about Brother Huband; an elderly neighbor whose lawn he used to mow. Brother Huband would always come out half way through the mowing and give Mike a root beer. They would sit on the porch and drink their root beers together before Mike would get back to the job of cutting the grass.

There was a small spot of wild Daisies right in the middle of the lawn that Brother Huband would never let Mike mow down. Out of place though they were, a young mother had once stopped and asked if she might take a picture of her baby in those flowers, and who knew what other mothers might stop by with the same sweet request.

Brother Huband is long gone, and who knows what brought the memory to Mike’s mind as we were driving off to celebrate a holiday far displaced from summer, lawn mowing and Daisies; but we do have a little baby just now and something about that memory made me want to cry, made me wish very much that I could go knock on Brother Huband’s door and ask to please use his perfect little spot of flowers to take some pictures of my own little baby. It would be nice to tell him that no other patch would possibly do.

My mom said something to me later about the veil seeming extra thin at Christmas time. I almost wonder if even the memories that others had while they lived here are more free to drift down and settle on our own little minds. Who knows, but this summer maybe I will go take some pictures of my baby in a Daisy patch and send that little moment skywards – hoping it might reach Brother Huband and bring him a smile.

12, 13, 14

12. Something you own that has a lot of sentimental value:

I'm not an overly sentimental person. No. That sounds wrong. Maybe I am. I certainly place a lot of sentiment on things someone has thoughtfully given me and remember the smallest little things someone may have done for me. And I nearly always keep cards, letters and notes. I just am not one to keep little tiny souvenirs, etc. Even still, there were a number of things I could have used for this section on the list. Some of them were more readily at hand (the ones I chose) and others would have taken more unearthing.

Anyway, this little necklace was one Mike gave me several years ago for Christmas:

Not only do I love the simple necklace's look, but how could you not feel sentimental about a locket -- already filled with pictures of your precious ones? I do need to update it (as it contains only the three children who were a part of our family at the time Mike gave it to me). I'd like to put all my kids plus my husband. I just haven't tried to figure how to print such tiny pictures -- and Mike seems to have forgotten how he did it originally. I've worn this necklace a lot over the years, and it has spent a good deal of time entertaining the various toddlers who have sat on my lap opening and shutting it during many a sacrament meeting.

Next up -- this fleece sweatshirt:I've owned it for, let's see . . . nearly twelve years now! It don't know that it is current in fashion and it is certainly worn and stretched, but its sentiment is such that I can never part with it. It was a gift from Mike when we were dating. My sister worked at the Gap at the time, and I'd been there shopping during their "Friends and Family" discount day. I'd loved the sweatshirt but hadn't purchased it because it seemed a bit too expensive (even with the 30% discount). I don't recall how Mike knew I wanted it -- if we'd seen it one time shopping together or if I'd told him I'd sort of wanted to buy it but opted not to. All I know is that soon afterwards, he showed up with it as a gift for me. (And, imagine this, after seeing me typing this post, Mike happened to unearth the VERY receipt showing his purchase of this sweatshirt. Well, we can't very well throw that away now either, can we!)

Last thing for #12 -- This blanket that sits folded at the foot of my bed:

Originally, this was a totally different blanket -- composed of bright orange material on one side and big colorful patchwork squares on the other side. There were two of them (I don't know what's become of the other). My mom had made them for my older sisters' beds. Later, when they had become the blankets on the beds of two of us younger girls, the patchwork side was so frayed that a new blue checked back was added. (As seen in the above picture), but the colorful squares weren't totally forgotten. If I lifted the blanket towards the light of my bedroom window, I could see their remnants through the orange side. By the time I was in middle school, the orange side was so beat up that my mom took me to choose a sheet -- I remember that shopping trip with just the two of us and how excited I was to choose what I wanted and how ingenious I thought it was to use a sheet for the new side (I chose the lovely flower pattern you now see). We tied and sewed that on over the orange. We must have cut the orange off pretty well because none of it is visible, but through the now rather thin and worn checked side, you can still see the old colorful squares. I love this blanket. Not only because I slept with it so much of my growing up, but it reminds me of my mom and of her efforts to re-use and be thrifty to care for her eleven children.

13. The oldest thing you own:

To be honest, I'm not actually sure which of my possessions has the most years on it. It may be that something I have is much older than the two things I thought of here, but I don't know. I just thought of these items because they belonged to my grandma and so, must have been around for awhile anyway. They later became mine. My grandma loved jewelry and one Christmas let my sisters and I choose something from her jewelry drawer. I don't know that it's worth anything monetarily speaking, but I think it's pretty cool looking. The radio was something I got to keep from her house after she'd passed away. I just use it for a decoration, but it was a functioning radio at one point.


14. Something you are good at:

I used to lament the fact that I didn't have any obviously recognizable (at least to me) talents -- nothing I could readily display or perform. Even now, I will catch myself singing along to a song in the car and, just for a minute, imagining how impressive it would be if it were ME singing that song. I know, that's a nerdy thing to admit, but I would love to play an instrument incredibly well or be able to dance or sing or even ski amazingly; and wouldn't that be a fun way to answer number 14? By writing about my having played violin for the New York Philharmonic, or about being asked to sing at wedding receptions? Yes, that would be fun -- even if I could only a little bit do any of those things.

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Still, as I've grown older, I have become more grateful for (and better at recognizing) the talents I do have. Some of them I didn't know I had because I'd never had a need for them until later life experiences called upon them; others, I simply had -- ungratefully -- never considered to be talents. For example, I still remember about five years ago when my sister Shannon said something to me about my having a "talent" for keeping things clean. At the time, thinking of talents more as the earlier things I'd mentioned, I scoffed and laughed, "Oh yah. Some talent. Psh." Since then however, and with the addition of more children to my home, I have come to appreciate that maybe that is something of a talent. Don't get me wrong. My house isn't sparkly clean and, at any given moment, there are several areas I would prefer remain unseen, but I do seem to be able to keep things fairly tidy. So, it is more things like that that I have started to try and view as my gifts or talents - the things that aren't maybe as deserving of an audience, but that are a skill all the same. I can't think of any more at this very moment to type, but you get the idea.

Friday? Friday? Where are you?

I've been remiss. No Friday moment. Booo. Friday was the last day of my week of moments. It should have gone out with a bang. The thing is, I didn't take a picture of anything all day long. Not ONE moment of picture taking. Still, to be true to my plan, I will try to recreate a moment that could have been photographed -- were someone there to photograph it.

Friday Moment: Nancy's arms are very weak.

Mike's cousin Blaire is here from out of town this week. Somehow the two of us got to talking about work outs and the like. I was telling her that I could see myself enjoying lifting weights, etc. more. Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be a body builder for crying out loud. But, I think I'd enjoy learning how to work my muscles more. I'd enjoy becoming . . . I don't know . . . stronger. (You should see me when Mike needs me to help lift something around here. I nearly start to weep I hate it so bad. Badly?).

Anyway, turns out Blaire has gotten very into lifting, so she took me with her to the gym Friday night after Mike got home to have me do one of her lifting routines with her. I felt like I was holding my own for a few minutes, but then . . . I wasn't holding my own. It mostly started with the push ups. After about one second my face looked like the face I drew in the picture below (only much more red . . . and sort of shaking). I don't think Blaire really believed I could be as weak as I was. She kept showing me different tricks to make it work better -- thinking I could surely do a few more if I just got the proper technique down. Unfortunately changing my form was absolutely not going to get me one bit further. We mostly did upper body on this work out though, and I fancy my lower half might have done me a little more proud. Running really doesn't do much for your arms. Anyway, I quite liked it -- sissy as I was. It felt good.And, for neglecting Friday, I will add two extra moments from the past week that didn't end up in any of my posts.

Extra moment ONE: Goodbye to our little cart and TV.

Well, not GOODBYE goodbye. They are just going to the basement for now. But we have had this little 19 inch TV and its tiny little rolling cart for our near 11 years of marriage. Mike found a steal on a used armoire the other day, and we got a new more normal sized television to go in it. As Mike took this old TV out of the way, I told him that it was a momentous occasion. There is something very sentimental about the belongings from our first early poor days of marriage. Mike going to school full time and working delivering pizzas and the like while I had already quit working to be home with Abe and Daisy. Plus, this particular TV has a little extra meaning because Mike waited out all night before a store's grand opening when we were engaged because the first ten customers got a television for one dollar. And, there was a time when we really needed that cart because our apartment was so tiny that there was no counter space whatsoever for a microwave or about anything for that matter. We had to take the doors off a closet in our "living room" to put Abe's crib in because there was no place else for it to fit. Anyway, this little set up that has looked so sadly out of place in our current home of ultra high ceilings, reminds me of those times, so I'm quite attached to it.Extra moment TWO: Goldie reads to Penny.

It is not always that Penny will just let anyone serve her needs. Sometimes (well, often times) she will absolutely refuse help from anyone but mom. BUT, when she does let her older siblings be of help to her -- getting her a cup of milk, helping her out of her crib, reading to her, etc., well, it is very nice for me, and also just very cute. Look at those girls.Well. That's that. The end of this week of stuff. I don't know what that means exactly or where that leaves us. I guess just back to hoping that all on my own little schedule I am inspired to be sentimental or clever or interesting. Ha. As if THAT could happen. Then again . . . maybe it will . . . time will tell. Time will tell.

One Year Ago Today

It is always so crazy to look back on what was happening a year ago. A year ago I was in the hospital just about to push Jesse into this world -- not yet knowing his name would be Jesse; not yet even knowing he was a boy at all.

I'd woken up at 4:00am that morning -- just for a minute -- just long enough to stare at the red digital numbers on our bedside clock that told me another morning would soon be dawning with NO baby. I was officially on day four of being overdue.

Every night for the past two weeks I'd gone to bed thinking, "maybe tonight . . ." and every morning I'd woken up disappointed, thinking, "I'm still here." But that disappointment had begun to turn into MAJOR frustration as the mornings past my due date kept dawning.

That morning was a particularly frustrating one because I had actually gone to bed feeling some irregular but pretty uncomfortable contractions -- contractions I was hopeful might lead to the real deal, but after sleeping peacefully til 4:00am, I realized that they must have been simply another round of false labor. I made a small sad little moan to myself -- a pity moan, then drifted back to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later I was up again in a state of excited disbelief. There were no contractions, but was that my imagination, or were the sheets all around me wet? I had never, in four pregnancies, had my water break at the onset of labor. That's how it always starts in the movies, and that's how I wanted to have it start. This had to be it. I giddily hopped up and ran to the bathroom -- only to fill a toilet with blood.

My mind was unable to make sense of this. I knew what blood meant early on. I'd experienced it twice, and both times it meant a miscarriage. But blood now? Four days past due? Babies don't "miscarry" at that point. They are babies. Do they die? Does blood mean they die? Would you bleed? But I shouldn't be bleeding -- my water had broken . . . right? I went back to the bed to look at the sheets. Somehow convinced this was all a mistake and I would see clear amniotic fluid, but no. Bright red blood.

Clearly I should have been flying to the hospital, but I really think my mind was in a strange shockish sort of state. I gently woke Mike and confusedly said how I didn't know what to do. "I'm not in labor," I said, "but I'm bleeding everywhere. I don't know what that means."

Luckily "bleeding everywhere" got someone to action. Mike flew out of bed and had me out the door and rushing to the hospital with in about two minutes. Very nice that we happened to be living at my parents still so we could just wake my mom and tell her we were leaving. Still slightly in shock I began apologizing -- embarrassed -- about the blood all over my sheets I was leaving behind. She, of course, simply pushed me out the door with promises of serious prayers.

I still remember that cold dark car ride. I called my CNM, Guy. He tried to reassure me that some women bleed as they dilate, etc. But I never had before and I knew this was more bleeding than could be so simply explained. Mike and I didn't talk much on the car ride. He asked me once if I'd felt any kicking. I told him I didn't know. Then began anxiously focusing on feeling some movement -- any movement -- and not feeling it.

Mike drove me right to the ER door and sent me in as he went to park. I still, oddly, felt unsure of what I was doing there and began mumbling to the security guard on duty how I didn't know if I should be here or not, how I wasn't in labor but was bleeding. He looked a little uncomfortable as he had someone come put me in a wheelchair and wheel me up to the maternity floor.

During the elevator ride I had a pretty serious contraction or two, but I was so bewildered, I honestly didn't recognize them for what they were.

It was only when I got to the nurses station on the maternity floor and explained for the fifth time how I was past due, not in labor but bleeding that things became less surreal and I finally began to cry.

The nurses were very calm and very nice as they took me in to "take a look" at what was going on. As I changed into the dressing gown I had another contraction or two. I climbed onto the table as Mike arrived. I was very tense, but with out any big to do she found the little heartbeat -- as if she'd never doubted she would. She also commented, "Well, if you weren't in labor, you certainly seem to be now!" as the contraction monitor she'd hooked to me registered a contraction. She didn't have to tell me. I knew now. They were slow, long, and very real contractions. I was only dilated to a four (only one centimeter more than I'd been at my previous appt.) so I knew all that blood probably wasn't from one centimeter of dilation, and the triage nurse didn't speculate -- though she did keep trying to reposition me each time my baby's heart would dip down low.

Not having started contractions until I was in the hospital was actually quite nice because it was only a matter of minutes before I was able to have my epidural. Probably the least amount of pain I'd ever had to have with a labor.

My nurse in labor was very good as well. She guessed that maybe part of my placenta had pulled away and caused the bleeding, but assured me that as long as we could keep the heartbeat doing well there was no reason to worry and that if there was any doubt I'd just get in immediately for a c-section. And, she was very discreet about the fact that she kept having to change padding and wipe up more blood. Knowing my little baby was going to be OK was such a relief. I was able to finally relax and get excited about what was about to happen.

The little heart occasionally dipped low, but it seemed we could fix it by repositioning me. Guy guessed that the contractions were maybe pressing on the cord a little since my baby was still up so high. Ha! And fat chance of me ever really having my water break. My sister once informed me that we have steel amniotic sacs, and I am starting to believe it. Even with my natural labor with Goldie my water didn't break until I was pushing her out, and with this one, I was fully dilated with no water breaking.

Guy had me stay at a ten for about an hour before breaking my water and having me push. I always test positive for Strep B, but am never at the hospital long enough for the full four hours to pass after a penicillin dose to ensure my baby won't catch it traveling down the birth canal. Guy was determined to make me wait out my four hours this round. It made me laugh to know I was sitting there fully dilated and not pushing. With no epidural that would have been impossible. How well I recall crying, "I NEED TO PUSH SOMETHING!" when I was at that point with Goldie. Guy hadn't been there and I could sense a vague panic among the nurses, but I couldn't wait. And yet, here I was, patiently waiting. Ahhhhh epidurals . . . how I love you.

At 9:00 am it was time to push and find out who this baby was. Guy didn't tell me. He simply held my baby right up for me to exclaim, "Oh! It's a boy!" and then begin to laugh and cry as if a boy was of course the only thing it ever could have been.

And that is how my little Jesse Frank made his way into the world -- one year ago today.

And here he is today. Very much a "boy" indeed. It is so funny to me to see how he already seems to feel that he should attack Abe (leaving his sister's out of it) when Abe is trying to sit and do something. His favorite favorite thing in the world is to try and break all our doors and cupboards. He opens them and then begins slamming them repeatedly the way they don't go -- trying to pop their hinges right off. He seriously begins laughing to himself every time he gets a chance to do it. His other favorite thing is to find an open bathroom door. He can unroll an entire toilet paper roll in seconds. All around, he is pure trouble. There is no toy in the world that can hold his attention. He ONLY likes mischief. I know all of my kids have gone through the stage of emptying drawers and cupboards, but I think he might be the most proficient at it. There is not any waking moment that he isn't doing something he shouldn't be. I just don't think it occurred to my other kids to wreak quite as much havoc. The other day we were at my sister-in-laws. She has a kid's dream playroom with every kind of fun toy, slides, etc. Jesse did not get distracted from the task at hand (of causing mischief) for even one second. No toy weakened his resolve or sullied his hands. He simply spent his time finding cups of water and plates of food to overturn -- no matter that we tried to make sure there were none he could get -- he found them and only allowed himself to be fooled by an empty cup for a short while.

We love our little kid who mostly only cries when you hold a cupboard shut so he can't open it or when he sees a bathtub filling with water and him not in it. I love that Penny calls him, "Jessy boy." What a funny and cute little boy. Thank goodness he is part of our family!! Happy birthday Jessy Boy!!!