Of His Second Birthday

It was two years ago that our youngest boy made his frantic and harrowing arrival into this world. Two years ago that I gave birth on my bedroom floor to the little baby without a name and snuggled him close, not at all disappointed not to have had the baby sister Micaiah had insisted was coming.

And that kid.

I wish I could describe him accurately, but words won't do him justice. If you could just spend a day or two with this child, you would see what I mean.

You'd see the way he lights up a room with his ever-present grin. He is truly the most expressive and joyful child we have had - and considering the other two weren't terribly cranky kids, that's saying something. (Even his most recent exclamation of "Ew, yucky!" as we change his diaper accompanies an appropriate facial expression of disgust.) The way he says, "Tank ou" every time anything is given to him - and will repeat it ("Tank ou, Momma. Tank ou, Momma. Momma, tank ou!") until he is told he is welcome. And, of course, he responds with the same courtesy, "Welcome!" with pointed politeness whenever gratitude is expressed to him.

You'd see how he puckers his precious lips whenever Momma asks for a kiss, or how she doesn't even have to ask often, because he offers them freely to everyone. In fact, you'd melt at the kisses he blows EVERY time he tells someone bye, bye or the way he has to run to the other bedroom for hugs and kisses with brother and sissy every night before bed, scampering off yelling, "Tisses, Caiah!" And the way they greet him eagerly, often falling over giggling mid-hug, just as happy with the night-time ritual as he is.

You would think it was adorable the way he runs to the garage door whenever he hears the car pull in, yelling, "Daddy home!" waiting for his hug, or even the way he asks every morning, "Daddy?" as I change his diaper, hoping it's not a work day. But that doesn't mean Mommy doesn't get any appreciation. If I've stepped out for a run to the grocery store, I get to see his happy face as soon as I come through the door, while he's tugging on Daddy, "Momma home! Momma home!" He definitely knows how to make us feel loved.

You'd probably also get to see his ornery streak - the side that snatches a toy from his siblings and runs away with glee, not necessarily because he wanted it, but because he knows they did. Or the angry glare he shoots at anyone who dare suggest he relinquish the pilfered play-thing and then the pouty reluctance with which he offers it back to the child in question.

You would definitely appreciate his eagerness to help. If he sees trash, he holds it up to confirm, "Tash?" and then dashes on his little toddler legs to dutifully place it in the proper receptacle. If we're cooking, he'll pull up a stool to help or run to the cabinet where his dishes are kept to find a plate, fork or cup (or all of the above). And if we're dishing out snack, he'll serve his brother and sister their snack cups before he accepts his own.

And even after noticing all the above, you'd be surprised just how many times a day you won't be able to help saying, "He's just so cute!" because it really is surprising just how many ways it shines through. You kind of want to give him a big hug all the time - unless he's getting into something he shouldn't just about every time you turn your back. Then you'll curse his blessed cuteness because it's just so hard to want to discipline that face.

I can't believe he's only been here two years and I wish I could freeze time, because I just love his tender and spirited personality and I wish I could frame it and keep it forever.

So, happy birthday to this guy - one of the many reasons I smile.

Of Savoring the Days

Just because I don't revel in small talk about my belly doesn't mean I can't blog about it, right?

In just the past few days I have come to truly relish these last precious days and weeks with this rotund protrusion that limits my ability to see my pink-painted toes (in honor of that precious girl inside).

Though I have resorted to rolling off the couch, rather than attempting to stand from a position of laying on a throw pillow, and I have to visit the bathroom much more frequently than I'd prefer (making me question why I still have no stock in toilet paper), overall I enjoy pulling a sweater over this bulging belly holding my beautiful baby. I love feeling her movements inside me and rubbing my hands over the roundness that will be mere bulge in a few weeks.

As one who has left her "family planning" up to the God of the universe, I never know which child will be my last. Though it seems unlikely my womb will close after this one enters the world, one never knows what the uncertain future holds. Thus, I hold precious every moment of this pregnancy.

Yes, I eagerly await her transition into the world and fantasize about those moments when I will push my daughter from my body and carry her tiny, wrinkly body in my arms. I long to see her face and watch her grow. But it does not mean wishing away these amazing days when she is held safe inside, cuddled by my stretching skin, nestled in my womb, where she pushes and tugs in sometimes uncomfortable ways.

These are the moments I treasure.

Of Pregnancy Chatter

In case you missed it, I sit here at 36 weeks pregnant this morning. And clearly I've reached some sort of physical threshold with this burgeoning belly, because just this last weekend the instances of "When are you due, again?" have increased greatly - as in, everyone I see asks me this question, where it used to just be the few friends who actually cared when the baby was coming and honestly couldn't remember. Now the question means, "Wow, your belly is so big, clearly you're about to go into labor right here and I'm kind of hoping I'm not here when it happens - so just let me know if things start to feel weird and I'll bug out."

I'm 36 weeks pregnant.

For the record, that leaves me at a month away from my due date (or week, because a date is just unnecessary false hope) and, for further record, if this baby is anything like my last, I'm really about five or six weeks away from delivering (which puts me at four weeks away from, "Still in there?!" - no, I just like carrying basketballs under my shirt, it's so much more efficient). Which means six weeks of telling anyone and everyone I meet when this baby is supposed to come, it's a girl, no we don't have a name (at least not one we're sharing yet) and I'm still feeling ok and how excited we are or how ready I am for this even to transpire.

And can I be honest?

Half of what I say is a load of poo. I don't really mean it - I'm trying to gauge how you want me to respond so this umpteenth conversation about my pregnancy can end as quickly as possible. I'll tell you I feel ok because you don't want to hear about my woes, my sleepless nights or the bladder that's killing me. Conversely, if I can tell you think it's time this pregnancy were over, I'll totally agree and say I'm miserable, which I'm not, really, just a little uncomfortable sometimes. I'll say we're excited if you seem excited or say I'm nervous if you seem apprehensive about the fact that we're bringing home a fourth baby a mere few weeks after our youngest turns two (and I won't dare admit how excited I am that that's our largest gap between babies). Honestly, I just want you to go away and stop focusing on the protruding belly between us.

It's not that I don't love you. I do. I'm just done. This ain't my first rodeo and this fourth round of pregnant small talk is killing the introvert inside (ok, let's be honest, I hated it the first time) who yearns for deep conversation of any kind and does not thrive on the platitudes of well-meaning strangers and acquaintances. I understand this globe of a stomach is an obvious conversation starter but if you have nowhere to go from there, maybe just keep walking. I'd be ok with that, really.

And if you must address the elephant in the room, I'd recommend a simple, "We're looking forward to meeting her!", maybe a friendly belly rub (if you're daring - I know some moms hate it and, yes, it's awkward, but I'm totally used to it by now and at least makes me feel as though the my belly isn't an unwelcome addition to the room) and be done. No questions, no anecdotes about your sister's boyfriend's cousin who went two months past her due date (it's not helpful), just some loving encouragement.

Thank you and have a nice day.

This message brought to you by your friendly neighborhood pregnant lady.

Of Our Little Home

As a good blogger, I shouldn't apologize for any absence or lack of updating on daily living, I should just jump right in, as if we've never been apart, leaving the topic of my silence to stand alone in the corner, as if it didn't even exist. Clearly I'm no good blogger as I've just started by inviting that awkward wallflower out in the middle of the floor to dance. That's ok. At least I'm not indulging in topic-snubbery. Because I do recognize, it's been awhile.

Frankly, it would have been longer, but I'm sitting in an empty house - like E.M.P.T.Y. Me. Alone. No kids. No husband. And this is maybe the second time this event has occurred in over five years. Which is apparently all the motivation (or loneliness) I need to actually pick up the keyboard and clack away on meaningless subject matter.

Truth be told, I wish this house were a little more empty, being packed away in boxes, ready to move on to our next abode. We've been trying to make that happen for nearly two months now with little to no interest happening in the housing market (at least regarding this particular house which, let's be honest, is the one I care most about right now). It makes me sad, not only because this season of waiting is trying, but also because I'm starting to feel a little defensive of our precious home.

I like this house. I really do. And if I were looking for a home and weren't 36 weeks pregnant with my fourth child, I'd totally want this house. And I just want to give it a big hug and assure it that it really is still pretty and those stupid buyers out there telling us "It's just not what we're looking for" wouldn't know a good house if it fell on their ruby red slippers. But instead I'm waiting impatiently for the day when it's not my house anymore. I suppose that's not very nice, either.

But it's not the house's fault. It's not the house's fault it only has three bedrooms and we're starting to feel that might not be enough for this family that's only getting bigger. If this home could magically sprout a few extra rooms with a few extra bunk beds stacked along the walls we'd stay in a heartbeat. We'd spend our summers in its backyard and we'd continue gathering with those neighbors we love so much. If the dining room could handle a table for twelve (or at least more than six since we'll be maxing that out in a short month or so), we'd be thrilled to enjoy a few more birthday dinners cooked right in that open kitchen.

In either case, it appears that's what we'll be doing for awhile longer, anyhow. And we're okay with that. We trust in a God that knows our needs and knows us. We are disillusioned enough in the American dream to understand that a bigger house isn't the solution to a perfect life, or even necessary for happiness. So, while we wait to see if this thing will pan out or not, we trust in Him, holding tight to our firm belief that His will is perfect - even if it means a family of six cozying up within these four walls - because we know others have done so with far less space and we don't even deserve the blessings we already have, nor do we deem to look on them with contempt.

So, here I sit, in this little home with a for sale sign in the front yard, waiting for the day it's taken down, but waiting even more anxiously for my three little blessings and their bigger blessing of a wonderful father and husband to walk through that door so we can celebrate life here just a little longer.

Until next time (which will, hopefully, not be nearly so distant) . . .

Of Enjoying Real Life

As I watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade last week, my remnant of personal tradition among my husband's family, with children scattered over the room declaring, "We want to watch a kids's show!", I assured them they were lucky they don't get stuck watching Mommy's and Daddy's choices very often, because when I was a girl . . . we sat on the living room floor very quietly watching whatever was on - and while the Flintstones made a regular appearance, so did M.A.S.H. and last night's video recording (you know, the kind actually taped over and over on the same VHS, none of this digital nonsense) of David Letterman, so as far as I'm concerned, my kids are living the life, entertainment-wise. So could Momma just have this one morning of the year, for crying out loud?

Nevertheless, there were the sweet moments, like when the Rockettes - the highlight of the yearly event, the part my mom would run in from the kitchen to see so that we were always watching at least that part together while the turkey took a rest from its morning preparations - donned the screen and my eldest and youngest turned Papaw's living room into their own stage. That girl kicking as high as she could and that little boy twisting in his own best version of dance. Special memories for a momma passing down her own childhood moments.

And then they announced it. Next Thursday evening would be a special live broadcast of an entirely redone Sound of Music.

To those who turn on their TV's regularly, this was probably old news. As it was, I was hit with it for the first time that morning and was already scheming how to tune the children out between the 7pm start time and their 8pm bedtime. Momma was going to need another allowance, and only a week later, to tune the television to her choice - while the kids were awake. It's a risky proposition because we all know, with three children aged five and under scurrying about, one can rarely hear her own thoughts, let alone the TV. Maybe they could go to bed early.

Either way, I spent the week reminding myself and my husband, though the hideous foil-adorned antenna had been stowed in the attic during this house-selling season of our lives, it would need to be pulled out for at least one night. I was watching that TV special - and suddenly I was having 90's flashbacks - who actually tuned in to a live TV special these days? Who doesn't simply watch them the next day, or at least with a delayed start so as to fast forward commercials? Apparently we, of the no cable, no DVR, no Netflix, even. That's who. I didn't even have a blank VHS handy. I was behind the technological times even if it had been 1993.

Then Thursday came and forecasts of ice and snow and a wintry mix of wonderland flooded the forecast and my mind. I was planning chili and Christmas movies and what dessert to prepare as a family while we snuggled in our warm nest. So, it wasn't until after the chili and after the newest VeggieTales Christmas DVD (see? sometimes we at least catch up to 2001 with our entertainment technology), as we stirred puppy chow in the kitchen and pondered what slice of holiday media to enjoy with our chocolately goodness that I declared, "It's Thursday!" "Yes it is," confirmed my confused husband. "We only have 18 minutes!" I cried, glancing at the clock.

Catching on, he dutifully, and reluctantly, hurried to the attic for that blasted antenna and, after the powdered sugar had been shaken over the snack and everyone had their bowls of Chow and cups of milk, we finished our Jesse Tree devotion just in time to tune in.

I hadn't planned to snuggle together as a family with a fire in the fireplace, all eyes on the recreated classic, but it's the way it happened - as it goes with all best memories, the kind that can't be created on purpose. And then my littlest boy started dancing to the chorus of the hills coming alive and my daughter was twirling across the floor while Maria sang of her favorite things. And there we were in that blissful moment, and I didn't care that it would keep the kids up two extra hours, or that I sometimes couldn't see because an excited three-year-old has a knack for sticking his giant noggin in front of the TV, or that the acting was sometimes sub-par, or even the question at every commercial break, "Is it coming back?" (commercials are still a little foreign to them). I didn't care because we were making memories. The same kinds of memories I have from my own childhood, of sitting around the black box as a family, watching that TV special, with the Christmas lights twinkling and the icicles forming outside.

These are the moments real life is enjoyed.

Of Our Non-Expendable Brood

As we await the long-coming arrival of Baby #4 to our growing flock, I recognize we have crossed a threshold - in fact, we crossed it back in 2011, when our youngest had just turned one, our oldest was still yet two and we learned our third was on the way, the point at which the question on everyone's lips subtly changes to, "So, are you planning to have more?" to "So, do you think you're done?"

And whether real or imagined, there is a definitive sense of judgment in our culture toward those populating the earth with more than the allotted 2.5 children. Sometimes I feel the weight of those questioning eyes, with my burgeoning belly and three little ones scurrying underfoot as we head to the library or the grocery store.

Yet, I watch my children playing, all seated together on the floor engrossed in a book or huddled into the plastic Fisher Price tree house out back, and as I melt in their large brown eyes I ask myself this question, "Which of these would I give up so as to have a socially acceptable amount of off-spring?"

Would it be the fiery strawberry blonde? Maybe it would have been nice to have waited just a little longer before starting our family - more time for my husband and I to have to ourselves as 'just us' before taking the deeper plunge from marriage into family. We could have traveled. We could have indulged in couple time and spare change. But then, where would our boys be without their big sister to lead the way? And who would impress me with the compassion she shows for others or her aptness for learning?

Or maybe it would be that middle one. Perhaps it would have been nice to have that longer gap - breathing room between Micaiah and Joey? But then, what would I do without my sweetly sensitive, yet rough and tumble little boy with that insatiable curiosity? And with whom would Micaiah have "camp-overs" in the living room or play hide-and-seek throughout the house? Joey isn't quite old enough for that, yet.

Well, then there's that, maybe we'd just give up that youngest one. He doesn't do much to contribute to the family, yet. Perhaps we could have enjoyed those first two a little longer if we'd spaced it out a tad. But, then, whose mischievous grin would break my stressful days? Or who would climb in my lap every time I sat on the floor to be with the other two?  Who would stand next to me in the kitchen, waiting to help, as I prepare meals? Who would offer Emmett the joy of having a brother and future games of cowboys and Indians or catch in the yard?

Then again, maybe we should have just been done after three. That's a perfectly acceptable number. But then, what would I do, on those long days, without the refreshing kicks, tiny reminders of life inside and the purpose I hold? Where would be that hope of a baby sister for our eldest - something of which she has long dreamed?

Where would we be, as a family, if any one of us were missing - had never even existed? Perhaps we'd be just fine. But seeing where we are now, I wouldn't have it any other way. I know God has formed our family perfectly, and I have a strong sense he's not finished with us yet. Which is just fine - because he seems to have done a wonderful job of putting just the right tiny souls into our wonderful little mix at just the right times.  Perhaps not every family is meant for this kind of blossoming - their perfect number may be smaller than ours - but I am so grateful for all we have been given, and all that is yet to come.

Of Joey's New Favorite Celebration

In case you didn't know, last week was Halloween. Having grown up trick-or-treating (yes, I was the teenager knocking on doors through high school with the ever-ready response to the obvious question, "You're never too old for free candy" - and I still stick by that, though I don't carry my own bucket, sadly) with a husband who had never trick-or-treated in his life (apparently the children of preachers and missionaries only celebrate Halloween if it's called "Fall" and it's done at the church - because that's when costumes and candy become holy) we have often debated on how to pass this inevitable evening. And we've taken varied approaches each year.

This year after celebrating at the church's fall festival Sunday night, and spooking the dorm of the local university Tuesday night, I wondered what we would actually do on Halloween night. Because I'm too stingy to pour out money on candy to give to other children (though our daughter does love answering the door, so maybe I should have taken that into consideration) and it's hard to just sit by and miss out on what others are doing.

So I convinced my holy husband to allow our children to haunt the street - just our one little street - for the night.

The kids had no idea what they were in for. Especially Emmett, who continued to whine at the plan, "I don't want to walk up and down our street!" Trust me, kid, I thought, you're gonna love it.

And he did. As we meandered home with full buckets at the slowed pace evoked by an hour or so of knocking and walking, I asked him, "Are you glad we walked up and down the street?" "Yeah."

But the biggest fan of the evening was little Joey. After our two previous costumed bag/bucket carrying events earlier in the week, he knew what was coming. I dress funny, I carry this and people give me candy. He was so ready.

Our Little Lumberjack

It took about two houses before he had the routine and he would wiggle himself out of our arms, dash to the door on which sissy had already politely tapped (shy Emmett always hanging behind the others just a little) and bang his little fist. Mommy would then have to pull him back so the poor candy-giver inside could even open the door and then, if it was in reach, that tiny fist was in the candy bowl, no questions asked.  Sometimes he hollered a courtesy "Or-teet" - which was about all he could muster of the famous phrase - before diving in. Sometimes the occupant was a little more cautious (understandably so) with the loot and would simply hand him a bar or two of chocolately goodness, which he would grasp and then stare as he waited for more. Then, after giving the obligatory, "Tank oo", he would drop it in the bucket hanging from his arm and turn, running, ready for the next stop.

And that little guy raced up and down our street - seriously, those little legs pounded the pavement for a full half-mile without wearing down.

Yeah, I'd say he's discovered his new favorite holiday. Then again, I doubt he remembers last December, so I'm pretty sure he has an even bigger surprise in store.

Happy Fall from our Crazy Crew!