Daffodowndilly

She wore her yellow sun-bonnet,

She wore her greenest gown;

She turned to the south wind

And curtsied up and down.

She turned to the sunlight

And shook her yellow head,

And whispered to her neighbour:

"Winter is dead."

-- A.A. Milne

The Toothpaste Gospel

Mia's sitting on the bathroom counter, trying to decide between the fruity bubblegum toothpaste, and the minty toothpaste. Her legs are folded under her, and the toothbrush dangles in her hand as if waiting to be magnetically drawn to a tube of paste. In a flash of inspiration, she chooses: BOTH toothpastes. I hold out the Colgate and squeeze a dab onto her purple and yellow-striped brush. She wiggles and giggles at her unbelievable luck in convincing me to double up on flavors, and holds her brush steady for the sparkly pink gel to be applied next. Raising the toothbrush to her mouth, her eyes go nearly crossed trying to follow its path, and her eyebrows raise in excitement. TWO toothpastes, on the same brush: brilliant.

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We're sitting down as a family to dinner. Lauren's in her highchair tearing into a chimichanga, digging for treasured beans and pockets of melted cheese, stuffing sliced bell peppers into her mouth in huge strips, and cupping handfuls of shredded cheese as a backup bite. Meanwhile, Mia stares at her own food dolefully. She tears away a few bits of baked tortilla and crunches on them, making sure to tell us of her success. A bite! She took a bite! Now can she have some leftover birthday cake? Confronted with the ugly truth -- she needs to eat some actual food before she can have dessert -- she tosses her hair dramatically and closes her eyes. Wide-shut eyes: eyebrows defiantly high, mouth pursed in refusal, arms crossed with finality. But as soon as she sees Lauren's dessert being served, Mia buckles down and finishes half a chimichanga. Her pink and green cake is served, devoured, and declared delicious within a short 4 minute period, while the half-chimichanga took 30 minutes to be eaten.

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Justin is eyeing the leftover birthday cake with something close to disgust. He overindulged at the party yesterday, and hasn't felt so hot all day long because of it. He's irritable, bored, tired: not his usual, cheerful, after-work self. Knowing he consumed too much over-processed, sugary, fattening food the day before, he guesses his off-kilter feelings are due to the negative food effects. Listing his transgressions, he tells me, "I had at least 3 cookies, 2 pieces of cake, ice cream, and I don't even know how many slices of pizza. Not good. I'm not having any more. I feel too yuck."

Mia is terribly concerned for him. "You feel yucky? Why, daddy?"

He explains how too much junk food is bad for your body and even bad for your mood. "Just like in your Yummy/Yucky book, Mia. It says 'Ice cream is yummy. Too MUCH ice cream is YUCKY.' That's how I feel right now. I had too many treats, and now I feel yucky."

Mia understands. In fact, she looks slightly superior in her understanding. "Well," she scolds, "I don't feel yucky after my treats. Because I used two toothpastes to brush the yucky away. You should've did that, dad." She nods once, her knowledgeable gaze teaching us lessons we're just too daft to grasp.

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I sneak into the kitchen after bedtime, drawing a spoon from the drawer and turning to the freezer to sneak a treat. The kitchen is mostly dark, so the light from the freezer spills over me with either approbation or censure; I'm not sure which. I pop the top off the leftover strawberry ice cream, and dig my spoon into its frozen heart. Letting the freezer door close silently, I am plunged back into near-darkness, the better to savor my stolen bite. Just one bite -- ice cream isn't my favorite treat, but something about it was calling to me. Tempting me with its creamy, chilled, sweetness. I close my eyes and let the ice cream melt into strawberry-ish milk in my mouth. My teeth are getting dirtier by the second, coated as they are in artificial flavors and dairy sugars.

But I don't care.

Because I'm about to go scrub them clean with double-flavored toothpaste. Half little girl, half grown up: a true description of both the toothpastes on my brush, and me.

If growing up means I have to limit my choice of toothpastes, or my sneaky ice cream bites, then I shall remain half-girl from here on out.

Two Is Lauren, Lauren Is Two

Two is a birthday party. Two is a room full of butterflies.

Two is a birthday cake, bright and fluttery and sweet, to be shared with family and friends. Two is delicious.

Two is shy. Two loves hearing the birthday song, even when sung by many boisterous voices.

Two is jealousy inducing, at least when it comes to getting the first slice of cake.

Two is curious. Two is excited. Two knows how to rip paper, finding hidden treasure beneath.

Two is smiley. Two is snuggly. Two is lovey. Two is safe.

Two can yell at the top of her voice, "I wanna go OUTSIDE NOW!" Two can holler.

Two is fearless. Two loves adventure: a backyard contains all the excitement of the entire world.

Two is happy. Two is healthy. Two is sweet and silly and precious.

Two is loved. Two is Lauren.

Lauren is Two.

Weekly Column: Show Some Respect

Imagine for a moment what it must be like to be a toddler. You are happily playing with your blocks, entranced with the formidable tower you are building, when you’re suddenly lifted from the floor and hauled to another room. The outrage! You were busy! Where are the blocks? You disintegrate into tears and a screaming fit, unable to reconcile the past with the present.

When this same scenario (with different particulars, probably) happens to us as adults, we don’t stand for it. We demand apology for assuming our activity wasn’t important, and we agree to consider another task only after we’re given a good reason for abandoning our own.

As parents, it’s one of our responsibilities to raise our children to be respectful and courteous. One of the easiest ways to teach those traits is to show our children respect and courtesy from an early age. But those are far-reaching outcomes; what I love about this approach is its immediate help. It’s been a lifesaver in our house to take up the easy habit of warning our kids of impending change. Even before their vocabulary is well formed, they can be expected to understand our basic meaning. If we give a quick warning before the final story of the night, or when there are only a few minutes left before it’s time to put away the toys, the transition is made infinitely smoother. Huge, tear-filled fits are often traded for short bursts of frustration; the major tantrums are usually sidestepped.

Our hope is that by doing these things on a regular basis, our children won’t get quite so upset when they don’t get their own way. They’ll learn that our limits are enforced, but with respect. They’ll learn that we use courtesy, and we expect it in return.

Lauren Jade's Birth Story - Part Finale

Warning: There's HEAVY discussion of uteri and birth canals approaching. If you're a boy (which I highly doubt), feel free to take cover. If you're a squeamish girl, you should stay; it's really not that bad. In fact, it's quite awesome.

I knew I wasn't supposed to be pushing yet, but each contraction brought more and more pressure, until I couldn't not push. My body had been in control all night, and nothing could stop it from causing me to bear down. Assuming I'd get in trouble for pushing, I tried to hide it. With Justin supporting me (...still -- his poor arms were burning with exhaustion by that point), I squatted down lower and lower until I could push when the contraction begged it of me.

At 2:45, the doctor came in congratulating me on my quick, drug-free labor, and suggested we break my water. He thought that without the buffer of fluid, the baby's head would push my cervix open the rest of the way so I could begin pushing. I agreed -- I wanted to push so badly.

Having my water broken was very simple at first. I felt a small trickle of fluid -- no pain associated with it -- and thought it was done. But then I felt a pop! and a gush and a slam! and was suddenly in the middle of the most crushing pain of my life.

I yelled, and that's putting it nicely. The tender moans and melodic humming I'd previously done couldn't have adequately expressed the deep sensation of the baby's head slamming against my cervix.

And at 3 AM, just like that: I was ready to push. The nurses set up the squat bar as I'd asked them to, and helped me position myself for the final act. I pushed through a couple of contractions that way, but couldn't get enough leverage on the too-high bar to make it comfortable. I sat back and wedged my feet against the bottom of the bars instead, and found my groove.

Pushing wore me out, but it was also very welcome. When I pushed, I felt no pain. I promise. No. Pain. When I stopped to take a deep breath, the pain of the contraction overwhelmed me, but as long as I was pushing, everything was perfect. That's how I knew how long to push, too, because if I stopped too soon it would hurt, so I just kept going. The room went silent around my pushes: silence while I concentrated on pushing, and silence while I rested between contractions. Everything was perfect -- tiring, but perfectly comfortable -- until the baby's head started to crown.

With each push, her head was brought further forward, and I burned in pain. When it got really bad, I finally screamed mid-push, only to be informed by my sweet nurse that it had caused the push to stop working. When I screamed, the good work of bringing her head forward had paused. But when I pushed silently -- not allowing any of my energy to escape in a scream -- her head kept emerging more fully.

They brought in a mirror so I could focus on what my pushes were accomplishing, but I couldn't tell what was going on down there. I knew it was probably magical and wondrous, but if I looked too closely, it just made me more frightened. If it hurt like THIS when only the top of her scalp was visible, how must it feel when her whole HEAD pushed though? So I peeked a couple of times, but for the most part, just closed my eyes and kept pushing.

When the doctor came back in the room, I knew the moment had arrived: my baby was only moments away from being in my arms. My doctor guided me through a few contractions as I tried to push her head out of my body, and told me that this push -- this next push -- would do it.

I gathered every last ounce of my strength and pushed for all I was worth. Not silently, either. Rip-roaringly loud, I screamed, for the entire duration of the push. I was so focused on the push and the pain that I didn't even realize the baby's head was out.

My doctor had to really raise his voice to get my attention. "Sarah! SARAH! Stop pushing! Her head's out! You have to stop now!"

Still heaved forward in my pushing stance, I locked my eyes on my doctor's face and didn't move. My mom and Justin -- who were each holding back one of my legs -- later said that I looked like a crazed person, so intent was I on focusing on my doctor's words. "That's good, Sarah. Breath for just a minute," he soothed. "We're just going to rotate her around and then you can push -- just a bit -- to free her shoulders. OK? Now then. Just a little push."

And almost as soon as I started to push, she was free. My baby was born at 4:00 AM, on her exact due date.

I hollered and cried out in surprise at the feeling of being emptied, but then all I could see was my tiny baby...hollering for herself.

I reached out to bring her to my chest, but she had an uncommonly short umbilical cord (37 cm instead of the usual 60-ish) and she couldn't be lifted from between my legs without Justin cutting the cord, first. But as soon as he did, my daughter was laid on my bare skin, purple and squalling and perfect.

I held her for a good long time while the placenta was being delivered, and then the nurses took her to be weighed and checked over.

My sweet Lauren Jade was perfect: 7 lbs, 13 oz, 20 1/2 inches long.

And I gave birth to her.

I couldn't believe my dream had actually become a reality: I'd had a natural childbirth, and what's more, it was perfect. I'd been fully present and involved in the process, just as I'd wished. The pain of the last few hours vanished into the immediate joy of the birth day. I forgot about the contractions, the crowning, the pushing, and was simply, blissfully happy.

When Lauren was placed back in my arms after only a few minutes away, her warm, new weight filled me with even more happiness than before.

I looked into her deep, blue eyes, snuggling and nursing her for hours.

And I didn't let her go.

Happy Birthday, my littlest sweetheart! We love you more than ever, and watching you grow has blessed us beyond our wildest imaginations. You are magic, Lauren Jade. Pure magic.

Lauren Jade's Birth Story - Part 3

Warning: There's moderate discussion of uteri and birth canals approaching. If you're a boy (which I highly doubt), feel free to take cover. If you're a squeamish girl, you should stay; it's really not that bad. In fact, it's quite awesome.

While in the examining room (and for reasons unknown to me) I was subjected to some of the worst pain and frustration of my entire labor.

Despite knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was real labor, I was made to wait -- laying down -- for 20 minutes to have my contractions monitored so the nurse could make sure it was real. I'd been doing a pretty decent job of working through the pain without yelling up until then, but the second I had to lay down, all bets were off. I was miserable.

To make it worse, the nurse was not respectful in the least of my contractions. She continued to ask questions in the middle of contractions, getting what seemed like my life history, and seemed annoyed when I couldn't answer immediately. When she heard that I had a birth plan, her attitude went from bored to disdainful. "Oh. So let me guess: You guys took Bradley classes, right?' she scoffed. Her eyebrows were arched skeptically while my doula and I exchanged glances.

"No," I said. "We were just hoping to keep this as natural as possible."

Though it's cynical of me to admit this, I'm pretty sure the birth plan secured us on her hate-list. What was supposed to be a 20 minute monitoring session dragged on for over an hour. I tried to lay down, as instructed, but each time a contraction built, I leaned and rolled into my husband's arms in expectation. The monitoring belt wouldn't stay put with me heaving myself up every time a contraction began, so the readouts were inconclusive.

The nurse didn't grant us a labor room until it was close to 1:00 AM. I was discouraged and upset, but barely had time to register those emotions in between my contractions. They rolled ahead with no concern for haughty nurses or slipping monitor belts.

Once in our own room, my outlook improved immeasurably. LeeAnn turned the lights off, set up her stereo with soothing music, and wafted a lavender-soaked towel through the air; my laboring room became a calm and quiet oasis when compared to the cramped, stark examining room. I finally got back into my dancing rhythm with Justin, and settled in for what I assumed would be a long night -- maybe even a long next day -- of labor.

I still had to be monitored for a few minutes each hour (doctor's orders due to my previous c-section) and had an IV for my Strep-B antibiotic. But those things didn't hold me back in the least from moving around as I needed to. I wandered in small circles close to the side of the bed, trying to relax while walking between contractions. The down time was spent trying not to worry too much about what I knew was coming: another contraction, probably stronger than the last. If I could ignore the anticipation of a contraction, I did well enough in relaxing. But as soon as I thought too much about the work that lay ahead of me, I began to panic.

If Justin happened to be on the other side of the large room when a contraction began, I barked at him to come back to me; without his arms, I don't think I could have done it. I bowed my head onto his chest, gripped his shoulders, wedged my elbows in his, and sank into him. My legs went more and more limp as the night wore on, and we swayed together under his strength more than mine.

I repeated a low Ohhhhohhhh over and over as we danced, trying to feel the resonance of that deep note in my chest, rather than the pain that raged below. Keeping my face relaxed and open helped me not clench up the rest of my body, an having Justin to lean on let me go almost completely soft. LeeAnn let me know if my body was tensing up too much, and reminded me in her calm, confident voice that everything was proceeding perfectly.

Time around me must have gone on in the usual way, but in my own mind, it was gone. I only knew contractions and swaying and moaning and silence. No time. No machines. Just my body, my baby, and my husband's arms. It was a powerful night, mine was a powerful body, and I was simply riding the waves from crest to crest.

Not riding as gracefully as I might've hoped, though. My moans got louder and louder, my swaying became more and more frantic. After a particularly difficult contraction, I remember saying to whoever was nearest: I don't think I'm handling this very well. I was having a hard time relaxing into the contractions -- my body felt tense and panicky -- and I couldn't imagine managing the pain for several more hours. It was too much for me.

Right about the time I thought that, I also felt something -- something hot and sticky between my legs as I was walking.

I looked down, and there were several drops of dark, red blood collecting on the floor. Nervously, I wiped myself and my hand came away drenched in blood.

After knowing the baby was in the right position for birth, and knowing labor had begun spontaneously, I had put most thoughts of a repeat cesarean out of my head. Well actually, I'd put all thoughts out of my head which didn't pertain to moaning and swaying through contractions. But when I saw the bright blood, my worries returned. Had something gone wrong? Was the blood a bad sign -- one meaning I needed an emergency intervention?

I looked to my doula, whose face was happy and calm. Without even hearing a question from me, she said, "That's a good sign, Sarah! It means your cervix is changing!" She nodded and used big eyebrow movements to accentuate her words -- I must have seemed like a deer in the headlights.

The nurse, too, seemed thrilled that I'd had a bloody show, and asked if she could check my progress in between contractions. (This was a different nurse than the one in the examining room -- she'd been with us since we entered our room, about an hour earlier. She was wonderful: supportive and enthusiastic and loving.) I agreed to be checked, but I was nervous to hear the result. I would have been crushed to hear my progress hadn't changed, but I was trying to keep my meager courage up anyway.

At 2:10 AM, the nurse checked and declared me to be 9 centimeters dilated! I'd gone from 2 centimeters at around midnight, to 9 centimeters at 2 AM.

My labor had gone so quickly, I couldn't believe it. "You're kidding..." I stammered. "Are you sure?"

She was positive. My bag of waters was bulging and I was almost ready to start pushing. I laughed with disbelief, cried with joy, and smiled with relief that I'd made it mostly through transition without even realizing it.

I stood back up with renewed strength, and weathered a handful of contractions while I waited for my doctor to arrive.

Please come back tomorrow morning for the 4th and FINAL installment of Lauren's birth story!

7 Quick Takes Friday, #56

Hi, Quick Takers! Sunday is my baby girl's SECOND birthday, and I'm not really ready for it yet...I'm emotional and attached and hyperventilatory. And weepy. My baby is 2 years old. Which is such a tiny number, I know. But seeing it just makes me acknowledge that the years are stacking up double-fast: 2 leads to 4 leads to 8 leads to...Lord help me.

So, in addition to the birth story which is currently being told (Part 1 here, Part 2 here), I'm dedicating my Quick Takes today to my sweet baby Lauren. Who is (sob) not a baby anymore.

Anyway, here are some of my very favorite photos from the first 2 years of her life.

(Sob.)

1. Being held for the first time by her big sister.

2. Her tiny little toes, only one day old.

3. My sweet, pink little darling.

4. Basking in the sun on a grand boating expedition.

5. Snuggling with her lambie and blankie: her true loves.

6. Hiding from the helicopter, safe under mama's neck.

7. Taking a bite out of life. Er, her ballerina costume.

(Sigh.)

Have a wonderful weekend, visit Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes, and be sure to come back in a few hours for Part 3 of Lauren's birth story!

Lauren Jade's Birth Story - Part 2

Warning: There's light discussion of uteri and birth canals approaching. If you're a boy (which I highly doubt) feel free to take cover. If you're a squeamish girl, you should stay; it's not really that bad. In fact, it's quite awesome.

Though my hope for a natural childbirth had grown thin by the evening of March 27th, it was still strong enough to keep me from giving up altogether. I kept on practicing the...highly embarrassing techniques...recommended to stimulate labor (please don't make me spell it out)(again, moving right along...), without really expecting it to lead anywhere. I'd been doing this technique for at least two weeks now, and each time, contractions picked up but didn't throw me into labor.

This night though, something was different. My contractions began, as usual, and they started to feel a bit stronger than they had before. I took a break and rested, watching TV while Justin piddled on the computer. Usually, when I'd take a break, the contractions would, too, so I was confused when these contractions stayed strong enough to make me uncomfortable well past 20 minutes of resting. I thought it was a fluke, so I started trying to coax labor out of my body again (I'll be so glad when this part of the story is over, so I can stop notsaying those words.) with one more try.

The next contraction that hit me was unlike anything I'd been feeling up to this point: it was powerful. It made me stand up and walk around. It made me lean over the side of the couch and make some strange noise in my throat. It made Justin look up from the computer and take notice. Before, I'd say something like "Oh, babe! That one was uncomfortable! I felt it!" But this time, I didn't say anything at all because it hurt too bad.

I looked up at Justin and immediately got scared. I'd wanted spontaneous labor, and I was nearly certain this was it....but...once the moment was upon me, I wanted it to go away again. I wanted to start the night over and not try to get labor started. I have no idea if what I'd been doing actually had a real effect on my body or if it was just time, but all the sudden, I wasn't ready.

Which had absolutely no bearing on the events which were about to take place. Ready or not, labor had begun.

I walked circles around our living room, trying to remain calm. This was exactly the place I wanted to be -- in my own home, comfortable with my surroundings -- and these were exactly the things my body needed to be doing. I couldn't bear to sit down, more from nerves than pain. The contractions at this point were highly uncomfortable, getting stronger by the minute, and walking seemed to relieve both the pain and nervousness.

By about 10 PM, I was hurrying to a solid object each time I felt a contraction building strength. The couch, my husband, my bed...anything to ground me and hold me up while the waves washed over me. Contractions were about 3 minutes apart, lasting 60 - 90 seconds, and I was beginning to rock and dance with them. I could absolutely not sit still when one hit, and more and more often, I rushed only to Justin for support.

I all but required him to be close to me so that when a contraction was imminent, I could grab his arms, lay my head on his shoulder, and sway with the rhythm of the contraction. I couldn't relax and sway with a piece of furniture -- I needed Justin to both support me and comfort me, and throughout the rest of the night, he never stopped.

We called our fabulous doula, LeeAnn, at 10:15 and let her know that we thought labor was in full force. She listened to me breath and hum through a contraction and agreed that I seemed to be headed down the labor path, but just to make sure, she recommended I drink a big glass of water and lay down to see if it would stop. That would be our clear marker as to whether or not this was real: Real labor doesn't stop for a glass of water. We planned to call her back in an hour to update her on my status.

I tried to follow her instructions, but laying down was simply not an option and sitting was almost as impossible. Nothing felt right but to move around, walking and swaying my way through the pain. I had no doubt left that this was real labor, and I just prayed that it would progress smoothly enough to allow me the natural childbirth I'd been hoping for. Before an hour had passed, my contractions were getting stronger and closer together; we called LeeAnn back and told her this was it. She was on her way, and so was my mom. (Justin had called her and explained the details, but she was probably halfway out the door before the phone even stopped ringing. Her baby was having a baby. She'd been waiting for this phone call for weeks.)

When LeeAnn got to our house, we decided to go ahead and go to the hospital. Justin was really nervous about how quickly I seemed to be progressing, and although I knew it would be several hours before I'd probably need to go, I just wanted to do something. My aunt was on her way to my house to stay with our sleeping Mia, and as soon as we were ready, we left for the hospital.

Getting in the car was one of the most frightening experiences so far. I knew I'd be confined to the seat and it's tiny space, and I couldn't imagine getting through a contraction without standing up and swaying. Our house is only a short 7 or 8 minute drive from the hospital, but I knew that within that time period, I'd have several contractions. The ride was a blur of ignored red lights and shifting positions and animal-like bellows and by the end of it, I was kneeling in the front seat, leaning over towards Justin's lap. I was purely elated when we reached the parking lot, begging Justin to park the car immediately in the first available open space. I didn't care if it meant we'd have a longer walk to the entrance, as long as I was out of that tiny car.

Once the fresh, cold, night air was all around me again, I felt lighter. Less worried. We joked and laughed on the walk to the entrance, stopping to do our baby-dance a few times along the way. Anything seemed bearable after being pinned in the car during contractions.

At 11:45 PM, we checked into the hospital and went to an examining room. My cervix was checked, of course; I was excited about that part. I couldn't wait to see how far I'd progressed. Earlier that morning at my OB appointment, I had been dilated to about one and a half centimeters. Nothing, really. But my contractions had been so strong for the past 3 hours that I was hoping for at least 4 or 5 centimeters when the nurse checked me. I wouldn't have been surprised if I was dilated way past that number, even. I was sure my pain had been doing some good work -- sure the pain had been strong enough to warrant a quick progression of labor.

Laying still long enough to be checked was more awful than I could have imagined. I rocked on the table through a contraction and then lay down as quickly as a 9 months pregnant, laboring woman possibly could for the nurse to check between contractions. My heart sank when I heard my progress: I was still at 2 centimeters.

I teared up and tried to hold myself together; just because no real change had happened after such good, strong laboring, didn't mean my labor would fail and I'd end up with another c-section. Justin and LeeAnn assured me that everything was happening just as it should, and told me not to worry about the numbers at all.

I breathed in, breathed out, and tried put all thoughts of centimeters and cervixes out of my head.

Instead, I concentrated on the strength of my body, the warmth of my husband's arms under my clinging hands, the sounds of my doula humming along with me, and my baby daughter curled up inside me.

I was doing this for her, and we would see each other soon.

And I'll see YOU soon too -- mid-day tomorrow -- for the third installment of Lauren's birth story.

Lauren Jade's Birth Story

This Sunday, my baby girl is turning 2! Celebrate with me for the rest of the week, if you don't mind, while I tell you the story of her birth.

Once upon a time, I was a mother of one. My 18-month-old daughter was in the midst of acquiring her own attitudes and preferences, and I was in the midst of being bewildered by those attitudes and preferences. We hadn't yet reached the phase of raising a 2 year-old, and I was worried.

Mostly I was worried that once our little firecracker of a daughter turned 2, she'd be even more of a handful than she was at 18 months. And I was worried that would mean we'd put off having another child because hello, who looks at a toddler tantrum and says LET'S HAVE ANOTHER!? However, I did want another itty, bitty, sweetie baby, and I didn't want to wait and see if we could handle one; I just wanted to do it, and then handle the difficulties (if any -- I had high hopes) later.

So, we did it. (Hush, now! Stop that giggling!) We got pregnant with our second child when our first was 19 months old. I'm sure you've already read Mia's birth story (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3), and it's a good thing because that means you already know my mindset going into this pregnancy, which was something like this:

Please, please, please, I want to have a natural childbirth and I'm fully prepared to do so and I KNOW I can do it, but I also know everything will be OK if I have to have another c-section, but PLEASE let me try to have a VBAC. Please!

Those might have been my exact words to my obstetrician at my very first appointment. Luckily, he's a wonderful doctor and had anticipated my hopes before I'd even begun spouting them in run-on sentence form.

He was all in favor of me having a natural childbirth as long as I met some simple requirements first: 1) The baby had to be head down when I went into labor, and for that matter, 2) I had to go into spontaneous labor before 41 weeks. No inductions for me, due to the risk of a ruptured uterus. Since Mia was 4 weeks early, I had no worries about the spontaneous part; this baby would be early, too, I was sure of it.

That only left the head down part, which I worried and worried about, long before it was even an issue. I frequented sites like SpinningBabies.com and tried to tell the difference between the baby's head and tushie day and night. I sat myself in positions that were certain to help the baby stay upside-down, and I fretted about the best way to sleep...the best way to exercise...the best way to live in order to help the baby stay head down. At each of the third trimester OB appointments, I'd hold my breath to get the doctor's take on the baby's position, and I was elated when her head was, actually, down. And it stayed down. After 37 weeks, I didn't worry about it any more. (Read: I didn't worry about it quite so much.)

Although the positional worrying was lessened, the one other criteria I had to meet before being allowed to try natural childbirth -- spontaneous labor -- was nowhere to be found. I was absolutely positive that this baby would be born before her due date. Weeks before, just like her big sister. So when 37 weeks arrived and there was still no sign of impending labor, my worrying went through the roof.

Each week, each day that passed with no sign of labor brought me one step closer to the c-section I'd been praying to avoid. I began to ask everyone I could think of for help in inducing labor naturally -- my friends, my doctor, my family, Dr. Google -- and I tried all of their suggestions. Even the...embarrassing ones. We'll leave that little nugget right there and move along.

Quickly, now. Chop, chop.

Feeling ever more nervous about my approaching due date, and spending every moment of my free time searching the internet for helpful ideas, I wound up on DONA's website and felt highly motivated to contact a doula to help me through this process. I was still trying to be as positive about my 'planned' childbirth as possible. I reasoned that if I hired a doula, my intentions would somehow be cemented in fate's eye, and natural childbirth would be guaranteed.

My doula was absolutely wonderful. She in no way promised me that with her on board, we'd have the natural childbirth of our dreams (drat), but she did offer me another positive ear and hopeful spirit. We discussed my hopes and fears, talked about techniques and plans, and settled in to wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

By the day before my due date, I'd all but given up hope. I'd packed my hospital bags with things required after a c-section. I'd primed myself for surgery by trying to feel only excitement over meeting my new daughter, instead of disappointment that it probably wasn't going to happen naturally. I knew I had a week left before my doctor would call the shots, and I didn't see much possibility for natural childbirth any longer.

I had an appointment on March 27th -- the day before my due date -- and my body hadn't progressed any further than the nearly 2 centimeters of dilation it had shown for the past 3 weeks.

For the second time in my life, we got out the surgery calendar and planned a date for my c-section. My doctor agreed to wait a few days past the 41 week mark -- over a weekend -- but could guarantee no more time than that.

I tried really hard not to cry at that appointment, and at least held it in until the room was empty. Everyone there, the nurses, doctor, and nurse practitioner, were so encouraging and said things like "I have a feeling you're going to do this. I bet you'll go into labor this week and have your successful VBAC." but at this point I'd been expecting labor to begin for the past 3 weeks. Daily worrying hadn't helped; it had accomplished nothing.

I went home deflated, but resigned. If the baby wasn't ready yet, she wasn't ready yet. She'd be born soon, one way or the other.

Another week at the most, and I'd have my daughter in my arms.

I'll be back later today with more. See you soon!

Let The Blushing Begin

Since I can't remember a time in my life that didn't include red-faced memories, it had to have started when I was young, this business of blushing pink or red or fuchsia or heaven forbid -- magenta. The purple overtones in that particular shade would mean I'm about to keel over and burst into flames from sheer overexposure to attention. But surely there was a time, pre-blushing, in which an innocent little Heavenly Sarah lived without fear of pink cheeks.

I've wondered if the blushing grew as a reaction to being self-conscious, or if the self-consciousness developed in response to the blushing. The chicken or the egg scenario. Because nothing says LOOK AT ME like a hot red face, are you with me? One of these days I might spontaneously sprout a neon sign over my bright, embarrassed face just to demand the attention of any wayward stragglers. It's not like they'd want to miss The Reddest Face Of All Time, and who am I to deprive them of that particular gawker's delight?

And gawkers are the funniest people when it comes to red faces. The comment I get most often is 'Whoa. Your face is RED!" Like I didn't know already. "Are you serious! Huh. And here I thought the sound of blood rushing through my eyeballs was because I was about to go blind. I thought the heat and beads of sweat were due to my really high metabolism!" But I can't blame them, their statements are harmless, right? Simple truth-telling, right?

Wrong. Because the utterance of those words will escalate any simple blush through successive phases of coloring until the dreaded magenta is reached. Poof. It's like a magic trick: the gawkers' words have all the power of a well-timed Abracadabra when it comes to making my cheeks hotter. Not hot like accidentally ingesting jalapeno seeds. Not hot like getting a new haircut, facial, and complete wardrobe makeover. Not hot like playing outside on a summer day and needing a dip in the pool to cool off.

Hot like lava erupting from my pores. And it's not only in my face, lucky for the world. The redness I emit starts at my sternum, flows over my shoulders, up my neck, into my head, and out my ears. I checked once, and the bare scalp in my parted hair was red, too. I'm just lucky my hair is dark, or I'm sure I'd have the power to turn blonde hair pink.

But this post wasn't supposed to be about me. It's really about my sweet, sweet daughters and their likelihood of inheriting my thin skin and fiery embarrassability. As much as I desperately don't want them to be stricken with my blushable skin tone, it seems inevitable. Even so, I've been holding out hope that they'd get their handsome daddy's skin -- it doesn't blush well. It's calm and collected and not confused in the least about what color it was born to be.

My hopes were quietly dashed a few days ago when friend of ours walked into the same crowded lunchtime restaurant as us, and stood in line to order. Mia spotted her and wanted to catch her attention to say hello. She yelled across the dining room with her 4-year-old voice, waving and smiling shyly. I glanced at Mia as our friend joined us, and there, on my sweet little girl's face, was a blooming pinkness. It overtook her cheeks, her forehead, her temples. She tucked her chin under and let her hair fall across her face, grinning and hiding at the same time.

I almost couldn't look away. The pink was...beautiful. It was a glow. It was stunning. Her excitement and shyness had combined into the most lovely color on her purely innocent face. She radiated youth and life and perfection.

Remembering myself, I tore my eyes away from my little girl. Wherever I go, I avoid staring at other people's embarrassments -- a habit borne from hoping people won't acknowledge my embarrassments -- and this situation was no different, ultimately. My daughter had drawn attention to herself by yelling across the crowded room. She'd been addressed by the person to whom she'd yelled. She'd been filled with self-awareness, and it manifested itself in a blush on her sweet cheeks.

The die has been cast. Rather, it was cast upon her conception when my genetic material was proud enough and forceful enough to demand re-creation in her new life, but still; now it's clear to the world: she will be a blusher.

It just fascinates me that I thought the pinkness was beautiful. Stunning, even. It gives me hope that maybe blushing is endearing after all.

It certainly is on her. Now I just have to figure out a way to have NO one, EVER, in the enTIRE course of her LIFE, point it out to her.

Because then all magenta will break loose.

Lions And Lambs

Friday of last week was the most gorgeous day. We played outside in light clothing, squinting in the sunlight and chasing the breezes around the park. It felt like spring had arrived, for good.

Saturday, however, the weather turned ferociously cold and snowy, and by Sunday, we were eating snowballs and bundling up once more.

Such a contrast: sipping juice boxes on a picnic bench, warmed by the sunny day,

And crunching icy snow two days later. March, thou are fickle.



Although I absolutely preferred the sunny, warm day to the cold,

The beauty was just as perfect in each.

Because although the squealing of laughter with friends under a cloudless sky is fun,

the silence of an icy day brings a sort of peaceful rest and pause.

Having a snow and ice storm on the first day of spring seems like a bad joke, but really,

it was the perfect way to slow us down and remind us that new life is still there, just waiting a bit longer for the perfect time to emerge. Even when happy homeowners jump the gun by putting out hopeful springtime signs a few days before nature is ready to acquiesce.

And since I appreciate a break when rushing headlong into energetic bursts of activity, I guess March is entitled to one as well.

How's your March been so far? Lions or lambs?

Weekly Column: Rage Against The Laundry

Though half of our family is made up of tiny people, our laundry piles are not tiny. They multiply their ranks overnight and threaten to march on my sanity by day. I’ve drawn up battle plans in order to combat this laundry uprising, but the plan is so simple that I’m astounded the enemy hasn’t caught on yet and staged a counter-attack.

My plan is this: Do one complete load of laundry every day. I used to wait for a certain day (usually the day we risked mortal embarrassment from having no clean clothes) before doing every load of laundry in the house. Wearing myself out with a full day of work was disheartening and exhausting, especially when the next day would certainly bring a new pile of dirty laundry. But with this plan, I’ve been freed from the grasp of the ever-growing laundry pile. It’s still a task to be done, but not a horrifying one. Breaking it down into manageable pieces has been wonderful.

And I’ve recruited some adorable troops to help me in my attack. My 4-year-old is at the perfect age to sort clean laundry (mine, not mine, jammies, pants, etc.), match socks, and put away folded items. She’s getting really good now at folding towels too, which is somehow – magically – fun for her. My 2-year-old loves putting her tiny socks into the hosiery bag (a sure way to thwart the sock-eating dryer-monster) and carrying dirty clothes to the washing machine. Her favorite though, is pushing wet laundry into the dryer. The fascination escapes me, but I try to hide it well.

Your family may differ in size, ages, and habits from ours, but this simple battle plan can be easily adopted into your household. You, too, can fight back against the terrorizing laundry pile.

7 Quick Takes Friday, #55

1. I've felt like I'm up against some un-inspirational days or writing doldrums or what-have-you, so my friend Emily suggested I try waking up expecting to take pictures each day. As a creative outlet, a lens through which to become inspired, or a way to feel present...or maybe all of those things. Yesterday produced these moments:






2. Lauren had eaten almost no lunch (again) and was angling for snacks non-stop after being released from her high chair. I, of course refused -- no lunch, no snacks. While I was busy elsewhere, she managed to sneak off with a crunchy-wrappered something. I noticed her conspicuous silence along with the faint crinkling of cellophane, and went in search. She was hiding behind her bedroom rocking chair, trying desperately to open a sleeve of crackers. And although she'd hidden, she had no guile about being found. She merely came out, and asked for help in opening her prize.









3. She was quite reasonable, asking for 'just one, mama. I just want one, peese.' She tried to be so convincing. And it turns out, she was. She got just one cracker.





Who's a pushover? Oh, yeah. Me.






4. My sweet, sweet girls are getting to be pretty good friends.







5. And I love seeing them interact and laugh together. As long as those interactions don't escalate into arguing and whining and stealing each others' toys.







6. After a post-bath snuggle, they danced it up. The bed is their favorite stage, and their own competing voices are their favorite kinds of music.

7. Flossing teeth is somehow a favorite activity, one that Lauren begs to do alone.

And that makes us both happy.

Have a wonderful weekend and head over to Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes!

What We Found At The Library, #13

Mia's Favorite: Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes

It seems that some of Mia's favorite stories are about sweet kids who are misunderstood or made fun of. This would worry me, except the stories always end up happy, with the character gaining confidence along the way. (Of course, it is only a story, so that's kind of required...but still.) Chrysanthemum follows this formula exactly, and heartens the reader with the sweet little mouse's nearly uncrushable attitude. She's so full of vibrance and energy on her first day of school, but is immediately teased for her long and unusual name. Day after day, she's teased more and more, until she thinks her name is 'absolutely dreadful.' It all turns around in the end, though, with Chrysanthemum remembering what she knew all along: her name is absolutely perfect. While Mia loved the story, I loved some of the vocabulary. This book had a few really great words I don't think Mia'd been exposed to yet -- winsome, begrudging, jaundiced, wilted, indescribable -- and they added such fun to the reading. I was pleasantly surprised by this cute book.

Lauren & Mama's Favorite: Little Hoot by Amy Krouse Rosenthal & Jen Corace (Illustrator)

I remember hearing good things about this 'Little' series, but hadn't happened to run across them until now. Little Hoot is adorable! He's a young owl who loves his life -- all except for bedtime. After all, he as to stay up SO LATE when all of his friends get to go to bed SO MUCH EARLIER. He begs for an earlier bedtime with his little owl eyes drooping, but his parents insist on at least one more hour of playtime. The juxtaposition of Little Hoot pleading for bedtime while most children desire to avoid bedtime is seriously funny. I'm excited to check out the others in this series, as I understand them to be written along this same punch line. Plus, the simple illustrations are super cute. I loved Little Hoot, and Lauren must have, too, because she requested it over and over. Of course, I obliged her.

That's it for me this week! We found several other good ones this week that didn't make it on our favorites list: Mice and Beans (Mia's runner-up), The Animal Hedge (My runner-up), If You Give A Moose A Muffin (Lauren's runner-up). Lots of good stuff in our bookbag, too little time to cover it all. The story of my life.

What books did you love this week? Link up and let us know!

Someone Else's Wrong Side Of The Bed

This has not been my day, at all.

Not my day. It must be somebody else's.

It must be someone else who woke up too late to shower, and is still wearing half of her pajamas. At least she put jeans on, but they're the jeans with a slowly fraying hole in the crotch, so does that really count as clothes? She managed to remember deodorant too, but that was only an hour ago, so did it even make a difference? Poor girl. She should be showering instead of blogging, but her priorities are all wonky.

It's also someone else who's got a feverish daughter on one side and a bored toddler on the other, making for complete frustration in the middle. They need to get out of the house for fresh air and a change of scenery, but the fevered one wouldn't appreciate that, so they stay. They've watched too much tv already today, and still have the entire afternoon ahead of them.

Someone else decided the morning spent at home would be the perfect time to pack away the growing toddler's too-small clothes. The toddler tossed folded stacks of clothing this way and that while her mother searched for a storage box with any space left inside. She didn't find any, so she decided it would be perfectly alright to rearrange the clothing in all the other storage boxes to make room. A grand mess ensued. Mountains of clothing could only be dispatched to their appropriate boxes after the sizes were re-sorted (because that part had been haphazardly done before, so it was all crazy now). This took way too much of someone else's time.

It was someone else's toddler who discovered a forbidden box of markers and colored one square foot of wooden kitchen tabletop. She couldn't have used the innocent Crayolas which are highly washable -- no. Instead, she used the crappy, cheap kind which came with a poster or something. A no-name brand that was highly UNwashable. And she did it while her mom was up to her waist in baby-clothes-sorting.

It had to have been someone else who scrubbed the marker-ings until her triceps burned, while the toddler sat screaming in time-out. MY day surely hasn't included an un-fixable tabletop. MY day surely didn't see that box of crappy markers thrown in the trash.

Someone else's toddler threw every last piece of bedding out of her crib, instead of quickly falling asleep at naptime.

Someone else's meat for dinner is still frozen solid.

Someone else's husband has a meeting that will take him away during bath and bedtime.

Hopefully, someone else will perk up and smile a few times in the coming hours. Her grumpiness is only perpetuating more grumpiness.

Good thing that someone isn't me, because I can't stand being told to snap out of my grumpiness. Good thing my day isn't like that.

It's not my day at all.

I'm This Sort of Mom

I'm the sort of mom who buys too many picture books because I love the artist's work. I read the kids books as much for them as for myself.

I'm the sort of mom who sits on the potty seat when I can't be bothered to remove it first. And when there are two kids charging at the closed bathroom door, I can rarely be bothered.

I'm the sort of mom who looks at a pile of vomit and wishes (for once) that I wasn't the one in charge.

I'm the sort of mom who fears the day when nap times are no longer necessary.

I'm the sort of mom who would rather scrub the bathtub than listen to the Dora's World Adventures CD one more time.

I'm the sort of mom who thinks babies are heaven-sent, and toddlers are...still heaven-sent, but with a little tied-on note that says: HA!

I'm the sort of mom who will leave spilled rice under the dinner table because I know it'll be easier to sweep up the next day when it's dried and crispy.

I'm the sort of mom who waits just as expectantly as the kids do for daddy to walk in the door from work. I do stop short of shoving them aside to get to him, though. But just barely.

I'm the sort of mom who wants to be creative and crafty, but has no real idea how to go about doing that.

I'm the sort of mom who never mops the floor because her heart would just be broken the next time something got spilled -- I'm more of a spot-cleaning mom.

I'm the sort of mom who secretly relishes the inevitable 'I need a dink a wadur!' from the toddler when she's supposed to be falling fast asleep. It means I can sniff her head one last time before she's asleep for the night.

I'm the sort of mom who prefers coloring to play-doh, crayons to markers, and Curious George to Caillou.

I'm the sort of mom who loved breastfeeding so much that I'm willing to have another baby right NOW just to experience the beauty of breastfeeding again.

But I'm also the sort of mom who's willing to have another baby at any time, for any reason, with no special thought or plan involved whatsoever. Babies.....mmmmm.....

I'm the sort of mom who thinks peanut butter and jelly is absolutely delicious.

I'm the sort of mom who sniffs her daughter's blankie when nobody's looking. And then hugs it and rubs it against her cheek for good measure.

I'm the sort of mom who's grateful for the outlet of blogging, both for navel-gazing and friend-making. And for keeping me connected to the outside world when all I can see is motherhood for miles and miles -- for keeping me from getting lost in here.

What sort of mom are you? (Or what sort of mom do you think you'll be?)

Weekly Column: No Questions Asked

At bedtime, our home can look one of two ways: full of calm harmony or bulging over with madness. As with most transitions – leaving the house, stopping a game, starting bath time – there are plenty of opportunities for disobedience and dramatic, willful refusals.

But there are plenty of ways to make the process run more smoothly, too.

With my 4-year-old, a sure way to get her refusals flowing is to ask her a question instead of stating the desired action outright. Asking, “Are you ready to put your pajamas on?” is as good as saying, “Whenever you’re ready, Princess.” When she answers “No, I’m not ready!” it becomes a battle; she’s chosen the wrong answer from her parents’ point of view. Asking a question implies that we’ll respect her answer, and rightly so. Posing a choice to her, but not really meaning it to be a choice leaves her confused and frustrated. Meltdown commencing in 3..2..1..

So why did we ask if what we meant to do was tell? To make sure there’s no wiggle room in our daughter knowing what’s expected of her, we’ve learned to say it like this: “Come put your pajamas on, please.” She still may refuse or get mad about it, but at least we’re not giving her a chance to misunderstand our intention. There are many times when a question is warranted, but when we intend to convey instruction, we try to make our purpose clear.

Our bedtimes (and myriad other transitions) have gone much smoother by using simple instructions, respectfully given. Like, “Come give me a kiss, you darling, you.” At the very least, our daughter will know exactly what she’s supposed to do.

But I wouldn’t be surprised if she ran, giggling, to kiss her daddy instead. She is her mother’s child.

On My Mind: Drivel

What is the purpose of having sinuses? Because I'm pretty sure I'm thisclose to selling mine to the highest bidder. Useless and irritating things they are. Maybe some steam would help. Uh, the soup is boiling over. I really don't think it's right to assume that housecleaning is more important than spending quality time with my girls, but dang the house is dirty. I'll beg Justin to clean it tonight while I rest my weary self. He'll refuse. We'll play rock-paper-scissors and roll over laughing because I always win. In the end we'll be having so much fun that we'll clean together. Dreamdreamdream.

So dreary, this rain is. Plenty of sunshine, headin' my way. Zippidy doo da, zippidy ay! But hopefully it's soaking my tree food deep into the soil. Plus it's loosening up the garden ground. Plus I want to rent a movie tonight. Plus it smells really good in here. Shoot! Soup! At least my hands aren't so dry lately, so I can wear my pretty ring again without coating it in lotion a dozen times a day. Maybe the moisture in the air from the rain has made the lotion less necessary. What am I? A scientist? Pfft. Nothing precise about this mess.

OH! I should be looking for Lauren's birthday party supplies right now instead of spewing drivel.

Mmmm...birthday cake. Is there a butterfly-shaped pan, or should I just rig something up from a bunch of round cakes? But not the biggest pan. Or maybe? But we've got to rake last fall's leaves up before the party. What if it's warm enough to play outside? Not likely. It'll be cold if we rake, warm if we don't. Ugh, the car needs to be washed, too. But $4 for a car wash! I'd rather get out the sponge....and hand it to Justin with a bowl of sudsy water. He's so hot. Is it superficial of me to think my husband is so alarmingly gorgeous? Not if I adequately acknowledge his heart and mind and faith and humor. And his eyes. My eye is burning a little. A little watery, too. Stupid sinuses.

I want to eat an apple. Fuji. Does that mean they're Asian? Japanese? I thought they came from Washington...it's probably raining there, too. Gasp! The next Twilight movie comes out soon! When? Maybe not soon at all; I can't remember. I still haven't even seen The Time Traveler's Wife yet, and it's been out forever. Rent that tonight! But it'll interfere with my new book. I should just quit this nonsense, buckle down, and write my own book. I need an idea first...a basic plot. Plot. Plot. Plot.

I've got nothin'.

7 Quick Takes Friday, #54

1. I had a gift certificate for Amazon that needed to be used up before it could burn a hole in my computer, so last week I placed an order. My new books arrived this week (oh, happy day!). I got In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan and began reading it immediately. It's really caught and held my attention, but also caused me to cry strangled sobs of longing for my beloved donuts: there's nothing natural or whole about donuts.

I feel bereft. Or at least the expectation of feeling bereft in the near future. It's only been a few days since I had a donut, so the next few weeks will reveal if I can keep Pollan's message in my head during the inevitable donut-withdrawals.

But I already feel strangely healthier, just from reading the book. It's unsettling.

2. The second book I bought was Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler. It too, has caught and held my attention. Human women are fascinating creatures.

3. One night this week, Lauren and Justin were snuggled up on our bed reading stories before bedtime. At some point, she became bored with whatever story he was telling and started searching for something better. She picked up Taking Charge of Your Fertility -- a huge book in such a little girl's hands -- and started reading it from the beginning, jabbering animatedly at each new page.

She made a game of it with Justin: she'd turn a page, babble off some mumbo-jumbo, look at her daddy, and laugh uproariously like she'd just finished reading the best joke ever. Over and over, jibber-jabber, laughter, page turn, jibber-jabber, laughter, page turn. I pulled out the video camera to capture the cuteness, and -- whaddaya know -- she stopped. Just when she'd found a picture of the female external reproductive organs.

Lauren was highly interested in discussing it, but the problem was with her audience. When confronted with a highly graphic drawing of girly bits, her mature father just couldn't take it. Justin had to bury his face and hold his breath to conceal his laughter. (Junior high, here we come.) To make matters worse, she kept asking him what it was and he couldn't remove his hand from his face long enough to answer.

And I have this whole exchange on video. I'd show it to you, if I knew how to upload it and display it here. It's probably for the best, though. It doesn't bode well for my husband's future in discussing any feminine issues with his daughters.

Human men are hilarious creatures.

4. Mia's preschool class made a cute little craft that some of you might like. It's adorable and so simple:

It's a regular ziploc baggie, filled with tissue paper scraps and ribbons, tied around the middle with a pipe cleaner, and shaped into a butterfly. So easy and fun! You could have your little one cut or tear pieces of colorful paper, fill the baggie with pom-poms, confetti, fabric scraps...really endless options. A perfect spring craft!

5. On his way home from work one night this week, Justin called and asked what was for dinner. The food I'd made didn't cause him to erupt into joy or abundant excitement, so I (in some kind of moody, hormonal place) got my feelings hurt. I sulked about not being able to please anyone all the time and if I had to worry about the kids refusing the food, I shouldn't have to worry about him too. He was understandably confused; his reaction had been nothing short of normal. I was having an off day, though, so I pounced. We hung up and I began feeling dumb about it, but not dumb enough to call and apologize. Luckily, he called back a few minutes later and it was like nothing had happened -- like he knew I was being unreasonable, but didn't need to call me on it.

I was properly chagrined and embarrassed over my behavior by the time he got home, all set to make it up to him somehow. But instead, he had a surprise for me. He brought me a slice of cookie from the Cookie Company -- with my favorite frosting on top -- after I was terribly gripey and ill-mannered towards him. He's a good man.

(Wait. Do processed cookies fall in the same category of un-naturalness as donuts? Oh well. It wouldn't have been right of me to turn down a gift meant to assuage my hormonal frustration.)

6. The weather here is becoming so springlike that I'm starting to get excited about my garden. I bought lettuce and broccoli to hopefully get planted this weekend. Last year, I waited too long past the prime planting time and my broccoli didn't do very well, so I want to get it done a little earlier this year. Plus, I want to begin planting as soon as allowed so hopefully my gardening days will be complete by the hottest days of August. I start to get cranky about why I started a stupid garden in the first place around that time, and am ready to sow it all under by then.

But for now, I'm looking forward to it!

7. I keep meaning to thank you all for your lunchtime suggestions! They've been wonderful and helpful and plentiful, and I keep looking over them for continued inspiration. (If you haven't seen the ideas, you should check them out -- they've really helped me escape our lunchtime rut.)

Thanks for stopping by today, and be sure to check out Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes! Have a wonderful weekend!

This Ain't No Dress Rehearsal

Sometimes I look around at my life -- my wonderful, blessed life -- and can't seem to see myself in it. Like I'm playing this part and it's only that -- a scripted, acted story with a real person lurking underneath. Waiting for the curtain to fall so she can go back to her real life.

It doesn't make any sense. After all, this life has been my dream. My fantasy. The one thing I always wanted to do when I grew up was be a wife and mother. Take care of my family. It's perfect, but at the same time I feel like I don't know myself in this role. Like I haven't settled into it yet.

I've seen my days as a mother in swatches of time: breakfast time, activity time, lunch time, nap time, time to relax, time to make dinner, bath time, bed time. And it works because it has to; the other option is chaos. Raising children doesn't come as naturally to me as I always assumed it would. The crushing love and adoration for my children, yes -- that came naturally. But without ordering my days around times and plans, I would be lost. Confused. Not for long, though. I'd be right back to ordered days before I let myself flounder out into irretrievable chaos.

But...it's not how I always want it. I want my days to be clusters of light and color. I want them to be folds of soft fabric and stretches of textured upholstery. I want the days to evolve and excite and awaken my desire for spontaneity. I want days that are filled with discovery and blown through with fresh winds of creativity. I want my days to jump out at me as memories and ideas and I want to grow children who savor those days. Not merely hop from lunch time to nap time.

Oh, I know. I know that within my ordered days there doesn't have to be a dearth of color and texture, but it seems harder to achieve than I would have thought.

And there it is again: I don't yet know this role. I haven't figured out how to tickle joy from under its belly and extract newness from the ordinary. At least not all the time. I have my moments of inspiration, true. It just feels selfish of me to want life's experiences to be constantly colorful. Constantly entertaining on a soulful level.

Maybe it shouldn't be about me wanting more life in my life, but about me seeing my life for what it really is and noticing the beauty in it. The fun of it.

A marker-colored face can be artistic and hilarious, rather than just a frustrating mess to be erased. A scary midnight dream can be a sweet moment of snuggling and story telling, rather than just a groggy chore. A wild and crazy toddler can be a lens through which I notice life's joys -- like how satisfying a ripped paper can be or how good it feels to let your body show your excitement with an unchoreographed dance.

In whatever situation I can imagine in my awkward role as mother and teacher and comforter and all-around-servant, I have got to believe that I'll fit into it someday. Someday I'll look around and feel comfortable with my surroundings. Someday.

I just hope I can see the joy and beauty of motherhood right now through my foggy vision. Even if I still don't know how to play the role to perfection. Even if I still have to consult the script for a little help now and then.

Because I'd hate to look back when I do feel comfortable, and realize I've squandered the best gig around.

Perfectly Poetical Tuesday (Haiku #2)

I love Perfectly Poetical Tuesdays! Not because I'm a fantastic poet -- you've been around long enough to know better than that. I just love trying my hand at it. Stretching my brain a little bit. I love the thought that even my life writes a poem.

And so does yours! Join in today with your own haiku -- leave it in the comments or link up over at Stephanie's. You can do it!

---------------------

The Toddler

Getting her to sleep

Was a simpler task before

She learned how to sing

--------------------

(Honestly, at this very moment [Monday night], I'm listening to her sing and holler [in variations of Away In A Manger and Twinkle, Twinkle] 45 minutes after being laid in her cozy bed. Fun with a capital Crazy. In any case, my life wrote a poem...it's true!)

Who's Afraid Of The Big, Bad Bill?

The fresh, spring air of yesterday must have cleared my senses long enough to show me the fog of laziness that had encompassed my February. I woke up this morning with a flurry of activities planned for myself while the girls were in school. Boring stuff I'd put off too long, for no other reason than that I didn't want to do it.

Paperwork and errands and bill paying. Laundry. Menu planning and grocery-list-making. Garden outlining, lettuce and broccoli plant buying, tree fertilizing.

My spring-infected nostrils became a gateway to my brain and I was left with determination.

Things would get DONE today.

And they did! Mostly, anyway. The laundry is ever a beastly work in progress, and the tree fertilizing is on tap for this afternoon. But the thing I'm most proud of? The task I'd put off for much longer than is safe for our credit and finances and peace of mind: Bill paying.

So simple.

So tedious.

So dreaded.

What is it with me and bills? It's not the spending money part; I'm cool with that. (Or at least resigned to it.) And we don't have alot of debt, either, so I'm not ticked off with interest or overspending. I'm just talking about regular utilities, for the most part: electric, water, internet, cell phones. I think I just hate the monotony of the job. The bills which aren't set up to automatically deduct from our bank come around every month -- clockwork. And I pay them every month -- forget about the clockwork, though.

I stack the bills in a pile until I wake up one morning and think, Crud! What day is it? Isn't there a bill that's due TODAY? YESTERDAY?! And I rustle around in the stack until I find a bill which needs to be payed immediately. I send it on its merry postal way, but forget completely about the bills that were just screaming pick me! pick me! and which are due within a few days' time.

Those, I leave until another frantic morning of date-worrying.

It's a cycle from which I can't seem to break loose. I've tried setting up Excel spreadsheets to track what's due and when: I forget to use it. I've tried circling days on my calendar about important due dates: I'm good for that month, and then forget about the next.

That's the problem, I think.

It never ends.

I feel a sense of accomplishment when the bill stack is proficiently distributed, checks snuggled in their warm little envelopes, stamps giving them flight across the country...I feel good about finishing the job.

It's a farce, though, right? The job of bill paying doesn't GET finished. It merely hibernates for 30 days and wakes up again with an insatiable appetite for my checkbook. At which point I put it off until I'm free of other, more entertaining obligations. Only when there's nothing else on my to-do list (which includes such necessaries as Read Blogs and Write Blogs) or I face the embarrassment of castigation from my trusting husband do I whine and stomp and pout and scribble out a few checks.

I've promised Justin SO MANY times that he doesn't need to worry about the bills: I can take care of this one thing while he works hard to support our family.

But can I?

This has been my domain for the past 5 years or so, and I think it's safe to say that I've proven myself unworthy. Should I just turn it all over to him -- him with a degree in finance and a career in the banking industry -- and admit defeat? Should I work at it until I GET it? Should I hide my head under a rock (where rock = wireless computer, cookbook, or novel) with shame for not having the will power to whip my lazy self into shape?

How does the bill-paying work in your household? (If it's not too forward of me to ask...) Are you good at it? Are you terrible, like me? Is there some magic solution you use to stay on top of the mundane, recurring household jobs that go along with adulthood?

And, pray tell, is there any hope for me?