Monthly Archives: August 2010

I’m Gonna Be (the most popular girl)

So today, Bean & I took a little trip to Bug’s school to join him for lunch. We brought him his favorite, McDonald’s (I’ll be accepting my Mother-of-the-Year award now, thanks), and Bean was pretty much the most popular girl in school today. (Because every cool guy needs a popular girl.) For some reason, kids love babies. Maybe because not too long ago, they used to be one. But it’s excruciatingly cute to see them fawn over her, and it’s like an out-of-body experience to watch Bug completely glow over her. You would have thought he had discovered the tooth fairy’s hideout, the way he was flagging down people to come meet his baby sister. (And I tried my very best to ignore the hidden germs I know were just teeming over each and every single kid.)

You gotta love the questions kids throw at you:

“Hey, I like your baby! Is it a boy or a girl?” (Girl.)

“What’s its name?” (You can call her Bean.)

“Does it have a dirty diaper?” (Not that I know of, but that is subject to change.)

And my personal favorite: “Did it hurt when it came out?” (I’ll be covering that topic next week, boys and girls.)

So it was fun toting Bean through the halls of higher learning, and squeezing into those tiny tables and chairs with my son’s happy meal, and watching my littler baby wonder at all the noise coming from people much closer to her size.

I basically love being a mom.

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She Won’t Break Into Your Heart, She Just Eases

My Love is Deeper than the Darkness of My Soul

I am overcome. More so today than usual.

She is beautiful and I am obsessed with her.

I can admit this now, but seven-ish months ago, when I was convinced we were pregnant with Boy #2, I sincerely wondered how I would possibly be able to love Boy #2 equally, when Boy #1 was already perfection? And when we discovered my ineptness at gender-prediction, I was relieved because They say loving sons and daughters is different. Ah, I thought. I could handle different. No one, not even my children, would be able to question the depths of my love, because it would be different, even as that lingering fear echoed, but it might not be equal.

I’m sure the pregnancy hormones didn’t help the introspect, but for nine months the thought haunted me: what if I truly didn’t love my second-born quite as much? After all, the love I have for Bug has been cultivated for six years. It has been ever-building and evolving, steeped in years of memory and challenges and growth. It was the first time a piece of me broke off, and the only way I could feel whole again was to stay as close to it as possible. What if the second time around just wasn’t as cataclysmic?

Needless to say, all that worrying was for naught. (But isn’t that always the case?)

There is such profoundness in the simple act of holding her against my chest, and feeling her press her tiny cheek deeper into my skin, her little arms reflexively curling around as much of me as she can manage, a drowsy hug from my newborn.

It balances me, the absolute dependence Bean has on me, and the growing independence Bug is insisting on from me, though both are equally heartbreaking. Why God chose me to help usher these two beautiful children toward the man and woman He designed them to be is righteously absurd, but hell if I won’t try, and love every second of it.

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Fullness Is…

Fullness is two car seats, a week’s worth of luggage, a set of golf clubs, a baby stroller and a man who is 6’5″ in a mid-sized sedan for five-and-a-half hours.

It is Santa Fe Grille’s flaming cheese, two baskets of chips and salsa, and three generations of family in a hot restaurant in my husband’s hometown.

It is my parents’ house full of family and friends gathering to anticipate yet another brand-new baby, celebrating in style with chocolate-covered strawberries and sentimentality.

It is a two-car caravan transporting eight people to attend the Sunday service at the church I grew up in for the first time in over a year. It is a 2am conversation with my baby sister and a belly ache from laughing so hard. It is laying beside my ridiculously pregnant older sister, my own new daughter fast asleep between us. It is my father and my son, BFFs, bonding over paper airplanes and brand-new toys. It is my mother once again fulfilling and relishing her divine role as nurturer and caretaker. It is being home again, being taken care of, being hilarious, nourished, invited, comfortable, nostalgic and enjoyed in the home that holds so much.

It is the interconnecting threads of family, woven with memory and laced with a new and brilliant future, as the children grow into parents and the parents revel as grandparents and resident spoilers. It is my past and my present converging in a beautiful, colorful, hysterical, crowded tapestry.

(And it might also be two platefuls at an Indian buffet.)

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Sleepless in…the South?

* yawn *

Tired in Tennessee? Exhausted in the East? Weary in…okay, I’m bored with alliteration. Mostly because I couldn’t come up with a geographically accurate word to go with that last one.

So Bean and I are home alone tonight (with a state-of-the-art security system set to “Creepsters Beware” that may or may not include a jar of marbles by the backdoor, so no funny business, wads-of-jerk, I’ve seen Macaulay Culkin in action). Fact is, the house is just far too big and quiet without my two men. As in, there are no snoring sound waves wafting through the house to lull me to sleep. I’ll get the occasional hiccup from Bean, but it just doesn’t measure up to the chainsaw I sleep next to every night, or his offspring (chainsawlet?) that sleeps down the hall. (Ever heard a six-year-old snore? It’s ridiculously cute and strangely disturbing all at the same time.)

Hubs is gonna kill me when he finds out I called him and his nighttime noises out. (So it’s a good thing he doesn’t read my blog.) Side note: why are snorers as a whole also deniers? Just because you’re unconscious (ugh, I can never spell that word correctly on my first try) during said offense doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Embrace your nasal imperfections and rip-roar away.

Just a heads up , it’s getting late and I’m really tired (as in, loopy), but afraid of the dark, so I’m blogging (read: you should leave now before getting in too deep and wasting any more of your precious time). I’m at a dangerous cross-section between irrelevant and stoopid (that’s with two o‘s, and not with a u), so Buyer Beware, and all that jazz. (That is, in case you haven’t noticed, because I did just blog about sinuses.)

Okay, and to be fair (and, let’s face it, honest. After all, I do have my journalistic integrity to consider), Hubs only snores every now and then. And it’s really not all that disturbing. It’s not like an eight on the Richter scale or anything like that.

(I’m not entirely sure why I blog parenthetically. More so tonight than usual – think of it as my boy T.S. Eliot-style, via J. Alfred Prufrock. Minus the poetic genius and/or literary acclaim and/or occasional words that rhyme.)

Another side note (because this blog has such a clear and present direction), Leap Year is a mind-numbingly cute movie. Perfect for a girls’ night in. Although I think I enjoyed it more than Bean. (After all, she did fall asleep in the middle of it.)

So to recap: half my heart three hours away, sinus malfunctions, and a cute actor with an Irish accent (nice). Well, honey, if I keep at it long enough, we just might tip-toe the line into delirious, and I’ll start blogging about my feelings (gasp!). AND use no less than eighty-three parentheses! Are you getting excited? Are those heart palpitations I’m hearing? (I told you I’m loopy.)

All right, all right, I know enough to quit when I’m ahead of the game. Since you’ve stuck with me this far (you glutton for punishment, you!), I’ll let you off the hook, before this starts resembling one of my eighth grade Dear Diary entries. (Oh my gaw! I so wish my mom would let me shop at The Gap!) (Sorry, didn’t cut you off soon enough.)

On that note…Must. Stop. Blogging!

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