Loving Hannah

Last night, I got an email from a good friend we knew in Boston (hi, Kathy F!). This dear, sweet woman and her husband were huge fans of our kids. So much so, that her husband (on his way to work) was one of the first people to come see me in the hospital after I delivered Hannah. I've never forgotten their many kindnesses, and getting back in touch with her took me back about seven years in time.

We moved to Boston in September of 2000. It was the peak of everything - economy, dot-coms, housing, jobs, technology - the world seemed so boundless then, didn't it? So full of promise?

Then about a year into our time there, on a crisp September morning, the world forever changed. I have written in the past about my experiences on that awful morning, which you can read again here.

Let's just say that September of 2001 rocked our family personally, as well. I had found out a few weeks prior to 9-11 that I was expecting another baby. I wish I could say that every part of me rejoiced at the opportunity to be a mother again, but I didn't. This was a major surprise. A surprise that neither one of us could find the energy to get excited about.

At the time, we were overwhelmed with the daily exhaustion that came with raising two wild and energetic boys. McKay was three, and Chase was not yet two. We felt insane with just the two kids we had. We were living in an apartment, and in light of the newly-shaken economy, had just downgraded to an even smaller apartment until we could be sure our job was viable long-term. And the thought of even one day with the boys and a newborn in a two-bedroom apartment did little to cheer me up. We just weren't ready for a third. The timing seemed all wrong.

We told no one about this pregnancy, and that included our extended family, parents, and friends. I felt that until I could be happy when I shared the news, it was better to keep it to myself. So we did what every American did in those months following 9-11. We watched the news for hours on end. We flew our flag. We drove to and from work. And we tried to remember to count our blessings.

Several months went by, and the news was no longer concealable, as my growing belly announced our situation for us. Thanksgiving came, and we drove down to spend it with Gabi and her family, figuring it was time to announce this baby to those we loved. Gabi's husband, Brad, was the first to greet us that weekend and said nothing - thinking I had simply gained some weight (thanks, Brad). Gabi could tell right away, and gave shrieks of excitement and joy. I tried hard to catch some of her enthusiasm, while feeling very guilty for not being more happy. A surprise visit from Opa that weekend, and the cat was definitely let out of the bag.

A few weeks after we got home, I had my first ultrasound. I remember laying on the paper-covered table, in the darkened room, waiting for it to begin. Laying there, staring up at the white ceiling tiles, I was not sure what to hope for. Another boy? Could we handle one more? And a girl? I don't know how to take care of a girl (forget the fact that I am one). As all these thoughts ran through my head, the cool shock of the jelly on my largely protruding stomach brought me back to the present.

And as the technician began to probe and measure, this little, flickering heartbeat caught my eye. I could make out tiny, perfect toes.

And fingers.

Arms and legs, and hands and feet, moving to a rhythm I already knew well.

And then something happened. A rush of emotion came over me and tears filled my eyes as I saw the first glimpses of this baby. Not just an inconvenient thing that seemed to have come so unexpectedly without our consent, but my baby. A sweet, little person that we would get to know soon.

"It's a girl," the technician told me with a smile.

A girl. We were having a girl. In an instant, I felt as though everything came into focus. As I lay there on the table, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of happiness. I knew then that it would be okay. It was going to be more than okay.

It was going to be fantastic.

And you know something? It has been. Every single day spent with this sweet angel in our family has been filled with bliss.

Silly, pink, fluffy, girly bliss.

And I wouldn't trade it for all the riches in the world.

I love you, baby.

God sure knows what he's doing with those big surprises.

Back from the dead with an introduction

Hi.

Remember me?

Well, I'm back from the dead and in tip-top shape, thanks to antibiotics, codeine cough syrup, and sleep. I appreciate all your many well-wishes while I was away. Unfortunately, you didn't listen to me when I said not to blog. I do not think my Bloglines will ever be caught up.

There was someone who forgot to send well-wishes and good thoughts my way, however. And that someone knows who he is.

My brother, Dan.

Have you not met Dan? Well, that's a shame. Let me introduce you.

Dan was born the third child in our family, right after me. Which makes him at least second best for sure. Unfortunately, he is now, and will always be, our mother's favorite. This is a fact that my elder brother and I cannot not possibly forgive him for.

Dan was always an annoyingly happy child. Very comfortable with whatever life threw at him. Even if it included the inability to tan or gain muscle:

He was a cheerful worker. Happily doing his chores with a stupid grin on his stupid face. It's no wonder that Mom liked him the best.

Oh, and you know the kid that could spend an hour eating an ice cream cone? Yeah, that was him. We'd all gobble ours up in about fourteen seconds flat. And then we'd have to sit there for another 40 minutes, greedily watching Dan, as he ever-so-delicately ate his ice cream.

One. lousy. miniature. bite. at. a. time.

You'd have tied him up in the basement, too. I know you would have.

His pre-teen years were the only years in which he rebelled. [And Dan, don't be pretending you didn't look at Jared H.'s girly magazines with the rest of your buddies. I know the truth. Perhaps that is the reason for your sour expression in this joyful family photo. Guilt, maybe?]

I sure hope so. Pervert.

(Notice my guilt-free, shining countenance.)

And in his free time growing up, Dan did a lot of this:

Sadly, he has still not outgrown it.

But, he was able to clean up his act in time to serve a mission for our church to Brazil. This was a great time of growth and learning for Daniel. I think he probably found teaching people equivalent (or above) his intellect to be quite a challenge.

Here is an example of an intellectually superior investigator:

Yes, Daniel converted many farm animals to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

And his growth and knowledge has certainly continued after his mission as well. He is now married (to a beautiful woman who is WAY too good for him) and has three adorable children (so cute, in fact, that we all think they're the mailman's).

He continues to strive daily for the spiritual enlightenment that comes from studying the scriptures. As you can see, Dan is always extremely diligent in this area:

In addition to his dedicated spirituality, Dan is actively involved in a rigid exercise program. Here, you see him leading his weekly men's group in Hula Dancing.

Or auditioning for the Village People. We're not sure which.

All in all, Dan is a very generous, wonderful, giving friend. He always has the nicest things to say to me, his favorite sister. Especially on my blog. I do so look forward to his thoughtful comments, for I know that each comment is crafted with love and care, and said in the hopes of raising my fragile, yet growing, self-esteem.

Smell ya later, loser.

death by sinus infection

i. am. sick.

cannot even use proper capitalization, for fear of clogged sinuses exploding.

must get well.

will try to be back tomorrow. have big post planned wherein mocking of brother will take center stage.

here's hoping.

don't do any good blogging without me.

A Top Ten List for the Husband

For many months now, I have been spouse-less during the week. The Husband has been on the road every week, racking up those frequent flier miles, and getting stranded at airports all across the country.

But come Monday morning this week, the strangest thing happened. I woke up and he was home. That six a.m. flight? Did not have him on it.

I almost didn't know what to do with myself. It was very confusing.

So, in case any of you ever find yourselves in this position, I thought I'd present you with my Top Ten List of Clues that Your Husband is at Home. Lest you get confused and call the police on the strange man eating out of your refrigerator in his sweatpants.

Number Ten:

You know your husband is home when quite suddenly, your car has to share the garage. And she's not very good at sharing. She likes to park right in the center where children cannot bang her doors on anything or get scratched.

Nine: The usually manageable loads of laundry look like this:

Eight: Your bathroom is filled with the musky scent of this (and hopefully not because you have been wearing it):

Seven: Suits needing dry cleaning will miraculously appear out of nowhere and clutter up your bedroom furniture. You will smile for a minute and wonder sarcastically just who will be taking that suit to the cleaners.

But only for a minute.

You know you'll make him do it.

Six: When the alarm goes off at this unholy time in the morning, there will actually be someone in your bed saying OUT LOUD in their grown-up, manly voice, "Time for us to get up."

That can be very unnerving, for usually the snooze button is hit several times before that happens.

Five: You will be eating this for dinner instead of feeding the kids macaroni and cheese, and munching on the Lucky Charms straight out of the box.

Four: Keys and wallets will be left out on counters and tables. They will not belong to you, and you are pretty certain they do not belong to your ten-year-old.

Three: The brownies you made in the morning will mysteriously have large chunks missing. The children WILL be innocent, of this you are sure.

Two: Sparklers, ice cream, and caramel topping will be combined with your pan of brownies to satisfy sweet tooths and pyromaniacal needs.

And the number one clue that your husband is home:

The covers neatly tucked into the foot of your bed will look like this in the morning. And you know with a certainty that you did not sleep on that side of the bed last night.

Still, it's nice to see this face once in a while in the mornings.

Even if he eats all the brownies and plays with fire in the kitchen.

A word of advice

Let's just say you are in your mudroom, putting in a new load of laundry. You have just finished working out, and are still wearing your exercise clothes. You notice they would fit nicely in the load you are putting in the washer. You then realize that you have nothing else to put on at the moment, but figure you can make a mad dash upstairs. After all, your daughter is in the basement happily singing along to Disney's latest brainwashing tool High School Musical, and your boys are at school. Plus, you were just about to jump in the shower anyway.

DO NOT, under any circumstances, listen to the voice in your head that tells you this is a good thing to do.

It's not.

For as your jiggly, white, naked body is sprinting up the stairs, the doorbell will ring. And you will notice the goofy smile of the UPS man, peeking through the glass on the side of your front door.

And he has just seen you in all your naked glory.

I mean this advice generally, of course. It's not as though anything like this has ever happened to me in real life.

Definitely not today.

And definitely not, say, about an hour ago.

Blaming Grandpa

This morning, at the unholy hour of five-thirty a.m., the phone next to my bed rings. It startles me from a deep and peaceful sleep. My heart jumps, knowing if the phone rings that early, the news can only be bad.

I stumble for the phone to see who is calling.

Without my contacts or glasses, I am essentially blind, and the most I can make out is our last name.

In a panic, I answer the phone, praying that the Husband (who is traveling as usual this week) is not in some dire situation requiring either bail money or an E.R. visit.

The squeaky, giggling voice of my oldest son says, "APRIL FOOL'S, MOM!"

Then I hear him fall down in a fit of hysterical laughter.

He had used my cell phone to call our house.

At five-freaking-thirty in the morning.

I lay my head back on the pillow, exasperated, and try to find a reason not to take him out of this world (after all, I did bring him into it, or so the saying goes). Unable to go back to sleep, and struggling for patience, I head downstairs and begin the breakfast preparations for my early risers.

It turns out that I was not the only victim of McKay's pranks. He had switched everyone's coats and backpacks around in the mudroom lockers. He filled a squirt bottle with water and secretly squirted his sister in the back of the head. He left crazy notes. He slipped contraband items into his brother's school backpack.

He was a troll. And all before the sun was even up.

Watching him run around pulling all these stunts, I realized something. He is a miniature version of his Grandpa.
My Dad is the king of April Fool's Day. All through my childhood, he was the master prankster. Every year, you never knew what to expect. He knew just how to catch you by surprise and do something you could not have imagined.

Like the time he nailed all my shoes to the floor.

Yes, to the carpet. In our house.

Or when he woke me up in the middle of the night and told me I had missed the bus and was late for school, but waited until I was showered and getting ready to mention his little joke.

And his pranks were not merely reserved for April Fool's Day. Ice cold water was routinely dumped over the top of the shower curtain. Waking up to colored milk was a disturbingly-common occurrence in my youth. And I will never forget the time my Mom put hair dye in my Dad's hair and shut off all the water in the house so he would be unable to wash it out.

Let's just say that I learned at a very early age to never be surprised at anything.

And so I will humor the little boy in this house. I will smile, and laugh, and tell him that he got me good. But he should know this:

REVENGE WILL BE MINE.

That five-thirty wake-up call will one day return to haunt him, probably about the time he turns 16, and longs to sleep until noon.

And if he gets mad?

Well, I'll just tell him to blame it all on Grandpa.