Tuesday, September 28, 2010

pickles with my boy.

Sometimes I feel lame because I didn't can 90 pounds of peaches this year. I also didn't make a single batch of freezer jam. Oh, and I blew up my food dehydrator. Instead, I began to train for a triathlon, got really really sick, then started growing a wee tiny babe.

Fermenting pickles was the perfect project for this mama and her boy. Dumping ingredients into jar and placing them on the counter for two weeks and forgetting about them was perfect. He only pre-tasted a few of them and we are all fans of the end result.

Some years you can 90 pounds of peaches. This has not been one of those times for us. And that is okay. We still have our pickles.

Friday, September 24, 2010


Claire's backpack is a SkipHop one that I found on Amazon. I'm going to have to purchase a backpack for the Mister because Claire's hand-me-down purple and pink "Maui Miss" backpack just looks wrong on him. Funny, but wrong. And of course, he insists on a packpack because she has one.

We are slowly finding our rhythm. Mister Baby is less of a robot without his big sister to entertain him all morning. He mistook cream in my coffee for ice cream at drive thru this week and screamed at me for about 7 miles. In his defense, it was pretty cold of me to get a big iced coffee with cream and only offer him water.

Monday, September 20, 2010

on finding her.

This photo was taken on Everett's due date by my good friend Hollie. I have spent this third pregnancy searching for the girl in this photo. I think I might have found her.

When I was pregnant with Claire, I didn't think a lot about labor. I trusted my body would be able to do what it was designed to do. I read a Bradley book. I took the hospital class. I didn't have opinions about induction or pitocin or drugs. I was told after my c-section that maybe my pelvis was odd-shaped.

Then came Everett. I knew I had to try to labor. I realized all of these old scars that I didn't know were there. I read a ton. I found supportive midwives. I did things differently, and after a long and difficult labor, he emerged from my odd-shaped pelvis.

I have come to realize that if you haven't walked into a hospital thinking that you'd have one kind of birth and left having had a surgery, you can't really know why a person would need to try. Just trust me, that for some of us, the need is real. I haven't met anyone whose birth stories have been like mine. And unless your husband had to drive you to the hospital after you'd been at a 10 and pushing for hours, then you probably can't relate to why I know I need to be in a hospital this time around.

I wish I knew why people say such dumb things to women when they're pregnant. Why we relive our horror stories. I can't hear about your botched forceps delivery. I just can't. I'm sure it's a great story. When I am holding my baby in my arms, you can tell me whatever you want. You can tell me that VBACs are risky. You can. But today, I will smile and nod but I won't be listening.

Monday, September 13, 2010

there she goes.

People asked me if I thought I would cry when I took her to school for the first time today. I didn't. She didn't. Mister sobbed like a baby. He screamed her name as we exited the classroom. I don't have any photos of him. It was her day.

And she loved it.

I keep remembering the day we brought her home from the hospital. How I carted her everywhere in her little bucket carseat. I had no idea what I'd ever find to do with a baby all day long. In time, we found our rhythm. Now, our days are changing again. She has her own stories. I overheard her whispering to her brother over lunch, "Evie, did you know...SCHOOL IS AWESOME."

Sunday, September 12, 2010

2. special dinner & fashion show for first day of school.

We asked her what she wanted on the menu and she asked if we could have rainbow cereal. Vetoed.

We settled for pepperoni and olive pizza (her fave) and a frozen hot chocolate drink she's been requesting since June (spilled twice on the table).

Tomorrow morning, my girlie goes to preschool.

Tuesday, September 07, 2010

three little birds.

It always begins with a letter to Claire.

Dear Clairegirl,
First you asked me if we could have another baby. I suggested prayer. You wanted to pray specifically for a sister. I gently reminded you that I really wanted your brother to be a sister and that God had other ideas. I told you what I know to be true, He gives us what we need. Still you wanted to pray. So we did. We asked Him to bring us another baby in His timing. You piped in "Our baby should be a sister!" I didn't know at the time that a tiny one was already on the way.

I can't promise you a sister. And after having a very sick family for most of the summer, the timing of this feels crazy. But, Clairegirl, the timing of your birth was crazy too. The same God who knew that I needed my sweet little Mister knew that I needed you even before I did.

The wonderful thing about number three is the contentment in knowing that baby brother or baby sister, it truly doesn't matter. When a pregnant friend confessed that she was hoping for another girl and ended up with a boy, I could relate. I could also tell her with confidence that she is going to be crazy about her boy. That having a boy is magical. That it is one of the very best things I've ever done. Then she asked me if we'd have another baby and at the time I didn't know that it would be so soon, but I told her I felt sure that there would be one more. She said, "Then you can get your girl." She didn't understand that it didn't matter to me anymore. I hope someday that whoever this baby becomes, HE or SHE will be full of the sweetness I see in you.
It always ends with a picture of this guy:

Sweet boy,
You're going to be a terrific big brother. Just please wait to wrestle til the baby can escape your clutches.

Sunday, September 05, 2010

for everett, who today is two.

He is full of contradictions. He is easy. But he is easiest when his big sister is near. He will dive face first off of a climbing structure but wants me to hold his hand down the slide. He has almost no attention span, unless he's in the shop with Nate. He loves trucks and tractors and dirt.
Happy Birthday, Mister Baby. I couldn't love you more.