Thoughts On My Third Baby: A Stream of Consciousness Post

If you follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram (which you should), you know that this week, WE HAD A BABY.

Here are some sleep-deprived, Percocet-laced, stream of consciousness thoughts on my first days with my third child.

1.

Henry shares a birthday with Dr. Suess and Daniel Craig.   My favorite baby-related Facebook comment this week was, "May he count Dr Seuss' wit and Daniel Craig's abs among his many blessings!"   And all God's people said "Amen."

2.

 Before I had a baby, I thought that all newborns looked the same.  I still think this, and I've had three babies.  Henry does not look like me or Dan.  He looks like Madeline did when she was a baby, which is to say he is tiny with enormous eyes that he hasn't yet figured out how to open all the way, and, because his skin is still a little big, he looks like he could be cast in Grumpy Old Men.

I mean this in the highest, most loving, glowing way.  I cannot stop kissing his rumply little forehead because it is the most beautiful rumply forehead in the world.  In fact, I'm leaving you for a minute to go kiss his forehead and cheeks and nose and eyelids and lips and chin and forehead again.  Be right back.

3.

Okay, moving on.  Henry makes newborn noises, which is one of the most charming things about babies.  He sounds like a little truffle pig snuffling around, and he looks like a new baby bird when he opens his mouth and cranes his teeny neck for food.  It is why I called Madeline "Little Bird" for the first year of her life.  The cuteness turns me inside out and causes me to make involuntary squealy noises.

4.

When you have small children at home, the hospital is a like 5-star resort.  There are people who cook for me, do my dishes, change my linens, and clean my room for me.  I have a call button (which I imagine is like a dingly silver bell), and when I ring it nurses bring me glasses of fresh ice water and medicine.  People keep asking me if I'm anxious to go home, and I cannot understand why anyone would want to leave this place.

5.

After spending 48 hours changing itty bitty diapers on an itty bitty 6.5 lb bum, I came home.  I scooped up my big kids and one of my very first thoughts was how huge Sam's butt is, by comparison.  He has the butt of a child.  A big, boy-butt compared to the itty bitty bum of my itty bitty baby.

6.

I tried to keep myself very well groomed over the last couple of weeks "in case I went to the hospital."  I've learned that I cannot control the swelling, the sweating, the tears, or the tired eyes - but I CAN control whether or not my legs are shaved and that I am wearing mascara that isn't from yesterday (or last week).  This month my skin was moisturized and my teeth flossed with unparalleled diligence...until the day I went into labor.  As Murphy's law would dictate, none of the controllable things were under control when I went to the hospital, but my feet were freshly pedicured, so I feel this allows me slack in many other areas of hygiene.  (I also remembered to put on deodorant.)

7.

I was there, too.  I know all of the pictures so far are just of Henry, but I promise, I was there.

8.

It takes a village to raise a child; it also takes a village to care for a mother who's just birthed a child.  In this era, when so many of our communities and friendships have moved online, I'm thankful for the outpouring of kindness from my local friends.  We are a tribe, and my tribe has cared for me.  My friend, Cody, brought blueberry scones to the hospital on Sunday morning, and my friends Jacy and Dana sent homemade sea-salted caramels.  Kim watched my big kids and cleaned out my fridge; Sandra did all my laundry and dishes.  My friend Sara brought cookies packed in an old spinach tub, "so there were no calories in them."   It takes a village.

I can't make sense of my village.  I'm still so new - only 7 months in this city, which has been just enough time for a handful of coffee dates, and somehow I have this tribe.  They make me want to expend myself for them in return; I want to turn myself inside out to help them and love them and be a friend to them with my hands and feet - with my kitchen and my car and my prayers.

9.

Henry is pure.  He is brand new; his skin had never touched anything before this week.  He is pure and new and innocent and utterly helpless and dependent on me.  A surprising thing happened to me in the hospital: as I snuggled his new skin against my warm, old, mom-skin, I started to get angry; I got angry at anyone who has ever abandoned or neglected a baby.  I felt ire rising up in my chest as I thought about how anyone could allow harm to befall something so innocent and new and pure.  My mama-bear fierceness for Henry blossomed into fullness as I held him on my chest.  The urge to protect and defend him is as strong as anything I've ever felt.  I know that I would hurl myself in front of a train or a bear or a gunman without blinking for this baby.

I might have expected to be overwhelmed by God's grace, mercy, love, kindness, or joy upon the birth of my son, but instead, I was moved by His justice.  I am so glad that God is just;  I'm glad that God hates injustice.  I'm glad that no sin goes unpaid for, because I could never be okay with a God who would let someone off the hook for harming a baby.  I'm glad that God commands us to care for widows and orphans, and I pray for more people to understand that God means this literally, and that He's serious about it.   I'm glad that God is a father to the fatherless and a defender of the weak.  The mama-bear in me, holding this brand new tiny human on my chest, is overwhelmingly comforted to know that God is just.

And those are all of my thoughts today.  Excuse me while I go snuggle my perfect baby.

Scones

I met Dan for coffee this morning at the Starbucks in our Kroger, and the following conversation took place.

Me:  I ordered a coffee - and a scone.

Dan:  Why did you get a scone?

Me:  Because I was hungry.

Dan:  Why didn't you just go get something from Kroger?

Me:  Because Kroger doesn't have blueberry scones.

Dan:  Are you sure?

Me:  No.

(Dan leaves to get himself food from Kroger.  Upon his return...)

Dan:  I don't mean this to be obnoxious, but my bagel, doughnut, AND coffee all cost the same amount of money as your scone.

Me:  I bet your bagel, doughnut, AND COFFEE put together don't taste nearly as good as my scone.

Dan: Nothing tastes as good as being frugal feels.

Me:  Scones do.

This conversation is brought to you by pregnancy.  And marriage.  And love.   In reverse order.

A Grain of Truth

Sometimes I find a grain of truth hiding in the most ridiculous places.  I don't mean unexpected, I mean truly ridiculous. Like when I'm talking about my husband's personality vs. my personality, I always quote Stanley Hudson from The Office.

(source)

If you've watched The Office for any length of time you probably remember the Stanley/Michael fight.  There is a line hidden in that dialogue that is an absolute gem.  Stanley, in expressing his utter frustration with Michael, says,

"Everything you do, I would do it a different way."

We are introvert/extrovert, details/dreams, overly-structured/what is structure?   No matter that 0ur end goals are shared, when it comes to methodology, yes.  Exactly, Stanley.

The other grain of truth I think of often - more and more often these days - is from the movie Armageddon.  You remember, the apocalyptic action movie from the 90's?   (I told you it was ridiculous.)

There is a scene where Owen Wilson (who plays a dingbat named Oscar) is getting strapped into the NASA space shuttle and is rambling to his friend (young Ben Affleck) about how he feels:

Ben Affleck:  "How you doin', Oscar?"

Owen Wilson: “Great.  I got that 'excited/scared' feeling.  Like 98% excited, 2% scared. Or maybe it’s more – it could be 2 – it could be 98% scared, 2% excited but that’s what makes it so intense."

This is the perfect commentary on dreaming big dreams.

It is the exact emotion that surges to the top when we take risks: when we stick our necks out for a project, try new things, and undertake tasks that we know are impossible in our own strength.

This is how I feel most days, like an oil driller strapped into a rocket.  Excited, scared, out of my league, but along for the ride.

(source)

In what unusual places have you found grains of truth that you keep coming back to?

Our Baby Has A First Name...

Ever since we decided on a name for our second son, I've had the Oscar Mayer bologna song stuck in my head. Because I am THAT COOL.

Whenever I tell someone his name, I bite my tongue in order to keep from singing the letters to them.  It's quite  troublesome, and not just because that song is annoying, but because our son's name is so classic and noble and sweet.

This little boy, to be born any day, is named Henry Christian Conner.

Oh, I love him so much.  Little Henry.

Dan and I had a TERRIBLE time coming up with a boy-name.  I suggested about 20, all of which Dan reacted to viscerally.  Facial expressions as if I'd stuck a rancid, moldy sock under his nose.  This was not without precedent, and is, in fact, how we named all of our children:  I suggested names, Dan said "no," 6 months later Dan came around on one of the names I liked, et voila!  Madeline and Sam.

But our method wasn't working this time.  Dan was not coming around.  And so, it was Dan who eventually suggested Henry.  That's why I love it so much, because my husband named this son; it's the most beautiful thing in the world to me.

I think Hank Aaron was what did it for Dan.

We'd tossed 'Henry' around frivolously in conversation, then one day, Dan marched into the room and announced, "WE COULD NAME HIM HENRY AARON - AND CALL HIM HANK," as if he'd just been struck by a bolt of lightening.

It was a Eureka! moment.  And in that moment, Dan claimed this little man-child for the world of sports, and there was no turning back.  He is looking forward to the day he can sit in the stands and yell things at "Hank."

His mother will cheer for "Henry."

When we told Madeline that her little brother was named "Henry Christian Conner," she dropped her jaw in disbelief:

"Another Conner????"

Yes, darling, that's how this sibling thing works. ( Though to be fair, that's exactly how we felt for the first few months of his life.)  Madeline has called him HenryChristianConner (no spaces) ever since.  One day she will sit in the stands cheering for HenryChristianConner.

So it's official, and I can't stop singing it:  "Our baby has a first name; it's H-E-N-R-Y!"

And I can't wait to get my hands on him. I can not wait to whisper his own name into his tiny ear:

"Hi, Henry."

I can't wait to press my nose right up against his teeny nose and whisper,

"It's nice to meet you, Henry.  I've loved so much for so long already, Henry.  You are my tiniest boy, and I am your Mom, Henry.  Little boys love their mommas; they need their mommas, and I am so happy that I got to be your momma, Henry."

 I am so, so glad.

Back to Work: On Living Dreams

It is a bit ironic that I'm writing a post called "Back To Work" two weeks before I'm due to have a baby - which means I could go into labor, like, any second.  Nevertheless, here are my unfiltered thoughts on the momentous "going back to work." For me, going BACK to work is really more like going TO work, since I was a part of the workforce for such a short time before I had Madeline.  I always thought I'd go back eventually; I never thought it would look like this.

Before I signed a contract with my agent, I wrote a chapter of my book to submit to him as a writing sample, which would eventually become a part of my book proposal.  My husband, proud and thrilled and supportive, watched the kids all day.  I drove to Panera and stayed from 10:00 am to 9:00 pm, until the chapter was done.

2 days later I pulled an all-nighter to edit it.

I did the exact same thing the following week.  On Dan's off-day I drove to a coffee shop and stayed until a second chapter was finished.  When I got home, the kids were fed, bathed, and in bed - the dishes were running and the cat litter and trash were taken out.  Another editing all-nighter followed.

I pulled a third all-nighter in a two-week time frame to write out my proposal.   I flew my BFF down to shoot a 2-minute book trailer/author introduction.  In less than 2 months I hammered out a proposal, a video, and three chapters and sent them all to my agent.

Then I died.

As you might imagine, that schedule in the life of a stay-at-home mom of 2 very young children isn't sustainable.  It was kids all day, writing all night.  I used Hermione's time-turner for youth ministry, blogging, and cleaning.

That works for about a week before you're legally insane from the lack of sleep - a ticking time bomb.  At the end of those two months I wasn't sure if I was more likely to kill someone or just collapse onto the floor and cry.

Instead, I went back to work.

Now, less than a year later, a grad student comes to my house two days a week to watch Sam and pick Madeline up from school.  On those days, I write.

Going back to work doesn't look anything like I thought it would.  I thought it would be very glamorous and author-ly: sitting in coffee shops writing things.  I thought - since I was able to hammer out those first chapters so quickly under such pressure - that surely the rest of the books would be as easy!  I thought that two days a week would be a luxurious amount of time; one day for writing the books, the other for emails, blogging, goal-setting, networking, growing my platform - basically, a business party with my laptop.

HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Instead it looks like burning an entire writing day on 600 words because I just can't get them to do what I want them to.  It looks like weeks of blog-silence because, after a day of wrestling with words and the Ironman Triathlon that is "bedtime," who has time for blogging?  It looks like spending every post-bedtime-minute freezing meals, writing baby shower thank-yous, packing hospital bags, and washing baby clothes.

And eating - a lot.

But here is the point of this post.

I got to stay at home full-time with my babies for 5.5 years, and I still could, if I chose to.  Instead, I am going back to work.  I am going back to work writing.

The blessing is not lost on me.

There are a thousand English majors out there who are dreaming of becoming writers, and people keep telling them they better get their masters in teaching, or journalism, or some other such thing because they can't make any sort of living as a writer.

But here I sit, with a college degree I'm not using (at least not in the most traditional sense), married with 3 beautiful children, and I get to go back to work writing.

The blessing is not lost on me.

I am living the dream.

The dream is a lot of freaking work - and tears, and guilt in parenting and marriage, and late nights, and stress, and fear, but that's only because LIFE is a lot of work and tears and strain and guilt and stress and fear.  Everyone is living with those things, but I get to live it doing what I love: raising my babies and writing.

The love is what keeps me inspired, keeps me trudging (those words, for me, are interchangeable) - because I know that this thing I'm doing is what I have been gifted to do.  It is what I've been given the opportunity - against all odds - to do.  I remain in a state of stunned gratitude.

Stunned.  Grateful.