The End of an Era, and Other Observations

1. Wow, how things change.

We are winding up our third week of kindergarten. My house is cleaner than it has been in, oh, about 5 1/2 years. Garrett and Connor (Real names! Don't faint!) started year-round kindergarten this month and, I tell you what -- this regular schedule thing is A. kicking my butt, and B. fantastically awesome. We all go to bed earlier. I am home from taking the big boys to school by 8AM. My kids are happy, excited, engaged, and totally into the whole school experience. And I am extremely relieved -- especially for Garrett, whose complicated personality sometimes, well, complicates things. Life is good. I am, however, a little nostalgic for the time when I was pretty much the only influence on these little guys for 90% of the day. But not nostalgic enough to home school. There are not enough anti-anxiety medications in the world.

2. My baby is beautiful. And standing, whilst staring at her feet, willing them to move. Precocious mobility is not anywhere on my list of favorite things . . . but I think Elena (Another real name! Actually, we call her Laney Kate) will be my earliest walker. Curses. She also just cut four teeth at once, and her hair becomes more red every day. She is eating real food and crawling all over the place -- I no longer contain her, except to close the door to the basement.

Also, she's a shoplifter. But then, she learns from the best. Let me explain.

Last week, my friend and I took our little ones with us on a shopping trip to a semi-close outlet mall. After we left the first store, my friend pulled a pair of little boy size 6 month shorts out of my stroller. "Did you mean to get these?"

No. No, I did not. But apparently, Laney Kate did. So we took them back.

And then we went to Gap. I loaded up the top of my stroller with cute things for all of my kids. While checking out, Mason (yep, that one's real, too) was playing peek-a-boo with Laney by opening and closing the sunshade. I was halfway to Banana Republic before I noticed two cute little outfits still left on top of the sunshade that I had totally stolen.

So I went back and paid for those. She even let me use my 25% off coupon again.

3. That trip to the outlet mall was merely an excuse to drive past all the peach orchards on the way and load up on my most favorite food IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. I've said it before and I'll say it again: if I had been Eve, and the forbidden fruit had been peaches, the serpent would not have had to try very hard. As in, he wouldn't have even had to show up. Last night, I ate three. In one sitting. Of course, that's because I had just finished . . .

4. a three mile run. In the heat of the day. I'm a little crazy like that. And if it's hot and humid, it counts more. My husband is training for a triathlon (which I will NEVER do) and he was making me look bad. And I discovered that the park near my house has a greenway . . . cool, and shaded and breezy by the river. And on that greenway, half-buried in the vines, is an old abandoned wreck of a car. It's totally creepy. In a good way.

5. I have always loved "Masterpiece Mystery!" But this season has been uncommonly good. If you are so inclined, find yourself a way to watch this season's "Murder on the Orient Express." Poirot at his best. (In the interest of full disclosure, my husband hates these shows. Passionately. But that's okay. Because I also hate "Gearz".)

6. Maybe the summer heat (way more extreme than usual around here) is getting to my brain, but I have nada for blog fodder. So instead of writing crap, I have chosen (until now) to write nothing. And really, just between you and me, it seems that a lot of other people out there are not refraining even though their fodder wells have dried up, too. (No, not you! Ha, ha. Of course, not you! I mean those other people!) I have found myself commenting less and less, partly because I'm still doing the one-handed-typing-while-nursing thing, but partly because . . . I don't have much to say. Have I offended you? Please don't take offense. The muse will strike me again, and with it will (hopefully) come a desire to once again engage in widespread internet conversating. But for now, you're stuck with drivel to read from a blogger who mostly lurks. Signing off . . . for now.

And in case you're wondering . . . it's Emily.

Weekend Report

Well. I'm a little late posting, since I told you I'd be back Sunday night, but these pictures are worth waiting for, I promise.

We had a fabulous weekend of shopping and laughing and talking and eating. Gramma bought cute matching dresses for all of her granddaughters, so, of course, we had to take pictures. We like to call them The Blonde, The Brunette, and The Redhead:

Those are MommyJ's daughters Lucy and baby Ivy with a side of grinning Miscellany, my little gem. Aren't they cute?

CPod got Miscellany dressed for church. When we arrived (early, for once), I went to nurse her before the meeting started. I noticed she didn't have any little bloomers covering her bum. CPod claimed there were none with the dress. I knew this wasn't right, but just figured they got lost somewhere between the closet and the baby and I'd find them when we got home. And then I looked under the back of her dress. Which is exactly where I found the bloomers, still attached by little white plastic tags to the inside of her dress. CPod just looked at me. "I don't know how that stuff works!" he said. Which is exactly what I say to him when I remind him that our boys need some further aiming remediation when it comes to peeing in the toilet.

Here are all the women alive with whom I share a great deal of my genes -- Mom, daughters, granddaughters:

We had a little moment in the dressing room at one of the stores we visited on Friday -- we were all there, and I'm pretty certain my grandmother popped in for a minute or so, too. When I was growing up, I had no concept of the closeness and satisfaction possible in sister-and-mother relationships. If I'd known then how great it could be, I would have tried a lot harder to be likable!

I found THE jeans that were made for my posterior. As in, Calvin Klein snuck into my room in the middle of the night and measured my butt, then made me some jeans. They're fantastic. And they cost half as much as the jeans that do great things for MommyJ's bottom end. Neener, neener.

Some evidence that I'm Miscellany's mother (get a load of her legs -- the rolls abound):

All these pictures were taken in my house -- and that awful mess of stuff in the background? That is our Gallery Wall. My kids use the French doors off the dining room to display any and all art projects for posterity, and while it's not exactly going to sell my house to the first buyer who sees it (not that we're selling), they are so proud of the things they put up there that I'm not about to mess with it. Also, the chair I'm sitting in has started to remind me of a Vegas casino carpet.

And the dress:

And because you are a captive audience, and she is irresistible:

And because Little Miss Personality stole the show (and also has enormous feet!):

I am so getting my haircut on Thursday. Usually, I love my curly hair, but sometimes . . . sometimes, it's just a big unruly mess and I feel the need to tame it. And tame it I shall. Perhaps while I'm at it I should figure out how to de-shine my face. So, hair? Meh. Skin? Needs some work. Eyebrows? Definitely in need of some grooming. But that jacket? Love it. You should see the back.

That's all for now, dear readers. This is the closest thing to a scrapbook I will EVER have and sometimes it needs to have pictures -- so thanks for indulging me. I promise, no more baby pictures for at least two posts!

An Embarrassment of Riches. And An Embarrassment.

Late at night, when I check on my sleeping children, I always experience a little heart-squeeze. Do you know what I mean? I look at their sweet slumbering faces, completely relaxed, safe in the cocoon of home. I love those moments. And I must admit that, sadly, they don't happen too often when the yahoos are awake. Somehow, I think quiet is required for those tender moments and that is a true rarity in this house full of loud, raucous, rowdy boys.

Because these moments are so rare, I take note when they happen, and lately, I've been taking note more often than usual. I'll share some of them . . . but first, something to ground even the highest of fliers.

Ahem. I have a mouse in my car. Or, I did. Which, I guess, is better than the petrified dog poop found by a certain old friend of mine in the back of her car. But still. Last Saturday, we piled into the van to go out for breakfast. As I put on my makeup (which lives in the car, and no, I never put it on while driving, but the light in my driveway is great, and my kids, so far, patiently stay strapped in while I apply the little bit of cosmetics it takes to get me from "she's a man" to "she's not half-bad" . . . but I digress), I found myself in need of a tissue. Those are stored in the glove box. Oh, how I wish I had taken a picture of what I found when I opened it. All 50 million of those shop-lifted fast food restaurant napkins had been chewed and torn to bits, creating the happiest little rodent nest I have ever had the pleasure to encounter.

Last Saturday was CPod's first day off in weeks. He had plans. In that moment, they all changed. He cleaned that van so well you'd think he's trying to hide something from CSI. The good news is CPod saw Little Mousie in the garage, so at lease he's moved out of our vehicle. I'm not all that okay with vermin in my garage, but somehow, it's better than my van.

So, in the midst of all that car-cleaning, intermingled with General Conference sessions and other general Saturday tasks, CPod managed to take each of our big boys on an individual date: errand plus ice cream equals confidence boost and behavior upgrade. GDog's date involved the purchase of mouse traps at the Big Blue Home Improvement Store. During the course of his conversations with CPod, GDog realized that mouse traps do a bit more than just snap off little mousie tails -- and he was distraught.

So his solution was to warn off Mr. Mouse. "Mommy, I told him that he has two days to vacate the premises. After that, we'll have to put out the traps." He was serious. And somehow, it worked. Oh, I love that boy. Heart squeeze number one -- my tender-hearted, big-mouthed, bossy-just-like-me GDog.

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We took the boys to see How to Train Your Dragon (highly recommended by our entire family). The movie started at 4:20, so CPod met us there after his last patient. He was a few minutes late, and those first few minutes contain key plot elements and some serious excitement. He joined us in the dark theater, and the boys just jumped on him. They could not get the words out fast enough. Their sentences tumbled over one another as they raced to convey with abject adoration and uninhibited enthusiasm their total excitement about what they were seeing. They love their daddy. Heart squeeze number two.

 ConMan, GDog, MayDay -- and I can't even remember how he got that black eye!

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Last week, I spent a day at MommyJ's house. We cooked and boned four whole chickens! We filled her freezer with enough food for her husband to be able to take care of dinner for several weeks after her baby is born. Our kids played so well together, and if you know how much I love my sister, you know how happy this makes me.

We ate lunch outside on MommyJ's front porch. MayDay and Henry, who are just 6 months apart in age, shared a chair and some cantaloupe. My little MayDay looked over at his cousin and said, "Henwy, you're my favorite one to pway wiff." Heart squeeze number three -- my train-playing, thumb-sucking, baby boy MayDay.

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The other day, the boys clustered around the Lego bin. "Mommy", GDog said, "I need a human for my car. Will you help me find one?"

I'm a singer. And he said "Human". So I dug through the Legos and began to sing, "Are we human? Or are we dancer?" And ConMan totally picked it up. "My sign is vital, my hands are cold . . ." He kept going, so I turned on the CD: The Killers -- Live from Royal Albert Hall (also highly recommended), and ConMan sang his little heart out. Heart squeeze number four -- my Lego-building, Killers-singing, ladies-favorite, ConMan.

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And let's not forget Miscellany. She's growing so quickly . . . too quickly. She's beautiful. She recognizes her name. She reaches for me. She's so, so happy, and she smiles like a Muppet -- as though some puppet master opens her mouth as wide as it will go every time she grins at her brothers. GDog plays a little rough, and I spend a lot of time warning him off of the baby, but her reaction to him does not exactly reinforce my position. I have a little heart squeeze just about every time I pick her up and smell her lovely auburn head.

Oh, it's fun, isn't it? Even though it's peppered with moments like this one (look away if you're squeamish):

 The ones like this never fail to make up for the unpleasant patches:

I love watching my children . . . become.

Obsess, much?

My husband doesn't have a lot of free time. When he has some, he loves to hike and backpack and camp, with our family or with his buddies. He loves to travel, and to spend time at the lake water skiing when it's warm. There are plenty of things he enjoys. But when he only has a few minutes to spend at a time on diversions? He only has one hobby: Obsession.

He chooses a topic (usually, something he wants to buy), and then exhausts every resource he can get his hands on to educate himself about it, until he knows "enough" to make an informed purchase.

Examples? Sure. I've got plenty. Projector and 96" screen in the basement? That took three years. Jeep, and all the associated accessories? Two years. Vacuum cleaners? I'm still waiting for that one to resolve. His obsession with washing machines was accelerated by necessity, but no less intense than his serious interest in treadmills, lawn mowers, digital cameras, laptops, under-cabinet task lighting for our kitchen, garage floor sealants, minivans (also borne out of necessity), hardwood mulch, and reproductively-beneficial nutritional supplements (IVF, remember?).

He reads "Consumer Reports" more than his scriptures. (Kidding.) (Sort of.)

He does not have a monopoly on idiosyncratic behavior. I counted yesterday, after reading Steph's post, and I have 99 books (including library books) stacked up next to my bed. (I am completely willing to post that list on this blog if anyone is interested. Any takers? No? I didn't think so. But it is a REALLY interesting list.) They are not on a shelf (although, they are separated into fiction and non-fiction, then alphabetized), just stacked next to the wall. I gaze at them fondly with greater regularity than I would freely admit, because I. Love. Books. I cannot stop. My name is InkMom and I am a Biblioholic.

I also cannot sleep if my sheets are not tucked tightly at the bottom. (This caused problems early in our marriage. CPod -- all 6'5" of him -- adapted nicely.) In the shower, I always start with my hair and make my way down, and if I forget a step, it pains me if I don't have time to start over.

When I'm trying on clothes, the outfit never looks quite right until I've tilted my head to the right. (MommyJ shares this quirk. When we were growing up, the full-length mirror in our room cut off your head, and if you wanted to get an idea of the whole package, you had to tilt.)

My love for words is near-pathological. I collect them like trinkets and try them on for size often, until they become a permanent part of my repertoire. This has spawned a need to correct any and all improper usage I encounter in a way that is, I'm sure, terribly annoying to all who have experienced my supercilious oldest-child compulsion to make everything RIGHT.

Admittedly, I have let a lot of things go since having children: the towels don't have to be folded a certain way, though I'm happier if they are (after all, they must fit in the cabinet), and while my cleaning regimen might seem a little over-the-top to some (MommyJ), I'm much more flexible than I used to be, and it works for me.

I could go on. There is a certain member of my family who, for a period of time in his early childhood, would not wear pants that touched his legs. Thank goodness for the eighties God-sent trend of parachute pants. He also wouldn't wear socks with lumps, or shirts with tags, and the milk in his cereal bowl had to come to RIGHT HERE or he wouldn't eat it. We all have our little tics.

And that is why I am not surprised to already note idiosyncrasies in my children. ConMan's handwashing needs have become so intense that we have trained him add lotion to the regimen; otherwise, his little fair-and-delightsome hands become so dry it's painful -- but still not painful enough to curb his conviction that there are germs on his hands. (I think I blame this one on his germophobe preschool. Seriously.)

G-Dog, like his mama, can't sleep if his covers aren't tucked in tightly next to the wall. And, he, like his daddy, exhausts us with a machine-gunfire barrage of questions on topics ranging from the nature of God to what kind of sticks birds use to build nests to how kaleidoscopes work. (I know, Mom. I'm getting what I deserved, after famously asking questions like, "Do mosquitoes have blood?")

Last week, Miscellany visited our beloved pediatrician for her 4-month check-up. As Dr. H. examined Little Girl, MayDay kept scaling the exam table like a climbing wall. Once atop the table, he made his way across, behind the baby, towards the counter holding the baby scale, a sink, and a wall-mounted sharps container.

He was persistent, but so was I. Each time he climbed up, I put him back on the floor. Finally, as he climbed once again toward the scale, I took his little face in my hands and asked him, "MayDay, what are you trying to do?" He glanced significantly at the infant scale on the counter next to him. I followed his gaze and suddenly, clarifyingly, knew exactly what had fueled his compulsion.

I pushed the weights on the scale back over the zero-point, and my little, chip-off-the-old block control freak sighed, and said, "Oooohh, thank you, Mommy!"

Sadly, I completely understood. And I am now, more than ever, convinced that the reason more people haven't been officially diagnosed with one psychiatric disorder or another is, quite simply, because we haven't asked.

Stream of Consciousness

I'm breaking you back in slowly, my friends. It's been so long since I've posted anything on a regular basis that I've got to remind myself a little what this here blog thingy is all about. Without further ado, a list of random crap:

1. You should really be careful about how you pronounce the word "pianist." Do I need to explain why? Last Sunday, as our esteemed Stake President announced from the pulpit that a new person had been called as the stake Priesthood pianist, I had a premonition of what was about to happen as little ConMan turned to me and said, loudly, "Hey! That guy said (insert the word you're all hoping he didn't say)!" Well, at least now I know he was listening. Some of you early InkMom adopters will remember this is not the first time ConMan has spoken of verboten body parts during church. But really. pee-ann-ist. Three syllables. PLEASE!

2. I've been reveling in the soundtrack to Glee. I love it. My kids love it. I think I'm raising a bunch of musical theater nerds, and I'm totally okay with that. I turned it on this week and when the boys heard it for the first time, it's like their feet started dancing of their own accord. GDog's eyes got big, and ConMan made me play their version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" over and over again. But guess which one GDog decided to sing in public the other day? "I'll bust the windows out your car." Yeah.

They may be monsters, but at least they're cute . . .

. . . and creative with their vast powers of destruction. (Dresser drawers as beds? No, my children have not been watching Seinfeld, thank you very much.)

3. One thing I'm thankful for right now: hot water. I think God gave us natural hot springs so that we would be inspired to want to bathe warmly. I say a little prayer of thanks every single time I step under the scalding stream of my shower, and another one each time I slip into the relaxing, eucalyptus and peppemint scented waters of my tub. (Origins Peace of Mind Vapor Bath, in case you're wondering. It's awesome.)

4. Chocolate is NOT all created equal. Please don't hate me for hating Hershey's Kisses. Chocolate should not be grainy like that. Chocolate should be smooth and intense and complex. It should make you swoon. My preferred delivery methods form a triad: liquid, semi-solid, and encased in pastry. Caotina (imported hot chocolate mix from Switzerland, bought every Christmas and rationed through the cold months. We finally found an importer in the US so now the shipping doesn't cost more than the product.). Chocolate lava cake (if you're lucky, I'll share the recipe one of these days). Williams-Sonoma chocolate croissants (also, our Christmas indulgence). And I have had the hedonistic gall to experience all three this weekend. And a bubble bath. Hold on, I think I'm about to have a reality check headache.

5. While we're talking about food, I think the food guide pyramid needs some revamping. My four basic food groups: Fruit. Bread. Cheese. Chocolate. With periodic supplements of a bacon.

6. While we're talking about bacon, I will share with you my greatest culinary discovery of 2009: bacon baked in the oven. Here's how you do it: Line a big rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. Take care to make sure that the parchment paper goes up the sides a little bit of it's kind of pointless. Fill it with a single layer of bacon. It's okay if they overlap, because they shrink a lot when you cook 'em. Bake at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes, or until it's as crispy as you like it. It will all be uniformly cooked, and your cooktop will not have grease splatters and, voila! It will be done at the same time as your French toast. Which is what CPod made for breakfast yesterday. On our snow day. Which brings me to . . .

7. Generally, in this neck of the woods, you can hope for one good snow of 6 or 7 inches per winter. You can hope, but you probably won't get it. Our snowfall total so far this year? Nearly 2 feet. I'm serious. And I've discovered something about myself. When I'm an old woman, I will be A. living as a recluse back in the woods with no neighbors, or B. the one with a sign in the yard that says in very large letters, "DON'T PLAY IN MY SNOW." Because I have been totally bugged by the neighbor kids ruining the snow in our yard. I don't care if my kids mess it up, but for some reason, I don't want anyone else to do it. It's strange, because I don't care if the neighbor kids play on the grass. But the snow? It's all I can do to keep myself from yelling at them off the front porch. Luckily, CPod's been around all weekend to restrain me.

 

(This snow was so old and crusted over that when they were sledding, I was a little worried we might have an incident out of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.)

8. More on the snow. My lovely husband bought an old Jeep Cherokee early last year. He installed a lift kit and new shocks and some other stuff that caused him to put in long hours staring at the undercarriage. He loves that thing. I mean, there are more pictures of the Jeep on his phone than any of the people in his life. (Except for Miscellany. Because he is smitten.) But this fall, he had begun to question the utility of his project, and let me tell you, he is all about "utility". He's the one who told me that quilting was a great hobby because the finished product is so "useful". Well, we've got all kinds of utility going on now because in the snow, that Jeep is UNSTOPPABLE. And the crisis of finding a new project car has been averted. What a man I've got! Photographic evidence:

 

My baby-holding, vacuum-running, iPod-listening better half. No, that is not a new vacuum. Instead, we had to buy a new washer & dryer.

9. My baby is beautiful. And she sleeps -- get this -- 8 hours a night! At 3 months old! (Don't hate me. I already had twins who, for a very long while, did not sleep at the same time. Ever. I EARNED THIS ONE!) Do you need proof? Here you go:

 

Bliss.

  

(I just realized this looks like she's about to pick her cute little turned-up nose. It was bound to happen.)

Blessing day.

She laughs! She smiles! She's a person!

That's all I've got, folks. Bedtime calls, and so does the treadmill.

Miracles, Large and Small

In the spirit of the season, I've been counting my blessings. Admittedly, I have special reason to be thankful this year since we have welcomed little Miscellany, a particularly delightful addition to our family. (A note to some of you out there: Miscellany is not her real name, in case you were wondering. We use aliases around here, remember?) We are blessed to have her at all, and that, my friends, is a story of miracles.

I'm grateful that I wasn't born 100 years ago. 100 years ago, I would have never had children at all because in vitro fertilization was not even a germ of an idea in the mind of the most brilliant scientist. I would have been childless and sad.

One hundred years ago, if, by some miracle, I had conceived, I would probably have miscarried. Have any of you had a Rhogam shot? If you have, you've been blessed by a modern medical miracle, too, as you were prevented from having an immunological rejection of your fetus.

One hundred years ago, little Miscellany would not have survived her delivery. When my water was broken, the amniotic fluid rushed out of the sac and suddenly we all heard the scary sounds of a fetal heart deceleration. As her heart rate plummeted to the 50s, suddenly my hospital room filled with nurses. They all knew their jobs, and did what had to be done as my doctor attached a monitor to the baby's head, reinfused amniotic fluid into my uterus and then manipulated my numb body into multiple positions in an attempt to find a place that didn't stress the little one any further. My mom and my sister stood in the corner and sent up prayers on our behalf, and watched my doctor do the same as she donned her surgical scrubs. My husband held my hands and my eyes as he helped me grasp the oxygen mask covering my face. The anesthesiologist stood behind me ready to dose my epidural as another nurse shaved my abdomen in preparation for an emergency caesarean section.

And then . . . and then, I experienced a tender mercy: an overwhelming sense of calm, and a certain knowledge that all would be well. I knew the baby would be fine, regardless of her doorway. I breathed deeply, and I felt the baby settle. And then the fetal heart tones began to regulate, and steadily increased to a normal level. It was the scariest 15 minutes of my life. We delivered her, with great joy, the old fashioned way, and without further complication even though the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck.

I am grateful for the miracles discovered and applied and perfected in hospitals and laboratories all over the world every day. I am thankful to the practitioners, doctors and nurses alike, who know their stuff, and risk their lives, names and reputations every single time they engage in patient care.

I am grateful for the miracle of a kind, caring, and devoted husband. I'm not exactly sure where I'd be (probably institutionalized) if it weren't for the efforts of my dearest one. He is the greatest. What's that scripture? I cannot say the least part of what I feel. And I love him.

I am grateful for the miracle of the Magic Grandma. Every time my mom walks through my front door, she saves my life. Miscellany is three weeks old now, and for her first two weeks of life, my mom came over every day.. She walked into piles and piles of laundry, dishes gathered and untouched since she had last done them, an emotionally fragile and sleep-deprived mommy, and three very stir-crazy, energetic and rambunctious boys. She built forts, channeled energy, straightened messes, and soothed frayed nerves. And she did it with style, managing to juggle all of that plus running a business and a stake Relief Society program without missing a beat.

I am grateful for my dad. His quiet, selfless service and sensitivity to the Spirit are miracles unto themselves. Since the baby was born, he has several times just shown up to take my boys with him somewhere – anywhere. And the hour of quiet that entered the house as they left was golden and peaceful. He is also the one who, while my mom mitigates and tries to make my husband feel better by saying some little feature on Miscellany's face looks like Daddy, instead says, “Nah, this baby looks just like InkMom.” And I know he means it because when he looks at her, he looks like he is remembering.

I am grateful for the miracle of sisters who are best friends, and best friends who may as well be sisters. I have experienced an outpouring of love and support from friends whose lives are at least as busy as mine. They have cooked and cleaned for me. They have made me laugh. They have taken care of my children and increased their own burdens as they have lightened mine. One has taken beautiful pictures of my baby. (You must go see them. Here and here.) My dear Heather left her own five children with family and came to visit from Idaho with her husband. While he went to continuing education classes at a professional conference, she scrubbed my hardwood floor and played games with my crazy boys. She mopped pee off of the tile in the little boys' bathroom and changed poopy diapers. She sword-fought with them and let them creep down the stairs early in the morning to wake her up in the basement That is friendship!

I am grateful for the miracle of my three boys, who love their sister so much. I am surprised by this. MayDay has been the baby for three years, and I worried he would regard his sister with hostility. Instead, the first thing he did when we brought her home was get his beloved blanket and spread it lovingly over her little body. I expected G-Dog to maul her to death, but I did not expect him to say, every morning, “I think she's a little bit bigger today, Mommy.” He gives her so many hugs and kisses that I'm certain she'll grow tired of them before she's a few months old. When MayDay was born, ConMan just ignored him – as in, if I don't look at him, maybe he's not really here. He is not as effusive as his twin, but he is still enamored of his baby sister. He approaches shyly, and looks up at me with big blue eyes. “Mommy, she's so pretty!” And she is.

My life is blessed by miracles. Isn't yours?

Miscellany

1. I've been a little stingy with photos of pregnant me. So in case you needed evidence, here I am 10 days before delivery:

2. I also neglected to blog about Halloween. The moment has passed, but still. My children were ADORABLE. And it's my blog. So here you go:

GDog as Luigi, ConMan as Mario, and MayDay as Toad, all characters from Super Mario Bros. In case you've been living under a rock since the early eighties. We stopped at a video game store on Halloween, and the boys were already dressed for trick or treating. The overgrown children who run the store gave my kids some serious props for their costumes, and the boys really thought they were something.

3. Also, my husband is adorable. He's the greatest daddy in the world. Here's a good shot of all my boys, after we carved our pumpkin for FHE:

Now that we're home from the hospital, he's been carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, as he has taken up the slack when it comes to dishes and meal preparation and most major parenting duties for our three older children:

I swear to you this was spontaneous.

4. And now, introducing . . . Miscellany: 8 lb 1 oz, 20.5" long, born at 8:02PM on Thursday, November 5, 2009. She is our lovely girl child, all in her own category, the one item on the miscellaneous list. Here she is, in all her beauty, exactly 24 hours old:

In the delivery room:

And, oh, the hair! It's not red! No offense to my red-headed men, but honestly, it's about time some of my genes were expressed.

And another one, just because I can:

And another one, just because I love her:

I'll spare you the gory details of the delivery, except for these two choice tidbits: we were mere moments away from an emergency c-section when the crisis was averted (who needs wax? I heard the shaver and knew I was in trouble!); and when my doctor told me to push, it was merely a formality, because by the time the words were out of her mouth, Miscellany had pretty much arrived. My mom and MommyJ were there, and, of course, CPod, and we spent the better part of the day laughing. Good company and entertaining conversation will go a long way to ease the pains of labor, let me tell you.

Miraculously, Miscellany is still alive, in spite of her brothers' very heartfelt and loving attempts to "help" Mommy change her diaper, or nurse her, or clean her umbilical cord, or move the bassinet . . . you get the picture.

I just looked at my Google Reader and, heaven help me, it has 152 items. Maybe in my spare time . . . yeah. Love to you all, and know that even if my presence here in cyberland is scarce over the next couple of weeks, we're making it, we're healthy, and I'm probably lurking somewhere, unable to type one-handed, or too lazy to use the iPhone to comment. Later!