A Letter to My Son

My dearest Micah,

Six months ago today, I watched as you entered the world, a moment that changed my life. I will never forget it. You came out all purpled with the cord wrapped around your neck. My heart stopped beating until you let out the most remarkable wail for a thing so tiny. Dr. Pennebaker held you up so I could see. Your brows were furrowed, the corners lips turned down, your delicate eyelids closed. The light in the room hugged your tiny frame and beamed outward, a true reflection of all that I was feeling in that glorious moment. I never believed in “love at first sight” until I met you. And not only did I love you, for the first time in my life, I loved someone naturally, thoroughly more than I loved myself. I knew then I would do anything for you, and in six months that feeling has not faltered, only grown.

Everyone thinks their baby is the most beautiful, gifted baby in the world, but I know for a fact that you actually are. You were a lovely newborn, something very rare, but your beauty has only increased with each new day. Today, you have large, expressive eyes that fall somewhere between brown and gray, and they are framed by long, curling lashes. You have beautiful red hair that curls slightly at the tips when it is damp from sweat or your bath, a feature especially ordered by your Grandma. You have the sweetest heart-shaped little face, decorated with a cleft chin. You have Grandma’s elf ear, Daddy’s lips, Mommy’s forehead, and Grandpa Boyce’s stout physique. You are marvelously unique and beautiful, crafted by the Creator’s loving hand. You are as wonderful in character as you are in body. You are a sweet, easy going, contented baby, full of laughter and smiles for everyone whether young or old. You go along with whatever we throw at you—new people, bottles or breast, varying feeding times and bedtimes--whatever. We can take you anywhere, which is why we’ve taken you with us on two different vacations. You have captured everyone’s heart with your sweetness, which is a good thing because you love, love, love attention and cry when you don’t get it. One of my favorite things you do is that you wake up so happy from your naps. I won’t even know you’re awake until I hear your gentle coos from your crib. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. The only damper on your pleasant moods is your awful tummy aches. We have them mostly under control with medication, but you still have trouble from time to time.

In addition to being beautiful and darling, you are a quick learner. You were holding your head up a bit before we even came home from the hospital. You were rolling over both ways on your one month birthday. At three months, you were smiling, laughing, cooing, crowing, jumping (in your jumper), and standing with a little help. You were razzing, babbling, and creeping on your tummy at four months. At five months, you had mastered “da-da,” “ma-ma,” “dub-dub” and squealing, as well as sitting up without help, and copying some movement. You could also locate, pick up, and play with a toy. You can almost put your own pacifier in your mouth. Today, you are well on your way to crawling, as you can push up your chest and get up on your knees, albeit not at the same time (see video below and forgive Mommy for getting a little too excited about things). You have Grandma and Pops thinking you’ll be a genius, but don’t worry, there’s no pressure.



It’s true you have accomplished several physical feats, but you are also a well-traveled and experienced baby. You have been to or traveled through Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida. You have visited the mountains and the beach. You are a good traveler and you really like the sand and ocean! You’ve been swimming. I think you like it. You’ve seen three movies in the theater. You enjoy television, especially Baby Einstein DVDs. You like books, your cloth book in particular, which you can play with and attempt to eat. You’ve been to several of Mommy’s voice lessons, you enjoy playing the piano with mommy (see video below), and although you have heard everything from pop to country to classical to rock to hymns to rap, your favorite song is “Roll Over,” which indicates your flawless musical taste. Your food palate is slightly less extended than your musical one due to your mommy’s allergies. Thus far, you have only had breast milk, goat milk, pear juice, rice cereal and avocado (see video below). Your favorite is avocado, which your daddy is super excited about—he sees lots and lots of guacamole in his future. You’re on this kick where you like to touch, pet, scratch, and taste everything. You are fascinated by the textures of blue jeans, Mommy’s skin and Daddy’s hair.





Micah, you are the only person in the world that I am happy to see at any hour of the day or night. You are the only person in the world that incites me to cry with him when he has a tummy ache. You are the only person in the world that can make this feministic go-getter want to stay home with her child instead of pursuing a career. You are the only person in this world that makes being a stay-at-home mom feel like my real job. You’ve been doing all of this learning, but you’ve also been doing a lot of teaching. You have taught your mommy to slow down, enjoy the moment and not be anxious for things to come. You have taught your mommy to be patient, something no one has ever been able to teach her. You have taught your mommy how to love sacrificially, unconditionally and without bounds. You have given her a glimpse into the heart of our Heavenly Father, into His great, great love for His children. You have brought more joy, light and laughter into our home than I could have ever imagined, and no matter what I give of myself, it will never measure up to what you have given me. Thank you, little one, “for the gladness you have brought me as I have walked these heavy miles.” You have made life oh so sweet. I love you.

All of me,

Mommy


P.S. I have a few bits of advice to give you before I’m done.


1) Go ahead and mouth as much as you like. It’s a part of your learning process. Just please stay away from the books. You’ll want to read them someday, and never mind the bit I read you from Ezekial a few weeks ago. The only books that taste like honey are the ones God will hand you Himself.

2) Never equate your size with your ability.

3) Regardless of what other parents do, I’m not going to puff you up with nonsense about abilities you don’t actually have in the name of building your self-esteem. I probably won’t even let you win very often, specifically at Boggle. It will be all in the name of love. I can’t have you making a jackass of yourself on national television. You are a child of God, born with a unique set of gifts and purpose. Find your value in Him, and that will be enough.

4) Cling to your innocence. It is far too undervalued in our culture.

5) Strive for balance in all things. Avoid dogmatism at all cost.

6) Don’t be afraid of failure. It’s an everyday part of life. Without risk, there is no reward.

7) Find humor in everything, especially the crappy parts of life. It’s there; I promise, and it will lighten your load when times get tough.

8) Don’t be embarrassed by your last name. You come from good stock, and it will build character.

9) Adulthood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Enjoy your childhood.

10) Seek God first. Keep your heart pure and tender. Read your Bible every day. Pray about everything. In God alone will you find joy, peace, comfort and hope. Times are only getting harder from here, and you’re going to need Him. He is the only One who will never fail you.

The Happiest Six Months Ever

Micah will be six months tomorrow (August 19). I can't believe how the weeks have flown by. Here is a montage of the happiest six months of my life.

Dyspraxia

Those who have known me for a few years have keyed into this very important fact about me—I am a flippin’ klutz. I may not be the most accident prone person you have ever met, but I should rank in the top three. I have lost count of the concussions, x-rays, CAT scans, sprains, strains and plethora of other injuries to my person because there have been simply too many to remember. I was the girl who was in a walking cast for her first prom because she fell down a flight of stairs. I was also the girl who almost broke her wrist opening a door. Speaking of doors, have you ever opened a car door, and managed to clock yourself in the eye? I have. Twice.

As I’m in pain and unable to do much from my most recent graceless escapade, I decided that I should recount some of my most impressive ungainly feats.

I’ll start with my first concussion, which is only somewhat impressive as I was playing national league basketball with female giants from Dallas (they grow ‘em big out in Texas), who were supposedly in the 11-14 age bracket. The girl I was guarding shot, and I went in for the rebound before I remembered that my coach would chew me out for not blocking out. I backed up to block out, and somehow my feet ended up over my head. The next thing I knew, I had about five worried adults leaning over me, and the ambulance was on its way. But hey, I got the only standing ovation of my basketball career that night, even if it was as I was carried out by the paramedics.

Over the course of a few years, I banged my head on cabinets, refrigerators, car roofs, doorways, walls, and the ground without worrying too much because I learned from my first head injury that I have unnaturally strong bones. My neck and back would be sore for a few days, then I would be free to go about my business as usual. That was until the incident in the dressing room.

I was shopping for a swimsuit at the Pecanland Mall, and like every other body-conscious female, I was determined to find the most flattering one. I went all over the mall, so I don’t remember the exact store in which I executed the most monumental moment of klutziness of my life. I had what I believed was “THE ONE” in hand as I traipsed off to dressing room. I put it on, and found myself a little disappointed with the effect. I was impatiently taking off the bottom piece when I lost my balance, fell over to the side, banged my temple on the clothes hanger thingy, and lost consciousness for what I guess was a few seconds. I came to, head throbbing, dizzy and annoyed that the swimsuit responsible wasn’t even worth purchasing. Imagine my embarrassment when I had to explain what had happened to my mother, my doctor, my radiologist, my nurse and my friends when I missed the blasted pool party.

After marrying Brandon, my inner klutz went into hibernation for awhile. I thought I was safe, that maybe I had grown out of it. I was wrong. Dad had an operation awhile back at St. Francis Hospital, so Brandon and I went to visit him on a rainy day. Mom chose to walk out with us to the parking garage for some reason or other. Knowing that she liked the take the stairs when she could, I headed that way. I did not make even a full step before the condensation and the slick underside of my shoe did me in. My foot slipped out from under me, I flew halfway down the stairs, which would have been fun had I not landed on my (you guessed it) head. I managed not to succumb to the dark, painless bliss of unconsciousness, so I heard the shrill voice that shouted, “Oh my Gawd!” from several feet away. A nurse who was trying to head home couldn’t pass up the opportunity to care for one more patient. She called the EMTs despite my earnest pleas that I didn’t require medical assistance, that I have the hardest head in the universe and that I would be just fine. Anyone other than me would have sung her praises, given her a plaque, and offered to buy her dinner. I was just disgusted. And horribly embarrassed. No less than two EMTs greeted me with a wheelchair in which I was required to ride as I was wheeled back into the hospital, right into the ER. Naturally, the ER doctor stated his belief that I had a concussion, prescribed me some pain medication and recommended I take it easy for a few days. I didn’t tell him that I probably had pain medication left over from my last injury, and that I was well-aware of the recuperation procedures by now. When the hospital tried to bill me for this ER visit a few weeks later, I laughed, refused to pay it and hinted to hospital billing that they didn’t want to press the issue.

While I could recount several other injury stories, I choose to close with my most recent one. Monday evening, I had the task of folding two weeks worth of clean laundry. The towels and washcloths had formed a mountain in the laundry basket, and several strays has tumbled over the side. I bent to pick up what I had fallen to the floor. Believing that I was clear of the cabinet overhead, I stood with a good bit of force, and found myself right back down on the floor. I swore. I couldn’t help it. Pain and surprise do that to me. I stood up, dizzy and seeing black spots dancing in my line of vision. I went back to folding clothes. A few minutes later, I was horribly nauseous, and I had quite the knot forming on the crown of my head. Yesterday, I awoke with pain from the top of my head to my lower back. Today, I am barely moving. So I had to explain myself to my husband, my mother and the parents of the piano students I was supposed to teach today, who are probably all thinking as I am, “WHO gets whiplash from a CABINET??” As if my humiliation was incomplete, my husband’s response to whole ordeal was this little condescending stinger--"While we’re baby-proofing the house, I need to goofy-proof it too.”

Tummy Time Adventures

Friday before last, Micah began creeping. He did it again the next day. But the week after that, he pivoted a little on his tummy, and hasn't shown much more interest in mobility (which is kind of fine with me). It wasn't for a lack of trying though. After the doctor ordered us to give Micah more tummy time to help round out the flat spot on the back of his wee head, I put him on his tummy everyday as often as he would allow. I now invite you to witness our Friday adventure.

Here is Exhibit A. He had spat up on his other quilt, and this one was too thin to cushion his head by itself if he rolled over. I folded it, but then he couldn't find the traction he needed to actual move from point A to any point B.



Here is Exhibit B. Since he had so much trouble, I put him on the hard (but mostly clean) floor. I didn't anticipate his tummy sticking to the floor as it did. I suppose I kind of worked against him there. Daisy decided she wanted to play too. So, she offered her toy to Micah, expecting him to throw it.



Finally, Exhibit C. When he didn't throw her toy, she decided to get his attention first by barking. That didn't work. So she tried nuzzling him. That didn't work. So then she tried to get his attention as she would mine. I didn't like this too much. I liked it even less when Brandon told me that she apparently does this all the time.



All in all, Daisy and Micah have a pretty good relationship. I'll let them play more when I'm not so afraid she will hurt him by accident.

The Waiting Place

"The Waiting Place . . . for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting."

-Dr. Suess, Oh, The Places You'll Go

Like 80% or better of the world's population, I relate to several specific points in this passage. I wait for many things, but I do not presently feel any pressure to be impatient about most of what I wait for--a slightly larger house, a life-change for a family member, a successful career (whatever it may be). That could change tomorrow because I am human and by nature, not really very patient. However, there are two things I feel a bit antsy in my pantsies about--SLEEP and progress with my novel.

Sleep is of primary importance. After six months of not sleeping through even one entire night, I'm feeling a little worn down. I takes me at least five seconds to process and respond to simple questions such as "How old will your husband be this year?" and "What is your phone number?" and "What is your first name?" My feet are dragging, and I am late for everything regardless of when I get up. I just can't move with speed anymore. My lack of sleep has also made me delusional. Last Saturday, I was on my way to a birthday party in Ruston, when I decided I would find a shorter route to my destination by taking a road I had never even been on, much less driven. If I had been in my well-rested, right mind, I never would have attempted this because I have been known to get lost driving home. Anyway, I finally called for help when I realized I was over halfway to Homer, Louisiana. With the combined efforts of my husband, the On-Star emergency service (whom I accidentally called) and the On-Star navigation personnel, I found my way back to the interstate, and arrived an hour late for the birthday party. Lack of sleep is also making me mean. I'm really a kind, loving wife, but I've become snappy and short and a little bit contentious. Poor Brandon. Thankfully, my mom stayed last night to give me a reprieve from what I've begun referring to as "six-a-nights," which I imagine are almost as bad as "two-a-days" for football players. Micah wakes up to six times a night to have the pacifier put back in his mouth or to be comforted. The poor little guy is gassy and teething, and having a very hard time. I feel better today, and am looking forward to mom taking "six-a-night" duty next weekend, which leads to the next thing I'm waiting for.

I knew when I began writing my book a few weeks ago that it would be slow because I have a four-month-old son, but I wasn't yet anticipating the looming challenges of teething and general gassyness. As opposed to my baby two months ago, I now have a baby who needs lots of attention during the day and is too uncomfortable to sleep through the night. When I actually DO sit down to write, the creative part of my brain refuses to work. It just sits there, stagnant and pouting and feeling sorry for itself because it also has to get up six times a night and work hard throughout the day to come up with various ideas to get my son's mind off of his inflamed little gums. Moreover, my book is set in a real location that I will be visiting this weekend. I feel that I need to let this place speak to me, tell me its story before I can move on. I'm bringing reinforcements (Brandon and Grandma) to help with Micah so the place will have its chance to say all it needs to say. So this week, I'm in the Suessian Waiting Place with my novel, just waiting. And I am really hoping to get enough rest this week so the creative part of my brain will be alert enough to interpret all that it will hear this weekend. I'm not expecting the floodgates to magically open after this visit because when I leave, I will still have a beautiful baby boy who is my primary responsibility. However, I do believe that I will see the shape of the story I want to tell. Maybe with a little of this coming sleep I've been repeatedly promised by moms who have been doing this thing much longer than me, I will begin to witness that beautiful and illusive thing "they" call progress. In the meantime, I will enjoy the most beautiful thing in my life, the one I waited for almost five years.



Oh, the places you'll go, my little one. Just don't go there too fast.

The Deadly Attributes of Chow Mein Noodles

 

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Herman Saksono

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a fun, lighthearted account of my discovery of three grave plots available to me.  Though I've only used a little over 1/4 of my measuring cup of life, it was my plan to get right on the task of choosing one of those plots.  As I pointed out, "...to assume one as puny as I will live to be 100 is humorously presumptuous. I mean, it's quite possible that I will happen upon a doughnut-throwing contest, open-mouthed, and meet a glutenous doom well before my time."

Well, on Thursday night, I did almost meet a glutenous doom. But not via a tasty doughnut. Oh no. I nearly met my end by way of the rather bland, but potent chow mein noodle. Made of little more than fried wheat, chow mein noodles are basically small strands of death. They come in various guises, but in this instance, the little buggers were masked behind the friendly title of "chicken salad."

Allow me to set the stage. About three times a year, I am invited to a small, Union Parish Baptist church to sing at their monthly singing service. A potluck dinner inevitably follows. (It is a Baptist church, after all.)

I hesitantly began searching for something to eat that wouldn't do too much damage, and finally spotted something with a seeming bit of promise. I asked the lady standing behind it what it was. "Chicken salad." Now, the only thing I've ever had to watch out for in chicken salad is the occasional tree nut. I gave the stuff a quick glance, and decided it was harmless enough.

I sat down with my scoop of chicken salad and took a bite. My first thought was something along the lines of, "Bleh! This is the worst chicken salad I've ever tasted. Oh, well." I took a second bite, thinking, "This tastes so strange." The third bite was halfway to my mouth when an all too familiar sensation began in my lips and on my skin.

I excused myself to retrieve Benadryl from my diaper bag. I took two, then returned. I was feeling very annoyed at this point because I knew I would be ill for days over the worst chicken salad I had yet encountered. I sat back down. My grandmother and her friend looked at my skin and freaked out a little. I had a nice rash forming. I started digging through the chicken salad in an attempt to identify the culprit. Finally, I happened upon tiny noodles that had been chopped and softened by the juices in the salad. I was livid.

"Who puts noodles in chicken salad?" I whispered to my Nona.

She shook her head. "I don't know, but it's not even good." So it wasn't just me.

After a couple more minutes passed, I realized I wasn't feeling better but worse. Surprised, I left to take another Benadryl. I gave this capsule another few minutes, but my symptoms didn't improve. I told Nona that I was leaving, and she insisted upon driving me home.

We had not fully left the parking lot of the church when I felt my chest begin to get even tighter. I had never experienced such a thing after taking THREE Benadryl. I wasn't frightened, but I reached for my Epi pen, muttering to Nona about how this was going to be a long night. As most of you know, I have an acute fear of needles, so I had to count to three aloud before I was able to jab the thing into my thigh. But the point is that I did it. I called Brandon who was at home, and told him to get ready to leave, we had to go to the ER. He was annoyed, but not yet overly worried.

When I arrived home, I prepped a bottle for Micah, knowing he would be hungry and assuming I should not nurse. I also packed an overnight bag for him just in case he would have to stay with my mom. Brandon took Nona home and put Daisy in her pen. We were calm and methodical. Half an hour passed before we were on the road.

Brandon drove quickly with his hazard lights on while I fed my hungry boy. He took it like a champ. Five minutes from the hospital, we turned onto an entrance to the interstate when I felt tight in my chest again. But the entrance was closed.

I said to Brandon, "Don't freak out. I have to use the other one." Brandon said a few choice words, made an illegal U-turn, hopped the median, and sped across the Louisville bridge.

We arrived at the ER. I could barely stand, but the receptionist asked me to fill out an information sheet. I couldn't write, so I gave her my license and sat. They then took me to triage where they asked a series of questions which were rather annoying to a person struggling to breathe because she ate two bites of a bad chicken salad. Fortunately, the second Epi did the trick because it was another half hour before I saw the doctor.

The doctor entered the room at a lope. When he spoke, his voice reminded me of Kermit the Frog. I concluded he was having a nice night in the ER because he also possessed Kermit's "always look on the bright side of life" attitude. He asked me what happened. I told him. He said, "The second shot probably wasn't necessary. The tightening in your chest was probably from the first shot."

I wanted to say, "Look here, Kermy--I know what happened, I know what I felt, and I don't have a habit of stabbing myself for fun!" Instead, I said nothing.

He declared me free from swelling at that point, ordered yet a shot of Decadron (another shot!--yay....), and a pack of steroids to take at home. I was free to go.

Fortunately for me, the deadly attributes of chow mein noodles were overcome by the life-saving ones of the Epi pen. I could've been in trouble had I not had them. I may have even needed one of those grave plots, but I never thought about that in the middle of the crisis. I just did what had to be done, and I'm glad to know I can handle something like that.

I scared my poor husband, and I can't nurse until Wednesday evening, but everything is alright now. I'm still irritated, still unwell, but I'm fine. The moral of the story? Don't trust potluck chicken salad, and don't joke about glutenous dooms.

Grandmommy

Yesterday, after completing the fourth of nine interviews for my book, I was left with a feeling that I didn't know my dad's mother at all. I was an adult when she passed away, but I never really knew her. I knew she that she was intelligent, kind, talented and tough, but she was so much more. Though she came from meager means and horrid circumstances, she was nothing short of a genius and a miracle. She was more complex than any character I have read or could create in my wildest dreams. She was a study in contrast--traditional but revolutionary, humble but proud, quick-tempered but tender-hearted, poor but generous,spiritual yet potty-mouthed, cultured but trapped at the end of a gravel road in Pioneer, Louisiana. She was full of spirit, fight and passion until the day she passed into eternity.

I deeply regret that I did not know her in life. I have embarked upon an unexpected adventure, and one book just will not do. I would only be scratching the surface with one book. The world needs to meet this woman because she is an inspiration, a voice that reminds us that we were created to "be somebody." I am so thankful that the Chapmans have great memories. This is my opportunity to know her--through what they can recall. I am much less than halfway through my research, but I'm already proud to have her blood coursing through my veins.