(*Exhale*) I am barely keeping up with my life. My living room floor is covered with dry pinto beans that Henry will not let me clean up because, “Mom! The animals need that bean field!” Okay. Fine. But bean fields have been known to disappear when little people sleep. Life is just so…incredible (?) right now; I can’t quite explain it. I think this little snap shot from our most recent grocery shop will provide sufficient illustration.

Visualize, if you will, the following scenario: Henry, Lily and I are at the very back of Tom Thumb, just there to pick up milk, when Henry announces that he has to go pee. Really bad. So we negotiate the snack food aisle as quickly as we can, the three of us and our awkward cart, en route to the restrooms, which are (conveniently) at the opposite end of the store. I hurry Henry into the bathroom, my hand on his wiggly back side, and direct him to the first stall, (which I cannot accompany him into because I have another child and a cart.) “Pull down your pants quick and go!” I urge from the hand-washing area. And then I wait.

And when I hear the words, “there’s puddles of peeps in my flip-flops,” rise up over the stall walls I know we were too slow in transit from the dairy section to the restrooms.

I blot him off with a wad of crumpled toilet paper, load him into the main basket of the cart, pay for my items, and leave. Aside the car, behind the privacy of the passenger door, I strip him to his birthday suit and buckle him into the booster seat. A gas station shares the parking lot with Tom Thumb, and I have earned the 10 cent fuel discount, so, feeling a little errand-ambition, I pull up to the pump and shake my head at the thought that 3.33 is a good deal for gas. I get the pump started and walk back to the car to find an empty back seat — Henry-less anyway. And I realize that somewhere on the premises there is a clothes-less child. My clothes-less child. Uh…

I look around. Can’t see him anywhere.

Start to panic.

Yell his name.

And finally, he emerges from behind a hedge of bushes which shielded him from my view, but revealed him to the passing traffic of the busy intersection. He comes running. Stark naked. And smiling. “I just needed to do some more peeps, mom. That’s all.”

Next thing you know I’ll be walking to the market in my housecoat and slippers to purchase large quantities of fried pork skins and Tab.

So, yeah. Life is crazy. And hard. And most of the time it’s not glossy-magazine-pretty. But by some mysterious means that I can’t make logic of, the chaos of these days engenders beautiful things — visceral loyalty to each other, a deep sense of belonging, framed finger paintings.

Henry pretty much summed it up tonight at dinner when he ended his prayer with a hearty declaration of gratitude, “And we’re thankful for all, all, ALL, ALL of our blessings.”

There are so many. I’m especially thankful for the ones I live with. Even the one who left an ever-widening “field” of dry beans on my living room floor for six hours.

*Post Script: I’m so disappointed that I don’t have anything to put on the silent auction block for NieNie day tomorrow — I just couldn’t manage to create anything that I thought anyone would actually bid on. I keep having to remind myself that this isn’t my season for elaborate crafts (my insides wilt a bit with the thought, but that time will come again before too long, I suppose.) In the mean time, I’d like to direct my little bit of blog traffic over to Design Mom to check out all the fabulous creations people are donating to the cause. It’s lovely and inspiring. Also, be sure and check here and here (and Kate’s blog if you can get to it I love that my cute, creative friends are on the long list of generous contributors. Happy bidding!

I’m not wearing mascara today. It’s an unusual thing for me, even on days with no plans I like to stroke the thick, dark paste through my blond lashes; makes me feel less dead. But not today. The likelihood of black, runny streaks is too great. Can’t stop the tears long enough to make it worth the hassle of application. The tears are for NieNie, her beloved Mr. Nielson and their four small children. If you haven’t heard about their tragic plane crash, you can read about it on her sister’s blog, which is being updated regularly (but I’m warning you now, keep a kleenex nearby.) Last night I was sobbing (that makes four post-partom cries, thus the post title,) to Nate about how “she’s such a beautiful person and she dedicated her soul to wifehood and motherhood. Her example inspired so many people; God just can’t take someone like her out of this world, it needs her goodness and light…” And Nate said, “well, if He does (take her) maybe we’ll all just have to add a little more goodness and beauty to the world with our own lives.”

I liked that thought. (And does it go without saying that I hope from my the top of my mushroom hair to the ends of my unpainted toenails that Stephanie and Christian pull through this and that their love and their lives will continue to inspire people the world over? I hope so.) But regardless of what happens to them, I am inspired to live better, brighter, more beautifully, maybe. I’ve been touched to see all the different ways people in the blogosphere are honoring the Nielson’s — my friend, Anne, graced her mantle with vases of gladiolas from Pike Street Market in Nie’s honor (loved that.) Sweet Georgia hiked the Y in her honor. (Wish I could do that.) Donate to NieNie buttons are popping up on the sidebars of many of the blogs I frequent. I’ve added my prayers, some really fervent supplications, to the thousands of others who are petitioning for blessings on their behalf. But yesterday I kept coming up against the feeling that I want to do more. My first inclinations were to make something beautiful, in Stephanie’s honor — something collaged or painted perhaps, because Steph seemed to be a gatherer of beauty and her life, (as I observed it distantly through her blog,) was so lovely. But when I really stopped to think about it, I realized that if Steph could rise up off that hospital bed, shed those bandages and resume her regular life, she probably wouldn’t run to the craft store (and I didn’t really want to either.) If she were made well tomorrow, I’ll bet she’d gather up those four beautiful children of hers, in that lovely home she and Mr. Nielson have made together, and she’d hold them close for a long, long time. So that’s what I did. Last night we ate a vegetarian dinner (also in Nie’s honor, though it wasn’t nearly so pretty as hers :), and then I gathered up my babies, one swaddled up in my left arm, the other sitting as close by my right side as I could possibly nestle him, and we sang songs on the couch. Lots of songs. We sang the silly one about Noah building an arky, arky with el-e-phants and kangaroosies-roosies three times. We sang ’til my mouth was dry and Henry’s eyelids were so droopy I thought it cruelty to keep him up any longer. I tucked him in to bed with a prayer and a kiss and then instead of popping my baby in the swing so I could wash the dinner dishes, I rocked her all the way into deep, still sleep. And when I was sure she was in undisturbable slumber, I rocked her some more. I cried the whole time. For Stephanie. And for me. The swelling gratitude just pushed the tears over the edge of my eyes. Still does.

I believe in miracles. I hope the Nielson’s road to wellness will be paved with miracles and that the goodness they have inspired in this world will be returned to them many fold.

*Couldn’t get my favorite picture of Christian and Stephanie to post here (grrrr!) but HERE’S A LINK if you want to see it (the second one down, of just the two of them.)

I’ve cried three times since giving birth to Lily — when my mother in law left, when my mother left, and on Sunday night. In my world, family departures always merit tears (lots of tears.) Sunday night was just a post-partom upheaval of emotions having to do with everything from my “mushroom haircut” and “front-butt” to being tired of being tired and housebound, to lamenting the cruel irony that just when Henry most needs a good, fun, patient mother, he gets an exhausted, short-tempered, distracted one. A good, wise friend told me that she never felt like a new baby was official ’til she’d had that first post-partom cry. Well, Sunday night left no questions as to Lily’s official-ness. I sat in my bed and wailed to Nate, whose final remarks in his consolation/encouragement pep-talk were, “And besides. I really like mushrooms.” (I think he’s funny.) I felt guilty the whole time I was crying, like the tears and murmuring were a glaring confession of ingratitude. But you know, even things that you pray for, and want, and would never change, are hard. And just because things are hard doesn’t mean they’re wrong. And the admission of things being hard is not necessarily a sign of ingratitude. Just honesty. So I feel okay about Sunday night’s hysterics (and they were — sniffling, snorting, snotting hysterics.) And I know things are going to get better, easier, more normal at least. A trip to my favorite grocery store and to Target yesterday helped with the cabin fever. The exhaustion will end. My hair will grow past my chin (quickly, I hope.) Exercise (when I can do it again) will help with the front butt (and the overall state of well-being. Nothing clears my head like a long, brisk walk.) Things will never go back to the way they were (my old life was one of the things I was crying for on Sunday,) but we’ll find our new normal and we’ll be cool with it.

‘Til then, though, I’ve been doing some purposeful exercises in beauty-finding. Henry calls them “Happy Thoughts” and we brainstorm up a whole heap of them at night before he goes to bed to stave off bad dreams. Here are a few I’ve been thinking about lately:

* My sister and our domestically-gifted friend, Sue, made a monogrammed “quillow” for Lily and it is so precious that I get a little melting sensation every time I use it or even see it. I really should take a picture of it, but this quiet time is fleeting and I’m lazy. (Thanks, Halley and Sue!)

* When my mother in law was here, she made the most divine Hawaiian Haystacks I have ever eaten. (Thanks, Cindy!) They absolutely hit the spot and I’ve been wanting them ever since. I finally made them last night and I saw to it that we had every yummy topping — chow mein noodles, pineapple, toasted nuts, green onions, tomatoes, coconut, chopped celery, cheese — and mmmm! They lived up to every single one of my little taste buds’ expectations; I love it when that happens (seldom does when I’m the one cooking.)

* I love the Olympics. Love snuggling up with my man to watch it on the couch while we wait for Lily to fall asleep after her late-evening feeding.

* Love to bury my nose in the wrinkly folds on Lily’s neck and just breathe. Sometimes it smells like Johnson & Johnson’s lavender chamomile baby wash. Sometimes it smells like slightly sour milk. Either way, I think she’s intoxicating.

* I also love it when she roots furiously at my arm, nose, neck, chin — whatever flesh she’s nearest to, looking so desperately for a place that might provide milk.

* Loved it when Henry came out of his room crying last night just a few minutes after we’d put him to bed, announcing through his crocodile tears that he’d had a bad dream. “But how did you have a bad dream if you weren’t even sleeping, Henry?” I asked.
“I don’t know, mom, I just did.”
“What was it about?”
“I don’t know that either, I just had one and it was bad.”
Hmmmm…I think, I know what we had on our hands was a tired little boy who’s still feeling quite confused and a little misplaced after the birth of his baby sister and needs all the love and positive reassurance we can give. So we snuggled. And listed happy thoughts, like fruit-loop necklaces and pajama parties, in his bed.

And today it rained, which is always a happy meteorological change for this home-sick north-westerner. And I was proud of myself when I turned the happy thought of playing in the rain into a happy (and wet) reality of running and twirling barefoot through the puddled streets — a euphoric Henry matching me step for step, catching heavy droplets in our mouths, the sky’s moisture soaking through every layer of our “play clothes.” My mushroom hair is still wet.

And I’m still happy

.

I used to have long hair.

Now I don’t.

Whew!

I’m tired.

My chest is still marvelously sore.

The hours between the night feedings feel like miniature time — so short!

And I might have a nervous breakdown when my mom and sister leave. Can anyone tell me how to keep Wednesday from coming? I’ll pay top dollar for the secret.

But I’m still in love with my Lily. And my Henry. And this crazy phase (though I am counting down ’til the time when we’ll all get to sleep through the night again.)

And what’s more (from the good news department) I have had a terrific recovery. I am so proud of my body for holding up under all the demands that have been placed upon it in the past few months — incubating new life, enduring and recovering from fairly invasive surgery, and now making lots of good fatty milk to sustain Lily. Thanks, body!

Also good: I’m shrinking and Lily’s growing. At the doctor this morning we discovered that she’s added an inch and a half and a pound and a half to her delicate little frame since birth. Those stats place her in the ninety fifth percentile for height and the seventy fifth for weight. No wonder she sleeps so much! Growing is hard work! Good job, Lil!

And good for Henry: we’re having movie/pajama parties every night — complete with Twizzlers (in all their varieties) and pop corn for all. He’s going to go through a painful artificial-sweetener-detox when Mimi and Halley leave.

In my desperate moments I channel Gloria Gaynor because even if we’re baggy-eyed and greasy-haired, with milk spots leaked in not-so-discreet places on our ill-fitting t-shirts …

we will survive!

Oh, and for breakfast every morning…I just want to eat her, starting with the little fatsy rolls on her arms. Oooosha!

Dear Henry,

A few days ago you and I made cupcakes. When it was time to eat them after dinner, you wanted to make a celebration out of it. You insisted on candles, singing, pictures — pretty much a birthday party is what you wanted. So, daddy and I decided to make it a celebration of being big — a big boy, a big brother, a big helper (with a lot of emphasis on the big brother part.) We couldn’t think of a BIG song, so we just sang happy birthday. That was just fine with you and you are now insisting that your birthday is in August. And that you are four. We’re not fighting that battle.
I just wanted to say, for the family record, that you are a fantastic big brother, Henry. I love the way you have so willingly opened your BIG heart and made room for Lily. You’ve had a lot of outings with friends lately and every time you leave the house, you say, “But wait! First, I need to kiss my baby sister.” When she’s sad you get her “pinky” (that’s what you call her pink binky.) When she’s stinky, you grab me a diaper. When she’s sleeping you like to go in my room and peer over the edge of her bassinet. And even though that drives me a little bit crazy (because I really don’t want you to wake her up,) I think it’s pretty sweet that you are so fascinated with her that just watching her sleep holds enough intreague to maintain your easily-diverted attention for a few minutes.

I know it’s hard sometimes, sharing attention, and time, and space with a new little person. Some things are hard to understand — like why when Lily cries, daddy and I give her what she needs, but when you cry (for no apparent reason or over silly, silly things,) we insist that you ask like a big boy and those kind of baby antics sometimes even land you in time out. I’m sure it’s hard for you to see Lily sleeping in our room when we are so insistent that you sleep in your big boy bed in your own room. I know it’s been hard to be housebound for the past few weeks; we were used to a pretty active lifestyle, you and I, before Lily joined us. And despite my best efforts to conjure up creative fun at home, boredom is an ever-threatning foe. We’ve had some trying parenting moments with you over the past two weeks. We’re still having them. I’m sure we will continue to have them for a decent period of time during this adjusting-to-being-a-sibling phase. And during many phases to come.

I just want to remind you that no matter how many siblings or what kinds of difficulties lie ahead, we will always love you, Henry — me, and Daddy…

and Lily.

Forever,

Mama

One in a Bouquet of Lilies from Nate

My once calm, predictable, structured, organized (sort of) life has imploded into a haphazard heap of breast pads, binkies, steri-strips, nipple creams, changing pads and hand sanitizer dispensers. The only thing holding anything together is my post-c-section abdominal girdle and even that is starting to lose its taut elasticity. But oh my, my, do I love this new life. It is absolutely illogical to love this sort of mayhem, but I do. Physically, I feel like the burdens have been heaped upon me in generous portions, but I suppose every new mother feels as much. Has anyone before me thought to compare herself to Job? 12 staples to hold my belly together. Intense incisional burning with every change of position. And did you know that they actually remove the uterus from your stomach and massage and clean it during a cesarean section? I discovered that gruesome reality when I inquired of my dear anaesthesiologist whether they were stitching me up at the end of my surgery. In response, she kindly whispered, “No. No, honey, your uterus is actually sitting on top of your abdomen right now…you wouldn’t want them to stitch you up without putting that back first.” Oh. Right.

Getting back to the physical burdens — for me, the most intense ones come with nursing. Suckling a child through nipples that feel like they’re being whittled with a pocket knife at each feeding has seriously tested my commitment to breast feeding. I think that ever-so-delicate bacteria/yeast balance was disturbed by the post-op IV antibiotics I received. I ended up with what I’m fairly certain was a yeast infection on both nipples. But we pressed on in grim determination, breast pump in hand, ointments aplenty, Curity Pads stashed in every shelf and corner. And after four days of exclusive pumping and religious hygiene/care, we are finally nursing in a manner I believe even La Leche League could smile upon.

Even in spite of all the nuisances and pain (some of which I have omitted here to protect the delicate sensibilities of whom ever might read this post partom diatribe) *and this is the illogical part* I am a little bit intoxicated with the magic of this time. I want to go back to beautiful Baylor hospital and start this whole process again. Tomorrow. I want to do this ten more times. And I am not “that girl,” (”that girl” being the one who bears a child biannually, who has been gestating or nursing for twelve years consecutively, and wants to hold everyone else’s infant when she doesn’t have one of her own. I’m not her.) But right now, the declaration I would wheeze from beneath the proverbial weight of the pain and emotion and delirium is:

“I want.

To do.

This again.”

How’s that for crazy?

I have seven hundred more things to write about. But they’ll have to come in gradual succession. There is so much about Lily and her birth and this transitional time of our lives that I want to chronicle, so I’m going to try to do it in short-ish installments. Stay tuned for the following:

* Three Days in the Hospital
* My Mother-in-law
* Henry: The Evolution from Only Child to Big Brother
* Lily: How do I love thee? And how did it happen so quickly?
* Ode to Nate: Man o’ the Year (are we sick of those yet?)

And in the mean time, what’s your best breast-feeding advice?

Lilian Jane

Born July 24, 2008

8 Pounds 6 Ounces — 21 Inches Long

Sometimes the “Dog Days” of summer aren’t so dogged.