New human=New normal

Someone asked me the other day if things are getting "back to normal yet?"  They were referring to our adjustment to being a family of 5 now, and they asked with the expectation that I say "yes."  As though it has been long enough (Lincoln is 2 months old, by the way) and I should have my household back in order by now.  I did that thing where I freeze momentarily, stuck between the thing I want to say and the thing I probably should say.  I probably should have said something generic like "we're working it out," or "it's certainly an adjustment."  What was rattling around in my brain was this:

I just brought a new human into the world! He wasn't here...now he is! There is an entirely new human being living in my house now and we're all trying to figure out how that's gonna change things around here.  I don't expect to EVER be "back to normal!"  That "normal" is gone and now we're having to find and create a new one.  That's gonna take some time!

New babies change everything! Your first one changes your perspectives on everything ever.  Every one after that changes the way that you do life as a family.  There's always so much empty talk about sibling regression once a new sibling arrives.  Those things are real, at least in my house.  Potty trained before the arrival of a new sibling=wetting the bed every night for weeks after his/her arrival.  Sleeping through the night for months before a new sibling=waking and screaming constantly after his/her arrival.  But these reactions are more than just things we complain about to our friends over coffee.  These "regressions" are how these poor kids are coping with the way their worlds have changed dramatically, literally over night.  We literally bring a new person into their homes who screams, demands our attention, gets away with everything they don't and whose very presence requires new expectations of them and new rules to follow.  New routines, new schedules, new, new, new, new, new! It's overwhelming for us as parents, as adults.  How and why do we expect anything more than what we get from our older children?  And why do we feel, as mothers, like we have to have everything together so soon after producing life?

No matter who you are, or how many times you've done it, bringing a new baby home is hard.  It's exhausting physically and emotionally--for everyone in the household.  And there is no statute of limitations on the adjustment period.  It's as long as it needs to be, and there's no speeding it up.

...I guess maybe that should be my response next time someone asks how we're doing...

Back in the Game!

...and she's back! My laptop met certain demise at the hands of my very ill husband (who shoved it off the bed onto our hardwood floors in his sick delirium) and I in no way had the will to publish from the public library...or any other public venue...so I wound up on an involuntary blogging hiatus.  Until now.  My beautiful, faithful (until dropped) MacBook Pro is finally home where she belongs, begging me to write.  So write I shall.  Or maybe its my whirling thought-life and inherent need to create that's doing the begging.  At any rate, I'm thankful that she's fixed and that I get to utilize my favorite outlet again.  Even if I'm the only one who ever reads this blog (as I'm certain anyone who read it before has long since given up on me), its worth it.

Life has been full in the months since I last was able to post.  In fact, it hardly seems to be the same life at all.  My husband has nearly stopped traveling altogether since he took a job as a worship pastor at a local church.  We also relocated to be closer to said church--and because we had a sudden desire to consume less and save more which made the decision to downsize our home and our lifetime's worth of stuff quite easy to make.  Oh, and we have since made, carried, delivered and brought home a whole other child!  You were spared the drama of "what's the gender?" and "holy cow, how far along are you, you are so huge!" this time around.  Suffice it to say that both were present.  Let it be no surprise that our third BOY was brought home six weeks ago and this mama is thrilled.  He's perfect.  Of course.  Even when he's screaming at 4:00am.  I suppose I owe him a blog post, as per his brothers' posts.  That shall follow.

I'm sure anecdotes from these past months will find their way to these pages, but for now, consider this the high-speed update.  Let's go from here, shall we?

What I was getting at

I discovered this gem floating around on Facebook. I'm so glad I did. This is what my "erica to Erica" blog was getting at, I just didn't know it yet. I suppose, without this beautifully written article, I would not have known it for another many years.

Please read, enjoy, and be encouraged.

To the Mother with Only One Child

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I had the immense privilege of being given the gift of wonder and imagination in my home as I grew up. I'm certain it's because of that freedom that my parents gifted my brothers and I that I revel in all things festive. Christmas is filed under magic, joy, giving, sparkle, music, tradition and abundance in my childhood memory-banks and as I'm getting older and now have the privilege of creating memories for my children, I'm unrelentingly thankful that I have those files to pull from.

Elias is two and his everyday life is full of discovery and wonder because of the very nature of a two-year-old soul. This makes for a very magical Christmas season as we're introducing him to new family traditions and festivities. He's learning bits and pieces of the original Christmas story as well, and happily chatters about the "Jesus house," (stable) he learned about in his storybook bible. Another thing that's warming my heart lately.

This is Maddox's first Christmas--special and celebratory in a whole other way. We're still 21 days away from Christmas morning (of course we're counting) and we've already had an incredibly special month.

Brotherly love by the choo-choo at Christmas Knoll Tree Farm

Hot cocoa!

Bundled up and ready to go!

The boys helping decorate the house.

erica to Erica

I ran into a friend of the "other" erica's yesterday. This is the only way I know how to categorize my life before motherhood. The "other" me. This is the only thing that seems appropriate because that girl and the one that types on this keyboard now are vastly different people who happen to share the same name and a similar (barely) shell. Sometimes it throws me when I'm comparing other erica to current Erica that other erica existed a short 30 months ago...oh how quickly life can alter a person!

Life, the maturation process that we each are embarked on, can make two people who have moved from parallel to perpendicular paths feel derailed and untethered when they suddenly intersect. That is how I felt when I ran into a friend of erica's yesterday. Actually, we kind of literally ran into one another when Elias ran into her shopping cart in the grocery store. There were the usual, "look how big your kids are now!" and "how are you doing?" and then there was this, "so...you stay home with them now." An observation, not a question. Suddenly I'm conscious of my dirty hair stuffed under a beanie and my splotchy face, sans makeup, and my 4-year-old sweater, and my jeans that are the wrong size now. Of course she knows I'm a stay-at-home mom now. There's no hiding it today.

"Yeah!" I said, way too brightly. I prattled on about the privilege of vocational motherhood and why I'm passionate about it, feeling the heat rise in my ears as I try desperately to control my 2-year-old by holding onto the hood of his sweatshirt. Finally, when Elias starts running tiny circles so the hood bunches in my grip and he goes careening into the paths of annoyed shoppers, she states graciously (and was that pity on her face?) that she'll "let me go," and we part ways.

Yuck! I wanted to yell after her that I'm a better person now, even if I do look like I just climbed out of a garbage disposal! I wanted to convince her that the cracker crumbs that never leave the bottom of my purse do not define my state of being. I desperately wanted to articulate to this girl that my world has been changed for the better because two of the most incredible little spirits on the planet were given to me for safekeeping for a while. I wanted her to envy me the way I envied her in that moment. That moment where she stood a single, working girl, in her super-cute platform shoes and perfectly flat-ironed hair. With her pink iPhone cover and her snot-free shirt.

After that wave of awkward, misplaced jealousy, I came to this conclusion: erica was her; Erica isn't erica anymore. Meaning, that while I do miss elements of life as erica, there is no going back. I would never want to go back. Aside from the obvious absence of my boys, I would never want to go back in time as earlier versions of myself in any form because that's not living. I have a new respect for aging as I have come to respect this newly new me, because I figure if I can feel this transformed in a matter of 30 months, then I'm gonna be a damn fine person in 30 years. Circumstance, Elias, Maddox, Logan, family, friends, tragedy, blessing, experience, the Creator and created will all see to that, right? I'm excited to keep discovering new Ericas.

...if only erica's friend knew what she's missing...

I pray that something (if not children) is transforming her into a better version of herself the way that my kids are perpetually transforming me. Maybe if I wasn't so hung up on how out of place our old relationship felt in my new life scenario I could have asked her about hers. Turns out Erica still has a lot of transforming to do.

And the Greatest of These is Love

I used to think of adoption strictly as a means to a family for infertile couples. When I was younger it would confuse me when I would find out about families with both biological and adopted children. How very narrow-minded of me. I view adoption now as a beautiful act of hope, faith and love. I would go so far as to say, that for me, I may even consider it a responsibility. I have been so blessed with so much, that I can't think of a reason why I shouldn't take an orphaned child into my home and heart. I can think of plenty of reasons why that could be hard. But none that negate the fact that world-wide there are millions of children that have been orphaned by death, drug-use, neglect, disaster, abuse...the list goes on...and they're living without anyone who loves them. I live in America (that alone means I have opportunity to offer), I have a house with four bedrooms, and most importantly I have love to give. Sure, adopting, especially out-of-country is expensive; so are cars, and houses, and weddings and big-screen TVs. None of those things are American taboo. Sure, orphaned children arrive with baggage; doesn't that mean they need our love even more? Where do "damaged" children belong, if not in a loving home?

Adopting a child is not in my near future. We still see more biological kids in our future and it's not lost on us that that is a gift of it's own. Right now I only know that my outlook on adoption is changing and evolving. I'm educating myself and I'm preparing my heart for when the right time to bring our next son or daughter home from war-torn Uganda, disaster-impacted Haiti, disease-ridden Rwanda, or the foster home around the corner comes around. If it were right for my family: if my kids were older, if we were more financially secure, if, if, if...I'd bring a child home tomorrow. I look forward to the day that I run out of excuses and my "ifs" turn to "whens" which turn to "nows."

Good Morning, Baltimore

I never thought I'd be a public nurser. Those moms who casually pull their shirts up in public and latch their squirming children to their chests nonchalantly, like it's as socially acceptable as holding their hand always left me turning away shocked, even after I had nursed my first child for a full year. No, I'm still not one of those moms. I draw the line at full exposure; but, life has forced me to tote my awkward and uncomfortable nursing wrap around with me wherever I go and feed poor baby Maddox wherever we happen to be when hunger strikes. My first little man, Elias had the luxury of a perfectly planned eating schedule that was carefully crafted to happen in the quiet of our home 90% of the time. As the second-born, Maddox does everything according to his family's schedule, and we are a family on the go.

I had a quasi-out-of-body experience when we were in Baltimore, MD last week, traveling with Logan. He was outside on the phone with our bank, dealing with a financial crisis (note: DO NOT use the photo deposit app for the iPhone through Chase Bank if you want to see your funds in the near future) which left me alone with our two children in an unfamiliar city--the youngest of which was screaming for food. I scooted up to the nearest friendly building, an enormous Barnes & Noble near the harbor. After finding no success in locating a ramp, I pulled Elias out of the stroller, threw it to the ground and lugged my children inside, out of the wind. I had half-hoped someone would steel it: Baltimore, while a fantastic city, is not stroller friendly...and umbrella strollers make me walk like a hunchback anyway (do they not make them for people over 5'5"?). Unfortunately, Logan witnessed my tantrum and rescued my abandoned stroller. Once inside I hauled the boys upstairs to the children's section, the one place I thought I might be safe from glaring onlookers, as Maddox was exercising his right to be heard. Hallelujah! A Thomas the Train set was set up in the cars and trains section: in my memory it was glowing in a heavenly light. Yes! Something to occupy Elias, and even a chair for me to sit in! I plopped down with some quick instructions about not running away to Elias and fed Maddox. Only five minutes into his meal, right as I began to think, "hey, I have this under control," Elias said "uh-oh." It's never good when Elias says "uh-oh." Uh-oh is "I dropped the whole roll of toilet paper in the toilet," or "I just poured your cup of milk into this drawer," or "I poked the baby's eye and now he's screaming in pain." That day, in that moment, it was "I just peed my pants and now there's a yellow river flowing beneath Thomas the Train's tracks right here in Barnes & Noble." This is where I seemed to step outside of myself and see myself sitting there, incapacitated by nursing while my oldest son tracked urine all over the children's section of a public bookstore that was all the way across the country from my home. And I laughed. I literally laughed out loud at the fact that there was a time before I had children, that I thought that parenting would be a breeze. How ironic that I remembered that in a lowest-of-low moment. My funds were frozen in some kind of internet black hole, my oldest son was scurrying around in sopping wet pants, my youngest had just screamed his lungs out to the entirety of downtown Baltimore and was now attached to my chest, rendering me helpless to fix any of the aforementioned issues.

The end of that story simply goes that Logan eventually came to rescue me and we worked out our financial issues before having to head back home, but that was not the end of my public nursing exploits. I would later find myself nursing at the table over lunch in a restaurant, in an exhibit at the National Aquarium, on airplanes, and next to a strange man who smelled like garlic in an over-crowded Chicago airport during a 3-hour flight delay. I imagine that won't be my last war story either.

Life is messy, isn't it? Life with kids is messy. Life on the road is messy...and beautiful. I'm so thankful that we get to travel with our kids. I'm so thankful that at the end of the day I laid next to my husband and partner in life and listened to our two beautiful children sleeping. I'm so thankful to have experiences and stories that make up who I am and who I am becoming. And I'm so thankful that I will never see any of those Baltimore Barnes & Noble patrons ever again!

Welcome to the World, Maddox Joseph

Maddox Joseph arrived February 10 at 10:14pm. Weighing in at 9 lbs, 1 oz and 21.5in long, he was nearly a duplicate of his big brother...except for his facial features, body build and all around personality. They aren't kidding when they say that your kids will be totally different. Somehow, we know even now, that our boys are polar opposites. How simple life would be if Maddox would just do everything the way that Elias did as an infant--then maybe we'd actually know what we're doing as parents. Evidently there's some kind of cosmic lesson we're all to learn from each of our children respectively, so they don't seem to do anything the same. Why would they ever want us to feel like accomplished parents rather than adults reduced to exhausted and floundering emotional wrecks (all right, I won't speak for Logan on that one--perhaps "emotional wreck" is only a label I've earned). At any rate, Maddox has arrived and he's beautiful, unique and flourishing. He's growing like a weed and we're getting to know him every day...and night...ALL night occasionally. :)

For those who are curious, Maddox means "leader of men," and Joseph was my paternal grandfather's name, who, unfortunately won't meet Maddox in this life. Sometimes, though, I think Maddox looks a bit like him. He was a sweet man, whom I wish I had had around a bit longer.

So, world, meet Maddox, the newest light of my life.

Goodbye & Hello, baby

It has happened--my due date is near. I don't know where all nine months of my pregnancy went, but suddenly I have a hospital bag (mostly packed) and an infant car seat (not installed but available) sitting on my landing. I'm due February 9, I'm refusing to carry that long, but with a husband out of town until January 31, I can only hope to be slightly early. I've politely told God and my unborn child that if his appearance could be February 2 that would be ideal for me.

In all the excitement and anticipation of having another baby everything has been a push to be "ready" for him: all necessary equipment purchased or borrowed, moving Elias out of his crib to make space for the next little one, finishing house projects, etcetera...and now with most of my "to do" list scratched off, I was hit with a deep form of panicked sadness. Suddenly the birth of another baby in my house, in my life, in my heart meant somehow that I get less of Elias. Perhaps that's not entirely true, but it's my feeling and my fear for now. Somehow, during the passing of these nine months my first baby has become a little boy. He's talking back to me and playing monster trucks. He's potty trained and sleeping in a big boy bed (ok, this is still a transition, but nevertheless...). He's testing boundaries and pushing his independence...and I'm praying that I didn't miss the transition to this place in my mad rush to be "ready." When he took my finger in his sweet little hand to walk downstairs to bed last night I felt irreparably torn: how do I share? I don't know how to share myself with another one who needs me just as much. I can't shake the feeling that sharing me with another child equals missing out on things with Elias. He's been my only focus and the reason I do everything I do every day for the last 21 months. The fear in this change has never been so palpable for me as it is now, in these final days of our one on one time. I'm desperately trying to absorb every moment we spend together these days, even when he has me exhausted and frustrated. I want to take mental pictures of who he is right now and hold onto him forever because I feel (perhaps illogically) as though I'm saying goodbye to him in welcoming his brother. I don't even have a nice wrap-up for these thoughts and fears because I'm still very much wrestling with them. So, this is me, signing off from my place of illogical fear and looming unpredictable change. Thanks for hearing my crazed mother's heart.

30-Pound Linebacker

Elias and I went to the library today for story time, a sweet 30 minutes of toddlers bouncing off of one another like particles in a microwave through stories and songs with hand motions. Elias always tries to climb into the story-teller's lap--he's always rejected. Too many kids, not enough laps. The "event" of this morning, however, did not happen during story time. It happened afterward in the activity room. The theme this month is "Things that Go"--an entire room full of cars, airplanes, helicopters, cars, and cars...it's my son's dream space.

A little necessary backstory: I worry about my son. I worry because in all his little classrooms: at church and at our mommy group, he's the biggest kid in his class, hands down. He is usually about four inches taller and packing a good amount more girth than every other child his age, so he seems to have acquired a bit of a giant's complex. He rules the room with an iron fist. He takes toys from smaller more unsuspecting children and they wisely don't fight back. Most stand in shock and move on after some consideration, only the brave (or excessively tir

ed) dare to cry in his wake. I've found myself sadistically hoping that he'd try something like that on an older, bigger kid so that maybe some kid justice could prevail and he'd be taught a lesson the natural way. I hope this because no amount of chastising from me has steeped his giant's complex. So, as terrible as it sounds, I've been lying in wait for the moment that a two

or three-year-old teaches my son what I have been unable to: bullying is not nice! I thought my moment had come today. I was wrong.

Elias was happily playing with some match-box cars on a table with a pretty elaborate road set up on it. He was, of course, playing with the red car because all red cars are Lightning McQueen from Pixar's Cars. He'd been successfully fending other kids off of the fake McQueen for over 20 minutes when a bigger, older kid approached to dethrone him. Big Older Kid had another thing coming. Big Older Kid snatched the car from Elias and turned to run only to be fully tackled from behind, arms wrapped around him in a vice, and taken to the ground like a trained linebacker. One Tarzan-like yell and my son took down a three-year-old little boy who was a whole head taller than him.

I fear that had I not wrenched him off of Big Older Kid, he may have stood on top of him beating his chest and declaring himself King of the Mountain...or the playroom. All hyperbole aside, mothers gasped and froze who witnessed my child attack and destroy the McQueen thief and I have no idea what I did or said to Elias, I only know that we left. Right then and there. We were out, fast as Lightning McQueen himself.

So now what? Kid justice failed and my son still thinks he runs the world. He seems only to know Elias justice, no matter what I do. On the way home I was suddenly reminded of the prayers I prayed over him when he was in the womb: for strength, and leadership, and fearlessness. Today, I can't for the life of me remember if I added any clauses in that included wisdom or compassion. Strike one, Mom.

Halfway home I turned around and my heavy-eyed little boy blew me a kiss and smiled impishly from his carseat. Another calculated move. Well executed, son. You still have my heart, even if you have gotten us banned from the library playroom.

Lost and not-yet Found

My son has hidden his tennis shoes. He's done a fine job of it too, because they have been unfindable for four days now. I'm a relatively intelligent adult and I have no idea where he's placed them. I'm beginning to understand that this may have been entirely intentional. I saw him go downstairs with them one day and come back up without them. I assumed that he'd "put them to bed" because this is what he does with most everything else. He hurls things like stuffed animals, race cars, sippy cups and all articles of clothing from his top drawer over the side of his crib, laying them to rest in heaps like a tiny junkyard--thereby "putting them to bed." His shoes never went to bed. They didn't go to the book bin, or the stuffed animal box, or his dresser, or my dresser, or the bathtub, or the dryer, or the creepy closet under my stairs that smells like a nursing home no matter what I do. I've exhausted all his hiding places and come to realize that he's evolving and adapting his schemes like the velociraptors from Jurassic Park. Every time I think I'm ahead, he one-ups me. Some days it's all I can do not to be eaten alive.

Joke's on you, Elias. Now you're stuck wearing Converse AllStars in the pouring down rain. Extra socks? Check.

FALLing in Love

I used to live for summer. I don't like to be cold but I do like to be outside, therefore summer equaled Erica's time of year. Not so anymore. I do adore summer time, but the older I get, the more I'm falling in love with fall. The colors in Oregon are splendid, and somehow they were lost on me until about 5 years ago. The air feels cleaner inthe fall too, crisp and fresh; it brings cider, pumpkins, hay rides, a fabulous excuse to appear in public in costume, sweet potato fries, rain boots, leaf jumping and a slew of other things that I will miss in another month or two. It's more fun now too, watching Elias discover what fall means. Fall, to Elias, now means petting zoos, picking up as many leaves from parking lots as he possibly can before we get indoors again because

maybe, just maybe, they'll be gone again when we come back out. It means going to a land of pumpkins where he gets to touch whatever he wants and even bring some pumpkins home! It means hay rides behind a tractor and it means Mommy is parking in the garage now (a whole new land to discover and explore). It means that funny looking kids show up at his door and we give away the treats that he's not allowed to eat and then these kids leave...they don't even stay to play. Having him around gives meaning

to the cliche that you learn as much from your kids as you

teach them.

Seeing him discover things makes my world new again and that's such a gift. I've always

thought of myself as a kid-at-heart, but he out-kids me every day (appropriately so, I guess) and it's refreshing.

The more often he makes me play in the dirt, take a

second look,

or run instead of walk, the better I am. Sure, life seems to speed up from the second you bring a baby home and start watching them grow...faster and faster...but maybe, if you let them, they can slow life down for you every once in a while too.

My Miracle

A woman in my life whom I truly admire recently wrote on her blog, Chasing My Miracle (thank you, Jen, from the bottom of my heart, for sharing) a little bit about her journey with her daughter. A medical journey that was longer and more severe than my Elias' but her words and memories she shared of places we frequented and feelings I felt then, in the middle of the journey, and now in the light of the reason I too, can call my Elias my miracle were stirring for me. She captured in words what I have been resting and rejoicing in during this very week. This week, as my son who was born without the ability to expel waste from his tiny body, who underwent surgeries and subsequent tests on his G.I. tract, kidneys, bladder, anus...the necessary list of medical violations and impositions goes on...this week, my son began potty training like a regular toddler. He's young and we're trying it out, not expecting success overnight, but he's physically able to do it. We were told he might not. That statement sums his journey up wonderfully. They said he might not, but he does.

As Jen relates in her blog, I so often forget about where we started because he's perfect now. I have the luxury of forgetting! I was so struck with her words because they have been my internal dialogue this past week, and every time Elias pees on the bathroom rug or points to his Pull-Up and says "Uh-oh!" after an accident I swallow tears of joy. Thank you, God, that we made it here. Thank you for my miracle.

TODAY

NICU: Doernbecher Children's Hospital, May 2009

Recovering from surgery

When are you due?

It has happened. It was inevitable. The first perfunctory gasp when I answered a stranger that yes, indeed, I'm not due to give birth until FEBRUARY. Thanks to my size, the way I carry, my husband's genetic predisposition to create sturdy, strapping boys that grow inside a (albeit long) petite and let's just say it: delicate frame, I will pocket nearly 100 more gasps or comments of the like over the next 19 weeks. The worst part is that they're warranted. I denied that fact the first time around, magically gazing into the mirror and simply seeing pregnant me, which was normal for me and nothing to do with some crazy pregnant-woman standard. This time, having come out the other side and looked back at pictures of what "pregnant me" actually looked like I can certainly see why that shape (reminiscent of a grape stacked on top of an orange, perched on two toothpicks) would incite rude gasps, chuckles and loud monosyllabic exclamations like "wow!", "whoa!", and "no!" That last one is one of my favorites. Really? You think I'd joke about this?

So it's begun. The season in which I try to be rubber while complete strangers throw sticks and stones at me that they haven't even realized are destructive weapons. The good news for both sides is that my skin is thicker this time around. I've emerged from denial and can almost laugh with them...at least for now. I'll check back in after 50 more shocked reactions, 15-20 more pounds of weight-gain, and 10-15 more weeks of unintentional verbal abuse. We'll see who's laughing then. Until then, when/if you see me refrain from using words like "enormous" (or any variation of it). Mostly because I'm not...yet...so you should save up or you'll run out of adjectives by the time January hits and it really is true.

The streak continues

After much anticipation and more social media hype than I intended, I downed my 24oz of water (a pregnant woman's nightmare) and waited for a nurse to call us back to our ultrasound. "Interested in gender?" asked the tech, "ABSOLUTELY!" I blurted. "Do you have a preference?" she inquired. Logan explained about his overpowering Martin-ability to produce males. 3 nano-seconds later she laughed, I saw the definitive between-the-legs shot, and she said, "looks like the streak continues...it's a boy! DEFINITELY a boy. And he's not shy!" It's true, our second son bounced around spread-eagle for quite some time as if to say, "Read me loud and clear, mom, I'm NOT a girl!" I think he was mocking me. I love him already. I loved him before then, but there's something about seeing your child squirm around on an ultrasound picture that gives him a new sense of reality and permanency that can carry a mom through the last 20ish weeks until they meet face-to-face. I have a friend, whom I adore, who is walking an adoption road right now (thank you, Becca, for your insight, your honesty, and your perspective), an alternate and equally poignant journey to motherhood. I think of her now and I believe that getting a referral and seeing a picture of your child would have a similar effect. It's just knowing more about the little one that you've already given your heart to that propels you through the rest of your wait until you can hold them in your arms.

Something strange happened to me while I lie on the ultrasound table, trying to forget about my throbbing bladder: my ache for a little girl in my life was obliterated at the sight of my youngest son. Perhaps, down the road it will return, as Logan and I discuss the direction of our family, but for now, in my here-and-now, this little boy is exactly what was intended for our family. It was always him, and he's supposed to be a him. Elias is supposed to grow up with a brother. I'm supposed to be a mom of boys (maybe always, maybe for now). It was strange to realize that he's what I wanted all along, even 3 weeks ago when I was praying in Fred Meyer over the baby girl clothes that God would give me someone to put them on.

We called family to let them know we were tossing another little boy into the Martin pool and we were met with this odd, apologetic tone a lot of the time. This wracks me with guilt, so let me be clear RIGHT NOW: there is not a shred of my being that was let down when that tech giggled and I saw my baby boy. Not even a little. If God ever gives us a baby girl I will be THRILLED. If God gives us more little boys to love I will be THRILLED. In equal measure. I don't know how to explain that but it's the honest truth.

Oh, and p.s. Wal Mart lady, you were wrong.

Gender Games

Two weeks from tomorrow (Sept. 20) we go for an ultrasound--THE ultrasound. The check on all the vital organs, see how he/she is growing, find out the gender ultrasound. You should know, before I go any further that having girls in this family is unheard of. Period. I have brothers, my husband has brothers, his dad has brothers, his brothers all have had multiple boys...there is NO estrogen. So, naturally, this ultrasound is highly anticipated.

"What do you want?" is one of those questions that owners of pregnant bellies hear equally as often as "How far along are you?" and it's generally the predecessor to "What are you having?" The "good mom" answer is "It doesn't matter as long as it's healthy." [Aside: I have come to despise this answer. What does that mean? That if it's not healthy you'll be dissatisfied? You'll return it like an ugly vase you got as a wedding present but never registered for? NO! You love an "unhealthy" baby the way any parent loves their child...maybe in an even more painful, transcendent way than you love a "healthy" baby! I wish P.C. women everywhere would find a new catch-phase.] Some version of that answer is what I give strangers. What I would tell you if we were friends is that we want a girl SO bad! Now, there's some honesty in the "..as long as it's healthy" answer--sort of. We know boys. We love boys. We can do boys. We would be THRILLED with another boy; however, the novelty and enigmatic qualities that seem to surround this unknown creature called "female" in the Martin family is undeniably irresistible. She's like the forbidden fruit of baby making--we just want a taste of what it's like!

Yesterday in WalMart, in an M. Night Shyamalanesque scene, a strange woman with frizzy hair and dark circles under her eyes looked my belly over and stated flatly, "So, you're having a girl next." I subconsciously stepped back and stammered "I don't know, maybe. We haven't found out yet." She just nodded, as if someone had told her something they hadn't let me in on yet. Maybe she's psychic, maybe she's gifted, maybe she's just a little nutty, but in some strange way I took it as confirmation...for the moment anyway. We'll see what the ultrasound technician finds. Frankly, I'll be shocked if they say it's a girl. I'll demand black & white proof of a tiny between-the-legs shot if they say it's a girl. In the mean time, I'm left having twisted dreams about the WalMart lady and my so-called baby girl. And I fully expect to hear, "It's a boy!" on September 20. Here's to waiting!

Battle wounds of boyhood

It's happened. The first big bump. Playing chase with Mommy in the living room and somehow instead of crawling behind him into the open room, he leapt to his right straight into the corner of the wall, taking the corner of the baseboards under his eye and the corner of the wall on the forehead. Ouch. Nothing a little ice and permission to play with Mommy's cell phone didn't fix, though. Probably more traumatic for Mom than for Elias. The battle wounds begin.

The NICU and beyond...

He's finally here! It's been a while and most of you know, our little Elias Reid was born right on his due date on May 24 after precisely 24 hours of labor (it seems he was content to ride along with Mommy for a while longer...I disagreed). Yes, his coming was an incredibly joyous thing, and yes, there were complications. Sparing pages of details, he had some problems with his G.I. system that required immediate surgery. Surgery that the local hospital I gave birth in was not equipped to do. So, after an hour-long ride in an ambulance, Elias and I arrived at Doernbecher Children's Hospital in Portland, OR with Daddy following with all our things that I don't even remember throwing into the van.

Elias went straight into surgery and frankly the surgeons were not optimistic about the severity of his issues. We were given two potential prognoses: either the problem will be in his upper bowel (98% likely and causing a need for a colostomy bag and several subsequent surgeries throughout Eli's life) or lower down, closer to the anus (an easier surgery that would require no additional treatment, but a rare problem that they simply never see without an additional upper bowel problem. A 2% chance that this would be all).

We signed a release form for the latter: upper bowel surgery and placement of a colostomy bag.

We walked (well, Logan walked. I hadn't recovered enough from labor/delivery to be so lucky, so I was wheeled) with Elias to what the surgical staff refer to as "the kissing corner," where they told me to say goodbye to my son, not 36 hours after I had first said hello to him.

"Goodbye?" It was at this point that my world fell apart and there was nothing left to do but cry for our son and pray desperate prayers that I never thought would have to come out of my mouth.

Until the surgical team emerged from the O.R. to say that Eli was a member of that 2% of babies who would need only this surgery. The problem, it turned out, was much less complicated than they had originally thought. They literally crossed out the surgery we had signed for on the release form and had us re-sign. 30 minutes later, we were saying "hello" again.

I guess I tell this story for the sake of what Logan and I know God has done for our son. Because we have a God who can do wonders with 2% chances and because I would be cheating the miracle to claim it was anything but that: a miracle; a resounding "yes, granted" to some new parents' prayers. I do

n't think of it lightly because there is no part of me that forgets that some parents get a "no, not this time" answer to the same types of prayers. I don't pretend to understand why that is, nor am I so arrogant as to question something so much bigger than myself--I only say "thank you."

We're not out of the woods yet. And I say "yet" very intentionally. Elias and his mom and dad are still forced to make very good friends with doctors in a couple of cities now, but he's on the up-swing. We're all learning and adapting--there's just a little more of a learning curve for us than with usual new parents. That aside, we are in awe of the new little life in our home and the joy that he brings us every day.

The following are a few pictures from his time in recovery in the NICU and since being home. Oh, how good it feels to have him home!

To those of you who have helped us walk this journey, we can never thank you enough. You can never know how helpful it is to have dinner appear at your door when you've been so overwhelmed you haven't even realized that the day has come and gone already without a thought to food. You'll never know how thankful we are that we've yet to have to buy diapers, that our fridge was never empty de

spite our inability to go grocery shopping, and we have nev

er been in doubt that Eli is lifted up in prayer every single day. Thank you that we have never felt alone on this very bumpy road.

Now, take a look at our beautiful boy!