Bleary and Bright

There's nothing quite like that stingy-eyed weariness all parents of young children have on Christmas morning. Your eyes burn and water; your head feels strangely hollow - yet heavy; you seem to be both moving and hearing everything in slow-motion. At least it helps the crazy reactions your children have to some gifts seem like a funny dream, when in reality they might be a tad frightening.

See what I mean?

(Whose brilliant idea was that?)

If you are, perhaps, one of those super-human-mommy types that have all your wrapping (let alone your shopping) done the day after Thanksgiving, you will never know the joy of a slap-happy Christmas morning. (Actually I choose to believe you are a mythical creature anyway. It makes me feel better about my own last minute dashes to the store in search of. . . well, everything that needs to go under the tree.) I know the bleary-eyed feeling all too well - no matter how hard I try, we seem to end up going to bed right before the kids start stirring.

Our hair looks absurdly similar, I'm sure. HOWEVER, you will find no pictures of mine.

Likewise, if you aren't nodding off through the carnage of the Christmas Wrap you just expertly finished being shredded to bits you will in no way enjoy the late afternoon Christmas Nap the way you should. It happens right after the breakfast cleanup has been finished, you've bid all visiting family good-bye, and tucked the children in front of the television with game controllers in their sweet little hands. (Game timers don't exist on Christmas, at least not until you've racked up an hour or two of pillow time.)

If you ask yourself every other day of the year WHY Santa brings video games, all you'll have to do is remember the blissful Christmas afternoon nap and it will all become clear.

If you're lucky you'll have a perfect little baby to cuddle up with too.

Later you can answer the age-old question: Which is funnier, the cat hopped up on kitty-weed or the dog trying in vain to get the stuffed antlers off her head? Or maybe go for a Christmas-light drive. Whatever ends up happening, it will all seem like a blur after you finally have your own well-deserved visions of sugar plums dancing in your head.

Baby Silas

October nineteenth - one week and one day after the 'official' due date I never thought I'd make it to - started with a trip to the midwives' offices where I was informed that I was still in pretty much the same position as I had been for the last month. (Lovely) SO, after a little membrane separation fun I went home, stuck Nick in a stroller and went power-walking. . . for two hours. Then I did some serious vacuuming and mopping. Since I don't believe in mopping with an actual mop (seriously, what's the point of spreading the wealth of dirt around?), 'mopping' actually means scrubbing, rinsing , and buffing the floor on my hands and knees 'It's- a-hard-knock-life-Annie'-style. I even got the contractions going pretty strong, just like I had for the previous three or four weeks with every other attempt I'd made to get the baby moving. And I tried them all, by the way; running (stairs and the regular sort), 'curb-walking', jumping jacks, jumping on the trampoline, loading up on the hot sauce, foot massages, etc., etc., etc. The worst thing about trying to induce labor yourself is that you just end up temporarily more uncomfortable than you already were. Still, nothing much out of the ordinary was happening by the time the kids were out of school so I switched back into Mommy mode - homework, laundry and the like.


That night, and it was a dark and stormy night (really, it was), Max had his final flag football game. My contractions had started to be a little more consistent but they were only about ten minutes apart, so we went anyway- with the hospital bag in the trunk. By the time we got there the contractions were moving between ten minutes and six minutes, but we couldn't just leave! So we waited until the end, set the kids up with spaghetti (and my parents) and headed to the hospital. Apparently the shift in the weather sent so many girls into labor that there was literally no room in the inn. We sat in the waiting room with the family of some poor mother-to-be that had been at it since seven that morning and was 'taking a break'. They had pizza, donuts, and Chinese food. I was suddenly FAMISHED and ready to abandon ship for the nearest establishment offering Carne Asada Burritos, Chow Mien, or a Grilled Cheese Sandwich. Luckily for us all a room opened up before I could make a break for it.


An hour later the hospital was ready to send us packing anyway - I wasn't progressing at all. My midwife talked them into giving me another hour. SO we walked the halls feeling ridiculous (me, shivering in my drafty hospital gown). After passing another couple in the same situation Tyler decided all labor and delivery wards should come equipped with a treadmill room. Can you see it? A room full of women staggering along on treadmills, beyond the point of caring that their hospital gowns are flapping open, husbands wildly cheering them on (and trying to hold their gowns closed), nurses stationed in each corner wielding fire hoses for the inevitable moment when someones' water breaks. Brilliant. Tyler is a visionary.



ANYWAY, by the end of the hour I had completed several laps around the floor, an energetic aerobics routine, and three packets of Saltines. Oh, and progressed just a teeny tiny bit - but enough that we were given the green light to stay. That was at nine-thirty. The midwife broke my water, I took a self-hypnosis trip to my happy place and at eleven-oh-seven Silas Kingsley was born. He weighed eight pounds, two ounces (exactly the same as Max and Nick - Grey had an extra ounce on them) and is completely perfect other than the fact that he seems to have inherited my toes - rather like fingers, really. Poor tyke.



I will now toot my own horn. Ready? Isn't he beautiful?! I think so too.
I think we got the very best one.