the winter of our discount tent . . . my own Shakespearean tragedy in six acts

We used to have this little, gray two-and-a-half person tent. We might still have it. Somewhere. The point is, we used to sleep in it. No, the point is, we used to lie down in it and wish we could sleep. The other point is, it reminded me of the following:

To pee or not to pee
That is the question. Many, many moons ago I tagged along on an overnight retreat to this island in the middle of the lake, armed with nothing but a few coolers, fewer tents, and a fishing boat. I knew what the sleeping arrangements were, but it never occurred to me to ask what the facilities arrangements were. Turns out, the facilities arrangements were not. We were completely sans potty, not even a respectable wooden outhouse. So, "to pee or not to pee?" The answer is no. Not to pee. Not once. I managed to "hold it" for 36 hours. Yes, I did. Might be my greatest accomplishment to date.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks
I needed sleep. I was 7 months pregnant with my firstborn and this was critical stretch-mark timing. I did not want to be tossing and turning and straining . . . and stretch-marking. We camped on the beach with our sweet friends, Shawn and Pam on our way to The End of the Road in Homer, Alaska. Pam and I got the tent. I don't know where the boys slept, but, in retrospect, I suspect they shared a king-sized air mattress under the stars, while Pam and I were left to sleep on rocks. Not sand. Not dirt. Rocks. And while there were no resulting stretch marks, the pitting from 7 hours on the rocks lasted a good week. I'm just sayin'.

To sleep, perchance to dream
Two years after "tent on the rocks", I spent a couple of weeks at summer camp as the activities director. Kacey was two and tagged along easily, as 50% of this camp was comprised of teenage girls who refused to let her walk. One night, at 7, Kacey fell sound asleep during the hour-long devotional time. When we got to the tent around 9, mommy was sleepy, as I had been awake since 4:30 a.m., but Kacey was WIDE awake. Anyway, being the good mommy that I am, I couldn't just go to sleep until she did. So I rocked her and scratched her little back and sang her songs. Lots of songs. Repetitive songs. Annoying songs. Old MacDonald's Farm turned into a zoo, Found a Peanut took me from "It was rotten" all the way to playing a harp in hell, dear Liza nagged on and on about The Hole in her Bucket, and The Wheels on the Bus went round and round and round and round and . . .

Sweets to the Sweet
I want to preface the rest of this story by saying we opted NOT to give our children sugar, in any form, for as long as we could manage it. And we had managed it to this point. No soft drinks, no cookies, no M&M's, just a healthy little girl who was very happy to eat fruit and veggies. So, the Wheels on the Bus went round and round and round and mommy fell asleep . . . and woke the next morning to find my daughter face down on the floor of the tent, deep in a self-induced sugar coma, her little body encircled by a rainbow of wrappers from eating an entire BAG of Starburst she found in the suitcase. An ENTIRE bag. She liked sugar.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears and your washer
In 1993, we went to Gatlinburg on the absolute cheapest vacation we could plan. Well, maybe not THE cheapest, because we could have gone to visit my parents, who would have fed us and babied us and entertained the kids, but we wanted an adventure. We planned to tent-camp, fish, cook our own meals and sleep in the two-and-a-half-person tent . . . all four of us. It was the cheapest vacation we could plan . . . because we had no money. I mean, we had NO money. If we had, you KNOW I would have been tracking down the nearest Hyatt Place, but there was NO wiggle room in the travel budget.

The cowboy didn't want to make reservations. After all, we were just tent-camping, we would just "wing it" and camp when we found a place that suited us. The internal organizer in me tried to protest. She screamed inside my head, "NO!!! We have children and I'm a bit neurotic about spontaneity if it's not scheduled in advance! But I decided to play along. We went in June. I mentioned Gatlinburg, right? In June? And the fact that we had no reservations? Well, I had reservations alright, but not the kind that held a place for us to pitch our tent. So at 5 p.m. we started looking for a place to camp . . . and finally found ONE open site just after 11 p.m.

Out, Out Danged Spot!
The spot we got was on the trail to the bathhouse, so every person who walked by us woke Kevin up and Kevin, being only WEEKS old, only knew how to do one thing when he woke up: scream. Which he did. Continuously. All night. And Kacey, age 6, was forced to sleep at a 90-degree angle with her head above ours and her feet in my kidneys. Did I mention Kacey is a kicker? The next night, our car broke down, and I was left on the side of the road for 2 hours with two hungry kids, Kevin being the only one able to use me as a vending machine, while Gregory dealt with mechanics and tow-trucks. Paying to get the car fixed meant the travel budget was now seriously overdrawn. We caught no fish. Kacey got a tick the size of Luxembourg embedded in her skull. By the time we left our spot and headed home, we didn't even have enough money to do our laundry. So when we hit Nashville, instead of taking I-40 home to Jackson, we took I-24 straight to Mom & Dad's house. When we arrived, I put my son, still in his carseat, on the front porch with a note that said, "My family is destitute. Will you please take us in, feed us, and let us wash our dirty laundry?" I did a "Ding Dong Ditch" and ran back to the car.

By the time we went home the next day, we were frustrated, broke, and Kacey had a lymphatic infection. But our clothes were spotless.

horsegirls

As I sat in the Tennessee Miller Coliseum this weekend, about as interested in the Saddle Boy Competition as a toddler is in church, I learned that I was the only person in the 3,000-seat arena playing Sudoku on an iPod instead of watching the events. I also learned THIS . . .

Fifteen Reasons I Can Never Be a Cowgirl:
1. I do not have a cowboy, or in my case, a cowgirl hat.
2. I do not wear boots, well not cowboy boots. (Pretty sure those thigh-high red leather boots in the back of my closet don't count.)
3. The only cow I care to ever rope better be served medium rare with a baked potato.
4. My jeans are flared, not boot cut, and with these hips I don't need a belt, making it impossible to display a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island.
5. I have never seen National Velvet, My Friend Flicka, The Black Stallion, or even Disney's Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.
6. I do not wear flannel . . . except for my footie pajamas.
7. I was disappointed to discover that burros are not deep-fried, chocolate-dipped burrito/churro combinations.
8. I do not walk outside, breathe deeply and say, "I love the smell of horse manure in the morning!"
9. I do not have visible studs or rhinestones on any of my clothing. Visible.
10. I don't smoke. That's not to say, however, that I'm not smokin'.
11. I never wanted a pony as a child, not even for my Barbies. All I wanted was a blond, tan Ken doll (the one in the Hawaiian shirt) and the Barbie Winnebago.
12. Salad dressing is the only ranch I am interested in. And even then I prefer a nice raspberry vinagrette.
13. I'm deathly allergic to country-western music. Seriously. I hear it and my ears start to bleed.
14. I have no idea what cantering is. However, if it has anything to do with people bringing me hors d'oeuvres, I like it . . . oh wait, that's not cantering, that's catering. Never mind.
15. Based on the fact that my vehicle was the ONLY mini-van in the Coliseum's four enormous parking lots here at the Saddle Boy Competition, I have to assume it is illegal to pull a stock trailer with a Honda Odyssey.

I also learned that cowgirls get a bit testy when you ask them why they aren't more appropriately called horsegirls. And I learned when wishing a cowperson "Good Luck", you should never, ever say, "Break a Leg!"

i'll be right back . . . not

I do NOT love horror movies. I do not care to watch throats slit or axes through the chest or decapitated heads rolling around or bowels spilling out onto the ground. But, when I was in high school, well, let's just say that Freddie and Jason and Michael Myers (the one who chased Jamie Lee Curtis, not the one that says "Groovy, baby" with a British accent) were must-see-horror-viewing. Poltergeist, The Shining, When a Stranger Calls, The Amityville Horror, Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street, and my personal favorite, Friday the 13th.

It could be my favorite because it starred a very young Kevin Bacon at the beginning of his career. Or it could be because it takes place at a summer camp in 1980 - and who doesn't have amazing memories of summer camp 1980? Or it could be because the scary Crystal Lake forest noises sound a bit like Lamaze breathing.

Whatever the reason, this little slash-and-stalk flick has a kitschy quality for me. It has great heckling properties. The acting is atrocious. The dozen not-too-bright camp counselors spend their pre-death scenes running around in their underwear, alone in a midnight thunderstorm just begging to be killed. The dialogue consists of each character, in turn, saying, "I'll be right back", which of course, turns out to never be true. And, as is the case with most horror movies, the dumber and sluttier you are, the sooner you come to a quick and violent and bloody demise. Much too much for me to stomach nowadays.

Tonight, while flipping channels during the Yankees/Rangers game because the score had been 2-0 since the first inning, I ran across "Friday the 13th" on AMC. AMC? You know what that means? That means the boobies and blood have been edited out. YES! Score! I can watch this little gem without averting my eyes or losing my turkey sandwich! So, that's what I do. I watch.

But watch what? Turns out, there is no story line in this 90-minute screamer. "Friday the 13th", when you edit out all the nudity and violence and sex and gore, is just 12 minutes of a bunch of dumb people walking around in the dark.

big blog trouble

I keep running out of blog ideas. Yesterday I googled "Fun Things to Blog" and got page after page about how to do product reviews and interviews and political rants and household tips and all I could think was "WHO WANTS TO READ ABOUT THAT???" Actually, I guess a lot of people do, but they aren't the people reading my blog. Of course, if I blogged about those things, maybe they WOULD be the people reading my blog.

I could write about my current life's excitement, but last night I watched "Assault of the Sasquatch" on Chiller, and it was so bad I couldn't even heckle it, so I spent 2 hours stalking people on Facebook instead. This morning, I am sitting on the couch watching another movie and using a pile of unfolded laundry as a blanket because my hair is wet and I'm freezing and I don't want to get up and get dressed because I might miss the part where Stanley Tucci sucks his housekeeper's toes. It's quite disturbing. Using the laundry as a blanket, I mean. Stanley Tucci sucking on toes is a riot. (If you share my sense of humor, the movie "Big Trouble" is a must-see. Mike, this does not apply you.)

What I really should do, according to my mother, is write a book. At least 3 of you keep telling me I'm Erma Bombeck-ie, who was quite the best-seller back in the 70's. The rest of you, of course, have no idea who Erma Bombeck is, but she was hysterical, and wrote newspaper columns and multiple books ("If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What am I Doing in the Pits?" and "I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression") She shared the difficulties of being a stay-at-home mother and housewife. I, however, haven't been a stay-at-home mom in nearly 7 years, and my only difficulty as a housewife is figuring out how I'm going to afford a maid to clean my house once my son goes to college next year and I can't use him as free slave labor.

I'm now to the part of the movie where the guy who plays Kronk is running naked through the airport, Tim the Tool-Man Taylor is attempting to throw a nuclear bomb off a charter plane to the Bahamas, and the spirit of Martha Stewart is barking "Arugula!". In the meantime, though my toes are warm under the pile of towels, my wet hair has turned into icy dreadlocks.

Seriously, I have nothing to blog about.

a love letter

I am completely in love with you

you have stolen this heart of mine

with your cute little dent and your sweet face

with your precious toes

with the noises you make when I kiss you

with the way you smell

I want to bury my face in your neck and breathe you in

and I would be perfectly happy

if I could just hold you forever

Not THAT kind of action movie

I have always been a moderately-picky mom when it comes to movie "appropriateness" (LOOK IT UP. It's Scrabble-acceptable.) Just because a movie is rated "PG" does NOT mean I would allow it, nor does an "R" rating mean it is automatically banned. I am much more apt to allow violence than I am sex, more apt to allow language if it is in context and not superfluous. Anyway . . .

I was telling my husband the other day about an "action/adventure" movie my mom suggested for us to watch when Kacey was about 12. We rented this movie based on her recommendation, and it turned out to be on the verge of pornographic . . . seems my mom only managed to see the "adventure" part of this movie and had slept through the 20 minutes of "action". Anyway . . .

As I was telling him about it, I was describing how this was back when we were first beginning to branch out into "adult-themed" movies. Then, feeling the need to clarify what could be misconstrued, I said, "Not as in 'ADULT, adult-themed, just that she was 12 and we were coming right out of watching movies like 'Free Willy'."

"Well," he replied, "Isn't THAT adult-themed???"

better living through blogging

not to mention the $13.24 I made from advertising
The best part of blogging? Having a journal of my life. Oh, that's so not true. The best part of blogging is when you people tell me I'm funny. It's good for my ego. But the journal thing comes in at a not-too-distant second.

Why does she always push me to be a better person?
Last month, when the girls made the 5-hour drive to Indy with me, we did a lot of talking to pass the time. When the conversation lagged, we would look to Sara D. for new topics. She suggested we each come up with a list of 30 things to accomplish in the next 12 months. Jessica served as our secretary and wrote them all down, but in the excitement that was "becoming a grandmother", I forgot about the list. Jess gave it to me this week. I won't post the list, but I will say, that in the 30 days since making it, the only thing I have been successful at is "Choose a Grandmother Name". Call me an overachiever.

Long-distance cooking
My son just texted to say he has arrived in Indianapolis safe and sound (he made the drive all by his big-boy self). His sister just texted to say she is feeding him the Baked Ziti I made and froze while I was there. Hahaha. Gotta love the irony that Kevin had to drive 5 hours to get a homecooked meal from his mother.

not exactly wonder woman

I have two superpowers: the ability to almost always know, without looking at a clock, what time it is, and the ability to remember trivia, specifically from the 60's, 70's and 80's.

The first superpower can be quite useful, at least personally. For other people, not so much . . . mostly because of a lack of trust. "Do you know what time it is?" they ask. "Yep. About 4:20!" is my response. They will inevitably dismiss my answer when they realize I don't have a clock and go in search of someone with a cell phone or watch or other timepiece, only to find the actual time is 4:21. So, the superpower remains useful only to me. I mean, if nobody else is willing to hold onto my cape when I take off, then it's not my fault they don't get to fly.

The second superpower is more a skill than an innate gift. I can tell, almost always, the exact year of a song, movie, political event, fashion trend, or pop culture fad. Even skill is the wrong word. It's more a by-product of a mobile life and a brain for details.

This morning in church, Wayne asked about the song, "Celebrate" and I responded with "Kool and the Gang, 1980". I know, because the first time I heard that song, it was a fall morning, and I was listening to WKYX as I was getting ready for school. I liked the song instantly, ("it had a good beat and you could dance to it). I remember thinking it was going to be a big hit . . . it became our prom theme that next spring.

St. Elmo's Fire? 1985. I know, because I had a suit almost identical to the one Ally Sheedy wore, but I couldn't wear it the next year, because I had been pregnant and it no longer fit.

Los Angeles Riots? 1992. It happened just days before I found out I was expecting Kevin.

9 to 5? Christmas 1980. I know, because I saw it with my best friend on New Year's Day and it was the first thing I recorded in the 1981 "Miss Piggy" Calendar he gave me for Christmas. Oh, yeah.

Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody"? 1987. I know, because MTV was about the only channel worth watching in Anchorage, Alaska in the middle of the night when I was awake with my firstborn for 2 a.m. feedings. It was a very different MTV then.

Jessi Colter's "I'm Not Lisa, My Name is Julie"? 1975. Barry Manilow's "I Write the Songs"? 1975. "Rock and Roll All Night" by Kiss? 1975. I know, because for my 12th birthday, my parents let me have their stereo (complete with a totally awesome turntable) and, because they didn't have a clue what kind of music I would like, they bought me the #1 record in all three genres: country, rock, and pop. (This was in the pre-8-track and really pre-rap days.)

Ronald Reagan's shooting? Spring 1981. I was in Mr. Wilson's English class.

Toe Socks? (Originally) 1975. I gave them as Christmas gifts to all my best friends in the 7th grade. They were so cool, and so ridiculously uncomfortable.

The last time the Chicago Bears won the Super Bowl? 1986. I know, because I recorded it as a major event in Kacey's baby book.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? 1969. Easy. That one was released on my 6th birthday. I watched it from the back of our station wagon at the drive-in while wearing footie pajamas.

Nixon defeats McGovern. 1972. It was the only thing on tv the night my sister and I had a boy for a babysitter at our apartment in Texas. He was boring. So was the election. At least to a 4th grader.

Okay, I've probably made my point. Yeah, my memory is pretty good. At least with the long-term stuff. But mostly, because I moved 24 times in the first 24 years of my life, I have a frame of reference for everything. If I can remember WHERE I was, then I automatically know WHEN it was. It's not exactly rocket science, but sometimes it makes me look smart. And I can use all the help I can get.

my side of the story

She was completely in denial from the beginning. Contractions had been 8 minutes apart for a good four hours, she had cleaned the bedroom, taken a shower, asked Nathan to vacuum, had me lay out the birth supplies and still she kept saying she wasn't in labor. I finally convinced her, mid-afternoon, to let me give the midwife a "warning call". She reluctantly agreed, still fearing this was a false alarm. Contractions continued, the time between decreasing to 5 minutes, the discomfort increasing until she could no longer walk and talk through them. She had been in labor for over seven hours when we finally called the dogsitters and the midwife.

Only a couple of short years ago, my daughter informed me of two things: 1) she would not be having children this side of 2013, (if she had them AT ALL) and 2) she was NOT like me when it came to the whole "crazy natural childbirth" stuff.

Now I found myself massaging my daughter's lower back, watching her handle early labor like a pro, with her very supportive husband labor-coaching like a producer for "The Business of Being Born", and awaiting the midwife's arrival for my granddaughter's grand entrance via a non-invasive, non-medicated homebirth.

The midwife arrived at 8:30 and asked if we wanted to know how far she was dilated. We debated for a minute, preparing for the distinct possibility of only being at 2 centimeters. When the midwife announced "7 centimeters!", Kacey was forced to admit, for the first time all day, that she was, in fact, in labor.

She compliantly continued to breathe and squat and kneel and rock and walk and do all the right things to keep labor progressing. Even at the height of transition, after one of her most difficult contractions, she stated, "I can do this. This is not so hard." Then her water broke and the pushing phase began.

Because the names in my blog have not been changed to protect the innocent, we shall suffice it to say that my beautiful grandchild was trying to exit eyebrows first, but with a conehead Jane Curtin would have envied. Needless to say, pushing was NOT a relief. It was nothing short of excruciating . . . for Kacey and for me. Nathan and I held her and encouraged her, and when she cried and said she couldn't do it anymore, Nathan whispered sweet things into her ear . . . and Mom left the room and sobbed. As I said in a previous blog, parents are not wired to watch their children in pain.

I pulled myself together and went back into the bedroom in time to see the baby crown, in time to see Kacey's relief at the realization that her daughter's birth was close, in time to photograph things I can never share with you, or anybody else, without fear of serious retribution . . .

and in time to witness two parents fall instantly in love with their child.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty . . . " or why you should insert your tongue into your cheek before reading this post

Last week I had the combined privilege of going through 14 hours of labor with my daughter, experiencing my third homebirth as a doula, and witnessing my grandchild take her first breath.

Only a few minutes after my granddaughter made her amphibious move from water to land, we had our picture taken together. I immediately uploaded it and posted it on my blog and on facebook, even before the midwife left. Once posted, I received shocked comments like:

"I want to know how you got all dolled up with lipstick and earrings for this picture at 1:51am?!"
"You don't look like the grannies I remember!"

"You are both beautiful"
"She is lovely to look at, just like you!"

"You are one HOT granny!"
"Two beautiful dolls."
"Stephanie, you look so beautiful!"
"She is GORGEOUS, and so is granny."
and
"Yeah, I am joining others in asking how you look so BEAUTIFUL at 2 am after helping birth someone?!?!? It's just wrong, you know?!?!?!!?"

In response to these comments, I have developed my:

Top Ten Reasons I Looked Gorgeous at 2 a.m.

10. I went to Indy under the guise of helping my daughter "get some work done", when in reality I was the one "getting some work done".

9. I just had my eyebrows waxed. Everybody knows arched eyebrows make you look amazing.

8. I wasn't the one squeezing an oversized eggplant out of my, well, you know. I was merely a sideline coach. Besides, Kacey pushed with her eyes closed, so I had 48 opportunities to sneak out of the room and touch up my lipstick.

7. I have on black clothing, which is slimming . . . and has the added benefit of not showing the blood and amniotic fluid I was covered with.

6. I'm wearing Revlon's Photo-Ready Foundation, in Porcelain Ivory. Clearly, it works.

5. This is my clone. I'm actually downtown sleeping at the Hyatt.

4. My nail polish and earrings were coordinated with the polka-dots on the receiving blanket. It's the "matchy-matchy" thing that tricks you into thinking I look great.

3. I'm like a fine wine . . . I get better as the day wears on, be thankful you don't have to see me first thing in the morning.

2. I'm COMPLETELY in love, which, as you know, makes you glow.

And the Number One Reason I Looked Gorgeous at 2 a.m.
1. Do you KNOW me??? Why WOULDN'T I look gorgeous at 2 a.m.???

I'm busy, busy, shockingly busy . . . much much too busy for you!

Yes, I will blog about the birth once Kacey has had a chance to tell the story herself. After all, it is her story to tell. Besides, I am WAY too busy being the mother of the mother and enjoying my daughter's new daughter to have time to write this week.

I spent 10 days here in Indianapolis before the baby was born. We cleaned house, we stocked up on groceries, we cooked several meals and froze them for later, we did laundry, we organized the nursery, we made a trip to visit the midwife, we went to an Indians baseball game, we went to the Children's Museum, we went to the Art Theater, we ate at Buca di Beppo's (Italian) and On the Border (Mexican) and Machu Picchu (Peruvian) and Abyssinia (Ethiopian) and Hirosaki (Japanese) and we all three still managed to get work done as well.

But that was NOTHING compared to the grind of the last four days. Since the baby has been born we have:

Stared at the Baby.

I am SO not kidding.

It's amazing how much time you can spend just looking at the baby. See the baby. Oh, the baby is lifting her head! Oh, the baby is sucking her thumb! Oh, the baby smiled! Did you see her smile? The baby is hungry. Oh, wouldn't the baby look cute in the polka-dot outfit? Oh, the baby opened her eyes! Doesn't she have pretty eyes? The baby needs her diaper changed. Oh, the baby is squeaking . . . listen! Oh, isn't that just the most precious noise you have ever heard? Oh, I think she must be the MOST beautiful baby EVER (next to her mom, of course, who actually WAS the Most Beautiful Baby Ever). Okay, maybe it's a tie.

Anyway, you can see why I haven't gotten any blogging done. It's been quite strenuous.

Next blog post: I will address the shock and awe over my incredible beauty that is plaguing so many after assisting with a 14-hour labor and delivery. . . stay tuned. Oh, I think I may have dangled a participle in that previous sentence, but I don't have time to deal with it now . . . the baby needs me to look at her.

Yes, she knew

It has been a long day. My daughter is one amazing chick. My son-in-law is precious. And my, uh, daughter's beautiful daughter was born at 1:51 a.m. (Eastern time) on September 7. She weighs 8#12 ounces (so did her mom) and was 20" long (so was her mom) and has a head full of hair (so did her mom). She also has an adorable little dimple in her chin (so does her dad).

Her name is Mayah Taylor. Mayah is Hebrew for "Close to God". Taylor was a last-minute surprise. It is her uncle Kevin's middle name.

As you know, I have stressed and wrestled with a name for myself. I'm not in favor of the name change. I just want to be me. ME. So, I'm just going to be M.E. (Pronounce the initials, like "Emmy"). I think it suits me.

Midwives are getting ready to leave, Mayah and her parents are bonding, and being a doula for my daughter was 100x more difficult than I anticipated. Parents are not wired to watch their children in pain, as some of my dearest friends know all too well.

It has been a very memorable LABOR Day.

The best part is . . . Kevin was WRONG, and I was (what?) RIGHT!

Well, okay, maybe that was the second best part.

does she KNOW what tomorrow IS?

Why is it when we name a couple together, we usually say his name first then hers ? Paul and Nancy, Philip and Sara, Glen and Vicki . . . BUT when we name them as parents or grandparents, HER name always comes first? Mom and Dad, Nana and Papa, Aunt and Uncle, Grandma and Grandpa? This perplexes me.

Nathan & Kacey's puppies lay in the floor and lick each other's tongues. For a long time. Not gonna lie, kinda grosses me out. It's like a doggie make-out session.

The last time my son came up here to Indy to visit, he talked about how many burgundy vans he saw. We have church friends who drive a full-size burgundy van, and one of them is from Indianapolis. Kevin thought somehow there must be a connection. I laughed at him. I shouldn't have laughed. In the 9 days I have been here, I have seen about 75 full-size burgundy vans. Not mini-vans. Not white vans. Full-size burgundy vans. It's like the birthplace of "If this van's a rockin', don't come a knockin'." Makes me laugh. Then again, I'm easily entertained.

Nathan did a fantasy football draft with the guys tonight, so while he is debating between the "Underhanded Assassins" and the "Baby Daddies" for his fantasy team name, Kacey and I went to dinner, bought some doggie treats (not in the same location), made a pre-breakfast stop for Cinnamon Crunch bagels (THIS WILL BE MY FIRST ONE SINCE I GOT HERE, DON'T JUDGE ME!!!), then went by a friend's house to water plants and feed her cat. Her power was out, so we did this chore in the dark. When we got back, the power was out here too. Apparently 23,000 homes on the west side of Indy are without power. Plus, my phone is dead. Kacey and I lit a couple of candles and discussed giving birth in the dark. Turns out, power or no, with a home birth nothing really changes . . . well, except that the view of the Holy of Holies will be more obscure. (When Kacey reads this later, she will roll her eyes and give me a, "Thanks for THAT, Mom!" So, daughter-face, there is no need to say it now. Though, if you DON'T say it, it won't be true, so go ahead and say it. You know you want to.)

Now, I came prepared to stay here until the baby is born or until New Year's (whichever comes first), but it's already been 9 days plus the week I plan to stay following the birth, and she's not even here yet. So, if somebody will kindly notify my granddaughter that tomorrow is LABOR DAY, her mother and I will be happy campers.

But until then, the countdown continues . . .

move over, Alexander

I went to sleep at 3 a.m. and woke up at 7 a.m. and when I got out of bed this morning, I tripped over my laptop cord, and by mistake, I dropped my cell phone in the sink, and I could tell it was going to be a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

At breakfast, nobody else was out of bed, so I ate a frosted blueberry muffin pop-tart all by myself. And, I'm not in my own house, so I have to wear my pajamas, and I HATE my pajamas, and the dogs keep licking my toes.

I think I'll move to Australia.

At noon, Kacey and I took the car with no air-conditioning across town to the zoo. When we got there, the zoo was full, and they had closed the entrance gate, so not only was I glistening, I also didn't get to see the dolphins.

At Target, they were out of my St. Ives apricot scrub, and we tried to get command strips, but for the longest time, all we could find were sticky strips. I don't want plain 'ol sticky strips. They can put them on sale, but they can't make me buy them.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I could tell because nobody texted me, and nobody sent me an inbox, and nobody commented on my blog. I don't even know where my boy is today. I hope he's not in Australia.

There was a piece of Chocolate Cheesecake leftover in the fridge last night. It wasn't there this morning.

Kacey won at Slug Bug 12 to 1. I said the sun was in my eyes. I said the sun in my eyes was making me sneeze. I said, "If you slug me one more time, I'm going to punch you dead in the face!" She just laughed at me.

I was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

My debit card expired. I spilled queso on my shirt. I found a new patch of gray hairs, and I had to ride the "down" escalator and I HATE riding the "down" escalator.

Nathan and Kacey left me all alone for the night, and I was going to relax for awhile in the giant bathtub. But the bath wasn't hot, I got soap in my eyes, and I cut myself shaving.

My computer froze up. I couldn't check email, the hairdryer overheated and I broke my favorite fingernail.

It WAS a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day.

The dogs kept treating me like the Indy 500 finish line, I couldn't find Rocco's collar to let him outside, and he peed in the floor.

The tv wouldn't turn on because there are 3 separate remotes and even with my glasses on, I couldn't read the tiny letters, so I stared at a 46" black screen and felt sorry for myself.

The baby doesn't seem to want to come out, not even to see her M.E. ("Emmy"), so the countdown continues . . .

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Some days are like that . . . even in Australia.

someday I'm going home . . . but not yet

Got a haircut. Fixed beef stroganoff. Worked. Some. Not enough. Folded towels. Nathan worked tonight, so Kacey and I shared a piece of chocolate cake cheesecake and went to see a great little Independent movie called "Flipped". Came back to the house and played Scene It. Back at the homeplace, the boy went to hang with his grandparents, and the Cowboy is bringing back two (2) quarterhorses, because, you know, we don't have three.

Not really in a blogging mood, so I'm going to pray and go to bed. Goodnight.

The countdown continues . . .

SuperGator and last year's cow

I could get used to the schedule I'm keeping here. Staying up late, working from bed in the mornings, chatting and texting, then heading out in the afternoon to do fun things, all while waiting for the baby to decide she's ready to make her entrance. Or, exit. Whatever.

The original plan was to go to the zoo this morning, but it was still nearly 90 today, and tomorrow it's supposed to cool down considerably, so we just decided to do nothing . . . until I looked at my "Indy To Do" list and realized that tonight was Family Free Night at the Children's Museum. SOOOO off we went!

Seriously, isn't she the cutest pregnant girl?

My son-in-law is goofy, and a LOT of fun!

This is the blown-glass ceiling in the lower level.

Nathan & Kacey crocodile rocking.
Yep. That says B. B. King. Lucille is pretty.
I drew this to show you there is a big difference between CREATIVE and ARTISTIC. I am creative. Sometimes.

We had a wee bit o' trouble getting the camera to behave in the
Jurassic thunderstorm, but you get the idea.

And I have to admit, I was a bit starstruck to see the star of my favorite Saturday morning SyFy movie, SuperGator.
We had a GREAT time. Even more so, since it cost us NOTHING, as opposed to the $45 it would have cost us on any other day. Yea! After we finished the museum, we took in a planetarium show, then grabbed JalApeno Burgers and seasoned Fries. Amazing.


Meanwhile, back at the homeplace, my son got a "tardy" for being late to class because a teacher stopped him in the hallway to talk, made him miss the bell, then wrote him up. HAHAHA.

The cowboy has gone to Missouri. As you may recall, he went last year to get a quarterhorse because, you know, we didn't have one, and while he was gone the cow got out. Well, he has gone back to get ANOTHER quarterhorse, because, you know, we don't have two. Hope the cow stays put.

Hope your day was as wonderful as mine.

buy me some peanuts and cracker-jacks

And another day down.

I jumped out of bed bright and early at ELEVEN-OH-MY-GOODNESS-FIFTEEN, so it was after noon before I was dressed and ready to face what was left of the day. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was on vacation. Cooked the beginnings of Chicken Enchiladas, Baked Ziti, and Stroganoff, washed some dishes, made Mac & Cheese for lunch, texted my favorite people, then finally figured out how to access the new Church Management Software, so I spent the rest of the afternoon doing some very stimulating data-entry. I made it all the way from the A's to the middle of the B's. This could take awhile.

Yesterday's "first" was Peruvian food; tonight I attended my first real baseball game ever, with the Indianapolis Indians. No offense to the FOG, my beloved church softball team. However, I noted some differences between the Pittsburg Pirates minor-league games at Victory Field and The FOG games.

VICTORY FIELD: Fully-shaded, theater seating for 12,500 in downtown Indianapolis where we were ushered to our seats, 7 rows behind home plate.
FOG GAME: Dusty plank & concrete block bleacher seating for 16 in the suburbs of Symsonia, Kentucky where we park in the grass on the opposite side from the corn field and carry our own lawn chairs.

VICTORY FIELD: Multiple concession choices and numerous kiosks with loaded nachos, rib baskets, chili dogs, cheeseburgers, quesadillas, giant pretzels, and, of course, a margarita bar.
FOG GAME: Pixie sticks.

VICTORY FIELD: Free giveaways - tee shirts, car washes, mall gift cards, restaurant certificates, etc.
FOG GAME: Free giveaways - sunglasses, iPods, keychains, leather wallets . . . but only if you steal them off the dugout bench during the bottom of the innings.

VICTORY FIELD: Between-inning entertainment, games, and music.
FOG GAME: Frog catching.

VICTORY FIELD: Multiple large, clean, air-conditioned restrooms.
FOG GAME: One unisex port-a-potty where you have to utilize the light from your cell phone just to find the roll of toilet paper.

VICTORY FIELD: Two enormous, fully lighted scoreboards with player photos and stats, live video and a pre-game viewing of the Swagger Wagon video.
FOG GAME: A lady with a clipboard who never seems to be quite sure of the exact score.

VICTORY FIELD: Digital billboards encouraging you to "GET LOUD" and a Red Rodent mascot named "Rowdie"who gets the crowd all riled up.
FOG GAME: An adorable left-fielder who holds her husband's hand on the way to the outfield, and who squeals when the ball is hit her direction.

VICTORY FIELD: Professional ball players who hit hard, run fast, catch fly balls, stop all grounders, and always throw exactly where they want the ball to go. Very entertaining.
FOG GAME: Players from all professions who, well, try really hard, swat flies in the outfield, occasionally let grounders roll between their legs and frequently overthrow the bases. Still, very VERY entertaining.

The baseball game was great, the food was yummy, the stadium was immaculate, and the weather was perfect (except for Kacey, whose lovely pregnant body glistens at the very mention of sunshine). But I'll still take a pixie stick, a plank bleacher, and my FOG friends any day of the week.

Speaking of pregnant body . . . the countdown continues . . .

40-something

Ain't It Grand?
The countdown is underway. I'm now in Indianapolis for my "Grand-Maternity" leave, which could be 8 days long, or 40 days long, depending on the little person growing inside my daughter. September 15 seems like a nice day to breathe in and out and invite a midwife to the house. I'm just sayin'.

I would just like to state one more time, for the record, that I am ENTIRELY TOO YOUNG to be a grandmother. That being said, I have finally decided on my grandmother name! Kacey said it took me longer to pick a name than it did for her to grow a baby, which is nearly true. But this name definitely suits ME, and when I get used to it, I'll share. :D

Swagger Wagon
I finally broke down and bought a mini-van . . . a lovely silver Honda Odyssey, which we have officially named Eddie Van Honda. I made it through the child-rearing years without, but now it just makes sense. I figure I can save the church $1000 this year just by loaning it out for youth group trips, and that's just one of the perks. I had hoped to pay cash for this vehicle, but the Honda was a bit pricey, so the bank and I will share joint custody for awhile.

The Girls say "Hello"
As I was putting the finishing touches on my packing the other night, I lost my cell phone. I mean, somewhere between the 14 bottles of White Rain Pearberry hairspray and the kitchen sink, I LOST my cell phone. I retraced my steps, went through all my suitcases, checked the freezer, and pulled out the couch cushions, but nada. So, I finally gave up and called myself from the house phone. When I did, my boobs rang.

Speaking of the girls, I have THE best friends. The only problem is, if you combine all their ages, I'm still old enough to be their mom. Seriously. I graduated from high school the VERY SAME WEEK the oldest one of them was born. But they inspire me and push me and entertain me and make me appear much cooler than I actually am. I am INCREDIBLY blessed by them.

Okay, time to get some beauty sleep. I need to stay well-rested. When my granddaughter arrives, I don't want these bags under my eyes to be her first memory of me. Nightie night.

The Countdown begins . . .

it's not a lie if you believe it

Lettuce Try Again
Reigh Anne, my sweet friend and mother of five, sat at the table across from me, enjoying her Panera Asian Salad and our “Grown-Up Girls Only” lunch. Next to me, Sara commented that she had convinced Reigh Anne to give Panera a second chance, as she had eaten there once already but had NOT had a good experience. Shocked at the thought, I asked Reigh Anne, "So . . . the last time you were here . . . what did you HAVE?”

Without missing a beat, Reigh Anne stated flatly, “My kids.”

Seems she ordered a strawberry chicken salad, and her youngest picked out all the strawberries and all the chicken and left her with a big bowl of lettuce.

Separation Anxiety
Sitting around a different table on a different day with some different friends, we were discussing the upcoming school year, and this being my son’s LAST, and yet FIRST, year of school. (You know, the whole homeschooled-his-whole-life-but-now-going-to-public-school-as-a-17-year-old-senior thing). One of the women at the table is long-time Kindergarten teacher, ‘Miss Becky’. I asked if she was excited to start another year. “I am,” she replied, “except for the first couple of days. Those are always the difficult days of ‘THIS IS HOW WE GO TO SCHOOL’.” To which Sara M. exclaimed, “THAT’S WHAT KEVIN NEEDS TO DO! HE NEEDS TO GO TO MISS BECKY’S CLASS!” Made me giggle. A lot. But after I held Kevin's hand and walked him to all his classes, and sat with him at lunch for a couple of days, he made a smooth adjustment to being without his mommy.

I wish I could say the same was true for me. I MISS my boy.

You Can't Handle the Truth
At this point in the blog, Kevin would accuse me of lying, as he frequently does where my blog is concerned. “It’s not lying,” I defend, “if it’s BASED in truth . . . it’s called literary license.” He sarcastically muttered something under his breath wondering which office at the Court House issued me a Literary License.

Having completed three full weeks of school now, he admitted that, while he LOVES his AP Biology class, he is relatively bored out of his little mind with the rest of his classes, which is both good and bad. Good, because it’s nice to know his homeschool education has well-prepared him, but bad because he seriously needs to be challenged this year.

Anyway . . . Kevin also admitted that, for the first time in his life, he now FULLY appreciates the concept of a weekend. I laughed, “Tired of school already?”

“No, I could do school every day . . . if it started at NOON!”

I have to confess, I enjoy his waking ME up most mornings now, instead of vice-versa. If I could only train him to bring me coffee in bed . . .

Where is the A-Team when you need them?

Like most middle-aged girls, I love a good chick flick, a dark chocolate kiss, and a box of Puffs Plus. But I also love a good testosterone-laden, sweaty-muscled boy movie. Die Hard, Terminator, Rambo, yeah. "Yippee-ki-Ya, I'll be back", and all that jazz. So when a preview promises a good boy movie with Bruce, Arnold AND Sly? Well, baby, count me in.

So I paid $4.75 for a diet Coke and snuggled up under my denim jacket (yeah, I know it's 97 degrees outside, but the theater is always an icebox), and I was ready to experience two quality hours of Shoot 'Em Up, Bang Bang. Which is exactly how the movie started - an ambush. Four "good guys" mow down three dozen "bad guys", the first of which got his torso blown in half and one of the good guys says, "Whoops, too low".

There were about 75 such machine-gun-to-the-chest, machete-slitting-throat, and small-blades-jabbed-into-the-ear scenes, complete with extended blood splattering, splurting and gurgling. But, okay, I did ask for a boy movie.

There were chase scenes. Lots of 'em. And, ironically, in every single one, fruit stands were overturned and big 'splosions occurred. Luckily, however, none of the good guys were ever harmed in the making of this film.

There were rigorous fight scenes where multiple thugs attack a single hero . . . politely, though, one at a time, so our hero is able to aptly kick all their butts in sequence.

There were two women in the movie, shockingly both drop-dead gorgeous, who were unable to do anything without their burly past-their-prime, locked-and-loaded men to protect them and rescue them. Repeatedly.

There was witty dialogue like:
(Bald Bad Guy): "Who sent you?"
(Stallone): "Your hairdresser."

There was a shocking final moment from Head Bad Guy Eric Roberts (at least, that's what his name tag said), when he confessed to being a drug-runner because his soul is empty. Then they kill him six different ways, with extended blood splattering, splurting and gurgling.

Oh, and then there was THE LIE. THE BIG LIE. The glorious previews. The promise of the greatest boy movie ever made with all the greatest boys starring in it. Well, that "promise" amounted to nothing more than a 30-second CAMEO with Arnold and Bruce. Seriously. One scene. Although, later in the movie, Stallone does hold up a glossy 8x10 of Bruce's face, so maybe you can count that as two scenes. This is a Stallone vehicle, written and directed by Rocky to rescue his aging career . . . and ego.

The Expendables was completely . . . oh, what's the word for something you can really do without???

Plus, my diet Coke was flat.

real. simple.

Last week, we were discussing the discipline of simplicity.

The concept of living simple lives . . .
1. Don't "buy" things just to "have" things. (Like all those empty Rubbermaid containers I have in the utility, in case I get one of my overwhelming urges to organize something.)
2. Don't let anything become an addiction for you. (Like chocolate. Or, say, chocolate.)
3. Take joy in giving things away. (Here, you can have my utility bill!)
4. Appreciate things without having to own them.
5. Develop a deeper appreciation for creation. (Like the weeds in my flower bed.)
6. Reject anything that oppresses others.
7. Get rid of the distractions that keep you from seeking and seeing God in your life.

When asked, "How can we be more intentional about simplicity?" a lovely, young professional mother-of-three commented that she tries to limit her schedule to 3 things a day. She said anytime she tries to squeeze in more than that, it makes her a "grouchy mommy".

Well, I don't want to be a grouchy mommy either.

So today I got out of bed, shaved my legs, and drove to Panera's for a Cinnamon Crunch Bagel.

One, two, three. It worked. I don't feel grouchy at all. Mission accomplished.

Simplicity is good.

someday

God is trying to teach me patience and contentment and I have been fighting Him. For a long time. And I have been angry with Him. For a long time. And I have become completely disillusioned with prayer while, ironically, continuing to pray more than I ever have in my life, because I don't know what else to do.

My friend Lynn once said that "anger is simply unmet expectations". The first time I heard her say that, I dismissed it as oversimplified and generalized. A couple of years later, she repeated that phrase, and I kept it with me. Looked at it. Rolled it over in my brain. And came to realize it is unfailingly true. Without exception.

If Anger is Unmet Expectations, then what I've also come to realize over the past few months is: Depression is Anger that Just Doesn't Want to Get Out of Bed.

See, I have let my unmet expectations overwhelm me. I want what I want. I have forgotten that my life is not about me. My BLOG is about me, but my LIFE, not so much. It is in God's hands. I have forgotten to trust that he KNOWS the plans he has for me. Mostly because I have my own plans, and I don't trust that he is paying close attention to the details.

Tonight I have been lying alone, outside in the dark, listening to the crickets and the frogs, and watching God's attention to details in the form of a meteor shower. And I was reminded once again, in the vastness of this universe, in the midst of my unmet expectations, he still loves me, he still promises NEVER to leave me, and he still gives me hope . . .

refined taste

I don't know if you're a fan of crackers or not, but as far as crispy little baked goods go, Club crackers rank pretty high on the list. They've been a staple in my kitchen for a long, long time. They work especially well with egg salad or cheese of most any kind.

A few years back, the kids started asking if I would buy "The Good Crackers" next time I went grocery shopping. Sure! I assumed they meant would I just replace the good crackers we always have because they had all been eaten. So I brought home more Club crackers.

They never complained, but the next time I was Kroger-bound they asked again, "Please Mommy, would you buy The Good Crackers THIS time?" Sure, my sweet babies! What ARE the Good Crackers? But they couldn't tell me. "You know, they yummy ones!" So I perused the Ritz and the Cheese Nips and the oyster crackers, but decided on Wheat Thins (my personal favorite cracker . . . besides Matthew Shafer). Once home, I asked, "Are theeese what you wanted?" and I waved the yellow box in front of them with a satisfied smile. Two disappointed little faces told me I had not hit my mark.

Some time later I brought home a little sack of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish which cost roughly the same as a 16-oz ribeye. This time I was met with enthusiasm! Yes! Score one for Mommy! Goldfish crackers are practically CANDY to small children. They enjoyed feasting on them for several days.

More weeks passed, and on this occasion, the children were grocery shopping with me. As we strolled down the cookie/cracker aisle, the kids stopped dead in their tracks and stared at the floor. Heaven opened up. All the spot lights in the ceiling swiveled to illuminate the place at my children's feet, and angels began singing "Hallelujah".

"Mommy!!!! The GOOD crackers! Please, please, please!?"

And there, at their feet, were the Saltines.

The good crackers.

08 08 oh wait

I canNOT believe it has been 2 years since the wedding.
It's going too fast!

Happy Anniversary!

of mice and men

I have the best laid plans . . . when I'm lying in bed. I stretch and think and outline out all the things I'm GOING to do when I get up. I do this every day. Today is a big housework day. Catch up on the laundry, clean the bathroom, mop the kitchen floor, pull weeds in the flower beds, vacuum, dust, windex - I'm certain you know the drill. I even plan to move the silk trees outside to wash them, move the desk from the den to the living room, hook up the new computer, clean out the refrigerator, and shave my legs.

That's the plan. At least that was the plan as of 6:30 this morning. But 6:30 is too early, so I reach for my iPod and play a few rounds of Scrabble with my daughter, answer a phone call from an old friend, and fall back to sleep. No worries. It's Saturday. I have no place to go today. Plenty of time for my agenda.

When I wake for the second time, I hit the ground running . . . until it came time to fold laundry. My first mistake came in turning on the tv. My second mistake was flipping to the SyFy channel, because I know it is Saturday and I am going to want to laugh at the cheesy dialogue and heckle the bad acting and become completely enthralled with the special effects. (In today's movie, the dragon bites off a guy's arm, and as the camera pans over his now bloody stump, you can actually see his real arm tucked behind him.)

Not to worry. The dishwasher is running, the garbage has been taken out, the silk trees have been washed, most of the house is vacuumed, the toilet & bathtub are as clean as they are going to be without some sort of nuclear bleach bomb, the laundry basket is empty and the clothes are now folded and put away. And to maximize my time, I always work during commercials. Unless, of course, it's a Toyota Sienna commercial.

Then I realize it's 1:30, so I make a little lunch (which totally counts as housework) and flip channels and become quickly engrossed in a movie where James Garner is telling Sally Field he's in love for the last time in his life, and I sigh a wistful sigh. Then I click the remote again and Mr. Darcy is telling Miss Elizabeth his feelings have not changed, and the look between them lets you know they are in love, and not just fluffy love, but that with-your-whole-heart-until-the-day-you-die kind of love. Sigh again.

Now, since I'm already vegging, I play a few more rounds of IPod Scrabble, check Facebook, my Blogher Revenue ($4.63 this week), and realize I have now misplaced my early morning motivation. I try to find it. I sit here and stretch and think and outline all the things I still want to accomplish. Only now they don't seem so important. The house is clean. Mostly. Except for the kitchen floor, but I chose the kitchen tile based on the single point that it doesn't show dirt. So really, mopping it would be wasted effort unless somebody is planning to eat off it. Somebody besides the ants, that is.

So I took a bath and shaved my legs. I can now cross off the last thing on my list. I'm finished. Right?

Sounds good to me.

it is finished

Fewer than three hours after my last post, Tony left this world to go home.

I cannot stop the tears, nor do I want to.

praying for a miracle

This is Tony when he was about 5. He is a perfect blend of his parents, Neal and Sherri, who were our best friends when we lived in Alaska, and who remain, to this day, the kind of friends you would do anything for. We spent countless hours together eating, talking, playing games, worshiping, etc.

Our kids have played together since they were babies, and have continued to remain in each others' lives via Facebook. They are more like cousins than just childhood friends.

Though we have been gone from Alaska for many years, we have still managed to get together 13 long weekends since we left . . . the last time being in January last year when we went to be with them when Tony had surgery on a brain tumor.

We always pick right up from where we left off as though we have never been apart.

We still have a copy of their will in our safe which names us as guardians for Tony and his sister should something unspeakable happen to their family.

And something unspeakable is happening, and my heart is breaking. Surgeries and treatments for Tony, even from M.D. Anderson, have not been successful. While Tony should have spent the last 18 months finishing college, (he is nearly 22 now) he has spent it fighting this astrocytoma. And his body is not winning.

Tony is now in his bedroom at home in Alaska with his precious mom and dad. He is in more pain than his medication can relieve. He has lost feeling in some of his body. His brain can no longer make the connection between his thoughts and his words. He has stopped eating. His breathing has become shallow and labored. He is aware that he is dying. He is ready, but he is worried about his parents. As am I.

I am still praying for a miracle.

coffee talk

My boy . . . my youngest . . . my baby is starting his very first day of school today. I can hardly believe it.

He looked so cute this morning standing on the front porch for his official “First Day of School” photo.

Brand new shoes.

Backpack over his shoulders.

Week-old haircut so it looks nice, but not TOO “I just got my hair cut”.

Lunch money in his pocket.

Rolling his eyes at me and saying, “Mom, give me my keys. I gotta go NOW so I'll have time to stop and get coffee on the way.”


Did I mention that my baby is 17 and a high school senior? Not really so much his “first day of school” as it is his “first day of public school”, having been homeschooled his entire life.


Still. I’m all misty. And a little verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves while I go fix my mascara.

dou-what?

I am getting ready for bed when my phone rings. It is late, and I know even before I look who the call is from. With a smile on my face, I answer with the words, “Are we going to have a baby?” The mom-to-be on the other end of the phone questions the feelings she is having . . . contractions? gas pains? Wishful thinking? “How far apart?” I ask. Maybe 15 minutes, she thinks, though not sure. So I ask if she wants to “rest” or “rock and roll”, to which she replies that resting sounds nice. (It sounds nice to me too, but it is not my decision.) I advise her to drink a glass of water and try to sleep - I will come whenever she wants me.

I am a doula. A birth doula, to be more specific. Supporting women during childbirth. It has become a job, a hobby, a passion, a ministry.

I sleep lightly for two hours, anticipating their call. This time from her husband. A sure sign it is time for me to meet them. I dress quickly, grab my bag, and drive the 32 miles in the middle of the night, meeting only a few headlights. The roads are quiet at 1:15. I arrive to a dark street, dark houses, except for the one expecting me. The porch light is on, the door is unlocked, waiting for me to let myself in. I change my shoes, wash my hands, and head to the bedroom where she is laboring with quiet moans and easy rocking. “How we doing?” I whisper. She looks at me with eyes that say, “This is not what I was expecting. Is it supposed to hurt like this?” The dad-to-be lets me know that she woke nearly an hour ago to steady contractions, about 8 minutes apart. We have now moved to 7 minutes and she does not want to be bothered when a contraction rushes over her. They sit together on the bed and with each wave of tightness, he holds her hand and rubs her arm. Her feet are cold, so I put socks on her feet, and remind her to take deep breaths through her nose and blow them slowly out of her mouth. I get her some water and rummage through the bathroom drawer for some much-wanted chapstick.

We decide to walk. The house is small, but open, so we can walk in uninterrupted circles. Hubby tries to catch a nap, as she and I walk and talk, then stop and rock. When a contraction comes, I put my arms around her back, she puts her head on my shoulder and we do a little rocking dance. Back and forth. The waves strengthen and move closer. We rotate between walking the house, squatting on the birth ball, and standing in a hot shower. Time passes unnoticed. In the wee hours of the morning, it is time to make the drive to the hospital. We load the bags, grab a pillow and quietly go to the car, pausing every few minutes for another contraction.

When we arrive at the hospital, the birthing couple gets settled into their new location while I meet and greet the nursing staff and make sure they are familiar with the birth plan. By the time I get to the room, she is having a hard time opening her eyes. She is focusing on the pain and is starting to become overwhelmed. A quick check shows she is only dilated to 5. She looks disappointed, hoping this would almost be over, but I reassure her that 5 centimeters is respectable for just over 6 hours of labor, that she is doing great and I am really proud of her. I really am.

She can’t seem to get comfortable in the hospital bed, so we stroll the halls, hubby and I taking turns in the rocking position. I encourage dad-to-be to take the lead as often as he wants, completely if he wants. He is grateful for someone to help him know what to do, how to respond, how to help. It is hard for him to see her in pain. With every contraction now, one of us massages her lower back with a very effective palm-twisting rub I learned from an Amish midwife.

Back in the room, we drop the lower half of the bed down to the floor and I get on my knees in front of her. She sits on the edge of the bed, her arms draped over my shoulders, her face glistening with sweat, her blonde hair in her eyes. I tuck the hair behind her ear and tell her what a trooper she is, and that very soon she is going to be holding her baby in her arms and this will all be a memory.

She is moaning loudly now. Deep, gutteral moans that seem to push the pain away from her body. In between moaning, we breathe. Her husband lightly strokes her back and kisses her repeatedly on the forehead. They are incredibly sweet. She instinctinvely begins to bear down with each contraction, her body in tune to the rhythm of labor, now nearing the final stage. Almost in an instant, her eyes grow wide and she starts to breathe fast, shallow breaths. Another check shows she is dilated to 9. I smile a huge grin and she almost starts to cry. “No crying now, you are doing an amazing job, and it is almost time to push.” But the reassurance is not enough to overcome the intensity of transition, so as her moans turn to low cries of doubt (“I can’t do this anymore! I want it to be over.”) we continue the routine of massaging and breathing and rocking and reassuring that not only CAN she do this, she IS doing this.

The hospital staff begins to descend upon the room, readying equipment and lights. The bed is further adjusted into a complete upright position, and then everything goes quiet. No screaming, no moaning . . . no pain. A mini-reprieve. Time to breathe. Time to rest. Time to wipe her face with a cool washcloth. Time for the CNM to tell her that with the next contraction she can push. And she does. I talk her through HOW to push (yes, there is a “right way”) and her husband directs her eyes to the mirror at the base of the bed. “Can you see?” She can, but another 30 seconds of pushing interrupts the viewing. Then another 30 seconds. Then another. After dozens more, the midwife tells her that with the next contraction she doesn’t want her to push. I remind her the baby is crowning, so much like putting on a turtleneck, she wants to ease the baby’s head out slowly. So we pant. Short quick blows in and out of our mouths as we stare at each other. Her attention now moves to her husband, so I grab the camera and get ready for baby's first photo. Once the head has crowned, she closes her eyes and bears down hard until she hears the midwife’s words, “There we go!” and looks down just in time to see a tiny wet little body slip out and hear his new lungs quiver and start to cry. Her hands reach down to comfort him.

“It’s a boy!”

He is brought to her tummy and covered with a warm blanket. She melts into tears and smiles and relief as her baby's cries subside and he settles his head on her chest. “He’s perfect,” she says as she looks from her son to her husband and back again.

It is a mere 10 and a half hours since the first contractions began. Much shorter than the average labor. No drugs. No interventions. No complications.

A beautiful new family. A beautiful new day. Time for me to sleep.