Being Thankful

I have a bad habit. I pick at my fingernails. Some Freudian types might suggest that it's transferance of the thumb-sucking habit I had to give up when I turned 3 years old. I don't know much about Freud. I just pick at my fingernails. Sometimes I focus on pushing up my cuticles. Sometimes I clean under the nails themselves. Most of the time, I pull at the little tags that form when my cuticles crack. 98% of the time, it's a bad result. I'll start pulling at the dead skin, hoping to separate it cleanly. But 98% of the time, I rip off a substantial chunk of my flesh, resulting in the spurt of fresh blood.

Sunday afternoon, I noticed another little crack in the cuticle on my right middle finger. I was able to resist for a about 20 minutes, but it kept bugging me. So I started to pull. I was smart enough to stop when I first saw the flush of blood. I actually contemplated walking the 12 steps to our bathroom where we keep the nail clipper, but I thought it would be too much work to walk. So I gambled on the 2% chance that it might be a clean separation of the epidermis from the dermal layer. Once again, I was wrong. This particular lesion was quite significant for a cuticle pull. It actually throbbed and I had to stop the flow with a tissue. I was a bit annoyed all afternoon. Function was a bit limited as I was trying to protect the now-exposed dermal layer of my right middle finger.

I was standing there in the bathroom, cleaning up my mortal flesh wound for the second time (I knocked off the plasma crusty layer washing my hands after a particularly productive diaper change) when my dad called on the phone, interrupting my self-pitying moment. He called to tell me that my aunt and uncle, who were visiting for Thanksgiving, had been in a car accident. They had just left my parents' home and were driving on the freeway when another car darted across the lanes of traffic and hit them on the passenger side. Their car flipped several times and landed upright, facing oncoming traffic. My uncle had some lacerations and heavy bruising, but was not in serious condition. My aunt was also in stable condition, but seriously injured her hand. According to my father, her right middle finger had been crushed and essentially filleted. The bone was shattered and her fingernail was gone. It was bad enough that the resident on call at the ER didn't quite know what to do. My dad called to tell me that he and mom were going to take my aunt, who is a nurse, up to her own hospital so she could see a hand specialist.

I felt like such a fool in that moment. Here I was bemoaning a little cuticle pull when at that very same moment my aunt, whose work requires dextrous hands, was facing possible compromise in the use of the very same finger. And I was finally able to look at my little booboo and be thankful that it was so insignificant. It's interesting what a little perspective can do. Hearing of my aunt's injury made me thankful that mine was so....nothing. Yet in her perspective, her serious injury, next to the possibility of lost lives, must also have paled in comparison. I do think much of it is about perspective. I sometimes choose to dwell on the little suffering I have rather than the great suffering that I don't have. And I sometimes forget about the blessings I already have as I think of the other blessings I want. So now I want to choose to do more than just give thanks on occasion. I want to choose to be thankful always.

Clarice

PS Please pray for my aunt's recovery. She had surgery Tuesday morning.

Little Girlfriends

Jackson and I spent the afternoon at the beach with Mikayla and her mom (yes, sometimes in SoCal we can go to the beach the Sunday before Thanksgiving). Being that Jackson is much older than Mikayla (at a whopping 5 weeks ahead), he spent a lot of time telling her what she could expect from life in the next month or so. To me, it just sounded like "meh, meh, meeeeeehhh" and "ah-bah, ah-bah," but she looked pretty intrigued with what he had to say. It reminded me that a few months ago, Mikayla's mom and I had been discussing how when we were young we thought the idea of arranged marriages was completely atrocious, but now we were coming around to the idea. I mean, how great would that be? You would know whether or not you could hang out with your future in-laws way before spending lots of money on a wedding. And you could get an idea of what your grandkids might look like. Plus, Jackson's got some great options.

Harper's been making googly eyes at him at least half his life and we really like her parents.

And he really enjoyed hanging out with Karis, even though she didn't have much to say to him. I think she's going through her "boys have cooties" stage a bit early. Problem is, I think our boy wants to pick his own little girlfriend.

Since the very first day of school, Jackson's had a thing for his little school friend, Lena. Last Friday, when I dropped him off at day care, he ended up right next to her. He patted her shoulder and she turned her cheek toward him. I saw him move in, but his motor control isn't quite developed yet. They ended up cheek to cheek for a moment before he started falling. If infant life is any predictor, it looks like his social life is going to be much more complicated than that of his parents.

Clarice

So much to blog about....

....so little time.

Possible future post titles:

More than just cheese
Cousins (in honor of Jackson's upcoming boy cousin, Junior Shih)
Fernald Friends
Syria
The beginning of campaign season
Fly in a bottle
Clee's Engaged!!
Action Jackson 2

The Ouch Report

All the little "friends" (cause that's what the babies are called) at Jackson's daycare have little clipboards where their activities for each day are recorded. We find out when they went down for naps (to the minute) and when they awoke. We find out what they ate and drank (to the ounce). We find out when they had diaper changes and whether the changes were W or BM (W=wet, BM=well...you know).

Well last week, there was a new sheet attached to Jackson's clipboard. It was an "Ouch" Report. Next to the injury type, there was a large check next to "bite." "Poor baby," I thought as I read. It was his left big toe. Then I got to the description part and cracked up. It said:

J. was playing on his back when another came close. In the "closeness," mouth and foot met

See for yourself


I love his daycare!

Clarice

The Land of the Definitely Maybes

I had a flashback to my youth a few months ago. I was remembering a trip I took with some family friends and relatives when I was about 12 or 13. It was the last day of our camping trip to Mexico. We were all packed and ready to go. We just had to make one last stop at the beach so our dads could clean the fish they caught before we started our long drive back home. So all of us kids poured out of our station wagons and motor homes to while away some time. I don't know who spotted it, but there was this great sand bar just off shore. The water was slightly more than ankle deep so a few of us kicked off our shoes and waded across. One side of the sand bar had a nice, steep incline so we started building not just a sand castle, but a sand community. After a while, my cousin Daphne (who is a far better writer than I and blogs here) decided that the community must have a name. So we called it the Land of the Definitely Maybes and began inventing stories about the people who lived in the community. I don't know why Definitely Maybes. Probably something about the indecisiveness marking our tweener years. Anyway, I guess we must have gotten carried away with our little kingdom (and the dads must have gotten carried away with fish-cleaning) because when we heard our mothers calling, we looked up to see that the cute ankle-deep channel we waded across to get to the sand bar had grown with the rising tide to become a waist-deep channel. No way about it. We all had to swim fully clothed across to the beach. Boy were the moms mad. All of our clothes were packed already so we all had to begin the journey back home in sopping wet clothes.

I don't blame the moms for getting mad. It wasn't the first time that I had dragged my younger cousins into some kind of trouble. I hide it pretty well now, but when I was younger, I had a habit of doing things without thinking about the consequences. Funny thing is, so many of those crazy events involved Daphne. There was the time we thought it would be fun to create "igloos" out of soap bubbles to house the little caterpillars that occasionally tracked across their back porch. A few hours later, we realized that caterpillars and soap bubbles are not compatible and that if you let caterpillars keep moving across the porch unharmed, you don't end up with dozens and dozens of foaming and exploding caterpillar carcasses on your aunt's back porch. Then there was the time Daphne's mom took me to visit a friend of hers. They had two daughters about our age. They had just had their house painted and it kinda reeked. One of the girls had been showing off her new felt-tip markers, which had lovely fruit scents associated with them. I thought it might reduce the stink of the room if I waved the most fragrant of the markers around (I think it was the grape and the blueberry). We noticed the improvement in the odor about the same time that we noticed the growing number of purple and blue dots on the freshly-painted walls of the room. That's when I learned that markers and centrifugal force aren't really compatible either.

So most of my thoughtless adventures weren't harmful. But there were other poorly thought out decisions that resulted in someone getting hurt. Like the time my brother and I "built" a "go-kart" out of a scooter, a skateboard, a piece of wood, and some rope. My poor 6-year old cousin had nothing to hold onto but the bottom of the board as we cruised down the street. And when the scooter and the skateboard went in opposite directions, her own weight brought the board smashing down on her fingers. Or the time I created a seesaw out of a sawhorse and a plank and challenged my neighbor to hold on while I tried to bounce her off. Since I was heavier and stronger, she did indeed bounce off...actually, she flew off, folding over on her stomach on the sawhorse. Or the time I created a slip-and-slide on the plastic sheet covering our backyard slope, not thinking about the fact that we might slide into the wooden stakes holding the plastic down (I still have a scar from that paticular adventure). Foolish choices, poorly thought out.

This week, I started thinking about the Land of the Definitely Maybes again. Something I received in the mail prompted my memories. It was a voter's information guide about Proposition 85, which "requires that a physician notify in writing a parent or guardian at least 48 hours before performing an abortion on a minor girl." I remember this Proposition not passing in the Special Election last year and it really grieved me. See, I can think back on my childhood and remember stupid decisions that I made. Some of them caused no harm, but others did result in someone getting hurt. And honestly, sometimes I had an inkling that there may be bad consequences. But the moment mattered more than the consequences. And I think about young girls who make decisions in the heat of the moment and don't think about the consequences. I do believe that they need to have the wisdom and guidance of their parents to help them deal with the consequences. Because sometimes it's like my experience in the Land of the Definitely Maybes. So caught up in their worlds of uncertainty, so wrapped up in fantasy that they don't see the tide coming in, don't understand the consequences.

So if you can vote, please vote yes on Prop 85 this coming Tuesday.

Clarice

Stage Parents

Yup. We're entering our little man. I first read about the contest in the newspaper column a friend of mine wrote, then our downstairs neighbor said they were entering their daughter, then a friend from church told me she was getting in on the action. Might as well join the fun. The odds are probably not great, but might as well. If (by some chance) we do win, he gets:
-Participation in a professional babyGap photo shoot
-Featured in our local Gap store window and Child Magazine
-$5000 college fund
-A year supply of babyGap clothing
-And more (with an exclamation point).

We have to pick 5 photos that we've taken to submit. Judging criteria:
-34% overall appearance of the baby as shown in the photo
-33% overall personality of the baby as expressed through the photo
-33% quality of the photograph.

So, dear friends, we need help picking some winning photos. We're going to make our final decision on Thursday (Nov 2).

Click on over to our family website, here, to view, then vote in the comments section of this post.

And if he doesn't win...well, we have some inspired photographs of him to keep forever and we've gotten a taste of what it's like to be stage parents.

Thanks!

Clarice

Catching the Cheese

Jackson has a weak esophageal sphincter. That's the band of muscle between the esophagus and the stomach. Its job is basically to keep the contents of the stomach from squirting up the esophagus (and out the mouth). Apparently weak esphageal sphincters are rather common in babies and tend to get stronger when they start sitting up more often. I sure hope that's soon. We're getting a bit tired of spitup. It wasn't so bad when he was a newborn. Just little trickles of fluid that still looked and smelled like what went down. By 2 or 3 months it started to smell a bit more sour. Ian and I started calling it "cheese" because it was like fermented milk. "Cheese" has become such a common occurrence in our life, we've starting using it as a verb as well as a noun (and sometimes even an adjective). For example, "Honey, what's that spot on your shoulder? Oh, looks like he cheesed on you again. Yuck! That's a particularly cheesy glob of cheese." See that - verb, adjective, and noun in one conversation.

Well, Jackson's cheese habit has changed my life. For decades, I've had a pathological aversion to...uh...the v-word. I myself have not tossed my cookies since I was 9 years old - not even when I was pregnant (I know, I'm to be reviled among women for an unusually easy pregnancy). And any hint that any person within 50 feet of me is about to lose their lunch and I'm out of there. It's a bad phobia. Check under the bathroom stalls to make sure everyone's shoes are pointed away from the toilets. If it happens - close my eyes so I can't see, cover my ears and sing out loud so I can't hear, bury my nose in my armpits (which usually don't stink) so I can't smell... Serious heebie jeebies. But with Jackson, it's been a mild introduction. Like I said, it was fairly innocuous at first and came without any sounds. But now that he's on solid foods, it's starting to have that smell...and that look...and it's often prefaced with that sound.

So last Friday I took Jackson to visit a former student and her baby (one of Jackson's future girlfriends) in their very well-appointed apartment (I don't know how two dental students can afford real furniture). I set Jackson down on the sofa, which was one of those lovely overstuffed comfy things. We were chatting nicely and watching the babies stare each other down, when I heard the sound. It was the little errrp that precedes the gush of cheese. My first thought was "Oh no! Not on the sofa!" And before I could think of what to do, I cupped my hands under his mouth and ended up catching the cheese. It was a rather disgusting experience. I would have preferred to have had a burp cloth. Or maybe even a bowl. But I suppose I should be somewhat grateful. After all, it seems as if I'm on my way to being cured of my vomitophobia.

Clarice

Political Minority

I had lunch today with a bunch of ladies I really admire. They are all incredibly accomplished, each with one or two doctorates, and all senior to me in the ranks of the dental school. But what I like about them is that they care about the things that I care about in the realm of the University. They all appreciate the value of research and discovery, but what really matters to them is that students grow and learn. That's the core value of these women that makes me really respect them.

So we sat together at lunch celebrating the submission of a grant on which we all collaborated. And, as is common these days, talk soon turned to the political. And this is where it got interesting. See, I'm a registered Republican. I'm sometimes embarrassed to say that because it makes me a complete, unrespected minority in the University setting. Plus, I'm really not too happy with what's happening with the party right now. What I really am is a conservative, and the Republican Party best represents what I value. Anywho, talk around the table turned to the political and I quickly learned that 5 of the 6 women were quite clearly Democrats (the last one was very quiet). And, as is common in conversations in my work world when politics comes up, they kept talking as if everyone was on the same page (which I wasn't). See, that's one thing I find interesting. I try really hard not to speak out of assumptions about people. I don't assume that all Christians are Republicans, because I've found that some are not. I don't even assume that all people who go to church are Christians, because I've found that some are not. I try to talk to people at a neutral level until I know where they stand. But I seldom have that same respect afforded to me by many of my clearly Democrat colleagues, who expect that I'll enjoy joining them in either a pro-abortion, or anti-war, or anti-free speech (I'm talking about truly free speech here), or anti-Bush, or anti-American, or anti-hetersexual marriage rant. And it sometimes just bugs me. See, here's the thing. Much of the time, I have the same core values as my friends in the University. I just have a difference of opinion on how to approach it.

One of the women was telling a story of how she became (as she put it) "such a flaming socialist Democrat." She grew up in a military family (which generally does not lean toward the flaming socialist Democrat mindsent). She recalled that when she was in the third grade she moved to the South. This was during the period of segregation. She said that one day at school she noticed that the girl who sat next to her in class was wearing an outfit that her family had given away to charity a few weeks before - her outfit. She said that realization changed her life. You know, I was so with her. I hate injustice. I hate racism. I hate the effects of poverty. But then she said something that separated me from her. She said "That's when I realized that there was something wrong with our government." I don't quite see it that way. I think the Bible is quite clear that humans were created to reflect the glory of our Creator, and that we are uniquely gifted and capable of generating good. And we are very valuable to that Creator. To me, that's why injustice, racism, and poverty are wrong. These are evils that violate our value in God's eyes. But at the same time, I believe that the same beauty placed within us is the key to addressing the world's ills. And I think relying on government to take care of the world's problems stifles the ability of people to step into the heroic. And this is what I found interesting at lunch today. The political view I choose to adhere to earns such disdain from those with whom I actually share the same foundational values.

Clarice

Beach Baby

We just got back from 8 days in Hawaii. 5 in Oahu, 3 in Kauai. Supposedly for an orthodontic meeting. I did go to some lectures, but spent plenty of time NOT in lectures. It was so nice...but also busy. Traveling with an infant when your other travel partners are single can be a challenge. But it was so fun watching Jackson enjoy new experiences. I think we have a beach baby on our hands.





Clarice

Fertility

I've been feeling a bit queasy for the past week or so. Just a low grade nausea accompanied by a slight headache and some generalized fatigue. The last time I felt like this was when I was pregnant with Jackson. And just like last year, I spent the first week living in denial. I mean, with Jackson, I didn't think it could be possible. We had only been married 5 months and I'm...uh...of advanced age. But it happened. The best little surprise of my life. This time around, I had a longer period of denial. After all, I've only recently showed biological signs of a return to fertility. Who on earth has babies 14 months apart? Certainly not in Los Angeles. So on Sunday, Jackson's 7 month birthday, I decided to end the denial. I dusted off my EPT (early pregnancy test, for those of you not in the know) and put it to work again. Ian was compelled to sit in the bathroom with me. I didn't want to face reality so Ian had to look for me....

Whew! Much as we would love to have another child, we'd sure like to wait a little while longer.

Clarice

Westside Babies

Jackson and his little church friends. There are so many babies at Mosaic Beverly Hills. I'm so glad that our son has a cohort of friends he can grow up with.

Clarice

Temper Tantrums

When I was a teenager, I was prone to irrational little temper tantrums. Quite a few of them were in response to things my parents said or did. I remember that my mom once told me that she thought I looked sloppy during one stage of my life. I was deeply offended and angry, despite the fact that I truly was going through a sloppy stage of fashion choices. My response..."Mom thinks I'm sloppy. I'll show her sloppy." So I chose to be even sloppier for a short time. Once my dad was offering me some feedback on my sweeping technique. I wasn't being strategic in my sweeping, brushing dirt over areas that I had already swept. He was suggesting that I start at one side of the room and collect all the dirt on the other. It was pretty good advice. I think I even recognized it. But there was no way I was going to acknowlege that and change my ways. I kept doing it my way. The dumbest tantrum I had was when I turned 16. I wanted to get my driver's license, but my parents said they wanted me to wait because the insurance rates would be too high. I was pretty ticked off. So I showed them. I told them I wasn't going to drive with them until they agreed to let me get my license. That showed them....NOT. But I've made some progress since then. I still have an occasional adolescent flare when my parents suggest something (pride, you know), but for the most part, I make an effort to understand where they're coming from and filter out what's useful.

I was reminded of my teen self when I heard how the fundamentalist Muslim world responded to Pope Benedict's comments about the importance of reason in faith. As you may know, the Pope was quoting a 14th century dialogue between Byzantine Emperor Manuel II Paleologus and “an educated Persian.”

In the seventh conversation…the emperor touches on the theme of the holy war. The emperor must have known that surah 2, 256 reads: “There is no compulsion in religion”. According to the experts, this is one of the suras of the early period, when Mohammed was still powerless and under threat. But naturally the emperor also knew the instructions, developed later and recorded in the Qur’an, concerning holy war. Without descending to details, such as the difference in treatment accorded to those who have the “Book” and the “infidels”, he addresses his interlocutor with a startling brusqueness on the central question about the relationship between religion and violence in general, saying: “Show me just what Mohammed brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.” The emperor, after having expressed himself so forcefully, goes on to explain in detail the reasons why spreading the faith through violence is something unreasonable. Violence is incompatible with the nature of God and the nature of the soul. “God”, he says, “is not pleased by blood - and not acting reasonably is contrary to God’s nature. Faith is born of the soul, not the body. Whoever would lead someone to faith needs the ability to speak well and to reason properly, without violence and threats… To convince a reasonable soul, one does not need a strong arm, or weapons of any kind, or any other means of threatening a person with death…”.

What happens?
This
This
This
This

I don't know. It just seems so juvenile. "What, Pope? You say Islam is violent? I'm offended. You better say sorry or I'll end up getting violent with you." I have such mixed feelings on how to respond. Part of me is annoyed and says, "Oh come on, just grow up!!" Part of me is frustrated with the political forces that would try to appease an ideology that has been returning to this kind of behavior for centuries. Part of me is sad that so many people are being manipulated by religious leaders who really don't care about them. And part of me is thinking that those of us who are followers of Jesus, who claims to be "the way, the truth, and the life," need to figure out how He wants us to slow the metastasizing movement of Islam by advancing the kingdom of God.

Clarice

Blink

Blink. My silly boyboy. He started making this face about two weeks ago. At first it was in response to the antibiotics we had to give to him to fight his first ear infection. Then last week, he started doing it at random when interacting with us. We're not quite sure what he's doing. He certainly knows how to smile at us.

Blink. In a blink of an eye he's showing signs of growing up. Not only is he trying to interact with us by making this face, he's growing up physically. Look at his little snowdrops. That's what MumIvy, my mother-in-law, calls baby teeth. It was a big day in the dentist's household when the first little toothy erupted.

Clarice

Five years ago today

September 11, 2001 was a significant event in my life. It was an unexpected violation. I was in dental school in the 90's when the Gulf War began. I remember talking to friends about how our generation hadn't lived in a time of war. But even that experience was rather removed - like it didn't realy happen. Acts of aggression were things that happened "over there." Not on our soil. The attacks of September 11 hit closer to home. So even though New York and Pennsylvania and DC are still "over there" with respect to Los Angeles, it still felt very invasive when the jets all hit.

The events of that day are rather surreal in my memory. I remember this undescribable dull roar of background noise like machine hum that I now associate with that day. I woke up that day to the ring of the telephone. Our friend Aaron caught the news and was calling people from our church community to alert them. Clee was the one who answered the phone at about 6:30 AM. I vaguely recall hearing her say "hello," then "WHAT" then "OK," before hanging up the phone. She tersely told me that something happened and we ran out to the TV to find out what. We squatted there in our PJs, not bothering to sit normally. Then we went to wake Lena and Cal up. It was such a strange morning. The four of us sat morosely in front of the TV all morning, not even considering going to work. We knew there was something big going on. By afternoon, we rallied ourselves to shower and eat. By evening, we moved to action. We opened our house to our community and whoever else wanted to come by. Over a three hour time period we had some 40 people come through to mourn with us, weep, and groan and pray for our city, our country, our world.

September 11 was the beginning of a new chapter for me. My life feels different now. One positive thing. I can see the value and the beauty of community. I was so amazed at how the country rallied in support under duress. And I was amazed at how the community I am a part of came together so quickly to pray. But another change lingers. Like many others, I have a sense that there's something happening now that we don't quite understand. It's happening at a profound spiritual level, requiring that I be vigilant and prayerful. And it makes me all the more compassionate for those who don't know the marvel of following Jesus Christ.

So I pray for the families who suffered loss on September 11, 2001 and I pray for this country and this world. And I pray that God would give us more glimpses of the beauty He has brought and will bring out of the ashes of that event.

Clarice

Content

Tonight I got a special treat. I got to hang out with a very good friend. We arranged to meet at a coffee shop. I thought maybe it would be like nights we used to have when we shared a room - just after turning off the lights and just before falling asleep - when one of us would blurt out some philosophical question that we couldn't answer, but would spend the next hour or so pondering, only to awaken the next morning cranky for lack of sleep. We never cared that much about the answer; we just liked the process of thinking about the question. But tonight, we just looked at magazines and compared notes on the fall TV season. We talked about everything and nothing. And I loved it. So wonderful to have friends with whom you can go deep or wide and not have it matter because you're together.

Tonight I got an even more special treat. My dear husband cooked me dinner, washed the dishes, did 3 loads of laundry, fed the baby, then went to the pharmacy because the baby has an ear infection and is VERY fussy and clingy. He shooed me off to go and enjoy time with my dear friend. And I loved it also. So wonderful to have a husband who is so attentive to my needs.

I am content...and very blessed.

Clarice

With a rebel yell...

Apparently, Jackson likes water.

Jackson wants....

...milk!!

Pathetic looking face, isn't it. As if it was the end of the world. In fact, we call this the "end of the world" cry. I saw this look 6-8 times a day his first 3 months and 4-6 times a day since then. It's the face Jackson makes when Ian stops feeding him for a moment to help him burp before inhaling the rest of his formula (so he doesn't lose it on the front of his onesie) and the face I see when switching him from one "milk container" to the other.

There was one nice thing about this cry. We knew exactly what it meant and we knew what we had to do to appease it. In general, "cry interpretation" has been fairly straightforward. Jackson usually only cries to have three basic needs met - when he's hungry, when he's sleepy, and when he's tired with his current environment. And the signs are usually fairly clear which of the three events must be occurring.

But something interesting happened last week. My family was visiting. My dad had Jackson on his lap and they were watching my brother and sister-in-law's dogs run around. My dad sat Jackson back on the couch and he started crying. We couldn't figure out what happened until my dad lifted him up...in sight of the dogs again. We experimented a bit, and sure enough, every time the dogs were out of sight, Jackson cried. When they were in view he was happy again. It was a sobering moment. The little boyboy is beginning to express more than just his needs. He's actually expressing his wants. And that's not the end of it. After 2 months of pretty easy bedtimes, he's taken to crying at the top of his lungs when we put him down in his crib.

Wants to look at the dogs. Doesn't want to go to bed. Wants to be held. Doesn't want to sit in his carseat. Suddenly parenting is getting difficult. Now we have to discern what it is that he wants and decide if he really needs it. I'm realizing what a fine line this is. After all, I want him to feel significant in our eyes, but not as if he's the center of the universe. At the same time I know I am wiser than he is at this point in time and I need to help him learn to make good choices. But I also need to learn to choose my battles so that I don't crush him when it would be no big deal to acquiesce to his wants. Oh boy. Just when you think you're getting the hang of parenting they go and mature a bit more on you, changing the whole dynamic.

Clarice

Bathtime for Jackson

A vignette captured by Grandpa Law, with special appearances by Grandma Law and Uncle Randy

Empty Nest

Last weekend I went to a party where the infant set swarmed. At one point, there were 3 nursing babies on the sofa. I would have been there with them too, if Jackson weren't at home being cared for by his Uncle Bob and Auntie Melanie. And the day before, I saw 3 friends who are all due in the next 3 weeks. The week before, a couple I've mentored for years had a baby and two weeks prior Ian's best friend and his wife (the friend's wife, not Ian's wife) also had a baby. Babies all around. Pregnancies abound. All this activity has made me feel rather nostalgic. I'm suffering from a variation of empty nest syndrome.

It's kind of funny. When I was pregnant, most of the time I couldn't wait for Jackson to come out. Part of it was exasperation at the discomfort of the pregnant condition. In my third trimester, one of the women I work with would regularly ask me how I was feeling. I'd usually complain about the weight gain, the annoyance of Jackson's hiccups 5-6 times a day (and late at night), and the discomfort of his favorite position, with his foot shoved up against my last rib. And she would always beam and say, "Don't you love it? Isn't it all so dear?" Well, no, I thought. It was uncomfortable. And I wanted to know what he would be like. I was eagerly anticipating the opportunity to find out what he would be like.

But now my pregnancy is over. So I've been reminiscing with these new and expectant moms about the last and first few weeks of pregnancy. And I've realized that there are times when I miss aspects of being pregnant. Now that it's over, I realized that it was dear to enfold his entire being within mine, right next to my heart (literally). I remember watching him when he was first born and realizing that the cute little head tilt he would do when crying was the same head tilt that applied enough pressure to my bladder to make me go running. The little kick that he made against my bottom right rib is the same kick that he now uses to rock himself in his carseat. Now, as he was in utero, he's a mostly mellow kid, who only gets really fussy when he's hungry or sleepy. I'm realizing that he was giving me hints about his personality even before exiting that world for this one. And I marvel that there are people who are confident that life begins at birth rather than in utero. I marvel that he's the same person he was before he was born. I do miss the breathless anticipation of waiting to see how those in utero hints about personality will bear forth. But I am so thankful that I have the rest of my life to watch how what I see now, ex utero, blooms as he grows to manhood.

Clarice

Jackson Pollack

Today Jackson explored painting by using his body. He was moving his arms up and down.

That's the note that was on today's pink sheet, our daily report of Jackson's activities. And this is the picture we were given.


I went to pick up Jackson for the first time on Tuesday. His teacher sat down with me to report on his day. "We finger painted today," she said. I had to stifle a laugh. I mean...really! He's not even 6 months old. What's he going to paint? She continued on. "Here are some pictures." Then I laughed out loud. This time because it was so darn cute. But now that I'm looking at his works, perhaps I laughed too soon. His style is somewhat reminiscent of Jackson Pollack's. Not so angst-ridden, but look at how he chooses to blend his colors. I think we have a budding artiste here.


Clarice