Five Minutes of Thanks

For yet another year, I will set my phone and see how many things I can be thankful for:

My God, my husband, Emry, Ethan and the new baby (even though I am still sick almost all day long). Our church family, especially those friends we have from our small groups. My parents, my sisters, brothers and nephews. Our house. Some nice days to go outside and snow. Books..and a new bookshelf so I could get more of them out! Clothes, heat, running water, good health. Food, freedom, old friends who I can e-mail and text randomly, call and pick up right where we left off. My salvation. God’s unchangeableness. Exercise, even though somedays I simply can’t right now. Running, even though I can’t do that at all right now, but I can go for walks sometimes! Ed’s job, hot showers, my co-workers. Good health for everyone in my family. More books. Old movies I loved as a kid I can now share with my kids. The ability to speak, and move, and breathe. The coming holidays. Color, rainbows, history, puzzles, games and having fun. Knowing that one day I will live in Heaven with my Savior.

Big Words and Young Logic

A few weeks ago, Ethan’s Puggles teacher at church told me how much he enjoys having Ethan in the class, namely because he can communicate almost twice as good as any of the other two-year-olds. After being assured he wasn’t chattering when he needed to be quiet in class, I agreed he does speak very well with a rather exhaustive vocabulary for a tiny kid who is still four months away from being three. In fact, sometimes he speaks better than the three-year-olds in Cubbies!

Ethan has always communicated well. He learned to speak at a very early age, and he picks up words the moment he hears them.  I’m not sure what that tends toward in his future, but I think he has done so because he feels he has to respond to Emry. I shouldn’t be surprised when he runs up to me in the midst of some game Emry has roped him into and declares with big eyes, “Mama, don’t! It’s dangerous!” But sometimes the big words he uses do astound me. One of his favorite books isLittle Blue Truck’s Springtime.I feel like we’ve read it every day before naptime for the past month. On the last page, it drives him crazy that one of the little piglets is on one page and not on the other nine on the other page. The other day, he pointed at that pig and said in exasperation, “That piggy is supposed to be over there.” 

And two-year-olds aren’t supposedto use the word supposed.

Today after spending an hour at one of the indoor play areas at the local mega-church, we had a special lunch with Mom at IHop instead of the usual Chick-fil-a or McDonalds. The kids had never been there and Emry thought the name of the place was fun. I tried to explain to her that it stood for International House of Pancakes, but she apparently didn’t understand because as we were leaving the restaurant, she stopped, looked carefully at the building and then asked, “Mama, where is the bunny?” 

“Bunny?” I echoed wonderingly, but it quickly came to me. I Hop. Surely that means a bunny, right?

I laughed and tried to explain the whole acronym thing again, but I’m sure it went over her head. Thankfully she did accept the fact that the restaurant simply does not have a bunny.

Old Music

I didn’t listen to music much as a teenager. I gave it a shot, but then we got involved in ATI and it all had to be tossed out lest I find myself headed directly to hell because someone hit a drum with a stick. I hated loosing some of that music because I really appreciated one artist especially (and now, I confess, own a couple of her albums again), but what I really hated was the guilt trip and the idea that my salvation was based on keeping a list of do’s-and-don’t’s that I knew I could never keep perfectly. All in all, though, whether this song or that one was right or wrong didn’t matter to me a whole lot. Music was never an essential in my life. I realize that more than ever when I come across some simple song I sang as a child that my children have never heard. Because it rarely crosses my mind to sing with my kids (or without them, for that matter) and then I feel guilty because I’m sure my kids are lacking in their education. But the guilt doesn’t last very long…because then I forget about music yet again.

When I get in one of my parents’ vehicles, XM is always on and nearly always set to my mom’s favorite station of the 60s. Songs she grew up with when she was a teenager. And she loves to listen to. When I get in our car, Ed has it on a station that plays mostly songs of the 80s when he was a teenager. And if he turns music on at home on his phone, it’s the same music. Some of it I actually remember from when I was a small child. Most of the time, I don’t understand what the artist is trying to say anymore now than I did when I was seven. Rock artists really don’t bother to annunciate our beautiful English language. Or they drown it out with drums and loud guitars, On occasion, though, it actually dawns on me what the person is saying and I’m usually left a bit appalled or shaking my head at the stupidity of it all. The other night he had a song playing from the 90s that I don’t believe I had ever heard and it didn’t take me long before I told him,

“Ed, that is the dumbest song I have ever heard.”

“What?” he asks as he stops the music.

“Listen to it,” I said and quoted, “ ‘Next time I fall in love, it will be with you.’ That’s idiotic. I’m not in love with you now but if you stick around, next time I will be. Really?”

I honestly don’t think Ed considers the words of half the songs he knows. He grew up with them. They just echo in his head, something like Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star which most of us don’t really think about, just sing. But now he did stop, a look of realization dawning.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “That is stupid.”

It’s really hard, at times, to consider musicians as artists when all they can think of is idiocy to write about. But maybe that’s just the consequence of too many drums constantly banging in their ears…

Our New Baby

With Emry and Ethan, I had only one ultrasound each at 20 weeks. That was fine with me. I was always delighted to hear their heartbeats at each doctor’s visit, and the ultrasound was so extensive that I was sore for days afterwards as if I had done about 100 crunches every hour for five hours. An hour of rolling that thing over my abs hurt, especially since I hadn’t been doing crunches since I learned I was pregnant.

Today was my first doctor’s appointment with my new doctor. Even though I didn’t expect it to be that different than my previous doctors, I was still nervous. Hence the high-ish blood pressure. But it was no big deal. After all, the doctor I really like pointed out, I’m on number three. It’s old school now. But one thing that was different was the small, mobile ultrasound machine she had. She declared it was probably as old as I am, but it works just fine. And I saw the baby. I even got a picture, much to Emry’s delight. Although she is very upset it is on the refrigerator and not next to her bed. After all, this is her new sister. At least, she fervently hopes so!

Isn’t the baby precious?

Flashcards

I’m sure we all have memories of flashcards. Probably not fond ones. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the constant repetition. Or the fact that one had to do them day after day after day. I remember doing them. I remember having to do them with my siblings, which was probably worse. No one likes flashcards – right?

Well, if you had asked me that two weeks ago, I would have agreed with that assessment. I had met no one who liked flashcards. Then I started flashcards with Emry. I was dreading it. As if penmanship doesn’t cause enough tears. Or some days reading. I introduced them by telling her they would help her learn all the math problems she was doing on her drills, not supposing a 4-year-old would understand the logic of that. But it certainly sounded good. And, I guess, made sense.

Because Emry loves flashcards. She wants to do them every day. She’s excited when I pull them out. She’s delighted when I add new ones. And, the other day, when her math introduced subtraction she turned to me and said matter-of-factly, “Mama, I need flashcards so I can learn these.”

I won’t deny it. I think she’s a little strange…

Sick

Now I can empathize with women who have morning sickness. Any sickness I had with Ethan or Emry was in the evenings and rather minor. I think I was just more tired after a busy day, felt a little sick, and soon headed to bed. The next day I would feel just fine, go out for a run or do some pilates and go on with my day. Except for the usual feelings of being the size of a whale or discomfort, pregnancy was rather simple. 

Not this time.

I wake up sick. I go to bed sick. I feel sick most of the day. Exercise has been regulated to not-at-all strenuous and not every day because it seems to equal simply feeling sicker sooner. The only thing that staves off the sickness is sleep. But sleeping all day long is, sadly, not an option.

Meanwhile I also feel exhausted almost all day long. The fact that the kids are dressed, fed, laundry somewhat completed, dinner prepared, my work done, and the house mostly cleaned is a great accomplishment on my part. Somedays I’m not dressed until noon…or even later. I just don’t have the extra energy to look for something besides my pajamas…which are soooo comfortable.

With Emry and Ethan I wasn’t into maternity clothes until my second trimester. I’ve already pulled them out. Overnight I could no longer wear my own pants or most of my skirts. I nearly cried as I always look forward to pulling out my winter wardrobe and snuggling up in my plaid skirts and warm sweaters. This year it will be ill-fitting jeans, two whole skirts that are serviceable put not delightful, and sweatshirts or shirts I can simply tolerate. At least my feet don’t get any bigger and I can enjoy my boots!

Eating is murder. I’d rather not do it, but I must or I feel even more sick. Nothing except orange juice and chicken sandwiches sound even remotely appetizing, and I could really pass on those, too. Fixing dinner, making grocery lists and going to a store with food in it are torture. 

I simply wish to hibernate and sleep for the next seven months. 

People have asked if I suspect a boy or a girl. Carrying Emry versus carrying Ethan was very different. We didn’t find out with either, but I was 95% sure Ethan was a boy because he carried so different than Emry. This one? Well, if there were a third option, I would go with that. I guess that will make finding out at birth all the more a surprise!

Emry the Artist

Pink is Emry’s favorite color. Usually, if she’s coloring a picture, the whole thing is pink. Pink grass, pink sky, pink people. If she gets to choose the colors used in her schoolwork, she chooses pink. I think, if possible, she would do all her schoolwork in pink. Unfortunately, she has to use a pencil.

Thus far, her creativity in art has been restrained to coloring pictures, occasional watercolor, and cutting paper into shreds.  Sadly, she does not have an artist as a mother. Just putting together an art project takes a lot out of me and since I currently have almost no energy and spend 75% of my day feeling sick to my stomach, art projects are on the very bottom of my to-do list. But, suddenly, Emry decided to take art into her own hands.

During rest time one day, her creative genes suddenly poured over. Before the few hours were over, I had a picture of a yellow Biscuit and a pink pig on my refrigerator. In the weeks to come she drew her first family portrait: Papa all orange, Ethan all blue, me all purple and herself all pink (of course). She needed her Cubbies book so she could draw a picture of Cubbie. She erased math problems from her chalk board wall so she could draw a very fat snowman, a very skinny Santa and Christmas gifts. She has drawn farm animals, her family picking apples from a huge apple tree, and herself swinging. Tonight she told me she loves to draw.

I’m glad. I hate to draw. In so many ways, her four-year-old artwork is much better than my thirty-nine-year-old artwork. For one, she actually sits down at a blank piece of paper and starts creating. I sit down at a blank sheet of paper and…well, can’t come up with anything. Ever. If either Emry or Ethan insist I draw something, I revert back to what I’ve drawn for the past thirty-five years: a house, a rainbow, a set of swings, a sun, oversized flowers, a tree, stick people. Rather sad.

Emry may never be a great artist, but at least she enjoys drawing and creating. It makes my heart rejoice to know she will excel her mother in the world of art.