Labor, Naturally

Feb 282012
 

I had not been feeling well in general last weekend. Paul went to Grandma’s house until last Monday night so I kept saying to Ryan, “This would be an ideal time to have a baby!”

Sunday afternoon, partially in jest and partially with the hope that they would work, I made a batch of what I found online called “Jump Start Your Labor” Molasses Spice Cookies and ate quite a few of them. Monday, since I was without Paul, I ran some errands and, when I had extra time, I found myself walking around stores looking at baby things and hoping I would not be pregnant for another three weeks! I walked around for about an hour and a half.

Tuesday morning meant taking Paul to preschool and going to the doctor for my 39 week check up. I’d progressed a little since the previous week, and the baby was low and engaged. “We could induce you, if you’d like,” Dr. M offered.

I declined with a sigh. Much as I wanted to not be pregnant any more, I knew I wanted nature to take it’s course. Dr. M ordered an ultrasound to make sure baby was alright: I was measuring small, and at this point it’s important to make sure there is enough fluid for the baby.

By the time the ultrasound was finished, I had to pick up Paul from preschool. We had lunch, I got the blood test the doctor ordered, and then we went to a friend’s house for a play date. Around this time, Ryan called to ask if I’d mind if he joined the youth group at the temple for baptisms. I wasn’t crazy about him being gone, but I said sure, because really, it wasn’t like I was in labor or anything.

By the time the play date was over, I’d called Ryan back and told him to please not go to the temple. I just felt so off. We were nearly home when Paul reminded me that I need to stop and get milk. I cried at the thought of going back out to the store, but we did it. I bought a number of freezer meals, because let’s face it: if I felt that miserable already, how would I get through another week of pregnancy?

That night, I took a long warm bath. By ten p.m., I was noticing some light contractions but they were irregularly spaced. Ryan went to sleep by about 9. “If it happens tonight, ” he said, “I’d like to be rested.” I dozed off about 10:30.

At 12:15, I awoke to contractions again, this time about four minutes apart. They didn’t get strong, but they were consistent for more than an hour, so we called the sitter for Paul and headed out about 1:30 a.m. or so. Paul was groggy in the car to our friend’s house, but he still was awake enough to say, “It’s time?”

The ride to the hospital was about 20 minutes after we dropped off Paul. The contractions got closer together and I worried we’d make it! And then the real contractions started — a bit farther apart than the weaker ones had been — and I realized those close together ones I’d been feeling were just the beginning, and they were nothing compared to the real thing. I have a bad memory.

At any rate, I labored in the hospital for three hours with regular painful contractions. Ryan was a saint, much as he was last time. He just kept me going through each contraction. “One at a time,” he said. Each one was bad, but then there would be a respite before the next. I was going to make it! This time, I did manage to walk the room a little, to bounce on a labor ball, and otherwise not remain on the bed as I had when I was laboring with Paul.

I was 5 or 6 cm at 5 a.m., and I couldn’t stand the thought that I’d be there for so many more hours to get this baby out! That next hour had some of the most horrible contractions but it was worth it, I suppose, because by 6 a.m. I was complete! Nearly there. We had no idea.

The nurse called my doctor (Dr. C was on call, not Dr. M) and said “come quickly.” Almost immediately, at about 6:05, my water broke (finally!) and I knew it was time to push a baby out. The nurses kept asking me to not push, to wait for my doctor, and I would have none of that.

I have, apparently, false memories of this part: I recall totally losing it. I was yelling at everyone to get the baby out and I didn’t care who took the baby out just do it! I was screaming that I couldn’t move, that I couldn’t stop pushing, that the people there were not listening to me. I don’t remember what I said, I just remember knowing that I couldn’t stop the inevitable! Ryan says I wasn’t that bad in my yelling, and that I seemed fully in control. I remember feeling completely out of control.

At any rate, my doctor got there about 6:15 and by 6:25, I had delivered a newborn baby. I can’t say I felt like dancing out of the room as I recall feeling about delivering Paul: I was pretty sore and I also was rather groggy from being up all night long. But I still felt that rush of accomplishment in knowing I’d made it through naturally again. Of course, labor was half as long as it had been with Paul. I suppose that helps. But I did leave the delivery room thinking “That wasn’t so bad.”  And really, it wasn’t!

Dr. M stopped by on his morning rounds at about 8:30 when I was still in the delivery room. He said, “Well, you were right: you wanted nature to take it’s course!” It seemed quite strange to me to think that less than 24 hours earlier, I’d been in the office dreading the thought of being pregnant another three weeks!

 

 

Unwrapping Your Children

Jul 062011
 

Well, about these girls. They came as they were, unique, wonderful spirits and my blessing was to just unwrap the package to see who they were and to help guide them into who they could be.  I didn’t ever feel like I had to mold them or make them into somebody different than who they were because they were so great when they came. It was a fun discovery to learn who they were. They are different, different people, but they are delightful fun daughters and I always enjoyed our children.

Julie B. Beck on her two daughters

I want to say that about my own children. I never want my son to think I don’t appreciate his own personality. I don’t want him to think that I expect him to be something he is not. That would be a painful thing, to feel like a disappointment. I don’t want my son to feel he disappoints me for being himself.

This means I need to never talk about his faults, or things I disapprove of, in front other people. I need to avoid criticism when he does things differently than I would do them. I need to make sure I don’t manipulate him into doing something I want, when his personality would do something differently. I need to always remember that he came to me a precious spirit, with his own personality. He will make choices different from those that I’d make, but that’s a part of his precious personality.

As his mother, I can help guide him into who he can be. I can help him discover his potential.

I don’t need to mold him: I need to unwrap him.

To listen to the entire conversation between Sheri Dew and Julie B. Beck and her two daughters, visit Mormon Channel.

Reflections

Apr 172011
 
  • In Paul’s primary talk, he said, “Jesus rose for us.” He then, in a different context, saw the  picture of the Risen Lord appearing to Mary and said, “Look, Mommy! Jesus rose-ing!”
  • Normally during Sacrament Meeting, Paul sings “mah blah blah mah!” as loudly as he can in time with the music, as he or I points to the words on the page. Today, the speaker introduced the song, “Behold, the Great Redeemer Die!” Paul sang along with the correct words for the first two lines. I was amazed: he knows that song. I know that is because we go to church every Sunday.
  • Regularly, Paul stops playing to say, “Mommy, I say unto you, I love you!” This is how I know he really does hear the scripture study we do together, even though it seems he’s not paying attention.
  • Paul is regularly teaching me a lesson in humility and generosity, from his sharing his fruit snacks to his outpouring of love. From his example, I better understand the Savior’s injunction to be as a little child. I’m to approach life with sincerity, to love and give without thoughts of “scarcity” and selfishness, and to be honest in my thoughts, words and deeds. (Although I should mention that Paul has learned to lie, he is still for the most part a very truthful, loving, sensitive child.)

Peace and Quiet

Feb 262011
 

“If there are to be constant and bitter recriminations over the state of the house, better, for the man’s sake, the children’s sake and the woman’s sake, a dingy room where peace and quiet are than a spotless abode where no love is.”

Chapter 2, Round about a Pound a Week by Maude Pember Reeves, 1914.

This book is a report on 42 working-class families in 1910 Lambeth (England) who pay rent, eat, and stay clothed on one pound a week and with up to 10 children in the early 1910s. (That’s about $120 US in 2010 equivalent, or about $6200 a year). Book available at Internet Archive.

Read it and you’ll never feed your son a banana or have a glass of milk without remembering it. You are rich as a queen, my friends!

“And She Ministered Unto Them”: Thoughts on Work and Life

Feb 202011
 

bolivia-horseback-ride[1]

Peter’s wife’s mother was sick with a fever. The Savior came in and healed her, “and she arose, and ministered unto them.” (Matthew 8:14-15).

The Sunday school class last week was discussing the miracle of raising her from her sick bed. I was thinking about how she didn’t even get a break. One minute she’s sick in bed, and the next minute she’s making supper. She was probably the Relief Society president, poor lady.

That observation about the women in the New Testament times has been with me as I’ve gone about my week, because it’s not just New Testament times. Women simply don’t get a break from life: there is no running away. I think of when I’ve been sick and Paul hit me with his toys all day long. I think of when I’m in a cranky mood. I can’t just stomp, because I have to remember that Paul has needs. Even when I’m away at book club, I’m still thinking “I wonder if Paul’s in bed yet, otherwise he’ll be cranky tomorrow,” etc. Mothers never get time off. It’s the way it is. “Women should be women and not babies who need petting and correction all the time.”

The Relief Society Visiting teaching thoughts reminded me of the role I have, as a Relief Society sister, in this age:

“Just as the Savior invited Mary and Martha of New Testament times to participate in His work, women of this dispensation have an official commission to participate in the Lord’s work. … The organization of Relief Society in 1842 mobilized the collective power of the women and their specific assignments to build the Lord’s kingdom.” (Sister Beck)

Then, this afternoon, Ryan asked me about the cup of syrup spilled on the bottom of the fridge. I was a bit annoyed, angry, and upset. Yes, far too much. I didn’t want to clean that up. I want nothing to do with cleaning up that sticky mess. Grr! I didn’t knock it over! Yuck! What a pain! I just cleaned the fridge last week!

Less than ten minutes later, Ryan and I had a conversation about when I almost died, almost ten years ago now.

One minute I was eating a slice of meat in a café in Bolivia, not thinking much about life, and the next minute I was turning blue, literally choking from want of air. There was panic initially, but then an overwhelming feeling of sadness came over me. Mostly, I was sad to be leaving the world. I thought of all the wonderful things I’d experienced. Even more, I thought of all I had hoped to happen in my life: falling in love, becoming a mother, and seeing my parents and siblings again, telling them I love them. I wanted one more chance to do something wonderful. I didn’t want my physical body to be dead.

Why was I so incredibly sad? After all, life continues after this one. Why should I be sad when I knew I’d have chances, at some point after this life, to marry, to raise children, and to otherwise continue to progress? Why be sad at the fact that I was done with this life when I’d be soon rejoining the Maker in an even more glorious world? The life after this one is glorious, and this life is rather hard.

But when I got that precious little breath of air once more, about 3½ minutes later, and I realized that I wasn’t going die, that I was okay, that I would make it home again! That I might still fall in love! Be a mother! LIVE! I was so grateful.

So I should not complain so much now. I shouldn’t be so annoyed at the spilled syrup. (All. Over. The. Fridge.) I should be grateful I’m still alive, that I’ve lived to have a husband, and a son, and a home, and a fridge, and maple syrup to clean up.

That, I think, is why Peter’s mother-in-law was so grateful to get right back up and serve the Lord. And that is why we, as women, should likewise rejoice in service. These relationships and opportunities are just what we are here on earth to do.

Today’s Relief Society lesson was also about the glorious principle of work: why should we as home-working women, resent the housework so much?

I need to remember that memorable bite more often. Life is so glorious!

P.S. The photo above is from the horseback ride we went on shortly after my experience. I didn’t take the picture, since my camera had been stolen; one of my friends took this picture.

P.P.S. The Heimlich Maneuver works, if you wanted to know. Please learn it!

Train Restaurant at Home (aka, Making Leftovers Fun)

Oct 262010
 

It’s only for two nights. It’s nothing, but I still miss my husband tonight! I keep thinking of things like “oh, I have to take out the trash” and “Oh, right, I need to make sure all the doors are locked before I go to sleep.” Etc. It’s amazing how quickly I got used to having him home! (And I just talked to him and he apparently <sarcasm>really missed</sarcasm> all the fun that is O’Hare Airport.)

I was feeling sad as dinner came around. Trying to cook for two (and Paul doesn’t like to eat my dinners so it’s mostly for me) does not feel worthwhile. Plus, we had leftovers in the fridge, so I decided the lazy side won out and went for those.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Paul loves going to a restaurant, and he always orders Mac and Cheese. As soon as I say “restaurant,”  he yells out “I want Mac and Cheese!” So I told my son we were going to a restaurant for dinner. I welcomed him to the restaurant, sat him at the table, handed him a “menu” (really a piece of junk mail that was sitting on the counter) and asked him what he wanted: Mac and Cheese (left over from the other night when we did go to a restaurant) or Chicken Nuggets (other leftovers I had in the freezer for just such a night). He had a big smile as he pretended to read, then said, “Mac and Cheese!” I gave him two crackers to eat while he waited and a cup of milk with a straw (since restaurants always give him a drink with a straw), and he happily waited.

Then, out of the blue, Paul said, “Mommy, it’s a train restaurant!” A few months ago (a year ago?!) we went to a restaurant with Grandma and Grandpa in Naperville that did have trains. We sat around a counter and a train “delivered” the food to us. He loved it. So tonight I agreed our restaurant was a train restaurant, and got some GeoTrax from the basement. Soon, we had a small circle track for our battery-operated train. But I wouldn’t turn it on until he took a bit of food!  Turn off, and repeat for each bite.

I had mentioned that maybe after he ate we could have dessert. After a little while, he asked me for the “menu” again, and then he said, “I want some blueberry yogurt for dessert, please.” I hadn’t even suggested it, and I had been thinking of ice cream, but it was fun to know that for him it was a treat to have yogurt.

I noticed a lot of interesting things about this. I was treating him as if I were a waiter (“Hello, young man. What can I get you today?”) and acting all polite. As a result, instead of demanding as he usually does (“MILK! NOW!”), he mellowed out. “Can I please have some more milk please?” Was it the fact that we were in a restaurant (where he normally is more well behaved since it’s in public) or the fact that I was treating him nicer than I normally do? Probably both. I should treat him nicer more often.

At any rate, it made for a fun dinner and it got him to eat more than he would have eaten if I was grouchy as I had been when I was feeling sad that my husband was gone!

Reflections

Jul 182010
 

What is Faith?

After much fasting and prayer (and family financial preparation), Ryan quit his job about four months ago. We both felt it was time. He was working what seemed from my perspective to be 16 hours a day, he had too many bosses, and the traveling every week thing got old about year nine (this was year ten).

As I mentioned, we only took that step after much fasting and prayer. Yet, it then took four months for him to secure his first client as an independent contractor. It was right way back in March, but he did not get a job offer until June. And then, of course, there were two offers the same week and then he got to choose the one he liked best. I found myself wondering many times in the past weeks why Heavenly Father didn’t send one of those two offers back in March or April. Ryan says, “Because Heavenly Father knew that this was about as long as you could handle.” I don’t feel I’ve been particularly faithful: I feel that after that initial decision (which I, too, felt good about) I’ve doubted regularly.

I have learned a bit more about faith. Following those initial strong impressions is not faith. Persisting when I no longer see the end, when I no longer feel strong — that’s faith. The phrase “endure to the end” comes to mind.

Nauvoo

We took a “last hurrah” celebratory road trip to Nauvoo, leaving Monday afternoon once the contracts were signed and his start date set. This was a wonderful thing in so many ways. Some miscellaneous thoughts:

  • The down side to free hotels is that sometimes the right hotel is not close to your destination. Driving an hour to and from Nauvoo every morning/evening is not convenient.  (We stayed in Macomb.)
  • Binkie withdrawl is painful for the child and the parent. Taking the binkie away just before a road trip is either genius or insanity. I’m still not sure which it was.
  • Nauvoo has become huge. My son’s experience visiting Nauvoo will be quite different from my childhood experiences.
  • Even a two-year-old can recognize Joseph Smith and learn about his special experience.
  • Even a two-year-old loves to walk around the temple.
  • Two-year-olds do not want to sit and watch videos in the Visitor’s Center. They also do not have a large enough attention span to visit old house and listen to missionaries. (We made it through two and a half the first day and one on the second.)
  • It’s hot this summer.

Eminent Women

While in Nauvoo, we stopped in a fine arts studio and the painter showed us his work in progress: a painting of the eminent men and women that visited Wilford Woodruff in the St. George Temple in 1877 and asked for their work to be done. (See some info about the event here and Mr. Bedard’s painting here.) Anyway, he mentioned that he needed women to be models in his database so when he gets to painting the eminent women who appeared to Wilford Woodruff, he has faces that he can match with the women who were there.

I said, “Sure.” He said that as he took the picture, I should think about what it would have meant. These women, women like Martha Washington, Abigail Adams, Dolley Madison, Jane Austen, and Charlotte Bronte never had the chance to accept the gospel in their lifetimes. They had heard the gospel since their death and come back to ask for their work to be done. As I thought of what it would have meant, I felt the spirit so strongly. How incredible it is that we can do the work for those who have gone before us!

It made me feel closer to those on the other side of the veil. Ryan and I had the chance to do some sealings for the Reid side of the family a few weeks ago, and it is so special to know that those people do (sometimes) accept the work we do for them. They need us!

The Little Things

While we were in Nauvoo, Ryan and I took the chance to go to the temple, first Ryan in the morning, and then me in the afternoon. I admit, we’d been busy in the heat the previous day, and the nice cool air conditioning, the comfortable seats, and the dark room made this a trial for me. Some of my blinks were kind of long. I felt guilty and wondered why I’d taken the time to come to the temple when I couldn’t give my full attention to the service.

At one point, I had the chance to sit right next to the wall, where there are beautiful murals. Right next to me, I could see a fingerprint in a glob of green paint. It was guiding the paint into the midst of the light yellow-green splatters and I could see the texture. It was incredible to see the texture and to realize that if I’d only step back ten feet, those yellow and green splatters would be the beauty of reeds and leaves on the edge of a little pond. Going to the temple, even when not at my most attentive state, was like one of those little splatters. At the end of my life, those little splatters end up a beautiful mural!

I was telling Ryan this very deep thought when he said, “Hmm, that sounds familiar.” Apparently, Elder Bednar already made this connection. Is this why I thought of it? I’d already heard it? At any rate, I get it now.

In my office is a beautiful painting of a wheat field. The painting is a vast collection of individual brushstrokes—none of which in isolation is very interesting or impressive. In fact, if you stand close to the canvas, all you can see is a mass of seemingly unrelated and unattractive streaks of yellow and gold and brown paint. However, as you gradually move away from the canvas, all of the individual brushstrokes combine together and produce a magnificent landscape of a wheat field. Many ordinary, individual brushstrokes work together to create a captivating and beautiful painting.

Each family prayer, each episode of family scripture study, and each family home evening is a brushstroke on the canvas of our souls. No one event may appear to be very impressive or memorable. But just as the yellow and gold and brown strokes of paint complement each other and produce an impressive masterpiece, so our consistency in doing seemingly small things can lead to significant spiritual results. “Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33). Consistency is a key principle as we lay the foundation of a great work in our individual lives and as we become more diligent and concerned in our own homes. (from an October 2009 Conference Address)

What If…. I Have to Grow Up?

We’ve been working on “What ifs?” lately, such as wills and life insurance and planning for the future. One major “what if” is “what if I need to get a job?” I’ve realized I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Absolutely nothing interests me. I especially can’t stand the thought of going back to proofreading other people’s writing for 40 hours a week. I hope I can just continue being a stay-at-home mom for the foreseeable future. I don’t want to have to grow up anytime soon.

Micro and Macro: Thoughts on Reading the Book of Mormon

Mar 312010
 

Last July, when Paul was about 21 months old, I began reading him the Book of Mormon as we ate our breakfast. At first, of course, he barely noticed. He’d keep babbling to himself as he ate his oatmeal. It didn’t (and doesn’t) take long to read five verses. By October, we’d finished First Nephi and begun Second Nephi.

By the New Year, I began to notice something. Paul, now 26 months, enjoyed Book of Mormon time. He’d point to the book on the shelf as he ate and remind me. He’d request Book of Mormon time during lunch too. He’d repeat words (“Wo! Wo!”). He’d look for the pictures of Jesus in it.

I’ve learned a lot from the Book of Mormon by reading so slowly. First, most verses have some precious truth that even a two-year-old can understand. It sometimes felt challenges reading the Isaiah chapters to him. After all, I didn’t want him to remember the word “whoredoms” at age two and a half. Yet, even in the midst of God’s scoldings, there are verses of comfort, reminders to hear with your ears, and calls to come to God. All these are concepts that we need. When a verse says “Open your ears and hear,” my two-year-old can understand. We’re almost finished with Second Nephi now. I’ll let you know when we begin Mosiah (I anticipate it will be another four months).

In January, I began a personal study of the New Testament. When I thought of the Stake President’s request that we read the Book of Mormon by the next stake conference, I discounted myself. Surely that is guidance for those who haven’t read it a dozen times already! I wanted to keep reading the Bible. I’m unfamiliar with it in comparison to the Book of Mormon.

But by March, I was feeling seriously guilty. One Tuesday night, I picked it up and began at the beginning once again. Knowing I had a “deadline” of April 25, I purposely carved out time every night that first week to read the requisite 20 pages (or so). To my surprise, I found myself compelled by what I was reading, so much so that some days I read 50 pages or more. I wanted to carry it around with me during the morning, which I often do with compelling novels, and read it in snatches when I get a break during the day. I wanted to stay up late reading a little bit more before I went to sleep. I wanted to read it.

I finished it in about three weeks, and it was an interesting way to read it. I wasn’t stopping and reading footnotes. I wasn’t taking notes and pondering the teachings I was reading. I was just reading for the overall spirit of the book. What I got was so much more. I gained a stronger love for the Book of Mormon as a book worth reading and rereading. I was reminded each day of the testimony I have of its truthfulness. And ultimately, I was reminded of the hope there is for me, for as I call upon the Savior’s atonement and seek forgiveness for my imperfections, I can someday return to Heavenly Father, imperfect as I am. The people of the Book of Mormon were blinded by pride, by the desire for power, by hate for those around them. It is a tragedy, and yet the message for me is one of hope.

This read, I most loved the book of Mosiah. I remember someone telling me before that King Benjamin’s speech is not for one who is depressed: he only reminds us of our weaknesses and discourages us further. But on the contrary, I loved everything about the book of Mosiah, especially King Benjamin’s speeches. Rather than being depressed, I saw the hope for me, imperfect as I am. I was inspired by Abinadi’s teaching, Alma’s conversion, and the tales of the two groups of people who were enslaved and reacted in two different ways. Alma the Younger’s miraculous conversion reiterates the fact that there is hope for all: we can all be forgiven.

The other thing I learned from reading the Book of Mormon is the importance of the actual act of doing so. Because I was so enthralled by its pages, Paul saw me reading it, and whenever I sat on the couch to read a few pages as he played with his cars, for example, he’d jump up and say “Mommy! Paul’s Book of Mormon too!” And he’d race to get his own blue copy, the one we read every morning at breakfast. He’d pull himself up on the couch as well and he’d “read” his along with me. (This would often last about 30 seconds, but occasionally he would flip through all the pictures and babble to himself for a good 5 minutes.)

The bottom line is that the Book of Mormon is something to be appreciated on both a Macro and a Micro level. Whether you read five verses a day or 60 pages strengthens you. I’m hoping my next read (which will happen now, concurrently with my New Testament study) will be more in the middle of the two extremes as I ponder footnotes, cross reference, and actually study the words saved for our day.

Beyond the mere fact that reading the Book of Mormon is a blessing, I also gained a stronger testimony of the Stake President’s counsel. Surely, there is a reason to obey.  I am grateful I did.

Words and Songs for Everything: A Lesson in Patience from a Two-Year-Old

Oct 212009
 

A friend in my ward had her baby last week, so I offered to take them dinner last night. She lives on the other side of the ward, so she’s 15-20 minutes away, but I figured I’d get there before 5 and be home long before 5:30 so we could eat our own dinner.

Paul is a great sport in the car — he loves looking for buses and trucks and cars in general. But I hadn’t remembered that we’d be driving through down town Algonquin at rush hour. We ended up not leaving until about 4:40, and so by the time we were driving through down town again, dinner delivered, it was long after 5:30. I was tired of sitting in traffic, and I was starting to get hungry. I kept thinking of the two-year-old still strapped in the back seat. (He often says, “Stuck! Stuck!” as we drive and he tries to squirm, so I know he doesn’t like the car seat part of driving.)

I clutched the wheel tighter and stared at tail lights. I’m sure my frustration was in my voice.

“A few more minutes, Paul! Everyone’s going home right now, so there are lots of cars. We’ll be home soon.”

As I simmered in frustration, staring at tail lights in yet another backed-up stop light, I heard a little sing-song voice from the back seat. I turned to see Paul looking out the window, rocking his head back and forth. He was singing with unintelligible words, but the up and down sounds were familiar and his hands were signing “waiting.” Paul was singing the waiting song!

When his food isn’t ready and he’s hungry, when Mommy’s trying to get the laundry moved before we go to the store and he’s impatient to go now, and any other time that I need him to wait, I sing the waiting song in a  little sing-song voice:

“Waiting! Waiting! Little Paul is waiting! Waiting! Waiting! Paul knows how to wait! Paul knows how to wait!”

Now, here he was, sitting in (what I’m sure is a very uncomfortable) car seat for an hour, waiting for his dinner, and he initiated the Waiting Song.

Sure enough, he has the words. He has a song. Little Paul can wait!

Can Mommy?

In Case You Are Wondering…

Oct 202009
 

I really consider this blog and Paul’s blog very low priority. They are our scrapbooks, and you know how scrapbooks get pushed down to last place.

Paul hasn’t been napping as regularly lately, and when I put him in bed at night, I seriously don’t feel like sorting through two months of old pictures, trying to find something that I can reformat for the web. I find my daily life rather boring, so I’d rather not write up how boring it is for the web.

Once night is here, I’d rather read a book or blog about the books I’ve read.

The more I think about how many pictures I “need” to post on here, the less likely I’m going to do it. So I’m just stepping back, and when I feel like it, I’ll get to it. I do want the pictures up here for future reference!

Something to Ponder

Today I was standing in line at the supermarket when a magazine cover caught me eye. The main headline said

WALK IT OFF! Lose 2 lbs this month

Underneath that was a picture of a large cake covered with M&Ms with the sub-headline that said

Make an M&M Pumpkin Cake! Details page ___!

Now, I’ve never been on a diet and I’m also not much of a fan of candy anyway so maybe it’s just easy for me to say, but seriously: you have to agree there is something wrong with our priorities, when those are the two headlines on a woman’s family magazine. I suspect not eating an M&M pumpkin cake is probably the best thing you can do for your health this month, no matter how much you go walking!

Just a thought.

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