A Soccer Team

Nolan supervises as I change Auburn's diaper on the carpet of her bedroom. It's a wrestling match. The girl is always on the move. I need four arms. The only things I could give her that would occupy her attention for a full five seconds are things she shouldn't have. Like paper, hair clips, car keys. She has a penchant for germs and danger and if you're unwilling to hand them to her she wiggles across the floor looking for it herself.

Nolan is observing the wrestling match as he dreams aloud of the upcoming soccer season. He suddenly stops the soccer talk and asks, "Will you have another baby? You know, you and Dada? Will you have more babies?"

"I don't know," I say. "Do you want more siblings?"

"Yeah. I want enough brothers and sisters to have a soccer team."

This is where I would spurt milk and some would come dripping out my nose, but I'm not drinking milk. I'm trying to velcro the clean diaper closed before the little one squirms away. I lose some ground; she makes a little headway.

"Do you know how many people are on a soccer team, Nolan?"

"No."

"Eleven!" I try sounding as emphatic as I can. I'm imagining the chaos and wrestling of my life amplified an additional eight times. This calls for emphasis and alarm!

He is unphased.

"Yeah, you can have eleven." He is calm and genuine.

I pick up Auburn. Nolan follows us out of the room, contemplating his homegrown team.

"Except... I don't know if you can have them before soccer season starts."

Yeah. I just don't know.

On the Third Day of Summer

Lindsay and Ronelle. June 2002.

It was graduation in the Burg. We knew a few of the graduates, one of whom was my cousin. We attended a party in her honor. All that blue and gold and talk of dorms and universities made me feel a bit reminiscent.

That was me ten years ago (10! I can't believe it!), looking into a foreign future, walking out of Charles O. Dickerson for the last time, preparing to leave not just my parents' home, but the state, this side of the country, a culture, and everything that had ever been familiar. When they handed me a diploma, I was already poised to leap.

Leap I did.

5 years in Utah. 5 years in NY. 2,000 miles from East to West and West to East, 6 times. 4 roommates. Lots of great new friends. 1 Dear John. Married at 20. Changed major 3 times. 4 semesters of Russian. Interned teaching 1 term at BYU's English Language Center. 1 BA in Linguistics. 4 years serving as YW president. Moved 8 times. 1 garage sale. 5 cars. Bought 1 house. Said goodbye to 2 grandpas. Saw 1 brother married. Had 3 kids. 4 cats. 1 dog. 12 chickens.

It's been ten years worth every minute. I have such good memories of where I've been and what I've experienced. I love where I am now and who I am with. It has been a very full and rewarding journey, not without a hitch or two, not without some unexpected turns, but also not without something more to appreciate as a result.

On the Second Day of Summer

I made good on the many promises I've made over the past month that we would go camping when school was out. They had been waiting for this since our last campout when I was heavy with a baby and the summer was bending to the insistence of cool autumn nights.

Not only was this first campout of the season a fulfillment of my word, it was also an experiment. We needed to know how the baby would fare and what kind of adjustments would need to be made for future outdoor overnight excursions. PTB and I both surmised that it would be a long night of tending to a confused and anxious baby.

Two eager brothers and I assembled poles and pushed them through sleeves, gathered wood and bought the fixings for fire food, unrolled sleep sacks and secured a playpen for the baby.

We were only venturing into our backyard. With the howl of coyotes and flash of fireflies surrounding our property, we don't need to go far to feel a part of nature, in fact I feel quite rugged upstairs in my comfy bed so long as the window is open.

PTB built the fire after work. We roasted s'mores and hot dogs and had some garden vegetables on the side. Songs, prayers, and the setting sun followed and the boys, baby, and I climbed into the tent for what I expected to be a long night. PTB stayed up to watch the flames turn to embers and to catch fireflies with which to fill the tent.

It was chilly through the night and I spent most of it hovering just over sleep, but never falling deeply into it. The dog had taken full advantage of her invitation to our campout and had sloppily perched across my lower legs. It wasn't comfortable. Every time I had an itch, I imagined fleas bouncing all over my skin. Worry over the baby never abated, but little Ruth was quiet all through the night until the sun began to light the horizon. I was more than grateful to take her into the house at 5 am, feed her, tuck her into her own warm crib, shower the smoke from my skin and hair, and drop into my own bed for some genuine rest before the boys emerged from the tent. They were apparently well rested. They say they liked camping and are ready to go again.

When we do go again ...
the dog needs her own bed.
I'll remember that summer nights in NY are rarely warm and bring a hat and sweater to bed.
we need not be nervous about the baby; she's a born camper.

8 Months and Forward Momentum

What is an eight month old Auburn capable of?

She is a steady sitter and is trying to figure out how to move out of the sitting position gracefully. So far it's typically a meaningful, but awkward face-plant as she bends all the way forward, stretching until her legs pop out the back and her nose smacks the floor.

She's capable of rolling everywhere, but senses the inaccuracy and inefficiency of sidewards movement. Hence, her fascination the past few days in forward motions. She moves something like a lunatic inch worm. This method of transport also causes her nose to become well acquainted with the floor and not very gently. So far, no nose bleeds, but sometimes I'm quite surprised by this.

Her legs are able to bear her own weight now and she loves to stand holding onto things. She cannot pull herself into a standing position, however, so she is dependent on us to help her.

Auburn eats a lot. Once we moved beyond rice cereal, she became a voracious consumer. Her favorites seem to be sweet potatoes, yellow squash, and bananas.

She is becoming more adept at napping through her brothers' noise. Two naps are standard with a third, short rest in the evening. She sleeps consistently at night between 8pm and 7am.

Articulations these days include single syllables using every variety of consonant combined mostly with "ahh". Mamamama and bababababa are her favorites. She understands and responds to her name and "no". She becomes quite articulate when music is playing or when she hears other people conversing.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She rules the roost, this Babyruth. She has her brothers groveling at her feet and her dad wrapped around her tiny fingers. I'm completely, head-over-heels, in love, love, love. She is a dream. Happy. Gregarious. Charming. Funny. Curious. Bright-eyed. Smiley. Warm. Contemplative. Cuddly. She has the effect of glue in our family, binding us closer together. It's amazing how one spirit in a tiny body can do this and in just a handful of months.

On the First Day of Summer

The first day of summer was also the last day of school-- a half day designed solely for free ice cream, cleaning cubbies, meeting next year's teachers, and enjoying friends one last time. Once dismissed at noon, we hurried our graduated kindergartener home to dress in swim suits and slather in sunscreen. The van was loaded with a ginormous stroller, umbrella, towels, drinks, and kids. Lots of kids. Three of my own and two borrowed. I ignited the engine and the eleven year olds simultaneously started a never-ending round of Kumbaya My Lord. Thirty minutes of northward driving and cacophonous harmonies followed.

Our destination: Geneva State Park of the northern shore of Seneca Lake.

The purpose: relieve our heat traumatized bodies in the cool water of the sprinkler park.

Evidence that the trip was a success:

• We stayed for 4 hours.
• Gerret overcame his obstinacy and actually played in the water (a big change from last year's sideline watching).
• There were no injuries.
• Nobody suffered serious sunburn (I did get some pink on my shoulders... but nothing to complain about).
• The baby was very content to be in the water.
• The boys refrained from quarreling.
• There was almost no whining (a miracle).
• And the eleven year olds gleefully sang Kumbaya the entire trip back.

The Mysterious Itch and Two Weeks of Misery

Raised red spots appeared at the base of my neck. Just a couple, but they provided enough discomfort that I knew it wasn't your ordinary mosquito bite. Next, a sprinkling of equally itchy bumps made themselves known on my right forearm. At this point, I thought I must have run into poison ivy on one of our excursions to the field across the road. I haven't had prior experience with any plant of the sort, so I googled poison ivy rash and compared. Seemed to be my misfortune, so I washed and waited. As the days progressed, so did the spots, up my neck, under my chin, then down my chest, shoulder, both arms, stomach... you get the idea.

There follows two weeks of itching and very little of my body that hasn't been touched and I'm not so sure it was poison ivy... or oak... or sumac. This I do know: it's not contagious (as only I have been affected), it seems to be influenced by heat, the spreading has not slowed yet, we don't have bed bugs, probably not chicken pox, and it is the itchiest thing I have ever encountered.

No joke. No exaggeration. The itchiest.

This Man

I love to be the mother alongside his fathering. It is our greatest adventure yet. It is a lot of trial and error and sometimes chaos, but more of laughing and hugs. Sometimes as parents, I think we get some things right. The wonderful thing is that even though we mostly do trials and errors, we're willing to keep trying. We're in it for good, he and I. We're a team. I couldn't have asked for a better eternal teammate in this eternal game of parenting. He is ever the consistent, attentive, caring dad. In a constant onward motion, he keeps on loving, teaching, caring, fixing, protecting, playing; better and better every time. Our three children love him, revel in his attention, and seek to share many moments with him. I admire so many things about PTB. The list is always growing. Very near the top though is the dad he is and is becoming. Right next to that is the way he inspires me and encourages me as a mom. .

Back on the Charts

The lady baby was measured and weighed at the pediatrician's today for assurance that she is growing. And she is.... shrimpy.... but growing. Here are the stats:

14 lbs. 6 oz. (3rd percentile, weight for age)

26 1/4 in. (25th percentile, height for age)

By the way, 3rd percentile may not seem too impressive, but six weeks ago she was a negative percentile (if those exist). She gained a pound and a half in a month and a half. Does a mama proud.

20 Years a Mormon

My baptism took place on a Tuesday evening after school and after my Little Mermaid birthday party. It was the exact day I turned eight. I remember distinctly that party, attended by a handful of girlfriends. We played some homemade games in the backyard, after which I sat in the velvety armchair surrounded by gift-giving friends as my brother's new kitten bounced between them with unending energy. She was the life of the party and I was grateful, because my mind drifted far beyond the room, the chaos, the toys, paper and bows, birthday wishes, and Ariel. I was just hours away from an event so meaningful that it transcended any eight year old reverie. My anticipation was thick, approaching tangible.

I don't claim to know a lot now, so I definitely knew even less as an eight year old girl, but I did understand this: I was doing something important. I did know that my decision to be baptized could have a lasting effect on my life.

It has.

My heart is so full when I consider how richly I have experienced the past 20 years because of that decision. Every blessing received and every joy experienced can be linked to my baptism and commitment to live by the covenant made then. I am so grateful.

A Callous Instinct to Incubate

Before I had my own chickens, I believed hens were only broody with a rooster around. I thought they could distinguish a fertilized egg.

This is not the case.

Two facts:

1. The instinct to brood seems to dawn arbitrarily. Rooster or no.

2. Broody hens are not choosy. They just want to sit on eggs. Any eggs will do.

A lady in our hen house became violently broody last month. Literally violent. She was so insistent on sitting on a large clutch of eggs that she would attack if you approached. Her beak made a fearsome weapon, drawing blood, leaving no question of her stance.

Her stance was strict and crouched in a nesting box over the eggs of all her sisters; strict to the extent that we never saw her leave the spot unless manually forced (leather gloved and cautious). We began to wonder if she ever hungered or thirsted because she didn't seem to be doing anything to satiate her needs. Maybe she would rot over the eggs, waiting hopelessly for a hatchling.

The violence was taken too far when she drew Gerret's blood one afternoon. Something had to be done. My idea was to eat her. Or get a rooster. PTB researched other ideas. The internet supplied some viable options. As a first attempt, he separated Broody from the other chickens and their eggs for a few days. It cured her. Until next time.