A Few of My Favorite Things

Dear Mrs. Mitchell,

When three little girls receive a package of homemade dresses,

 

and they learn the dresses were made from curtain fabric,

 

they will burst into song and

 

sound rather like the von Trapp children!

Thank you!

Chapter's End?

It's a road I've traveled hundreds of times. When we first moved to this town, it was the road to Little League. But soon, it became the road to the midwife. Back and forth, back and forth, I'd drive, the rosary CD keeping me company, all the way there anticipating hearing the sound of a tiny beating heart, all the way home reveling in the joy of it all. But that's not why I'm driving here today. I'm on a mundane errand.

Except in my memories. In my memories, I'm re-reading all the stories of their births. In my memories, I'm smelling newborn hair.

All my adult life, with the exception of the year I had cancer, whenever I've had a toddler, I've had a baby on the way. Even in the long gap between Katie and Karoline, there was a baby; we just never got to hold that one. But not this year.

This year is different. It is springtime again. Eight--no, nine-- times, springtime has brought forth the bud of early pregnancy (Christian was the only exception--he was a summer bud). First there is the pregnant spring and then there is the infant spring, the lovely pattern of my life. A sweet, predictable story.

It's not an infant spring, so my mind keeps telling me that it must be a pregnant spring. Except it's not. And that feels very strange.

I remember once when I told a friend that my sixth baby was on the way. She said, "You know, one day, one of them will be the last." And I did know. And that day was always somewhere in the future. I was glad of that. I didn't like to think about it.

Except now I think it might be today. And I'm not quite sure what to do with that thought. I'm reading the last few lines of this chapter very slowly, trying to savor every word. Because really, once I turn the page on these very long, exceptionally sweet phrases, the chapter will be over.

Forever.

Never again.

Never.

That's a long time.

Garden of Hope

We finally got a ten-day forecast of which Francesco diBaggio would approve.

 

So seedlings were set in the ground.

 

A little girl with golden curls has great hope that soon she will pick "squirty tomatoes" warm from the vine, "the sweetest, most goldenest tomatoes in the whole world." She remembers from "a long time ago, back when I was only two."





 

Strong arms and gentle hands take tender care of summer hopes.



 

First fruits of the season. Springtime sweetness dripping from dimpled chins. 
 







 

We can smell grilled chicken rubbed generously with rosemary and thyme, served with tomatoes, basil and mozzarella. Grow, little plants, grow!
 

Note to the world:

My phone won't allow me to send text messages. And it won't allow me to receive text messages.

So, if you've texted me in the last few days, I didn't get it.

And I won't be texting you back.

And I don't know when I can fix the situation, because I really don't have a window for arguing with ATT&T on the calendar any time soon.

I am surprised by how much I miss the ability to text. This time last year, I rarely sent or received any text messages. I pretty much thought they were dumb. Pick up the phone already or send a letter or an email. These snippy little things are hardly communication.

I remember a conversation late in August with Colleen. We were lamenting the effect of text messaging on the youth as only a couple of English teachers could do. No, we were all about more "complete" communication.

And then Bryce died.

The first text I received from Colleen was utterly unintelligible. I had no idea what she was trying to say there were so many typos. Soon, though, we fell into a pattern. She could escape the constant throng of people and tap out a few words of sorrow or a prayer request and I'd know what to do. She didn't have to speak, because really, speech was too much at the time, and so were long letters.

For me, texting was a way to tell her I was available without the jangle of the phone intruding upon her. I'd let her know that I could talk and invite her to call if she wanted. Before we knew it, we cultivated that habit of always texting first. And it's a habit that remains today. By sending a short text, we don't intrude on each other's rhythm. I still don't have conversations via text, but I do see the usefulness of short messages.

I text my children to remind them of all sorts of things. Like

I Love You.

Don't forget your meds.

Buckle up.

Good luck; you'll do fine. 

Thunder at L'ville. Pls go get Nicky and Stephen.

You are not a test result. You are the image and likeness of God.

Short. Sweet. They get the message.

And I text my husband, too.

But I think I'll keep those to myself.

Come to think of it, maybe I can find some time today to get to AT&T:-)

Mother's Day Manicures and More

My babies were sick for Mother's Day. Both Sarah and Karoline had wicked coughs and fevers.  Mike was gone, so Christian dragged himself out of bed to drive Stephen to a far away soccer game and Paddy went along to make sure they didn't get lost keep them company and cheer Stephen on.

I snuggled my  little girl and nursed my baby. And ran out of ginger ale and generic Motrin. I called my mother on the way to the grocery store. Dropped the call

I actually ended up at three different stores. Generic Motrin is hard to come by in these days of the McNeil recall. And Tyelenol alone wasn't touching the fever. When I finally found what I wanted, I wandered down the aisle with bubble bath and nail polish. There were three little girls there with bouquets and cards. They were holding their Daddy's hands as they chose bubble bath gifts.

I have little girls.

I briefly pondered the possibilities of a pity party.

Nah.

Instead, I decided that bubbles are a girl's best friend. Especially when she's not feeling well.

I picked Mike up at the airport in time to for him to take all the boys to Nick's game.

And then I revealed the Plan to the girls.

Flowers on the tub.

An assortment of yummy smelling goodies for during and after a warm bath.

 

Fun in the bubbles.

Pink bathrobes for all of us.

A baby massage while we sing, "I rub, rub, rub you 'cause I love, love, love you." (It usually makes her much happier.)

Pink pedicures and Pink manicures.

Tiny fingers and toes and a wee bit of a smile on those faces.

Our favorite cookies

Gingered tea punch.

And an unexpected  phone call with the news that Gracie will soon be home. To stay. Not long now, and there will be ten children under the roof, if Michael still counts as  a child.

Dad and the boys came bearing gifts: flowers, an Indian feast, espresso chip ice cream and the promise of a darling movie. We ate together around the big table and then snuggled up for the movie. Sarah felt well enough to dance little jig to the Irish tunes and Karoline sighed contentedly at the end, "Now they are married and they will have babies and whole big family. What a happy story!"

I put my babies to bed and my husband put me to bed.

Mother's Day. Lovely.

What a happy story!