Mt. Rainier 

A few weeks ago, I wrote about our trip to Mt. Rainier. Here is the picture I took at the end of the trail . . . right before Babygirl began her screaming descent.

Nice kitty.  

This is Babygirl on the Fourth of July, manhandling one of our three kittens. I don’t have anything witty or eloquent to say. This picture, I think, is worth a thousand words, or maybe six hundred, at least.

And here Babygirl is, blowing bubbles in the backyard. Same day, different fun:
Bubble-girl  

Gnome.  

Remember how I thwarted Babygirl’s plans to steal the neighborhood gnomes a few weeks ago?

Imagine my surprise and Babygirl’s delight when a package arrived in the mail just a few short days later. Inside, I found a gnome. Babygirl’s eyes lit up and she’s been taking gnome to bed with her each night.

Who is our gnome benefactor? That would be Jen, author of SissyFit.

Jen keeps a few gnomes around her house for just such an occasion. What a cool friend she is. Thanks, Jen!

Babygirl did her part today to make sure that I didn’t feel the swoosh of time whizzing by. She drove me crazy. All day, starting with her wake-up call at 7:15 a.m.

Babygirl has a new obsession: the shower. She wants to take two, sometimes three showers per day. She doesn’t stay in the shower, however, but comes running out, all shivery, with chattering teeth and I say, “Hey, are you all done?” and she says, “No, I shower!” and then she swings her arms as she runs back to the bathroom. Then, just as the shampoo container says, “rinse and repeat.” She does this over and over again until I finally outwit, outplay and outlast her by turning off the hot water. Who’s the survivor now, chickadee?

Babygirl was mostly weaned until this week and the trauma of seeing the photographer, being actually touched by the doctor and having a loosey-goosey schedule has flung her backwards in time and now she cries out at random times throughout the day–while I am washing dishes or struggling to undo the bolts on the iron railing in the living room that must come out now so I can paint–“Mama chair! Mama chair!”

Today, my neighbor stopped by with her little girl who is four. My neighbor is a lovely woman who takes my son to school and this year, we actually reciprocate by picking up her son along with our son. Last year, she picked up and dropped off every single day. We are losers. I know.

Anyway, I invited her and Malini in and Malini rushed past me into the living room where Babygirl was minding her own business, watching television and when she saw Malini before she saw me, all sorts of alarms and whistles went off in her head and she completely freaked out.

She cried and cried, while I attempted to soothe her and chat with my neighbor. Babygirl does not like surprises. She handled that particular surprise so poorly that I have to wonder if she’s getting sick or perhaps suffering from an inoperable brain tumor or developing paranoid schizophrenia.

My neighbor and her daughter stayed for an hour, maybe longer, and toward the end of the visit, Babygirl warmed up and stopped her hysterics. When they left at 11:00 a.m., I was worn out.

Here are the things Babygirl prefers that I refrain from doing in her presence:

1) Wash dishes.
2) Fold laundry.
3) Put away laundry.
4) Read the newspaper.
5) Read any book, other than “Moonbear.”
6) Prepare the living/dining room walls for paint.
7) Sit at the computer.
8) Cook dinner.
9) Talk on the phone. (When the phone rings, she drops everything and runs for the phone, yelling, “I got it! I got it!”)
10) Watch television, other than Sesame Street and the Wiggles.

Oh, and she doesn’t want me out of her sight, either. I thought I’d go to the small group Bible study at church tonight. I haven’t been for weeks, maybe months. I changed into something without baby smears on it, put on make-up while she dug her fingernails into my eyeshadow compact, fixed my unruly hair, brushed my teeth while she stood on the bathroom counter and finally, put on shoes and told my husband, “You can distract her by offering her a S-H-O-W-E-R.”

He scooped her off the bathroom counter and told her she could have a shower and she began to wail, “Mommy! Mommy! No shower! No shower!”

With an exasperated throw of my shoes, I said, “Fine. Let’s get your pajamas on.”

I felt like I stood myself up. I put her to bed at 7:30 p.m. and as my husband said, “You are all dressed with no place to go.” I said, “Yes, I am pathetic.”

So, I went to Marshall’s to shop the clearance rack and then to Dairy Queen for a “Blizzard.”

At least the world wasn’t on fast-forward today. Every moment meandered by with exquisite slowness. I told my husband tonight, “You forget because you’ve been to Portland and out to lunch and out of the house all week that some of us haven’t gone anywhere or done anything for weeks.”

He said, “Are you saying I’m a bad person?” which is our standard reply to each other when we are having a somewhat serious discussion.

And, if I hadn’t been so crabby, I would have remembered the correct answer, which is, “No. I’m saying you’re fat.”

Tomorrow, what to do, what to do. . . paint the living/dining room? Get out of the house without kids? Catch up on laundry? Pay bills? Take the kids swimming on the last Saturday the pool will be open this season? My husband is officiating at a wedding at 4:30 p.m., so he’ll be gone during the afternoon.

At this point, my main goal is to sleep in, as much as is humanly possible living with these four children who have no respect for the sanctity of sleep on Saturday mornings. It’s an outrage, really.

Happy Birthday, Babygirl.  

Two years ago . . .

I woke up on Labor Day and decided that I must catch up on the ironing. I was nine months pregnant and due in three days. My husband went to the office for a few hours to get caught up on work and planned to come home after lunch to take the boys to the swimming pool. I showered and got busy ironing and doing laundry.

When I finished the ironing, I decided to tidy up the main bathroom. Then I thought I should clean the toilets and sinks. I figured I may as well vacuum my room since the vacuum cleaner was upstairs. Then I noticed the dusty lampshades near by bed and vacuumed those, too. Then I dusted my entire room as well. Finally I realized it was close to lunchtime and went downstairs to put a frozen pizza in the oven. An enormously pregnant woman does not care if her already alive children must subsist on frozen pizza. She just does what she must to get by.

While I was in the kitchen (cleaning it while the pizza cooked), I noticed what seemed to be fairly regular cramps. I hesitated to call them “contractions” since I was still three days from my due date–my other baby hadn’t been born until 9 days past his due date–so I just worked right through them. They were about four minutes apart, though, which I noted on the kitchen clock. At 1 p.m., the pizza was ready and I fed the kids. I made a batch of chocolate “no-bake” cookies to take the the pool later on. Then I made myself a tuna sandwich and got on-line for a few minutes to catch up on email. The contractions continued on steadily every four or five minutes.

My husband came home. He planned to take the boys to the swimming pool since Labor Day was the final day it was opened. He’d leave at 2 p.m. and I intended to stay home and rest until 4 p.m. when we planned to have a little cook-out with our friends. At about 1:45 p.m., I told him I was having contractions but that I didn’t think they were really labor. He offered to stay home, but I said, “No, just go.” I really thought they would slow down if I took a bath and laid down. My other labor lasted 43 hours and came and went, lollygagged, really.

I called the midwife at 2 p.m. and told her that I was having these fairly regular contractions, but that I intended to rest and see if I could make them go away. We discussed that “real labor” would mean that the contractions would progress in some way–they’d get stronger, closer together, more intense. I told her I’d call her back if I couldn’t make them stop.

2 p.m.: Ran a warm bath, sat back, relaxed. Contractions continued.

2:30 p.m. With great effort, I lift my pregnant body out of the bath. I relax on my left side and watch the Labor Day episodes of “A Baby Story”. Just for hoots, I decide to time contractions. They are now two to three minutes apart, sometimes four and last a minute usually. I vaguely remember that the length of the contractions matters more than the space between them.

3:00 p.m.: After half an hour, I grab “The Birth Book” to find out what I can about the length of contractions. I still can’t decide whether to call the midwife, but contractions are starting to hurt. I’m breathing through them, sitting on my labor ball in the bathroom. The book says contractions closer than four minutes and longer than a minute mean it’s really labor.

3:30 p.m.: I decide to call the midwife, but now I’ve started crying during contractions. Just when I compose myself, another contraction starts. I page her. When she calls back, I answer, “Hello,” and then have to say, “Just a minute,” and put down the phone while I’m having a contraction. I tell her how close they are and that I don’t know why I’m sobbing during them. She says she’ll come and assess me.

I decide to go downstairs and wash the lunch dishes. But on the way, I see the disaster area in my boys’ bedroom. I stop and crawl around, picking up toys and clothes and cleaning. I stop every two minutes to have a contraction. I decided to stop crying and now I’m talking to myself through each one: “this is the last time I’ll have this contraction” and “it’s all right . . . it’s all right” and “I can do this” and “see, it’s over” . . . Since the vacuum is still upstairs, I vacuum and put clean sheets on their bed.

4:00 p.m.: When I take the vacuum downstairs, I see that the living room is a bit messy. So I tidy it up. I kick plastic army soldiers to one spot so I don’t have to bend over too many times. I put the couch cushions back into the couch and straighten the pillows. I kneel at the coffee table and hold on and moan during contractions. I sit in the chair and watch out the window and breathe. I figure the midwife will be here by 4:15 p.m. or 4:30 p.m. I can make it until she arrives.

The contractions don’t ease up, no matter what I position I try, and I try everything: I lay on the bed, I hold on to the wall, I kneel, I lay on the ground, I sit in a chair, I walk, I lay my head on the cool kitchen counter while I grip the edges of it. My dog, Greta, is crated and barks at me when I moan in the kitchen. I realize I can’t possibly stand at the sink to wash dishes and settle for filling a waterbottle with ice and water. I go upstairs.

4:30 p.m.: The midwife arrives and I hear the doorbell, but I’m in the middle of a contraction, so it takes me a minute to get downstairs. I tell her that if this is not actually labor, I’ve changed my mind and I no longer intend to have a baby.

We go upstairs and I have a few contractions before she actually checks me. I lay down and study her face and think “I’m probably not even dilated at all.” So, I’m shocked when she tells me I’m definitely in labor; I’m at 4 cm. She wants to leave her hand there and feel the strength of the contractions. At the end of the next contraction, she tells me I am now 5 cm and I’m going to have a baby!

5:00 p.m. We are trying to get the birth tub filled with water. She has to get the hose from outdoors where it’s stored (in a special box). I was not prepared at all to actually have a baby. The tub is set up, but the hoses are still outside. I am no help, because everytime I have a contractions, I fling myself to the ground and moan and writhe. This happens every two minutes.

She calls her assistant and her student midwife. I call my sister, who tells my mother and calls my other sister. I call my labor support people, but I can’t reach one and leave a message. The other lives 2 hours away and I tell her that she needn’t hurry, but that I am in labor. My husband calls from the pool and I tell him I am very definitely going to have a baby, but that he should keep the kids at the pool as long as possible. All of these phone calls are interrupted by hard contractions in which I throw myself to the ground or the bed and moan. I hear my midwife telling her assistant on the phone that I am having “whopper” contractions every two minutes apart.

5:30 p.m.: The student midwife has arrived. I am now moaning through my contractions. They call it “vocalizing,” in Birthing From Within, and that’s the chapter that I skimmed through, confident that I would handle this labor as I handled my previous labor: stoically, silently, with steady breathing and counting and hand-holding.

But these contractions are nothing like my prior experience. These are knock-me-down-without-warning contractions. These are roller-coaster-at-50-miles-an-hour contractions. These are prize-fighter-hit-me-in-the-gut contractions. I cannot find any relief, despite position changes. At last, the pool is full enough and I get in. The contractions do not ease up or slow down. I clutch the sides of the pool and moan. I ask my midwife how much closer the contractions will get. She tells me this is it! They won’t get closer. I am so relieved.

The labor is nothing like my first labor. Instead of easing into each contraction and breathing as it peaks, I enter each contraction full-force, no time to breathe, no time to visualize. I haven’t lit my candle, I haven’t turned on music. There is no time. I merely hang on to the pool, relax my body in the water and holler. I am impressed with the variety of screams and yells and hollers and moans and groans and whoops that I make. I sound very much as if I’m at an amusement park, on the scariest, upside-down ride going fast, really, really fast.

6 p.m.: My mom and sister arrive. I’m between contractions, so I look up at them calmly and say, “Hi. I’m having really hard contractions and I’m going to scream in a minute. Don’t be alarmed.” Then I float on my side and begin screaming, really screaming like Drew Barrymore in “Scream.” I am aware of them getting cameras set up and between contractions, I tell my sister it could still be awhile and not to take too many pictures of me just screaming.

6:15 p.m.: I hear the phone and realize it’s my husband, but I can’t stop screaming anyway. They tell me he’s on his way.

6:15 – 6:30 p.m.: I ask, “Do you think it’s going to be soon?” and the midwife offers to check me. I get out of the pool and she tells me I’m at 8 cm and will soon be pushing. When I get back in, the contractions have changed and now at the end of each one, I can feel pressure and I realize my body is pushing. My vocalizing changes with each push.

For about eight contractions, I know that the baby is coming. I reach down and can feel the bag of waters nearly bulging out. I tell the midwife I can feel it “and that means the baby is right there, too, right?” I ask with pitiful hope, but severe doubt. I’m pretty sure no baby will ever come. She assures me that it is. A few more contractions and I say, “Do you think I should change positions?” and the midwife says, “You can do whatever you want. You can get out if you want.” And I say, “No, I don’t want to get out. I don’t want to get out. I don’t want to get out.” I decide to get on my knees.

I position myself on my knees, with my arms and head leaning on my bed. When the contraction starts, I feel a pop, then I feel the baby move down and begin to crown. I yell, “The baby’s coming!” On the next contraction, I feel the head move out and the body begin to emerge. I yell, “GET THE BABY” several times because I am pretty sure that the baby will float out and no one will notice. The next contraction, the baby is out.

I flip over and the baby is in my arms. We’re all rubbing its back. It looks so little! Finally, someone says, “What kind of baby is it?” and I say, “I’m going to check!” and I turn it over on its back and see that it’s a girl! I yell, “IT’S a GIRL!” and my mom squeals and we all cheer and the baby cries.

Ten minutes later, my husband arrives.

And that’s the story of Babygirl’s arrival. She was born at 6:52 p.m., after less than 6 hours of active labor. She weighed 8 pounds, 8 ounces, was 21 inches long. She doesn’t have much hair, but she has long fingers and toes and is surely the most beautiful baby ever.

And now, I blinked and she is two years old. Happy Birthday, Babygirl!

My dad, his brother, sister and cousins, during the 1950s.  

My dad was born on this date in 1942. He was a war-time baby, born while his father was serving overseas during World War II. I have no idea where my grandfather was stationed, nor what he did. Such are the perils of having a father who did not speak much of his past and of living thousands of miles from my grandparents.

Once, during a college break, my dad took me to the local bakery for donuts. I probably had an apple fritter and he probably had a lot of coffee. Out of the clear blue, he began to tell me about the last time his father ever hit him. My dad said he grabbed a shotgun and pointed it at my grandfather and said, “If you ever hit me again, I’ll kill you.” After that, my grandfather never touched him again.

I heard whispers that my grandfather was an alcoholic. It was hard for me to imagine this quiet, gruff, slow-moving man as a raging, violent alcoholic, because by the time I knew him, he was worn out and broken and concerned mostly about the production of his vegetable garden. I did witness him whacking a catfish to death in a utility sink once, but that’s really beside the point.

We only visited his house in Ohio a time or two–once when my dad sent my mom on a car-trip with us four children (my sister was 3, my other sister was 10, I was 11, my brother was 12). My mother was under strict orders from my dad not to tell anyone that he intended to divorce her. Their relationship was so distorted, that she agreed to this deception, for some reason and off we went, stuffed into our blue Renault, driving across the country. The only serious mishap we had was outside of Spokane, Washington, when my mother grew so distracted while making sandwiches as she drove that she ran into the guardrail along the freeway. I remember banging my head hard against the window and everyone screaming, but we were fine. Just a scrape and a dent along the side of the car. She didn’t tell my dad about this accident until we got home.

So, we drove and drove–before the days of Gameboys and DVD players in cars. We stopped at Wall Drug Store in South Dakota (or North Dakota–it’s so pathetic that I can’t keep them straight). We saw Mt. Rushmore. I remember nothing else of the trip, other than the small bear/monkey I bought that was able to suck its thumb. I carried this little stuffed animal with me during the rest of the trip. I also remember that I wore rainbow toe-kneesocks witn pockets on them during this trip. I was very fashionable for an 11 year old.

We stayed with my grandparents in their drafty house, which smelled of mothballs and stale food. My brother was traumatized for many years after that trip when he would recall how Grandma Chloe (pronounced KLOW, rhymes with SLOW) made tuna salad without draining the oil from the can. Let’s just say, we were all kind of grossed out by the vast quantifies of home-cooking.

My grandfather had mellowed and I have very little memory of him speaking or actually doing anything.

But this is supposed to be about my dad, isn’t it?

My dad left home when he was 18. He was already an avid ham radio operator and had an interest in the radio business. But he went to Central Bible College in Minneapolis, Minnesota, to become a minister.

He met my mother, a fellow student, and very quickly, they were engaged, then married. They were both 19. One calamity after the next occurred and before they knew what hit them, they were college drop-outs and the parents of a baby with another on the way. My brother was born when they were 20 and I was born 16 months later. My sister was born 16 months after that, so by the time my dad was 24, he was the father of three children. By then, he didn’t even attend church with us. His faith had taken a major beating by the hardships of life.

He couldn’t seem to find just the right job and if he didn’t quit, he was fired. He worked in a jello factory, he plucked chickens, he sold china door to door, he worked as a disc jockey, he worked in a meat market. He fixed televisions, he did manual labor, he sold stuff. They moved a lot–twenty-five times in five years–and not just from one street to the next. They lived in Wisconsin, Kansas, Montana, Minnesota, Wisconsin again and finally Washington state, where my dad finally landed a job he deemed worthy of him. He was a ship-to-shore radio operator. He worked graveyard, midnight to eight in the morning. He held this job for thirteen years and then the company closed down his station and laid him off.

Which happened right after I had qualified for a full four-year scholarship through the company. Bummer for me.

My dad was a creative soul with an analytical, logical mind. So many things interested him–SCUBA diving, hiking in the mountains, visiting Russian ships in the ports of Seattle, building computers from kits, fixing radios, televisions, anything electronic, ham radio, building things (a swing for the front porch, an entire room, a desk), traveling, comedy, community theater. He loved to travel and went to Australia, explored Europe by train and the United State by motorcycle.

He loved to laugh and had such a distinctive, hearty, belly-laugh that comedians and actors on stage loved having him in their audience. He would laugh so hard at Johnny Carson or Hee-Haw that he would rock his body up and down in his recliner, making it open and close in rhythm with his laughter. My dad’s laughter was better than sunshine, better than summer vacation, better than chocolate.

He loved chocolate chip cookies, good donuts, pizza, Paul Harvey on the radio, riding his motorcycle, and Sunday drives in the Cascade mountains.

On my wedding day, he looked so handsome in his rented tuxedo. I sort of insisted that he get a tux–he was just going to wear a brown suit. As he walked me down the aisle–his first child to marry, his oldest daughter–I thought I might burst into tears, so I leaned and said, “Say something funny,” but he couldn’t hear me and by the time I said again, urgently, “Say something funny!” we were half-way down the aisle and gulping back our tears.

My favorite wedding picture of us shows big smiles verging on hysterical laughter. The photographer had said to us, “What’s her nickname?” and my dad paused and I hissed to him, “DON’T YOU DARE!” and he chuckled and I choked back laughter because his nickname for me–one of many–was “Spongy-butt.” (No, Dad, I don’t have any body-image issues. Thanks much.) Boy, we look happy in that picture. We were happy, too.

I moved with my new husband to Connecticut and while we were there, my dad surprised us with an October visit. He and I drove to Vermont, snapping photographs of the changing leaves in the foggy mist. That was his last October.

The next spring, he was diagnosed with metastatic melanoma. He died four months later. I arranged his funeral, hosted the luncheon afterwards, went through his shirts and shoes and drawers full of stuff. I found a stack of letters and cards deep in his closet. Rubberbanded together was every note, card and letter I’d ever sent to him, from the time I was a small child to my days as a new bride working in a law office. This man–the unsentimental, intimidating, multi-faceted man–kept his heart hidden, too. I didn’t know the true depths of his love for me until I unbanded that stack of letters, until he was gone. I was gypped. Three weeks after he turned 47, he died.

A close friend of his told me in the following months, “You were his shining star.” I didn’t know. I didn’t realize he was proud of me, that he missed me, that he adored me. Until afterwards.

He was a remarkable, complicated, wounded man. He was my dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I miss you.

This afternoon, my twins went to their twin friends’ house to play, leaving Zach stranded here with me and his sleeping baby sister. When he realized this injustice, he began to cry and said, “Why can’t I go?”

I said, “Well, honey, there’s no one to watch you over there.”

He said with disgust, “I can watch myself!” Then, “I am going to be so bored! There’s nothing to do around here!”

I said, “Bummer. Well, do you want to be bored in your room or in here?”

Amazingly enough, he went outside and found a way to amuse himself. It’s tough to be five years younger than your brothers. Awhile later, the neighbor boys showed up and played with him for thirty minutes, softening the blow of being stuck home alone without his brothers.

My husband came home at 4:00 p.m. so I could have the car and take the kids to the school Open House. Only, two of the kids were gone, so we revised our plans and he took Grace for a car ride while I walked with Zach down to the school. On the way, he said things like this:

“Mom, would you be scared if the entire world was sucked into a giant vortex?”
“Mom, did you know there are bugs that can battle spiders?”
“Mom, I heard there is a spider that is so big it can eat a mouse.”
“Mom, did you ever hear about that beetle who can shoot acid out of its (here, he points to his rear end) back?”

I said, “Where did you hear about this?”

And he said, “The extreme channel.” It’s not actually a channel, but rather, a show–something about Extreme Animals, I think on the Animal Planet. That show profoundly affected him, apparently. He said, “Thad kind of spider is only found in the Rain Forest.” I said, “Well, I guess we’d better not go to the Rain Forest.” He said, “No, I don’t want to have my hands eaten by a spider!”

We arrived at school and located his classroom and met his teacher. I recognized her because my twins went through the same school. She seems lovely and kind and extremely organized. Her room was neat and tidy and uncluttered visually, which matters to me because I am so distracted by a crazily messy room.

Zach’s favorite friend, David, is not in his classroom, which I figure is a good thing, as David’s been described to me as “active” (by his mother) and “energetic” (by my neighbor, a classroom volunteer). When I asked my son why he liked David, Zach said, “He loves action!”

Anyway, my son tends to like action, too, and likes to incite his classmates to giggle at phrases like “nickel and a pickle.” Last year, during the closing program, my son yelled out “pickle” during a pause between songs and the boys surrounding him all chortled with kindergarten glee.

My boy loves to get a laugh. He also thrives on doing well and meeting his teacher’s approval, so he gets good grades and excellent comments, but he does have that tendency to go for the laughter.

We lingered in his classroom awhile, then headed to the library to buy some books at the Book Fair. Then back to the classroom for further investigation.

I can’t believe school starts in two days. I can’t believe I am keeping my twins home for school. I can’t believe my baby is going to be two in two days. I can’t believe it’s 11:20 p.m.

Tonight, at 6 p.m., I looked at my baby prancing in the kitchen and said to my husband, “Hey, how about if I leave her with you and run to Target?” And he said, “Why don’t you just take her?”

I sighed and said, “Fine,” in that way that means, This is not fine, far from fine, why can’t you see that I just want to be alone in the car, listening to the radio and thinking a linear set of thoughts without interruption and then shopping in the store without distracting, amusing, entertaining, corralling and soothing the wild beast that is my daughter shortly before bedtime? Out loud, I suggested to Grace that we’d be going to the store, “But first, let mama change your diaper.”

Grace did not want her diaper changed, but finally relented. But then, she wanted to pull her pants on by herself. I sighed deeply, cradled my forehead in my hands and despaired. She pulled the jeans on, threw her hands into the air in a victory salute and shouted, “I DID IT!”

And then she pushed her jeans back down to the floor so she could pull them up all over again.

That went on for about twenty minutes. I gave up and said, “Hey, you want to take a bath?” She very happily said, “Zes,” and headed for the bathroom, where I grumpily sat on the toilet and watched her pour water over her head four times in a row, asking for “towel” each time to dab her eyes.

Sometimes, I just want to leave the house without complicated negotiations and arrangements. Alas, that day seems very far off. I finally deposited a somewhat sleepy Grace into her bed at 8 p.m. on the dot.

Then I went to Target and spent more money than I expected. I always do. But now, we have snacks, we have the remaining school supplies, we have lunchbox snacks, we have milk, we have laundry detergent and other stuff too boring to mention.

Tomorrow, I’m sleeping in, without the impending horror of having to take Grace to the doctor or the photographer. Tomorrow’s challenge will include getting haircuts for three boys who find visiting the barber to be utterly boring and as close as they have ever come to a near-death experience.

Babygirl went to the doctor this morning. I told her in advance that the doctor would touch her tummy and look in her ears. She repeated “doctor” and “tummy” and seemed all right with the idea.

I did not warn her about the dangers of standing on the scale at the doctor’s office, even though I should have known. I cry when I have to stand on the doctor’s scales, too. Doesn’t every American girl?

As I was taking off her shoes so I could place her on the scale, she asked to go home in a mournful voice. Then I stood her on the scale and at the exact same time, the nurse stuck a thermometer in her left ear, saying, “Oh, I’m sure she’s had this done lots of times before,” and Babygirl let out a yelp, following by an outraged scream.

Babygirl is not accustomed to having her temperature taken, nor is she used to people shoving things into her ear. She’s never had an ear infection, nor has she ever had to see the doctor for an illness. And she resents anyone entering her personal space. So, she continued crying while I held her against the wall so her height could be measured.

My Babygirl is now 26 pounds and 34.5 inches–in the 50th percentile and 75th percentile, respectively. I took her to the doctor last when she was 13 months old. That visit went very badly, with Babygirl screaming her head off and the doctor consulting her computer charts and gravely telling me that if Babygirl didn’t fatten up, she’d have to have more tests. “So bring her back in two months for a weight check and a flu shot.” The doctor didn’t give me time to ask questions, nor did she ask anything about Babygirl’s development (which was perfect, because she is the Perfect Baby, aside from her stranger anxiety). I was very upset with the doctor’s doom and gloom comments about my long, thin girl who was and is very healthy and smart.

I didn’t take her back two months later. In fact, I didn’t take her for her 18 month check-up either. I fully expected to be scolded today, but everyone was quite pleasant. Everyone except Babygirl.

We will never know Babygirl’s head circumference, because she refused to let either me or the nurse put the measuring tape around her blond noggin. Then the nurse pulled up the computer screen showing Babygirl’s immunizations and glory be to God! Babygirl was up to date on her vaccinations! I thought she’d missed some scheduled immunizations from the missed 18 month check-up, so I was fully expecting Babygirl to get a shot or two today.

The nurse left and Babygirl settled down, only occasionally gulping and hiccuping and saying “Go home! Go home!” When the doctor opened the door, Babygirl jumped and started crying again.

Then the doctor had the nerve to look in Babygirl’s eyes and ears. She pressed on Babygirl’s tummy and examined her spine and her hips and Babygirl shrieked as if she was being eaten by alligators, one finger at a time. This is a child who will never be abducted because anyone foolish enough to snatch her would regret it within ten seconds, drop Babygirl and slink away. Babygirl will not stand for anyone to touch her or talk to her or get within two feet of her.

When we left, I said, “Say bye-bye to the doctor,” (who’d just given her a Barbie sticker) and Babygirl paused for a split second as if considering a polite “bye-bye,” then turned her head again and hid her face behind my neck.

Then Babygirl said, “Donuts,” and so, just to ensure that Babygirl will indeed remain above the 50th percentile in weight and as a bonus, also have an eating disorder, we went straight to the drive-through donut shop and bought a dozen donuts with chocolate frosting.

Her brothers whooped and hollered as if it were a surprise holiday when they saw the donuts. It was. A holiday, I mean. It was “Babygirl Had No Shots Day,” a cause for celebration, indeed.

This week, I have no DaycareKid. It’s practically a vacation, except that I still have these four kids who actually live here. And no maid.

I made appointments this week, then–this morning, Babygirl had an appointment to have her picture taken and tomorrow, she’s going to the doctor for her check-up and vaccinations.

When I opened Babygirl’s bedroom door this morning, her eyes were sleepy and her hair was mussed and she stuck her lower lip out unhappily. Normally, she wakes up slowly, I think, and when she’s ready to see people, she screams my name, “MOM! MOM!” I went in before that point and she looked at me sadly as I picked her up and said, “Tummy hurt.”

Uh-oh. Not a good omen.

I smiled brightly at her and in my most cheery voice chattered as I changed her diaper and put on her tights and gave her a drink of water and told her we were going bye-bye. I did my best not to upset the delicate balance of her toddler world, not an easy task. I ironed her new, pretty pink dress and put an older dress on her so the new dress would stay pressed and clean until we got to the photography studio. Being a girly-girl, Babygirl enjoyed getting on her tights and her shoes and didn’t even mind when I wet down her hair to reactivate her curls. She probably would have liked it if I put a little lipstick on her and pierced her ears, too. but I did not. We left right on time. It’s my husband’s day off, so I left the boys at home.

We arrived exactly on time at the studio. No one else was in the waiting room to my relief. Sometimes we’ve had to wait and wait until the babies and kids are cranky. This time, fate smiled on me.

Until he walked in, looked at the paper in his hand and said, “This is . . . ?” I said, “Uh, Babygirl?” He said, “Yes.” And I said, “Um, is Crystal off today? I thought we’d be having her.”

This guy, this photographer, took pictures of YoungestBoy when he was a year old. This man freaked out my boy with his loud voice and his crazy mannerisms and his broad, scary movements. Plus, he has a long gray pony-tail down his back.

He said, “No, she has other appointments today,” and I said, “Oh.” I thought to myself, I specifically asked for Crystal. Where is my beloved Crystal, my sweet young Crystal with her low-rise pants and her gentle charm? I want Crystal! Then I said, “Okay. Well, my baby will scream in your face. Let’s go.” I said that in a gentle voice so Babygirl would not be scared.

I told her, “Hey, it’s our turn! Let’s have our picture taken!” and she followed me, like a lamb to slaughter, to the big scary room filled with props and flowing fabrics and chairs hung on the wall. She was not amused.

She said, “Go home.” I said, “First, we’re having your picture taken! Won’t that be fun?” I raised my eyebrows and grinned at her and she scrunched up her face and said, “No. Mommy chair.”

“Mommy chair” is Babygirl code for “I would like to nurse now because I’m feeling sad and scared and maybe just a little crabby.” She usually only nurses before she goes to sleep, just a few minutes and I think she’ll be fully weaned in the near future. But when she is off-center and feeling needy, she reverts and wants to nurse. Thankful that her phrase for this is “mommy chair” and not something like, “big-big-B00B-B00B,” I said, “Yes, I will sit on the chair. And here’s the pretty chair for Babygirl!”

I sat her in the white netting canopy on the pink fluffy blanket that Scary Photographer Guy set up for her. She immediately burst into tears. I did my best sweet-talking, but she sobbed. I finally told Scary Photographer Guy, we might just have to take pictures of her crying and call it good. I had my doubts.

I took Babygirl into the little dressing room, nursed her for a few minutes and went back out to find that Scary Photographer Guy had bubbles. Good thinking. He must be brighter than he looks. Babygirl was momentarily distracted and so he snapped a photograph of her–not smiling, but not screaming and wailing and red-nosed. Then she began to cry again.

I calmed her down again in the dressing room and came out to find he’d arranged a new background, this time with wide ribbons and a little blue chair. I talked faster and most convincingly than a car salesman, but Babygirl whimpered and cried big tears. He took four more pictures, but they show only a more and more distraught girl.

(The lower left was the first picture.)

During that time, I said to her, “Hey, want to go shopping when we’re done here?” And she said in the saddest possible voice, “Shopping.” When we finished, Crystal appeared and said, “If you want, you can schedule another sitting with me.” I appreciated the thought, but I don’t think so. It’s traumatic enough–for both of us–to even get there in the first place.

When we finished, we went over to the mall where I purchased three pairs of size 8 “Husky” jeans and khakis for YoungestBoy. Then I bought Babygirl a little box of Tom Thumb donuts and we went home.

She took a nap, then, to recover from the trauma of having her picture taken. I can only imagine how much she’s going to scream tomorrow morning when the seemingly nice nurse plunges needles into Babygirl’s legs. And she thought it hurt to have her picture taken! At least she can’t dread it. That’s my job, the dreading.

Late Saturday night, I read the blue note paper on my desk. It said, “Music, Lamb of God,” which was a reminder to myself that I was supposed to sing during the service on Sunday morning. I said to myself, “Self, tomorrow morning you can get up early and run through it. No problem.”

I am clearly delusional late at night.

Sunday morning dawned and I woke and then rolled over and convinced myself that “five more minutes” of sleep was essential. My husband left at 7:00 a.m. and still, I snoozed. Finally, at a bit after 8:00 a.m., I said, “I have to get up! I have to sing! What am I going to wear?”

From then on, I was in full panic mode. Shower quick! Fix hair! Wonder why I have so much hair! I was completely sweaty after straightening my now too-long locks. Babygirl woke and then I busied myself getting her ready, too. I went downstairs to remind the boys that they should be completely ready–“including shoes and brushing teeth!”

An hour after I crawled from bed, I was dressed, complete with make-up and semi-tamed hair. Babygirl was ready. YoungestBoy was ready. The twins? Not. No shoes, no brushed teeth. I pawed through my books, found my sheet music, sat at the piano and ran through the song, hollered when TwinBoyA tapped me on the back and asked me to fix his hair–“I AM TRYING TO PRACTICE!”, figured that my children will definitely choose to be atheists by the time I’m finished raising them, combed his hair, finished practicing verse three and shouted, “GET YOUR SHOES ON!” once more and left the house.

With the kids.

We arrived early enough for me to tell the sound guy that I would be singing from the piano and that I wouldn’t be doing a sound check. Then I sat in the front row (it’s like the bulkhead of a plane–more leg room) and waited for church to start.

Babygirl sat and wrote on a notecard for a few minutes, sat through one song and indicated that she’d had enough. She wanted to go to the nursery. Problem is, she won’t stay in the nursery by herself, but I couldn’t stay either, because I had to sing. Quite a problem, really. We went downstairs and found her favorite little friend in the nursery, with her mother.

When I told Babygirl I’d be right back, she cried and clung to me. I told her I had to go, but I’d be right back and walked out while she wailed.

I sang my song and went back to the nursery, where Babygirl was momentarily silent, but sniffling and hiccuping from the screaming she’d done. She began crying again and we left the nursery so I could calm her down. She said to me, “Mommy back.” I said, “Yes, Mommy came back.” Then she said, “I was sad.” I almost laughed, but instead I said, “Yes, you were sad.”

(I’m sorry this is so dull, for anyone still reading. This really is a personal journal above all, so sometimes this is going to happen!)

After church, we left fairly quickly–sometimes we stay during the “Coffee Hour” and visit–but today, we didn’t sit down (although YoungestBoy did make sure to fill his pockets with cookies). Because my husband had to stay and perform a funeral service, we went through the drive-through and ate McDonald’s in the car.

I meant to put Babygirl down for a nap, but I was reading a book (“Rosie,” by Anne Lamott) and watching the men’s Olympic marathon. She was laying down on the bed, asking me to cover her with pillows, and then wiggling around and jumping. Finally, I decided that I’d let her skip her nap and then she’d go to bed earlier.

We meandered downstairs eventually, went into the back yard and discovered the clouds had parted and the air was warm and it was still summer! I said to YoungestBoy who was wandering around with a garden hoe, looking for things to chop, “Hey, you want to go to the P-O-O-L?” I spelled so Babygirl wouldn’t know what I was saying. YoungestBoy said, “Sure.” So, then I said to Babygirl, “Hey, you want to go to the pool?”

She said, “Go to the P-O-O!”

So, we rounded up everyone, while Babygirl chanted, P-O-O and P-O-L and on the spur of the moment, off we went to swim.

At the pool, the sky was vivid blue, the sun was warm, yet autumn definitely lurked just out of sight. A chill in the air reminded me that summer is leaving and I feel unusually sad to see it go. I watched the big kids try to drown each other and felt the sun on my shoulders and felt wistful.

I’m trying to muster up some enthusiasm for autumn–my favorite season–yet, all I can do is grieve for what’s ending, for the loss of Babygirl’s babyhood, for the close of this chapter. I remember how sweet YoungestBoy has been these past few years, how I wish I could have freeze-dried him as a four year old and reconstituted him to savor later. He just wouldn’t stay four forever, and now he’s six and going to first grade and the thought that he’ll be gone all day, every day, makes me sad. We won’t have our mornings together. No more funny conversations and wrestling around on the floor, tickling.

My twins are on the brink of adolescence–TwinBoyA just told me how much he hates me because I scolded him for calling his brother “jackass”–and I feel nostalgic and falsely long for their younger years–even though those years wore me out and found me hollering and wondering if they would ever stop throwing sand in each other’s hair.

I just want to say, “Stop! Stop fast-forwarding everything! I want to see, really see this part! Slow down!”

But instead, the whisper of fall is in the air and the P-O-O is going to close and did I take enough pictures? Did we have enough fun? Did we fully enjoy the summer? Did we waste the time we had?

We stayed at the pool last night until almost 7:30 p.m. and when we came home, Babygirl was eager for bedtime. I was so sleepy, so worn out, but when I came out of the baby’s room, my husband said, “Hey! You want to watch a DVD with me?” I didn’t really want to–I hadn’t even been downstairs and I knew the laundry was mating even as I stood there–but I said, “Okay.” I kept falling asleep through “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” and my little snores would wake me.

When it ended, I finished reading “Rosie,” and fell into a deep sleep in which I dreamed about going to the ultimate garage sale.