Heartiness Riviera size 6

In high school I made a quilt. I had a definite aesthetic in mind (blues, greens and purples), and the lady in the quilt shop kept either misinterpreting what my wishes were or pushing me to create something more trendy. “So you want a groovy chick quilt?” she would ask. Too timid to say, “Au contraire,” I would pick out a fabric I liked, hoping she’d get a clue, but she kept repeating the phrase as we picked out fat quarters. The words “groovy chick quilt” are permanently etched in my mind, and not in a good way. Perhaps she thought the color scheme I had chosen would fade in popularity and all the work I had put into the quilt would be for naught.

What the quilt lady didn’t know was that 1. It would take me nearly ten years to finish the quilt. I’m just not that crafty. 2. Fifteen years later I would snap a picture of said quilt and embark on a quest to find a wrap that reminded me of it.

Heartiness Riviera is that wrap. My first handwoven, I spent days chatting back and forth with the seller, being a general pain and ill-informed buyer. I’m sure she was beyond relief when I finally sent her my paypal address.

The wrap was a bit different than I’d expected; very dry in hand, blankety and thick, with a high amount of texture and grip. But the weave was what really caught my eye; this Hearti has a definite right and wrong side, with a pronounced twill pattern on one side and a smoother-looking weave on the other.

Riviera has proven to be the perfect fall and winter snuggle wrap; whether at the pumpkin patch or around our own yard, it’s cozy and warm without being beastly hot. The support this wrap contains is endless; I could ruck my tall 3.5 year old boy easily, and it is wide enough for him to pretend to be a turtle on my back! In fact, this is the first wrap he allowed me to take him up in, as I didn’t wrap him past “Moby stage.”

The weaving is flawless, aside from a skipped thread that got the wrap labeled seconds quality. The unhemmed rails are razor straight and without knobs or bumps. And as the seller put it, “I love just looking at the weave and see how the colors play together.”

I wouldn’t recommend this wrap for a squish or for a new wrapper, as the grip, thickness and width makes it almost prohibitively hard to tighten, especially for fancy finishes. On the other hand, the grip makes it possible to stay in place with just a half-knot. But overall, it is rock solid, while still being snuggly and soft for my older baby and preschooler! Maybe someday I’ll make a quilt out of it.

A pot of soup, a cat and an old, stiff mop

This story may not be the most delicate way to introduce my late great-uncle Art, but it paints a small vignette of the man who is the second subject in my series of "Awesome Old People I Admire." (at least I think that's what I called it in my last post).

Born in 1909, my great uncle Art was the oldest in a family of three children. His mother died when he was young, and as was all too common in those days the three children were shipped to three separate relatives. He eventually settled in the small railroad and farming community where I grew up, where he remained a bachelor along with his own uncle and his father (my great-grandfather), who had remarried and divorced.

A man of order, Art had a strict schedule that he lived by. Change was anathema, and he lived without running water until entering the local nursing home at age eighty. He came to visit our farm each day at promptly 5 o'clock p.m. My mom tells of the time she found a snake in the house (? yard? I'll have to ask her) one afternoon around three, and the men were out in the field. Art was the only one she could think of to call. She frantically told him of her plight. "Ah, yah, I vill be out at 5 o'clock, den," he told her in his slow Norwegian brogue. It didn't occur to him that he would need to change his daily schedule. Three o'clock was likely the time slot devoted to feeding his birds.

His hatred of change was also reflected in the names of his dogs. Each one, regardless of its hue, bore the moniker "Brownie." Art had a special place in his heart for animals, and informally adopted many of the neighborhood strays. He was also a talented fiddle player, and was a large part of my own desire to learn the instrument.

And now the story. My dad has told this several times, and I will tell it from his point of view, to the best of my ability.

I stopped to see Art one cold fall day.  We were building our house, and I had some extra scrap wood that I knew he'd appreciate for his cook stove. The entryway to his shack served as coal bin, woodpile and a waiting area for several neighborhood cats and the occasional dog.Art would regularly serve his guests ground round and other delectable tidbits, and his reputation was well-known in the animal community.

The wood stove was burning brightly when I entered, and there was a slight odor of food mixing in with the others of coffee, coal, and the other odors found in a seldom-cleaned living area. To my standard greeting of "What have you been up to?" Uncle Art gave his standard reply, "Oh, ye, I have been so busy. Yust vit small tings."

He invited me to sit down and share his pot of soup with him.  I had been working hard on the house all morning, so had worked up quite an appetite. "Don't mind if I do." Art produced an old coffee mug which had surely been used several times before. He handed it to me, but upon noting its filthy condition he rubbed it on his overalls, which were shiny and black at the knees, no thanks to being used exclusively as a dishtowel. Inspecting the inside of the cup, he found additional grime, which was promptly wiped off with his fingers (which matched his overalls). My stomach turned.

The soup was served and I was hungry enough to overcome my initial impression of my uncle's culinary skills. I sat at the table with Art and one of his feline friends, and we shared some general conversation about the weather and community happenings.

Mid-slurp I heard a strange noise coming from behind the stove.  It was one of the other feline guests, who looked a little beyond the help of Art's famous ground round. Art stopped eating, as well. "The poor cat is sick," he said quietly. "I will put him outside." He reached behind the stove. Grasping the retching cat under the belly had the effect of producing additional spillage from the other end of the animal, which spread in a wide arc across the floor.

To remedy the problem Art produced a large, dry mop, the business end of which stood on its own even when picked up. He attacked the mess firmly but slowly, thoroughly and with wide strokes spreading the offending substance as an additional layer on the already-grimy linoleum.

By now I had finished about half of my soup, and contemplated discreetly adding yet another layer to the floor mess; it would likely go unnoticed, the solid chunks being promptly cleaned up by a dog.  But I held my breath and slurped up the soup, reminding myself that as a hog farmer I really should be immune to anything.

I was needed back at the house, I told him, thanked him for the soup, and said I'd see him at five.

My wife, very pregnant and somewhat squeamish about such things, noted my pallor as I walked through the door. I decided to spare her the details at that moment, and just said I'd dropped off wood at Art's shack. No need for further explanation. "Well, wash up, then. I'm sure you're hungry," she said and took a bowl to retrieve some soup from the large kettle on the stove.

A fiddle and some old 33s

Welcome to my first installment of "Really Cool Old People I've Been Super Fortunate to Know."

It was a few years ago that I was introduced to a man named "Henry" (name changed). A music playing friend of mine insisted that I meet this "really cool old guy" who lived south of me near what she calls "Rattlesnake Butte." When my schedule finally allowed I took a short trip (only about ten miles from our house) to meet the renowned Henry. She had written a song about him, in fact, entitled "Cowboy Romance."

Now Vernon is an old man, but he's coiled like a wire
Focused like a serpent when the guitars come out
His hair is still curly underneath the felt hat
That he spraypainted black to keep the rain out.
(excerpt from Cowboy Romance by Erin Espeland)

Upon entering his place I had a feeling of stepping back in time; both time in general and, specifically to me, visiting my great uncle Art, who lived without running water in an old shack. A gentle man of precise routine (he came to our farm every day at precisely 5 o'clock), he was more fond of playing music and caring for his animals than he was cleanliness.

Aside from the lack of cleanliness I could have been visiting Uncle Art again. Henry lived in a trailer with no running water or telephone, although he did have the luxury of electricity. Dogs and horses greeted us as we set down our instruments around the fire pit. Henry was in his mid-seventies, wiry and strong, neatly dressed in a button up shirt, blue jeans and a well-worn hat. A man of very few words, he offered a beer and promised us that some steaks that were cooking in a cast iron pan over the fire would soon be ready to eat.

We played music that night until it was too dark to see the strings. Henry brought out his favorite piece of technology, a Tascam recorder, and recorded our music. Now and then he would bring one of his own instruments, a viola or an accordion, for me to play. I felt at home enough to plunk out some tunes, and he seemed satisfied.

Fast forward a few years and two children later, I once again got the chance to visit Henry again at his home. This time it was in the dead of summer and we played in the trailer to avoid mosquitoes.

We play in the summer house
With windows blown broken
A house that's too cold for eight months of the year.
With a Tascam recorder and video camera
He'll watch me sing songs and we'll both drink cheap beer.

It was a moving experience for me, for some reason I couldn't place. My music friend had just been diagnosed with ALS and we hadn't been able to get together. Henry was approaching his eightieth birthday. I knew this time was special. This time he got out his record player and played a few fiddle tunes he knew I'd enjoy. Coincidentally many of the albums were the same ones that Uncle Art (a fiddle player) had given my dad. He asked if I might want some of the records, and I declined as I don't own a working record player. I drove home in a dream that evening, singing my friend's song to myself and counting myself lucky for having such wonderful, unique people in my life.

About a week later I got a text from Erin. A tornado had ripped through Henry's place, completely razing his trailer and outbuildings. Henry was in the hospital in Billings, and she would update me as she got word. My stomach sank, and I asked everyone I knew from the area if they'd heard anything. Not many people were even aware of who he was.

Luckily he made a full recovery. The community pulled together and opened a benefit account for him to rebuild, or something. Everything he owned had been scattered to the wind that night. I visited him at his homesite for his birthday, playing music and sharing a pie. He was now living in a borrowed SUV with his dogs, who had also miraculously survived. Henry was in good spirits, but there wasn't much talk of what his plans were. I didn't feel it was my place to ask.

I got another text a couple months later. Erin and Henry were coming by for a visit and would by by in a few minutes. Usually that means that I sweep the floor, hide the dishes in the dishwasher, etc., but I knew no such pretenses were necessary, which is pretty unusual for me.

Henry came walking spryly up the stairs carrying an armful of 33s. "I found these in the crick bottom," he said. "I will go get another load." Pretty soon the remnants of Henry's record collection graced my kitchen table. He had one more trip to make to the pickup, though.

"I don't know what my plans are for the winter or when I'll see you again," he explained to me as he handed me his fiddle. "You can have this." Like the records, the fiddle had survived the trip through the tornado and was still playable. He gave me a long hug, and I could sense more emotion than an old cowboy will generally admit.

I was in a bit of shock after they left, realizing that my friend had just given me most of his remaining possessions. Without a phone or address to contact him, I was afraid it might indeed be a long time until I could properly thank him.

Luckily he was able to relocate to a relative's yard and built himself a shack. At about 8 by 16 feet, a wood stove keeps it toasty warm and there is just enough room for him and his dogs. We are neighbors now by about two or three miles, and he can see my house from his lone window. I wanted to add money to his benefit account, but he had closed it. Apparently he felt he had enough.

I share this mostly because I think Henry is an awesome person, because I am thankful to have such a friend. I also share it because of the parable Jesus told of the widow giving her last penny. You know the one I'm talking about. The parable points us to our own sin, like many others; we worry about having "enough" and it often gets in the way of helping others, giving to the church or just being content with what we've got. My prayer is that Jesus offers grace to help me with my own greed, and forgives me when I fail.

Josie's beautiful Hypnobabies birth

Josie joined our family outside the womb on February 4, which is already almost three months ago! I've been wanting to chronicle our birth experience, since it was so full of ups and downs and (spoiler alert!) turned out being so much better than I could have ever dreamed!

We found out that we were due with a February baby the day I returned from spending three weeks at my parents' farm helping with planting. I had been pretty sure for about a week that my excessive tiredness and huge appetite were due to the upcoming arrival, but that day's test finally confirmed it.

Our two-year-old, Matthias, had provided me with a "dream" pregnancy and a "not so great" delivery I felt wonderful and energetic the whole pregnancy. He was induced one day past our due date due to "low amniotic fluid," and after less than six hours of labor was born with the assistance of a vacuum. I had every form of pain relief I could get during my short labor, and required multiple prescriptions for weeks afterwards. My doctor said that my next delivery would likely result in a similar experience.

I told my husband that if we were going to have another child things would have to be different. I wanted to be prepared this time. I wanted to labor in the positions of my choice and NOT be on my back while delivering our next baby. His first comment was, "Well, you're not gonna do hypnosis or something crazy like that." My reply was that I'd do whatever I thought was necessary to have a better childbirth experience.

This pregnancy was different than my first in every way. Although I wasn't puking sick, I felt nauseous every evening and after every meal, had almost no appetite, and OH, the heartburn.

I decided to give birth in a neighboring town, as the hospital I'd had Matthias in had a 40 percent c-section rate! Forty percent! Our neighboring hospital fared slightly better at 30 percent. We live in what was once a very rural area, now home to the Bakken energy boom. The hospital that once birthed 200 babies in a year is now birthing 800-some, with about the same amount of resources.

There was only one pracitioner who was taking new clients. Prayerfully (and with fingers crossed) I began seeing her. Although there were no big red flags at first, my doctor appointments reflected the whole atmosphere of the Bakken area: rush, rush, rush. Overbooked, understaffed and overwhelmed.

I hired a doula, Kirsten, from a local agency. We met and she was interested in helping me have a better birth experience with childbirth hypnosis. My husband had finally consented that I could do whatever "burlap hippy craziness" that I felt would help, although he didn't think it would work and that I'd be asking for pain relief as soon as things got "bad."

My care provider took my birth plan, but seemed to largely brush it off at each appointment. She was in too much of a hurry, it seemed, to work with someone who wanted to make extra "work" for her or the hospital staff. I began to feel quite discouraged, but continued to do my daily Hypnobabies practice religiously, listening to my daily affirmations and practicing at least five times a day.  The daily relaxation script was a lifesaver on days when I was too busy to "nap." In fact, I didn't seem to need a nap as I actually felt energetic and refreshed after every session.

At 36 weeks I got the news that I had tested positive for group B strep and would have to have antibiotics during labor. I took the news hard at first, as I had wanted to labor at home until the last possible minute, and this would require me to go in earlier, not to mention have an IV drip. But that was no big deal compared to the next news!

At 37 weeks I learned the hospital was on flu lockdown. Each woman having a baby was allowed one attendant, who would remain with her (nontransferable) throughout the entire stay. That meant I had to choose between my doula and my husband. This was a major stressor for me, and Jon really got on board at this point, learning about Hypnobabies and helping me relax about our upcoming birth. It meant a lot to me when he told me one night, "This will work, Laura. You will do great."

My mom and I planned to spend the days preceding Josie's birth at my grandma's house a couple miles from the hospital. Grandma had passed away in September after a long battle with Alzheimer's and a short battle with cancer. Incidentally, we found out Josie was a girl the same day my mom and her siblings decided to pursue hospice care for my grandma. I was able to tell Grandma we were going to have a girl, and she reacted with a smile. That was the last time I saw her.

Grandma's house has always been a haven to me, and being there during my early birthing time, I thought, would be a healing time, as well as a time to make new memories and relive old ones. This was where my mom had spent time before having my sister and me, and this would be a time for my mom and I to do the same thing, while also being the best place logistically.

I had been having pressure waves every night for about a week, so I left our house Super Bowl Sunday (I was 39.5 weeks) and spent the next few days at Grandma's. Mom, Matthias, and I had a blast in those couple days. We toured the local recreation center (and got a lot of walking in) and reminisced. My dad and I took in a local wheat show the day before I had Josie, which is where I first started actually timing my contractions. Afterwards I went to the chiropractor for an adjustment, had a scrumptious piece of pie at a cafe with my dad, and went back to Grandma's.

By now I was feeling a little "off my feed." My aunt and uncle invited us over for supper, but I just wasn't feeling sociable or all that hungry. So I guiltily ate some left overs and we went back to the recreation center to take Matthias swimming. I clumsily dog paddled a couple laps before becoming completely exhausted. I remember thinking that whoever else was in the pool was likely unimpressed by my swimming ability until I got out of the water!

By 8:30 p.m., (the night before my due date) I was having pressure waves pretty consistently 20 minutes apart. I called Jon to tell him it "might" be the night, and Kirsten, as well, who was going to be in the waiting room for us and connect via FaceTime. Immediately I started second guessing as I'd been having contractions for days and days, so how was this any different? Mom and I (who had been up talking until the wee hours of the morning the last few nights) resolved to get some sleep, but just kept visiting. I turned on my birthing day affirmations and listened to the fear clearing track, as well. At 10:30 I called Jon and said he should probably get coming. He had gotten up at 4:30 a.m., worked all day, and had just hit the pillow. Now he had to feed and water the animals and get on the road!

Kirsten came at about 1:30 a.m. I told Jon to get some sleep, as he would be the one with me at the hospital, and we timed my contractions. When they were 3 minutes apart we gathered our things and went to the hospital. It was about 7 degrees with a strong, cold wind, and I was already shivering, so when we got in the pickup I felt myself almost convulsing with cold!

The ob ward was much quieter than we'd expected. We were led to a quiet, dimly lit room and greeted by the two nurses on duty. "So you're the one doing hypnosis!" was how one nurse began. "I'm so excited to see how it works!" the other nurse exclaimed. "I always love working with mothers who decide to birth naturally." I could have dropped through the floor with relief. They already had my birth plan. My doctor had even talked to them about it. They offered a gown "in case I wanted it," but I chose to wear my own clothes, something I didn't think I would have had the option to do.

"You hired a doula and they're not letting her in?" was the next suprise statement we got from our nurse. "I'm going to see what we can do about that." I had felt like we had exhausted all channels beforehand, calling the hospital, clinic, administration, all to no avail. At least our nurses understand the situation, I thought.

I checked in at 4 to 5 centimeters at 4:30 a.m. I had been hoping my progress would have been greater, but was determined not to be discouraged. We walked the halls, I listened to my "Easy First Stage" track and relaxed. We were informed that we had the run of the entire hospital, which meant we could go to the waiting room and hang out with Kirsten! During a pressure wave I would relax my whole body and lean against the counter or wall, or Jon would do the double hip squeeze, and that made the pressure pretty much disappear at that point!

By 6:30 a.m. I had progressed to 6-7 centimeters. I was still feeling about the same, walking around, sneaking food (as the broth they provided just wasn't cutting it!), and spending time in the wonderful jet tub in our room. I even spent some time on Facebook. When one friend messaged me to see how I was doing and I told her I was at the hospital at 7 cm, I figured it was time to quit Facebooking! My contractions were farther apart now; they had slowed to 8 minutes apart and eventually fifteen.

The shift had changed, and now our nurse was actually the wife of my mom's cousin, who I knew through family gatherings. I knew she had a lot of experience and felt comfortable talking to her!

At noon my doctor came by. I was still at 7 centimeters, and she began talking about breaking my waters. We politely refused and kept on walking. Sitting on the birthing ball was very uncomfortable, so I avoided that. I was most comfortable walking, being in the tub, or (ironically) in the bed. I'm wondering if it was because I always practiced my scripts in bed, so that was where I felt that the hypnosis "worked" the best; I was able to deal best with my pressure waves using hypnosis, whereas while walking, etc., I did rely more on the double hip squeeze or leaning against the wall.

At this point we received the best news we could have imagined getting: someone (our nurses?) had talked to someone, etc., all the way up to the CEO of the hospital about our situation with our doula and the flu restrictions, and we got the OK for Kirsten to join us in the delivery room! It seemed like common sense to me, since we already had the option of walking around the hospital, but I hadn't anticipated common sense being used.

When my water still hadn't broken early in the afternoon, we began to take things more seriously, as I had already had a couple doses of antibiotic and didn't want to do too much of that; thus the "hurry" I felt from my doctor to help labor progress. We tried various methods to help the contractions become stronger. They helped and became more intense, but at 3:30 p.m. I was still at 7 cm. At this point I felt at peace about having my waters broken. I consented to the procedure.

Things got intense immediately. I felt at the time that I threw the Hypnobabies program "out the window" at this point, as I would be lying to say that it wasn't painful. But I didn't think of asking for pain relief, and had no desire for it on any level of my consciousness. I chose to remain in bed in a kneeling position. As our nurse started to leave the room, I knew I had to push.

I told Jon to put on the "Pushing Baby Out" track, but there was no way any of us could hear it, at least not me. I remembered reading in my workbook that vocalizing can give a person power, whether they're lifting something heavy, or pushing out a baby, or whatever! With Matthias I had been so afraid of making a weird noise during labor I tried to be quiet. Sheesh. This time I opened my throat and just let whatever sound was there come out. It kind of scared me (and Jon!); it would start as a musical tone with strong vibrato, progressing to something akin to a crazed zombie extra in The Walking Dead. But it felt so good! My throat was raw, but with each wave the sound just seemed to give me more and more power!

It felt like five minutes had passed when I heard a remark about lots of dark hair and they encouraged me to feel the baby's head. I didn't think there was any way I could be birthing my baby's head already, and I was so prepared for a bald baby that I was pretty sure what I felt coming out was a yak or something. The next moments were a blur of concentration, sweat (I don't normally sweat, so looking down at my arm and seeing sweat was kind of a shock), and lots and lots of weird zombie noises!

Josie was born at 4:21 p.m., 40 minutes after my doctor had broken my waters. She was immediately put on my chest, and I was shocked by how big she was and how much hair she had. Matthias had been a bald, 6 lb. 12 oz little guy. Josie was 7 lb. 15 oz., with a head chock-full of long, thick, black hair! She latched on powerfully almost immediately and stayed with me under a warm blanket until I offered her to the nurse to clean up. By then it was supper time, as I recall, and I had sent Jon to the burrito joint to get me the biggest, fullest burrito I could get! I was starving, and so looking forward to eating something without heartburn afterwards!

The nurses that came in throughout my stay asked me about my delivery and commented on how awake and alert Josie was because of the lack of drugs in my system. Even the baby doctor who came to check Josie congratulated me on a drug-free delivery and said he could always tell a difference, as he had been delivering babies back when drug-free birthing was "normal" in the 70s and early 80s.

When I decided to try Hypnobabies, I didn't tell a whole lot of people about it for fear it would end up being "hokey" and useless. I decided that if it worked, however, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops! Not because I think I deserve a medal or because Josie's birth was any more "natural" than the next, but to raise awareness that a mother has choices in childbirth, and that through education and planning, you can have a greater chance of having the birth you want!

Our big boy! (from one year ago)

When Matthias was born, I felt like he grew and grew and changed every day. By the time he was a few months old, he seemed to have weeks where he would "sprout" and change, and then plateau. I figured it would stay that way, becoming more and more gradual as he got older. But at about a year, he started growing in leaps and bounds again! I figured it's about time to chronicle what he does now, at 14 months old:

He knows his animal sounds: sheep say baa (he will whisper "baa" if I do, haha), puppy dogs pant with their tongues out, kitties say meow, and monkeys say "ah, ah, ah." He also thinks that cows say "baa," as well, so we're working on that one. I think he also says "buh, buh" for chickens clucking. Not exactly an animal, but he points to tractors, semis, and anything that runs and makes the sound, as well.

He knows body parts: Matthias will point to Mommy's nose and belly button (hooray :P), as well as his own belly button, ears, knees and toes.

He knows words: Mama, Dada, as well as his own word for "Grandpa," "Te-deh" for Teddy, Poncho, and Jewel, and says "git-git-git" when Mommy is going to "get" him (wash his face and hands, that is).

Matthias loves to climb the stairs, is learning to throw a ball, can climb up on many chairs and couches, loves to play the piano and sing (wa, wa, wa), and also began singing in church last week, to the delight of our pew neighbors. This morning he "sniffed" a piece of cedar wood on my command, and when I asked him to "sniff" Mommy, he happily obliged by sticking his nose in my face and inhaling deeply. Good thing I had brushed my teeth! Oh, and he gives kisses, too!

He has also decided to become more of a "big boy" lately and refuses to be rocked to sleep. Well, I think really he wants to just get down and play, but I give him the choice to rock with Mommy or be in his crib, and he consistently chooses to be in his crib, and then falls asleep on his own.

More Sweetness

At long last, I've decided it's time to write down the day's events, mostly because I don't want to forget some of the cute things Matthias has been doing lately!

I'm convinced he's in a growth spurt--he's been sleeping through the night all week and eating portions that are much larger than usual. After today I think his mind is also experiencing such a growth spurt!

Luckily Jon got home from work early today so he got to enjoy many of our little man's antics. At about 11:30, Matthias called to me from the window, saying, "Daddy home! Daddy home!" Considering he's "the boy who cried wolf" when it comes to Daddy actually being home, I told him he was being silly and that Daddy might be home for supper. Then I heard the basement door shut and realized that it hadn't just been wishful thinking on Matthias' part!

In some ways he really takes after Jon. I'm finding this to be mostly a good thing, especially when it comes to cleaning up his toys. Tonight before bed he took all his toy equipment from the stairs and tucked them out of the way by the piano, saying, "night night" to each piece of equipment. I didn't even have to ask!

However, Jon regularly claims to have OCD. I tell him that OCD is a real condition that can be quite debilitating and that I doubt he is actually afflicted with it. Sure, Jon may have the overwhelming urge to say a word in a "New Joizy" accent if he hears me say it, and he may drive around the yard a few times occasionally so that the mileage on the vehicle "looks right" when it is parked, but what I'll call his "quirks" are far from serious.

I caught a glimpse of Jon's "quirks" tonight with Matthias. He insisted on taking his own socks off at bed time, and wanted to know where to put them as the laundry hamper was downstairs. I showed him the spot on the floor and he took off his first sock and laid it neatly on the floor. When he took off his other sock it was crumpled. He immediately went to his other sock and crumpled it up so that it matched the other sock. I almost cried with laughter.

Shortly afterward he decided that he must be feeling a little shaggy, for he grabbed the clipper from under the sink and took it to Daddy, declaring, "Haircut. Haircut!" He was satisfied when we told him he'd get one in the morning, and put the clipper back in its spot.

Matthias is also becoming quite a polite little man. He now says "Dee-doo," (Thank you) at almost every opportunity, and reminds me to say it, as well, when he gives me something. He greets people with a firm handshake, although when asked for his name generally smirks and says, "Outdoor," which is his nickname for his kitty Kermit. Oh, to be two.

Other than the sock thing, my favorite part of today came after nap time. He slept for two and a half hours, a little less than his usual three, and just wasn't ready to get up and face the world, so we snuggled for a half hour (bliss!!) in the chair. Snuggle time with Matthias is something I find particularly heavenly! He usually still enjoys being "cheek to cheek" with Mommy, and often showers my cheeks with kisses, although lately there has been an abundance of what he calls "kitty kisses," which are slobbery licks. Yuck! At least the cats have dry, sandpapery tongues!

I try to use our snuggle time, whenever I can get it, to remind Matthias how much we love him and how wonderful a blessing he is to us. There are some days when I feel like my threats of, "Mommy will give you a swat" put my parenting skills in the camp of the cigarette-smoking, pajama-clad woman at Wal-Mart cursing at her children. But then there are days like today, when it hits me that maybe he really does hear what we say and take it to heart!

Precious Moments

I know pride is a sin, but I like to take pride in my ability to appreciate the "little things." Ask me the same thing at 6 in the morning when Matthias is ready to start the day after being up for three hours at night, and I will likely forget I ever said such a thing. But tonight's "little thing" moment was a precious glimpse into the sweet person Matthias is becoming.

We went to MOPS today for the first time in about a month. I had long ago decided to give up on Moppets, the childcare provided there, for the time being, since one, Matthias screams and screams every time and ends up hanging out with me upstairs anyway, and two, I thought I'd be kind to the volunteers and stop expecting them to devote such a large chunk of their time to my screaming child, along with trying to juggle the other children who were moved to tears by Matthias.

He sat nicely with me most of the time. Toward the end, when we were doing our craft, he spent some time playing with his little friend from our Lutheran group. "Gunny," two years old, was gesturing wildly to Matthias to follow him, and Matthias just didn't get it. What a difference six months can make, I thought.

For the past couple weeks I have felt like Matthias has been on a "plateau," one of many he has experienced. He has known his colors for a couple weeks and all his body parts for a few months, and knows a few of his shapes, too. He also "teases" me when I ask him to show me a color. I will say, "green." I see his eyes scan the green, crinkle up with glee, and point to the blue. He looks at me, squinting and smiling the biggest cheese smile as if to say, "I'm a funny little man, Mommy!"

When it was time for prayers this evening, I told him we would pray. He immediately folded his hands, but then thought better of it and unfolded them. I continued, "Dear God, Thank you for today..." and Matthias interrupted me by singing, "La, la, la!" He wanted me to sing. Usually that's after prayers. I decided to compromise with him and sang The Lord's Prayer. He seemed satisfied. After I was done, he sang what appeared to be some words from a song I couldn't make out. I sang him "Zacchaeus," and he did his "action" for it (pointing up into the tree).

Finally, I asked him if he'd like me to sing about kitties. Why yes, of course! Anything to do with kitties is hugely popular with this fellow after my own heart. I sang "Kitty, Kitty," a song I thought up when I was in kindergarten. It was an immediate success, and he sang "Tiddeh, Tiddeh," almost on key, to tell me he wanted to hear it a couple more times.

The bedtime routine was rounded out by a generous cheek-to-cheek snuggle, my favorite. He was probably wondering why my cheek was wet. I'm not one given to sentimentality or fuzzy phrases, but there is one about how being a mother is to have a part of your heart walking around outside your body. That phrase came to me just then as so true. This little guy has my heart in a way that I never thought possible.