Joseph's Journey

I have no idea what to name this blog now. This has kept me from writing, although to be honest, it is more than my inability to name the blog that has kept me from updating. It feels like such a big job to introduce a new life, and I am intimidated by big jobs. Although I did birth you, and believe me, that was a big job.

Joseph, you joined us on October 4th, 2009 at 1:23am. You were born underwater with Margaret and Anjli (the midwives), Susannah (the doula), and your poppa in attendance. Your labor was a breeze but pushing you out I found to be downright uncomfortable. It turns out that pushing 9lbs. 14.5 ounces would make just about anyone uncomfortable. I did start writing your birth story just a few days after you were born and because I have yet to post Marian's birth story, I don't feel so bad about not finishing yours.

I began your sister's blog on the day that her umbilical cord fell off. It felt like such a holy little moment that I couldn't help but sit down and write. Sweet Joseph, your umbilical cord fell off in the bathroom of Jason's Deli as I was changing your diaper after a whirlwind trip to the Center for Puppetry Arts with Marian, Nona, Mata and Aunt Katie. I heard something hit the floor and almost didn't take the time to look down. But there it was, the last little piece of the cord that connected me to you, on the cold tile floor. I picked it up and carried it around in my diaper bag until just yesterday when Marian found it and said, "This is Joseph's?"

Things are different when you're the second child, as I'm sure you'll come to discover in your own time. There is a little less time for the kind of sitting around and staring at each other that induces wonder. You got hauled around to Glenn School, the grocery store, cultural attractions and the park (and that was just in the first four days) and rudely woken up from nearly every nap you managed to catch. I was worried about this at first, thinking that maybe we would not have the chance to bond in the same way that I did with Marian in her first few days on earth.

But then there were those moments in the middle of the night when you would wake me up with your squirming (you're already a much better sleeper than Marian ever was) with a smile spread across your face. You and I would steal away to the living room and curl up on the couch under a mound of blankets and just cuddle. You, nursing yourself to sleep, fit perfectly in the curve of my body and my chin resting on top of your head felt exactly right. The love would wash over me all at once with an intensity that is hard to describe.

Today is Christmas Eve and we are at Nona and Grandaddy's house in Mississippi. The house is gorgeous, there are already a zillion wrapped boxes under the tree and I'm writing this to the sounds of Marian and Nona decorating a gingerbread house. You are being passed from arm to arm, thrilled with the shiny lights, the patterns on pillowcases and fans whirring overhead.

I have been thinking, over the course of the past few weeks, that this would be a good night to write. Technically, you are named after Poppa Joe but I have always been a little partial to your biblical namesake as well. Afterall, some two thousand odd years ago, another Joseph was on quite a journey. The star of the show tonight is, of course, the baby Jesus, with Mary coming in as a strong second. Joseph, we hear, cleared a place in the stable but beyond that, his role is pretty secondary. But I like to imagine him as a man who was so confident in his love for Mary, so sure of his love for this small child, that he could live with the ambiguity and endless questions of the child's birth. Joseph, at least for me, has come to symbolize what it means to be a gentle and loving soul in a world that poses far more questions than it supplies answers.

Joseph, I hope that you will be able to live with ambiguity, that you will find people to love beyond all reason and you will find bringing people out of the cold, making them feel comfortable and safe, is a job worthy of what I am sure will be your immeasurable talents. But on this, your first Christmas Eve, it is your job to be a baby. The rest of us can stare contentedly into your blue eyes and remember the promise represented by the birth of a babe born in a manger. Peace on earth. You make it seem possible.

On Being an Only Child

Sweetest Marian,

Things are going to change around here and before they do I feel this pressing need to write to you. It has been months, three to be exact, since I've written on your blog at all and not once over the past 9 months have I mentioned that you will be a big sister soon. But it's true, and it's imminent, and I thought it would be good to write one last time before we start sharing this space with another member of the family.

Today we went to the zoo one last time, just the two of us. Mata swears that the zoo is a good way to bring on labor but I'm really in no hurry to get this show on the road (I've got a bad case of allergies and I'm hoping to get that cleared up before embarking on any feat of athleticism i.e. birth). Really, I felt like going to the zoo with you today because it's something we've been doing together since you were itty-bitty and every time we go it's a totally different experience. I love watching you take it in, gauging the way your reactions change from visit to visit and the way your vocabulary has expanded to talk about what you see.

Today, the two of us sat on the benches overlooking the gorilla exhibit and ate apples and studied the movements of our now-familiar friends. I can so clearly remember sitting on that exact bench, breastfeeding you and watching those gorillas (although the baby gorillas were a lot smaller then too) and feeling so at one with the world. Today, I felt that feeling again and yet so much has changed. Instead of being curled at my breast you were sitting up straight by my side chomping on a whole apple and talking me through the movements of the gorillas from point A to point B. It struck me that we will have so many fewer of these moments in the coming years and this made me just a little sad.

For two years and three months you have been my only baby--the total focus of my daily attention and, together with your father, the center of my universe. The universe is expanding to include one more and I can only trust that there is some infinite wisdom that allows our hearts to expand in unison. There are many wise women in my circle that assure me that this happens without effort.

There will undoubtedly be times, especially in these first few months, when you feel that you've been somewhat displaced by this new, needy little being. So before he/she is even on the scene I want you to know how very much at the center you stand. I want you to know that love does not diminish because it is shared and that you will always, always be my sweet baby girl. Of course, I'm saying this because I believe it, and because it's just nice to be reminded that it's true.

Tonight you are an only child. There's no guarantee that will be true tomorrow night but what I do promise is that I will love just as fiercely tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I love you, Marian.

On the Night You Were Born, Part 2

This morning you woke early, it was still dark outside, and your Poppa scooped you out of your crib and brought you into bed with us. You fussed for a minute, kicked around the covers and then settled down between the two of us as we all sank into a deep sleep. I awoke, this time with sun streaming in the window, to feel you kissing the back of my shoulder and sweetly inquiring, "Mama 'wake now?" How could I not wake up with a smile on my face? How could this day, two years from the day that we labored together to bring you to this place, be anything but joyful?

It seems impossible that two years ago tonight I was sitting in a bathtub with you inside of me. Tonight you sat all by yourself in a bathtub telling me that you were pouring water on your turtles feet and you needed a washcloth to keep the soap out of your eyes. How did you manage to grow from a seven pound 12 ounce, squirming little newborn to a child who can express empathy, rage (I want snack, RIGHT NOW!), love and tenderness so quickly?

Tomorrow we will celebrate your second birthday with Nona and Grandaddy. But tonight I sit and marvel, in much the same way I did last year, at the passage of time and the beauty of it all. You were meant to be here; I was meant to be your momma and poppa was meant to be your poppa. And every day we learn together how to fill our place in each other's lives. I wake up every morning so thankful that I call you my sweet baby girl and you call me Momma.

The night you were born was the very beginning, a stunningly beautiful beginning, and every day that's passed since has been a journey of discovery. I can't wait to find out where you take me next. Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl. I love you.

All Who Wander Are Not Lost

It's been a jam packed month and a half and the pace of life isn't slowing down anytime soon. I think you thrive on this.

We've noticed, over the past few months that you have no qualms at all about leaving our side and wandering away. Part of me likes this fierce streak of independence, the other part of me worries about your physical safety. The other night we were strolling the grounds of the Botanical Gardens with some friends and one of them commented on how comfortable you were being far, far away from us. Indeed, you had run down the walkway and behind a grove of trees without a single backwards glance. He made the observation that perhaps this was because we had spent so much time with you as an infant. Now, I don't know how much this guy knows about attachment theory parenting but I admit my heart swelled with pride. The whole idea of attachment parenting is that you spend a lot of time in very close contact (sleep sharing, baby wearing, holding infants constantly) so that they develop a very secure attachment at the base which allows them to explore with confidence later in life. You seem to be comfortable wandering about 16 years too early for my taste.

For the majority of the time I was writing this blog post you were sitting by my side working hard on getting the camera back in the camera case. A few seconds ago, you reached over and gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, "bye, bye, see you later." You hopped off the couch with the camera case hung over your shoulder and turned around to say, "dinner." Which I assumes means we should expect to see you back for dinner. I wonder where your little wandering heart will take you today?

The pictures are from a recent trip to Alabama to visit Dot and Charles (Poppa's first cousin once-removed but we prefer to just call them kinfolk). They are pretty special folks to us and we had a good night and morning visiting at their house and wandering their property. You are amazed that Charles never wears shoes. The will be more blog posts in the next day or two detailing our recent trip to New England. Right now, we have some exploring to do. Perhaps at the new Piedmont Park swimming pool?

The Second Easter Miracle

As far as I'm concerned, we can celebrate two miracles today. One, the victory of life over death. The second, you sat through one and a half hours of a high-church Episcopal service without so much as one outburst (except the charming kind--you yelled out "AMEN" just a few second after the rest of the congregation) or a kicking fit. There was one tense moment when it appeared that your stash of stickers had literally ascended into the heavens. We could not find them anywhere but the mystery was solved when the lady next to us stood up to sing the next hymn. They had been stuck under behind but I managed to gingerly slide them down the pew and into your waiting hands.

I don't know how or why church went so well for us today but maybe you, like your father, appreciate the smells and bells of the Episcopalian tradition. I kind of missed the off-key piano and the run-on sermon we've come to expect from Corntassle Presbyterian where our family usually doubles the size the congregation. Perhaps next year you'll have a chance to dazzle that gathering with your good manners and charming Easter dress.

And it appears you have the Easter egg thing figured out. Yesterday you went to your first hunt and your father reported back that while you were confused for the first minute or so, you soon caught the "fever" and were scooping up eggs as fast as you could put them in your basket. This morning you donned your egg-hunting tennis skirt and hit the backyard in search of our naturally-dyed free range eggs. It turn out natural dyes come out mostly in shades of brown. The camouflage did not deter you and you found all three eggs in under two minutes. The fact that there were not stickers hidden inside didn't disappoint you once you found they were perfectly edible.


It is a beautiful day. The sun is shining bright, the azaleas are gorgeous and you have made the day a true celebration of the infinite yes. Amen.

If we hadn't made it to church this morning, perhaps this is what we would have read in the backyard, surrounded by clucking chickens, barking dogs, pink azaleas and the little trillium your Poppa planted last weekend.

for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

~ e.e. cummings

What's Wrong With Arranged Marriages?

Nothing, that's what I say. Here are two great options: both come from good, solid stock and you would never have to worry about the families getting along during holiday dinners.

And you know, even if the whole forever-and-ever thing doesn't work out, you've made two very good friends. Here are some recent photos of play dates with both Gabriel and James.




I love the hand-holding here. Such sweetness.

Daddy's Baby

It's nearly unanimous, everyone thinks you look like your Poppa. Sure, every once in a while someone tries really hard to come up with a similarity between you and me; the comparison usually seems strained. It's odd, people seem to think that it bothers me that you look totally and completely like your Poppa; it really doesn't. He's got great dimples, beautiful blue eyes, a perfect nose and a light-up-the-room smile. You'd do great to look like him (it turns out, there is already a female version of your Poppa--Aunt Christa-- and she's quite a looker).

What's been even more fun, these last few months, is watching the less physical similarities between you and your Poppa emerge. The other day we went to the nature preserve with Peanut to throw rocks in the stream (SPLASH!) one of your favorite pastimes. The nature preserve has wide, well maintained trails that I love walking along. You seemed to like the trails too, stopping every once in a while to pick up rocks and inspect them for their potential to make big splashes. At one point, however, I looked behind me just in time to watch you depart the trail and head straight up a steep bank into thick azalea bushes. You were not daunted by the grade or the hundreds of azalea branch tentacles determined to ensnare my intrepid little explorer. I asked several times whether you were stuck or needed help and each time I heard a defiant little "NO" from somewhere inside the thick brush. Finally, when I'd completely lost sight of you I headed up the hill and lured you out with a promise of a snack.

For as long as I've known your Poppa we've had this issue about "staying on the trail." He seems physically incapable of staying on a trail--no matter how I try to reason with him regarding erosion or safety. As often as not I watch him disappear into the trees as I plod along on the path most-traveled. When he reappears with a plant specimen to identify or some story of exotic wilderness glimpsed I'm always just a little sorry I didn't follow behind. It looks like he'll have an eager companion and I'll follow you anywhere. So here's to getting off the beaten path...I'm glad you're like your Poppa.

La-La, Haurpeur and Char-Char

It's a real winter wonderland outside today and your reaction was mixed; from a distance the snow was just magical, when the wet snowy glops hit your face and hands, the magic faded. But given a few minutes, you acclimated well and thought snow balls were just hilarious. Since you were wearing your fantastic rain boots we headed to Boyd's yard (he's got the best puddles on the street). You were wading in a river and loving every minute of it until you went SPLAT. I heard you before I saw you and my first vision was you laying spread eagle, spitting muddy water out of your mouth. We beat a quick retreat inside where a warm towel and a few hugs seemed to set the world right again.

Since I've been so derelict about writing in the past few months I've decided to work on a few themes to bring you up to speed. Today's theme: friendship. Perhaps one of the most intriguing developments in the past six months is your growing attachments to several kids in your own age group. London is a little boy who you see about twice a week as his mom and I have worked out an arrangement to baby swap so we each get three free hours a week. He's a sweet guy who loves to clean but is a very picky eater. And he's exceptionally patient with your need to mother him; you love to kiss and hug him and wipe his face with a wet wipe. And distance only makes your heart grow fonder. When he's gone you constantly inquire about his whereabouts and offer several suggestions about what "La-La" might be doing at any point in time.

Sarah Harper, or "Haurpeur," lives at the top of the street next to ours. Anytime we go on a walk in that direction you wonder whether we're visiting her. We have one of her Tupperware containers and whenever you see it in the cabinet, you remind me that we should be getting it back to her.

The friend-of-the-month, however, is your beloved Char-Char. Charlie is your older second cousin and you were thrilled to see him this past weekend in Mississippi for Mardi Gras. The minute we got in the car, headed toward Nona and Grandaddy's house you started talking about Char-Char. You're lucky that he is so very patient with you and willing to bend to the whims of a 20 month old. One afternoon during our visit I went down for a nap (bliss!) and when I woke up I found my jeans and t-shirt girl dressed to the nines. Aunt Christa staged a photo shoot with you and Char-Char. The love is evident. I'm a little worried that these pictures don't bode well for junior high...

I love that you have such deep affection for your friends and that you continue to wonder about them and what they're doing when you can't physically see them. I also find your sweet names for them amusing. I know we will get into turf battles and sharing may become more difficult down the road, but right now watching you interact and connect is such a pleasure.

Okay, Okay This is Ridiculous

Marian:
It should be clear to you by now why your mother never made it as a freelance writer. If cannot find the time to sit down and write about my most favorite subject (that would be you) I'm never going to find the inspiration to sit down and write a best-selling book. I'll offer no excuses, it just turns out that the longer you don't write, the harder it is to convince yourself to sit down and do it. Even if it's just a few lines. So it's just after midnight and I've gotten disgusted with myself enough to open the computer and type. I'll put down more tomorrow (I promise).

First, I'm sorry to report that you've turned a little bad. At around 18 months your strong opinions about things grew even stronger. About two weeks ago, you started biting again. This was a habit I thought we'd managed to break you of when those teeth finally came in. You get a terrible gleam in your eye as you head for the stairs and look back over your shoulder to watch me scrambling after you. A few weeks ago you daintily dangled your foot over the curb (when I had repeatedly told you that you could NOT go in the street) so that just your big toe was scraping the asphalt. You knew exactly what you were doing.

And yet, you are the cutest, sweetest, funniest little girl. You love to say thank you. You give kisses and backrubs and think it's hilarious to tickle us in the morning when we're all cuddling in bed together. The words are literally tumbling out of your mouth these days and you understand EVERYTHING. When I was driving too close to the curb the other day and one wheel hit, I heard you say, "oh shoot" from the backseat. There are worse things you could have said...

Last week we went to Mississippi to celebrate Mardi Gras. Your aunt took a ton of photographs and Poppa just told me that I could lift them off of Facebook and add them to my blog. That was my inspiration for writing tonight. I'll put a few on and add others later.

I love you. Even if you are a little rotten sometimes.

Anything is Possible.

It's 10:30am and in one hour and 30 minutes Barack Obama will be sworn in as the 44th President of the United States. I'm sitting at home right now, glued to CNN and wiping tears off my cheeks every few minutes. You are at London's house playing with trains.

It's not too much of an overstatement to say that today I place much of your future in this man's trust. And at this moment, I can't help but believe we're all going to be okay. He isn't a savior, or a magician but I believe in him. And, after watching this country elect him and then rally around him, I believe in us.

Today, anything is possible. The world is wide open to you my sweet girl.