Snuggle-Nesting

One of the perks of having kids 11 years apart is getting to try all the new baby gear that’s come out in the interim. For example, Snappis. I don’t think I gave cloth diapers a moment’s consideration back in 1999, when Vi joined us. But with all the cool covers (bearing clever names like Bummis, Bum Genius, Happy Heineys and Fuzzi Bunz) and the invention of these non-pricking pin replacements, ditching disposables seems more do-able (in addition to being more financially feasible and ecologically conscionable).

Another must-have infant item new-to-me as a mom: The Baby Delight Snuggle Nest. It’s basically a mini-mattress with an alcove attached to enclose and protect the baby’s head while sleeping between Mom and Dad. It’s seems like a super-sensible product for parents like us who have found that keeping baby in our bed facilitates better rest, but whose snoozing has been somewhat unsettled because of mixed messages about our little one’s safety in such situations.

So, I have invested in both a set of Snappis and a Snuggle Nest for our forthcoming bundle of joy. And yes, I admit, marketing had some sway. After all, who wouldn’t want to own a “Snuggle Nest”?! When I mentioned this brilliant little bed to my older sister she immediately inquired: “Do they come in grown-up sizes?”

Grace Likes Rain

This morning I found myself Googling “pre-partum depression.” Is there such a thing? Because some days—days like today—I think I’ve got it. My thoughts are largely negative and admittedly irrational—BUT I DON’T CARE! My nerves feel like I’m wearing them on the wrong side of my skin. Little things are bothering me much more than they should…things like cars that drive by my house—and don’t get me started about motorcycles!!!

Normally, I love living in the village. I relish the comings and goings of all manner of people. But today I want to shut out the village and the whole world. Go away! Stop making noise! Leave me alone!

I take a deep breath. I try to pray. I muster a meager plea: “Help…”

The words of a century-old hymn interrupt my glum stupor:

When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,
Count your many blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

I try it:

I’m grateful for the new life growing inside me.

I’m grateful that my children woke up this morning in good health and got themselves ready for school with minimal assistance. (Nevermind that one of them was not very nice to me in the process.)

I’m grateful that my husband is such a diligent worker. I’m also grateful that he thought to empty the dehumidifier in basement before he left the house (because, like so many other things, I cannot lift the full water bin out of the machine).

A garbage truck rumbles by. Instead of appreciating the blessing of curb-side pick-up, I bristle at the racket.

Count your blessings, name them one by one,
Count your blessings, see what God hath done!
Count your blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

WHY does that tune have to be so…so…perky?! Clearly, it is not meant for people in my state of mind. It is a theoretical song meant to be sung while one is feeling fairly good, then applied when one is feeling really wretched. Like me. Like now.

Nature interrupts with a sound infinitely more soothing than a diesel engine…

Ah, yesssss! Here comes the rain! Thank You, God, for the rain! It mirrors my mood and somehow validates my madness…or extinguishes its flames.

Is it madness? Or just a bad mood? I don’t know. Self-analysis can be so complicated! “The unexamined life is not worth living.” So said Socrates. But the overly examined one will drive you nuts! So ponder, consider, think…but not too hard. You might hurt yourself in the process.

I’m going to revel in the rain today. My soul is thirsty.

Hallelujah, grace like rain falls down on me
Hallelujah, all my stains are washed away, washed away

(From “Grace Like Rain,” by Todd Agnew)

On Pests and Gawkers

It’s the first day of summer, and I’m adopting a sunny attitude! I’ll start with a brief blog post to halt my hiatus from this place called Life in A-Town.

I’m 34 weeks pregnant today. It’s not a comfortable state of being, but it is, in many ways, truly glorious. I don’t want to write too many pregnancy musings. In fact, I think that’s why I haven’t written much at all—because it’s difficult to think of other things whilst hefting a 20-pound sac of miracle around all the time. The other 20 pounds (so far) are padding my extremities, including my neck, which seems frog-like to me in the moments I allow myself to look in the mirror.

I will say that while I do remember, in past pregnancies, swelling to the size of Violet Beauregarde, I don’t recall feeling as self-conscious about it as I do now. When I walk to work or lead hymns at church or simply waddle into the grocery store, I feel like a bit of a spectacle. People gawk—most of them subtly, but many do double-take my appearance. It’s part of the discomfort of the third trimester experience. (One friend attributes these last 3 months to the Genesis curse.)

OK, I’ve said I’d keep this brief, and I must. Will is now awake and will be hovering for his chance at the computer in just a couple minutes. So, time for a quick non-pregnancy-related tidbit from our Life in A-Town—it’s a product endorsement:

We had a seemingly serious ant problem in our house up until a couple weeks ago. I casually mentioned our infestation to my brother-in-law, knowing that he and my sister had successfully battled the bugs in the past. What I feared was that he would confess to chemical warfare. In my “delicate” condition, I didn’t want to employ any potentially poisonous pesticides in the ant-elimination process. What Don recommended was perfect: Poisonous only to the ants! Got ants? Get Terro! A little bottle, a few drops on a half-dozen tiny cardboard target cards, a few refills—about 2 days later, the ants were outta here!

One less annoyance is a special kind of blessing these days.

Dear Dad: Wit & Wisdom & Gatorade—Part 2

The thing about suffering through a cold while pregnant is that medications masking the symptoms are off limits. So I turned to some of my many maternal media sources for coping advice. One of them, a recent acquisition called Mothering magazine, recommends ginger tea as a natural remedy for coughs and colds. Not ginger tea from a bag—pre-packaged dried leaves you simply steep in hot water—but fresh ginger root, thinly sliced, boiled in water and strained before drinking. Surely going to all that trouble should yield some powerful results.

So, feeling desperate for relief (I was somewhere between “Head hurt so badly I thought perhaps I should be hospitalized” and “Sleep is impossible; life is a fog”), last night I called my dad at his part-time grocery gig. I asked him to drop off some ginger root on his way home from work. Dad’s been stocking shelves at a nearby W store since retiring as a music teacher 14 years ago. Would you believe that, in all that time, no one had ever asked him to help them find some ginger root?

As I tried to brainstorm with him by cell phone (foggy brain and all) about where the ginger root might be found in the grocery store, my mind flashed back to 11^th grade, one hazy afternoon in late May at the Seneca Falls Pageant of Bands. I was a drum major, one of the kids flailing her arms in front of the uniformed marching musicians (pretending to be conducting, when really it was the bass drummer running the show). Shortly before the pageant parade, my pantyhose ripped. I urgently needed a new pair. My munificent father, known for bending over backwards to help his children (then and now), offered to go to the store for some stockings. I needed white—plain white pantyhose, size B. He jogged off to the nearest retailer of such goods in a small town. (This story pre-dates the Walmart boom, so it was probably a drugstore he sought out.)

Not long later, Dad dutifully returned, bearing an ice-cold beverage (I’m sure I’ve mentioned how important our hydration is to him) and a bulging plastic sack. He looked harangued. Shaking his head, he explained apologetically: “I couldn’t find plain white. There was ivory, off-white, something called bare bisque…?” He proffered the bag sheepishly. He had done his best.

Looking back, I realize how unreasonable it was for me to expect the poor man to know what to buy under such circumstances: Too many options, unfamiliar circumstances, time crunch. What a hassle! So he bought 3 pairs, hoping 1 would suit my need, and he stuck to something he knew: Gatorade. In retrospect, I also realize I probably hadn’t needed the stockings at all. My skirt was long and full; maybe 3 inches of calf showed between the bottom of the skirt and the top of my boots; and I am “the fairest of them all” in my family—fair, as in pale.

But Dad came through with the pantyhose. And 2 decades later, he came through with the ginger root. He’s a good and generous father. Happy Birthday, Dad. And thanks.

Dear Dad: Wit & Wisdom & Gatorade—Part 1

My dad has a saying—well, many sayings…and this one, like many of them, is more like a dry-humored adage:

When dealing with the common cold, you can rest up, drink plenty of fluids, and maybe even pop a few extra vitamin Cs—the cold will last about a week.

Or, when you get a cold, you can go about your business, tending to life as usual to the best of your ability while putting up with the irksome symptoms associated with the ailment—the cold will stick around for about 7 days.

In other words: A cold is a cold is a cold, and it simply has to run its course.

I tend to think Dad is right. For the average, otherwise healthy person, the body will fight the cold in a natural, steady progression of stages. For me, currently 4 days into my 7-day “sentence,” the illness has looked like this:

Day 1: Ominously sore throat

Day 1 ½: Excruciatingly sore throat

Day 2: Very sore throat (but not so excruciating), joined by stuffy nose

Day 2 ½: Hello, sinus congestion!

Day 3: Head hurt so badly I thought perhaps I should be hospitalized

Day 3 ½: Sleep is impossible; life is a fog

Day 4: Head clear, chest stuffed—coughing commences

My prediction for the next 2-3 days: More coughing, graduating from dry yip to hoarse bark; cough accompanied by increased phlegm production, followed by 1-2 days of major drainage (likely to be seen toting a roll of toilet tissue, in lieu of Kleenex box). The drainage could go on for many days after that, but the cold itself will be gone, like Dad says, after about a week.