Dren Notes

When my brother was little, I think the story goes that he had to go to the doctor and have some ucky procedure done. To make things bearable, my mama promised him anything he wanted, “especially a fire truck.” This is a big deal – my mama does *not* subscribe to the bribing-parent camp: you do it because you *should*, not because you were cajoled. So this must’ve been a big deal: it wasn’t a bribe, but rather a reward – a serious reward. We joke anytime JJ does something exceptionally wonderful or has to deal with exceptional crud that we’ll get him a fire truck: even strong-willed Harkins women have their softie levels.

Yesterday evening, after an intense day of playing with the Little Man, I was engaging in some baking therapy. I just needed some space: sanctuary from the constant, “No”, “Put that back”, “Stop”, “You can’t eat graham crackers for dinner”, “Please sit at the table and eat”, “Take your nap”, “Where did you put your pants *this* time?” However, JJ had other ideas in mind, mostly that I needed a sous baker. After a number of refusals to take out his stool, he promptly walked upstairs, dumped out the contents of his Lego container, threw it down the stairs, and pushed it into the kitchen so as to “heping? heping? heping?”

He was hanging out by the fridge, playing with the Half Pint ultrasound pictures. I started to get into barking mode:

“JJ, don’t.”
“There!”
“JJ, leave those alone.”
“Das my bubba.”
“JJ, I mean it . . . wait, what did you say?”
“Das my bubba.”

One evening last week, we showed the pictures to JJ, asking him if he could say “brother.” His look was that of if we asked him to say “onomatopoeia.”

He took the pictures off of the fridge, but at that point, I was a mushy puddle on the floor and didn’t care. I told him to show them to Dad and tell him who it was. Very proud of his new trick, he walked to the top of the stairs and told Dad “Bubba, das my bubba.”

He’s SO getting a fire truck.

Many dankes for the kind words and affirmations (and offers for girly sanctuary) on the last post: they are gratefully appreciated, noted, and filed away for future remembrance (oh, I *will* remember).

So yes: yesterday I spent a lot of time thinking about the shape life will take – two boys!

Some of y’all may be surprised: you hadn’t heard that we were expecting. Some of y’all may be like my Mama who honestly thought I may never procreate again (I talk big: I don’t like answering questions and being held accountable). If you hadn’t heard, I apologize: we did not intend to slight anyone with lack of info. In fact, we hadn’t planned on telling anyone about Half Pint until the gender ultrasound, but plans don’t always go the way you, well, plan (that’s why I usually don’t).

So, details, if you’re interested:
Date we found out a Half Pint was on the way: October 13th, Hubby’s birthday
Date we told our families: Christmas
Date we’re expecting a Half Pint: June 18th, our anniversary
Nickname: Half Pint (Hubby thought of it, and I agreed because Laura Ingells Wilder’s dad called her Half Pint and I always liked that)

A very holiday-oriented child.

The way we broke the news to our folks was this video. In fact, that’s how we told most everyone else: it was really amusing to see a) who actually reads Hubby’s site and 2) who actually watches videos, no matter how long they are (some don’t, shockingly enough).

The reactions to the news has been run. Most folks are overwhelmingly congratulatory. Others offer sanctuary to recharge those estrogen batteries. A number of folks, mostly those with boys, are so excited: they can play together and run around in the mud and be oh-so-boy! And then others say things like, “Can you handle it?” Uh . . . . apparently God thinks so?

I started to feel overwhelmed this morning, letting those questions sink in (bad move, but understandable considering state of sleep and hormones – in adverse alignment). During the ultrasound I was a little freaked out – not because of gender, though: I think I actually would’ve been a little upset if it was a girl, cause frankly, I have all the boy gear already, and girls can be so mean down the road. No, my worries stemmed from my doctor noting that Half Pint flipped completely around during the short ultrasound — *three* *times*. Kicking, flipping, bouncing off his little womb walls. My doctor even checked her instrument to make sure she hadn’t turned it upside down: nope, he just did a 180 again. And then — almost all day — it was like a rave was going on in my uterus: we could even visibly see the thrasher kick. I don’t remember that happening so soon with JJ.

Of course, this means “nothing” – or so says most mothers. “Oh, my baby was so crazy in the womb, but he’s totally calm now.” But somehow I don’t think that’s in the cards, not when Hubby and I seem to have combustible DNA.

Frankly, I got tired. The reality really set in: I can unpack JJ’s infant clothes (I’ll probably need some more if anyone has donations to add to the cause), I have to figure out a name (which we can’t: we picked the name we liked: there were no other contenders), I know what color I’ll mentally paint Half Pint’s room. But another active one? Another one who will run around the library, knocking over keyboards, trying to break into the elevator, opening the cabinet containing the fire hose and setting off alarms (which took place after the ultrasound)?

My dad told me the other day that God gives us gifts: sometimes we like the package and we accept it gratefully; sometimes we don’t like the package, and we grumble and gripe and miss out on the empowerment and blessing that’s inside. God knows just what I need; God knows just what Half Pint needs; whether we can make it without calling the fire department (or having the fire department summoned) will be another thing, but still – it’s all for my good. Right? Please? I mean, the kid has to sleep at some point . . .

Which was the end of our ultrasound. Half Pint wore himself out from all his rebel rousin’, and we got to see him yawn and rub his eyes. I wanted to reach into the screen and cuddle him. Those moments provide the salve for the not-so-calm situations. If I practice contentment rather than grumbling, I may store up enough to be able to really slather up.

This weekend I was chatting with some girlfriends over some fancy schmancy homemade pizzas and decaf (thanks, Sarah!). We got to talking about what our “alternative” lives would look like: what we would be doing if we weren’t currently doing what we were doing (if that makes sense. I swear there wasn’t anything special in the coffee). Some wanted to be an earth mother/midwife/live off of the land. Some wanted to be a backup dancer/advertising exec. Some wanted to do nothing: absolutely nothing (the female counterpart to my hubby).

What I shared isn’t necessarily what I would want to be doing, but it’s what I had planned out for my life as of the college years. I didn’t want to have kids but rather be the fun, beloved aunt: I was going to run a boarding school in Europe so my friends could send me their kids for school to let them experience “culture.” I was going to take care of the boys because they’re less psychological to deal with; my friend Joetta was going to take care of the girls because they smell better. During the off season, I would travel around Africa, working with orphans and refugees, using my husband Adam Clayton (yes, *that* Adam Clayton)’s money. When Adam need his trophy Southern wife to come home for another fundraiser, I’d swoop in, throw a killer party, and charm everyone into giving him more money to give to me to save Africa. I could do this because my mother’s Southern, so I’ve been trained in the realm of hostessing and charming.

Well, I married my bass player. I didn’t get a boarding school in Europe, but I have a home in wine country. I’m not saving Africa directly, but I did recently participate in an event that’s going to send an African woman to an Emergent gathering. Joetta’s not around to hold up her end of the bargain, but I’m still sticking to my testosterone-only population.

Oy.

[NOTE: Title edited because I can't count. Yes, I will be spending more time with JJ and his flashcards.]