A testimony

The mother's rosary group that I attend at our new parish is hosting a Lenten reflection program. Each week we are reflecting on a different Work of Mercy. Someone does a reading from Scripture, we have a small group discussion, then someone gives a testimony, we listen to a song, and close with a prayer.  Last week the lady who was going to talk backed out, so the facilitator asked if I wanted to give a testimony.  Something I've never done before! Sure, I love to talk.

It was harder to write than I thought, partly because I didn't want to give a lecture - half the women are a generation older, wiser and more experienced than me. Partly because I don't really have a lightning bolt moment of conversion or a life-changing experience of mission work or unexpected life tragedy. Below is what I came up with . The work this week was "Clothing the Naked," which naturally made me think of babies. I edited it as I talked, so it was shorter and little less detailed, but here is the gist. Figured I might as well post it here, even though I have already written about these feelings.

Clothing the naked -

James 2:14-17

When Shannon asked for volunteers to help with this study, I raised my hand willingly. I was happy to offer to do something - bake, bring some fruit, do a reading. There's no better way to get to know people in a new place than to offer to be a laborer. But here I am giving a talk.  I didn't realize how hard writing a testimony would be. I am happy to give a lecture - I lecture my kids all the time - but I don't have a life changing experience or lightning bolt moment to tell you about.   I'm from Indiana, my parents are converts, I grew up in a tight-knit family with all my extended family nearby, I've been married for 20 years, have 7 kids, moved to Coronado last August, and have lived at 12 different addresses prior to this one.  Those are the bones of my story.

I originally thought I would tell you about some ways that I've tried to make acts a mercy a part of our family life.  It is providential that the scripture verse from James this week is one that motivated me when I first began taking ownership of my faith. Around the time I was preparing for confirmation in high school, I had a friend from a fundamentalist church challenge my faith, telling me that I was not baptized because I wasn't immersed in water, and that Catholics believed works would save their souls, worshiped Mary, and were going to Hell for having statues and drinking in church. On the other side, I also had a skeptical friend who called me a hypocrite for not living more like Christ while dwelling in suburban ease.

So I started to read and research, and came across this passage from James that seemed to speak to both criticisms.  It continues with the line: ” Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds.”  Motivated by the desire to know more about my faith and to put it into practice, I began to look for ways to serve, to love my neighbor.  Like Betty said last week, I wanted to do all the right things. I tutored at a homeless shelter in high school and worked at a day care center for highly impaired adults in college. I spent a summer at a camp for kids with a variety of disabilities.

After I married and  my own kids came along, I took them to visit the local nursing home during recreation hour. I wanted them to experience inter-generational relationships because my grandparents had been so integral to my growing up.  When we lived in Virginia and Indiana, I signed up for Meals on Wheels. It was something I could do with the kids since we were homeschooling.  This experience was a treat for us.  We got to know the people we delivered lunch to, which was a lesson in how love and loneliness are manifested at the end of life. There was the hoarder with newspapers lining every wall in his house, and the man with hundreds of cats and a kitchen so dirty we had to hold our breath to go in, but there was also the cheerful woman who always had a snack for the kids, and the couple in their late 90s who had been married 70+ years. One lady made the kids scarves.

Then in Mississippi we had an Irish priest who assigned me the penance of taking the Eucharist to the nursing home on Sundays after church. I won't tell you want my sin was, but I couldn't refuse.  This was the best penance ever, even though at first the kids - and I - somewhat dreaded it.  Here were all these people hungry for attention, longing for a few moments of being clothed by a hug.  Some of the residents didn't remember us from week to week, but a few did.  And soon it was a real highlight of our Sunday morning - donuts afterwards sweetened the deal.

We continued to find ways to serve in Guam - helping with a foster care support group.  We didn't provide foster care, but did special events - school supply shopping, a Christmas toy drive and party, an Easter party, a shoe drive, etc.

Between serving my kids and others, I saw myself as a provider, independent, resourceful, eager to work.  But as I've gotten older, and the kids have gotten older - I discovered sometimes it is me who needs the help.  Preteens and teens have different needs that are harder for me to fix with a hug or a treat.  They sometimes needed more than I can give.  Life became more complicated, and I began to realize I was in need of help - so the second part of my story is how I became a recipient of mercy. 

Accepting help gracefully has never been my strongest asset.  I didn't know anyone when I had my first child far from family and friends.  It was harder to admit I couldn't manage on my own when my husband deployed to Iraq for almost a year, right after we moved to MS.  The community there jumped in with assistance, though, maybe because they are used to giving and receiving a helping hand.  I learned that most people are happy to be asked to help when needed - help with a carpool, people who stay with your kids when you go to the ER for stitches, people who give you a ride to the auto mechanic, etc. 

That was a hard year, but we muddled through and came out stronger. The event that really humbled me was getting pregnant with baby 7.  We were in the process of a painful PCS coming back from Guam (what PCS isn't?). I was already resentful of having to move a year early, leaving behind a job I loved teaching at the community college, a friendly running club, supportive friends, a beautiful island, happy kids, a good church and home school community - another home.  We spent almost a month traveling to see family, then had to live for a month in a 2 br apartment, while struggling to find housing for 6 kids and a dog in a price range that would allow us to pay school tuition. We finally found a house that was very small and dated. It had old bathrooms, an  old kitchen, and was an old neighborhood - what the landlord called it a "transition" neighborhood - but we were determined to make it work.

After all of the sadness saying goodbye in Guam, the inconvenience of living out of suitcases while having reunions across America, and then the anxiety of school shopping and house hunting, I found out I was pregnant.  Not part of the plan. We were already uncertain about how we were going to make private school work and how we were going to shoehorn everyone into this house.

I was shocked by my negative reaction to the positive pregnancy test. I still have a hard time admitting just how much I didn't want to be pregnant again. I didn't want to start over.  I felt like I had done my share, and I was ready to start a new season of life. I didn't want to be the 60 year old mom at graduation. I felt like giving up. Running away.  Locking myself in.  I couldn't leave my room for three days.  I lied to the scared kids about being sick. Looked up what causes early miscarriages. I was horrified at myself, but unable to cast off the wretchedness I felt, part of which arose from guilt.  I had always been pro-life and pro-NFP and even almost expected a surprise baby. But now I felt like I was an 18 yr old unwed mother caught in the act, but I was old enough to know better. (Don't you know what causes that? people used to ask my husband, and he'd reply, Yes, and I enjoy it!)  I was embarrassed to tell the kids because they were old enough to know, too.  I was embarrassed at having to join a new community and make new friends as a pregnant 40 year old.  Why? One of my best friends from Great Lakes was a 40 yr old pregnant woman when we met (and I was 30 and pregnant).  Here I was, someone who loved babies and being pregnant, but I was distraught over my failure at NFP, at self-control.  I had been good at following rules, but now my spirit was broken, and it needed to be.  I needed to let go of my pride and grow in humility and compassion.

Before we told anyone, my husband called my mom because he was worried.  Even though I was 40, my mom still had the gift of making me feel better.   She went with me to my first dr's appointment - I hadn't even been able to talk myself into going to the doctor until the first trimester was almost over because I was afraid of being lectured. The doctor was wonderful, but sent me right off to a specialist, since I was late coming in for pre-natal care and old.

So it was a true gift that when we finally told the kids, they responded with joy.   Their excitement eased my worries. They love babies.  They were thrilled we were having another and started planning for number 8 because this one would need a sibling close in age. They started a list of names, planned who would get to hold the baby first, and became more compliant than usual.

As the pregnancy went along - God's plan for nine months lets mothers grow in acceptance and love for their unborn child - I slowly moved from anger, denial and rejection to acceptance, anticipation and love.  I finally quit going to the prenatal specialist, who offered some new test each month, because even though I had not planned for this child, I wanted her. She was mine and I was tired of being warned of everything that might go wrong.  I had already wrestled with the idea that my life would be different from now on.  

My mom, a veteran labor and delivery nurse, came back for the delivery. After 6 births all natural, I had to be induced because I was overdue and at high risk because of my age and gestational diabetes.  I was terrified of a c section. But there were no complications; the labor was just long. The doctor finally went home for dinner, and 30 minutes later, I was holding a beautiful, naked baby girl, delivered by her grandmother.  She was practically perfect in every way.  

Something about newborns washes away all other worries.  This child was a sign of God's mercy - here I was so undeserving, so ungrateful, and I had been given another soul to love. Another soul to love me, to bear witness to life, to God's image.  Newborns, in their helplessness and need for attention, teach us the art of contemplation - an art that may be lost while parenting a toddler - but nonetheless, the whole family could sit for long stretches just watching the baby move and breathe.  Baby TV, we called it.  Admiring a baby is a form of contemplation, a way of looking at God's face in human form.

On top of the grace of falling in love with this new person, I was completely overwhelmed by the generosity of the community.  We had only lived in Ventura 9 months, but people I barely knew - or didn't even know at all - came knocking at the door with dinners and lunches. The mother's group and Navy spouses set up a meal train that lasted almost 2 months.  My kids wanted me to have another baby so they could eat so well again. We had given away all of our baby stuff, but we didn't end up having to buy very much.  Navy friends gave us their crib. My sister-in-law still had our old car seat.  Another sister-in-law sent me a stroller as a gift.  My sister and cousins sent clothes. Another mom gave me three bags of barely worn girl stuff up to size 18 months. This child had more clothes than she could wear.  She need never be naked except when she wants to be, now that she can undress herself.

In my weakness, these new friends clothed and fed me in mercy.  They welcomed my new child, my other children, our whole crazy family.  And I don't think there is anything uniquely special about that community, or that unusual about our story.  This generosity is poured out everywhere .  Sometimes when I feel overwhelmed by bad news, I remember how we have experienced so much goodness:  So many wonderful people, so many beautiful places. One gift of the universal church is finding instant friendships everywhere we go.  Somewhere I read that we all drink from the same cup.

Being on the receiving end of an act of mercy has helped me see the face of God in others.

This experience also helped me grow a little in understanding the desperation some unwed mothers feel.  It was a lesson in how important the pro-life message is.

[I skipped this quote and ended with the one I found on Melanie's blog, copied below: Just recently I finished reading Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, which, even though it is written from a secular perspective, speaks to the inherent dignity in each and every human person.  Writing 50 years ago, Frankl critiques the modern utilitarian outlook on life:  "But today's society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness.  If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that an individual's value stems only from his present usefulness, then, believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler's program,, that is to say, 'mercy' killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, or whatever handicap they may suffer. . . . .Life's meaning is an unconditional one, at least potentially,.. Just as life remains potentially meaningful under any conditions, even those which are most miserable, so too does the value of each and every person stay with him or her, and it does so because it is based on the values that he or she has realized in the past, and is not contingent on the usefulness that he or she may or may not retain in the present."

Frankl writes about how man finds meaning in life, even in suffering, not by looking in within, but by looking out and in giving of himself to others especially in love, a message that reiterates JPII's message in his Theology of the body talks.  We can only know another person by loving him as an image of God's love and as a brother or sister in Christ.]

I want to close with a quote about mercy from The Noonday Devil: Acedia, the Unnamed Evil of Our Times by Jean-Charles Nault, O.S.B. Abbot of Saint-Wandrille (from Melanie's blog post.). Acedia is another name for sloth, apathy, state of not caring - meaningless activity or listlessness.  It applies to laziness in practicing our faith, spiritual apathy, more so than physical slothfulness. But this quote [found on Melanie's blog] eloquently captures our need for mercy during times of suffering.

Nault writes that tears have two meanings. The first meaning of tears is that they are an acknowledgement of our helplessness in the face of salvation:

“... To weep is to acknowledge that one needs to be saved. ...

But tears have a second meaning: they are like water that falls on a hard rock and, over time, manages to penetrate it. They are like water that flows over the shell of our stony heart, so that it might become a heart of flesh. Little by little they will transform our heart so as to make it docile to the Lord. They will make a notch so that mercy might pour into that gap, into that wounds, just as the mercy of God was engulfed in Christ’s wound of love on the Cross.”

We are saved by faith, but our works reveal the mercy that flows from that faith and love. 

Rejoice!

Me at 40+5 two days before delivery. Beach ball belly

She's here! She's here! Laura Catherine Jane was born April 8th after about 8 hours of oxytocin-augmented labor.  She was 7 pounds, 11 ounces and 20.5 inches long - tiny for a gestational diabetes baby.  All of her siblings and relatives were overjoyed and relieved to finally meet her.

The birth story I'll preface with a comment from my husband: Women like to hear about birth stories because then they have the opportunity to tell their own.  Very true.  This birth story is not very dramatic, other than it is a lesson in saying "fiat." This baby has reminded me time and again that I am not in charge. So after expecting an early and easy delivery, we waited a week postterm to say yes to inducing labor.  I had a lot of qualms about induction; first and foremost because I have always been opposed to birth interventions for normal, healthy pregnancies, so being induced was a wound to my pride. As my mom pointed out, this pregnancy hasn't exactly been incident free: I'm an advanced maternal age, diabetic gravida seven. She supposedly was 6'11 at her 36 week ultrasound, so we thought she might be large, but either that reading was way off or she didn't grow much during her last 5 weeks.  I had a 9lb 11 oz baby the last time I had gestational diabetes.  I've been afraid of going into labor every time I've ventured into Socal traffic.  My oldest kid has a date to prom on Friday night - I need to be there to photograph him! I was already 3-4 cm dilated with a soft cervix.  So okay. Despite misgivings and a lot of fears of ending up with a c-section, I showed up at the hospital Tuesday with my husband and my bag and checked in. My mom and dad came over after taking the kids to school.  My husband and I both commented that the drive to the hospital was a lot different from our previous trips - no endorphins or adrenalin pumping. But I have to admit, I was relieved that an end to pregnancy was in sight.

The next 7 hours were uneventful. The oxytocin drip did very little to change the feel of the contractions I'd been having for a month. They would start to pick up in frequency but not intensity each time the dosage was increased. So my fears of a really painful labor with oxytocin were unfounded.  After 6 hours the doctor came in to check me and I was only a 5, but she could feel the bulging bag of water, so she broke my water. Based on the way some of my labors had gone once my water broke, we all thought everything would move quickly from there. The doctor scrubbed up, donned her hat and covered her shoes. Then everyone sat around looking at me: "Feel anything yet?" "Anything changing?"  I was starving. I had thought I might have delivered by lunch if my body was really ready to give birth. The kids were hoping to get checked out of school to come over to meet the baby.  No luck. For two hours we waited, then the dr. checked me again. Still only a 5. Disappointment crept in. I went to the bathroom to hide my fear that a c-section was looming. This could go on all night. On the one hand, I wasn't uncomfortable. On the other, this baby had to come out eventually somehow.

The doctor was allowed to eat, so she left to go home to have dinner with her husband since nothing seemed to be happening. Half an hour later, the nurses changed shift, so they all got to go eat dinner. Before they left, the nurses told me to be sure to say anything if I felt any changes, so they could call the doctor. Contractions were getting longer, but still not more painful. The new nurse came in to check me to get a feel for what a 5 felt like. She measured me at a seven and decided to call the doctor, but relief was sooner in sight! In the next half hour the baby descended, crowned and was delivered!

Actually, it was a lot more chaotic than that: I suddenly began to get really uncomfortable and a little scared, because I was still thinking I had a long way to go. Then the baby's heart rate dropped. The nurses called the NICU. I was laying on my side and moaning when they asked me to try to turn over. This is the really painful part of labor that you forget.  This is also the moment when I was praising God that my gifted mother was with me.  Throughout the long day, she had been a encouraging presence, but not intrusive. Mostly she kept the mood light during labor with conversation and reassurance.  But when I began to transition, her nursing intuitions kicked into action, and she jumped into assistance, directing the nurses in delivering the baby while I was on my side. She kept me, now in that odd place of disconnection, from losing control by coaching me to blow out, blow out, blow out (which my husband admitted later that he thought she was using some medical jargon to say I was having a blow out because everything was going so fast). And suddenly we were in that incredible moment of searing pain and overwhelming relief when the baby's head emerged, followed quickly by the slippery delivery of the rest of her body.  She was indeed a girl, and despite her rapid birth trauma, she was wiggling vivaciously around on my chest while I, still in a daze, gazed at this little person who had been so close and yet such a stranger.

The doctor arrived to deliver the placenta, and I compliment her for being so gentle and patient.  In retrospect, and compared to so many others' birth stories, this baby arrived in a very untraumatic way.  Her blood sugars were fine, she is nursing like a star, and her eyes already show recognition of her dad and siblings. Their voices are familiar.

Perhaps the most difficult part of having the baby was deciding a name. Finally, I talked my husband into three names. Laura is a form of my mother's name and there is a Saint Laura, a Spanish nun thrown in a vat a molten tar for standing up to the Moors, but also Saint Lawrence, another great martyr. Etymologically, it's a derivative of the Latin for the laurel flower, the wreath for victorious athletes and poets. And of course, there is Petrarch's Laura - not quite as inspirational as Dante's Beatrice, but still a great muse. I like the English pronunciation "Law-ra" instead of "Loh-ra," which is why my husband wasn't in favor - he doesn't like confusing names.

Catherine is a name I have always liked, dignified and graceful, and meaning "pure." There are many great St. Catherines, but I think my favorite is Catherine of Siena, the 23rd baby of her parents, a philosopher saint, whose feast day is at the end of the month. When I was younger, I had a doll named Catherine I called Katie Jane. She now is in my daughters' closet. My husband's dear grandmother who died last summer was Mildred Catherine, and while I thought Millie was cute, I couldn't harness a baby with Mildred, and my mother-in-law backed me up in confirming that her mother never really liked her name. I also have a cousin who is a nun who is a Catherine, and a wonderful aunt, my godmother, has Catherine as a part of her name.

Jane is my middle name, and my mother's and my great grandmother's, and I always thought I'd use it eventually as a middle name, but my niece who is born the same day as my first daughter, Anne Elizabeth, named for my mother-in-law and sister, great saints, and other beloved Annes, "Grace and favor of God," has Jane as a middle name. And then when our second daughter was born, I had to use a name I'd been loving for years, Claire Sophia, "Light of Wisdom," who shares a name with my husband's grandmother and another great saint.  So Jane, "Gift from God," has been waiting for years to come into our family.

There were other names I was sorry not to use. My paternal grandmother's birthday is the day after this baby's birthday and her name was Margaret Jean. I love the name Margaret, "Pearl," but it wasn't on the short list. Now I'm not sure why. (Am I thinking of changing Baby's name again?) But Jane is a form of Jean and my oldest son, Joseph Walden, has her maiden name as his middle name (as does his grandpa). I was sympathetic to my son's predilection for Beatrice, and I really love the name Sarah also.

So Laura Catherine Jane it is. LauraCatherine Jane? Laura Kate? Katie Jane? Catherine? Elsie Jane for LC? (the boys' pick). Princess Buttercup? (We rewatched Princess Bride while waiting for her.) Her nickname is yet to be determined.

The siblings are all in love with her, whatever her name is. First thing in the morning and as soon as they get home from school they want to hold her. They can't wait for me to come to school to show her off to their friends. She is smothered in attention. The girls can't wait to change her. But this too shall pass, I'm sure.

And now more pictures of someone else's baby than you ever cared to see:

Long, skinny feet

The weight picture

Happy Father

Getting cleaned up to meet her siblings.

My new dollbaby and me, finally getting something to eat. I was ravenous, but all I got was Jello, till the kids brought me leftover pizza. This hospital had a great staff, but poor food service.

Brother #3 got to hold her first. Since the middle kids rarely get to go first,
we worked inside out in the "who gets to hold the baby" order.

This guy was happy to go last so he could have the longest turn.

The grandparents: Nurse Nana extraordinaire.

Now we are 9 (picture Dad behind the lens).

Day 1: her first bunny

And she's home!

To Laura:
Oh blessed be the day, the month, the year,
the season and the time, the hour, the instant,
the gracious countryside, the place where I was
struck by those two lovely eyes that bound me;

and blessed be the first sweet agony
I felt when I found myself bound to Love,
the bow and all the arrows that have pierced me,
the wounds that reach the bottom of my heart.

Bound to Love, Petrarch

Still waiting

Notice: No photos of cute newborn baby.  Still waiting for Bambina to make her appearance. I'm now 40+2, which is really not that far overdue, but it feels like an eternity.  In between the pre-term labor scare and near constant Braxton-Hicks contractions, I really thought this baby would come early. I was afraid my mom would miss the delivery. Now she's been here a week, but no trip to the delivery room has occurred. After I had a restless night Monday, my husband went to work on Tuesday and told his co-workers he would probably be leaving early.  They greeted him Wednesday with a congratulatory cake to celebrate the new baby. Oops!  Sorry!

I've had multiple doses of castor oil, had pressure points on my toes and ankles and fingers pinched, eaten spicy foods, walked for miles - and tried all the other tricks recommended to induce labor.  The other night I dreamed I had the baby and she came out a toddler.

So we're still waiting. I'm sure there's a Lenten message in this: God's time is not our time.  We cannot know the time or place of deliverance. Or patience is a virtue. Or we can't control the future. Or the suffering servant must suffer a really long time before redemption arrives. If I could think of anything besides getting this baby to be born, I'd try to come up with something wise.

In the meanwhile, my mom and I have had a good time tooling around town.  We've done some thrift shopping, tried a couple recommended restaurants, spent time at Bart's Books, a used bookstore rated one of 18 of the best, although I have a hard time saying it is as impressive as some of the others on the list. I found some bookends I love of Dante and Beatrice on sale because Beatrice has had some scratches and dents.  And I've caught up with laundry.

Pictures of a cute newborn to arrive soon. In the meanwhile, here are my bookends and the pretty Lenten bouquet from backyard blooms my son put together.

Sweet Fun from Youtube

A friend shared this link.  My belly is definitely not this cute, but this video is too sweet not to share.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ7-v7xVm3I

Pretty amazing what the body is capable of. I don't think my stomach skin can stretch any more, but we'll see! Still waiting for our own little sweetpea.  38 weeks plus 2.  My mother, labor and delivery nurse extraordinaire, arrives here next week. Oldest son is off to LA for a robotics competition for three days, while my husband's brother is here for 3 days, so I'm hoping for this bambina to stay put for one more week, but not much more! I wonder if I should be practicing breathing exercises or stretching or something to get ready for labor and delivery but just getting through what needs to get done seems to take most of the day lately.  Hard to train for an event when it is impossible to predict what labor will be like.  One of the Navy wives is an acupuncturist and at our book club earlier in the week, she pointed out a spot on the little toe to press in order to induce contractions. And the castor oil trick "worked" twice for us - and once it didn't. So in a little over a week, if no baby is here yet, maybe I'll make a stop at the drug store. Mixed with orange juice and vanilla ice cream, you can't really notice the taste!

Everyone around here is excited to meet this baby.  Love is in the air.

The News from Here

The past week has been one of those whirlwinds that sweeps everything up into a muddle. Can it be March already? It's arrived like a lion in southern California with wind and rain and temperatures all the way down in the 50s. But this chilly spell won't bring those pretty spring wildflowers that make long and brutal winters fade to old memories.  The Midwest may be miserable right now but in a couple weeks they will have the advantage.  From great suffering comes great beauty: crocuses, snowdrops, jonquils, spring beauties, Dutchmen's breeches.  We can buy some of those at the garden shop here, but won't find them in a woods damp with melting snow in southern CA.

Aside from the quantity of rain that has fallen in the last few days, refilling reservoirs and saving wildlife and lawns, we have had a quantity of events.  My sister came to visit, but I'm afraid she awakened rather than satisfied her longing for sunny skies as she writes on her blog.  We spent a wonderful long weekend doing things we like to do - pretending to shop on Rodeo Drive, while only spending money at the Beverly Hills Goodwill, eating Indian food, walking and talking for miles along the oceanfront, scouring thrift shops in Ventura, sharing dinner and wine with friends, and wandering the campus and hills around Thomas Aquinas College.  She got to be rescued from a rip current by my teenager - I, fortunately, was walking her baby around the beachfront neighborhood and was not a witness to their near drowning.  Since that scare happened on one of her last days, I'm afraid that's the memory she'll harbor, rather than the scene of getting photographed with Dick Butkus at a fancy fundraising dinner the second night she was here. 

After she flew away home, I had to jump back into the routine with the kids' events, meetings, and doctor's appointments.  The older boys made it to the semi-finals of the county mock trial event, so we had some late nights. My second grader had a mini-retreat for her first reconciliation coming up next week, and she had to present her ancestor report, which entailed making 34+ whoopie pies as an example of something her ancestor (her grandma) makes. My husband spent hours on these while I put together a dinner for a friend who had a baby a couple weeks ago. (Shepherd's pie - I'm always at a loss about what to send to people. Something that fits in throwaway pans, can be easily refrigerated/frozen, satisfies potentially picky eaters, and can be made with what I have on hand since I didn't have time to grocery shop that day. Last time I made chicken enchiladas which my kids love, but not everyone does.)  I washed but still haven't had time to put away the bedding and towels from my sister's visit. (oh wait, am I spending time on the internet instead?) 

The upshot of all the busyness - or maybe of the change in barometric pressure - is that I woke up yesterday morning before daybreak with strong, regular contractions.  Got a drink of water, hoped they would go away for about an hour before waking up my husband.  Instead, they grew more frequent and strong. Thought of everything undone: borrowed crib unassembled, the carseat unwashed, no diapers and wipes, no name decided upon.  Laundry needs to be put away and more laundry needing to be washed and sorted. I called the doctor, and was told to go to the hospital. 

After some monitoring, iv fluids, and a shot of terbutaline, the contractions subsided.  I wasn't dilated very much or effaced, so the doctor is hopeful that we can postpone this baby's delivery.  My due date is 5 weeks away, so I've been put on modified bed rest for the next two weeks.  I've always kind of wanted an excuse to get more help with laundry, but the week coming up is full of fun activities:  I was supposed to help at the school again during the day for the academic decathlon, my husband's cousin just arrived for a visit (staying with his brother), and tomorrow is supposed to be my not-a-baby-shower party: a food walking tour in Ojai.  Then we've got the second grader's first reconciliation, the first high school track meet and first soccer practices, and at the end of the week, the Seabee Ball, for which I finally found a dress stretchy enough to pass for a maternity gown for a reasonable price. Good thing I didn't remove the tags. 

And, not to be forgotten: Ash Wednesday. 

So Blah.  Missing these fun events will be a true sacrifice that I can offer up for those women with really scary pregnancy problems or for those who suffer from infertility.  The challenge will be not to make bed rest a treat.  I spent yesterday in bed comforting myself by reading A Room With a View, and then I watched the movie on Netflix while the kids and husband hung out with the cousins and went to the Mock Trial awards ceremony. The book is a real indulgence - I'm so glad Forster stuck with a happy ending here, unlike Howard's End. I had forgotten how long ago it had been since I had seen the movie - it was made in 1986. One of Helena Bonham Carter's first successes and one of the formative movies of my youth. I thought I saw it at the theater, but I would have only been 13. My sister thinks my grandmother took us. There's that gleeful scene of Freddie, George, and Mr. Beebe bathing in the pond, chasing each other around in the buff, that I'm surprised wasn't censored by our parents, but they did let us read and watch some rather challenging material. Would that scene now (and was it then?) be interpreted as young men indulging in unspoiled nature, or as a suggestion of homoeroticism?  Sometimes I'm sorry that subtext is more obvious now. I miss reading it as innocent.  And I know I missed the conflict between religion and the Emersons' skepticism. I probably was influenced by the "abominable tourist" discussions, but didn't catch the subtlety of Lucy's rejection of being a "student" rather than what she really is - a tourist. It's a romantic book, but full of lots of interesting side conversations in addition to the unconventional development of the love affair. 

Now I've got to pick out what to read next and make a plan for Lent.  Of course, making a plan seems unwise; at this point, every day is going to be a day of anxious waiting and observation. The Lenten practices of prayer, fasting, and penance will be easier to remember without the distractions of the daily bustle. Now to add in almsgiving. And to decide on a name.

Anna Maria Is Coming, or Maybe Thomas Barton, or Max!

BY HILDA RAZ

New life! Will he toe out like Dolly, like John? Will her eyes be fires?

Blue and green, like Papa's, the ocean at the shore?

Will she sing in the bath? Play piano in her diapers?

Will her heart leap at large machinery? Will he say, "Dribe dribe,"

to his daddy, entering the tunnel? Will his hair be red? Will her hair curl?

Will her little face have the circumflex eyebrows of her mother?

   The pointed chin?

Her hair be fair, bright blonde? Will she frown at the light by the river?

Oh, let her head fill with Greek Owls, her mouth with honey wine.

Let his hands cup the keys, the air of the studio filling with sound, the crunch of

cornflakes, the sift of raw sugar on the tongue, the great chords.

And let the parents be fierce forever, Lord, as You are, exacting

price and penalty for Your gifts, so they grow strong and joyous,

blessed by the memory of the black car, open to air,

chosen by a child in token of the power they give over,

their lives in service to new life, the great melt of petals under snow, the green rising.

Hilda Raz. "Anna Maria Is Coming, or Maybe Thomas Barton, or Max!" from Trans copyright © 2001 by Hilda Raz and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Source: Trans (Wesleyan University Press, 2001)

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180265

Pregnancy journal - third trimester

My due date is just 7 weeks away. Far enough in the future that labor doesn't feel imminent, but close enough to feel like it's time to start getting ready. Or at least to think about getting ready. I'm tired of maternity clothes but determined not to buy any more after I just bought a formal dress for the military ball in three weeks. (Great deal on clearance at Ross!) I should probably start washing baby clothes - I have a decent sized bag of hand-me-downs waiting to be organized and there are some itty-bitty onesies and sleepers mixed in with the girls' doll clothes that I need to rescue and wash. The car seat returned by my sister-in-law also could use a wash down - and a good inspection to make sure it hasn't been compromised by spending a few years in a garage.

What else needs to be done? Set up the crib some friends gave us and wash the sheets, of which I still have a couple. Start a shopping list to which to add waterproof mattress covers and changing pads (and possibly a new carseat).  Decide about diapers: I'm tempted to try cloth again. We used cloth with the first 3 boys, but when our third was about 6 months old, we moved and lived in temporary housing for about 6 months. The convenience of disposables won me over. Plus, I had begun to feel that the abundance of laundry - not just the diapers themselves, but the leaky clothes and the wet sheets - was creating a drain on resources. I know cloth diapers are much more absorbent and convenient to use now, but our water bill is our largest utility cost here in California, so I haven't yet decided which diaper form to use.

To add to my indecision, I looked up cloth diapers online and was overwhelmed by the choices. So many brands! So many designs! What works best for the least amount of money? If I knew another child would be using these, I would be more willing to invest. On the other hand, I notice that a week's supply of disposables is about $35 now.  This baby will spend a lot of time on the go with her multiple siblings' activities - do I want to pack wet nappies in plastic bags with us? Any recommendations?

Another quandary: we still haven't decided on a name. We are still getting suggestions: "Nola" and "Adelaide" are the two newest. We know three new baby girls: a couple from church just had a Francesca, another had Vivian Louise, and the third new baby in our circle of friends is Christine Elizabeth.

Who does this baby look like?

32 weeks. Going to need braces for that overbite?

This is my most recent ultrasound image by the perinatalogist, who lectured me about having too much amniotic fluid, an indication that my gestational diabetes is not as firmly under control as I thought.  "The baby will come out crying 'Where the hell is my sugar!'" he warned if I don't watch my intake.  And this weekend brought two brunches and two large dinners with company, so my eating habits were compromised. I'm craving chocolate right now, as a matter of fact.

The baby is normal sized but extremely active. I'm sure she's busier than the other kids were in utero. So I've been having anxieties that she has some kind of neurological disorder, and she'll never sleep.  Maybe it's my sugar levels?

Other that her extreme activity and my extreme tiredness by about 7 pm, we both are healthy. Although I fall asleep on the couch every night, I still feel relatively normal during the day. I have already gained 30 pounds and am starting to develop varicose veins, so I'm also nervous about blood clots and my ability to stay active for the next couple of months. After our busy weekend, I bribed my kids to rub my feet and ankles with the promise that whoever rubs my feet the most gets to hold the baby first.  Another perk of being pregnant while having older kids. Their attention to my roiling stomach gets a bit annoying at times (please stop poking my belly!), but for the most part I am touched - bad pun - by their attentiveness and excitement about meeting their baby sister.  I'm excited, too, - the next couple of months will be a test of slow time.

This is how I feel at the end of the day: like a resting harbor seal we saw on a recent boat outing.

Bits and pieces

******
I found out I failed my glucose tolerance test again shortly after posting the New Year's Resolutions. So cutting back on sugar is now more of a prerogative. My numbers were only slightly elevated, as they have been for 3 other pregnancies, so I'm not overly concerned, but now I have a source of motivation. Of course, all I've wanted to do since hearing the diagnosis is eat candy and cookies. My husband threw out the last of sugar cookies (horrors!), but I have a stash of M&M's and a Toblerone bar from one of the kids. My mom also pointed out that dark chocolate is low on the glycemic index, and if you pair them with almonds, the protein helps balance the sugar intake. Sounds like a perfect snack.

*******
I subbed the first three days of this week and loved it. I liked having a purpose to get dressed each morning. I liked spending time with the students and the teachers.  I liked having direction to my days. The kids were fifth graders - interesting, curious, but still rule-followers, not rule-stretchers like the middle school kids.  Surely, sixth to eighth grade has got to be the most awkward stage - not quite big kids but not little kids either.

As much as I enjoyed the days at the school, I'm relieved to have a morning at home.  So still not any closer to deciding whether to commit to a certification program.  I was thinking the other night about how vanity plays into my desire to have a job.  I want to be able to say "I'm a teacher," or some other label, when someone asks me what I do. It's a desire to be known and understood, and hopefully, loved, even if those things really don't have anything to do with a "job" as my husband likes to point out.  But is identity revealed in the choice of our vocation? Are we known by the things we do, not what we say and think? Is doing what creates identity and memory - and objects of beauty - more than "being"?

When I meet other women who stay home with their kids, I don't think twice about their choice to work or not, and if anything, I always wonder "how does she do it?" when I meet women with younger children who work full time.  However, knowing what someone does is a way of knowing them, even if it isn't really a shortcut to friendship.  Perhaps if we didn't move, I wouldn't feel this urge to prove myself by having an identity linked to a profession, but I can't really blame it on that as much as a lack of humility. I'm embarrassed by how often I catch myself thinking of what I'm going to say instead of really listening to some one else. Instead of worrying about what image I'm conveying, I should feel content to let others lead the conversation.

*****
Related:  I had a moment of self-awareness the other day when I was aimlessly carrying on some small talk with a slight acquaintance about how lucky we are in California not to be effected by the "Polar Vortex." We don't have to deal with all that cold weather clothing.  Of course, it set me to reminiscing about how the weather in Guam was even better:  "In Guam, we never had to change from flipflops and shorts."

How many times do I start a sentence with "In Guam" followed by something awesome?

On Saturday I was talking to someone about the running club.

On Tuesday I was talking about pancit and balutan.

Over break, I talked to someone about the bunelos dago after midnight Mass.

Have I started to become annoying?

Controlling my tongue should be another New Year's resolution.

*******
In an unrelated train of thought the other night, I was thinking about how much I value the paintings I have from my great-grandmother after my sister posted a picture of one of her paintings.  I love the recipe cards I have written in my grandmothers' handwriting. I love the quilts my sister-in-law has made, and I love the hats we just received from my other sister-in-law. I have a little dress hanging in the girls' closet that my cousin smocked for my first daughter and the dress she smocked for me for my baptism when I was 7. I have all the doll clothes my mom made for our Sasha dolls that my girls redress every now and then, and that reminds me that I also have a box with one of my mom's dolls and her doll clothes that I should let the girls use since they aren't doing any good resting in a box.  The doll needs new rubber bands, though - hers rotted some time ago so that her head and appendages are unattached.

If I love these handmade things so much - and I don't think at all about what profession these women were, although they all worked at one time, (one of my grandmothers once worked in the game room at Ayres when she was young and was a club president when she was older, the other was a patient representative at a hospital in her middle age, my mom and sister-in-law were nurses and my cousin a dental hygienist. And I think I heard at one time that my great-grandmother who painted was a secretary for her second husband's office, but now I don't trust my memory.) - why aren't I making things? What will my children and grandchildren treasure?

I remember my grandmother occasionally treating my sister and cousins and me to a fashion show from the boxes she kept of clothes made by her family members. She had a grandfather's yellowed wedding vest that was over a hundred years old along with a letter with feathery writing. A cotton dress of her mother's that seemed sturdy but also attractive. Her own satin wedding gown we were allowed to try on and her pretty satin shoes. I wore a few of the wax orange blossoms from her head piece in my own wedding headband. There was also a white dress made by a great aunt that I wore to my own high school graduation, although to my chagrin, some of the delicate lace around the neckline tore away from the thin cotton fabric when I was taking it off. And my favorite: an elegant chartreuse formal dress that draped like a column. I think it had some silk floral adornment near the neckline. Maybe it was cotton chiffon? Not sure of what the thin gauzy fabric was. I just remember thinking it was the most beautiful dress in the world. Perfect for a princess.

(Leaving behind the work of their hands isn't limited to my female relatives: there is the bed my brother-in-law made. Hard to believe he's not making thousands making furniture full time. And cabinets from my father-in-law. Bookshelves, castles, and dollhouses from my husband.  How about honey from my dad?)

An array of crafty stuff on the bed made by my brother-in-law, next to which is a side table made by my father-in-law. My only contribution: The skirt the bitty twin is wearing.

Maybe I need to learn to knit.

*********

Some recent photos that have led to conversations lately :

Eastman Johnson's picture "Woman Reading." Who reads while walking in front of a harbor?
Someone calm and meditative, like this painting from the San Diego Museum of Art. Need we be anything more?

A view from the car of the Disney Concert Hall designed by Frank Gehry, inspired by sailing ships. Hope to go inside to a show one day, although the interior is supposedly not as iconic.  Started a conversation with the teenagers about the purpose and value of modern art. Would you rather look at Eastman's painting or Gehry's building? The concert hall is kind of wedged into a busy space and is next to a parking garage. It's difficult to get a good view of it. Would it be better served in a more spacious area? Or does it provide a moment of delight to the viewer who rounds a corner and happens upon it, like some kind of fairy tale castle, completely fantastical and unexpected? LA seems to have so few pedestrians, unfortunately, unlike other big cities. 

What happens when you ask siblings to act like they like each other.

Attempting a panorama of the Space Shuttle Endeavor at the science center in LA. Millions
were spent for the heat resistant tiles that cover it and that had to be replaced
after each journey.  We debated the merits of the space program on our way home:
money wasted or well-spent for the germs of knowledge and the leaps of stimulated imaginations?
The most poignant memory of this trip: reading about William McCool, an astronaut who died in the Columbia explosion. The kids' school in Guam (!) was named after him.  Most crowded space: Around the space toilet. Voiding in space: infinitely fascinating.

What happens when I craft. My 11 year old daughter and I tried
to make this dollhouse chair from a kit she received for Christmas. Homage to the
favorite chair of my youth, where I spent hours reading. Also proof of our inability to manage glue.

Pigwidgeon and Juanito - newest members of our household. I find parakeets fascinating, much to my husband's bafflement, who finds them rather dirty and loud, although vieually appealing.  I can't tell if they are fighting or loving on each other half the time. They have different personalities: Juanito, the green bird, is younger according to the lady we bought him from at the flea market. He is more tame, but less assertive. Widgie is a bit of a bully, I'm afraid. I don't know that we'll be able to tame him and I fear he'll become a biter like his predecessor Percy. Attempting to tame slowly.

Random thoughts on Advent

Happy Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe!  Our parish's Hispanic community is hosting a pozole dinner tonight after the 7 pm Mass. I love hominy, and I wouldn't be surprised if they have tamales, too, my very favorite Mexican food.  I would like to go, but the kids have about 5 things to go to tonight, and I am the only driver, as my husband is out of town for a funeral. Lots of driving every day this week. I was a bad wife over the weekend because I pouted that he was going home for a family friend's funeral and leaving me for a few days to deal with the mess.  What kind of wife is more upset at being left behind than sympathetic for the loss of an old friend? A selfish one, that's me. A long way from sainthood.

Melanie's post reminded me of a thought I had on the Immaculate Conception about how I used to enjoy being pregnant and expectant during Advent. That was the first time I remembered, "Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be identifying with Mary right now." More often, I'm thinking about myself and how my plans have been disrupted. I do feel grateful that our life is being rearranged by new life, not by sickness or death; I just have not completely embraced the feeling of gratitude for this new guest coming into our lives.

Despite being moody, easily irritated, and likely to fall asleep when I sit in a comfy chair after 6 pm, I think I have passed beyond the anger and disappointment that I first experienced when this pregnancy was confirmed.  I still make apologetic statements about this being a surprise baby or "not part of the plan" when people I barely know - or don't know - ask me about this pregnancy, but I feel guilty about it as soon as the words slip out. I am amused but embarrassed when asked if this is my first, and I haven't posted anything on facebook about being pregnant, but I plan to trumpet the news to our friends far away in our Christmas letter, whenever that gets written. I was relieved, but not surprised, to get the results of the recent blood test - Baby is healthy. And I've started to imagine a little personality belonging to this being who is somersaulting around often inside me. She is certainly energetic right now. Or maybe she just likes all the sugar I've been eating. Tis the season for sweets.

And our house is cheered up by the addition of Advent decor and rituals. It's been a haphazard bit of decorating - the kids did quite a bit, and quite a bit is halfway done. I forgot to get a new Advent calendar, but found an old one to tape up, which has been completely ignored, similarly to the Jesse tree, which is usually ignored after a couple days. The Advent wreath has been lit a few times, and the second grader has been reading from a prayer sheet she brought home from school. Our church is giving out new candles each week, which saved me from rushing out to buy new candles, since we had to get rid of all our candles before we moved, but it leaves the wreath looking empty.  I love outdoor lights, but ours haven't been lit yet: a string of lights hangs halfway across the garage and another string sits on the shrubbery, but the string that was to connect them and make them all light up was halfway burned out and I haven't replaced it yet.  And then the pieces of various nativity sets are in various places. But throw in a few poinsettias and red ribbon and it all looks festive.  We've been listening to the Christmas radio station in the car and on Pandora at home. You can't help but feel a bit more cheery when you walk in the door and smell real tree instead of teenager running shoes.

So Advent hope and joy is beginning to pervade the home. My parents visited over the weekend, so we had some happy times and great food. I'll probably post some pictures one day. We ate really well when they were here, so the fact that I haven't cooked much since they left has been overlooked by the kids. So many feast days to celebrate this week. A good excuse to order pizza if we don't get pozole.

Pregnancy Journal 2 and Veteran's Day Weekend: The emotional roller coaster

Last Friday, the OB office called to tell me that I hadn't passed my second trimester screening and I need to come in for more testing. Apparently my blood tests showed a 1/22 chance of Downs Syndrome, while normal is 1/150. I'm not too worried because the ultrasound the week before was very normal. The doctor was pleased to see the baby waving fingers because apparently babies with Downs can't unclench their fists.  I've declined this particular blood test in the past because of its high false positive rate. And as the doctor mentioned, this blood test takes into account maternal and gestational age, so the results are likely skewed by taking my 40 years into consideration. And since my calculation of a due date doesn't match the ultrasound, there could be a discrepancy there, too.

So just when I had decided that I didn't need to go see the perinatalogist every 4 weeks because I didn't want any more testing done, I'm back in that gray area.  There's another blood test that gives better results, Materni T21, so I guess now I'll agree to take it, even though I declined it last week.  It won't change the outcome of the pregnancy, but I suppose it would be good to be mentally prepared for future challenges.

On the other hand, I hate buying into the medical community's marketing.  While researching this test, I can across a number of grateful users, like this: http://theswaddledsprout.com/2013/07/07/my-experience-with-maternit21/, but also some heartbreaking stories, like the ones on this website:  http://www.aheartbreakingchoice.com/T21/Pondering.aspx. These are the stories that fuel millions of dollars of medical research. I don't like to think that my doctor is ordering this test because of financial incentives, since he asked if I wanted it before he saw any indicators other than age, but I'm agreeing to take it because a 1/22 chance is pretty high. This article provides an interesting comparison of private practice and HMOs:  http://www.drmccall.com/eyd/eyd20.html.  When I was seen by the military provider (an HMO), I was rarely offered any tests beyond the most basic. For four of my pregnancies, I didn't even get offered an ultrasound.  Now with this private practice, I've been offered test after test and had 3 ultrasounds and I'm just 20 weeks. Do I say enough is enough? Or is it kind of interesting to be the object of a science fair test?

Meanwhile, the baby is moving often. I still feel pretty good - was able to run five miles the other morning (had to stop to go to the bathroom twice) and had a wonderful swim in the pool last week. I really like to swim once I get over the initial freeze in the water. Fortunately, a friend invited me to meet her, so I couldn't back out because of a chilly morning. Even though I have lived in a southern climate for the past decade or so, I still can't get over swimming in November.  It is only in the 60s in the mornings, so it's far from hot, but the pool is heated and once underwater and moving, the temperature is fine. And swimming is much more graceful than running with a pregnant belly.

A note on running while pregnant: I did a little research the other day to see what the current wisdom is on exercising while pregnant, and it is about the same as it was 17 years ago during my first pregnancy: as long as you were exercising before being pregnant, continue doing so as long as you listen to your aches and pains.  Came across this: http://www.runnersworld.com/womens-running/should-women-run-marathons-while-pregnant.  I find it hard to believe that the lady in question will be able to run at 24 weeks the way she can at 12. At 12 weeks, she probably feels pretty normal. After gaining a few more pounds, she may reassess on her own how she feels about running 20+ miles. I think Coach Jenny has given good advice here about "team training."

In many ways, my physical fitness level is similar to my first pregnancy, adjusted a bit for the passing of years. I had just run a marathon, my core was strong, and I ran almost through the whole pregnancy. During my subsequent pregnancies, I turned to walking and swimming much sooner because my belly expanded earlier, and I had tendon or ligament pain in the groin area. Rather than wear a belly band, I just took it easy. I'm sure keeping active made my labors easier.

And look: to all those pregnant runners who fear they may not be able to run as well again: I got back in shape after having 6 kids. And since my body had time for resting, I've probably preserved my joints and bones for future runs.

So now I'm grateful to still be running at 20 weeks.  Each week I get a little slower and run a little less, but I intend to keep going as long as my joints and ligaments and overall health allow.

Despite feeling physically well, despite the positive ultrasound, I still catch myself falling into a dark space at night.  Case in point: last Saturday morning we stopped by a friend's house on base.  Their kids were jumping with the neighbors on the trampoline. Another couple of friends were over enjoying a football game.  Someone else stopped by to say hi while walking the dog. On base living is like living in Mayberry. We were so happy living on base in Guam. Why did I say no thanks to all of this? On the drive home, I had to fight the demon of jealousy.  And then at night I let my thoughts return to the daydreams of life past or the life I wanted to have in the future, and disappointment set in.  Another demon. Prayer is difficult. Maybe pregnancy hormones contribute to these mood swings. In the morning I try to read something from Magnificat or my little Merton book about losing that love of self that clings to my needs, my wants, and I am inspired to live for others, but at night, it's hard to turn those selfish, what-about-me thoughts off, so I pray that when the baby comes, she'll be so lovable that all those disappointments will disappear. I know she will. What baby isn't? A baby with Trisomy 21?

This year definitely won't go down in history as one of my favorites.  We had to leave our beautiful island, where we loved our neighbors and our house and and the community around us.  We had an easy schedule with the kids, in between buses and nothing being more than 30 minutes away and not having a lot of choices.  I had job that I loved. We had made great friends and had lots of good family time on hikes and at the beach and under the water and running 5Ks and triathlons.  Now we spend hours in the car, the kids' schedules are all over the place, I feel sort of lost in limbo in between not having a job during the day, being unable to find one, and anticipating being unable to work in a few months if I did find one.  The house and yard are disappointing, and while we like our church and have started to make some friends, we've yet to meet that family with whom we feel an automatic kinship, the family who has kids whom our kids like and whom we like.

We've been blessed in the past to have those kinds of friends, the kind you call in the middle of the night to watch your kids when you're in labor.  We do have my husband's brother and his family here, and spending time with them has been wonderful, but they only have 2 little girls, so sometimes our family activities don't jive.  And they don't share our faith, so there is a level where we don't connect.  And that is at the deepest level.  There is a place where we can't understand each other, and so a door is shut on that closer intimacy of friendship.

Sometimes I think I need to focus on what is good and lovely.  Other times I wonder whether it isn't necessary that I mourn those lost opportunities and memories.  They are worth remembering and appreciating. But we can only move forward in time, and I don't want my children infected by my own failings. So we carry on.

We ended last weekend with a successful small dinner party, despite my anxieties about our small house. Everyone seemed to have a good time, my husband's gumbo and my pies turned out perfectly - sweet potato pie is my new favorite thing, good for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I'm reminded again that I feel more comfortable being entertained at homes that feel lived in and loved, rather than ones that look like magazine covers where I worry that my kids will break something or that I can't return the hospitality because this person will discover my lack of decorating taste. Reverse hospitality: my house is so underwhelming, it makes you feel better about yours. That's why we used to call our old Civic the charity car: It made other people feel better about their vehicles, in addition to only having value as a donation.

And for Veterans' Day, we honored my husband by doing things he likes: playing at the beach in the morning (I even squeezed into a wetsuit and got in the waves, looking like a potbellied penguin. No photos.) and hiking to the old M.A.S.H. set in the afternoon, followed by a lasagna dinner and roasting marshmallows around the new firepit. Family togetherness at its finest: a great cure for the blues.

Veterans' Day Flags along the boardwalk

A kelp crab

Starting off the hike to the MASH set

Live Oak down.

Southern California = Korea

I probably could have walked up and petted these deer - that's how concerned they seemed about our presence.
We also saw what we thought were a flock of parrots and they probably were: http://www.havasiwf.org/the-concrete-jungle-uncovering-the-mystery-of-wild-parrots-in-southern-california/.