I would give my heart.

Today is my boy's first Christmas. Before anyone else was awake, he and I crept into the living room where the tree was lit up and bright in the dark morning light. Jude turned to me with a huge grin and a squeal and we basked in the glow for a few minutes. I love Christmas. I love being with family. I love reading on Christmas Eve about angelic visitations and women, cousins, suddenly, unexpectedly full of divine life. I love the sweet baby Jesus lying in hay. I love quiet Mary with her hand over her heart and steady Joseph leaning on his staff, watchful. I love singing old english carols around the piano, my father cutting us off at the end of each verse. I love working on impossible puzzles and playing silly games. I love wrapping presents (terribly, by the way). I love it all.

And last night, I couldn't help but listen for the hooves of reindeer on the roof.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

One-handed

It turns out that Jude's fussy time of day is just when I am trying to make dinner. When fussy, he does not like to be reclining, but upright and looking around. He is a big boy, after all. This means I have to carry him around. I have learned in the last week that certain cooking tasks are difficult to do one-handed.

1. Peeling garlic. Imagine me trying to flick off the crackly skin with my thumb. Teeth may have been involved.

2. Making a roux. Whisking constantly and pouring milk in the saucepan in a steady stream is nigh impossible one-handed. Which is why it boiled over and ended up in a steady stream all over my stove. Scorched. End result: lots of scrubbing after dinner. (Luckily, Mike cleaned up. Bless him.).

3. Chopping anything. Onions. Avocado. It doesn't matter. Wielding a knife with a baby in one hand is not brilliant, no matter how hard you try.

So, the point is this: I can basically cook anything that only needs to be stirred. I'm at a loss as to what that item might be.

Auntie Love

Annie and Jude

Cousin IT died in my laundry

I am going bald. I swear it. I had heard that a woman loses quite a bit of hair after giving birth, but this is ridiculous. We find it EV-ER-Y-WHERE. A continued loss of abundance from the birthing body. I find it in matted balls in our clean laundry, which, oddly enough, makes it feel less clean. I find it stuck in between Jude's fat rolls. I find it inside my socks tickling my toes. I find it itching my back at random points in the day. I find it in our sheets. I find it on the floor. I find it in M's hair. I find it stuck in MY fat rolls. I have to stay ever-vigilant to prevent it from being in our food (and I promise, I'm a regular eagle-eyes!). For the love. And don't even start me on what comes out of my head when I shower or comb my hair. Handfuls, my friends, handfuls. And it's bringing back my high school paranoia that I would be a bald woman by sweet 16. I remember wondering if they made Rogaine (sp?) for teenage girls. Then I read that one generally loses about 100 strands per day. After doing some calculating on the wall of the shower, I figured I was not in too grave of danger. My new post-birth trends put my fearful high school heart to shame. To SHAME!

So, I am now re-investigating Rogaine for postpartum women. And wigs. And implants.

If I look like Gollum creepily cradling a gnarly ball of lost hair ("my precious") next time you see me, just smile and tell me my hair looks luscious.

Newsie

There's not room in this place for the X of us!

Last night I lay awake listening to the scampering of little feet in our ceiling. Yes, in our ceiling. With my covers pulled up to my chin, I tried to count the trajectories and picture where the little mice were skittering off to (while curling my toes away from the edges of the bed).

We have an infestation. As the weather has cooled and the leaves have begun to whip wildly around the yard, the number of little feet in our ceiling has increased. The first day I realized we had mice, I heard a scuffle in our kitchen and crept out of the bedroom like a ninja, quiet and deadly. I expected anything from a burglar to...to...I don't know. What could possibly be making a kerfuffle in my kitchen? Then I heard squeaks. I brought out my chopping hand and stealthily proceeded towards the sound, only to jump and scream wildly around the room and on top of our couches when the little creature darted out from lurking behind the oven to scurrying around the corner. So cliche. You'd have thought it was Godzilla. I then proceeded to shove my entire pantry into the fridge and freezer. We still have chocolate chips in our veggie crisper, dried lentils next to our milk, spindly angel hair pasta stacked neatly in the ice box, and bags and bags of rice shoved into the corners of the fridge.

After setting up traps laden with peanut butter and catching about 6 between us and our landlords, I thought the critters had struck out for less dangerous, less snappy territory. Until last night.

So, now I am considering my mother's suggestion that I make little homespun clothes for them and invite them into the kitchen for a singing cleaning extravaganza. Given how badly the pair of pants I made for Jude turned out, I think they might turn up their little whiskery, pink noses at me.

I probably would too.

It's a bird, it's a plane, no...

It's Superman flying over the citizens of Metropolis...

This year, my neighbor and I made Jude a little Superman costume. Mike and I were, ostensibly, Ma and Pa Kent, although our dressing up efforts were minimal at best. Jude had his four month appointment this last week and the pediatrician did some strength tests on him and declared with surprise, "This guy is as strong as a six month old!!!" I muttered under my breath, "Well, yeah, he IS going to be Superman for Halloween."

I'm in Love

Oh, my heart!

My Wild Thing

This morning, when Jude and I were still in our pajamas, I held him in my arms and swayed back and forth, back and forth. He in his "I love Daddy" crazy giraffe footsie pjs and me in my blue checkered pajama pants. My hair, now tamed back into a droopy ponytail, rumpled from a long night of getting up and up and up and up to feed Jude. I hummed a little tune into his ear, softly, the only sound in the small universe of our apartment. Jude's head lay on my chest, quiet and still, his eyes wide open. His generally wiggling body laid tired against my body. We swayed and hummed for what seemed like a long time. The bright morning sun streamed in through the blinds, bathing us in a warm glow, a baptism of light.

I love moments like this. Or the one, later today, when we laid on the floor of his room, on his little doggie blankie, and read "Where the Wild Things Are" together. He mostly sucked on his whole hand. And then the other one. Little chubby fingers dripping with spit. He didn't seem to like the word, "terrible." But, I think he liked the idea of being king of the Wild Things. He is, after all, our King Jude.

Or the moment last night, when the quiche was made and in the oven, and I scooped him up from his sous-chef station in his rocker and tickled his belly until he giggled wildly. A rare moment of inexplicable laughter. He kept cracking himself up and looking to me to laugh more. My cheek muscles hurt afterwards from smiling too much.

These moments balance the others like last night when he broke my heart with tired crying. He resists sleep like some men fight for air when drowning. I try to put him down and walk away, frazzled. Holding him doesn't seem to help. And then, I capitulate every time, helpless, helpless, helpless. I pick him up and sway and sway and sway until he is quiet and still, little tears pooled under his closing eyes. Then I place the floppy bundle of his tired body back down and he sleeps.

Or other moments like two nights ago when his diaper leaked urine all over him, me and our bed at 3:00 AM. I could barely open my eyes for exhaustion. I fumbled around our apartment for new pajamas for both Jude and I in the pitch dark. Light would have only been a further insult. Once both of us were dry and clean, we all went back to sleep. I slept on a towel until morning when I washed our sheets, again. I seem to do that alot lately.

Although most moments are decidedly between these two extremes, I tend to forget about the tired crying and sleeping in urine all night and hold, rather, onto the remembrance of quiet waltzes in the morning sunlight and his impossibly bright blue eyes looking at me, the two of us laughing out loud.

Tummy Time. He Hates it.

California

Last week, Mike, Jude, and I took a little trip to California to visit with Grandma and Grandpa Bunnell. Mike had a week off of school and we figured that if he had to do homework, he might as well do it in the sun (and after a surf sesh). Although I came down with the flu while we were there, we had a lovely time. When I was sick, Mike and Grandma and Grandpa were there to take care of me and Jude. After I got better, we had some lovely time at the beach, at the Farmer's Market, Jude-gazing with Grandma and Grandpa, and eating lovely things. Grandma and Grandpa took us to this de-lightful Greek place that had amazing stuffed grape leaves and lamb. We didn't get to take too many pictures, but here are a few cute ones of Grandma and Jude taking a nap together.

For the record, Jude was a dream on the plane. Hardly a whimper. Not only that, he won the in-flight trivia game played against fellow passengers. The drunk guy sitting in front of us was amazed.

Bilingual

Jude sounds like he is speaking in German when he's angry, "Eine! Nine! Nine! Klein! Eine!"

For Great Grandma S

I may or may not have bought *another* bushel of peaches today to make into fruit leather. $12 at the local fruit stand. I may or may not already have 14 pint jars of peach jam and 26 quarts of bottled peaches, summer's sweetness preserved for winter's grey. I like to think of eating them in an igloo. The peachy hues set off by the blue ice. The jealous penguins looking on, flapping with envy. My grandmother showed me how to scald and peel and bottle and steam while she whirled around the kitchen, an effective storm of pulling order out of chaos. After she pulled the bottles from the heat, the sun streamed through the glass jars to reveal golden orbs of soft flesh. Such beauty. When I open each bottle this winter, I will think of her, apron tied daintly around her waist, peach after peach moving through her able hands, her laugh filling the steaming kitchen, a communion of sweetness.

Three Faces in 30 Seconds

Blessing Jude

Meags, Tyler, Em and Jude

Four generations

The whole crew on Em's side

Mike and his boy

Karen with the double barrel...Tyler and Jude

Grandparents Taylor

The mamas (and Jude)

Me and my little man

On August 23rd, Mike gave Jude a blessing. He blessed him outside, under an apple tree, circled by our brothers, fathers, and grandfathers. Our friends and relatives gathered around and listened. I swaddled Jude in a white crocheted blanket made by my mother. I loved the look of the pearly sheen against his baby skin. It was a beautiful day. Mike gave a beautiful blessing. My grandfather came up to me afterwards and said, "How can he not do great things with such a blessing?"

Just Because

My boy

Jude

Mike

Emily

My boy's eyes are blue--of the intensity of pure things. Sparkling. They are his dad's. 27 years younger.

My boy's eyelashes extend for days, long and straight, not even a hint of a curl. I think of them like the flatness of North Dakota.

My boy has a cleft in his chin. My cleft.

My boy has a pensive face and a quizzical brow. Some might say he scowls, but I think he's just curious. Full of observation. Perhaps a little skeptical.

My boy has a pouty lip to slay the masses, bend them pathetically, helplessly to his will. I capitulate every time--scoop him up into a too-tight embrace.

My boy has a mischevious smile. A melting, mischevious smile. Mike and I go to great, ridiculous lengths to coax it out.

My boy is strong. Although his head still bobs as we hold him, standing, by his hips, his legs hold him up--wee, steel, stork legs.

He has his father's flat feet, his mother's glower, his father's hint of auburn, his mother's eye shape, his father's lucious lips, his mother's detached earlobes.

My boy captivates me countless times a day--he coos and sputters and drools and I ask for more. "Tell me," I say, "Tell me more."

My boy sleeps with his small fists cradling his head. The small vulnerability of his sleep is endlessly disarming--the thin, purple paper of his eyelids.

My boy has fuzzy, wispy hair, a halo of strawberry fuzz on his near bald head. It poofs out deliciously after his bath.

I kiss my boy hundreds of times a day--push my lips into the chubiness of his baby cheeks, the top of his head, bury myself in the small arc of his neck, into his palms, his feet, his button nose. It's compulsion--an outflowing of my motherhood to his sonhood, to his babyhood, to his mineness.

I take these small moments and tuck them into my new heart--the one that burst into being as my body spread wide as eternity--the one with pockets to hold his many small, unintentional gifts. Small tremors of love still stretch it, that heart, wider and wider--an expanse of warm space to nestle every sweetness, every angle, every moment of my boy, my Jude, my tender, little babe.

Muscle Tees

I'm going to bust you up!

Just, kidding! I love you!

baby in the bath

sleeping on a 12-hour car ride

I take it hungrily at odd angles, my head bobbing like a newborn's until it sinks drowsily to the nearest surface--Jude's carseat or the hard, grey plastic of the car door, my back shlumped over, the window hot and sweaty on my face.

I wake up to moments of flat, scrubby land, passing in whirls of browns and muted greens, and then fall helplessly back.

Would that I could slip this sleep into a hip flask, take hits throughout the day when the lack hits like a hot flash, or long guzzling draughts in the still hours of the night when my ears strain into the darkness for quiet cries, my breasts hot and full of milk, waiting for him to drain them as if from an aquifer, my breasts like porous stone.

I awake with red sweaty lines across my face, drooling, drunk on the stuff.

Adoring Jude

Montana: Glacier National Park

This last week, Mike, Jude and I packed it up and drove up to visit family in Montana. We had a fabulous time. Here are a few pictures from the trip...

Verguenza

The day after Isabella of Castile gave birth to Katharine of Aragon in a temporary field camp, she passed her soft, mewling babe off to a wet nurse, mounted her steed and rode off with Ferdinand to continue the fight against the Moors (crimson velvet gown flapping in the wind, I imagine). A week after I gave birth to Jude, I waddled gingerly around our cul de sac, hanging dolorously on Mike's arm, stepping wide in my blue flannel pajama pants and Mike's oversized, holey Beatles shirt. Nothing like a fiery Spanish queen to put you to shame.

Despite my slightly longer recovery, replete with several birth "souveniors" (which did not include puerperal fever, like most of Isabella's contemporaries, gladly) today my midwife pushed and prodded and declared me whole. Although I have no immediate plans to mount a trusty steed or zealously join any kind of military campaign, I feel I can at least conquer my cul de sac with enthusiasm (minus the velvet gown, but only because of the heat) and maybe even push this ole' bessie to strolling boldly around the block, wee babe in tow, for no other reason than to feel this body move again.