I read because I can't sing. I read because tangible, readable words are easier to say than words that I must remember and sing in tune. I read because I hope that as Alaska spirals deep into a dream filled slumber she will learn my voice.
I read because I need her to recognize and react in her toddler years to a voice that knows safety and good behavior. I need her to obey my voice when I tell her to stop before she reaches the curb and to not walk in front of the moving swings at the playground. I need her to obey my voice when I tell her to be reverent in sacrament meeting and quiet at the grocery store when we run into an acquaintance.
I read because I need her to know. I need her to know that in her teenage years when the world is so very loud and chaotic screaming, shouting, gossiping, belittling that there is a voice that she has heard since her newborn days that she can trust. I need her to know that I will always have something to say to her, some question to ask her to get to know her changing self. I need her to know that I love her so very much and fear for her safety physically and spiritually.
I will read because when I am gone and the memories are scarce and far between she will see a book that I once read her as a child and remember. Remember being snuggled as she sits on my lap, my breath warm and soft on her hair as I read her Where the Wild Things Are. Wrapped in my arms as I whisper poetry and nursery rhymes that tickle her little ears. Able to answer questions at church and understand why it's important to be reverent during sacrament meeting because we're reading the scripture story manual at home. Remember being almost too big to comfortably scrunch up on my lap as I read Beverly Cleary and recognizing a few words on the page. Almost grown up sitting beside me as we read Little House on the Prairie together, me reading two pages, her reading one. And that last book that we read together, but my reading aloud is slower than her reading silently to herself and she secretly finishes the page, leaving me behind and ultimately completes the book while she is waiting on me to unwind myself from her younger siblings. But she will remember all the shared moments as she reads novel after novel on her own even if she doesn't always think of them.
We read Nicholas Sparks, the Ensign, self-help mothering books, short stories that cause me to tear up, General Conference talks, the scriptures, novels. Grown-up things. She is learning my voice.
Someday we will read There's an Alligator Under My Bed, Dr. Seuss, Ferdinand the Bull, Caddie Woodlawn and the scripture manuals for kids that have pictures and tell stories of Jesus. Kid things. And she will build her memories.
In her teen years I can only hope that I will find her studying and searching the scriptures for her own answers. That my voice will be in the back of her mind, encouraging her to search on her own. That by our reading together she knows how and where to find her answers and that the practice of hearing my voice prepares her to hear the voice of her Heavenly Father through the spirit.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Left-Over Wishes and Hopes
I posted a few pictures of Alaska to facebook this past month and among the comments my mom said, "I wonder if this little niece of theirs is going to be able to stand all the love and leftover wishes and hopes she's going to be smothered with." about my three brothers still at home. And as I thought about it, probably me as well.
Watching my brothers grow up wielding anything that could be called a sword and racing cars along the carpet I craved for the quietness of a sister. Time spent painting nails and curling hair. Picking out the perfect outfit for that special date and gushing over the smallest details of what he said and and what I said and what does that mean.
We adopted a baby boy and I was so excited to be a big sister I could hardly stand it. Less than a year later my mom was pregnant and I hoped it was a girl, but really, I loved babies and whatever it was would be fine. It was a boy. Finally my mom was pregnant for what would be the last time and I wanted a sister so bad my heart hurt. After being tucked into my pink sheets surrounded by my unicorn wallpaper I would creep to the window and find the brightest star and send my wish floating out the window for a baby sister. I wanted someone to dress up and braid their hair and teach them everything there is to being a girl. To have tea parties and dress-up days and to talk about boys with. No such luck. I was so mad that my youngest brother wasn't a girl that when the time came for everyone to go to the hospital to meet him I refused to go. I wasn't able to hold a grudge forever, after all, he was a baby and he was super cute, but my heart always wanted a little sister.
And then it happened. I married Steven and overnight I gained the wish of my childish heart. It couldn't have been more perfect. His sister, my sister, our sister was starting high school that fall and was growing into a young woman. It was like entering the stadium for the last half of a football game. You don't have to sit in the cold for nearly as long while the metal bench sucks all warmth out of your bum and leaves your nose frost bitten to still enjoy the final celebration of a well played game and the victory of a stunning win. Watching Megan grow into a sister I love to think of as my own has been one of the greatest of all gifts Steven could ever have given me. I wish we lived closer so that we could spend more 'regular time' together. Time where we just sit on the bed and talk about hair accessories and makeup and whatever book we're reading. Time where we walk up and down down-town streets, entering shops at will, not pressured by the hands on the clock. Time where we sing with the windows rolled down while the volume of the music keeps our less-than-desirable singing abilities as our own secret. But for now we'll have to make our memories from the frequent visits and special occasions that bring us together.
As a teenager I felt more comfortable around boys than I did girls and I began to doubt my ability to raise a girl. I had watched my mom check off the many lists of achievements that come with cub scouts and then boy scouts. She balanced a delicate schedule around sporting events, complete with home cooked meals to eat between school and practices. I knew how to raise a boy, I had seen my mom raise three of them. However, as far as raising a girl went, I had no idea. I had never seen her do that. It was just me. And believe me when I say that when I was young I was not paying any special attention to my mother's parenting techniques as she made sure my hair was pulled into braids complete with matching bows every morning.
The ultrasound at 16 weeks promised a girl and I was petrified and ecstatic all at the same time. My girl was finally here. My own girl. The little girl that I am going to teach about being a daughter of God and how to do the dishes and to have tea-parties with and play American Dolls. Yes, I realize that first and above all I need to be her momma, but there is no rule in the book that says that mommas need only be present at times of discipline and learning.
And if all things go as they ought we will spend time talking on her bed about boys even if I am her momma. I mean, seriously, who knows more about what boys want then this girl right here? I may have the handicap of growing up with only boys and not entirely knowing how to raise a daughter, but with that handicap comes a blessing. Spending so much time with the mind-baffling opposite-sex I have become quite the expert.
Like when she can't wrap her mind around the idea that the boy in 6th grade who always says, "Welcome to Miami" in an accent during math class when they're supposed to be learning complicated equations, may actually like her and while he wants to talk to her, cannot honestly think of anything else to say. And besides, doesn't it always make her laugh? And perhaps when she's having 'that relationship' - the one where the boy is so doting and charismatic but as an outsider you can see the whole thing as an abusive relationship, tearing her down one compliment at a time, perhaps we can talk about it together. There's safety in open communication.
Alaska is the daughter I have always wanted as a sister and I will be her momma first, but she will always be the embodiment of all of those left-over wishes and hopes.
Watching my brothers grow up wielding anything that could be called a sword and racing cars along the carpet I craved for the quietness of a sister. Time spent painting nails and curling hair. Picking out the perfect outfit for that special date and gushing over the smallest details of what he said and and what I said and what does that mean.
We adopted a baby boy and I was so excited to be a big sister I could hardly stand it. Less than a year later my mom was pregnant and I hoped it was a girl, but really, I loved babies and whatever it was would be fine. It was a boy. Finally my mom was pregnant for what would be the last time and I wanted a sister so bad my heart hurt. After being tucked into my pink sheets surrounded by my unicorn wallpaper I would creep to the window and find the brightest star and send my wish floating out the window for a baby sister. I wanted someone to dress up and braid their hair and teach them everything there is to being a girl. To have tea parties and dress-up days and to talk about boys with. No such luck. I was so mad that my youngest brother wasn't a girl that when the time came for everyone to go to the hospital to meet him I refused to go. I wasn't able to hold a grudge forever, after all, he was a baby and he was super cute, but my heart always wanted a little sister.
And then it happened. I married Steven and overnight I gained the wish of my childish heart. It couldn't have been more perfect. His sister, my sister, our sister was starting high school that fall and was growing into a young woman. It was like entering the stadium for the last half of a football game. You don't have to sit in the cold for nearly as long while the metal bench sucks all warmth out of your bum and leaves your nose frost bitten to still enjoy the final celebration of a well played game and the victory of a stunning win. Watching Megan grow into a sister I love to think of as my own has been one of the greatest of all gifts Steven could ever have given me. I wish we lived closer so that we could spend more 'regular time' together. Time where we just sit on the bed and talk about hair accessories and makeup and whatever book we're reading. Time where we walk up and down down-town streets, entering shops at will, not pressured by the hands on the clock. Time where we sing with the windows rolled down while the volume of the music keeps our less-than-desirable singing abilities as our own secret. But for now we'll have to make our memories from the frequent visits and special occasions that bring us together.
As a teenager I felt more comfortable around boys than I did girls and I began to doubt my ability to raise a girl. I had watched my mom check off the many lists of achievements that come with cub scouts and then boy scouts. She balanced a delicate schedule around sporting events, complete with home cooked meals to eat between school and practices. I knew how to raise a boy, I had seen my mom raise three of them. However, as far as raising a girl went, I had no idea. I had never seen her do that. It was just me. And believe me when I say that when I was young I was not paying any special attention to my mother's parenting techniques as she made sure my hair was pulled into braids complete with matching bows every morning.
The ultrasound at 16 weeks promised a girl and I was petrified and ecstatic all at the same time. My girl was finally here. My own girl. The little girl that I am going to teach about being a daughter of God and how to do the dishes and to have tea-parties with and play American Dolls. Yes, I realize that first and above all I need to be her momma, but there is no rule in the book that says that mommas need only be present at times of discipline and learning.
And if all things go as they ought we will spend time talking on her bed about boys even if I am her momma. I mean, seriously, who knows more about what boys want then this girl right here? I may have the handicap of growing up with only boys and not entirely knowing how to raise a daughter, but with that handicap comes a blessing. Spending so much time with the mind-baffling opposite-sex I have become quite the expert.
Like when she can't wrap her mind around the idea that the boy in 6th grade who always says, "Welcome to Miami" in an accent during math class when they're supposed to be learning complicated equations, may actually like her and while he wants to talk to her, cannot honestly think of anything else to say. And besides, doesn't it always make her laugh? And perhaps when she's having 'that relationship' - the one where the boy is so doting and charismatic but as an outsider you can see the whole thing as an abusive relationship, tearing her down one compliment at a time, perhaps we can talk about it together. There's safety in open communication.
Alaska is the daughter I have always wanted as a sister and I will be her momma first, but she will always be the embodiment of all of those left-over wishes and hopes.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Out For A Walk, Home With A Couch
With the days being longer and the weather being more compliant to my wishes of warm evenings Handsome Husband and I have been going on walks together when he gets home.
Our walking paces are much different and when I say walk I may perhaps mean a canter over the country side while most people would prefer to ramble, all using the adjective walk. So we compromised on a stroll. I walk a little slower, Steven walks a little faster and somehow we meet in the middle with me always a step ahead. He loves to carry Alaska in the front pack rather than taking the stroller and that is just fine with me since she seems to have some kind of on-going feud with riding in a comfortable car seat with toys dangling from the handle bar and a nice cover to keep her face out of the sun. She doesn't know how good she's got it.
It's been nice to be out in the exciting buzz of spring. People outside in the evening raking their yards and piling winter on the side of the road. The vacuum truck comes regularly on Mondays again. Others sitting on their porches in their rockers, yes, Farmington is old school that way, rocking quiet and still. And then there is, of course, the other walkers, runners and bicyclists. Which is nice when you pass them on the other side of the road or going the opposite direction of yourself but never ceases to be awkward when they're breathing down your heels into your low-cut socks and won't pass.
Handsome Husband is one of the ward missionaries right now and for the past few walks we haven't gone much of anywhere without running into people and chatting for a little bit while they gaze at Alaska. She's the best conversation starter I have ever had and I feel Steven reaping the benefits as we stop by a few houses where some inactive people live and we knock just to say hello and ask how everything is going. It reminds me why I was so smitten with the boy in the first place. His ease at conversation and never-ending smile.
What would usually take me 25 minutes with Alaska in the stroller in the middle of the day can take Steven and I at least an hour, but I really don't mind, even if I tease him about it a little.
There was one such evening we were rambling through, looking for a spring that I had seen in the summer but have never been able to find since when we saw a decent looking couch sitting in a yard, a 'Free' paper taped like mad to its cushion. We currently have two couches, both of them people eaters, and we had been talking about getting rid of the one that probably has bodies smuggled in between its cushions from the past three previous owners. It seriously eats you alive, like a sand trap that thing is.
Steven knocked on the door, the free sign was taken off and we ended our walk early to call up the trusty neighbor with his muscles and truck for reinforcement. After taking the first couch down to the basement we rearranged the furniture enough times to come to the conclusion that the second people eater had to go, as well. It now sits in Alaska's room, waiting its deployment to the curb. We're down two places for company to sit but have a couch that we can trust to not snack on our visitors and to leave the change in their pockets.
There are minor flaws, of course, like three of the four cushions have tears in them, but really, that just merits me the excuse to get some cute throw pillows and to constantly have a blanket out. We haven't gone strolling together since, I am mildly concerned as to what else people are going to be putting in their yards as spring turns into summer.
Our walking paces are much different and when I say walk I may perhaps mean a canter over the country side while most people would prefer to ramble, all using the adjective walk. So we compromised on a stroll. I walk a little slower, Steven walks a little faster and somehow we meet in the middle with me always a step ahead. He loves to carry Alaska in the front pack rather than taking the stroller and that is just fine with me since she seems to have some kind of on-going feud with riding in a comfortable car seat with toys dangling from the handle bar and a nice cover to keep her face out of the sun. She doesn't know how good she's got it.
It's been nice to be out in the exciting buzz of spring. People outside in the evening raking their yards and piling winter on the side of the road. The vacuum truck comes regularly on Mondays again. Others sitting on their porches in their rockers, yes, Farmington is old school that way, rocking quiet and still. And then there is, of course, the other walkers, runners and bicyclists. Which is nice when you pass them on the other side of the road or going the opposite direction of yourself but never ceases to be awkward when they're breathing down your heels into your low-cut socks and won't pass.
Handsome Husband is one of the ward missionaries right now and for the past few walks we haven't gone much of anywhere without running into people and chatting for a little bit while they gaze at Alaska. She's the best conversation starter I have ever had and I feel Steven reaping the benefits as we stop by a few houses where some inactive people live and we knock just to say hello and ask how everything is going. It reminds me why I was so smitten with the boy in the first place. His ease at conversation and never-ending smile.
What would usually take me 25 minutes with Alaska in the stroller in the middle of the day can take Steven and I at least an hour, but I really don't mind, even if I tease him about it a little.
There was one such evening we were rambling through, looking for a spring that I had seen in the summer but have never been able to find since when we saw a decent looking couch sitting in a yard, a 'Free' paper taped like mad to its cushion. We currently have two couches, both of them people eaters, and we had been talking about getting rid of the one that probably has bodies smuggled in between its cushions from the past three previous owners. It seriously eats you alive, like a sand trap that thing is.
Steven knocked on the door, the free sign was taken off and we ended our walk early to call up the trusty neighbor with his muscles and truck for reinforcement. After taking the first couch down to the basement we rearranged the furniture enough times to come to the conclusion that the second people eater had to go, as well. It now sits in Alaska's room, waiting its deployment to the curb. We're down two places for company to sit but have a couch that we can trust to not snack on our visitors and to leave the change in their pockets.
There are minor flaws, of course, like three of the four cushions have tears in them, but really, that just merits me the excuse to get some cute throw pillows and to constantly have a blanket out. We haven't gone strolling together since, I am mildly concerned as to what else people are going to be putting in their yards as spring turns into summer.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Two Months With Alaska
Favorite Things: Snuggling with me in bed after your last night/early morning feeding.
Special Talent: You have perfected the art of coaxed smiles. Sometimes you'll even tell a little story if you know dad and I are listening.
Favorite Pastime: Sitting on my lap and looking. Just looking.
Sleep: You did awesome while we were in Oregon, 9-5 and then back down until 9. Perhaps because your naps weren't what they are when we're home? Lately you've been still going down at 9, thanks goodness, but then getting up around 3 and again around 7.
Crying: We're finally able to communicate and it is so relieving! I can still remember the first time I knew what you were saying and was able to calm you accordingly, the first try.
Eating: We have you on formula now and you are a much happier little angel because you are no longer always hungry even though your former eating habits could rival those of a 14 year-old anorexic.
Dislikes: Stroller rides. If I want to get out for a walk I've got to make sure you're sound asleep before we start moving. And if I don't turn around soon enough and you wake up before we get home you will scream the whole way back home, even if it's 15 minutes.
Likes: Your love for kicking has not slowed down and you've added the "everybody raise your hands" dance move into the mix while you squirm on the ground. You also like riding around on your daddy's belly in the front pack while we go for walks, so long as we are moving.
My Favorite Part: Smoothing the cowlick on the back of your head into a perfect circle with some baby lotion after a bath.
Special Talent: You have perfected the art of coaxed smiles. Sometimes you'll even tell a little story if you know dad and I are listening.
Favorite Pastime: Sitting on my lap and looking. Just looking.
Sleep: You did awesome while we were in Oregon, 9-5 and then back down until 9. Perhaps because your naps weren't what they are when we're home? Lately you've been still going down at 9, thanks goodness, but then getting up around 3 and again around 7.
Crying: We're finally able to communicate and it is so relieving! I can still remember the first time I knew what you were saying and was able to calm you accordingly, the first try.
Eating: We have you on formula now and you are a much happier little angel because you are no longer always hungry even though your former eating habits could rival those of a 14 year-old anorexic.
Dislikes: Stroller rides. If I want to get out for a walk I've got to make sure you're sound asleep before we start moving. And if I don't turn around soon enough and you wake up before we get home you will scream the whole way back home, even if it's 15 minutes.
Likes: Your love for kicking has not slowed down and you've added the "everybody raise your hands" dance move into the mix while you squirm on the ground. You also like riding around on your daddy's belly in the front pack while we go for walks, so long as we are moving.
My Favorite Part: Smoothing the cowlick on the back of your head into a perfect circle with some baby lotion after a bath.
One Month With Alaska
I know I am a little late getting this first month down, but it's because I didn't even have this idea until I ran across what another blogger had done to document the awesomeness of her little boy.
Favorite Things: You love your pats. Grandma Mary says you are the 'pattiest baby I ever did see'
Fancy Tricks: Everything you do is encouraged by a "oh my goodness, that was SO cute!" You really can do no wrong, even when one of your fancy tricks is pooping before you get another diaper on.
Favorite Past Time: You love to spend time on the floor kicking. There are always so many people who want to hold and cuddle you but you have a mind of your own and we accidently found out your love of personal space when we were all tired of hearing you scream in our arms and set you on the ground to take a break.
Sleep: All the time. You aren't very interested in eating and for being a newborn you are a champ at sleeping. Your typical nap can last as long as 4 hours. Up for a hour at the most and back down you go.
Crying: You're pretty much making noise if you're not asleep. And even then sometimes you will let out a loud wail and I go to check on you and your eyes haven't even fluttered.
Dislikes: Eating. You hate it. Especially when I try to wake you up to do the big job of nursing.
Likes: Listening to me as I read you Nicholas Sparks as you settle back down for another nap. You also like napping on my chest in the big comfy chair.
The best part for me: Watching you sleep. Your little mouth will slip side ways when you're deep in dream land, the top lip under your nose as it ought and your bottom sliding to the side. Or if your balanced just right then your bottom lip will merely cave in all over your gums.
Favorite Things: You love your pats. Grandma Mary says you are the 'pattiest baby I ever did see'
Fancy Tricks: Everything you do is encouraged by a "oh my goodness, that was SO cute!" You really can do no wrong, even when one of your fancy tricks is pooping before you get another diaper on.
Favorite Past Time: You love to spend time on the floor kicking. There are always so many people who want to hold and cuddle you but you have a mind of your own and we accidently found out your love of personal space when we were all tired of hearing you scream in our arms and set you on the ground to take a break.
Sleep: All the time. You aren't very interested in eating and for being a newborn you are a champ at sleeping. Your typical nap can last as long as 4 hours. Up for a hour at the most and back down you go.
Crying: You're pretty much making noise if you're not asleep. And even then sometimes you will let out a loud wail and I go to check on you and your eyes haven't even fluttered.
Dislikes: Eating. You hate it. Especially when I try to wake you up to do the big job of nursing.
Likes: Listening to me as I read you Nicholas Sparks as you settle back down for another nap. You also like napping on my chest in the big comfy chair.
The best part for me: Watching you sleep. Your little mouth will slip side ways when you're deep in dream land, the top lip under your nose as it ought and your bottom sliding to the side. Or if your balanced just right then your bottom lip will merely cave in all over your gums.
Spoiled Little Utah Girl
The trip to Oregon this time was a little different than most. It had been a year since I had been back to spend any more time than just a short weekend and it no longer felt like home. It was a bitter sweet realization that I was growing up and was no longer dazed by Oregon by its nostalgic home sweet home. I saw it for its beauty as a tourist would. Lovely green every where but slightly annoyed by the rain and glad that I could return somewhere where there wasn't a shoe and sock soaking puddle right outside your car door no matter how hard you tried to avoid it.
And then I thought, what if I'm not really growing up, what if I am just a little spoiled Utah girl? Like the way I proudly told my dad that I had gone outside to get firewood for the stove and he teased me about maybe still having a little country in me way deep down. Not going to lie, I love the convenience of turning a knob for heat that is constant rather than building a fire every morning in the cold and the house doesn't warm up until noon.
And what about how I don't even own a rain coat anymore? If it's raining then I can merely choose to put the grocery shopping off for a day. And if I really can't, it's just a quick jog into dryness since everyone else feels the same way about avoiding grocery shopping in the rain and it's not impossible to find a parking spot relatively close to the store entrance on those wet days.
Or how when I buy a pair of shoes I don't need to think twice about the purchase, taking into consideration how they will hold up on a rainy day. The same with pants. I prefer my pants a little long but back in Oregon I always kept at least one pair that just grazed the top of my shoes because nothing is worse than wet pants from dragging on the ground. The water seeps up the backs of those like a cat prowls bare feet in the morning. You don't realize what's happened until you feel uncomfortable.
I may take for granted that with a newborn I don't even have to care about the pattern of the car seat our little girl is in because she's got a peanut cover to hide her from the world and that cover resembles whether there's a boy or girl inside. I honestly cringed twice when I saw car seats without the handy shell on them, you know, letting all the germs in as the seat swung from the daddy's arm.
Or how about all of the decoupaged (decoupage itself is definitely a Utah word) wood letters and how any well-respecting home has a wreathe on its door to remind the rest of the world which holiday is to be celebrated next? Simple crafts like those are missing in Oregon and I had no idea how much of it originated with all those crafty mommies in Utah until it was not there.
My sweatshirt supply has dwindled considerably because it's either cold enough for a coat around here or warm enough for a t-shirt. Not much middle ground. The sweatshirt in Oregon has a different purpose then it does in Utah, anyhow. In Oregon the sweatshirt is used all day to keep the rain off your arms when it's not chilly enough for a jacket. In Utah sweatshirts are used in the evening when the sun goes down and the temperature drops a few degrees.
Lest we not forget my new-found laziness of saving a few cells of thinking power and not having to worry which bin the recyclables go in and which things can be burned and which are neither and where they go. Utah doesn't recycle the same way Oregon does and when I first moved out here my freshman year of college it drove me crazy. Now I think nothing of it and can toss a tin can in the same sack as a dirty diaper which may also contain some junk mail. It's all the same now.
I told Steven that when we move back to Oregon I would like to move to a dryer part of the state. Somewhere where moss doesn't grow on anything and everything sedentary. Where a yard doesn't seep water when you step on it and where I don't need to worry about making sure Alaska always has a pair of rain boots that fit. However, we do need to be close enough to all of that so that Alaska can watch frog eggs become tadpoles, so she can splash in a puddle of mud wide enough that she can run in, and so she can appreciate a day when she straightens her hair as a teenager and it doesn't frizz.
And then I thought, what if I'm not really growing up, what if I am just a little spoiled Utah girl? Like the way I proudly told my dad that I had gone outside to get firewood for the stove and he teased me about maybe still having a little country in me way deep down. Not going to lie, I love the convenience of turning a knob for heat that is constant rather than building a fire every morning in the cold and the house doesn't warm up until noon.
And what about how I don't even own a rain coat anymore? If it's raining then I can merely choose to put the grocery shopping off for a day. And if I really can't, it's just a quick jog into dryness since everyone else feels the same way about avoiding grocery shopping in the rain and it's not impossible to find a parking spot relatively close to the store entrance on those wet days.
Or how when I buy a pair of shoes I don't need to think twice about the purchase, taking into consideration how they will hold up on a rainy day. The same with pants. I prefer my pants a little long but back in Oregon I always kept at least one pair that just grazed the top of my shoes because nothing is worse than wet pants from dragging on the ground. The water seeps up the backs of those like a cat prowls bare feet in the morning. You don't realize what's happened until you feel uncomfortable.
I may take for granted that with a newborn I don't even have to care about the pattern of the car seat our little girl is in because she's got a peanut cover to hide her from the world and that cover resembles whether there's a boy or girl inside. I honestly cringed twice when I saw car seats without the handy shell on them, you know, letting all the germs in as the seat swung from the daddy's arm.
Or how about all of the decoupaged (decoupage itself is definitely a Utah word) wood letters and how any well-respecting home has a wreathe on its door to remind the rest of the world which holiday is to be celebrated next? Simple crafts like those are missing in Oregon and I had no idea how much of it originated with all those crafty mommies in Utah until it was not there.
My sweatshirt supply has dwindled considerably because it's either cold enough for a coat around here or warm enough for a t-shirt. Not much middle ground. The sweatshirt in Oregon has a different purpose then it does in Utah, anyhow. In Oregon the sweatshirt is used all day to keep the rain off your arms when it's not chilly enough for a jacket. In Utah sweatshirts are used in the evening when the sun goes down and the temperature drops a few degrees.
Lest we not forget my new-found laziness of saving a few cells of thinking power and not having to worry which bin the recyclables go in and which things can be burned and which are neither and where they go. Utah doesn't recycle the same way Oregon does and when I first moved out here my freshman year of college it drove me crazy. Now I think nothing of it and can toss a tin can in the same sack as a dirty diaper which may also contain some junk mail. It's all the same now.
I told Steven that when we move back to Oregon I would like to move to a dryer part of the state. Somewhere where moss doesn't grow on anything and everything sedentary. Where a yard doesn't seep water when you step on it and where I don't need to worry about making sure Alaska always has a pair of rain boots that fit. However, we do need to be close enough to all of that so that Alaska can watch frog eggs become tadpoles, so she can splash in a puddle of mud wide enough that she can run in, and so she can appreciate a day when she straightens her hair as a teenager and it doesn't frizz.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
What's In A Name
At the time we found out we were having a girl we had numerous boy names picked out but our girl names were not so plentiful. It took some thinking and a lot of disagreeing to come with our Alaska Mazie. The top runners for me were Troian, Quinnlynn, and Laken. Steven's tops were Emily and Abigail. As a compromise I suggested Alaska or Montana and Alaska it was. Strong and beautiful. It's so unique that we always get asked why we chose it, and really, there is no reason. No reason other than what it signifies. A wild beauty that is incomparable and a strength that cannot be matched. When I think of Alaska I think of a girl with long, auburn hair shifting freely in the wind as she looks out from a mountain towards the ocean, a world of possibilities reflecting in her brown eyes. The strength to be kind in a cruel world and to stand up for what she knows to be true when morals are so loose.
Along with our search for a name for our little girl that would bring to her greatness our grandmothers were also looking for names. Grandma Graff and Grandma Barnes are currently taken by grandmothers who are still alive and will be around for much of Alaska's life. There is no need to think that there will ever not be a Grandma Graff or a Grandma Barnes. I didn't think that it would be such a big deal to have two people with the same name, after all, there were always plenty of Jessicas that I knew while growing up. However, I began to realize the need for distinction after Alaska was in my arms. My mother never outgrew the name of Mommy. It seems like most kids started calling their mommies and daddies mom and dad around age 12 but my mommy and daddy never got their names changed. They will always be my mommy and daddy and I am not about to step into their names. I cannot be a mommy. That is my mother's name, it represents her. All of her. It's all part of my mommy. I cannot become what she has been working on for the past 23 years over night and it doesn't seem right to take that earned name. I have decided that I can be a momma. And maybe my name will change to mom when Alaska turns 12 but for right now I can be her momma and love her with all the love that she divinely deserves.
Along with our search for a name for our little girl that would bring to her greatness our grandmothers were also looking for names. Grandma Graff and Grandma Barnes are currently taken by grandmothers who are still alive and will be around for much of Alaska's life. There is no need to think that there will ever not be a Grandma Graff or a Grandma Barnes. I didn't think that it would be such a big deal to have two people with the same name, after all, there were always plenty of Jessicas that I knew while growing up. However, I began to realize the need for distinction after Alaska was in my arms. My mother never outgrew the name of Mommy. It seems like most kids started calling their mommies and daddies mom and dad around age 12 but my mommy and daddy never got their names changed. They will always be my mommy and daddy and I am not about to step into their names. I cannot be a mommy. That is my mother's name, it represents her. All of her. It's all part of my mommy. I cannot become what she has been working on for the past 23 years over night and it doesn't seem right to take that earned name. I have decided that I can be a momma. And maybe my name will change to mom when Alaska turns 12 but for right now I can be her momma and love her with all the love that she divinely deserves.
My Husband, The Terrorist
We headed out to Oregon the end of February to share Alaska's blessing day with all of our family out that way. 5 weeks old and she had her first airplane ride.
I carefully lay out all of our clothes on the bed before packing them away in the suitcase. When I got that 50 lb limit suitcase for graduation I never thought I would appreciate it so much. I can pack that thing up to 63 if I do a careful job so I generally just toss things in so that it doesn't exceed its limit because there's nothing much more embarrassing than having to open up your bag at the check-in counter, trying to shuffle 13 pounds around between different bags to make the big one an even 50 and then carrying 30 lbs in your small carry-on bag with your heavy coat on. Believe me.
In went a dozen of her outfits and a handful of t-shirts for me. Being a nursing mama makes it really easy to pack light since next to nothing fits. For the trip I went on a little shopping spree with my collected coupons and I gathered together a few shirts that didn't advertise my still flabby belly and my soft baby-holding arms. Unfortunately I had waited until the last minute to do her laundry, trying to gather up the very last thing that she got spit-up on and soak it long enough to guarantee it to come clean. Which wouldn't have been a big deal because I had plenty of time to dry them in the morning, except that when I woke up at 3 to feed Alaska the power went out from then until 7:10: We were being picked up in 50 minutes and I had other things to do at that point. So, also went into the cases three bags of wet baby things.
We got to the airport with lots of time, no stress. Generally I usually lug all of my stuff to the check-in counter because the person dropping me off needs just a few more minutes before the inevitable goodbye but this time around we were being dropped off at the curb and had a few less hands than would have been ideal. We were helped right away and our Ids were checked, our bags checked, Alaska checked and we all got our boarding passes while standing outside for just a few seconds. It was so easy and I was so grateful for the smoothness of it all. They didn't even weigh the bags, just threw them up on the dolly. Should have been doing it this way all through college to get a few extra pounds in those bags.
Going through security is always just a little stressful for me because there are so many people in a rush, jamming their belts and keys and wallets and shoes into bins to get scanned over. Your boarding pass gets marked up with a highlighter and then you're let loose into a fast game of survival of the fittest as everyone races to get past security. My favorite had always been when I went back to school for the fall and could wear flip-flops. It made checking through that much easier. But then, of course, in the winter I had to wear my heaviest boots and heaviest coat through all of that so that I didn't have to put unnecessary weight in my suitcase.
I had slip-ons ready to be put into a bin and was practiced at grabbing a couple at a time, dropping shoes and small things into one, backpack into the other. I have found its generally easier to use three bins if you have to rather than shoving everything into one, even if it fits. Getting through security is an art form of the practiced and if you have more than one bin, it gives you just 5 seconds extra between when the bin pops out with your shoes and small things, giving you just enough time to get organized before the next bin comes out with your jacket and carry-on. It's a fast process and those 5 seconds are vital.
This time was a little different as we fumbled to get Alaska out of her car seat but everything went smooth because I had already gotten some bins going of things that I had quickly whipped off before helping Steven get her out. All of my things and hers were scanned as we walked through first and Steven brought up the rear with the car seat and his backpack. I had my shoes on and everything back in my pockets and was starting to struggle with my belt while holding a baby when I realized that Steven was not beside me to take her for a second. No. He was stopped at the scanner and a security guard was pouring a FULL algene bottle of water into the trash. Steven had just filled it up as we left the house without me knowing. You can't take over a few ounces of liquid on your carry-on. Ooops. But that wasn't all of it. I fumbled with my belt and got it half-way through by the time the car seat came through with Steven's bag. Steven hadn't really used that backpack since college, two years ago and boys tend to just accumulate stuff instead of going through and throwing out. Which would be why one time when I was looking for our house key I found a few love notes I had written him and why when the bag was scanned under the camera they found a pocket knife that had been long forgotten. It had been discarded, but seriously. That's my husband. The local terrorist. Going to take the plane over by some water and a pocket knife. Which seems illogical, but with all the finicky rules you have to follow now-a-days most people check up on those before flying and here my handsome husband was, with two dangerous items in one carry-on bag.
The rest of the flight went on without any kind of disturbances and Alaska remained asleep the whole time. If she started to wiggle, even just turning her head, Steven had a formula bottle ready to give her to keep her asleep. I am pretty sure she gained 3 oz in just that 2 hour trip, but she stayed asleep.
I carefully lay out all of our clothes on the bed before packing them away in the suitcase. When I got that 50 lb limit suitcase for graduation I never thought I would appreciate it so much. I can pack that thing up to 63 if I do a careful job so I generally just toss things in so that it doesn't exceed its limit because there's nothing much more embarrassing than having to open up your bag at the check-in counter, trying to shuffle 13 pounds around between different bags to make the big one an even 50 and then carrying 30 lbs in your small carry-on bag with your heavy coat on. Believe me.
In went a dozen of her outfits and a handful of t-shirts for me. Being a nursing mama makes it really easy to pack light since next to nothing fits. For the trip I went on a little shopping spree with my collected coupons and I gathered together a few shirts that didn't advertise my still flabby belly and my soft baby-holding arms. Unfortunately I had waited until the last minute to do her laundry, trying to gather up the very last thing that she got spit-up on and soak it long enough to guarantee it to come clean. Which wouldn't have been a big deal because I had plenty of time to dry them in the morning, except that when I woke up at 3 to feed Alaska the power went out from then until 7:10: We were being picked up in 50 minutes and I had other things to do at that point. So, also went into the cases three bags of wet baby things.
We got to the airport with lots of time, no stress. Generally I usually lug all of my stuff to the check-in counter because the person dropping me off needs just a few more minutes before the inevitable goodbye but this time around we were being dropped off at the curb and had a few less hands than would have been ideal. We were helped right away and our Ids were checked, our bags checked, Alaska checked and we all got our boarding passes while standing outside for just a few seconds. It was so easy and I was so grateful for the smoothness of it all. They didn't even weigh the bags, just threw them up on the dolly. Should have been doing it this way all through college to get a few extra pounds in those bags.
Going through security is always just a little stressful for me because there are so many people in a rush, jamming their belts and keys and wallets and shoes into bins to get scanned over. Your boarding pass gets marked up with a highlighter and then you're let loose into a fast game of survival of the fittest as everyone races to get past security. My favorite had always been when I went back to school for the fall and could wear flip-flops. It made checking through that much easier. But then, of course, in the winter I had to wear my heaviest boots and heaviest coat through all of that so that I didn't have to put unnecessary weight in my suitcase.
I had slip-ons ready to be put into a bin and was practiced at grabbing a couple at a time, dropping shoes and small things into one, backpack into the other. I have found its generally easier to use three bins if you have to rather than shoving everything into one, even if it fits. Getting through security is an art form of the practiced and if you have more than one bin, it gives you just 5 seconds extra between when the bin pops out with your shoes and small things, giving you just enough time to get organized before the next bin comes out with your jacket and carry-on. It's a fast process and those 5 seconds are vital.
This time was a little different as we fumbled to get Alaska out of her car seat but everything went smooth because I had already gotten some bins going of things that I had quickly whipped off before helping Steven get her out. All of my things and hers were scanned as we walked through first and Steven brought up the rear with the car seat and his backpack. I had my shoes on and everything back in my pockets and was starting to struggle with my belt while holding a baby when I realized that Steven was not beside me to take her for a second. No. He was stopped at the scanner and a security guard was pouring a FULL algene bottle of water into the trash. Steven had just filled it up as we left the house without me knowing. You can't take over a few ounces of liquid on your carry-on. Ooops. But that wasn't all of it. I fumbled with my belt and got it half-way through by the time the car seat came through with Steven's bag. Steven hadn't really used that backpack since college, two years ago and boys tend to just accumulate stuff instead of going through and throwing out. Which would be why one time when I was looking for our house key I found a few love notes I had written him and why when the bag was scanned under the camera they found a pocket knife that had been long forgotten. It had been discarded, but seriously. That's my husband. The local terrorist. Going to take the plane over by some water and a pocket knife. Which seems illogical, but with all the finicky rules you have to follow now-a-days most people check up on those before flying and here my handsome husband was, with two dangerous items in one carry-on bag.
The rest of the flight went on without any kind of disturbances and Alaska remained asleep the whole time. If she started to wiggle, even just turning her head, Steven had a formula bottle ready to give her to keep her asleep. I am pretty sure she gained 3 oz in just that 2 hour trip, but she stayed asleep.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)