15 Awesome things about Being a Very Old Mom

I've had a rough few days/nights with Little Boo so I decided to think about what makes having a late-in-life baby so great! Here are some reasons it's awesome to be a Very Old Mom.

Reading Glasses:
Old moms don't sweat the small stuff because we can't SEE the small stuff. You might see crusty noses or rheumy eyes, but to us our babies faces have the hazy glow of an Elizabeth Taylor perfume commercial. Bonus: We notice less of the schmutz around the house.

Disposable Underwear/Adult Diapers:
We'll need only a few of these miracle workers right after delivery, but we can stash the rest of the pack for a day in the not too distant future when we can't sneeze without peeing.

Patience:
We've survived wall phones, snail mail, and dial up internet. We waited 12 hours, in the cold, to buy Springsteen tickets. We know a thing or two about being patient, and our little ones will benefit from it.

CRS:
Sure, we may be afflicted with "Can't Remember Sh*t" Syndrome, but that makes hearing about Pokemon or Minecraft for the millionth time a tad more bearable, and each episode of Little Einsteins new again, since we can never remember who the artist of the day is.

Elastic Waists and Comfortable Shoes:
VOMs can coast straight from maternity pants to jeggings and leggings exclusively. We can say a final farewell to belts and zippers, and embrace practical footwear. Bonus: Both of these changes make getting to the bathroom on time much more of a possibility.

Sleep:
Losing sleep with a baby will help prepare us for the inevitable sleep disruptions of menopause.  Never mind. Losing sleep is never a good thing, so there's no good way to spin this one.

Calcium:
All the whole milk and cheese sticks we feed our toddlers will remind us to take our calcium. Bonus points for eating leftovers off the high chair tray and saving on cleanup.

Trends:
We have lived through every child rearing trend, and watched the pendulum swing this way and that. So instead of stressing about doing the ONE RIGHT THING, we can find a groove that works for us and our kiddos. If anyone lectures us about the parenting strategy du jour, we will remind ourselves that we wore denim overalls, sans irony, as adults. This too shall pass.

Babysitting:
Hopefully by our age, we've stashed a way a few bucks. While our friends are using their savings for their kids' college educations and that trip to a winery, we can hire a sitter to have a date night, or more likely, mow the lawn and take a nap.

Hearing Loss:
Too many concerts in the 80's and 90's mean that our baby's crying and whining won't seem quite as loud as it would if we were younger.

Technology:
While our friends will have to contact their annoyed kids at college for help syncing their gadgets, we will have built-in tech support with youngsters at home.

Fewer Damns to Give:
If we don't want to be Room Mother, ever, we don't care if anyone judges us for it. And if we do want to, we'll shove our way to the front of the line with a smile on our faces.

Perspective: 
None of us makes it 40+ years without realizing that life is hard. We know that there's no such thing as a perfect child, a perfect marriage, or a perfect life. Because we've seen just how fragile and tenuous it can all be, we are more able to appreciate the small moments.

Work Experience:
Though we may not have changed diapers since we babysat in high school, we do have quite a few work skills that translate to mothering. Team building? Got it! Leadership? Check! Dealing with a self-centered boss? Been there! If our new charges turn into small despots, we will use our vast experience to present them just 2 choices of what WE want them to do, and likely convince them the whole thing was their idea.

Gratitude:
Regardless of how we came to be VOMs-- after years of longing and at great expense, or as an "oops!" when we thought the fertility door had slammed shut, we realize what a gift these little ones are. We know how quickly the decades have flown by for us, and we remind ourselves to keep our eyes and hearts open on the wild yet fleeting ride ahead.

Epic Mom

It's easy to think I can't do this geriatric mothering thing. That it's too hard. That I'm too old. That it's asking an awful lot to embrace all of this when Jack should be graduating this month and our nest would be empty in 2 years. I see much younger moms wrangling toddlers and I think, "Thank God that's not me!" before realizing, "Oh, but it is."

Even though I did not miss the baby/toddler/little kid stage-- one bit, I'm  enjoying it more than I thought I would. Before, because I always kind of wanted another child, I never knew if I was doing something for the LAST TIME. I'm pretty sure that when I do things with Andrew, it is for the last time (Please, God, please!) so I'm able to appreciate them a little more.

I'm surviving. But every once and a while I'll realize I'm not JUST surviving, I'm doing this thing like a BOSS!

Like when I was out with Andrew and he needed a diaper change. I threw open the tailgate of my car, placed the wriggling, almost 25 lb behemoth on his back, pinned him down, and made him smile with a love that was heart-melting, all while whisking away an epic diaper filled with last night's Chipotle.

I am Old Mommy, hear me ROAR!

And quack like a duck.

And moo.

And make silent fish noises, of course.

Lasagne!

Because baby's first lasagne requires a handsome elf and an immediate bath:

Bird

So, as most of you know, Jack said his first word when he was ridiculously young. I thought it was when he was 6 months old, but when I looked it up in his baby calendar last night, I see it was a few days after her turned 7 months. He started imitating a hand motion I made when I changed his diaper under his origami bird mobile, and then he said it aloud. He was VERY pleased with himself.

Here he is making the cute motion:

It became a fixture in our house. People would think he was so clever to know how to wave, but he was really just saying bird.

Well, at the beginning of October, when Andrew turned 6 months old, he started making the same hand motion. It was so darn cute! He would stare at his hand and do the royal wave. He entertained himself in church, in the car, and around the house. Of course, it reminded us so much of Jack, and felt like real God-wink. Even when Andrew would awake at night due to being sick, he would thrust his hand in the air and do his little wave.

I've been wanting to share this with you, with the caveat that we are NOT trying to make Andrew into a little Jack. It has just been so fun to watch. We say "bird" when he does it, but to Andrew, it probably means something entirely different that we haven't decoded yet. It comes and goes.

It was very special to have him do it last weekend when Tim's parents were in town, because he could show Grandma Mary-- a huge bird lover who helped Jack get into birds in the first place. Here they are, looking very serious as they check out our feeder together:

This past weekend the weather was even better, and we were able to be outside quite a bit more, which Andrew enjoyed. He is still battling congestion, so sleep is not great, but the smiles help everyone!

Happy Monday!?!

p.s. Have you entered my jewelry giveaway?

Bleeding Out

The baby and I wait in the high school parking lot as school lets out. Upperclassmen head to their cars. Several of Jack's friends hop in together and pull away. One has a beard.

Our windows are down because the A/C is broken, and for some reason it's 80 degrees in late October. When the crying starts, everyone can hear it. I feel a bit like a freak. I'm the lady with the dead son and the new baby who is doing everything she can not to embarrass her living teenager in the high school lot. I stand outside the car in my too-short shorts and grungy t-shirt, and try to entertain him.

Little guy has been sick all week and has been a big ball of misery and need. Really, he's been sick on and off for a month, and his discomfort and our lack of sleep is wearing us down. Margaret sleeps on the floor of the basement to get away from the noise, and Tim and I take turns walking and suctioning and comforting.

We don't want Margaret to feel like she can't ask for help, like this ride, just because we have a baby now, so Andrew and I wait.

I try not to play the game of should's. Jack should be driving Margaret home! This should be his senior year! There should be more noise in our house, but not necessarily of the crying variety!

It's all so very disappointing.

It's not like I haven't known disappointment, with the early loss of my mother, and the surrendering of so many plans. One of the greatest disappointments of my adult life was not being able to purchase my family home when Tim and I got married. The timing and numbers just didn't work out. I was supporting Tim on my teacher's salary while he finished law school. Within just two years, we could have afforded the mortgage and then some, raising our kids across the street from the elementary school, just a short walk from the community pool. I so wanted to hang on to that drafty old house with the tin roof, and build a family in what I considered the best place on earth to grow up.

It's hard not to think that if we had somehow managed to buy that house, Jack would have lived. The kids would be at a different high school across town right now. And I wouldn't be sweating it out in this parking lot.

The crying continues. Is that poop oozing up Andrew's onesie? I free him from his carseat to change him on the front seat. As I do, I feel something on my leg. The irony is not lost on me that as I change his diaper-- and the poop that somehow ends up on his neck and his hair-- that I've just started my period, and have no way of taking care of my own personal hygiene.

Once you start guessing about the little things and the big, the questions get more cosmic than earthy like diapers and blood.  If a soul is meant to live here just a limited time before going on to the next phase, if our days are truly numbered in His book, would it have mattered if we'd lived across town on our own little acre, away from the storm, away from the creek? Or, would Jack's soul have crash landed into his destiny and found another way?

I don't know.

But I do know that I am at my best when I am grateful. Grateful for the time I did get to spend in the house that built me. Grateful for the chubby baby born out of sorrow, beating so many odds already in his life. Grateful for 12 years with Jack's physical presence, and grateful for the knowledge that our relationship continues. Grateful the the upperclassmen eventually empty the lot and I can hold and bounce Andrew, now clad in nothing but a diaper, until Margaret appears. And grateful for a teenager, who probably had a lot of her own stuff to deal with during this long day, who sees my wet eyes behind my sunglasses, and offers to bring Andrew into the house when we get home, so I can go to the bathroom in peace.

Monday Catch-up and new article up on FOR HER

We had a great weekend of beautiful weather, apple picking, photography, and Andrew adjusting to his crib. Tim and I even had a night out with friends at a comedy club where one of my dear friends performed. Margaret commented on how easy it was to get the baby to go to sleep, so I think our babysitting game is looking up! Here she is taking pictures at an old mill for photography class.

Today, Andrew woke up with another cold that I'm afraid could turn croupy, so please send prayers our way that he won't lose the ground he's gained in his crib and that he feels better soon! Exactly one month ago today is when he got sick last time, and we are still a bit of a mess.

BIG NEWS: I have a new article up today on For Her, a gorgeous lifestyle magazine. I wrote about a weird thing I did that helped our marriage. I hope you'll read it, and also check out the other great articles on For Her.

Happy Monday!

The Wall

We've hit the wall.

I wasn't sure when or if it would happen-- that feeling that if you don't get a good night's sleep you might lose your mind. When you stagger through the house like a zombie, communicating only in grunts and groans. When, in the darkness, hope is hard to conjure.

I thought I was pretty close to the wall this summer in Connecticut as I paced up and down a country road in my pj's at 5:30 am, a screaming Andrew in my arms. If I dared slow down, the screaming got worse, so I speed-walked, bouncing him back and forth in my arms, eventually watching a gorgeous sunrise I would have rather missed.

But that was nothing compared to where Tim and I find ourselves now. If you look at recent photos of Tim, he looks tired and gaunt. I look tired and whatever the opposite of gaunt is. Being tired makes me hungry.

For months 2-5 Andrew slept well at night. I didn't dare mention it here, for fear of the jinx. Even our pediatrician just had us nod at the 2 and 4 months appointments when asked about night-time sleep. He held up his hand to keep us from uttering the words, "He's sleeping well" aloud. Andrew got up once a night during that period, and that worked for us.

Then, at 5 1/2 months we started daycare, Andrew got his first cold, and it turned into croup. Naturally, the night-time routine would be disrupted. But now we are on week 3 of that, and we can't get our mojo back. His 6 month appointment is today, so the doc will tell us it's time to get rid of everything that used to work for us anyway: the tight velcro swaddles, and the miracle worker  Rock and Play that sits next to our bed and allows us to tend to him right away before he goes full-on ape-shit. Its womb-like, angled surface was awesome for a baby with reflux, and the proximity was perfect for quick feedings.

There's a perfectly good crib in his room down the hall. We will be introducing him to it now. So he'll be un-swaddled, un-angled, and without his mom there to pop in a pacifier whenever it pops out. We wish we could find a way to help him acclimate him to his new surroundings that did not involve screaming and waking up the whole house. Poor Margaret, who as a busy high schooler puts in 18 hour days with school, sports, and then homework, doesn't need to be kept up by crying all night long.

Most nights Tim and I take turns hiding in the basement with Andrew when he won't go back to sleep. I whisper-beg him to be content to snuggle up with me the way Margaret and Jack did, collapsing into my warm body in bed and falling asleep. I want to say, "What could be better than to sleep with mom? Win-Win." Nope. I wish he would let me rock him in the roomy recliner, so I could doze off, too. But he insists on more deliberate movement. The circular path around and around the couch. The bobbing this way and that, and walking up and down, up and down the stairs. Occasionally I slow down and try to get horizontal on whatever surface is nearby: bed, couch, floor. I eschew a blanket because I don't want him to think I'm actually going to sleep. Last night I spent some time with my right leg partially covered by a baby washcloth in an attempt to stay warm.

Sometimes, I give up and turn on the lights, place toys in front of him, and let him play. He sits up straight as a school master, and quickly finds his grin. The cries turn to coos within seconds as he gets down to the business of play. I smile at the cuteness, then wonder how much more of this we can take.

The thing is, I have PERSPECTIVE that I didn't have with the first two kids. I KNOW this stage won't last forever. We will get through it. I also know this isn't the end of the world, because we've been there, too. But I also have the perspective that sleep issues, while HUGE, are only the beginning of the parenting issues we will face with Andrew. Can I get an AMEN, middle school parents? That's something that first-time parents don't always grasp when they are knee-deep in diapers and onesies.

And that makes me feel more tired. And old as shit.

I've never been a morning person, but staying up all night with a baby makes me grateful for sunrise when it comes, and for the warm cup (or three) of tea that awaits, because that means the night is finally over.

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." Psalm 30:5

Happy 6 month birthday, Miracle Baby!

Homecoming!

My sweet girl went to Homecoming this weekend. Andrew tried to dress up for the occasion in a Polo outfit, but he was popping out of his pants. I know the feeling, wee one.

Solid Food!

We are starting on solids! I'm too lazy to figure it out, so we've just done rice cereal and oatmeal so far. Maybe a sweet potato or squash next?

I wonder if Andrew's nose will turn orange from squash the way Jack's did?

Contain This

We are deep into the receptacle stage of parenting right now.

Throughout the house, there are places to park the baby when we need to put him down. Bouncy seat in the family room. Exersaucer and high chair in the kitchen. Johnny Jumper in the bathroom doorway. Bumbo in the living room.

I remember when Jack was little, I strictly limited his time in the exersaucer, not wanting it to inhibit his development. Now I'm just hoping to get Andrew though the next stage of childhood without being licked to his limit by Charlie the dog during floor time, rolling somewhere unsafe, and, well, these Hello Fresh dinners won't cook themselves.

Sometimes we just need a safe place to put him.

At five months, he's now big enough for this fun seat my (much younger) cousin told me about, that hangs on our kitchen counter:

 (affiliate link)

Remember this stage? He can't quite sit up unassisted, but he really wants to. He starts out okay, then does a forward bend to make any yogi proud, tilts off to one side, and ends with a surprise (to him) landing, looking up at the ceiling.

When Jack and Margaret eventually sat up on their own, I was blown away by how straight they kept their backs. To a baby, posture is serious business and could teach this mama a thing or two about not slouching over the computer.

It will be nice when Andrew can sit up and all of these plastic receptacles can be passed down to the next child (in a DIFFERENT family,  mind you), but for now, they keep the little guy happy.

However, carpet time will always be the best time, because it comes with built-in fun--- FEET.

Get 'er Done?

One thing about being home with a new baby is thinking about all of the things I'd like to be getting done, but that I'm thwarted from doing. I remember this well-- where the walls start closing in, and every one of them looks like it could use a new coat of paint. I know this stage won't last forever, but nothing highlights an inability to check something off a checklist than being inside the constant need cycle of an infant.

It's not as if I'm trying to do anything earth shattering. I just want to keep our house in decent shape, mail a few letters, and maybe poop alone.

Take Monday, for instance. After an epically scream-y day for Andrew, I was exhausted, but I had one goal: to rotate the area rug in our living room.

You see, last weekend, our dog Shadow peed on the one exposed spot where I play on the floor with Andrew. We cleaned it, but after 2 days in which the baby and I went to bed smelling like a mixture of Resolve, urine, wool, and despair, I couldn't take it any more.

I waited until Tim got home, and hoped that he, my visiting brother, and I could rotate the rug so that the stinky part was under the couch.

Then I saw Tim drag in after a long day at work, complaining of muscle or nerve pain in his rear. My brother limped in next, his long drive from WV having exacerbated his back and sciatic pain. I had thought of moving the couch myself during the day, while wearing the baby in a carrier, but my bum shoulders cried out in protest. We were falling apart. Once again, I realized this late-in-life parenting thing is no joke, and will probably require a whole lot of Advil and humility.

I decided to wait on the rug rotation. Instead we stood around talking about our ailments. I lent my brother my Tens machine, just like the ones used in physical therapy. And if letting your brother stick your personal sensor pads on his bare 50 year old ass isn't love, I don't know what is. His 5 year old step daughter kept trying to turn up the shock level. Too funny!

The rest of the week was much happier for Andrew, and Tim and I took care of the rug last night.

The to-do list is still long, but just look at this face:

Playing Catch-up

I've been waiting to write until I had something deep to share. Call it sleep deprivation or cuteness overload, but I'm operating solely in the here and now these days-- diapers, feedings, and baby wearing-- and can barely string two thoughts together, let alone hope for depth and meaning. Some days feel like weeks.

So how about a baby update instead?

Andrew is changing everyday! He has folds and folds of adorable baby-pudge that cry out for kisses and raspberries. He coos and has started to laugh, but you really have to earn a giggle. We do a lot of reading and singing, and his open-mouthed smile is precious. He sleeps right next to our bed in a Rock and Play, which is basically a motorized hammock of love. We quake at the thought of trying to transition him into his own room and a crib. Somehow I don't think he'll be thrilled at the proposition. 

Andrew still doesn't like to nap during the day at all (much like Margaret and Jack) so I wear him around in a baby carrier as he sleeps. Putting him in it is like a sleeping pill. My old knee is starting to protest, because he likes me to stay on the move while he's sleeping, but a rested baby and a sore knee seem preferable to a cranky baby and a cranky mom. You might say we are wrapped around his tiny little finger. Car travel and stroller rides are still not his cup of tea, so we drove through the night both to and from Connecticut last week so that he would sleep. That worked like a charm.

Picture Time: I realize that those of you who don't follow along on Facebook or Instagram might need some new baby pictures, so I aim to take care of that today! Please note: Margaret is thrilled with her baby brother, and is in lots of photos with him, but she is also a teenager who values her privacy, so that is why I don't post many of her.

More photos to come soon, as he hits the 4 MONTH MARK this week!

I also want to share the exciting news that an article I wrote, called Loss. Trust. Love. is featured in the Summer 2016 issue of Ladies Home Journal!

This is a dream come true for me. The issue is full of amazing articles, and I'm so proud to be part of it. Thank you to Dorie Howell Photography for photographing Andrew and me for the article.

Pick a copy up if you have the chance! I found mine at Food Lion, but friends have purchased them at Barnes and Noble, Costco, Wegmans, and other retailers.

As we slip into August (Jack always called it "The Sunday of Summer") I am contemplating my next steps career-wise and am finally ready to look for a speaker's agent to help me manage speaking engagements. If that's an area in which you have expertise, I would very much appreciate your advice.

That's all for now!  I hope whether you want your days to go slowly or to speed the heck up, you are doing well, Friend.

Express Yourself

I couldn't decide whether to go on our family's annual camping trip this year. The thought of tent camping with a three month old baby seemed overwhelming, sticky, and scary. I mean, this is NOT glamping. We have no running water and our bathrooms are latrines. If Andrew became uncomfortable and inconsolable, I wasn't sure what I'd do.

Up until 3 days before, I planned to have Tim and Margaret go while Andrew and I stayed home. But, as I may have told you, Andrew can be a real fuss-pot, so I started weighing whether I wanted to be alone 24/7 with a fuss-pot, or roughing it with that fuss-pot where I'd have family support.

I made reservations at the closest motel to the campground so Andrew and I could stay there at night. If you've ever slept in a hot tent, you know it's sauna-like, but in a bad way. When I found out the weekend was supposed to be VERY HOT, the idea of a cool room was the only option, I figured.

So off we went on Friday, heading 3 hours away into the mountains, at which point I picked up my motel key. The additional 50 minutes on the world's windiest road to the campsite made me reconsider the feasibility of going back and forth to the motel. Andrew does not like the car, and I didn't want to put him through that.

Here's a towel from the motel gift shop:

I hoped the trip would be good enough for a few stories, but not EPIC enough to make it to dish towel status.

For reasons that are too boring to discuss, I should let you know that I've been pumping milk for Andrew since he was 4 weeks old, instead of nursing him. He showed a strong early preference for the bottle, so I just rolled with it. Or, as I like to say, twice the work for none of the fun. I was overwhelmed thinking of pumping and storing breast milk at a rustic camp site, but I was determined to make it work. We had bottles, coolers, and ice packs. But as I was pumping milk in the car, on the world's windiest road, we started to smell something burning. The portable pump, plugged into the car charger, shorted out.

Crap.

Thankfully, I brought formula as a back-up, so I knew the baby would be fine, but I was now in an isolated spot with quickly filling boobs and a broken breast pump.

We set up camp and I tried to interest Andrew in nursing. He acted as if I were trying to feed him a Twinkie covered with dog poo. Uh-oh!

The hours passed, and my window of opportunity to drive back to the motel closed as darkness set in. Tim borrowed an air mattress for us, we unzipped his sleeping bag to make a blanket, and I wadded up a t-shirt to use as a pillow. I hadn't packed those things for me as I thought I'd be sleeping in a motel. Soon we settled Andrew into his Rock and Play.

My big fear was that he would cry all night, keeping everyone else awake. I dreaded not being able to console him if the new surroundings threw him off. Instead, he had the audacity to sleep through the night.

While this might seem like a good thing, to someone who pumps 4-5 times every day, it was troubling. I tried to sleep, but it was like having throbbing balloons full of hot rocks attached to me. By two in the morning, I was desperate. No pump. A sleeping baby who would not wake up to nurse. A husband snoring blissfully next to me. I had no choice but to start expressing milk by hand. For the next hour or so, I milked myself like a cow, soaking an entire beach towel. Good times.

The next two days, Andrew was more receptive to the boob, and he proceeded to help his mom out by nursing a bit to take the edge off.

Being outdoors all day kept him relatively fuss-free. Yes, it was hot, but we stayed in the shade and appreciated the strong breeze. The best part was having plenty of  people to entertain him. The last day was actually cool enough for long sleeves!

Hi! I'm Andrew, and I slept all night in this tent!

 Even jumping in the air can't make Tim and Margaret as tall as our nephew, Jack's BFF!

 Black clothes don't show wet stains. Yay!

 Camping isn't complete without camp dogs.

We ate copious amounts of deep fried food, from chimichangas to funnel cake and fried oreos, told stories around the campfire, and watched some awesome wiffle ball. We even made Andrew his own little bathtub/swimming pool to keep him cool.

As Jack's BFF cousin and his girlfriend were packing up to leave, a huge bird swooped low over the campsite and kept making higher and higher circles until their car pulled out of sight. Hard times, good times, holy times.

I  still can't believe we took a baby camping. I mean, I haven't even been brave enough to take him to Target yet!

Next year should be even more interesting as he'll be toddling around.

Hold me.

The Other "A" Quilt

When I was a child, I seethed with jealousy about any advantage, real or imagined, that my sister had over me. Her long, straight blond hair mocked my poufy Dorothy Hamill cut. She was good at sports and socializing, when all I liked to do was read and clean closets. When it came to gifts, money, and my parents' attention, I spent a lot of time trying to make sure things were fair.

Each year the 13 cousins in the family would draw a name to exchange one "Cousin Gift." It was the highlight of Christmas, with gifts coming to Virginia from our cousins in Texas, Oregon, and Kenya. One year my cousin Emily drew my sister's name, and in mid-December it arrived-- a handmade quilt, each square depicting something that began with the letter "E"-- my sister's first initial. I marveled at my Aunt Bonnie's creativity and skill. I particularly enjoyed stroking the flocked fabric on the fuzzy EGG square.

Oh, how I loved that quilt!

I can't remember whether I griped about my lack of an "A for Anna" quilt, but I'm pretty sure I did, because one day my mother, who didn't like to sew at all, presented me with a quilt of my own. It didn't have the alphabet squares, or cute pictures appliqued on it, just a big A at the top made out of fabric to match the colorful bedroom Mom had created for my sister and me. I love how she didn't feel compelled to make me an exact replica of my sister's quilt. I wanted and A, so she gave me an A, darn it.

My mom loved me, complaints, drama, and all. She never made me feel like a pain in the neck, although I know I was sometimes, acting like a little martyr and a know-it-all. I love the quilt she made, and it has traveled with me from house to house over the 28 years since she has been gone. I'm glad I can still remember feeling loved by her, regardless of how I was acting. I hope my kids will one day be able to think back on undeserved, unexpected gifts I've given them, whether they are something physical like the quilt, or just a glimmer of grace on a really hard day. Today, June 27th,  would have been my mom's 75th birthday. Happy Birthday in Heaven, Mom.

And now, on to why this memory came up for me today. Aunt Bonnie, nearly 40 years after making that E quilt for my sister, made Andrew an amazing "A" Quilt. It is a treasure! You should see the tiny whisk made out of thread that goes with APRON, or the detail on the ARTICHOKE! ARROWS? AIRPLANE? ACORNS? AMERICA? Simply adorable. Here's a sample:

I can tell he's going to love it, too.

If You Give a Mom a Maxi Dress

If you give a mom a maxi dress, she might realize she needs a new strapless bra for it. If she orders a 6 pack of one-size-fits-all bras from Amazon for 19.99, she might not understand that the sizing does not apply to her enormous jugs. If she wears one of the bras and the maxi dress all day, she might wear it out to a party at night. If she's having a good time at the party, she might let good company and conversation distract her from a throbbing in her chest. If she is distracted from a throbbing in her chest, she might not realize the bra is cutting into her low-hanging boobs right where the milk ducts are, creating a formidable wall that no milk can breach. If no milk can pass out of her body, she might stay up all night in pain, pumping, praying, and cursing her life and her bra. If she stays up all night tending to her hard, misshapen balls of misery, she might be tired at her baby's baptism the next day. If she's tired at her baby's baptism, she might blearily look around at all the pretty ladies in their maxi dresses and wonder if she should buy another one.

If you give a mom a maxi dress...

Despite boob-trauma, Andrew's baptism was lovely. He didn't cry, which was a huge relief because he has been pretty fussy lately. I'm going to try dig up pics for you of Margaret and Jack in the same gown.

Godwink of the day: Andrew's baptism was exactly 17 years to the day after Jack's.

Would you like to watch his baptism here?