It starts with fists, or grasping things tightly.
Then a stare.
We’re in the swing, but we’re not moving.
We love the turtle.
We hate the turtle.
We just don’t care anymore.
Mom, put the dumb camera down, and put me to bed, already!
One year ago, today, I found out that you were growing inside me. I had been so sick for several days, and everything thought I was pregnant and didn’t want to say so; I didn’t want to think about it, either. Not because I didn’t want you–quite the contrary. But I was afraid I’d get my hopes up, and be disappointed.
So I cried all night the night before, and I barely slept. And in the morning I took a test. And guess what? Pregnant.
It was the first positive test I had ever seen!
So I told your Daddy, and we cried together. Then he went to the kitchen and got some oil, and he put it on my forehead and my belly (with you inside) and on the door of the room that you sleep in at home. And he prayed for us, for all of us, that I would be safe and that you would be healthy and that he would be a good Daddy. And we thanked God for you. Amen.
Last year, the family of one of Jeremy’s students graciously allowed us to use one of their beach houses for a week, once school was out. This year, the invitation was extended again. We were staying during the same week as last time: the first week of June. This time around, though, we had added a family member; someone who was almost four month old…who had been born at a little over eight months gestation…which, er, makes twelve months. I’m sure you’re following me.
So Remy’s presence at the house this year was a great source of amusement and awe, joy and jokes for us. We did get a picture of all three of us in the room we stayed in last year. And then we giggled about it. Because we are adults.
Remy enjoyed his time at the beach. I hope one day we can go back to that house, when he’s old enough to understand the significance. If only because I can just imagine the face he’d make when we tell him.
Yeah, about like that!
We’re so much more alert now. We stay awake for one to one-and-a-half hours at a time, instead of crashing right after we’re done eating.
It now takes us 20 minutes to eat instead of 10, since we keep having to stop and talk to mommy between gulps.
It means that most of our pictures turn out like this:
…because we can’t hold still long enough.
And every now and again we’ll stop talking and smile for the camera. But by the time the camera is ready, we’re already distracted again.
I was nursing my son this morning when I was struck with serious Xanga nostalgia.
Eight years ago, next month, I started this site. Two years ago I abandoned it. I think I’d like to come back.
There’s nothing like Xanga, or there was…Xanga isn’t what it used to be.
Everyone I know has stopped writing here. Facebook took over the important updates. Xanga was for writing.
I’ve forgotten how to write.
I gave birth to our son eleven days ago. (I did have to count on my fingers to come up with the number.) His name is Ephraim, his nickname is Remy.
I don’t really call him by either.
It struck me this morning (shortly after the Xanga nostalgia waxed and waned) that we refer to Ephraim by any and all sort of pseudonyms except for the one on his birth certificate.
Froggy. (Which then leads to many rounds of “Froggy Went A-Courtin'”)
Little Man. (I use this one a lot.)
Toots. (Won’t he love that when he gets older?)
I guess now is the time to exhaust our capacity for embarrassing nicknames, before he really understands them or can protest their use.
I’m wondering, though, how long it will take for his real name to stick?