Hey, I had a baby! Which means I’m no longer pregnant, which means you guys no longer have to endure me whining my way through the Trimester That Lasted 60 Years. You’re welcome.
Ken and I, always reliably ahead of the newest trends, are reading Hunger Games. You may have heard of it. And yes even Ken, who would prefer to do many many things ahead of reading, is reading it.
Last night, all the kids were asleep, Veronica was laying in the bed between us as we read the books on matching Kindles. I surveyed the scene for a moment, then said, “Hey honey, check us out, with our one child and our spending a quiet evening reading in bed. We’re so intellectual.”
To which Ken, ever the pie-eyed dreamer, responded, “Yes, reading our young adult novels about teenage murder.”
By the time I realized that an heirloom-quality baptismal gown would be something we’d be getting a lot of use out of, and should probably have in our possession, we were three or four kids into the whole thing. So instead of shelling out hundreds of dollars for a new one, or paying someone to convert my wedding dress into one, or marrying into a family that already has a 200 year old one, we just borrowed my best friend’s. We baptized three babies in Kim’s gown, and then we got transferred, far, far away from our borrowed gown source.
In a panic in the days before departure, I scoured the antiques mall in Memphis for a suitable replacement. Something simple, something classic, something that could be passed down to our children, and already looked like it had some miles put on it.
And it couldn’t be too girly, since we only had boys, which meant that the dress I was baptized in, and still had, couldn’t be used, since it was clearly girly.
But now, we’ve got a girl, and I’ve got a choice. But I can’t decide. So I present to you the two options:
The one on the left is my baptismal gown, circa mid-70s. I used it, and Lotus wore it when we did our “not a baptism” thing when she was an infant. Then it was deemed “too girly” for any boy baptism, and stored in the attic.
The one on the right is the Memphis antiques mall gown, circa “over 100 yrs old” according to the tag attached when I bought it. It was plain enough to get Ken’s heavy sigh-and-eye roll approval for boy use, and John-Luke wore it at his baptism.
So there you go- the tale of two gowns. Based on history and aesthetics, which do you think I should use for Veronica’s baptism?
The previous quick take was so long and involved, I think it should count as two.
Ken goes back to work on Monday, and I’m kind of panicing. I don’t care how many children you have- that first week (or month or fiscal quarter) of being solo parent is horrifying. And I hate hate hate the postpartuum survival season. Instead of being grateful for it, and viewing it as a chance to grow closer to God through radical dependence on His grace, I resent it and just want to be over so I can get back to pre-pregnancy clothes and workout. I find myself recoiling at the chaos.
In fact, in the middle of writing this, the middle boys ran in the house, waking up the baby, who had slipped out of her diaper and managed to soak 30 layers of clothes and blankets with pee. While I tried changing her, the 2 year old started screaming hysterically that he didn’t want to go watch Yo Gabba Gabba, and wanted to hold the baby, who was still screaming, while the six year old stood there motionless and wide-eyed as the phone started ringing with no one thinking to answer it. Just to top it off, the baby then peed all over the couch as a little exclamation mark to the whole moment of crazy.
So this quick take took 30 minutes to write, even at a time that I thought all kids happily involved in other activities so I could sit down to write it.
I hate Survival Season.
My friend Amy, whose due date was the day before mine, but went five days past me, just had her baby girl, Clara Lily Grace, this morning. Since Amy lives in Canada, she has access to the Internet only when the beavers on treadmills are able to generate enough electricity to operate it, and so we’re relying on communication via moose-currier, which makes pictures slow going (they have to wait for a Mountie composite sketch artist to dog sled out to the hospital to make a drawing of the baby). Mooseagram assures me that mother and baby are doing fine, though.
Go visit Hallie this week for more quick takes.