Four Things

• No one coddles our youngest like his big sister.  Derek and I tell him to settle down, or shake it off, or any of the other things you say when your child is crying more for attention's sake than anything else, then along comes Adelaide, who picks him up and gives him the sympathy his cruel parents insist on depriving him of.  Never mind that it's blatantly clear he is getting too big for such things.

• Common Household Mom recently wondered how the Iowa corn crop is doing this year.

From what many native Iowans have insisted upon telling me every year since we moved here, corn should be "knee-high by the fourth of July."  (Note:  Never have I met a people group who enjoy talking about corn as much Iowans.  After writing the following, I must accept that I am now one of them.)  As you can see above- where I pulled the car over on the way to the library to get this picture as photo evidence for CHM- it is significantly above knee-high.  As of about a week ago, the conversations I overheard from area farmers were positive; they were pleased with their corn and soybean crops this year, although they did mention how dry it had been.  It's rained several inches in the past week, so hopefully that has helped.  We've also had a pretty cool summer thus far- Atticus has his arms wrapped around him in the photo above, as sixty degrees was a little chilly for his t-shirt-and-shorts attire.  From a cranky gardener's standpoint (that would be mine, always), my vegetable garden is not producing this year.  My tomato plants are tiny, my pumpkin plants are tiny, my pepper plants are tiny.  The lettuce has done really really well, no doubt due to the cool weather, and I got more strawberries than ever in early June, but that's about it.  

• This is our library's Overdue Fines chair.  

Kidding.  A representative from a local science center gave a presentation at our library, and at the end anyone who had always dreamed of sitting on a chair whose seat is made up of sharp nails- pointy side up, of course- could give it a go.  The point of the whole thing (pun INTENDED) was... um... something about pressure per cubic whatever... or something- and look, I was busy helping other people during the presentation and couldn't really listen, so lay off, okay?  Anyway, it was not the most comfortable chair I've ever rested upon, but it was still better than those restaurant booths that have a weird piece of trim that protrudes from the back and hits you right at the neck (or mid-back for Derek).  

• And now, a gratuitous photo of one of my nieces.

Here a Niece, There a Niece

When my sister Kelli was a baby, she was seriously cute, all dark brown eyes and dimples.  Of course, I didn't really appreciate that at the time, being only three years old and pissed from the start over the fact that they didn't name her Amy like I wanted.

"Kelli and the Floating Heads" sounds like a great band name.

Thankfully she has passed that cuteness on to her sweet babies, including the newest, Kate, who makes you so happy when you hold her you feel a halo of divine light surrounding your person.

The great and terrific and wonderful part of being the aunt rather than the parent is you can swoop in, hold the baby for so long that you know she's going to give her parents fits after you leave trying to get her to sleep anywhere but on a person, then waltz off a couple days later, secure in the knowledge that you, at least, will get a good night's sleep that night.

Unless you have a kid with night terrors.  Then sleep is never guaranteed.  But at least half of that paragraph up there applies to me.  I'll take it.

I like to think it also makes those parents appreciate their little bundle, as evidenced by Aaron muttering (good-naturedly), "Oh, I finally get to hold my baby?" when you hand her over after hogging her for most of the day.

This baby is just so loved.  Her two older sisters will be playing, minding their own business, then they'll catch sight of her out of the corner of their eyes, and come over to kiss and talk to her, which is good, because there are years of screaming ahead.  I don't really ever remember lowering ourselves to the level of hair-pulling, but oh, was there screaming.

Not yet, though.

Now, don't worry, I also played Annoy the Baby at Kelli's.  I probably took a million pictures of Norah while I was there, and it took a loooong time before she was done.

This was first thing in the morning, okay?  FIRST THING.

And yet, when I said, "Norah!  Hi, Norah Mae!"  She turned and SMILED.  The girl smiled at me.

Do you know what would have happened if you had done this to me, or, God forbid, Kelli when we were kids?

Not Stephanie, though.  No, she preferred to wake up early and TAP DANCE on the kitchen floor, which was conveniently right over my slumbering teenage head, causing me to spend many an adolescent morning plotting her painful death immediately after waking.

So how could I tell when Norah was done with picture-taking?  Well, it was subtle.

"Hey, Norah, can I take a picture of your shirt to send to Kim?"   *sigh* "Okay."  

And then I left her alone for a while.

As for this girl:

As the oldest of three girls, she is a child after my own heart.  She knows what needs to be done, and specifically how to do it, and will not let things slide, not on her watch.  I am convinced she could rule her own tiny kingdom if she wanted to.

Plus she's just dang cute.

Of course, now my mean, evil sisters are posting all kinds of adorable pictures of their babies smiling, which they were both so close to doing while I was there.  I would look in their infant eyes and smile and make faces and talk and I could just tell they were thinking, "Aunt Kristy, you are so hilarious and obviously also very charming and intelligent and if I could just get these zygomaticus muscles in check I'd smile to let you know how I feel!"

Niece Hoarder

I'm on High Alert:  Operation Impending Babies right now.  Every text I receive could be from one of my sisters telling me they're in labor.  As I told Kelli a few days ago, I am in a sweet, sweet spot in all this baby business, as I get all the excitement but none of the pain.  Glory hallelujah.

Yes, indeedy-do, each of my two sisters are due to have their third baby girl any time now.  You remember my sisters, right?  Kelli, the middle child, who I once convinced to play chicken on the old highway down the road from our house, where we'd run out in front of passing cars, seeing who could get closest without actually getting hit?  That sister.  (Incidentally, that is the last time I remember getting a spanking from my mother.  Sometimes, when I've been sitting for too long, I believe I can still feel the effects of that particular disciplinary action.  It turns out fear gives mothers divine strength.  Thanks a lot, neighbor who snitched on us- no, but really, thank you, you likely saved our lives.)

Or Stephanie, the youngest, who Kelli and I used to stuff in a sleeping bag and shove down the stairs?  Or shove in a laundry basket and pull around the kitchen, bouncing off the sharp cabinet corners?  Or shove in the dryer, because how else were we supposed to answer the age-old question, "Will our baby sister fit in the dryer?"

Those sisters.


I was worried they were both going to be selfish and deprive me of any more nieces, but thankfully they both managed to get knocked up a third time and now my family and I will have even more little girls to smother with our well-meaning, overly-affectionate love.  We got to see them a month ago, where we did our best to get enough niece/cousin time to last us a while.

Adelaide also made sure to demonstrate to all the little girls that you're never too big to sit in Grandma's lap.

Incidentally, our children still love to sit in our laps.  I love this, too, even if it feels like this most of the time:

Come on, nieces.  You have an aunt ready to smoosh and smooch you, plus I have it on good authority your mothers are perhaps just the teensiest bit uncomfortable right now.  I don't want to point any fingers, but some of you aren't being very careful with your pointy knees and elbows.

Like Grandmother, Like Granddaughter

Last week was a rough week for many in my hometown.  Two dearly, dearly loved people passed away, one of whom was an age (nearly my age, actually) that makes you say, "But he'd barely gotten started on the best part!" and the other was older, yes, but still far too young to say good-bye to, because as far as I'm concerned, no one should ever have to say farewell to the likes of Larry.

[Edited to add:  And now I just found out Anna Dewdney died, the author of the Llama, Llama children's books.  This must be how other people feel when their favorite movie stars overdose, except people who write and illustrate children's books die from things like brain cancer, which feels way more tragic to me.  Getting pretty sick of this whole "people dying" thing.]

One of those hometown-many is my mom.  Last week was hard, and this week will be, too, as she goes through all the rituals that accompany death, and helps those left behind, as she's close to both the grieving families.  So we're going to talk about one of the things that makes my mother happy, which could be quilting or traveling or hand-washing, but will today be her grandchildren.

I could go full-on vain and talk about how amazing the three grandchildren that just so happen to belong to Derek and I are, maybe play a little Carly Simon in the background as inspiration, but instead I simply must show you this picture my mom emailed me a while back, one of herself and her sister Kay.

The back of the photo has a note written by my grandma:  "Dresses are gold checked with organdy aprons.  Lorri [my mom] was mad because she had to wear her bonnet.  I think it's pretty but she doesn't.  Have given Kay's hair a feather cut.  Sure is easier to take care of."    

Now, let's just pass right over the fact that I now feel like a failure for never dressing Adelaide in an organdy apron when I had the chance.  I suppose I could still try, but I have a feeling it would end in a storm of tears and shredded fabric.  Let us also skip over the serious cuteness of Kay's beaming little face, framed by a new feather cut.  

Instead we're going to focus on the my mom, the one year old on the left, who is mad because she had to wear her bonnet, a revelation that I am dying over.  Dying because how many times have mothers of girls dressed them in the most darling of clothing- like bonnets- only to have them pout over it in front of the camera.  She's like a chubby Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I'm also dying because when I look at this and other old photos of my mother, I see the face of our niece, sweet Elliot Ann.

The picture is a little fuzzy because I zoomed in on Ellie's face- the one on my mom's lap, there- so you could get the full effect.  The resemblance is even more striking in person, when you watch Elliot as she goes about her business, her tall, strong build just like my mom's, who infamously stomped the floor out of the playpen my grandmother cruelly placed her in to get something done or maybe catch her breath fifty-something years ago.  It would seem that toddler Lorri had trouble understanding why she was in prison when her two older sisters were not.  Her solution?  Break it to pieces, of course.  

I put that scowling picture up there to mark the resemblance to mom, but I don't want you to think that's all she does, so here are other, smiley-er pictures of her.

Look at how happy she is.  Elliot, I mean.  And yes, my sister Steph is pregnant again, with girl #3, as is my other sister, Kelli. There's a special place in my heart for three-girl families, and now both my sisters will have an estrogen trio!

And now, because I am one of three girls and know better than to go on and on about one of them while leaving the others out, here are some pics of my mom's other granddaughters, our other nieces.

Kelli's family, minus Kelli.  Hang on, let me see if I can find a picture of her.

Well, that's Kelli, all right- around 25 years ago.  Here you see she and I dressing a baby Stephanie for the day.  Notice Steph is not crying, or reacting much at all.  She was used to such loving abuse.  I thought it so charming that my parents were thoughtful enough to get me a living, breathing doll when I was 8 1/2.  This model had overactive tear ducts as an infant, so I got to wipe her eyelids with a warm, wet washcloth until they were once again able to open many mornings because they were sealed shut from so much gunk.  Take that, Baby Alive!  

And, of course, we mustn't forget Vada, Elliot's big sister:

That's her at my grandma and grandpa's house over the weekend, following the Adelaide up a tree.  We were down south celebrating Grandma's 80th birthday.  I now can't wait to become an octogenarian, as when I said, "Grandma, you don't have to do that," she informed me, "I'll do what I want!  You get to do that when you're 80!"  

Only 47 years until that magical day.

A List

• Have you guys seen this video?

Our kids are obsessed with this, and no wonder:  Michael Bublé (Caedmon's personal favorite), Idina Menzel (I can count on one hand the number of times our children have seen the movie Frozen, and yet they somehow know every word of the song Let It Go as performed by Menzel), and the whole video is lip-synced by kids?  With the added bonus of mildly altered lyrics to make Baby, It's Cold Outside 95% less Sexual Predator Anthem-ish?  I say YES.

• On our recent trip south, I forgot our camera.  I suppose it's better to forget the camera than all your kids' pajamas (been there) or shoes for your preschooler (done that) or shampoo (almost every time), but it sure felt like a tragedy.  And I'm not even a particularly talented photographer.  I just like to take too many photos of my nieces; is that so wrong?  

Thankfully, my mom graciously allowed us to use her camera and her phone to take photos while we were there.  And by "us," I mostly mean Atticus.  I think he snapped around 3/4 of the pictures during our time there, so most of them are blurry, and many feature his fingers in the corner, but it's interesting to see things from his perspective.

• I finally found a way to make Derek like homemade chicken noodle soup:  Add heavy cream and plenty of garlic.  This recipe for Creamy Chicken Noodle Soup was a winner with our family, which feels like a bit of a miracle; everyone but me in this house seems to be innately suspicious of soup, which makes no sense as we live in the kind of climate for which soup was surely created.

Ooooh, Babies

A week and a half ago, we were in Kansas.

As I was going through the photos from our trip, I noticed a trend.

Nearly every photo of Atticus also includes a baby being smooshed and loved by our son.

Norah playing with a TOY pistol, my children looking enormous.  And old.

I have no idea where he gets it.

Things I Don't Understand

• Why Litographs doesn't have a poster for To Kill a Mockingbird.  I know exactly where I'd put it:  right *there,* on the blank stretch of wall I'm looking at.  You're just going to have to trust me on this one, that non-existent poster would look perfect on this wall you can't see.  I keep trying to talk myself out of buying the prints for Leaves of Grass or Walden or Wuthering Heights, because I want to hold out for my very, very favorite.  How am I supposed to resist having the entire text of a book printed on a beautiful graphic that could hang on our wall, though?  How?

• The incredible, inspiring, humbling attitude of the woman writing this post on cancer and bravery and Jesus.  I have an injured ankle that may or may not take me out of a race, not my life, and I'm not so much, "I'm praying I would meet bald again and forever with joy.  I'm praying I would not stop looking for grace.  I'm praying I live well and with kindness when it's painful," as "WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?"  Honestly, you're all lucky I've more or less shackled myself to this house.  My head is currently an insufferable place to reside, and it's starting to leak into my voice and even this post.  Looks like I need to read that post again and quit feeling sorry for myself, for the love.

• The Krebs Cycle.  I missed it when it was introduced in high school science, somehow didn't study for it for the test, and therefore got all its related questions wrong, which still rankles.  When they brought it up in whatever college course that was, some horrible and particularly pigheaded part of my brain decided that we just weren't ever going to learn this.  Even now, I could google it, but the Krebs Cycle has become this ridiculous thing that I'm aware I should know about but have actively decided to eschew.  Please don't ask me to make any sense of this, because there is none to be made.  

• Why this face has to live so far from mine:

Not to mention this one:

Vada the Boss

And this one:

Happy Elliot

And that one on the left.

Charlotte and Adelaide

On the other hand, the one on the right is mine, all mine.  I'll take that any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

The Baby Whisperer

I've decided one of the things I like best about babies is that they can't talk.

Our children talk all the time.  It feels like there is never a time one of them is not opening their mouths and letting a cataract of words spill from them.  (Although as I type this, Adelaide is sitting silently at the table, reading The Neverending Story and eating a bowl of oatmeal, and Cade is down for a quiet nap.  Atticus, on the other hand, is currently taking a not-so-quiet "rest time.")  And half of that time they're contradicting whatever it is that I'm saying.  Caedmon and Adelaide in particular appear to be vying for the crown of Tsar or Tsarina of All Knowledge; I could tell you that the sky is blue and Caedmon would say it's really more of a gray-blue, while Adelaide would inform me that it actually only appears blue to our eyes.  THE SKY IS BLUE, CHILDREN, ALRIGHT?  Sheesh.

Babies, on the other hand?  Especially sweet, squishable, lovable babies like my darling, darling nieces?  They can't contradict anything I say.  As far as they know, my opinion is their opinion, just the way it should be (I have no idea where our children get their contrary streak, fyi).

For instance, if you look closely in the above photo, you will see a handful of my face flesh in sweet Norah Mae's right little fist.  This is obviously because she loves me so much that she never wants to let me go.  See also the evident baby kiss she is planting on my eyebrow.  I can choose to disregard the fact that she is in a phase where she wants to gum everything in sight and go with my own interpretation, because she's not saying otherwise.


Or this one:

See how Norah is gazing soulfully into Adelaide's eyes?  It's obvious she's trying to communicate what her mouth cannot:  That she loves her oldest girl-cousin and is desperate to move to Iowa so she can be with her all the time.  I won't presume to narrate Adelaide's expression, as I'm sure whatever I say will be capital-W Wrong, and I really don't feel like hearing why for the next three days.

You could say that the look on our newest niece Elliot's face is one of shock and perhaps stunned fear, but I would posit that she is stunned- stunned that she's been alive for six weeks and is just now experiencing the joy to be had when being held by yours truly.  Oh, her parents will be hearing about this.

Here's Ellie again, lifting a hand to the heavens so that God would hear her plea never to be so cruelly separated from Adelaide again.

And here's Norah clearly telling us that although she is a smiley, cheerful baby in general, she always holds a little something back with the world at large; that extra affection is reserved for her Daddy.  Plain as day.

And here I can tell just by looking at her that Norah is utterly blissful at being ham-handedly loved by a five- and three-year old boy.



Now tell me:  How obvious is it that I'm going through some serious medical-grade Baby Withdrawal this week?  Because I feel like I'm being pretty subtle about it.



Tomorrow?  TWO YEAR OLDS.