Six Years' Worth of Atticus

We interrupt the regularly scheduled St. Paul recap for this important announcement:

Atticus is six today.

See that little scrunchy-faced thing in my arms, still covered in vernix caseosa?  That would be our very own Atticus.

It's hard to believe that on this day, six years ago, Derek was taking me in to the hospital to be induced.  I was four days overdue, and the doctor was getting anxious to get the little guy out, worrying he was getting too big in utero.

They started the pitocin drip, we were assured we'd have a bouncing baby boy within a few hours, and everything was going swimmingly.

A few hours in, however, my contractions began to slow down.  They started saying alarming things about our baby's heartrate.  The words "emergency c-section" were mentioned.  

Our (wonderful, wonderful) OB (seriously, I've had three babies in three different states with three different obstetricians, and while I liked all three, Dr. H is the clear winner) had just finished updating us on what was going on and what might be happening soon, etc, etc, patted my arm, and was getting ready to walk away when he looked down and said, "Why is there a puddle right here?"

Well.  It turns out the nurse had accidentally detached my drip, so all that pitocin had been dripping out onto the floor instead of into my system, explaining the slowed contractions, along with everything else.

I was about 1% irritated and 99% super sympathetic for that poor nurse, who was clearly mortified and red-faced and quailing under the strong, disapproving and "WE'LL TALK ABOUT THIS LATER" gaze of Dr. H.  

They hooked me back up, everything sped back up, and within the hour we had ourselves an Atticus.  He weighed 9 pounds, which to me meant the doc was right, we did need to get him out before he went all Monstro on us and I had to deliver a giant (bad enough that just when I thought I was done the doctor said, "Okay, looks like you've got one of those whose shoulders are as big as their head, keep pushing,"), but to Derek he was still teeny (my husband was 11 lbs, 11 oz when he born, and I think was secretly hoping to have babies as big as he was, never mind that such a thing would surely have split me right in half).

Now we have this guy:

Also this guy:

And this one:

That thing on his forehead is a temporary tattoo that's begun to fade.  Because I'm the kind of mother who says, "Whatever," when he asks if he can put the tattoo on his face.

He loves golfing and riding his bike and building with legos.  He's the only kindergartener I know who was seemingly born with the gene for delayed gratification:  If he's offered a piece of candy, his first question will be if he can wait and eat it later.  If I say, "You can either have dessert now, or after supper," he will always choose after supper.  I thought I knew what all his favorite clothes were until recently, when he told me, "Mom, do you know why I always pick the clothes I don't like as much?  It's so I can wear my favorite shirts later, and they'll be clean if I need them on a different day."  He has a backpack full of suckers and other small rewards they hand out at school, and nothing seems to make him happier than quietly adding to his little stash.

He's incredibly physically affectionate.  He loves to be hugged and held and never wants to sit next to you so much as half-on you, a leg and an arm draped across your body.  He's friendly and laughs easily and makes friends quickly.  He's tall and skinny and so, so dear.

Five short years ago.  Gracious sakes.

You should really click to embiggen this one, because Atticus still stares adoringly at Derek in this exact same way.

Bless my stars.  You guys are lucky I can't access his baby pictures on this computer, or today would be a total wash.  It's not my fault I have a ridiculously cute son, okay?  A six year old son who woke up this morning and joyfully exclaimed, "I'm six!" at least a dozen times before he left for school.  

Oof.  Six.  Happy Birthday, Atticus!

Wednesday, Wednesday in St. Paul

Wednesday was rainy and cold, so I spent a comfortable morning scribbling blog posts in a notebook, working through a bible study (tell me friends:  Am I the only one who can't stand David?  I know it probably says something terrible about me, but I have a feeling if David and I were to enter an episode of Doctor Who and somehow co-exist within the same earthly timeline, we would loathe each other.  I'm suspicious of overly charming people- I feel like I'm being manipulated- and David does a number of seriously heinous things, realizes he's been a naughty, naughty David, and whines about it for the rest of eternity.  I decided to do this study because I was hoping it would change my long-held opinion about David.  So far, nope.), and reading bits and pieces of The City, An Altar in the World, and The Yiddish Policemen's Union.

Around 12:15 I finally got sick of myself and decided I need a little stimulation, so I went for a 45-minute walk through the St. Paul Skyway, where by minute 20 I had gotten all the stimulation I needed, but was by this point, of course, lost.  (HEY.  Those skyways are positively labyrinthine, not nearly as straightforward as the maps would have you believe.)

I did finally make it back to our hotel room, and vowed never to leave again.  Have I mentioned how much we loved our hotel?  WE LOVED OUR HOTEL.  It occupies three floors of a downtown St. Paul building constructed in 1917, and so much of the original ornate detail still exists in the lobby and select pockets of the building:

Just a slice of the view from the second floor balcony down into the lobby.  You can't even see the grand piano or the front desk.

As for our room, the parts you want to be tasteful and charming were, well, tasteful and charming, and the parts that you want to be just a teensy bit more modern (read:  shower, kitchenette, mattress, Keurig) were perfectly updated.

Hello, room.  I miss your big, original windows that actually open.  I miss your soft lighting from four separate lamps.  I miss your high ceilings and your two capacious built-in wardrobes and your complementary K-cups (replenished daily!) and your little tubs of flavored coffee creamer and the helpful nonjudgmental people working at the front desk who gave me all the extra creamer I could want.  Oh, and?  Every single room is different, which means we have no choice but to go back.  Our hands are tied.

Hello, big ol' bed with built-in drawers there at the bottom that you unfortunately can't see in this photo.

Yes, this bathroom was on the small side, but whomever it was that set up this little boutique hotel put all kinds of space-saving bits of genius all over.  

Plus, there's a little step-up to get into the (scrupulously clean) bathroom.

I don't know why I geek out over little steps and old doors.  I just do.

Two steps to get into the shower.  I didn't know what to do with myself.

Wardrobes are my love language.  Especially when they have waffle-weave hotel robes hanging inside.  Especially especially when the hangers holding onto those robes contain a (nicely) sarcastic little note informing you that if that robe somehow finds its way into your luggage when you leave, you can go ahead and have it for the bargain price of $75 a pop, or you can contact the front desk and they'll get one for you for a much more reasonable price.

You can see why we didn't want to leave.  Ever.  I'm sure we could have found a place to stuff the children.  I mean, there are two wardrobes.  Not mention free breakfast for hours and hours every morning.  I do believe all three of our kids would agree to a wardrobe for a bedroom in exchange for waffles every single day.  

Tuesday, Tuesday in St. Paul

Tuesday was more productive.  I began the day with a bracing run, "bracing" being code for cold with a light sprinkle designed to chill that soon morphs into a driving rain.  I decided to treat this as a high adventure spectated by fellow rueful runners and the errant homeless who surely wondered at the fact that society views them as crazy.

Later that morning I embarked on a 3 1/2-hour walk that began with the Cathedral of St. Paul.

Magnificent.  Breath-taking.  A welcome sanctuary when you could do with a break from the hubbub of the city.

This is just one little piece of one wall.  It's not even one of the focal points of the cathedral; I just like beautiful stained glass.

I noted that there were free tours every afternoon, and determined I would return on a different day.  This means you will be subjected to far more photos and adjectives of the cathedral in a couple days.

After I wrestled my way out of the giant church (huge, heavy wooden doors vs me), I finally finally found my first bookstore.  It was charming and twisty and in the basement of a building that houses a cafe that sent down a steady stream of bewitching scents that has to be torturous for those working in the bookstore.  If I were running the place, I'd offer free books to anyone willing to bring me a treat from above any time they wandered down the stairs.  I'd also have to change the name of the shop from "Subtext" to "Lair of the 700-lb Broke Woman."  I'd get a AAA Diamond Rating in no time.

Next I hoofed it, and hoofed it, and hoofed some more, trying to reach Garrison Keillor's bookstore Common Goods.  On the way I stumbled upon an absolutely delightful bookstore by the name of Sixth Chamber Used Books.  It was stuffed to the ceiling with- spoiler alert- books, plus book-scented candles and t-shirts for an upcoming event titled Potterfest.  On a related note, I am moving to St. Paul for the sole purpose of attending this extravaganza.  Our children will understand.

After buying one lonely book (my restraint will go down through the ages) from the friendly and extremely knowledgeable staff (I may or may not enjoy subtly quizzing bookstore employees to see if they are worthy of their calling), I looked at the map and decided Keillor's bookstore just wasn't going to happen.  Woe!  My life is so hard!

That evening Derek and I dined at Cosetta's (thanks for the rec, Cheryl!), but whilst we were venturing back to our hotel, Derek noticed a steady stream of people heading toward a large performance hall- and not just any people; old people.  He insisted on investigating, because Derek knows that where there are large amounts of older people, there is often music or theater that young people are too stupid to appreciate.  My spousal bloodhound was rewarded when we discovered that the operatic baritone Nathan Gunn would be performing, accompanied by his likewise impressively accomplished wife, pianist Julie Jordan Gunn.  It was a lovely cap to a lovely day.  (Except for that lady two rows in front of us who spent the first 15 minutes of the second half flipping through photos on her iPhone.  It was incredibly distracting, and believe me, she was old enough to know better.  I promise, lady, 9 out of 10 doctors state that it is possible to go an hour and a half without looking at your phone with little to no side effects, aside from engaging in the world around you and not making your companions hate you.  YOU CAN DO IT.  I BELIEVE IN YOU.)



Don't worry, I didn't forget about the sassy sign- I mean, really, what's not to like about a city whose No Parking signs look like this:

Tomorrow:  Books and Getting Lost Again and a Hotel Room Tour, Oh My!

Monday, Monday in St. Paul

If you have some deep-seated latent objection to the state of Minnesota, the city of St. Paul, or aimless rambling about nothing, you are in the wrong place this week.  Consider yourself warned.

Monday was spent in this charming practice of mine where I have a destination but quickly become hopelessly lost, briskly walking along city streets not because I know were I am going, but merely because I am a fast walker.  All this ever does is get me lost in a hurry.  You'd think I would learn.  You might further surmise that I would stop and eat when I felt hungry, especially in a situation like this, where a brief respite with a sandwich and a map could possible solve the entire dilemma.  You would be wrong.  Why be smart and sated when I can be starving and irrational?  

For some completely addled reason I would instead plunge blindly ahead, blood sugar plummeting, sure that the bookstore is right around this corner- no?  Well, how about this one?  And so one for two hours where I accidentally got to know the streets of downtown St. Paul rather well, all without actually finding a bookstore or stopping for food.  I don't know what is wrong with me.  

Before my tumble down the rabbit hole I did enjoy a run along the Mississippi, where above the water I beheld the beginnings of the yearly chlorophyll exodus, turning the leaves such pretty warm colors, while my mind's eye constructed a rather more gruesome scene for what surely lurks beneath the surface of the water.  This is why I'm wary of large, naturally-occurring bodies of water.  I mean, I'll still swim in them, occasionally, but it's with the understanding that I'm cavorting in a brine of waste and death.  

Okay, so I seriously did enjoy our trip.  I'm not sure what just happened to this post.  I swear, Tuesday of St. Paul is cheerier:  Cathedrals!  Bookstores!  Sassy signs!  A decided lack of the decomposing stew that the yeomen refer to as "lakes"!

I miss you and your disturbing secrets, Mississippi river.

Note:  Two things about this post are driving me crazy; I'm going to share them with you for absolutely no good reason.  1)  It's not really a chlorophyll exodus, is it?  I mean, it's not like the existing chlorophyll in the leaves is departing, much less for a photosynthetic Promised Land.  And 2)  I referred to the fact that I've swam in lakes and rivers that I think of as a brine of waste and death, when, in fact, most of these were fresh water entities, and a brine is a salt water solution.  I considered going back and changing both of those erroneous terms, but I really just didn't feel like it.  Writing this completely extraneous paragraph is obviously a much better use of my time.  

"A Cry For Help Unless You're Busy In Which Case I'm Good"

A few months ago, Derek signed up for a work conference up in Minnesota.  Between then and last week, he would occasionally mention aloud about how it would be great if I were able to go with him, and I would agree, but we were already taking our big ten-year anniversary extravaganza trip to Charleston over the summer, so it just wasn't feasible.

Then about a week and a half ago, Derek decided that he would go ahead and ask his parents if they would maybe perhaps possibly be willing to come stay at our house for four days to watch the kids and all around hold down the fort, but hey, don't be afraid to say no, just thought I'd ask, not a big deal if you can't/don't want to/whatever.

Derek can do this because he is not afraid of asking for things.  His philosophy seems to be "you don't know if you don't ask," whereas I hate asking people for anything so much I could literally be on fire and would still shuffle timidly up to my closest friends and family to say, "Hey, I don't want to bother you, but the flesh seems to be melting off my bones, so if you were already going to get some water for yourself, maybe you could get a tiny bit for me, but I mean if you weren't then don't even worry about it, it's not that bad.  Actually, you know what, never mind, I'm completely fine!  No really, I'm good!"  My personal version of hell is asking people for references over and over for all eternity.  I feel nauseated just thinking about it.

Anyway, they said Yes!  Don't remember what I was talking about?  Neither do I!

Derek's parents, who just watched our three favorite vortices of pure energy for a week in July, said that they would absolutely come to our house and feed the children and dress the children and get them on and off the bus and help with the Kindergarten homework and quell the squabbling and go to the storytimes and do all the exhausting things so that I could go to St. Paul with Derek for four blissful days.

I wrote down a blog post everyday in my little notebook while I was there, so I have a lot to catch you all up on.  Next week:  Derek and Kristy Take St. Paul!  (Subtitle:  Derek goes to conference sessions and does legitimate work while Kristy spends half the trip hiding in their awesome hotel room just because she can.)

Those are photos of two people who simultaneously can't believe their good fortune and are trying to get a good shot of themselves and their gorgeous hotel lobby.  Hotel 340, we miss you already.

The Book That Both Took Over and Explained My Brain All At The Same Time

I just finished the book Quiet:  The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, by Susan Cain.

This book is fascinating.  This book is insightful.

This book is messing with my head.


I'm seeing everything and everyone in terms of extroverted or introverted tendencies.  I hear Atticus breathe a relieved, "GOOD," after I tell him that no, we're not going anywhere today and think, Hmm.  I don't know that I would previously have classified him as an introvert, but now, I'm not sure...

I tell Caedmon the same thing on Thursday- that we're not going anywhere that day- and he begs and begs and finally places my phone in my hand, begging me to call Paige so he can see the Other Atticus or get ahold of Cheryl so Mason can come over.  We've been out of the house every other day that week, but apparently even one day at home with just Mom is not enough stimulation for our possibly-extroverted Cade.

It's like being a psych major all over again, mentally diagnosing someone at the grocery store with a personality disorder because of the way they picked out their bananas.

If an extrovert is someone who is stimulated or draws energy from being around people and new experiences and an introvert is someone who is exhausted by the same, I've long placed myself deep into Introvert Territory on the introvert-extrovert spectrum.  This is not news to me.

What was new in the book were all the little things about me that are apparently strongly associated with introversion.  "I don't enjoy multitasking," "I often prefer to express myself in writing," "I prefer not to show or discuss my work with others until it's finished," and "In classroom situations, I prefer lectures to seminars"- just four of the twenty statements in an informal assessment within the book.  It reads, "The more often you answered 'true,' the more introverted you probably are.'  I answered "True" to 19 of them.

So many different sections were incredibly, helpfully enlightening:  Adelaide's complaint about how she's seated at school, in a group of five other kids, desks all facing each other.  The way she won't tell me much about school as soon as she gets home in the afternoon, but will instead begin to offer up nuggets during bathtime or at supper, after she's had time to decompress and read alone for awhile.  Her extreme, emotional, and very negative reaction to the possibility of being advanced a grade.  You'd think that I, an introverted mother to an introverted young girl would have been able to read all these signs for what they were, but nope.  I gained so much insight just into our daughter's behaviors and school day struggles to make this book worthwhile.

It also had a small section entitled "Does God Love Introverts?  An Evangelical's Dilemma."  It featured a meeting Cain had with introverted evangelical pastor Adam McHugh, author of Introverts in the Church:  Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture.  Common Household Mom praised this book in the past on her blog, and it was one of those that I wrote down (somewhere, on some scrap of paper that I could have sworn I left right there), fully intending to read, but it got lost in the mire that is my To Read list.

After reading just that small section in Quiet, McHugh's book has shot straight to the top of that same list (especially after reading this article).  Our family goes to a large, boisterous, loud, wonderful and overwhelming church, and I leave every Sunday exhausted and depleted.  Now, I love a lot of things about our church:  their vision, their mission, their teachings, their children's program, their transparency.  But the format of the service and the culture within the church provides constant stimulation from a hundred different sources for close to two hours, turning me into a quiet, seemingly reticent and somewhat wild-eyed woman who can barely form a coherent sentence because she's being asked to attend to too many things at once.  My one goal every Sunday morning, from the time I enter the massive parking lot and take a deep, bolstering breath, whispering an encouraging, "Here we go," to myself, is to make it to the sermon, because then I can deeply concentrate on one thing, which is where my strength lies.  I'm hoping this other book provides as much wisdom and advice as Quiet did.

There was so much neurological research and so many stories and so many different psychological outlooks contained within this book that I know I'm going to need to read it again at some point; just paging through it right now I'm going, "Oh, yeah, and that part," "And THIS part," and "HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS?"  I highly, highly recommend this book for both introverts and extroverts who are struggling to understand their introverted counterparts (such as Newly Married To Me Derek, who could not understand why our early marriage arguments took the format of- Derek:  Makes a point/ Kristy:  Stands silently for 90 seconds before making her point/ Derek:  Volleys his counter-argument back immediately/ Kristy:  Stands silently for 90 seconds before making her point/ Derek:  Quickly states another point/ Kristy:  Yet again stands silently for 90 seconds before speaking, while Derek seethes in frustration because he does not understand that Kristy has to think and think and think about every possible angle before she will utter a single word.  This is difficult for quick-thinking, rapid-fire response, extremely extroverted Derek).

via

via dilbert.com

via Hyperbole and a Half

via 61musings.com

via Cyanide and Happiness

I meant to just include one Introversion cartoon, but I found so many funny ones.  Just like I meant to post a short, glowing review of the book.  How did you even make it this far?  This was the longest post ever.  Take the rest of the day off.  You're done.

Four Books

It's rainy and cool out today, which means it's the perfect weather to talk about books.

[Note:  Other perfect types of weather for book discussions:  Snowy, windy, drizzly, sunny, cloudy, and stormy weather.  It is always The Right Time to talk about books.  Unless you want to stop talking and read instead.  In that case, you're excused with my blessing.]

Here are my most recent favorites:



Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris

Joanne Harris must be some kind of magician, because she somehow took a story about a distant, cold, possibly mentally ill mother and Nazis and haunting secrets set in WWII occupied France and made it loving and poignant and very, very readable.  It doesn't pretend to be the frolicsome Rainbow Brite of novels, yet it never feels unnecessarily dark.  I need to go back and read her previous book Chocolat because in my estimation, there are less than ten movies that I'm willing to watch over and over again; the film version of Chocolat is one of them.













The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

Don Tillman is an Australian professor with a flourishing career, research he enjoys, and a few select friends, but he still feels something is missing:  a companion, specifically, a wife.  Because traditional spouse-finding means have been unsuccessful, he decided to do what comes naturally to him, and embarks on The Wife Project, where he takes a scientific approach to finding a mate.  Mr. Simsion is yet another authorial magician, as he somehow manages to take a protagonist whose disparate traits should make him utterly unlikable, but instead you feel compassion and sympathy and such strong affection for this man who surely, surely is on the autism spectrum (friends who have already read this book:  Don does have Asperger's, right?  I mean, Simsion never comes right out and says it, but all signs point to Asperger's, are we agreed?  Or is this another one of those instances where I'm like "Pretty crazy about Aberforth and his inappropriate affections for goats, huh?" and everyone looks at me like I have finally once and for all lost my mind.  And if you don't know what I'm referring to, then you need to read the Harry Potter series again so we can discuss this ad nauseam).







The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yoko Ogawa

I've recommended this book to two friends so far: one who is one of those (lovely) freaks who likes numbers and reading; and another who says she loves to read, but just doesn't have the time.  She requested a recommendation for a book that was:  short, relatively clean, not too depressing, but not too brainless, either.  This was the book I suggested for her, a story set in Japan of a housekeeper who goes to work for a mathematics professor/savant whose memory can only retain the most recent 80 minutes, and the relationship this housekeeper and her young son develop with the mathematician despite the fact that every morning, it's like he's meeting them for the first time.  Charming and thought-provoking.












An Otis Christmas written and illustrated by Loren Long

Yes, this is a children's picture book, but I couldn't leave out the book that I wept through while trying to read it to a bemused Caedmon yesterday morning.
We love the Otis the Tractor books, but this one was new to me, and I obviously wasn't ready for the drama and wonder of a pregnant mare in danger of losing her foal on Christmas Eve and Otis learning that the most important thing about Christmas isn't gifts at all.  (Oh boy.  Here we go again.)
The illustrations are beautiful and endearing, the story itself is a delightful punch to the ventricles.  I just love this book.