Hoody.

Right now, you are eating corn chips in a little dish. It was hard-won battle: the Choosing of the Snack. Sometimes there are so many choices, it's difficult to make one. I totally understand your angst, and I hope your problems remain that simple!

Today is election day -- a day where everyone realizes politics isn't simple. There are so many factors to look at, and decisions are not necessarily black and white, even when we want them to be. I want to raise you to look at all sides of each issue. For today, it's snack decision 2006: crunchy or soft; sweet or salty? And how lovely we can provide you with those choices.

May you always have a choice.

Blustery.

(So I had a picture all ready for today, but you'll just have to imagine it: Lucy in her salmon-colored, hooded sweatshit, eating a late lunch at her little table.)
You love the blustery weather, but only enough to image getting soggy going down the slide. Before your nap, you spied the mailman's car outside. You said, "I'll get the mail after I'm all done sleeping." Although you had protested, you were happy to lay down under the covers and close your eyes. The very first thing you asked to do was to check the mail. I slipped on my shoes and we stepped into the surprisingly warm and windy weather, rain blowing into our hair. I love the balance there on the porch -- you collecting the mail as I fish it out, turning your rested and ruddy cheeked face to smile at me; I feel you growing heavier on my hip as the changed leaves blow onto the porch. The best part is coming back inside with you, even though it is not always easy.

I like this house!

Today we were out looking at houses in some new neighborhoods nearby. You were so patient, going from door to door; we saw 6 houses total. In all of them you were happy to run around, laughing at questionable decorating. One that we all liked had a room that you declared "just my size!" You stretched out on the new berber carpet, sighed and said, "this is my room." Perhaps, perhaps.

No hippies.

Dad: Let's get your pants and socks on.

Lucy: Go for a walk!

Dad: Yeah, we're going to walk on Hawthorne. And see the hippies.

Lucy: No see hippies!!

What's that?

"What's that?" you ask about sound outside. "It's just a car driving by," dad says. "What's that?" you say again. "It's the sound of the cat, asking for her dinner," I answer.
You ask a lot of questions using this "what's that?" format. I wondered where you got it from and then I found myself, the other day saying, "what's that?" directed toward a mysterious sound below the window. (It was just a bush, brushing up against the siding.)
I love your "what's that" and know you will soon add "why" to your repertoire. These questions make things more interesting -- they help our conversation flow. It's nice to give you words for things; I enjoy the clarification.

Tonight at sleep time, after you gave your love, you shuffled to your bed and climbed in. I watched you arrange yourself, finding it difficult not to help you in some way. I'm glad you still need me to tuck the blankets around you. Every day, a new part of your independent life is revealed -- what's that?

The end of an era.

At the beginning of October, I read a fellow mom writing about her last days nursing her daughter. Wood described herself as "a closet extended breastfeeder." I remember reading the post and really relating; at nearly 29 months, you were still breastfeeding before bed, and sometimes for a nap in the afternoon. The sessions rarely lasted longer than 2 minutes, and of course you were able to forgo any substitute when I wasn't there. You didn't even want a small cup of rice milk. Not many people knew I still breastfed, but I wasn't totally closed about it either. I had decided that, as long as we were both happy, our nighttime ritual was okay with me -- I did hope that, by 3, you'd be finished. We had our little dialog about nursing, though. You'd sit in your chair and we'd "talk about nursing." We discussed how tiny babies needed milk from their mothers, but that you are a big girl and were therefore ready to be finished. For many weeks we'd end the conversation and you'd still ask me to nurse.

Then, last Wednesday night, it just felt right to hold you on the floor and to really mean it -- to really be finished nursing. I held you while you cried, "momma nurse you" until you fell asleep. I didn't cry then, but after you were limp and gentle in my arms, we put you into your bed. I immediately went to the couch and fell asleep; it wasn't yet 9 p.m. Then next day, you did announce you were all done nursing when I picked you up from Montessori. My heart broke there, in the car, as I asked you, "are you sure?" In that moment, I realized the extent to which...I was breastfeeding for myself. I mean, I didn't want to be the mother that breastfed because of my own inability to recognize that my daughter is growing up and needing me less. You did nurse before your nap on Thursday, but I could tell you just weren't into it. At bedtime, you were really done; you kissed and hugged and giggled your way into bed.

I don't know why, but I thought it would be more difficult for you. Did I want it to be? This transition is like many others have been -- when you've been ready to do something, whether it be walking or starting your first day of school -- you've done it with confidence, with a sureness of yourself and those around you.

So, on Thursday night I wept at the table as you happily drifted off to sleep, comforted by your cadre of dolls. I cried because this growing up is bittersweet -- inevitable -- beautiful. You are becoming the person I want you to be: independent and loving. I hope you never misunderstand my sadness at these moments. May there always be enough between us that you'll confidently walk away, yet know I am here for you when you look over your shoulder.

Shall I...?

Prelude --
Shall I try to write here every day? For awhile I've thought it would better if I just wrote instead of saving everything up (everything being a relative word; I never get everything down). So..I'm going to attempt, since it is NaBloPoMo.

Since beginning graduate school over a year ago, I've written about 100 "reflection papers." I am thankful for that writing, but ready to focus my attention on writing something that is meaningful to me on other levels. I mean, education theory and Best Practice are important to me; you will surely grow up hearing our ongoing and endless discussion about our profession. But, again, it will be nice to sit down knowing that I can beginning writing longer pieces that have nothing to do with a grade. Because I'll have so much time to write when I am a teacher...right?

One --
For the last month or so, you've been preceding questions with "shall I?" in this endearing little voice. So you'll say, "Shall I pet the cat?" or "Shall I wear a sweater?" or even "Shall we change my diaper?". It is so proper and wonderful; we think you learned this manner of speaking at Montessori preschool. You also shake our hands at bedtime and say, "Nice to see you!". Although one may think these manners would help you become more polite, these manners are not fully extended to the cat: right now you are putting clothes on Myra's and "leading her" by the tail. I should rescue both you, right now, before Myra permanently moves into the basement.

It's about time!

Short notes for today --

A couple of days ago, you realized that the words vegetable, pretzel and bubble sound very similar. We hope this is a sign of amazing language development to come!

Your memory is amazing; you remember events and people from months and months ago. Sometimes, this memory makes things more difficult.

As your desire for independence grows, our scuffles are more frequent; I want to give you room, but this is difficult for a number of reasons. As you tell me, "I'm not a tiny baby!" I can imagine you walking away from me in the future -- into schools, into cars, into your own house. "Stop!" I tell myself, be here right now! I still rock you when you wake with bad dreams; I know this won't be the case much longer.

You sing songs to us -- songs for school. You ask the cat, "Shall I put you in the bedroom?" You shake our hands and say, "Nice to see you!" This is a Lucy I fall more in love with. As you sing "wheels on the bus" on my lap, I smell your hair and soak it all in.

One thing -- let's work on the kicking and hitting. You are delightful and it's not becoming to bruise my shins and injure your father's...well, we'll discuss that later. But still, it's not the best way to negotiate, especially when we are brushing your teeth.

Where did the moon go?

In the last couple of weeks, we've started to have dialogs with you about the moon. You asked us, "where did the moon go?" On the porch, you say to dad -- "I can't reach the moon!" as you try to jump up to touch it. You've also determined that the moon "has a poopy diaper" that must be changed; this is a personification I'd never imagined. I love to talk with you about things you imagine -- things you see. Yesterday, you said the clouds in the sunrise "looked kind of like mountains."

You are becoming so sharp, it's hard to say anything that we don't want you to repeat later. This is good and bad. If I tell you we'll get your favorite cookies at the store, you'll remember I made that promise. Last night you screamed for cookies while we drove home, kicking the back seat simultaneously shoving your fingers in your mouth and hitting your face in a bizarre self abuse tactic. Next time, we'll get the (expletive deleted) cookies as I promised.

This attention to detail also brings us great joy as you tell people "thank you so much!" as we leave a restaurant and help us in the kitchen at home. You say, "I love you!" and can tell us (most of the time) what you are thinking. I mean, you are still Two in the classic sense; you struggle for independence while still needing us intensely. There are flailings and screaming. You'll turn your body into a wet noodle, your bones disappearing as you slip between my hands. These tantrums can be overwhelmingly frustrating, but I try my hardest to learn from them.

You are now going to school -- a Montessori program for children your age -- and you love it. I love to hear you talk about your friends, and your work. You sing songs and show us how you pretend at school. You've told us you want to go everyday and long to take a nap on the cots with your other friends. It's wonderfully obvious that you are nourished there. The transition wasn't too rough -- you've never cried when we leave you at class -- but you still remember that "girl pushed you" on the first day. You always follow up this statement with, "it's okay" so it's obvious that you are working through new situations and the emotions that arise.

There's something I haven't really written about here because I was, quite simply, afraid. Your Grandma Nancy has been fighting a battle with cancer and we were sure she wouldn't be with us by now. Dad and I wondered how we would explain death to you, our hearts exploding with grief. But it seems Grandma is getting better, in a sense. You've seen her and know she is sick. The doctors believe the intense chemotherapy is helping to kill the cancer, and we hope she will live at least a few more years. She has been in bed for many months; perhaps she will be able to sit up and take rides in a wheelchair. Maybe you will go for a walk with her! I want you to know her, but there's a large part of me that wants to protect you from the inevitable loss. If you were older, and could understand, I feel that it may be easier. The connection you make with her on the phone, through pictures and during our infrequent and short visits pain me because I know you cherish your human relationships. Your love for people -- from family to grocery clerk -- is vast. This capacity for love will, I hope, bring you more joy than pain in your life.

You are so beautiful.

Asthma

The short version of the beginning of our weekend is the photo you see above.

Oh, my sweet Lucy -- you are afflicted with asthma, which we've known, but it has really hit you hard this Fall. Hopefully, we'll learn how to control it, so you aren't attacked by a breathlessness that makes me shiver. I can't say enough how sad it makes me when you are limp -- when you have lost your Lucyness.

But your words have come back, along with your strength...and the lovely willfulness too.

More soon...

A little reminder.

Today, you and I were hanging out in your room while I looked through drawers, cleaned off shelves. I like just being with you -- both of us busy together. I found some finger puppets you'd forgotten and you proceeded to collect all of your puppets in a little purse. In and out, the puppets went. I think you tried to get the cat to put them on; she escaped to the basement with a little knit lion clinging to her tail.
There's a drawer in your purple chest of drawers (in the 60's, it was orange; the 70's, it was turquoise) that I've been avoiding. It contains papers and other curiosities from your first year or so. I basically remembered what was in there, but, of course, my memory had faded as to it's exact contents. You were sitting by me as I pulled out two deflated Mylar balloons, your first jars of baby food (empty and clean) a hand-knit baby hat with your name in violet, many cards, our unexpected hospital bracelets and finally...a couple of tiny, unused newborn diapers. While I looked at them wistfully, you laughed and pointed -- "I'll put on diaper!" -- I was getting teary. I explained that you wore them when you were so little and they were even too big then! Sitting there, I couldn't believe how the memory had faded.
So much of parenting is living in the moment, it's hard to hold on to even the most beloved things; I am thankful of this when you are screaming and trying to take a bite out of your booster seat, licking your sandals and throwing all of the bowls out of your kitchen drawer. Even after spending 12 hours straight with you, I wouldn't want it to pass without something memorable -- interesting -- unique. Even if that uniqueness makes me long for an hour to myself, somewhere far away.
When I saw that little diaper, for a moment I thought, again, about having a sibling for you. Even though right now I am almost certain you will be an only child, I sometimes feel that longing creeping in. But then I remember all day sickness or the liquid contained in those cute little diapers, and my hormones re-balance themselves (well, at least temporarily!). Even though you (will someday) no longer wear diapers and need me at your current rate of intensity, I know each moment brings -- hopefully -- a lightness....

Vacation, all I ever wanted....

So where was I? Vacation.

We went to Eagle Crest to Nana and Papa's one-week-a year condo. It was nice there -- I've always loved the breezy heat and the smell of juniper in Central Oregon. I'm missing it right now in our dim, dusty living room. There's something nice about going to a temporary house where one knows that the ultimate cleanliness isn't up to them. But that's something we can talk about later.
You enjoyed every moment, I think, even the moments you were afraid of the splashing boys in the pool. There was a swing you enjoyed:
And the bridge on the play set and even the steep slide. I believe that Papa actually tricked you into going down the slide yourself...which you caught onto and refused to go down again. Sigh. Anyway, you enjoyed the grass like never before (most likely because it is lush, green and soft and not dead and scratchy like our lawn) and even sat by the river while Dad fished.
You interacted with children and adults and sat through a long Italian meal. You sang your version of the ABC song, even adding the "sing with me" part at the end. This was a first! And we were amazed to watch you holding up fingers for numbers.

Lately, you've been really into your "baby signs" books. This summer we realized that you are reading them to learn another language; when you met a new friend, you were "teaching" him the signs. You often show us words just for the sake of doing it, not for the purpose of communicating. You are such a cool kid.

As I write this I'm thinking, as I always do, that I can never write as much of you as there is, if this makes sense. Hopefully, you will forgive me for missing some of your milestones or measurements. Looking at it in print, this thought is so redundant? Tired? I need to remind myself that I'm doing Just Fine (and that I'm good enough and people like me) -- just as I tell you as you learn to navigate physical and emotional obstacles for the first or eightieth time.

Sometimes I know I will be able to let you grow up -- I know that that's part of the deal. Other times, I wish I could just capture you right now, sitting in my lap reading golden books and learning a thousand new things a day. I hope you are always able to tap into how unique and wonderful you are. It sounds trite, really, and looks it too. There are so many people writing about how "great" their kids are, and I'm not that different I suppose. My greatest wish is that all of these moments together -- the vacations with us listening to frogs and you...you with your new words and understandings...you with your backseat dreams of swimming pools and rivers...you will be come everything you hope to be.

P.S. Would you please remind me to stand up straight? I'll need all the help I can get!

Home again.

You had such a great time in Central Oregon this past week and I want to write it all down carefully.
There was a lot of step climbing and swinging. Bonding with Papa on the deck. Fishing in the Deschutes with Dad. Enjoying the scent of juniper and splashing in the pool.
Photos to come...

Quick Update

There's so much going on with you, it's hard to get it all down.
In the past couple of weeks, we've all been a bit under the weather, and because of this you (briefly) lost your position as "number one consumer of good food." I shouldn't complain; you love to snack on cereal and juice and rice milk. But still, when one gets used to a vegetable eating baby, it's hard to let that go. You've also asserted your distaste for the booster seat and I'll admit to helping your dad strap you in. Once there, you seem to be okay with it. Perhaps your long legs hit the edge of the seat uncomfortably, so we'll work on that.
Your language is amazing. We are having a hard time keeping up with you, honestly. You can identify the letter "h" and "i", and even identified the "h" in an HBO ad on the wall of the Cingular store a couple of days ago. We were at the fly fishing store and the salesman said, "when in doubt, use these flies." You turned to me and said, "when in doubt." We have to be very careful about what we say. I listen to you talking in bed, listing of body parts and favorite things to eat. You chat about our friends and about hugging and love. You put your head on my knee, stroke my arm and say, "sweet." And you are, indeed, sweet.
Whew.
I have not uploaded recent pictures onto my computer, but I will soon. I've promised myself I'll make a little movie and organize your digital memorabilia. Oh, you love dad's new camera phone. In the past week, you've started asking him to take pictures of your favorite things, and so now, on his phone, are pictures of rice chex and Mexican rice. You are so wonderfully quaint, my dear girl.
More soon, including some documentation about: weaning (or our half-hearted attempt of), potty training?, and cancer updates.

Now what was it you did?

Every time I turned around this past week, I thought, "I need to write this down!" But then, there are so many things -- and the next event rushes in --

This week (and part of last) has been "Lucy becomes social" week. It's truly amazing to watch this -- you are a new toddler. It's not that you were inverted before, but it took you a lot longer to warm up. Now, you are running around stores and asking to hug and kiss other kids (and touch their hair). In the past week, we've had get-togethers with a few friends, and you've been really comfortable. It's great to see you initial conversations, laugh & smile. It melts my heart to hear you talk about our friends later, carefully pronouncing each name.

You have a thing with textures, especially cotton shirts and hair. It's a way of calming yourself and relating to others. You like to sit behind me and play with my 'do and then run around front to check your work. This is a wonderful, hilarious game we play; we both laugh and laugh! You like to "touch, shirt" and I've noticed you do this (sometimes) when you are nervous. Nana says her grandmother did this, and I remember doing the same thing with a blanket I carried around for years. And we are working on your 'thing' with grass. I think the pokey grass bothers you because it's...pokey...but you are trying to like it. Heck, you went down the big kid slide today, unafraid of the speed and the bark dust at the bottom, so you are making huge leaps!

Your language is blooming and your sentences become clearer by the hour. It's great that we can understand each other more. You've started adding the "guh" sound to "goodnight" too.
You are also really enjoying sleeping and napping. Sometimes you don't want to nap, but most of the time you tell us, "sleep, bed" or "nice nap." Tonight when I put you down, you smiled at me and talked about your dolls. Back when you were a wee babe and I'd wonder if you would cry as I left the room, this moment seemed so far away. Even though you still like some mom time before bed, I know you are a healthy sleeper. I know that, unless you have a bad dream or your teeth hurt (your last molar is coming in!), you will sleep until the morning.

So I guess I was able to remember a few things to say, right? Oh! One totally charming thing you do (that's also helpful!) -- you like to make sure drawers and doors are closed, especially in the kitchen. You also put some things, like toys and dishes, away; so wonderful.
I think we are doing okay here (deep breath). I can't wait to see you smiling tomorrow -- can we have another tea party?

Summer vacation

Today was the first, official day of summer for our little family. Dad is on summer break for the next two months! I am so excited, and I know you are just beginning to figure out that we are on a new schedule. This is the first summer break I have spent with dad and I know it's going to great! We have a lot planned for the next two months: trips to the the zoo and OMSI, rides on public transportation (including the trolley!), many walks to the park with swings and slides. As I told dad this afternoon, this time together is better than any vacation we could take.

This morning we visited the Montessori center where you will go to school next Fall. I can't believe you are already old enough for this step. It won't really be preschool until you are three years old, but I know you will love it there. At first, you were a little nervous when we went into the toddler room. But then you saw the bookshelves and the big pillows. You made yourself at home with "Kitten's First Full Moon." It is such a lovely place -- so peaceful and kind. More than we ever hoped for. You went on the slide over and over, gaining confidence with each trip. You met new "friends" today; each child is referred to as a friend. Later in the day, at another playground, you said to some other kids, "bye, friends!" This is a shift -- you've been saying, "bye, kids!" when you leave. You also seemed more confident around other people after our little trip this morning; I don't think it is a coincidence.

You are blossoming before our eyes. Each day brings new words and new expressions. You mimic sounds of animals and trucks. You've even started imitating the voices of different singers. The other day, when Miles Davis was playing, you said, "Be Bop!" You "change" your doll's diaper and cradle your baby Calin in the football hold, saying "shhh, shhh" while bouncing. There are times when I wonder if I can possibly appreciate you enough. Sometimes I am impatient with your whining or repeated, unwanted actions. I think my frustration is normal, but I worry that I will behave in a way you will carry as a burden, or as a fault of your own. My sweet girl, may you continue to grow and develop healthily despite my errors on this path.

xoxo

Pictures

I was sorting through your pictures today because I had to order some prints. Sometimes, hanging out with you all day, I forget how many good times we have; when you are screaming at the cat and throwing food, it's easy to put aside how compatible we are. You have such a great sense of humor and I feel lucky that you'll sit and color, read and play with blocks. Our days are mostly mellow. Sometimes I wish you'd never heard of Raffi, but I suppose it could be worse. Until Raffi, I never knew that Old MacDonald had a freaking band! Dude, I was missing out thinking he only had a farm.
Dad is almost finished with school and soon we'll be home together. I know you'll be excited to wake up every morning and have him here. As it is now, you run to the door every night and say, with glee, "oh boy!" when you see the car pull up. "Open door!" you often demand.
I could write reams and reams, but for now I am so tired from our weekend. I know you will be up early tomorrow morning, but I had to document a few of my favorite moments here.
xoxo

An Ode to Two

Oh, Lucy. Here is what brings me to my knees: at bedtime, as I'm tucking you in, you roll over and say, "I love you much." Then, you roll onto your side and say, "night, night." My sweet, sweet girl.

Your party was great! There weren't too many people (but almost!) and you were happy for almost the duration. Your best friends were there and now you are happy looking at pictures of them, especially S. At one point, you walked up to D. and said, "pink dress." You were so excited about your dress! This weekend, you've decided that you should wear a dress every day, even if it needs to go on over shirts and pants. How did you get so girly, so suddenly? You also ask to wear my lip balm, saying, "try it" and then after it's on, "like it" with a big smile on your face.

Your favorite toy right now is the baby stroller. You love to wheel it around our little house. Sometimes there are so many animals and babies piled in, you have to stop periodically and stuff them back down. I love to watch you nurture your little family.

You are really getting a personality as far as what you will and won't do; what you do and don't like. Usually you are polite about it, but it's funny to watch you with your "okay" and "no" answers -- complete with little body movements! Just this weekend you have expanded to "I don't want to read it" and "Lucy do it/eat it/wear it/try it." Watching your language develop is so cool! Of course, there are times when you don't have words and so you scream or cry. I really try hard to figure out what you need, but at the same time I feel it's important for you to understand what is necessary for our daily lives. I am definitely the one who "lays down the line" when it comes to your stalling techniques and refusal to do something, like eat. At some point I have learned that I can't just ask you if you are ready for lunch/diaper change/a new song on the stereo.

So dad and I have decided that the first poem you write will be an ode. You can already distinguish between books of poems, books of essays and novels. You are the daughter of readers, that's for sure! You also love to "write poems" with dad. You get to use a real pen and write in a little journal and you love it. So, when you talk about the people you love, you say, "Oh, Megan" and "Oh, Nana" and "Oh, Dr. Roberts." These words are usually followed by a loving look directed toward the person, whether they are standing in front of your or reside in your imagination. You certainly enjoy "your people" and as you develop, and watch your language flourish, the conversations about life are more and more developed and emotional.

I feel as if I'm always missing something when I write to you. I have mini-essays written to you in my school notebooks and pictures on the camera. I know there is more; there are so many moments in the day when I think, "I should write that down!" Dad and I are going to get a voice recorder so we can get your words on (digital) tape. We are so excited about spending the summer with you and know the two months we'll have together will go so fast. Let's try to slow it down, just a little, and write lots of poems together.

2 Years Old: Birth Story - May 15th, 2004

Today you are two. I've been telling myself that I would finally, officially, document your birth story. Later on, I'll add some pictures, but words will do for now.

The day before I went into labor was very busy. I took the day (Friday, May 14th 2004) off of work because I was heading to a baby shower at dad's school. It was a great day, although I was very tired. It was about two weeks before your due date and we'd had an ultrasound the week before. The technician said that I wasn't close to labor; there hadn't been any changes in my cervix. We still didn't want to know if you were a boy or a girl, but after that appointment your dad and I both felt strong girl vibes.

But back to that day. The shower was to be after school, so I spent the day with dad's students. I helped with reading and math. I fell asleep reading at his computer and tried to drink as much water as possible. Finally, the end of the day came and it was time for the shower! I remember that I was wearing a maternity skirt that I'd only had a couple of weeks; like this year, the weather had just started to turn nice. But my feet were swollen in my burgendy clogs and that was kind of uncomfortable. I was also wearing a white t-shirt with small stains on the belly. There were many gifts and wonderful cake. I have this memory -- clear as day -- of packing cake up in a basket and hauling it home on my lap. I even remember part of our conversation with the janitor.

People kept saying I looked like I was "ready" and that I had "dropped." I didn't agree, but I smiled and took their good wishes to heart. On the way home, we stopped at The Delta and picked up fried chicken, greens, macaroni and cheese and biscuits. It was so good! Dad and I were exhausted from the day. I remember I had on a blank tank top as we cuddled on the couch for awhile. We decided to turn in early, around 9:30 or so. All of the gifts remained piled by the front door: a bathtub, boxes of clothes, and bags overflowing with toys and books.

We got into bed and fell asleep immediately (well, not until I had piled up my 5 pillows around me). At about 1:00 a.m. I woke up with a start. It was not unusual to wake up in the middle of the night, but I was so awake. Did I feel a cramp? I got up and went to the bathroom. I think I was coming back to the bed (only a few steps away) when I felt sensation for sure. Dad rolled over and said "are you in labor?" like he had been every night for almost two months. I remember saying something like, "I'm not sure." I got back into bed thinking, "well, if I am, it will be at least another 15 minutes before I feel anything." But I was wrong; only a few minutes later, I felt another cramp. I wasn't sleeping, but I remained on my side, facing the wall. I told dad every time I felt something and, after a few contractions, I sat up.

It gets kind of blurry now, this next hour. Background is necessary. We had been planning to deliver you at home. We had a birth kit, towels and sheets at the ready. Your room was still the office. Your doctor was going to be out of town this weekend and said, before she left, "just don't go into labor this weekend!" But we had backups: two other naturopaths as well as a naturopathic student who would have come to the labor with whoever ended up delivering our baby.

So, back to that hour. Dad kept counting the contractions and soon they were 5 minutes apart. I didn't want him to call anyone because I was convinced it hadn't been long enough. I mean, it was only 2:30, how could I be that far along? At some point I was finally fully off of the bed. I remember dad washing dishes. Myra the cat was on the bed, concerned about the noises I was making. Dad convinced me (actually, he was calling the shots now) that he should call the backup doctor. The doctor was surprised to hear from us and wasn't really prepared -- he said he'd have to go to the clinic to get his emergency supplies first and to call the second backup. While all of these phone calls are going back and forth, labor is becoming more intense. I'm beginning to wonder how the hell I thought I'd do this without help of some kind. I could only breathe and moan, "okay, okay" over and over again. The 2nd backup doctor was not available; she was at an emergency c-section. The student could not be reached. The first backup was still hemming and hawing.

At some point, I went into the bathroom and threw up, probably around 3 a.m. Hindsight reminds me that this is a sign of transition, but I was out of my body completely, not thinking about where I was in labor. I was laboring alone, in our bedroom. My chest was lying across the bed, my belly hanging off of the edge. I think I was pressing myself against the wall, to create a counter pressure. It was amazing and surreal to be that out of control and totally in control simultaneously. I guess dad was there, trying to make contact. He was cleaning up my mess, too, and checking to see if I wanted physical attention from him.

Okay, so now it's just before 4 a.m. I'd gone into the bathroom to pee a few times, but I felt like I needed to do more. I was sitting on the toilet and I thought, "wow, this feels difficult." All of the sudden it dawned on me that I should feel myself. I reached down and felt the top of your head! Hair! I yelled to dad, "I feel the head, call 911!" And he did. I stood up from the toilet and waddled past our bed and toward your room (our office). I knew there would need to be more space to lay down. At the instruction of the 911 operator, he put down some clean towels and I somehow lower myself onto the floor. I was on my back, propped up on my arms because I wanted to slow things down a little. I was screaming and trying not to push when the ambulance arrived only minutes later. (One of the benefits of living in a questionable neighborhood is the fact that ambulances are always close by!)

Here I thought I was going to have a nice, quiet birth surrounded by women and soft lighting. But instead, I was in our office surrounded by our books, desk and computer. All of the lights were on. I was donning only a tank top and I couldn't see very well because my glasses seemed unnecessary. In the bedroom/office attended to me were 2 or 3 firemen and 3 paramedics. At least they were cute! One of the firemen (I remember because he had on his yellow pants) let me hold onto his arm and squeeze the bejeezus out of his hand while I pushed and screamed. I was so happy they were there, but it was just so strange. I remember clearly that I found the situation to be quite funny and I think I made a joke. Each time I'd push, they get really quiet and watch me. There was one paramedic waiting to catch the baby and the firemen holding my hand. I remember realizing, after the first "real" push that the baby wasn't just going to slide out. If I had been crouching, it may have been different, but when the pushing started, I was surprised and amazed by the power of the process. In between contractions, I really didn't feel much pain. When I pushed, though, I was on fire.

Eventually, we determined that we'd go to the hospital, as the backup was not going to make it to our house for any part of our adventure. In between contractions, they lifted me onto the gurney. Remember that pile of baby paraphernalia by the front door? It was kind of in the way and had to be pushed to the side for us to make it through. I remember laying on top of the gurney, wearing only my tank top, wondering if they were going to cover me with a sheet or something before they wheeled me out onto the street. They did, but just barely. It felt so strange to have the night air on my mostly-naked body. I think I managed to not have a contraction until we were all inside the ambulance.

We only live 3 miles from the hospital (and I'm sure of this because the bill indicates the mileage) so we set off. Having contractions while lying prone in a moving vehicle was very odd, to say the least. Dad tried to say something soothing to me while stroking my hair and I told him I was calm enough. Everyone laughed. I had a few more contractions and then, as we were almost to the hospital, I knew I was having my last push. At 4:33 a.m., 3 1/2 hours after labor began, you came out in one big push -- the sensation was so strange -- the round head, the feeling of bones, the sudden emptiness. The other EMT said, "It's a girl!" with tears in his voice and I was shocked. I really thought you were going to be a "Henry" but there you were, our Lucy. The EMT put you right up to me, to see if you would nurse, but we were all in shock. Somehow we were all rolled into the ER. I couldn't see anything clearly because I still didn't have my glasses on. The ER doctor poked at me and told me I'd torn, but it didn't matter. We were all healthy and I had my natural birth!

Our short stay in the hospital is another story and, although it wasn't what we planned, I was happy to have such an "easy" labor. We did not know it at the time, but your entrance into the world was an indication of how you have met milestones so far: you do it your own way and have been amazingly easy. Of course I could tell stories of the mistakes I've made, or fits you've thrown, but right now I'm simply remembering the miracle of your arrival.

I love you very much.

P.S. I know you will hear this story over and over, but I want to note here that the date of your arrival was auspicious. You were born on my grandmother's birthday. She was my dear friend and, although she passed away in 1998, I've felt her close to me. Before we knew you were a girl, we decided you should have her middle name. And then here you came, early, and on her birthday. I believe she may have been there, helping us along.

Vignettes

Yesterday you woke up and said, "birthday?" and we smiled together. "Yeah!" you say, when we talk about your birthday. I'm not sure you know what it means, but you are excited.
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You love the swing at the park. 30 minutes of repeating "whee!" & you refuse to use the other equipment. You often call the bark dust "yucky" & would rather sit in the shade eating Trader Joe's Os.
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In the house, you run away from us, into another room and yell, "Lucy! Hmmm." This hmmm is what you say when anything is hiding, or you are looking for something. In your book about the barnyard animals, the reader spends the book asking "...but where's goose?" and you always add the thoughtfully placed "hmmm" at the end.
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You love to listen to the same songs over and over and over. You especially love "Old Mac Donald." Luckily, we have a few versions of this song...but I'm still going crazy. I found myself singing Raffi when I was alone in the car. This can't be good...
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I can't believe you will be two in four days. You were standing at the door yelling "I love you!" at dad this morning and I realized how tall you are. Your hair may still smell baby sweet, but what's inside that head of yours is expanding and expanding. I know you will excel in whatever you choose. This seems like such a common thing to feel about one's child, but I just can't help it.
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I love you! Please stop coloring on the hardwood floor. I promise to get you the requested coloring book for your big day...