Andrew has cut his first tooth. I shall call it Rocky. We’re playing the “If you bite my nipple with your pointy little new tooth, I will suffocate you!” game. So far, I’m the winner.

Rocky would like a cookie. So maybe Andrew and I will have a *HealthyTimes Maple Biscuit. Cuz they are yummy for babies. And their mothers.

*No, I’m not endorsing this product. Unless they want to send me money?

Ah, springtime. A time of rebirth. The flowers begin blossoming, and the trees begin to regain some of their clothing finally after the bleak naked wardrobe of New England winter. Springtime is also a time of rain, flooded basements and mildew. It’s a complicated season, full of contradictions. And then.. there is Easter.

Being Unitarian Universalist is rather like being invited to a smorgasbord of spirituality. Our family has the opportunity to honor many Pagan, Wiccan, Jewish, and Protestant holiday observances. But the Easter that we celebrate in our home has often been a rather weird holiday for us. Since we have kids, we do the bunny thing. We paint eggs. In past years, we’ve told a story about Ostara. Last year, we explained the crucifixion story that Christians believe.  But, basically, because we have little investment in any one flavor of spirituality, we take a lighthearted approach to this holiday. And sometimes, just sometimes, we get a bit irreverent.

This is the year of the Peeps of Death.

Yes, Peeps — those sticky sweet strangely hardened colorful fluff animals that ANY OTHER TIME OF YEAR ARE COMPLETE ANATHEMA TO ME AND MY CRAZY IDEAS THAT KIDS SHOULDN’T HAVE HFCS AND ARTIFICIAL FOOD COLORING. We had 7 children at our house, from age 12 down to age 3.5. They represented faiths that include Judaism, Wiccan, and UU. I set out a tray of bunny and chick peeps, toothpicks, plastic cocktail swords, markers, glitter, and paper plates. I wasn’t sure what would happen. I had eggs to boil, coffee that needed drinking, and a baby to take care of. It didn’t take them long to either massacre or masticate all the Peeps before these adorable children returned to being dragons and dressing up as princesses and pirates, their swords and lightsabers clashing in a strange uber-pop-culture casserole of tropes, with dialogue spewed from a mishmash of Dr. Horrible, Star Wars, Pokemon, Princess Bride, and songs from Jonathan Coulton and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A bunch of weird and completely amazing and creative kids.

THIS is Easter. It’s a complicated season, a weird holiday. Full of contradictions.

Once upon a time, there was this girl. And she had a plan. For her third and final childbirth, she would have another easy, natural, unmedicated, uncomplicated childbirth.

Life, aka the universe, aka destiny, aka the great cosmic unknown, aka the gods, aka God with a capital G, (choose whichever you like, as your beliefs dictate) however, had a lesson to teach. It’s one our girl is familiar with, and it goes something like this: no matter how you plan or how much control you think you have over a situation, that situation has a life of its own, and events will unfurl as they will, so prepare to let go and let it happen.

So, I didn’t get the birth I wanted. But does it really matter, in the end? The outcome is good. There is a baby, and he is lying beside me, cranky because I stopped feeding him and put him down. He is beautiful.

Oh, but you want the details? OK. Read on.

For two weeks, I had prodromal labor. I would have contractions for hours on end daily that would gradually stall out. We ended up in the hospital twice with regular, timed contractions, only to be sent home because my body wasn’t dilating. Prior to the third trip to the hospital, the contractions were stronger than ever, for a longer, more consistent time. So, off we went to the hospital Monday morning around 4:30am. The midwives decided to keep me, as I was 2-3 centimeters dilated. So, I was admitted at 5am. I labored on my feet or sitting, in Allen’s arms, for most of that day. And when checked, was disappointed to hear that no dilation had happened in that time. I was failing to progress. I tried not to take this personally. Theories abounded, such as the fact that his head had never descended, that his presentation was posterior. That my body wasn’t producing enough oxytocin to do the job of dilating. Although it wasn’t in the plan, we acquiesced to receiving help and I was started on pitocin to get things moving.

Contractions got stronger, and still no dilation. I was having excruciatingly painful back labor. And yet no progress toward birth was happening. The baby’s head was still out of reach. No effacement. All those things that can be measured showed no change. My body was in hard labor, but my labor wasn’t moving toward birth.

Finally, it was decided that breaking the water would move things along.

It didn’t.

To further complicate matters, it was observed that the baby’s heartbeat became erratic whenever I had a strong contraction. For the sake of the baby, I was asked to labor horizontally. There was fear that the umbilical cord was prolapsed, so whenever the heartbeat dropped too low, I was turned to the other side.

Many hours of torture ensued. Fourteen hours after being admitted to Labor & Delivery, and feeling near the end of my pain tolerance, I asked for help. I hesitatingly submitted to the epidural, even though I knew it was unlikely to provide much relief, having tried this before during the birth of my first child. But I did get relief. Three hours of mostly-numb recharging. The left side of my body never got numb, but the edge was taken off. And then the pain returned. Doubly painful. And then the midwives talked to us about our options.

As long as the baby’s heartbeat continued to be stable, I could continue to move toward having a vaginal delivery. But I had to remain horizontal. Thanks to the pitocin administered earlier, I was now 5 cm dilated. Half-way there. When there was no change hours later, we had to make a decision. The midwife had a plan. She suggested a gradual increase in pitocin to get my cervix dilated so that birth could happen, as it was clear that my body wasn’t going to progress on its own. But so gradual that it wouldn’t affect the baby’s heartbeat. If it started to, it would be discontinued, and we’d have to consider a cesarean birth. We agree.

The pitocin is increased gradually. The pain relief is gone. Hours pass. The back labor in horizontal position is having its effect, breaking down my willpower. Another pow-wow with the midwife, and one tired woman asks for professional advice as to what to do. The midwife suggests a new epidural, and (with close observation of baby’s heartbeat) increasing the pitocin to, as quickly as possible, get the cervix dilated. If this doesn’t work, that other option will have to be considered. It’s now been 18 hours since admittance. The second epidural is administered. The pain relief comes soon after. Blessed respite. But the clock is ticking, so the pitocin is increased dramatically.

The baby’s heartbeat is strong, to our great relief. Three more hours pass, and I drop off for little naps here and there between contractions, awaking fully to pain on my left side, which is still not numb.  Then, the last of the pain relief dissipates. I endure hard labor contractions for about two more hours, fighting the desire to push. The midwife checks my progress and says “30 more minutes.” I breathe through the most excruciating pain of my life. Another hour passes. And finally, there is no more holding back. The midwife arrives, and the final check results in the best news ever. I am finally dilated and effaced enough for birth, although the baby remains out of full engagement.

The midwife sounds doubtful that I can push the baby out, since so much pain medication was pumped into me. She thinks I am numb and unable to push. “Do you remember how to push, how you pushed out your girls?” she asks. I don’t answer. I just push. I try to communicate that there is no pain relief, that I feel everything. But I’m also a little out of it with pain and resting between contractions. Her next question, I can hear the doubt in her voice. “Do you feel like you’re making progress?” I don’t need to answer this question. I just need to push out my child. I do so in less than 5 minutes, with three  contractions and some heroic pushes using every bit of energy and willpower I have left, to the cheers of my amazed and amazing husband, who hasn’t left my side for the entire 24 hours.

He is born at 5:48 am on his estimated due date—October 20, with a full head of hair.  8lb, 9oz, 22 inches long. Perfect.

I am up and walking 30 minutes later, and we are transferred to recovery. I shower and get dressed, and our first visitors arrive a few hours later to meet our son.

For more photos, go here.

I was FINE preparing to say goodbye to my little girl, standing patiently in line awaiting the bell on her first day of all-day Kindergarten today. And I would have remained fine, pregnancy hormones and all, had it not been for her very sweet and well-meaning but somewhat sadistic teacher. I was handed a little memento of this first momentous day. –>

As Laurel walked confidently away from me in her shiny new black shoes, a bouncing, smiling girl in all pink, her red hair glistening in the sun, the tears started sliding down my face. I took some photos, and she looked back once to give me the thumbs up. I waved and faked a smile. And then turned to Allen, who was there just in time after seeing Kelsey off, to bury my sobbing, sniffling face into his awaiting shoulder.

I had prepared to do the happy dance of the liberated mommy. I was bragging that I should have a party. That after being stay-at-home mommy for 7.5 years, THIS would be my shining moment. I would be free. For 6 hours per day. I was going to spend my first day doing errands that are so hard to do with kids around. Followed by a nap.

It turns out I’m a little bit of an emotional wreck. And instead of partying, I’ve done a little shopping, cleaned the house, organized the DVDs and re-alphabetized them, and am thinking of making cookies for my darling kids before zooming up to the school to get there early. I look forward to holding my little girl in my arms again.

It doesn’t matter that I’m not ready to let her go. She’s ready.

Damn hormones.

There goes my baby!! *snf*

We’ve had on the family calendar the much anticipated release of The Beatles RockBand for a VERY LONG TIME. In part because my husband works at Harmonix, and we’ve been missing him lately, as he’s been on deadline! But also — it’s the Beatles!! And we are a family that plays RockBand together! Allen is amazing on drums and guitar, and he also sings, Laurel sings and, well, DANCES! Kelsey plays some really good drums and sings; I sing and play guitar. I’m not ashamed to admit that it’s rather freakin’ adorable to watch us play as a band. And now we get to choose which Beatle to play. Hi, I’m Paul! But you can call me Sir Paul.

The songs on The Beatles RockBand are just… wow. You start out with 45 Beatles songs. Downloadable content will be available BY ALBUM! First up for DLC will be Abbey Road (my favorite album!!), followed by Rubber Soul and Sgt. Pepper’s. I can’t wait!!

For now, I’m happy to be singing “Eight Days a Week” and “Come Together” and “Paperback Writer” and a whole bunch of songs I know by heart. The Beatles songs are the songs I grew up listening to. And now, my kids are getting into The Beatles’ music. Literally. Kelsey is right now singing “Ticket to Ride” with great stage presence and hitting the notes almost perfectly. She has a really good voice to begin with, and when she and I sing together, she can even sing the harmony. She keeps replaying the opening visual in the game, which is just AWESOME, as are all the visuals. And the game play is beautiful and easy to follow, so kids and newcomers to RockBand will have no trouble getting into playing.

So, Happy 09/09/09!! Today our family marks the occasion of the launch of this awesome game with much celebration, cheesy poofs, and singing. Laurel is dancing while Kelsey gleefully sings “Octopus’s Garden.” I can’t wait to get the band together again! Come home from work, honey! We need a drummer!

Oh, and GO BUY THIS GAME!

Straight out of grad school, working jobs that paid little, our resources were rather minimal. He inherited a ring from his mother. He brought me to a playground in East Hill in Pensacola, Florida. I was climbing up onto a play structure when he asked me to turn around. He asked me, right there, to marry him. I laughed, and I cried, and I don’t think I’ve said “YES” to anything with more conviction in my life.

We tied the knot legally a few months later in a deserted hallway at city hall. But it was just a formality. I had given this man my trust and my love already, affirmed on the playground in late August with a simple ring and a promise. There was an energy of positive, of play, in our courtship, in our engagement, and even in our marriage. It was so easy and felt so natural.

Eleven years later, that energy is still there. Through difficult times, sleepless nights placating screaming babies, financial hardship, cross-country moves and the surprises that life sometimes throws at you, there have been very few arguments. Seldom are the nights we don’t spend together. I’ve counted my happiness in the currency of smiles shared, of nights peacefully sleeping beside him. We’ve found a way to laugh and love our way around and through most of the difficulties that partners face. And some that would tear many couples apart. Our commitment has weathered such storms with grace and growth.

I know it’s not a milestone year, and it’s not the anniversary of our marriage, but Allen, I just wanted to say, using the medium that works best for us, that I love you, and that I’m proud of what we’ve been building since that day on the playground, the day you became my life partner. Thank you for that day in August in Pensacola, and for every day since. And for the many days and experiences and adventures yet to come.

Sometimes, I’m completely blindsided by something new one of my children does. Like when the 5 year old, who is going through a picky phase, voluntarily tries tuna fish and declares that she loves it. Or when the seven year old gives me an oral report on the differences between the movie version of James and the Giant Peach and the book. I seem to find myself surprised often by the things they are saying, the questions they’re asking. Their fears, their little and big steps.

Today, my big kid swam across the pool at our friends’ house. I had been giving her lessons, slowly building her confidence. But today, she just did it by herself. And kept doing it. I kept myself on the very verge of freaking the fuck out every time I caught her in the deep end without anything to hang on to. She made it to the side every time, without gasping or seeming winded at all. I, of course, was hovering nearby, ready to dive in and save her life. Yep. I’m on the paranoid side. I blame pregnancy.

But soon, Kelsey even got up the courage to jump into the deep end from the side of the pool in a float, going completely underwater.

And I wonder: was I like her when I was young? Did I have these days of courage, of bounding past milestones? It’s hard to remember being new to these experiences. I remember things like learning how to dive, how to ride a bike. There’s a fraction of a lifetime of little steps that I’ve forgotten, that I haven’t given a lot of thought to. Not until recently, when I’m trying to dig through my childhood memories to get a glimpse of the little freckled Terry and her fears, her ways of dealing with new challenges, and the ways her parents helped her. I miss that little kid. Sometimes I feel so very far away from her. And sometimes I do recall a big step. Sometimes she reminds me of what it’s like to get over that fear of the dark, of the monster under my bed. It makes me a better parent, to get into those little shoes once again.

At times, I look at my two little girls, and I see a little bit of her. Shy, sweet, happy, neat. And I see a little bit of the boy their father used to be. Cautious, brilliant, focused, quiet. It makes me wonder who this little guy kicking the hell out of my uterus is going to be. A little bit like me, a little like him?

It’s not narcissism, necessarily, to want to see yourself in your children. It’s a recognition, a familiarity. It’s comforting. It’s the statement that *I* have been through these things and lived. They didn’t break me. I am not STILL that little girl who was terribly constipated and afraid of the abominable snowman from the Rudolph movie. I finally DID learn to get over my fear of swimming in the ocean after watching Jaws.

What will they do tomorrow, these little kids who amuse me, who challenge my patience and make me a better person. I’m both anxious to find out, and EXHAUSTED with the thought that I have to keep keeping up with them and being present so that I don’t miss something, another thing, that is so amazing that I have to remember to write about it late at night, after books and goodnights, when they’ve slipped off into dreams I’ll never see.

Photo by Tim Pierce

I have to admit. My first impression of Walden Pond wasn’t good. Don Henley’s “The Last Resort” was playing through my mind as I parked in the HUGE parking lot and walked with my kids by the tourist information signs, crossed the busy street in front of impatient drivers, and made our way down the ramp to the OMG overcrowded beach.

Where were we going to sit? I’m rather used to having lots of space at the beach. Spending so much time on the Gulf Coast, where we had miles and miles of pristine white-sand beach, rather spoiled me.

But then I saw this group of hippies. A long-haired guy, a couple of familiar-looking women with beautiful tattoos, awesome kids running around, and I knew that there would, literally, be a place for me. And there was. My friends saved me a spot to spread out my blanket.

My idealized image of Walden didn’t exactly fit with what I encountered. For one thing, people were EVERYWHERE. I had assumed that visiting on a weekday would mean fewer people I would have to share my experience with.  Greedily, I wanted the peace and tranquility, the sublime naturalness that inspired words that always spoke to my soul and helped transform me into the person I am today. But, as I’m an eternal optimist and a ridiculously good sport, I let the cacophony of giggling youth wash over me. I watched my kids join the masses of children, including 7 other children from our group, in the traditional ritual of summer — leaping, flinging, sun-dazed, water-frenzied, castle-building non-stop activity. I took it all in. In short, I had a wonderful day among friends in a beautiful place that, while crowded and LOUD and unlike the image I had built up in my mind, still managed to creep into my heart.

And I had a little monologue going on in my brain while splashing around in the shallow water, a response to the most often quoted line in that song of Henley’s: “They call it paradise, I don’t know why. You call someplace ‘paradise’, kiss it goodbye.” Well, yes, we are certainly leaving our mark in this once-pristine place. But we are filling this (somewhat holy…) site with laughter and joy. I got the same sense of pleasure that I get when I watch my kids play in a cemetery. I think holy, sacred places WANT to feel the pattering of little feet, to hear the screeches of joy. We humans CAN destroy natural places, yes. But we can also energize the spirit of these sacred woods. In short, we bring the sacred. Is a forest sacred inherently? Or does it take the addition of human sentience, of our appreciation of it as so, as sacred, for it to BE? It’s not a question that I believe has an objective, quantifiable answer. I do feel that as long as we appreciate it, inhabit that space conscientiously, thoughtfully, we get to inherit and celebrate the holy and are welcome.

I know that I will always be among the group of people who continue to lobby for protection of such places for future generations. I will add my voice to the uproar when decisions are made to further commercialize Walden, decisions that negatively impact the area environmentally. But I’ll also join the throngs in celebrating this beautiful place by enjoying its cool waters, its gorgeous vista with my children on hot summer days. And I’ll think of Henry T as I trespass some late summer evening with friends to slip my naked body into the clear calm stillness and swim gracefully and quietly, pondering on the sense of Wildness one can still feel at night in such places, and leaving only grateful ripples that gently tickle the shore.

So I took the easy way out and asked if she’d like to go on a special date with me to go get ice cream.  Her dismal little head nodded, bangs flapping up and down, fingers in her mouth. The tears, at least, stopped. On the way to Brigham’s in Arlington right down the street from our house, I noticed that the hardware store had its summer wares out for display. I quickly detoured into the parking lot and led one very sad girl over to take a look at the pools. I did a quick glance at the prices and said, “Pick one out!” She did, and we paid the $14.23 and headed out.

Evil has a hose!

Minutes later, Laurel and I are walking down the trail that runs from the hardware store to right in back of our house, as the new plastic pool wouldn’t fit into our van. Her smile was so bright that she lit up an otherwise rather cloudy day. She danced and jumped the entire way home, her eyes lighting up as she talked about all the things she planned to do this summer in her pool.

When we got home, she wiggled into her bathing suit and begged me to fill her new pool. Even though the rain was coming down by then, she didn’t care.  She sat in that pool, under an umbrella and enjoyed herself, despite the deluge. After a few minutes, the sun peeked out.

It can keep on raining every day next week, as it has for the last two weeks. As the weather channel has predicted.

I’ll still find a way to bring some sunshine into my backyard.

We have no photos to mark the occasion. But we do have this photo, which was taken on Jan. 1, 1998, at 12:01 am. — the night Allen first told me he loved me. Every New Year’s, I get to celebrate the anniversary of being loved. The stroke of midnight means another year has passed, another year of loving and of being loved, of being in this man’s life and heart.

Every October 27, I get to celebrate again that decision — the decision to share my life with Allen, to be his partner, before the eyes of the law, as any two people should be able to do in this country.

Happy 10th anniversary, my love! Thank you for a decade of schmoop! For 513 Mondays to tell you how much I love being married to you!