Happy Birthday, John!

Four years ago this morning, I woke up with a baby in my arms.

John Matthew Clark was born at 1:17 a.m. on September 12, 2007. He weighed a robust 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and if I’m remembering correctly was 22 ½ inches long, although to me, measuring a baby for length seems a bit subjective.

The day before, I finally gave in and agreed to an induction on my doctor’s advice. My due date was supposed to have been the 1^st of September. It’s funny the little things you worry about when considering the day your child will be born.

I was reluctant to induce that day in particular because I did not want him to be born on 9/11. Dr. Early gave me the option of waiting until the next day to induce, but I feared that would result in me having a baby, not on September 12, but instead on the 13^th, which didn't seem like such a lucky day to me. So, as it turned out, we agreed to do the deal about 1 o’clock in the afternoon on the 11^th, which resulted in John being born about 12 hours later on the 12^th…sandwiched right in between 9/11 and Friday the 13^th.

So, today John is four, though his capacity to worry is sadly far beyond his years. Last night before bedtime, he told me shyly and sadly “Mom, I love you. I hope a great sickness does not sweep through our town.” I’ve known for a few months that John greatly fears that his parents (and his mother in particular) will die. He watched the Veggie Tales Story of St. Nicolas last week, and “a great sickness swept through Nicolas’s town” and his parents died. I can certainly relate to this fear, as I lived with this very real fear about half my life. It’s heart-wrenching to see John coping with this same fear. And I can’t lie to him; he’s too smart for that.

So, yesterday, while the rest of the world was commemorating the 10^th anniversary of 9/11, we were celebrating John’s 4^th birthday, just one day early.

I will freely and self-consciously admit that when it comes to my kids’ birthday parties, I have a weakness. I just can’t help myself. When I start planning, I always intend to keep them small, low-key, and requiring a minimum amount of effort from myself and those I con into helping me, but somehow, it never works out that way. (Thank you, M.A. I know that I have no business throwing a party without your help!)

It starts with selection of the theme so that the cake order can be placed with Lynda the cake lady. I tell Grandma Cleva what the theme is, my idea for the cake; she tells Lynda, and she brings it to life. And, it typically snowballs from there.

It amuses me to think over in my mind the theme of each birthday party, year-by-year. John’s first birthday party was rubber duckies, complete with a swimming pool full of little rubber duckies. He splashed in the pool with a rubber bib over his shirt because we had to keep the dressing on his Broviac catheter dry. I also made ducky-shaped mints and ducky-shaped chocolates.

Birthday #2 was an M&M theme, and the pool that held the duckies a year earlier became the site of a corn scramble…a great way to get rid of the parade candy acquired at the Corn Fest earlier that day.

Buzz & Woody took center stage when John turned three, and this year, for John’s fourth birthday party, it was all Thomas, all the way. I was lucky to find red, green, and blue gingham fabric on the $1.50/yard rack at Wal-Mart, which made the perfect Thomas tablecloths. I even made Thomas-themed pennant-flag banners. Patrick went crazy when he saw them for the first time. He was thrilled.

John got an insane amount of presents, including trucks and trains, books and clothes, and even a tiny little bicycle from Grandpa Dennis. And some age-inappropriate gifts from Uncle Ben, specifically, real live ammunition for the .22 that Ben got him before he was born.

The weather cooperated fully, and we roasted weenies at noon and feasted on homemade chocolate ice cream and cake. And the kids all played NICELY together and shared the loot fairly well.

We even had the honor of hosting a collection of students Matt’s cousin Jonathan brought home with him from Benedictine College in Atchison, Kansas. Some of them had also attended John’s 2^nd birthday party, too. I think there were four of them besides Jonathan, but I can’t be sure. If I’m remembering right, Jonathan brought home a total of nine friends from BC for the Corn Fest weekend, but some of them had left for home the night before. He seems to collect people, has followers perhaps. We were thrilled to have them, and they seemed to have a good time.

So, my children are admittedly spoiled when it comes to their birthday parties, and this is most evident by the fact that John & Patrick really don’t seem to think their birthday parties are that big a deal. After all, there is a “Happy Birthday” banner that has now officially hung in my kitchen for a full year. I never got around to taking it down after John’s 3^rd birthday party. So maybe it’s obvious to them that every day is somebody’s birthday.

I know my tendency to make a big deal of my kids’ birthdays was at least partially formed by our experience with John. At his diagnosis, I feared he wouldn’t see his first birthday, and every subsequent birthday is made that much sweeter as a result. John was a fabulous host yesterday, making sure his friends had their party favors and cups to drink their tea. He patiently (at my insistence) thanked each person for their gift before moving on to the next present. We are so very proud of him.

And, in case you’re wondering Patrick’s first birthday party featured a shamrock theme, inspired (duh) by St. Patrick and some old shamrock bedsheets I found at a yardsale to use for tablecloths. His second birthday party will feature Bob the Builder. It’s not till February, but you just can’t start planning these things too early, especially since tax season can get pretty hectic in February.

***I can't believe I forgot to mention it, so I'm adding it here. When John opened each present, he gasped and exclaimed, "I wuv it!" and "Just what I wanted!" (regardless of whether he had ever thought about wanting that particular item or not.) It was just too darn cute! 

Happy Birthday, Grandma Helen!

Today is Grandma Helen’s birthday, so be sure to remind her about it if you see her. Not that she’d forget it…that woman never forgets anything! We love you, Grandma!

Four years ago today…I was not having a baby. I wanted to be having a baby. September 1, 2007, was his due date, so four years ago, I was a few days past what was supposed to have been the big day. He arrived instead, September 12, after I broke down and opted for a labor induction. No, John is not yet old enough for preschool, as he was not 4 before August 1. It’s hard to believe the child who was completely non-verbal at 2 and finally catching up to “normal” verbal ability at 3, now talks non-stop. He has an incredible vocabulary, and I enjoy eavesdropping on the conversations among his trains, tractors, and trucks. He is intermittently sweet and belligerent. He misses his Grandma Diane and his old house, and chief among his concerns are the possibility of his own mommy dying, his desire to accumulate more cars and trains,  and a shortage of apple juice. He mentions almost daily his desire to have a baby sister, in spite of our insistence that there is no way, were we to have another baby, that we could guarantee a girl.

Patrick, on the other hand, does not want a baby sister. He made that perfectly clear when he met his new cousin Carli a couple weeks ago. Patrick sat on Uncle David’s lap while I held Carli and showed her to John. Uncle David noticed a tear silently running down his cheek. When David asked him what was wrong, Patrick could no longer hold back. His little face crumpled, and the silent tear became heartbroken wailing. He wanted his mommy. Clearly, he is not done being the baby. As always, I enjoy keeping mental lists of my boys’ favorite things. Patrick’s, at 18 months, include:

1.       Mommy’s hair.

2.      Anything that makes a motor noise (either by itself or supplied by PW).

3.      Chapstick (John also had this obsession, although he actually had chapped lips, thanks to his Accutane therapy).

4.      Tools, specifically tape measures.

5.      Bob the Builder.

6.      Climbing on mommy’s desk, specifically to color on things, like the computer monitor or walls.

7.      Climbing over fences.

8.      Climbing onto the kitchen countertops so he can access the knives and pepper.

9.      Climbing in general. He’s very good at it.

10.   And, new last week, moving furniture.

Let Them Eat Cake!

We wish you many happy returns of the day.
May sunshine and gladness be given.
And may the Dear Father prepare you on earth
For a beautiful birthday in heaven.

Today, as we celebrated our baby’s first birthday on earth, Aunt Lucille celebrated her beautiful birth day in Heaven after 93 birthdays on earth.

Lucille Montague was my great-aunt. My mom’s aunt, my Grandpa Jim’s big sister. Though she was short in stature, she was long on grace. She was one of the most influential people in my mom’s life. My mom’s favorite aunt joined her in Heaven this morning. It seems so like Aunt Lucille to die on a Sunday. It just seems the ladylike thing to do.

There's cake in heaven, right? (just indulge me...you don't need to criticize my theology)

As I mentioned above, today was Patrick’s FIRST birthday party. I cooked a turkey. That’s right. A chicken last month, a turkey today. My culinary repertoire is vastly expanding. Fortunately, my family pitched in with hot rolls, noodles, mashed potatoes, and a shamrock birthday cake. And, of course, my specialty, homemade super-duper chocolate ice cream, made with a quart-and-a-half of heavy whipping cream, 9 egg yolks, and an insane amount of chocolate. (it was good)…John watched me crack the eggs. He said I was hatching them.

Patrick had a fabulous time experiencing his cake and ice cream. We had practiced Tuesday with an angelfood cake topped with fluffy meringue frosting and conversation hearts, so he knew he had to pace himself, less he re-experience the sugar shakes. But I think he experienced his first brainfreeze, nonetheless. Our little daredevil missed out on blowing out his candle, though. He grabbed the flame and extinguished it before we could show him how to blow it out. We weren’t brave enough to re-light it after that.

He thoroughly enjoyed the day, and loved all his new toys, but he especially loved the birthday cards. He gets such a kick out of getting something new that is “just his” but, of course, that doesn’t last, since John is anxious for P. Dub to “share” with him. (translation: John takes all the toys, using the excuse “No, P. Dub, you’re too little. You might choke on it.) He would say that about a basketball.

I had mentioned to a client a couple weeks ago that Patrick would soon be one. She had asked me if my baby turning one made me sad. Truthfully, it did not, and still doesn’t really, even now that I’ve pondered the question a week or two. But I know it’s supposed to make me sad. You know, childhood is fleeting and so on and so forth. Is it that I haven’t taken time to think about it? No, it’s not, at least not now, because I’ve thought about it a lot since that person asked me that particular question. I think it’s a combination of a few other factors:

(1)   Though I desperately love my boys, I severely dislike the chores of motherhood. I try not to completely snap at a request to drop everything and fill a sippy cup. I have a love-hate relationship with breastfeeding (which incidentally, brings me back to Aunt Lucille, whom I remember telling me how much she “enjoyed nursing her babies.”) I have weaned Patrick, but that’s the subject of another post. Strangely enough, though, dirty diapers don’t really bother me. Probably because, given my boys’ steady dependence on MiraLax, dirty diapers are cause for a party in and of themselves. Every birthday gets my boys closer to my reward of seeing them enter adulthood as responsible, faithful, thoughtful young men. Young men, who (in this particular fantasy of mine) still say “Mom, you’re the best ever. You’re the best ever mommy.”

(2)  When John was diagnosed with cancer, I feared we would not see him celebrate his first birthday. He has celebrated not one, but three fabulous birthdays since his diagnosis. Though Patrick has never suffered a life-threatening illness, facing this with my firstborn perhaps makes me a little more aware just how much every birthday is a gift. A marker of the passage of time to be celebrated, not lamented.

(3)  Patrick will almost certainly not be our last child. Maybe it would be more bittersweet if I knew Patrick would be our last baby. I doubt it. Unless perhaps in this hypothetical situation he slept all night long consistently…

 I read once in a magazine that parents should not make a big deal out of children’s birthdays. I cannot fathom the logic involved in this advice. I enjoy reciting in my head the role call of “Lynda cakes” my boys have had: a rubber ducky, a blue M&M, Buzz Lightyear & Woody, and now, as of today, a shamrock. Now, I’ll admit in my head, the party always goes a lot more smoothly, probably because all of the children are patiently seated around a table, wearing party hats and their unspoiled Sunday best, politely awaiting their share of cake and ice cream with no objections as to a perceived shortage of frosting, or corner vs. edge vs. middle piece, position of the cake on the plate, degree of pre-cut-upness of the cake, cake touching ice cream vs. cake on completely separate plate/bowl, or fork or spoon, or color of fork of spoon.

And then, when it’s time for the presents, all the children (including siblings of the birthday boy) quietly and attentively watch said birthday boy unwrap his presents and perhaps, much later, politely ask if they may have a turn with the new toy.

And the birthday boy himself? Well, he quickly and methodically (but also patiently and reverently) opens each present, but only after opening the card and thanking the giver before opening the present, with which he is thoroughly and sincerely thrilled.

That’s why I plan every detail…just on the off chance that it might one day go how I planned.

I think that’s a good place to quit for the night.

Precious Lord, Take My Hand

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted…right at a month, I believe. Yes, I’ve been busy, but that’s not really the reason for my absence. I try to never use “too busy” for an excuse for anything. I firmly believe that a person makes time for the things that she wants to make time for. It’s been more a lack of inspiration, than a lack of time.

Oh, there have been plenty of things I could write about, but nothing that I got excited enough to write about. And, I figure if it doesn’t interest me to write about, it probably doesn’t interest you to read about. Or if I did get excited enough to write about it, it was something that was beyond my boundary of comfortable sharing.

But today, my baby turned one, and it occurred to me if ever there is a day to document, it would be such a day. So, I’m taking the opportunity to document this day. And, I’m taking the opportunity to document this day one year ago, since the poor child still has no completed (or started) baby book. In fact, the closest I have gotten to documenting his growth progress is small scraps of paper tucked in the top drawer of my dresser.

So, let’s start at the beginning. May 2009. Surprise!

Me: (sobbing) “I’m pregnant” (I really don’t know what I said exactly, but I think this is an accurate paraphrase.)

Matt: (half-asleep) “What? You’re kidding!” (not sobbing)

Me: (uncontrollable dramatic wailing)

Matt: (clearly disappointed at my reaction)

Ladies, here’s a tip for you. It turns out it really doesn’t do a lot for a guy’s ego to have their wives throw such a fit over a surprise pregnancy. So, when faced with this situation, feign excitement, or at the very least, pretend you’re crying because of something sad you saw on Fox News.

There were a number of really good reasons I did not want to be pregnant just then.

(1)   John was still in therapy for his cancer, and we were not yet sure if more treatment would be necessary.

(2)  The chemo drug John was on was Accutane, which has been known to cause birth defects when the mother is exposed to the drug. We had to cut open the pills and squirt the contents into John’s mouth. (turns out, they don’t make Accutane in drop form)

(3)  We were exhausted. John, at 20 months, was a very demanding toddler. Almost entirely non-verbal and incapable/unwilling to entertain himself. Plus, there were a number of cancer-related worries that just tend to wear a person down. His daytime napping was non-existent, and his nighttime sleeping pretty much required a parent in bed with him.

(4)  I had started my own practice, and my first solo tax season would be January-April 2010. February would be my busiest month. My due date was February 15. If there is a worse day of the year for a tax preparer to have a baby, I don’t know what day it would be.

We did want another baby, but we had it planned for about 3-6 months later. But our plans were not God’s, and our reasons were not His.

Looking back, it seems that the timing of this baby was providential. Patrick was 8 months old when he lost his grandmother. What if he had been born three months later? Six months later? Three months prior to Patrick’s birth, it became obvious that mom was very sick. By the time he arrived, she had completed a cycle or chemo, or maybe two. But even while undergoing treatment, she was still able to hold him, love him, play with him, feed him, and sew a beautiful blankie for him. This would not have been possible just a few months later.

I think about this and remind myself that I am not in control. And that the One who is in control knows better than I do. This is knowledge is a source of comfort, not a source of anxiety. At least I try to remind myself that it should be.

²⁵ "Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? ²⁶Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
  ²⁷Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?
  ²⁸"So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; ²⁹and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. ³⁰Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?
  ³¹"Therefore do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?' or "What shall we drink?' or "What shall we wear?' ³²For after all these things the Gentiles seek. For your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. ³³But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. ³⁴Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

Matthew 6:25-34

The Big Day

A few weeks prior to Patrick’s birth, we had scheduled a labor induction for our due date. I was opposed to this in theory, but practicality won out. Knowing my labor history, i.e., lack of any spontaneous labor 10 days after John’s due date, it seemed likely we were in for a repeat. Had I had it my way, I would have definitely waited an extra week, possibly 10 days, and maybe even 2 full weeks past the due date waiting on Patrick to exit spontaneously. But the demands of the season (tax season was in full swing) meant that I needed to be able to precisely schedule my week of leave. I will admit this desire to “do it myself” had less to do with any health concerns for unborn baby Patrick and rather was simply my own pride.

Shortly before 8:00 a.m., Monday, February 15, 2010, we arrived for our amniotomy. Check Wikipedia if you don’t know what an amniotomy is. A few minutes after 8, the procedure had been done and we were waiting for something to happen. The Winter Olympics were on TV, but the picture was so staticky that it was fairly non-interesting. To me, that is. Apparently, when there’s labor going on, black-and-white ski jumping is riveting for other people in the room. Matt.

Finally around noon, things started, labor progressed, and at 4:50, the doctor told me I could start pushing. The song playing was “Precious Lord, Take my Hand,” and at 4:57 p.m., Patrick W Clark emerged, weighing 7 pounds, 9 ounces, and stretching out to 22.5 inches in length. The song playing was “Then” by Brad Paisley. Yes, ladies, that’s right it took only 2 songs, and I didn’t feel a thing. Quite a switch from my first labor experience with the, dare I say, non-effective (or at the very least used-up-by-the-time-it-came-time-to-push-for-over-an-hour-epidural). He was extremely skinny with droopy folds of skin bagging down from his knees to his ankles. Like John, he had dark eyes, though less hair and thinner, shorter eyelashes. We noticed immediately that he did possess the sweet, cuddly disposition that had not accompanied his older brother upon arrival 2.5 years earlier.

Ok, that’s it for tonight. I have to get up extremely early in the morning. I’ll talk about PW’s first birthday in a day or two. Promise.