Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays! As I sit down to write my annual Christmas letter, it is December 20, 2009, and my house is a wreck, I’m tired from power shopping today, I still have a stash of gifts in the car that I need to bring in the house, and I have yet to wrap any gifts. I have a list of Christmas activities and projects that I want to do with my children now that they’re on break but know that we’re never going to fit it all into 4 short days. I’m tempted to not write this letter at all, but cannot do it because it would break tradition, and to me that’s an important part of Christmas: Tradition.

When we began to decorate the house the morning after Thanksgiving, that’s tradition. And when we went to a Christmas tree farm to cut down a fresh Blue Spruce tree to put up in our living room like we did this year, that’s tradition (although it seems that our “traditional tree” keeps getting larger each year – 7 feet our first year, 10 feet last year, 12 feet this year!). As we bake gingerbread men, snowballs, and sugar cookies in Christmas shapes (that we have partially done this year), that’s tradition. As Christmas approaches and I begin to feel stressed that THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME LEFT! and begin to pull out my hair, that too, unfortunately, is tradition!

Writing Down My Daughter

Having a girl has always been my great dream. I always thought I would have a girl first, a firstborn daughter like I was to my mother. Instead I had a boy. For awhile he was my everything. Then when he was 1 ½ I found out I was pregnant again. My hopes for a girl returned. One of each and our family would be complete, I thought. But, as fate dictated, I had another boy. Initially I was disappointed but soon the overwhelming task of taking care of two children under the age of 2 ½ buried my desire for a girl.

Over the years I’ve always answered the question whether we were going to have another child and try for a girl with an emphatic “No!” My husband and I like the one child per adult ratio. But this year when I turned 40 something happened. My body began to fail me. I was plagued with illness, fatigue, irregular menstrual cycles, intense PMS, and depression. I realized that I was entering perimenopause, the time when the body prepares for the cessation of menses. The time when fertility slows down and then stops.

I felt out of touch with myself and my body. I knew something was amiss but just couldn’t put my finger on it. The last four years of mothering had stomped on and trampled over the spark that was me. I felt like there was a foreigner stationed in my body and somewhere inside was a vibrant, energetic being waiting to be remembered. Ever since my 40^th birthday lost dreams and desires had come knocking on my door demanding to be let out.

Meet Nicholas the 4-year-old

It was a cloudy morning on October 20, 2005, as Nicholas Jeffrey slipped into this world, loudly proclaiming himself present with cries and wails fit for a tiny warrior. Even though his labor was much shorter and less painful than his older brother's, his entrance made me pause. He seemed angry, and this reaction is not what I had been expecting from this child that I had nurtured and carried with joy inside my womb.

"This one's going to give me a run for my money," I thought to myself.

Four years later I can tell you with an emphatic "OH YEAH!" that I was right. Boy, was I ever.

Right from the get go he knew what he wanted and would only settle for that one thing: ME. Daddy wouldn't do, Grandma wouldn't do, Grandpa wouldn't do. Only mom. When Michael was an infant I could leave him with almost anyone and run to the store just to get out of the house and he would be just as happy when I returned as when I left. Not Nicholas. He would begin crying when I left and when I got back he would be screaming, his poor little face beet red and flooded with tears. Needless to say, I didn't get out much when he was little. Wait, what am I talking about? I didn't get out much for the first 3 years of his life!!

Preschool or Bust!!!

There's a sound in my house that I don't quite recognize. Or rather, I should say, a lack of sound because my house is quiet. No clomping footsteps, no yelling or screaming or arguing, no kids music emanating from the radio or tv. And it's a good quiet too, not the kind where you realize suddenly that the house is quiet and you'd better go see what your kids are up too. No, this quiet is rather nice and is due to the fact that there are no kids here for the moment.

You see, they're both in school. Michael began his second week of first grade and Nicholas started preschool this morning. He'll go every Monday/Wednesday/Friday for three hours, which means that every week I'll essentially get 9 hours of free time for the first time in 6 years! Well, almost 6 years: Nicholas did try preschool for a month last year so I did get some time but that time was spent worrying about whether or not he was crying at school or participating. This year he's in for the long haul, whether he cries or not.

Meet Michael the First Grader

Today Michael is officially a first grader! Here's a little bit about him:

Michael is 45 inches tall and weighs 45 lbs. He is missing his two bottom teeth (which are growing in fast and, alas, crooked). One of his top teeth are also loose - this he discovered after one of his friends lost both of his top teeth. I'm not sure if Michael's tooth was really loose or if he just wiggled it loose, but he was sure delighted. "Mom, I have the most exciting news to tell!" he announced to me and everyone else in the family.


As of the beginning of the summer he can ride a two-wheeler bike on his own, although he is very cautious with it and walks it up and down hills. Just today I watched him slam on the brakes in the driveway and make a foot-long skid mark. Wonderful, I thought to myself. The days of having a clean, white driveway are numbered.

Other accomplishments this summer include going across the monkey bars at the beach by himself. Not the monkey bars at school or at home though. They're too high. The beach must hold a certain amount of magic for Michael for he also WILLINGLY and ON HIS OWN put his head under the water and didn't come up crying. This is probably the biggest accomplishment of the year for he has hated getting his eyes and face wet ever since he was little.

Michael can whistle but can't blow bubbles with his gum yet. His favorite colors are red, yellow, gold, and blue. His favorite tv shows are Clone Wars, Sponge Bob Squarepants, Dragon Tales, and Word Girl. His favorite anything is anything that has to do with Star Wars or Clone Wars, especially Star Wars Lego and lightsabers. He has 3 lightsabers but that doesn't seem to be enough as he has already put another two on his Christmas list. He sings loudly the Star Wars theme song as he plays.

Michael has now added garbage to his list of things he collects. Well, he doesn't call it garbage, he calls it treasure. Gum wrappers, popsicle sticks, old fuses, string, plastic forks from samples at Costco, and BOTTLE CAPS. He jumps at the chance to take back returnables because he can look for the bottle caps on the floor. This does not please me as I understand how many germs are on the floor and on the bottle caps. However, most often they don't make it out of his pocket and I find them in the washing machine clean and shiny, so no harm no foul, I guess.

Other "treasures" of Michael include 66 pencils collected from every party or free event (yes I counted them!), 10 hacky sacks, a toteful of stickers, 30 plastic mardi gras beaded necklaces, 60 buttons collected from FIRST robotics events, various business cards that look pretty or interesting, and a whole bunch of trinkets and toys that he's collected from the pinata break at birthday parties. I've even been known to stuff his pinata with his "excess" treasures, but don't tell him - he hasn't missed them yet!

Like his mother used to, Michael hoards candy. He's got a small bin full of candy whose origins I'm sure date back to last Halloween. In fact, just today, he found some from Easter that he'd forgotten about.

Michael's a pretty good eater. His favorite breakfast is apple and blueberry pancakes with syrup; lunch is a toasted ham and provolone cheese sandwich; and dinner is pizza. Tonight he asked for tacos, though, which apparently is a new favorite. He likes carrots and bananas and broccoli and salmon, the latter he always gives me grief for serving and then promptly gobbles it up. Dessert is, of course, his favorite part of the meal. Chocolate chip cookies and Oreos (double stuffed) are his very favorites, along with any kind of ice cream.

He's really imaginative and likes to be alone to create new lego ships or play with his Star Wars figures (figgers is how he pronounces them). I often catch him in his room just staring off into space, thinking about or dreaming of something only a six-year old can.

Michael is usually pretty sweet and easy going, but lately he's been a bear: whiny and cranky and cantankerous. The type of behavior that comes at the end of the summer and makes moms everywhere dream of the beginning of school. Last night as I was lying in bed with him I learned that he's not very excited about going to first grade because "I'll be away from you, Mama."

Melt my heart. Even with all of this growing and independence, Michael still loves to hug and cuddle and confide in me. I hope he always will.

The End of the Innocence Revisited

The end of the school year is here. I can hardly believe it. Tomorrow is Michael's last day of kindergarten. Big sigh.

This has truly been Michael's year to blossom and grow. At the beginning of the year I wrote that I was afraid Michael would lose his innocence upon going to school and being around older kids. I needn't have worried for my son has retained his essence. He may know a lot more now about Star Wars and Bakugan characters than he did but he still daydreams a lot and picks his nose.

I look back to the fall and am amazed at how much Michael has learned this year. He learned how to write the alphabet and about the sound each letter makes, he can write his numbers up to 50 and beyond, he can now read simple books, he has taken spelling tests, and he has learned how to add and subtract (which he loves more than anything else).

He also learned some core life skills too: how to follow rules, about taking turns and sharing, being part of a group, how to be responsible for his library book each week, and how to be a good friend.

I honestly don't know if this would have been possible had Michael not had such a great teacher, Mrs. N. That he had a positive kindergarten experience filled with kindness and love made a world of difference. I know he will be sad to leave her classroom. I am sad also as I had the chance to volunteer in the classroom on a regular basis and really like her too. But, it's on to first grade he goes. I just hope he gets a teacher as nice and kind and knowledgeable as Mrs. N.

Labor of Love

This is how I envision the birth of my first child. I will start having labor pains at home, preferably after a good night’s sleep. I will labor at home for as long as possible, taking deep, cleansing breaths as I focus inward. At the hospital I will labor in the birthing center, using the shower and a large Jacuzzi tub to counteract the pain. I will have the lights dimmed, soft music playing in the background, candles burning, and the scents of lavender and lemon wafting through the air to help me relax. I won’t need any drugs because I will remember all the techniques I learned in my Bradley Childbirth class. Eight hours later I will be holding my baby.

All throughout my pregnancy I like to think this is possible. My friends tell me I’m living in a fantasy, that no one has births like that. I realize that the birth process is nothing that one can control but I can dream, can’t I?

My due date is May 26, 2003. So to prepare for the baby and have some last-minute time to myself, I stop working two weeks beforehand. I figure I’ll be able to tackle projects that I haven’t been able to get to because I was tired from the pregnancy. After all, being home will give me more energy, right? Wrong. I spend the whole two weeks sleeping. Where’s this burst of energy that I’m supposed to get right before the baby is born, the one my friends have told me will cause me to clean my house from top to bottom?

My due date comes and goes…and no baby. One week past my due date and still there is no baby or any indication that the baby is coming out EVER. No contractions, no water leaking, nothing. Nothing, that is, except for tons of phone calls from well-meaning friends and family asking, “Where’s that baby?” or “When are they going to induce you?” or “Have you tried jumping jacks/spicy food/walking/nipple stimulation/sex?”

I have tried all the methods that are supposed to jump-start my body into labor, but my baby isn’t budging from his cozy home inside my womb. Amazingly enough, despite the fact that I am huge and bloated and my feet and ankles are swollen, I am ok with letting the baby come on his own time. I’m not in any major discomfort and our tri-weekly non-stress tests show that both the baby and I are fine, so why rush things?

On Friday, June 6, I go to see my midwife for yet another non-stress test. She is excited to hear that earlier that morning I lost my mucous plug, a sign that means my body is in some sort of preparation for birth. Yet, when she checks to see how far I am dilated it is only 1 cm, which is practically nothing, especially for a woman who is 10 days overdue. And then she breaks my “happy labor” bubble.

“If you don’t go into labor by Sunday, we’re going to have to get things moving or you’re not going to be allowed into the birthing center. You’ll have to go to Labor and Delivery in the hospital,” she says.

What – no queen sized bed, no Jacuzzi tub, no freedom to move about as I please? “What do I need to do?” I ask.

“If you haven’t gone into labor by tomorrow morning I want you to take four ounces of castor oil.” Castor oil? She continues, “Castor oil will clean you out and all that movement will hopefully prod your uterus into contracting. Just don’t stray too far from the bathroom.”

Sounds unpleasant, I think.

“And if that doesn’t work, then on Sunday you’ll have to come in and we’ll break your water and get things rolling.” So now we have a plan and I have something to report back to friends and family. Later that afternoon the contractions start. They are just minor, but they give me hope. They continue through dinner and into the evening, but shortly after midnight they stop.

Saturday morning I send my husband, Jeff, out to get the castor oil. My midwife had said that I could take it with juice but I think it would be easier to swallow it down tablespoon by tablespoon. Do you know how many tablespoons are in four ounces? Neither do I because by the second or third one I am clamoring for the juice. Castor oil is vile with a capital V! It’s thick and oily (of course) and swallowing it causes me to gag. The juice doesn’t help much because then it just tastes like thick, oily juice. However, 30 minutes later I finish it and begin waiting for it to work. Soon enough, the castor oil does its work, but I don’t experience any contractions. So unless something happens in the next 12 hours it looks like we will have to go into the hospital to get my water broken.

Sunday morning I awake at 7:30 am. The sky is gray and threatening rain. Today I am 13 days overdue.

“Hopefully today’s your birthday!” I say to my belly. We are expected at the hospital at 12:30 p.m. so have time for one last breakfast and one last walk as a couple. Then I double-check the bags to make sure we have everything: relaxation CDs, two pairs of pajamas for me, one change of clothes for Jeff, a robe and slippers for me, the take-home outfit for the baby, extra diapers, washcloths for labor, our Bradley Childbirth book, digital camera, video camera, juice boxes and suckers for me, other snacks for Jeff, and pillows wrapped in plastic garbage bags. It looks like we are going on vacation for a week instead of going to the hospital to have a baby.

As we drive to the hospital, I feel sad and excited – sad that our couplehood is coming to an end. Life as we know it will be very different from now on. Mostly I am excited though, because I am ready to meet this being that has been growing inside me for almost 10 months.

After we check in at the hospital, we take the elevator up to the Birthing Center. As we unpack our luggage, the nurse on duty gives me a gown to change into. The nurse midwife soon comes into the room to break my water.

“What I’m going to do,” she says as she holds up a utensil that looks like a long crochet hook, “is insert this into the uterus and use it to break your bag of waters. Just lie back and relax.”

I figure that this will be an easy, quick process. For some reason or another, my midwife is having a hard time breaking the waters. On her last try, though, she does and I feel a gush of water. So this is what it feels like, I think.

It is 1:30 p.m. We call our parents and let them know that my “labor” has begun.

For the next two hours nothing happens. When the midwife comes back in and is informed of my progression or lack thereof, she says that it is time to try something else to get things moving. She wants to give me castor oil, but I vehemently protest based on my experience the previous day. So she has the nurse bring in a breast pump, which is supposed to cause contractions.

And it does. At 3:15 p.m. my contractions begin, slowly at first and sporadic, then more regular. I sit on the birthing ball to relieve some of the pain, which isn’t too bad yet. My mom, dad, and sister-in-law come in to visit and I can still talk to them, which means that I’m not too far along in my labor. One hour of contractions turn into two, then three. Jeff and I take walks up and down the hallway and when I feel a contraction I hold onto either Jeff or the railing in the hall. At 8:00 p.m. they are getting stronger and more painful, about 3-4 minutes apart. The nurse asks me if I want her to put some music on, perhaps one of the relaxation CDs that I brought with me. Surprisingly I feel that music would distract me – I only want quiet – so I decline.

I feel for sure that this is it, that the baby will be coming soon, but an hour later the contractions slow down and we have to use the pump to get them going again. At 10:00 p.m. the midwife suggests that we get some rest, so we get ready for bed. We are so tired.

I guess sleep is not meant to be, for about 10 minutes after we get into bed the contractions start up again. So we get out of bed and labor all through the night. The contractions are especially hard from 4:00 – 6:00 a.m. but then slow down soon after. We are served breakfast but I can’t eat much. At 10:30 a.m., 21 hours after she broke my water, the midwife comes in to evaluate my progress.

“You’re only 2-3 centimeters dilated and your water’s been broken for almost 24 hours,” she proclaims. “I’m afraid that we’re going to have to move you into the Labor and Delivery part of the hospital so we can give you Pitocin to speed up your contractions.”

I’m not too pleased with the turn of events, but don’t have much of a choice. Jeff and I gather up our stuff, say goodbye to the labor nurse on duty, and go to Labor and Delivery, which is just down a hallway adjacent to the birthing center. The room is half as large as the one we were just in, as is the bed. A baby monitor is placed around my large abdomen. Now I can hear the strong heartbeat of the baby inside. At 11:30 a.m. I am given an IV – the Pitocin drip. For the next couple of hours we wait for the Pitocin to start working.

The contractions start slowly at first. With each one I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as the contraction subsides. As a contraction peaks Jeff pushes on my feet or knees to counteract the pain that comes along with it. Because of the IV, my movement is limited – no more walks in the hall – but I can sit on the birthing ball or in a chair.

At 3:00 p.m. the contractions are getting stronger and I am feeling it mostly in my back. The Pitocin is causing the contractions to come on very quick and strong. By 4:30 p.m. the contractions are about 2 minutes apart and very intense. I am in an enormous amount of pain and nothing seems to help. At 5:30 p.m. my midwife checks my progress and says that I am dilated to 6 cm and that the baby is in position. She thinks, though, that he’s facing up, which is why I’m in so much pain. She has me kneel on the bed so I’m facing the wall. Perhaps laboring in this position will make him turn.

I’m naked, sweaty, and totally not in control of my body. It’s as if another entity has taken hold of me. I scream out in fierce, primal cries that I did not know I was capable of. I think I’m scaring Jeff. Part of me feels ashamed that I am not able to endure the pain better and that I’m not using any of the techniques that we learned in class. This is so not what I had imagined, even though it’s what my friends with children had told me about. I call on the spirit of all women who have gone through childbirth to help me be strong.

No one mentions an epidural but I keep asking for one, or a c-section, anything to get this baby out. At one point I cry out “I quit, just shoot me!” It is at this point that I have been in labor for 29 hours. I’m really tired and ready to give up. Luckily my support team – my midwife and my husband – know that I really don’t want an epidural, that a natural childbirth is the goal.

At 6:45 p.m. I feel like pushing. The pressure is bearing down and the contractions are coming one after another. My midwife examines me and says it’s not time to push yet. My mom is giving Jeff a break and I rest my head on her shoulder and let her stroke my cheek and wipe the sweat off of my brow.

My midwife does another exam at 7:30 and I’m 8-9 cm dilated. I’m almost ready to push. Another half an hour and it’s time. I sit up in bed and pull my legs up around me. With each contraction I take a deep breath and let it out slowly while I push with all my strength, the amount of which surprises me since I’ve been laboring for 30 hours. With each push my midwife and Jeff tell me what a good job I’m doing. They are my cheerleaders. Without them I would not have gotten this far. I see the sun setting outside my window – it splashes deep reds and yellows on the walls of my room.

I continue pushing for another hour. Now the midwife can see the baby’s head. I am told that it won’t be long now. They set up a mirror so I can see the head as it crowns. As I do I get a surge of energy – I’m almost done, just a little more. At 9:20 p.m. I give a long hard push. I feel a lot of pressure and a burning sensation and I see in the mirror the baby’s head emerge. Seconds later the midwife is handing me my baby. My husband cuts the cord and then puts his face next to mine so we can watch our baby together.

His eyes are open and he is looking intently at his parents, as if to memorize this moment. I try on his new name for him, Michael Thomas, saying it softly to him. He raises his head slightly in concurrence, and then instinctively searches for the breast.

I no longer feel any pain. I feel wonderful, radiant, beaming. He is beautiful, my baby, the most perfect anesthesia.

This "baby" turns 6 on Tuesday. It's hard to believe that six years have passed since he was born, but I've enjoyed every minute of it (well, almost every minute!). Happy Birthday Michael!

I Never Knew My Mom Was a Trapeeze Artist

When exactly does a woman become a mother? A) The minute her first child is born? B) When she takes him home from the hospital? C) When she experiences the sleep-deprived reality that comes from nursing every 2 hours?

If you would have asked me this question 8 years ago I would have gone with answer A. However, 8 years and two children later I realize that becoming a mother takes more than just birthing a child between your legs and calling yourself a mom.

Mothers are not born with our children, they are made. There is no instruction booklet on how to be a mom. We learn through experience, trial by fire, and sometimes with disastrous results. We learn that when you change your infant son's diaper you'd better cover him up quickly or you WILL get peed on. We learn that when your child is not feeling good and says that he thinks he has to throw up, you have a 5-second window to get him to the toilet before he does so.

Even so, I think it takes more than just experience to be successful at this mothering thing. It takes passion and energy and commitment. And balance.

My mom is someone whose experience and opinion I trust and value. She has shown me how to be a good mother through her mothering of me and my brother. She wasn't a helicopter mom or a soccer mom or a stay-at-home mom like June Cleaver. She was a do-it-all mom who worked part-time but was always home when we came home from school. She was a mom who earned her Master's Degree while working and taking care of us. She was a mom who had interests and hobbies outside of her kids. I know now how important that is: it's a key component to keeping your sanity as a mom. It showed me that while I was an important part of her life I was not the only part. My mom showed me that to be a mom you need to have balance.

This balance is something I am currently searching to attain and maintain on my mothering journey. In between making meals, doing dishes and laundry, taking the kids to school, trips to the library, and all the other routine stuff that my life is currently made up of, I realize that there is not much in life right now that is just mine.

This mothering thing we do is a tightrope act that involves balancing our needs with our children's needs. To be really successful at it we need to be sure of our footing and who we are or we risk falling and losing ourselves in the daily barrage of tasks.

To all you moms out there who have found your balance, I salute you. To all you moms out there like me who haven't found it yet, I say keep searching. Start small. Pledge with me to do at least one thing for yourself every day that will bring you into balance at that moment: take a walk after dinner, read a magazine, take a bath, eat a whole cookie (not one that you have to share with the kids), breathe deeply for 5 minutes. Then, as you get braver, take more time for yourself: go for long walks in the woods, read a book, get a massage, go see a movie with friends or by yourself, go out to dinner with friends. You see where I'm going here.

I understand that trying to incorporate a little time for ourselves may at first prompt some strange reactions from our spouses and children ("Mom wants to do what and without us? Boo hoo!!") And we may feel that we're abandoning them. However, my belief is that the more we do for ourselves the easier it will be to work "Mom's Time" into our lives and pretty soon our balancing act will be a normal part of our routine.

Have a happy Mother's Day! Be good to yourselves!!!

If you like this blog or blog about mothering yourself, check out the About.com's Mother's Day Blog Carnival!

A Travelin' We Will Go?

Destination: Cocoa Beach, Florida
Dates of Travel: March 7 - March 11, 2009
Itinerary: Visit the Kennedy Space Center for Michael, beach time for Mom

Friday, February 27 - One week until we leave. I've got my to-do list ready and the boys are mostly packed.
Bad News: Michael wakes up with a fever and has to stay home from school. Hopefully he can recoop this weekend.

Good News: The shuttle Discovery was supposed to launch tonight but they've moved it to the March 12, the day after we are to leave. That would be so cool to see it launch while we're in Florida. It would probably make Michael's life. Maybe we can see about extending our trip??!

Wednesday, March 4
Bad News: Only 3 days until we leave and Nicholas now has what Michael had, which was the Rotovirus. Michael now has a cold and has spent the day down and out on the couch.

Good News: The shuttle launch has been changed again and now it is set to launch at 9:20 p.m. on March 11, the day we are to leave Florida. I'm crossing my fingers that perhaps we can stay and see it!

Friday, March 6
10:30 p.m.
The boys are asleep and our bags are packed and in the car. I look at my extensive checklist one more time and am pleased that I have remembered everything. We are ready to go. Our plane leaves at 6:40 a.m. so Jeff and I try to figure out what time we need to leave for the airport by in the morning. I've been thinking 3:30 a.m. all week but Jeff thinks that 4:30 or 4:45 will be sufficient. Sounds good to me, gives me more time to "sleep in".

Saturday, March 7
4:00 a.m.
Beep, beep, beep, beep. The sound of the alarm wakes me from a not-so-sound sleep. I jump out of bed and take a nice, hot shower that is probably too long but wakes me up. Jeff comes in to take a shower about 4:15. I'm almost ready so I finish some last minute packing of the carry-on bag, then do the final check while Jeff moves the cars around.

4:55 a.m.
Finally we're on the road headed for the airport. Jeff's nervous because we've left so late. I'm surprisingly calm. Nicholas is awake, which I'm not too happy about as I was planning on the boys to sleep on the drive (every little bit of sleep helps!). He's going to be one tired little boy later, which means he'll be a bear, which I don't want to deal with.

6:00 a.m.
Thanks to my husband's fast driving and no traffic on the road we make it to the airport in an hour. We'll have to hustle if we're going to make our flight.

And then we make our first mistake... At the park'n'go place at the airport we get on the wrong bus. We're flying Northwest so we need to go to the McNamara Terminal. Everyone else on the bus is going to the other airport terminal. The bus driver has to drop them off first then makes his way to the McNamara Terminal.

By now we're cutting it close. We rush our 2 kids, 2 suitcases, 2 car seats, and 3 carry-on bags, plus a stroller to the NWA ticketing area. However, when we try to check in with our pre-printed boarding passes, we discover that our flight is actually a Delta flight (Northwest and Delta recently merged and apparently are still experiencing some hiccups) and we have to go back downstairs to the Delta ticket counter. We grab our bags and our kids and do an OJ Simpson down to Delta.

6:20 a.m.
At the ticket counter we are told we're too late for our flight. The next best we can do is to catch an afternoon flight, switch planes 2 or 3 times, and arrive in Florida at 10:30 p.m. Jeff and I look at each other with a "You've got to be kidding me!" look in our eyes. We know that going this route with two young children aged 3 and 5 would be like committing travel suicide.

After looking at our tickets again the agent realizes we purchased them with air miles and sends us back to Northwest so they can figure out what to do with us. Luckily we don't have to trek back upstairs: there's a NW counter on this level also. I send out a prayer to the traveling gods: "Please let us get on an earlier flight!!"

We haul our baggage and brood up to the counter where we are met with a very pleasant ticket agent. Jeff tells her our sob story. She tells us she'll see what se can do and checks her computer and checks her computer and checks her computer. Finally she gives us the news. We're expecting the worst but what she says surprises us: "I can put you on a 9:00 a.m. flight to Cleveland where you'll change planes and then fly into Orlando at 2:30 p.m." Jeff and I look at each other with big smiles. Yes!!

Now we'll see if our luck holds. We ask her if she can change our return flight by a day so we can see the shuttle launch. Our luck holds. There is a flight available. We cross our fingers and wait and wait and wait as she talks with a World Perks representative on the phone. When she's on hold Jeff asks her how much the change is going to cost - it usually costs $50-$100 per ticket.

"Right now, nothing" she answers. I can't believe our luck. The travel gods have sent us a travel angel!

7:20 a.m.
We take our tickets, thank the agent profusely, and head out to security. We have just enough time to grab breakfast and then it is time to board our plane, a small 35 seater. The flight to Cleveland is short at just under an hour. After we land we have a 2-hour wait for our connecting flight - just enough time to make some adjustments to our travel plans, play a game of UNO with the kids, and grab some lunch. Nicholas is so tired he falls asleep in the stroller as Jeff takes the kids to get "Old McDonald's". This means that he won't sleep on the plane and so neither will I :(

12:30 p.m.
When it is time for us to board our plane we discover that our seats are in First Class! Oh joy of joys! Each seat has its own television screen too! So the kids settle in to cartoons and I, even though I am tired and should sleep, start to watch "The Secret Life Of Bees". Since the kids are content to watch tv the whole flight it is smooth and uneventful, thank the lord!



2:30 p.m.
Finally we are in Florida! Hurray! I want to kiss the ground. Sun, sand, and shuttle here we come!







5:30 p.m.
We have arrived at our hotel and are now on the beach. The boys run wildly into the surf, oblivious of the "undertoad". It catches Nicholas once, but I am quick on my feet to prevent any major water intake. I'm so excited to see what Michael thinks of his first time in the ocean. "Michael, dip your finger into the water and lick it," I tell him. "What does it taste like?" I'm of course expecting him to answer "salty" but in true Michael fashion he answers "Boogers!"

Stay tuned for more Florida fun with the Byrnes family...

In Memorium: Verna Jane Wurges

My Grandma Wurges would have been 97 today. I wasn't there when she was born but I can bet you that she came into this world with as much spunk and fight as she did when she left us last March. And so I would like to honor her today by telling you a little bit about this wonderful woman who is now looking down on us from heaven.

Verna Jane Brown was born on February 4, 1912, to Tom and Minnie Brown. She was raised on a farm in Glencoe, Ontario. She was the 7^th of 12 children and had 3 sisters and 8 brothers. She doted on her younger siblings and was a great help to her older siblings as well as her mother. She helped out on the farm as was her duty, baking bread and pies for the midday and evening meals.

She was a sassy young thing, popular with the fellows, especially her brothers, who were especially fond of her and included her in everything. Verna was a tomboy, and played softball and hockey with her brothers.

Verna was a cookie monster and loved sweets, but especially cookies. One day her love for cookies got her into big trouble. She was 17 and wanted a snack before dinner. No one was in the kitchen so she climbed up on the counter so she could reach the cookie jar. She didn’t quite reach the cookie jar before she lost her balance and toppled off the counter and on to the floor, breaking her back. The doctors didn’t think she would live as there was nothing they could do for her. But she did live. And they certainly didn’t think she would walk again, but she did. A miracle of the times, you might call her. Verna laid flat on her back for two years before she was able to walk again, amidst much pain and suffering. And all because she wanted a cookie!!

Verna wanted to be a nurse. With the help of her doctor, Dr. Freel, she was able to take classes by mail and earn her certification. Dr. Freel even helped her get a job, but alas, it didn’t last long because she couldn’t lift patients because of her back.

When Verna was 24, a visitor came to the farm who would change her life forever. John Vincent Wurges, a dashing fellow who was 2 years younger than she, came to the farm with his cousin Oral Kindrie, who was also a cousin of Verna’s.

The distant cousins hit it off and soon Jack or Vinny, as he was called, was a constant fixture of the Brown farm. He came to visit as often as he could, quite a feat for him since he was from the States. Verna was engaged to another fellow when she met Jack, but soon broke her engagement because she knew that Jack was the guy for her.

On December 23, 1939, Verna and Jack were married in a small ceremony at the farm. And so began 55 years of wedded bliss. Jack took Verna to live in his home state just across the Canadian border. They lived in a small house in Royal Oak, a suburb of Detroit, Michigan.

A few years after they were married, Jack was called to serve his country in WWII. And so they parted for the first time in their married lives as he sailed off on the Saratoga, their futures uncertain. Verna kept herself busy as one year passed, then two. She missed Jack very much, and sent him pictures of herself to keep him company. He missed her very much and wrote love notes to her on the back of the pictures: “My darling, if you could only know my thoughts today. I received these pictures 3 Sept. 1944 aboard USS Saratoga at Bremerton, Wash. I love you so much.”

When the war ended, Jack returned home to Verna and they were together once more. In 1947, their twosome became three, when they adopted a little bundle of joy named Erwin Jeffrey, or Jeff as most people call him, or Dad, as I call him. Jeff was the apple of Jack and Verna’s eyes. Verna doted on Jeff and spoiled him rotten.

In 1968, Jeff married Judie, who Verna soon adopted as the daughter she never had. Then came two more apples: her grandchildren. First came me in 1969, and then my brotherJon in 1972. And once more Verna had someone to dote on and spoil rotten. And boy did she spoil us. Jon and I both looked forward to spending the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s because the sky was the limit. Grandma always stocked the house with cookies and candy and we spent many happy hours making pizza and homemade doughnuts or fudge, things we weren’t allowed to eat at home.

And the rest, they say, is history. Jack and Verna lived out their lives together spending happy times with friends and family. They retired in Florida, spending the summers in Michigan. Golf and bowling and parties became staples of their lives.

Now, I’m not saying that life was perfect. When people age their bodies often have to make sacrifices to keep them living. Grandma must have been the sacrificial lamb as she had operation after operation on knees, toes, wrists, and shoulders. And then her eyes went. But still she kept on going, part bionic woman, part energizer bunny. In fact, she played golf until she was in her 80’s, a most amazing feat considering that she couldn’t see the ball when she hit it (or so she said!).

In 1993, Jack and Verna parted for the second time in their marriage and a huge void was left in her life. For the first time she was truly on her own. But, in true Verna fashion, she made the best of the situation and overcame her loneliness by caring for others. In her home at Mercy Bellbrook there is a “sick floor”, where all the residents go when they are ill and need care. Grandma visited these people several times a week, bringing them candy to brighten up their day. She visited the sick floor religiously, until she ended up there herself with a broken hip. She was 88 years old. The doctor wasn’t sure if she would ever walk again, but she showed him. In only six months, Grandma was walking – a miraculous feat.

In 2004, Grandma fell again and fractured a vertabrate in her neck. The doctors mandated that she had to wear a neck brace now, and probably would for the rest of her life.She was now very limited in her movements and had to depend on others (finally!) to help her with everything. In retrospect, I think it was after this removal of independance that we began to lose her. First her hearing went and then she began to become less aware of her surroundings. Then last March she came down with bronchitis and never recovered. Her passing was both a blessing and a heartbreak: a blessing because we knew she would be happy to finally with my grandfather again and that she wouldn't have to suffer any more, and a heartbreak because we knew that we were really going to miss her.

About 10 years ago I interviewed Grandma so I could document the story of her life on video. At the time she lived alone in her assisted living apartment at Mercy Bellbrook. We spent a summer afternoon together and what a great afternoon it was. We took a walk around the Mercy Bellbrook complex, then made some tea and sat down for the interview, the bright afternoon sun shining on us through her windows. Grandma was totally in the zone, and by that I mean that she was emanating pure happiness and positiveness as she took a walk down memory lane.As I watched the video again after she died I remembered what a great life Grandma had and what a great person she was. I was amazed by her spunk, her inner strength, her generosity, her will to live, her faith, and most of all her unconditional love for everyone.

There are many things that I admired deeply about Grandma, but three things stand out to me today. One is her faith. We went to church often with Grandma and Grandpa and I remember how she loved to sing loudly each hymn with fervor and passion. She always gave thanks for what she had and encouraged us to do so also. I remember her telling me about the golden rule, something she lived her life by: "Jennifer, always treat others as you would want to be treated!" I now tell my own children the same thing.

The second is her forthright-fullness. Grandma didn't care what anyone thought, she did things anyway. If she wanted to go visit an ailing friend, she wouldn't worry about calling first to see if now was a good time for a visit as I probably would do, she would just bake them something tasty and take it over to them, granddaughter in tow.

And third, grandma's outpouring of unconditional love. Grandma might have loved reading Jon and I about Dr. Seuss's Grinch who stole Christmas and his little teeny heart, but one thing's for sure - Grandma was no Grinch! She had the biggest heart of almost anyone I know and her capacity to love is her greatest legacy. She loved anyone and everyone and told you so often, even if she'd just met you.

My grandma is such an inspiration to me. Despite all the challenges that God placed in front of her in her lifetime, she just hurdled over them and kept on living. Even when it was time for her to go she still put up a fight, for I believe that she didn't want to leave her family: her son that she fought so hard to get, her daughter-in-law that she considered her own daughter, her two grandchildren that she doted on, their spouses of whom she was so proud, and her 3 great-grandchildren who continually amazed her with their youthful accomplishments.

Grandma always wore an angel pin on her shirt or sweater because she believed they protected her. I am sure Grandma is tickled pink, as she would say, that she is now one with the angels and can look down upon us and do the protecting herself.

Passages

Today was a defining moment in my journey as a mother. It was the day when I realized that my childbearing days were truly over.

In October when Nicholas turned 3 I told him that now he was a big boy and we could change his room from the nursery into something less babyish. My husband and I had recently discussed the possibility of having more children and realized that we enjoyed the one-parent-to-one-child ratio with the two children we had. And so we had no reason to keep the nursery any longer.

In comes January, a fresh new year and I'm armed with a list of to-do's, Nicholas's room change at the very top. In order to make his room over I only have to remove the wallpaper border and paint the walls blue. It's not rocket science, but for some reason I keep avoiding the task.

Today is the day, however. It only takes me 30 minutes to steam and strip the border from its light green wall but it is not an easy task. As I tear the first piece of cutesy John Lennon jungle theme border from the wall I remember the day the nursery was born. I was too pregnant with Michael to participate but my mom, grandma, and sister-in-law all pitched in to paint and wallpaper. As they painted and pasted, I watched from my soon-to-be permanent position in the new rocking chair, my belly swollen with child. We talked about the upcoming birth and of our hopes and dreams for this baby, infusing the room with love and comfort.

I remember how in this room I dressed two children as they grew from newborns to infants to toddlers and finally preschoolers. I remember the thousands of diaper changes I performed in this room and how many times the floor was peed on when we were going through potty training. I remember 2000 nights of listening to Brahms lullabies as I nursed and rocked the boys to sleep.

Now, almost six years later, this room is no longer going to function as a feeding/dressing/changing haven for babies but a room where a boy can grow and sleep and dream on his own.

For the last six years my body has been like that room, a haven that housed, birthed, and nourished my boys. Now, as I approach my fourth decade, my body is my own again. It's a bittersweet feeling for me, this knowledge that I'm done having children. Never again will I feel the elation that comes from knowing that there is another being growing inside me. I will not watch in wonder as a hand or foot stretches its way across my belly from the inside. My body will never again do the dance of power required to birth an almost 9 lb. baby through a 10 cm circumference.

On the other hand, now that the boys are done with diapers and are a lot more self sufficient, I look forward to having time to do more together as a family, like ice-skating and board games. We can now take vacations where we don't have to schedule every activity around naptime. And, possibly, I can take some time to rediscover who I am and what I might like to do with myself as I grow up.

Tonight my child sleeps in his unfinished room dreaming of baseball games and dinosaurs and whatever else a 3 year-old might have stored in his subconscious. I sit on the other side of the wall reflecting on the past and realizing how very full the future really is.