Sharing

Here is an interesting article on crack babies -- who are growing up now. I have thought a lot about what makes a child who he is... and I guess there are no real answers except "a lot of things."

Blessings

Marija and I were back at the Lutheran church again tonight, where we are becoming regulars on Wednesdays. But the pastor was a different one this time, an older one with a longer beard. He came up to meet me before church and suggested I bring Marija up for a children's blessing during Communion, and I said I would, and when it was time he called everyone up to pray and invited us again specially, "And bring Mary up for her blessing!" (She is Mary to most English-speakers around here.)

The blessing I'd never heard before, something about four angels standing at her bedposts and watching over her... I suppose the blessing will work even if she does not really have bedposts? And even if she will not necessarily be spending all night in her own bed?

This road

It's Good Friday today, so mothers' group won't be meeting in the basement of the Catholic church, where a handful of mothers and their older children usually pray the Rosary as I meditate quietly and the young ones play.

Last week, though, a mother had printed booklets with the Stations of the Cross and led everyone in meditations on Christ's journey to Cavalry. We weren't sure we would get past the beginning, since there was a sudden restless surge as children fidgeted or moped or fled completely, but we voted to press on. And things settled as we went through the stations: Christ taking up his cross, walking the streets of Jerusalem, taking the nails in his hands and feet -- and then the mother leading saw that her newborn had finished nursing and she needed to change him.

Marija was restless, so I walked with her, and a older baby went to climb the stairs. Meanwhile, the baby being changed cried a bit, but another mother led us further, describing Christ dying on the cross and then, as tradition goes, being taken down and placed in Mary's arms -- but then the mother leading let out a sob and had to stop. She looked embarrassed as she wept a bit and wiped her eyes and her son took over, and we got through Christ's burial in the tomb, the end of these pre-Easter meditations -- and then it was all talk of new pregnancies and diapers and whether our dear sweet babies are sleeping through the night.

Separation

Joe took Marija for an hour tonight while I went to Communion service at the Lutheran church in town. He thought it might be good for us to practice being apart. We figured it would be harder on me than on her.

But I came home and he said she had missed me. It was about bedtime, and she couldn't get to sleep. There were spurts of crying, he said, though he had managed to calm her somewhat with her favorite xylophone toy. "Oh, and she stained my shirt with her tears," he said.

My baby! I think next time we will not practice being apart when it is close to bedtime.

Little flowers

Good things are growing here -- in me, though not of my making.

Each season puts things in a better order.

Little flowers can bloom here.

I don't have easy words to share it, but that might be okay...

TGIF

When I arrived at my parent's house with the baby yesterday afternoon, I was greeted by a smiling dad who said he was just getting ready for TGIF. Soon, the coffee table was draped in a white table cloth, set with wine glasses stuffed with pretty napkins.

I've never been home for a TGIF before, a tradition that started sometime after I got married. My dad, now retired, spends part of the week researching recipes to test on my family, and sometimes I hear how lovely the tapas were or get to enjoy some really delicious leftovers if I visit on a Saturday.

My dad placed a fancy candlestick on the coffee table and positioned two poinsettias left over from Christmas. The he left for an hour while I spent time with Vecmamma and my baby. He came back with a bunch of daffodils he set in a vase.

Then he got my mother from the bus stop, and there were hellos and kisses and time to change into comfy clothes. Then my dad went into the kitchen, and though I stepped in to get some banana to feed the baby, I didn't stay long because it was clear he was concentrating. He was still there as my mother and I sat around the coffee table later, by candlelight -- he was preparing our mulled wine.

The tapas looked delicious, but I wondered if they would be enough -- cheese in special sauce, marinaded olives, tomatoes with mozzarella and pears. But this was just the first course, my parents explained. We shared, and then my dad disappeared into the kitchen to bring paninis with soft cheese and mushrooms. There was one left over if I wanted it, but one with hot potato salad was enough before dessert. I left to get the baby for bed and then came back to more extra-sweet wine and a fluffy custard torte.

Vecmamma was on the couch near us, eating too and feeding the dog as always. She even gave Zemmy some of her coffee in a bowl, but no one called for her to stop, as we sometimes do when we are willing to raise our voices. This time we rolled our eyes and laughed a bit and called the dog closer, and she came wagging and sniffing the baby's pajamas, and the baby smiled and played with a couch cushion, and everyone was smiling.

Grocery shopping before a blizzard

Thanks to the woman who let me cut ahead just a little in the 40-minute-long line at the grocery store after my baby started to scream from weariness.

Thanks also to her and the cashier and other folks nearby for making small talk while efficiently handling groceries. They helped distract us both and reminded me that the world wasn't ending. I thought I was really calm despite her crying, but after a number of minutes of it, I think I was starting to lose it a bit, and I guess it showed on my face.

I was so happy to get to the front of the line, I took just a second after loading my groceries to hand another woman a coupon for the sour cream she had. She saved $1.10, and I saved just a little of my sanity. I was so happy to get out of the store, I didn't even check the receipt to make sure I got my free tortillas.

Thanks to my poor little baby, who found the line at the grocery store more distressing than the shot she got at the pediatrician today. Now she is napping, and it is doing us both good.

(I was going to take a picture, but the camera woke her, so here is one from last month instead.)

Sheesh

You all know how I'm afraid of tornadoes? Woke up last night to rain and wind and my first thought was, "IS IT A TORNADO?" Lying awake, heart pounding, I concluded that no, no tornado -- just lots of rain and, oh, also wind strong enough to rip the neighbor's piece of flapping siding off his house and toss it into our backyard.

When I finally slept I dreamt of real tornadoes.

And now do I deliver this siding to neighbor?

The lack of this piece of siding could lead to water going into both our attics, so it will have to be repaired soon, anyway.

Also, maybe I should read more blogs by cool New Englanders or West Cost people or Canadians, because I had the urge to start this entry out with "y'all." And as much as some people claim I say y'all, I still maintain that I just say "you all" very quickly.

This is a draft I suppose

One of my favorite things about being grown up is that I get a lot of mail now, though it is only sometimes the right kind of mail. I used to get the mail from the mailbox when I was younger, and as I brought down the hill and into the front door, my grandmother would ask me if there were any love letters. There mostly weren't, though, just bills for my parents and advertisements.

My grandmother used to work in the post office, back before World War II, back in Latvia, almost a story-land. I have never worked at the post office, and anyway, it is different now. I hear they have computers to help sort the mail, sending thousands of letters in all different directions.

But I don't think the computers can read my scribbly writing. I imagine people poring over my letters, somewhere in central processing -- I imagine them cursing my scribbles, being thankful that I am at least legible with the zip code, sending my letters off somewhere near Cloverly where they get sorted again and sent out on the truck, imagining that they know my handwriting soon, imagine that maybe they are familiar with it by now, awaiting them even, sorting them with familiarity now that there have been so many -- a trail from all my other places back to my grandmother, letters leading letters, letters leading to her.

The other day I called and my mother thanked me for something I had sent her, and also said, "And Vecmamma reads your letter every five minutes." When I am visiting her I sometimes clear away the old ones to make room for new ones. And when I am far from her I make new ones to send to her.

Six stockings

I have been worrying a bit lately about my stockpile of stuff. It is on a shelf in our home, where I've lined up our very favorite shampoos and toothpastes and things bought for free with coupons -- or sometimes I was even paid to buy them! And it is nice to have things on hand so I know we won't run out before the next sale. But I have been thinking of things like sufficiency in Christ, the Christ who told us to give our things away, and I have been wondering whether I trust too much in my pile of things, even if they are very useful things I got for free.

This time of year gets me excited, though. At our church they set up a few giving trees, with stockings underneath you can fill with needy children and ornaments that tell you what you could buy for people at the local nursing home. Some of the gift requests were so simple, asking for toothpaste or nail polish remover. I got a few things and put them under the tree last weekend, with more than a week to go before the deadline.

Some of the stockings for the kids hadn't been taken when we went to church, though. I thought someone might take them at one of the later Masses, but I asked Joe to look to see if there were any left. I figured I could fill them with some extra CVS bucks I have... it sounded like fun. But I didn't expect Joe to bring home six stockings! (I definitely didn't tell him that, well, I was thinking he could just choose one or two.) So now we have stockings for one medium-size girl and five medium-to-big boys.

And to fill that many, we raided our stockpile. Toothpaste was on the list of suggested items! And oh, we had lots -- and toothbrushes, and sweet vanilla lotion for the girl, and lots of gum I'd bought during my chewing-gum-all-the-time days, and some candy. And with the last of the CVS bucks and a handy coupon that just arrived from JCPenney, there were a few toys for the younger boys and hats or gloves. Some really cool and hats and gloves! And a few dollars went to getting a good hat for the teenage boy.

It is confusing, living this life. Though I know some nuns who really do rely on providence to meet all their daily needs, and I admire their radical trust in God, I don't think that's quite how I'm supposed to do things myself, especially now that I have a husband and a little girl. But how am I supposed to do it? I know there is no such thing as guaranteed security in life, but being more secure some ways helps you be more giving in others... if I save money on toothpaste, I can put it toward better things. But seeking security on this earth isn't the point, and it is easy to get distracted by it. I wouldn't mind hearing anyone else's thoughts on these things.

I am glad to give the toothpaste away, though I know I will feel strange if I run out before the next sale and have to pay for more. I haven't paid for toothpaste in a long time!