Baby Zoomba's due date was yesterday, but he is not the one who is overdue. Rather, I am the late one, just getting around to writing about him on this, his tenth day in the world.
It is dusk, and fireworks are going off all around my neighborhood on this Independence Day. As I write, I will think of them partly as a celebration of this great country and partly as a belated celebration in honor of Grandkid #5. There goes a Roman candle boom-booming for you, Zoomie, and now some Saturn missiles whistling through the night air. This is your official welcome, sweet baby boy, and every fuse lit between now and the time I finish this piece sparks and sizzles just for you.
Zoomba surprised us by arriving eight days early, at 12:18 p.m. on June 25. Before we got out of bed a week ago Monday morning, Pa-pa and I got the call that daughter Cookie was enroute to the hospital. This was my cue to throw a bag together and head west with the hammer down toward my destination three hours away.
My mission was to care for Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie during their mother's absence. That was in itself a joy, but it didn't hold a candle--Roman or otherwise--to the pleasure of watching each one of the kids as they met their new brother in the hospital the day after he was born.
Sooby, just four days away from her fifth birthday, displayed an attitude best described as loving and maternal. Immediately she wanted to hold him, so Cookie wrapped her well-used boppy pillow around Sooby's waist and laid the baby there for her to cradle and inspect. Never known for being speechless, Sooby this time almost was. Never known for being quiet, she just gazed down at the baby and said, in the softest little voice I have ever heard her use, "I knew I would love him."
Pooh, almost three and a half, seemed most impressed by the baby's sheer smallness. "He's so tiny," he remarked. I imagine he was thinking that it would be a while before Zoomie could don a mask as Robin and make any effort at all to help Batman fight the criminal forces run amok in Gotham City.
I think that Bootsie, not quite twenty months, may have the hardest adjustment. Seeing Zoomie in the flesh rather than as a bump under her mama's shirt, she seemed to sense that this meant the end of her reign as the baby of the family. It will be hardest for her to use the gentle touch necessary during these early days and to understand why, for a couple weeks, Mama won't be able to pick her up for the usual nap and bedtime routine.
As for Zoomba himself, he weighed exactly seven pounds and, right now anyway, looks remarkably like his Pa-pa. He seems to sleep and eat well, although sometimes I think that is sheer terror reflected in his eyes as he surveys the inevitable chaos wrought by his three older siblings.
It is no wonder. At any given moment the amplified voice of Sooby resounds through the house as she recites the story of Snow White verbatim through her new Princess microphone. Meanwhile, Pooh, as Superman or Batman or Spiderman dashes through the room with cape flying and foam sword duly brandished. Not to be left out, Bootsie removes her diaper and runs naked along behind him in that herky-jerky fashion of the not-quite-two-year old, declaring herself "Bat Baby" and, everywhere she goes, dropping a trail of gummy fruit snacks from her sticky little fist.
A googie has to love being witness to a scene like this. Welcome to our world, Baby Zoomba. In no time at all, you will find your place in all this craziness. For the time being, though, I will enjoy watching you try to take it all in. Just let me hold you and snuggle you and, somehow, we will make it through these fireworks together.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
The Nap
I had been looking forward to keeping Beenie this afternoon while his mama ran some errands, so I got up early to get my work done before he was to arrive at 1:30. Before the morning was over, I had canned fourteen quarts of green beans and made the dreaded trip to Wal-Mart, something I should know better than to do on the day before a holiday.
I set up the playpen and picked out five little board books for us to read, most notably, "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" I figured it was time for Beenie and me to do a lesson on animals and colors, and for these concepts there is no better teacher than "Brown Bear." Also at the ready was the basket of shaky, rattly toys just right for Beenie to grab up in his little three-month-old fist.
He arrived bright-eyed and well-fed, and I was excited to see our much-anticipated afternoon commence. After three times through "Brown Bear," I thought it might be nice to just snuggle in the recliner for fifteen or twenty minutes. So we headed down to the family room, switched on Law and Order, raised the footrest, plugged in the binky, and snuggled in.
Beenie tucked his little head into my shoulder perfectly, and the blanket was so cozy. I determined right then and there to relish every precious minute of our time together on this lazy summer afternoon. It was a hundred degrees outside, but the two of us were cool and comfy. What a great day this was going to be!
Suddenly, I became aware that something was very wrong. The entire cast of Law and Order had changed. Next thing I knew, Pa-pa was saying something about it being 3:30, which I knew simply could not be true since Beenie and I had just sat down. Next came his announcement that Beenie's mama was already back to pick him up. Already? Hadn't she just left?
Well, duh, Googie. Slowly it sinks in that Beenie and I have just slept away the entire afternoon. One minute I am lost somewhere in an unfinished episode of Law and Order, and the next I am saying "hi" again to Beenie's mama. Sheepishly, I lower the footrest, Beenie wakes up wet and famished, his mama scurries to mix up a bottle, and I find myself in dire danger of flunking Babysitting 101.
It was not the afternoon I was expecting. We never used the playpen, read any of the books besides "Brown Bear," or touched the toys in the basket. Until Beenie's mama came back, I never even opened the diaper bag. Everyone had a good laugh at my expense, and I deserved it. I had been entrusted with the care of this sweet baby boy for only a couple hours, and I had failed miserably.
Or had I? Bone-tired from spending a week away from home and a hurry-scurry morning, I have to admit I found this unexpected afternoon nap nothing short of delicious. And you know, as I was gazing down at Beenie--at that precise second just before his eyelids drooped shut--I am almost sure I saw him smack his lips.
I set up the playpen and picked out five little board books for us to read, most notably, "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" I figured it was time for Beenie and me to do a lesson on animals and colors, and for these concepts there is no better teacher than "Brown Bear." Also at the ready was the basket of shaky, rattly toys just right for Beenie to grab up in his little three-month-old fist.
He arrived bright-eyed and well-fed, and I was excited to see our much-anticipated afternoon commence. After three times through "Brown Bear," I thought it might be nice to just snuggle in the recliner for fifteen or twenty minutes. So we headed down to the family room, switched on Law and Order, raised the footrest, plugged in the binky, and snuggled in.
Beenie tucked his little head into my shoulder perfectly, and the blanket was so cozy. I determined right then and there to relish every precious minute of our time together on this lazy summer afternoon. It was a hundred degrees outside, but the two of us were cool and comfy. What a great day this was going to be!
Suddenly, I became aware that something was very wrong. The entire cast of Law and Order had changed. Next thing I knew, Pa-pa was saying something about it being 3:30, which I knew simply could not be true since Beenie and I had just sat down. Next came his announcement that Beenie's mama was already back to pick him up. Already? Hadn't she just left?
Well, duh, Googie. Slowly it sinks in that Beenie and I have just slept away the entire afternoon. One minute I am lost somewhere in an unfinished episode of Law and Order, and the next I am saying "hi" again to Beenie's mama. Sheepishly, I lower the footrest, Beenie wakes up wet and famished, his mama scurries to mix up a bottle, and I find myself in dire danger of flunking Babysitting 101.
It was not the afternoon I was expecting. We never used the playpen, read any of the books besides "Brown Bear," or touched the toys in the basket. Until Beenie's mama came back, I never even opened the diaper bag. Everyone had a good laugh at my expense, and I deserved it. I had been entrusted with the care of this sweet baby boy for only a couple hours, and I had failed miserably.
Or had I? Bone-tired from spending a week away from home and a hurry-scurry morning, I have to admit I found this unexpected afternoon nap nothing short of delicious. And you know, as I was gazing down at Beenie--at that precise second just before his eyelids drooped shut--I am almost sure I saw him smack his lips.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Let There Be Lightning
When it comes to grandkid experiences, two of my favorite words are serendipity and spontaneity. Amid a lifestyle where so many activities for children (and adults, for that matter) are planned and structured, sometimes the things you don't plan are the ones that turn out to be the most fun.
This happened when I was staying overnight at the kids' house a couple weeks ago. The kids had been put to bed, and daughter Cookie and I were anticipating an actual conversation, something we have not really had since Sooby was born. We should have known that was not going to happen--but first some background.
In the process of shifting some bedrooms around on the lower level of the house, "my" bedroom had been moved upstairs onto the ground level in what used to be the kids' toy room. It was my first night in my new digs, where the windows, occupying two walls of the room, remained uncurtained. This was no problem, since both sets of windows looked out into thick wooded areas.
So, around 11 p.m. Cookie and I were propped up on my bed against my pillows, trying to remember how to talk to each other, when a sudden summer thunderstorm blew up. Also blowing up from her downstairs bedroom was Sooby, not so much aware of the storm as she was afraid that her mama and I might have a conversation she would miss. She crawled up on the bed with us, and, for some reason, we let her stay instead of sending her back to bed.
Momentarily a second set of little feet padded our way, and they belonged to Pooh. "I heard a noise up here," he announced, "so I came up here to investigate." Where does a three-year-old get a word like investigate? Cookie and I laughed at this, and then there were four of us on the bed.
That is when the thunderstorm became too spectacular for words. Lightning flashed into those bare windows in a show that would put any Fourth of July firework display to shame. On the heels of each brilliant flash, thunder rumbled close and loud, vibrating the whole house, shaking the bed.
For a good twenty minutes the four of us watched and listened to the power and force of Mother Nature unleashed in Kansas. We looked in amazement from one wall of windows to the next, like we were experiencing a movie in Sensurround. The lightning, profoundly bright, took us in a split second from pitch blackness outside to splashes of green as it spotlighted the tree leaves. "It looks green out there," Sooby commented. And indeed it did: bright green illuminating the dead of night.
Clearly, the kids had never witnessed a night thunderstorm in exactly this way, and I can't say that I myself have done that very many times. Maybe it was the time of night. Maybe it was the bare windows. Maybe it was the fact that the kids were supposed to be in bed.
Maybe it was the fact that, instead of chiding them for coming upstairs, Cookie and I once again postponed our conversation and watched and listened to this amazing storm, a true carpe diem moment, in childlike wonder ourselves.
Whatever else it was, I know it was serendipity. I know it was spontaneity. And, more than anything, I know that it was special.
This happened when I was staying overnight at the kids' house a couple weeks ago. The kids had been put to bed, and daughter Cookie and I were anticipating an actual conversation, something we have not really had since Sooby was born. We should have known that was not going to happen--but first some background.
In the process of shifting some bedrooms around on the lower level of the house, "my" bedroom had been moved upstairs onto the ground level in what used to be the kids' toy room. It was my first night in my new digs, where the windows, occupying two walls of the room, remained uncurtained. This was no problem, since both sets of windows looked out into thick wooded areas.
So, around 11 p.m. Cookie and I were propped up on my bed against my pillows, trying to remember how to talk to each other, when a sudden summer thunderstorm blew up. Also blowing up from her downstairs bedroom was Sooby, not so much aware of the storm as she was afraid that her mama and I might have a conversation she would miss. She crawled up on the bed with us, and, for some reason, we let her stay instead of sending her back to bed.
Momentarily a second set of little feet padded our way, and they belonged to Pooh. "I heard a noise up here," he announced, "so I came up here to investigate." Where does a three-year-old get a word like investigate? Cookie and I laughed at this, and then there were four of us on the bed.
That is when the thunderstorm became too spectacular for words. Lightning flashed into those bare windows in a show that would put any Fourth of July firework display to shame. On the heels of each brilliant flash, thunder rumbled close and loud, vibrating the whole house, shaking the bed.
For a good twenty minutes the four of us watched and listened to the power and force of Mother Nature unleashed in Kansas. We looked in amazement from one wall of windows to the next, like we were experiencing a movie in Sensurround. The lightning, profoundly bright, took us in a split second from pitch blackness outside to splashes of green as it spotlighted the tree leaves. "It looks green out there," Sooby commented. And indeed it did: bright green illuminating the dead of night.
Clearly, the kids had never witnessed a night thunderstorm in exactly this way, and I can't say that I myself have done that very many times. Maybe it was the time of night. Maybe it was the bare windows. Maybe it was the fact that the kids were supposed to be in bed.
Maybe it was the fact that, instead of chiding them for coming upstairs, Cookie and I once again postponed our conversation and watched and listened to this amazing storm, a true carpe diem moment, in childlike wonder ourselves.
Whatever else it was, I know it was serendipity. I know it was spontaneity. And, more than anything, I know that it was special.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
"I Am Five Today"
Happy Birthday, Sooby!
This marks the fifth anniversary of the day you made me Googie. It has been a joy to watch you grow and learn, and our lives are all the richer for this blonde-haired, blue-eyed bundle of energy and imagination that has become a part of our family.
Everyone marvels at how much you look like your mama, and I myself marvel at how much you think and act like she did as a little girl. That is most often good, sometimes not quite so much, but the resemblances are undeniable, and I love you both immeasurably.
Today I share this poem with you, but first I have a confession to make. I did not write it for you. I wrote it a little over twenty-five years ago when your mama turned five. On her fifth birthday, we made copies to share with Miss Carol and your preschool class along with the cupcakes we baked in honor of such a momentous occasion.
This is a momentous time for you, too. You are big into dance class, soccer, T-ball, and swimming lessons. You have your first loose tooth, discovered rather painfully in the course of eating a brownie at Googie's house week before last. Just five days ago, you gained another little brother. In September, you will go to kindergarten, which I predict will afford an endless collection of treasures for "Googie's Attic."
I hope you enjoy this little verse for years to come. It is as relevant for you today as it was for your mama in 1987. Happy Birthday, sugar plum, from Googie and Pa-pa.
I Am Five Today
I'm going to sing a birthday song,
Taking Teddy Bear along,
Happy that we both belong--
And that I'm five today.
I'm gong to help my mama bake
A twenty-layer birthday cake.
Chocolate fudge is what we'll make--
For I am five today.
I'm blowing all my candles out,
Going to go outside and shout.
Tell you what it's all about--
I am five today.
I'm reaching for the cookie jar,
Making wishes on a star,
Wondering how it shines so far--
I am five today.
I'm wondering what could be inside
Those gifts with ribbons gaily tied?
I couldn't peek although I tried--
'Cause I am five today.
Ir was tired of being four,
Couldn't reach the cupboard door
(Not a problem anymore)--
"Cause I am five today.
Next year when I'm turning six,
I might try some magic tricks,
Maybe learn karate kicks--
But I am five today.
I thought today would ne'er arrive,
Sweet as honey in a hive.
Gee, I'm glad that I'm alive
And that I'm five today.
This marks the fifth anniversary of the day you made me Googie. It has been a joy to watch you grow and learn, and our lives are all the richer for this blonde-haired, blue-eyed bundle of energy and imagination that has become a part of our family.
Everyone marvels at how much you look like your mama, and I myself marvel at how much you think and act like she did as a little girl. That is most often good, sometimes not quite so much, but the resemblances are undeniable, and I love you both immeasurably.
Today I share this poem with you, but first I have a confession to make. I did not write it for you. I wrote it a little over twenty-five years ago when your mama turned five. On her fifth birthday, we made copies to share with Miss Carol and your preschool class along with the cupcakes we baked in honor of such a momentous occasion.
This is a momentous time for you, too. You are big into dance class, soccer, T-ball, and swimming lessons. You have your first loose tooth, discovered rather painfully in the course of eating a brownie at Googie's house week before last. Just five days ago, you gained another little brother. In September, you will go to kindergarten, which I predict will afford an endless collection of treasures for "Googie's Attic."
I hope you enjoy this little verse for years to come. It is as relevant for you today as it was for your mama in 1987. Happy Birthday, sugar plum, from Googie and Pa-pa.
I Am Five Today
I'm going to sing a birthday song,
Taking Teddy Bear along,
Happy that we both belong--
And that I'm five today.
I'm gong to help my mama bake
A twenty-layer birthday cake.
Chocolate fudge is what we'll make--
For I am five today.
I'm blowing all my candles out,
Going to go outside and shout.
Tell you what it's all about--
I am five today.
I'm reaching for the cookie jar,
Making wishes on a star,
Wondering how it shines so far--
I am five today.
I'm wondering what could be inside
Those gifts with ribbons gaily tied?
I couldn't peek although I tried--
'Cause I am five today.
Ir was tired of being four,
Couldn't reach the cupboard door
(Not a problem anymore)--
"Cause I am five today.
Next year when I'm turning six,
I might try some magic tricks,
Maybe learn karate kicks--
But I am five today.
I thought today would ne'er arrive,
Sweet as honey in a hive.
Gee, I'm glad that I'm alive
And that I'm five today.
Monday, June 18, 2012
"Fun That Is Funny"
Sooby knows what it means to have "Lots of good fun that is funny." She learned this last week while taking a summer Kids' College course, "Dr. Seuss on the Loose," at our local community college. For three hours every day, she and four other children ready to enter grades K-2 were immersed in that wonderful singsong world created by Theodor S. Geisel.
When I went to pick her up on the first day, she met me at the door wearing a tall red-striped, cat-inspired hat made from a paper plate rim stapled to a paper sack. As I waited for her on another day, I pondered a chart posted outside the classroom door indicating how all the kids in the class preferred their eggs to be cooked. Of course, everyone claimed to like green eggs and ham, but "scrambled" ranked a close second.
Yet another day, she came home with green under her fingernails and a baggie containing a blob of homemade oobleck, that wonderful squishy substance that defies classification as either liquid or solid. What child this age wouldn't have a field day with these ageless stories and these imaginative ancillary hands-on (or, in the case of the oobleck, hands-in) activities?
I know I would have if I'd had the chance. However, Fun with Dick and Jane was really not that much fun, as I recall, and when I was Sooby's age, my reading repertoire consisted mainly of the traditional children's stories that usually involved three of something--bears, billy goats gruff, mittenless kittens, architecturally challenged little pigs, and so forth. Then, there were those scary stories designed to send preschoolers straight into therapy with their giants ("Fee-fi-fo-FUM!"), big bad wolves ("Grandma, what a big MOUTH you have!"), and witches (Never, EVER trust a trail of bread crumbs.).
As a former teacher, I can't help thinking what it might have been like to take a class based on, say, "The Three Little Pigs." Let's see, now. On the first day we would build our cast of characters. We would mold our little pigs out of balls of pink clay and Elmer's-glue squiggly eyes and felt ears on one of our dads' old brown socks to make a wolf hand puppet.
On Days 2, 3, and 4 we would construct little houses out of straw (which would not only be very difficult to stack but would also make us sneeze), twigs (for which we might substitute flat-sided toothpicks if we wanted something that looked a little less like a bird's nest), and Lego bricks (Did those exist then? Hmm, I may have to google that--but I do remember playing with a set of plastic Lego precursors that came in a round box with a metal lid like Tinker Toys and went by the name "Block City.").
Then, on each of those days we would use the hand wearing our sock-puppet wolves to grasp a little battery-powered personal fan to imitate the huffing and puffing needed to demolish all houses except the ones built with Block City bricks. By now, there would most certainly be a point made, and we would all know what it was. Unfortunately, right now I don't-- but let me see this thing through anyway.
On the final day, for the grand finale, we would heat a kettle of water to the boiling point (taking advantage of this teachable moment to introduce the word "Fahrenheit" and learn first-aid for burns) and throw our wolf puppets in to drive home the point (which we will believe until we are disillusioned as teenagers) that good always triumphs and evil gets its just desserts. On a more practical and less theoretical note, the boiling water will also melt off the glue, whereupon we can return the socks, clean, to our dads' bureau drawers before Sunday comes around and they need them for church.
Nope, I have to admit, this is not a scenario that would have worked in 1957 when I was the age Sooby is now. I remember my own early grades as being pretty traditional and pretty structured. If you ask me, we could have used a little more "fun that [was] funny," and I'm glad, thanks to "Dr. Seuss on the Loose," that Sooby got to have just that.
When I went to pick her up on the first day, she met me at the door wearing a tall red-striped, cat-inspired hat made from a paper plate rim stapled to a paper sack. As I waited for her on another day, I pondered a chart posted outside the classroom door indicating how all the kids in the class preferred their eggs to be cooked. Of course, everyone claimed to like green eggs and ham, but "scrambled" ranked a close second.
Yet another day, she came home with green under her fingernails and a baggie containing a blob of homemade oobleck, that wonderful squishy substance that defies classification as either liquid or solid. What child this age wouldn't have a field day with these ageless stories and these imaginative ancillary hands-on (or, in the case of the oobleck, hands-in) activities?
I know I would have if I'd had the chance. However, Fun with Dick and Jane was really not that much fun, as I recall, and when I was Sooby's age, my reading repertoire consisted mainly of the traditional children's stories that usually involved three of something--bears, billy goats gruff, mittenless kittens, architecturally challenged little pigs, and so forth. Then, there were those scary stories designed to send preschoolers straight into therapy with their giants ("Fee-fi-fo-FUM!"), big bad wolves ("Grandma, what a big MOUTH you have!"), and witches (Never, EVER trust a trail of bread crumbs.).
As a former teacher, I can't help thinking what it might have been like to take a class based on, say, "The Three Little Pigs." Let's see, now. On the first day we would build our cast of characters. We would mold our little pigs out of balls of pink clay and Elmer's-glue squiggly eyes and felt ears on one of our dads' old brown socks to make a wolf hand puppet.
On Days 2, 3, and 4 we would construct little houses out of straw (which would not only be very difficult to stack but would also make us sneeze), twigs (for which we might substitute flat-sided toothpicks if we wanted something that looked a little less like a bird's nest), and Lego bricks (Did those exist then? Hmm, I may have to google that--but I do remember playing with a set of plastic Lego precursors that came in a round box with a metal lid like Tinker Toys and went by the name "Block City.").
Then, on each of those days we would use the hand wearing our sock-puppet wolves to grasp a little battery-powered personal fan to imitate the huffing and puffing needed to demolish all houses except the ones built with Block City bricks. By now, there would most certainly be a point made, and we would all know what it was. Unfortunately, right now I don't-- but let me see this thing through anyway.
On the final day, for the grand finale, we would heat a kettle of water to the boiling point (taking advantage of this teachable moment to introduce the word "Fahrenheit" and learn first-aid for burns) and throw our wolf puppets in to drive home the point (which we will believe until we are disillusioned as teenagers) that good always triumphs and evil gets its just desserts. On a more practical and less theoretical note, the boiling water will also melt off the glue, whereupon we can return the socks, clean, to our dads' bureau drawers before Sunday comes around and they need them for church.
Nope, I have to admit, this is not a scenario that would have worked in 1957 when I was the age Sooby is now. I remember my own early grades as being pretty traditional and pretty structured. If you ask me, we could have used a little more "fun that [was] funny," and I'm glad, thanks to "Dr. Seuss on the Loose," that Sooby got to have just that.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Process
My son Teebo, usually sporting a laid-back, country-boy sort of demeanor, is the king of understatement. I know this because of a comment he made on the night Beenie, his firstborn, arrived nearly three months ago.
Let me set the scene: Beenie's mama has been in labor a good twelve hours at least. Teebo has not issued forth with an update for a couple hours, and the several of us keeping vigil in the delivery waiting room, having long ago finished our deluxe fish sandwiches from Hardee's, are beginning to wonder.
Finally, Teebo saunters out of the delivery room and we all prepare to jump on some kind of news. A shake of his head tells us there is still no baby. His comment on the situation: "That's quite a process."
Quite a process? I am sure Beenie's mama, given the opportunity, would have welcomed the opportunity to add a few comments of her own on the nuances of this "process" from the position of someone somewhat more personally caught up in the throes of it. At this point, the epidural had pretty well worn off, and, although I don't know this for sure, I imagine her comments may not have been couched in her usual style of grace and tact.
Ever since that night, I have been smiling to myself at Teebo's use of the word process in this particular context. The experience has caused me to recall the anxiety and agony of my own two processes, both which Teebo, with his hatural Hemingway flair, might have referred to as "kind of a long day." Of course, he was not around for the first one when his older sister, Cookie, was born, and for the second, well, let's just say he was maybe preoccupied with his own agenda.
With four grandkids born in less than five years, I have had many occasions of late to contemplate and to be privy to various conversations about the process. I am thinking about it a lot right now as Cookie counts down the weeks to her fourth such process, which will bring Baby Zoomba bounding into our hearts and lives.
I am juggling my calendar and clearing out the first two weeks of July, preparing for another stint as nanny, chief cook and bottle washer, and general overseer of chaos. This is a process in its own right--that of facilitating the lives of a young family as they welcome a new member, shuffle the pecking order, and establish a new dynamic.
The New Merriam-Webster Dictionary says a process is "a natural phenomenon marked by gradual changes that lead toward a particular result." They pretty well got that one right, whether you are talking about the process of physical birth or the process of adaptation and adjustment that follows.
In the next couple weeks, another natural phenomenon will occur, and Baby Zoomba will take his rightful place among us. I will be blessed nearly to the point of overwhelmed by the perspective I will have from being right there in the middle of it all.
At some point, the baby's Uncle Teebo will appear on the scene to give us his assessment of the whole thing. "Well," he will say with the deliberate drawl so characteristic of his speech. "That's quite a boy."
Quite a boy, indeed. We are ready for you, Zoomba. Let the process commence.
Let me set the scene: Beenie's mama has been in labor a good twelve hours at least. Teebo has not issued forth with an update for a couple hours, and the several of us keeping vigil in the delivery waiting room, having long ago finished our deluxe fish sandwiches from Hardee's, are beginning to wonder.
Finally, Teebo saunters out of the delivery room and we all prepare to jump on some kind of news. A shake of his head tells us there is still no baby. His comment on the situation: "That's quite a process."
Quite a process? I am sure Beenie's mama, given the opportunity, would have welcomed the opportunity to add a few comments of her own on the nuances of this "process" from the position of someone somewhat more personally caught up in the throes of it. At this point, the epidural had pretty well worn off, and, although I don't know this for sure, I imagine her comments may not have been couched in her usual style of grace and tact.
Ever since that night, I have been smiling to myself at Teebo's use of the word process in this particular context. The experience has caused me to recall the anxiety and agony of my own two processes, both which Teebo, with his hatural Hemingway flair, might have referred to as "kind of a long day." Of course, he was not around for the first one when his older sister, Cookie, was born, and for the second, well, let's just say he was maybe preoccupied with his own agenda.
With four grandkids born in less than five years, I have had many occasions of late to contemplate and to be privy to various conversations about the process. I am thinking about it a lot right now as Cookie counts down the weeks to her fourth such process, which will bring Baby Zoomba bounding into our hearts and lives.
I am juggling my calendar and clearing out the first two weeks of July, preparing for another stint as nanny, chief cook and bottle washer, and general overseer of chaos. This is a process in its own right--that of facilitating the lives of a young family as they welcome a new member, shuffle the pecking order, and establish a new dynamic.
The New Merriam-Webster Dictionary says a process is "a natural phenomenon marked by gradual changes that lead toward a particular result." They pretty well got that one right, whether you are talking about the process of physical birth or the process of adaptation and adjustment that follows.
In the next couple weeks, another natural phenomenon will occur, and Baby Zoomba will take his rightful place among us. I will be blessed nearly to the point of overwhelmed by the perspective I will have from being right there in the middle of it all.
At some point, the baby's Uncle Teebo will appear on the scene to give us his assessment of the whole thing. "Well," he will say with the deliberate drawl so characteristic of his speech. "That's quite a boy."
Quite a boy, indeed. We are ready for you, Zoomba. Let the process commence.
Friday, June 1, 2012
A Birthday Rainbow
Today is a red-letter day. I will henceforth and for some time now, Lord willing, be filling in the blanks that ask for my age with a "6." Fortunately (I suppose), that sounds a lot older than I feel. My parents were ancient at age 60; I am not. I have neither a gray hair nor a bottle of Clairol stashed under my sink.
The other day I walked six miles along the Missouri River with a couple of good friends, neither of whom are using the "6" just yet. Somehow, they talked me into singing both verses of "The Missouri Waltz" at a scenic lookout spot there. When the lake warms up a little more, I have every intention of popping up behind the boat on one ski. These are not the kinds of things people do when they are old.
I am proud to claim the same birthday as Andy Griffith, and have toyed with the idea of having somebody whistle that wonderful theme song at my funeral. Don't get me wrong--I'm not making those plans just yet--but I hear that tune and suddenly I am time-warped right smack into the heart of Mayberry where Opie pedals his bike down the street in high-topped tennis shoes and Aunt Bee peeks in the oven to check her apple pie. Truth be told, I am a die-hard Andy Griffith fan. But I digress here, and Andy deserves his own blog post sometime.
Luckily, most of my friends and family will miss my birthday again this year. This is because it occurs on June 1, and, still recovering from the food, drink, and road miles of Memorial Day weekend, people have not flipped their calendar page over yet. When they do, my big day will have slid obscurely into history, lost in the flurry of plans for summer fairs and reunions and barbeques. It used to make me mad when this happened, but this year, I don't think I am going to mind so much.
Still, there is something about a birthday that invites reflection, and I am finding this to be even more the case today since I am actually rolling over a whole new decade rather than only a single year. So humor me. I want the spotlight for just a little longer here.
For me, this past decade has delivered a fair number of those milestone-type changes. Eight years ago, I retired from a career of teaching and learned what it is like to go to bed without a stack of papers to grade. Last year, I saw my dad through a terminal illness. In March, I had my first major surgery. Though they were certainly significant, I would not call these events redefining. Rather, what has redefined me, my life, and the whole essence of my being is becoming Googie nearly five years ago. Here, we are talking about a transformation in the truest sense of the word. It is nothing short of a whole new identity that I am excited to carry with me into this new decade that begins today.
This past weekend, we put the kids in their swimsuits, turned on a lawn sprinkler, and listened to them squeal with the shock and the delight of cold water squirting forcefully in every direction. We watched them revel in the excitement and promise of a new summer. "Look!" one of them shouted. "There's a rainbow in the grass!"
The kids are themselves a kind of promise. We look at them and anticipate the people they will become and the world they will create anew. Because of them, I can look at my life, even if I write my age with a "6," and always see a rainbow.
.
The other day I walked six miles along the Missouri River with a couple of good friends, neither of whom are using the "6" just yet. Somehow, they talked me into singing both verses of "The Missouri Waltz" at a scenic lookout spot there. When the lake warms up a little more, I have every intention of popping up behind the boat on one ski. These are not the kinds of things people do when they are old.
I am proud to claim the same birthday as Andy Griffith, and have toyed with the idea of having somebody whistle that wonderful theme song at my funeral. Don't get me wrong--I'm not making those plans just yet--but I hear that tune and suddenly I am time-warped right smack into the heart of Mayberry where Opie pedals his bike down the street in high-topped tennis shoes and Aunt Bee peeks in the oven to check her apple pie. Truth be told, I am a die-hard Andy Griffith fan. But I digress here, and Andy deserves his own blog post sometime.
Luckily, most of my friends and family will miss my birthday again this year. This is because it occurs on June 1, and, still recovering from the food, drink, and road miles of Memorial Day weekend, people have not flipped their calendar page over yet. When they do, my big day will have slid obscurely into history, lost in the flurry of plans for summer fairs and reunions and barbeques. It used to make me mad when this happened, but this year, I don't think I am going to mind so much.
Still, there is something about a birthday that invites reflection, and I am finding this to be even more the case today since I am actually rolling over a whole new decade rather than only a single year. So humor me. I want the spotlight for just a little longer here.
For me, this past decade has delivered a fair number of those milestone-type changes. Eight years ago, I retired from a career of teaching and learned what it is like to go to bed without a stack of papers to grade. Last year, I saw my dad through a terminal illness. In March, I had my first major surgery. Though they were certainly significant, I would not call these events redefining. Rather, what has redefined me, my life, and the whole essence of my being is becoming Googie nearly five years ago. Here, we are talking about a transformation in the truest sense of the word. It is nothing short of a whole new identity that I am excited to carry with me into this new decade that begins today.
This past weekend, we put the kids in their swimsuits, turned on a lawn sprinkler, and listened to them squeal with the shock and the delight of cold water squirting forcefully in every direction. We watched them revel in the excitement and promise of a new summer. "Look!" one of them shouted. "There's a rainbow in the grass!"
The kids are themselves a kind of promise. We look at them and anticipate the people they will become and the world they will create anew. Because of them, I can look at my life, even if I write my age with a "6," and always see a rainbow.
.
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