This is for Helen, whom I adore and who (evil, evil) had the temerity to call me "deep". Oh, my broken heart. I will thus endeavor to be as absolutely silly and shallow as I can for the rest of the week. This made possible because the quarterly review is OVER and DONE. Ding, dong the meeting's done! The meeting's done! The meeting's done! Bwa-double-HA for at least another 10 weeks! (Can you tell I've had twice as much coffee as I've had hours of sleep? Can you? WELL?)

Without further ado:

"Well, my tummy wants pocorn. And my mouth wants yoghurt. So I think I need chocolate."
- Bear, to Elia and I, on his choice of snack.

"No, Bear. No. Although, I like your thinking...."
- CD, To Bear, as he insisted that Elia didn't actually have to go home last night and could spend the night in the lower bunk of his bed.

"What are we supposed to do? Duck?"
- CD, to me and Bear, as we drove past a sign on our way home that said 'Beware Low Flying Planes'.

"Quack!"
-Bear, in response.

"*big sigh* Pajama Sam needs a time out."
- Bear, on being foiled at his computer game.

"That's OK, Mommy. This is a hard song."
- Bear, last night, on correcting my air guitar to Genisis' 'Follow You Follow Me' as we bounced on the daybed during a work break.

"Mommy! I love this song! Dance with me, baby!"
- Bear, to me, in response to the opening bars of "Carry on Wayward Son" by Kansas.

"Dance with me, baby, PLEASE!"
- Bear, to me, upon being told that the previous was unacceptable language.

"No more Doody Brothers, Mommy! I mean it!"
- Bear, on my choice of music.

"This is for Daddy, so he will get better."
-Bear, on giving me a cracker yesterday that he'd 'cooked' in his play kitchen, for CD who was sick in bed.

"Mommy! Don't yell at the squirrels! They aren't eating the flowers. They are sniffing the flowers. See? *SNIFF!* Be quiet to the squirrels, they don't like yelling."
"Bear, they are NOT sniffing. They are eating. They are eating our flowers and our tulip bulbs. That's naughty."
"Mommy, they are sniffing. They TOLD me."
- Bear, as we were outside this morning.

"Mommy, I think you need a nap now."
- Bear, interrupting my 4th chorus of "Ding Dong the Meeting's Dead"

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:15 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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My son, racing into my office clutching a spray of wild roses (let's not ask from where) and shouting excitedly - "Mommy, Mommy! These are for you! Because you're beautiful!"

Posted by: Elizabeth at 07:40 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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One of Bear's Godparents gave him an adorably illustrated soft-cover book of Bible Stories for his first birthday.

Since we got this, I have discovered that there is a massive industry in mangling the Bible for children.

See, in Bear's Parragon-published book not only is there a page with a pretty cartoon of Moses (who is strangely albino) with "Ten Commandments" tablets displayed to round happy (albino) people who have never spent a day in a desert in their LIVES - but worse, there is a whole NEW version of the story that I got to believe was made up late one night over a couple of bottles of Blue Nun.

And? BRAND NEW COMMANDMENTS.

Hot off the presses!

Number 8: "Husbands and Wives should love each other and be nice to each other".

O-kayyyyy then.

Don't get me wrong. Nice sentiment. And Exodus and Deutoronomy both contain guidelines that push the concept.

But - and I think you're with me on this, right? - isn't the point of indoctrinating people to have them educated in the, you know, actual doctrine?

Not just nice ideas that go well with the pretty pictures?

This book is messing with its little audience. These kids are going to grow up and head over to the clubhouse and all the other Christians are going to LAUGH at them when they try and show off their Commandments.

And how cruel is that?

So if the Commandments seemed to the publishers to be too adult for a kid then ... and this may seem radical but work with me .... they shouldn't have put them in a children's book. Not rewritten them for a "G" audience.

I'm just saying.

On the other hand, if those publishers are going to continue getting all creative with Biblical canon, they just may want to hire my 4 year old. He has the distinction, unlike some, of being both imaginative and of not knowing better -

"Mommy, Can you tell me the Jonah story again? About how the Rescue Heroes came and told him that he had to help save the Power Rangers but then he ran away and a whale named Carl saved him and then his mommy gave him chocolate and kisses and he wasn't scared any more and also he had a flashlight?"

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:21 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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This is the story we tell every year on this day. The picture (yes! a Bear picture!) is from his 3rd day of life.

Once upon a time....

After 120 days of bedrest, we went in for a second Level 2 sonogram. 30 days earlier, we'd discovered you were a boy and that you were not thriving quite the way all those nice people in white coats would have liked.

The same technician again, measuring and computing. Finally, we asked "How is he?" She told us you were "Perfect. And very adorable." (well, of course!)

"How are his lungs and his weight?" I wanted to know. Your lungs were hard to measure, but your weight was about 1lb, 13 oz.

"Is that good?" we asked.

The technician smiled and told us that you were now in the 53rd percentile - 3% larger than the average fetus of your gestational age. She was telling us that you had come from behind to the middle of the pack.

She could have told us you also had won a special congressional medal of honor for kicking so good and we wouldn't have been happier.

At 128 days of bedrest, we were back in the emergency room. They triaged me pretty quickly - after all, we were frequent fliers - and did a fast sonogram. Your heart rate was fine.

I was the sick one.

I had a virus, and like everything else - moving, eating, filing my nails - it had set off a spike of high blood pressure and contractions.

Another visit to Labor and Delivery. We were really scared this time, because they started saying that it might be time to let you finish your great escape.

How would you ever survive?

Your dad and I sat in silence, and Bear - we prayed. We prayed so awfully hard.

And they dripped me full of stuff, and after a few days your dad sprung us - you still safe and sound in your mommy-shaped home.

By 236 days of bedrest, the nice people in the white coats decided that it was time, really time, for you to be born.

So we called everyone, packed up the car, and then dawdled at home for a long hour discussing the day ahead. It was our last moments as a family of two.

They induced at 5PM and from then on the Pitocin contractions never let up.

By 9PM, the gang was in place - your dad was excited, your nana arrived from Boston, your Aunt Dee was there, and even El. They were cheering, I was huffing through the pain and walking in circles, and you were tucked in for the long haul.

At 1AM, we took a long hot shower. It didn't help. But it was worth it to see your dad looking silly in wet clothes.

At 3AM, I was given a narcotic and it knocked me out. Your dad and Aunt Dee would giggle as I would wake up and shout "ow ow ow" with each contraction and then fall back asleep.

At 9AM I got an epidural. I turned human again just as it was time to push.

At 11AM, I was told I was pushing wrong.

At 11:15AM the doctor told us your head was turned the wrong way to be born and manually worked you around to the right position. Your dad was able to see the head the next time I pushed.

At 1PM the doctor said "great pushing but Bear hasn't turned all the way and was well and truly stuck."

2PM, and you were jammed in my pelvis. In case you've forgotten, let me remind you: Neither of us liked you there.

At 3PM, the emergency C-section began. It took 52 more minutes to free you. That epidural? Not so effective. I would slurringly announce things like "Gee that knife is sharp. Could you stop hurting my right side like that?"

That didn't make the doctors very happy. Didn't make my body happy either. My blood pressure was 220/160 despite the medication.

Almost simultaneously, you were born and they knocked me out.

As they took you out of my tummy by your feet, you stretched out into the world. The doctor turned you right side up and you surprised her by lifting your head. Then you reached out and grabbed her around the neck. (Yes, Bear, like a hug) She had your handprint there for hours.

Your dad cut your cord and they harvested your stem cells to be donated for someone who needed them - because you didn't anymore. (You see? From the very start, your birth was a blessing.)

The people in white coats rubbed you, measured you, and wrapped you cozy in a blanket. Then your dad grabbed you up. I was almost able to register your birth before falling into the black place. Your dad held you militantly at my side.

The hovering white coats, eager to finish their protocols, just had to wait until I was stable before your dad consented to leave my side. Because, he was never about to leave yours.

Hours later, when I woke up in Recovery, your dad brought you to me again.

Finally, we met.

I smelled you and touched you and memorized your face. It was primal, instinct, necessary. We imprinted on each other. For a long, long time the three of us rested on that bed together quietly, the way we still do so often, as a family.

It was the beginning.

Happy 4th Birthday, Bear more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 07:12 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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