The Best News I've Had Since Asher Was Born With All His Limbs Attached

http://clarkandmaquelevans.blogspot.com/2009/02/happy-day.html

From the Wardrobe of Darris Howe

Yes, that is two drawers dedicated exclusively to gloves.

Tubing

My Favorite New Word Created By Sister Marissa

hate.crime.ish [heyt-krahym-ish]
-adjective
1. Having characteristics or views similar to those of hate crimes. As in, "Senator Buttars is a little too hatecrimeish for my taste."

On Nursing and Panicking (The Hallmarks of New Motherhood)

Asher is a different nurser than Talmage. What to Expect the First Year described Talmage as a barracuda baby, and that child went after my mammaries like a blood-thirsty great white feasting on a diet of baby porpoises. I've never seen Jaws, but I've experienced Jaws. There was no dawdling, no enjoying, no nonsense about it. That boy latched on, sucked me dry, and then slept for the next three hours.

What to Expect would describe Asher as more of Gourmet. He'll latch on for about 5 seconds, get my milk flowing, and then pull off and try to enjoy the firehose squirting his face at his leisure. He'll sample a mouthful of Mama's Milk (the newest rage at all the finest newborn restaurants) smack his lips satisfactorily, and then maybe spit it out like a wine-taster after he's fully analyzed the bouquet and body. I feel like I've given birth to a snobby Parisian milk connoisseur and at one point he's going to send the milk back if he doesn't find it to his liking.

There is also an element of a Rester in him. If I can talk the gourmand out of him and actually get him to eat, he will nurse for a few minutes and then rest for a few minutes. This keeps me consistently tickling his feet and gently shaking his head to keep him awake, and I'm sure Tyler feels like he's in one of those coin operated vibrating beds in movies that I've never quite understood the kinky purpose of.

This combination--The Gourmet and the Rester--has me worried that he's not eating enough. Isn't this what every mother worries about? Which has given birth to a whole bunch of related worries. If Asher sleeps three hours fifteen minutes, I panick that perhaps his organs will shrivel up. And speaking of those extra fifteen minutes, maybe he died in his crib (despite the fact that he's on his back with no pillows in there) and every extra minute will lead him further into rigor mortis. And while we're at it, maybe his umbilical cord stump is infected and is about to spew herpes all over his little body.

I don't remember being this nervous about Talmage, but I think that's because I was crying so much I couldn't see clearly through the tears. But I do worry about Talmage now. Maybe he will have memories of being caged. Maybe he will have a bad dream, but we've threatened him so much about not getting out of bed he'll sit terrified in his big-boy room thinking the monsters will come and get him. Maybe I'll be nursing upstairs and kidnappers will enter in through the basement door (having killed Lu to silence her) and steal Talmage out of his bed.

But I know Asher is eating enough and here's why. The kid poops more than a holstein heifer on laxatives. Anytime my mind jumps through any of the outrageous dangers that exist for my boys, I reassure myself with this conversation I had with my pediatrician's nurse:

"How many times a day does he eat?"
"Between 8 and 12."
"How many wet diapers?"
"Between 8 and 12."
"How many poopy diapers?"
"Well let's see. If he's eaten 12 times that day, then my best guess would be 57. Maybe that's a little low. No, I'm pretty sure that I've changed 57 diapers in the last 24 hours."
"I'll mark down 'FOUR OR MORE.'"

Kristin Lavransdatter

I'm actually not sure what to say about this book other than that I shouldn't read any books over 400 pages. I get way too involved in the characters, and my dreams have been solely about nursing Asher on the fjords of medieval Norway while my life's decisions blow up catastrophically around me.

This is a beautiful novel. I've had so many thoughts while I read it--but I've been reading it for over a month now. I think my most strong impression is a rather mundane proverb: you reap what you sow. The book surrounds Kristin and the result of all her decisions and personality for over 40 years. Her complex relationships with her father, her husband, her brother-in-law, her priests, and her God result from her own decisions--good and bad.

I know that's a pretty lame summation of a thought-provoking book that's occupied much of my mind, but I think I'm still a little too close to the material to analyze it yet. Maybe I'll do a Part 2 when I've stepped back a bit.

I Forgot

How much you can offend a newborn's sense of goodness and justice in the world by changing his diaper.

A Separate Peace

I'm a little behind. On life, really. But I'm right on top of nursing, so it looks like I'm accomplishing New Years Resolution Number One. And I haven't descended into the depths of TV, but I have descended into the depths of Kristin Lavransdatter. I'm almost done with the eleven hundred page tome, so I should probably post on the book I finished about a month ago.

A Separate Peace is a classic, and I read it in high school. A lot of the books we read in high school focus on struggling with the darker side of mankind--Lord of the Flies, Heart of Darkness, Death of a Salesman, and this book, too. Maybe teenagers are just struggling with who they are so much that man's darkness ends up being the most important topic in high school classrooms. Anyway, I like the idea in A Separate Peace that darkness exists in everyone, but decisions made by that "darker side" are usually decisions based on ignorance. Lately, I've been thinking that too often people get offended by other people not because of anything that happens in reality, but because of an ignorant reality that exists in one's head. Which, I think, is what happened to Gene.

None of that is really all that profound, but the other strong impression that I had when I read this book is that I don't hate my brother Scott and I never did. There is a famous short story that I wrote in high school that involves Scott teaching me to play baseball in the front yard and me feeling terribly inadequate. That much could be true, because I think baseball is the root of all evil. The ball is way too small to manage. But at one point I encapsulated all the "competition" and "angst" I felt toward Scott as I watched him fluidly move in a perfect arc and fired a 100 mph pitch in my direction. I fumbled across three front yards for the ball while saying in my head, "I'll get you one day, Scott Paulsen. I'll get you!" My mom promptly sent this to Scott on his mission in Germany as evidence of my cry for help.

Now I'm not denying that any of this happened, but I've never understood parts of the story. First of all, I don't think Scott's really all that great at baseball. Second of all, while Scott was my hot older brother who all the girls were madly in love with and while Scott is incredibly intelligent and just all around cool, I never really felt all that competitive with him. I kind of enjoyed the attention I got being Scott's little sister. I was that much more awesome because of his hotness, intelligence, and coolness. I still feel more awesome being Scott's little sister.

So I never could really understand why I wrote the narrative. Then I read A Separate Peace again which is entirely about Gene's ignorant competitiveness with Finny. And I realized that I had modeled my writing on the characters. It wasn't a cry for help, IT WAS A WRITING EXERCISE. The golden boy description I wrote about Scott's perfect pitch was almost word for word a description of Finny jumping from a tree in the sunset.

So I have four conclusions. One, fiction is a big part of my nonfiction world. Two, I really love Scott. Three, you are in big trouble mom for sending the story to Scott on his mission. And four, even though I've written this impassioned defense, the line, "I'll get you Scott Paulsen" will still be brought up six times this year.

Let's rally, family. PedXing is really a much more funny story.

Asher - Five Posts In One Day

Surprisingly, Talmage isn't even jealous--yet!

The Shoot

Objet Petit A

Things Asher has tried to drink:

1. His onesie.
2. His jammies.
3. His hat.
4. His blanket.
5. His hand.
6. My arm.
7. My neck.
8. My hair.
9. Lu's nose.
10. Daddy's boob.

News From Roosevelt

I need to do a play-by-play post about Asher's birth, but right now I am enjoying what I once called the acid trip following the delivery of a new baby, and I'm not referring to the Lortab. The first week after Talmage was born was the most difficult and emotional time of my life--it was like breaking up with a boy as a teenager, going on a mission, and loosing my childhood dog all at the same time. But my sister-in-law Barbara took Talmage for the week (yes she is the best ever) and so instead this week has been like a little honeymoon for Asher and Daddy and me. It's like when your infant was six months old and you thought back to the beginning and thought, "Why was that so hard? He slept 20 hours a day! What did I do with myself?" Well, I'll tell you what I do with a newborn when I have the perspective of a mom with a toddler: I sleep and I enjoy it.

Barb's husband Sean (my brother) called me and told me how Talmage was doing. Sean's a radiologist and Talmage and Barb went to visit him at the hospital. Someone made a skeleton on Halloween out of real X-rays, and it hangs in Sean's office. While they were there, Talmage told Barbara to go and stand by it. Talmage sized them both up and commented:

"Okay, you're tall enough to ride the rollercoaster."

Asher David Howe: A Life

The first 24 hours, at least.