The Bible - Part III

I finished the Poetical and Wisdom books a while ago. They include Job, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Psalms, and Song of Solomon. It’s taken me forever to sit down and blog about this installment. I hate to admit it, but it’s probably because I didn’t really care for this part.

 

I’ve been surprised that I haven’t found reading the Bible to be particularly tedious until this section. It sounds bad, but I kind of thought it would be boring. I laugh even as I type that sentence because I’ve read long, really boring books for this book project that were much harder to finish, and I didn’t go in to them with that thought. It’s like when H tells me she doesn’t like something at dinner before she puts it in her mouth. How can she possibly know?

For whatever reason I found the books that were more stories, like Job and Song of Solomon, to be a little hard to follow. I suspect that it’s because they are written more in verse than prose and not being much of a Biblical scholar, I don’t really have the background to know the overall story. I felt a bit like a ninth grader reading Romeo and Juliet for the first time; “Huh?” Also, Job really dragged on there for a while.

The Psalms really weren’t bad. They are exactly like reading poetry, as they are poems. I find it difficult to read too many poems all in one sitting because I feel like my brain can’t absorb them properly after a while. I didn’t want to skim them for the sake of saying I’d read them, so it was rather slow going. For the most part, however, it was enjoyable. I had fun when I ran into one that had been turned into a hymn or something and I recognized the words. It’s that flash of recognition you get when you’re at a concert for some band and they finally play that one song that’s on the radio and you think, “Oh, it’s THAT band!”

It was the Proverbs though that really killed me. They were just so repetitive, and a lot of them didn’t even seem to make sense to my 21^st century sensibilities.

I’m looking forward to moving on to something new.

Naughty Mom

H starts preschool again in two weeks. Part of me is sad that the summer has flown past. I still feel like we’re unpacking and settling into our new life in Illinois. How could it be that it’s already time to go back to school and settle into that routine?

 

But there is a part of me that I think of as Naughty Mom. Naughty Mom is jumping up and down excited that H will be in school three days a week. I will have so much more time to finish unpacking and sorting. To run errands more quickly and efficiently. To get my haircut without growing eyes in the back of my head to keep an eye on her.

This makes me feel guilty. I adore staying home with H. It’s something I always wanted to do. My mom was home with us, and as a kid I loved knowing that she’d be there. I loved coming home to her after school. I want to do that for my kids. When she learns something new or tells me some hilarious story she’s invented, I’m thrilled that she’s doing that with me and not with a stranger. I’m more than glad to be her best friend right now.

More than that, I’m really lucky I can stay home. Not every mom even has that choice. I know lots of people who would probably love to be home full time but can’t afford it. We’re in a great place where I can have the option to stay home.

Despite all that, I discovered a long time ago that I am not cut out to be the mom with unflagging energy who is ready for a romp every moment and has fun activities and crafts planned, accompanied by nutritional snacks and developmentally suitable outings. When I write it that way, I don’t actually know any mom who is like that. If you do, check her sanity, then nominate her for sainthood. I find that I need a few hours of alone time here and there to save my patience and my sanity.

In practice a lot of staying at home has turned out to be fitting in necessary errands, like the grocery store, into a very small child’s schedule. Another example is trying to read books to her while I fold laundry. You generally try to run a house and be a full time play mate at the same time. Like so many moms before me, I now lament the days when she didn’t care where we went, what she wore, or even really what she ate. At three she is her own tiny woman who has definite opinions on everything; opinions that I readily respect, but can’t always allow to reign. Now it’s all about trying to coax her to the potty with enough wiggle time to leave the house promptly, but not so much that she’ll have to pee in the middle of the commissary. And may God have mercy on my soul if I forget to bring snacks and a drink with us everywhere we go.

Naughty Mom is the one who contemplates selling her to the gypsies. She’s the one who just wants to sit quietly in Barnes and Noble and soak up the rows of books. She stares at the stacks longingly every Monday as we march to Story Time. Naughty Mom also has a bad spending habit when it comes to books, so it’s best to keep an extra close eye on her in places like Barnes and Noble.

Every mom has a Naughty Mom. Every mom has a day when she counts the minutes until bed time so she can pour herself a relaxing cup of tea/glass of wine. Every mom is mildly excited to regain some freedom when school time comes. So why do I feel guilty about it?

When did we come to expect ourselves to not only stay home but to love and adore every moment of it? Who told us it had to be that way? It wasn’t my mom, who went back to school to finish her degree as soon as I started first grade. And I’m thrilled that she did. I was proud of her then, and I’m even more proud now as a mom myself. She knew she needed a grown up life, not just a kid life. It wasn’t my friends telling me that, some of whom stay home and some who are back at work. They’re the ones pouring the wine, after all. It wasn’t my husband, who never expected me to stay home, but was glad I wanted to.

As Radiohead would say, “You do it yourself you do. And that’s why it really hurts.” I told me that I was expected to love every minute of parenting my daughter. I am the one who wonders if I’m really doing a good job if we just spend the day watching a movie and doing laundry. I’m the one who envies the moms I know with a more educational background, who can, in my eyes, properly guide their little ones.

So, Jamie, let’s check and see how H is doing with your sub-par parenting. Sweet and polite? Check. Knows her ABCs and 123s? Check. Can write her name? Check. Can nearly go potty on her own? Check. Is happy and healthy? Check.

Now I laugh at myself a bit. Yeah, clearly I am screwing her up. Maybe instead of feeling bad about Naughty Mom’s excitement at free time this fall, I should just go with it. Because you know what? H is not being sent to sit in a room and stare at a wall. She’s going somewhere fun to hang out with kids and color and sing and she comes home happy. And if she can come home to an equally happy, recharged, fully-engaged Mommy, then we both win.

War and Peace

Synopsis:

Oh, where to begin… The novel basically covers the Napoleonic Wars, or at least Russia’s involvement, throughout the first decade or so of the 19^th century. From what I could tell, and I was too lazy to look it up, Tolstoy has a very accurate accounting of the military movements and battles.

 

The actual story part follows two main families: the Bolkonskis and the Rostovs throughout this period. The characters’ stories are dispersed among chapters of history and philosophy. We see the characters grow, develop, intermingle, and finally all come together at the very end. I wish I could give you something more interesting, but it’s taken me months to read this, it was 6400 iPhone pages, and I am a bit foggy on some of the early details. Also, there are a LOT of characters.

If you’re really interested, it goes something like this:

Andrew Bolkonski has a wife he doesn’t like. He goes off to war and almost dies. The night he gets home, his wife gives birth to a son and dies in labor. He gets real depressed. To cure his funk he goes to Petersburg to “shake things up” in the government and meets Natasha Rostov. They fall in love and get engaged, but his dad disapproves. They go for a year-long engagement to pacify the dad. During that year, Natasha breaks up with him for a good-for-nothing, already-secretly-married, just-trying-to-get-in-her-pants, handsome guy. Andrew goes off to war again. He gets mortally wounded. As everyone flees Moscow ahead of Napoleon it turns out that Andrew is traveling with the Rostovs. Natasha and he make up and he dies.

Natasha’s story pretty much follows the above, but after Andrew dies she becomes besties with his sister Mary and falls in love with his best friend Pierre. They get married and have babies.

Mary, Andrew’s sister, basically gets shafted the whole novel as her dad’s punching bag until his eventual death. Nicholas, Natasha’s brother, ends up saving her from the encroaching French, and she falls nearly instantly in love with him. They eventually get married and have babies.

Nicholas starts out as a cocky, obnoxious kid. He grows up in the army. On his father’s death he assumes a gigantic debt and is reduced to poverty. He does love Mary, but marrying her has the bonus of making him rich again and letting him pay off his debts. He turns out to be a pretty good guy.

Pierre, Andrew’s best friend, is a total mess for 95% of the novel. He’s the illegitimate son of a very rich Count. When he ends up inheriting the money and title, he gets a bit overwhelmed. He marries a very stupid, slutty, and trashy woman of the very best breeding. They spend almost their whole marriage estranged. He spends most of his time bouncing around trying to find some definition of happiness. After the Natasha-Andrew break up, he realizes he’s in love with Natasha, but alas, Pierre is married! He stays in Moscow because he’s too depressed to leave. A half-baked scheme to assassinate Napoleon ends up with him defending a girl’s honor and getting arrested. He’s nearly executed by the French and ends up a prisoner of war. Being a prisoner changes his life for the better. He meets his spiritual guide while he’s a prisoner. After he’s freed he finds out his slutty wife killed herself, so he goes off and marries Natasha.

There are several more minor characters that I have completely ignored here, but you get the idea. And in case you’re wondering, Napoleon is eventually chased from Russia with his tail between his legs and practically no army to speak of.

Other Thoughts:

• Why is this book so long? Granted, I read it for free on my iPhone. It was about 6400 pages. I’m sure the paper version is shorter. Regardless, it covers a good decade or more—year by year. I guarantee you that any modern editor would cut this to ribbons.

• Like so many books of this general time period, nothing happens in the lives of the actual characters for hundreds of pages at a time. Just as you might expect, the two big weddings that you wait for, literally, the whole novel, take place in the very last chapters. I would read and read, turning to Josh I’d say, “I think something might actually happen!” A few minutes later, “Nope. Nothing.” This isn’t to say that it isn’t satisfying when something does happen, but do we need so much of nothing? I guess it’s all character development, but maybe too much of a good thing there.

• After you finish the actual book you get not one but two epilogues. The first one is like the epilogue at the end of Harry Potter. You see how everything turned out pretty well for everyone. But once again, we have this whole epilogue and nothing happens. It ends really weirdly with Andrew’s orphaned son having a dream of revolutionary glory of some kind. Then epilogue two is nothing but Tolstoy explaining, or really concluding, his argument that historians are jack asses and that individual choice is actually an illusion, and we are all compelled by circumstance. It’s long and hard to follow.

• I’m not really sure what Tolstoy was driving at as the purpose of this monstrosity. There is a lot of war; a little bit of peace; and a lot of self-aggrandizement on Tolstoy’s part about how he’s basically smarter than everyone else—especially Napoleon. If you are a fan of the Napoleonic wars, it could be an interesting read. Otherwise, read the cliff notes.

We will now be hopping up the list to pick up Gone with the Wind. First though, I fully admit that I’ll be taking a short break and reading some light mystery with The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, brought to me by one of my favorite fellowreaders. You can also expect another installment post on my Bible progress soon. It’s been a while in the works. Again, that whole moving thing.

Catching Up

So… The blog is getting a bit dusty. In my legitimate defense, I have been a bit busy moving halfway across the country. But it’s definitely time for some quick catch up. This is what you’ve missed in the past almost two months.

Just to make life exciting before a big move, just after H’s birthday we started to notice she was having trouble hearing. At first it seemed like a three-year-old game, but after a couple of weeks we started to notice that she really wasn’t hearing us. For example, my husband came in the front door and she never heard him. Normally at the first sound of doorknob turning she’d take off like a shot to greet him.

I hounded the audiologist’s receptionist into an appointment one week before the packers were to arrive. On that Monday we found out that her ear drums were not actually moving. At all. The ear infection that she’d gotten at the beginning of May had never cleared out of her ears. Everything sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher to her, “Womp womp womp…”

I had been resisting tubes for basically her whole life. She didn’t get many ear infections when she nursed full time but as she nursed less and less, she got more and more infections. Her inability to hear, however, made it an easy decision. This is where I plug the AI Dupont Children’s Hospital in Wilmington, DE. God forbid you ever need to take your child to the hospital, but if you do, you should go there. They are amazing, wonderful, competent people.

We got an appointment to see the ENT the NEXT DAY. They confirmed that tubes were needed and scheduled the surgery for the NEXT DAY to accommodate the fact that we were about to move. The surgery took about 15 minutes and H came through with flying colors. Everyone was incredibly kind and sweet. They even squeezed in a follow up for the next week before we left town.

 

A few days later the packers showed up. Or packer, really. We got one guy. He packed our entire house in two days. To put this in perspective for those not familiar with military moves, you normally get three or four packers and it takes them two days to pack all your stuff into boxes. It was crazy. He was a machine. As it turned out he packed some things better than others, but we’ll get to that.

Other than the horrendous gas mileage I got driving through the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky with a car top carrier and 600 extra pounds of our stuff in the car, the drive cross country was quite uneventful. It was especially uneventful through Indiana—where there was no place to stop. I think there was one Wendy’s and a sketchy Subway in the whole state. If you’re driving out to see us, you’ve been warned. Eat in Kentucky.

H snoozing on her air mattress in the hotel on our way cross country.

Josh accidentally set up the directions to take us in the back gate of Scott. I have to say I was a little apprehensive when we got off the highway and drove through a solid 15-20 minutes of corn before we got to the base. There is a lot of corn here. And soy beans. H announces, “Corn! Look, Mommy, corn!” every time we drive anywhere.

The TLF (temporary lodging facilities) were actually quite nice. I think they are converted old base housing. They are three or four bedroom town houses. The size was amazing. The air conditioning was not. It was 68 degrees downstairs and 75-78 degrees upstairs. We literally spent two weeks wrapped in blankets and sweaters and socks any time we were downstairs just so we wouldn’t swelter upstairs. We also had an invasion of ants, and our hall bath leaked through the ceiling into the kitchen. My mantra was, “This is not my house.”

You can imagine my relief to move in to our very own house. Thanks to a mutual friend we met a great family that lives right behind us who have girls the same age. H got to spend the afternoon in their kiddie pool while the grownups (thank you Mimi and Aunt Kaitie!!!) checked off boxes, directed traffic, and frantically unpacked. The movers agreed to take away any boxes we emptied before they left and we were able to give at least half of them back.

The good news was that no boxes went missing. We were incredibly spoiled on our last move when we went door to door and had a fantastic driver. Nothing was broken or even scratched. Perfect. This time our stuff had to go to storage for about three weeks. The guy who boxed stuff up did a pretty good job. The guys who loaded the truck completely sucked. I have a hallway bench with both doors broken off despite the fact it came off the truck wrapped in a blanket that was secured with tape. The center leg of my couch was broken off. And they took apart my full length mirror and futon and then didn’t pack the screws. Yup. They didn’t pack the screws. We still have a lovely pile of futon parts stacked in our play room because there’s no way to put them together. I managed to find hex bolts the right size for my mirror, which are not as pretty as the decorative screws that used to go there, but we still have to try adding some washers if I want to see myself and not the ceiling. If anyone out there has any thoughts on where I can get pretty replacement screws for a stand mirror, please leave a comment. It was a gift from my grandparents when I turned 12, so I’m rather peeved that they lost the screws. They also moved my double bookcase with the removable shelves inside. When it came off the truck I thankfully had all the shelves, but I was nine plastic shelf brackets short. Thank goodness for Lowes. I was able to find replacements. The bookcase is Ikea and getting spare parts out of them is like prying apart a nun’s knees.

As we opened boxes I became extremely glad that I insisted on taking all the crystal and china with us in the car. My waffle iron was shattered. And so was every single ceramic Halloween decoration I had gotten as wedding shower gifts. They just weren’t wrapped well enough, which is what happens when you have one guy pack your house in two days. Of course with things like that it’s not so much the cost of the items as the fact that they’re associated with a very specific person and memory that you really can’t replace.

Since then we’ve just been unpacking and getting lost around town. The area is actually great. There’s a lot to offer locally and a mind boggling amount of stuff in St. Louis. We’ve already impulse purchased Redskins tickets for September when they’re in town. I’ve never been to a pro-football game before.

As I type this I am surrounded by piles of office/spare bedroom paraphernalia that is still not put away. But the computer is up, the Internet is working, and I’m back at the keyboard.

A Letter to my Daughter on the Occasion of Her Third Birthday

Dearest one,

I should start by telling you that I have no words to express how incredibly proud I am of you and how amazed I am by you on a daily basis. Watching you grow is watching a miracle in progress, and it humbles me.

If only I could say that you are your best, most sweet self at all times. Growing from two to three is a challenge; you have learned with so much more skill how to tell me what you want, you have learned to do so many things on your own, and you have pushed every boundary presented to you. You’re a nice, normal toddler. You drive me totally crazy. I couldn’t possibly love you more.

I have been so impressed in watching you grow through your first preschool experience. I can see you gaining more confidence in large groups of kids. I was so thrilled to see you at the children’s museum or the aquarium, not intimidated by the crowds, just plowing ahead to what you wanted to see or do. My shy girl has a bit more to learn in this arena, but you have already begun to understand that you have every right to be there, right in the middle of things. I love it when you come home with a song or a story that I didn’t teach you. I love to see you light up when you talk about your projects. And, let’s be honest, I love it when you run into my arms at the end of the day. I’m so glad that I’m still one of your favorite people. You’ll always be one of mine.

This next year is going to be a challenging one for you. We’re getting ready to move halfway across the country. We won’t get to see your wonderful grandparents and extended family with quite the same frequency. You’ll start a new school. Make new friends. Finally face forward in your car seat. There will be good times and bad times. We will frustrate each other. But I know that you will continue to grow into the smart, funny, sweet, emphatic girl and woman that you’re meant to be. Thank you for being my daughter. Thank you for teaching me to take a deep breath and count to 10 instead of yelling over spilled pee. Thank you for giving me the chance to show you how to pick ripe strawberries from our plants.

Thank you for helping me water those same strawberries (and your feet) with your tiny blue watering can. Thank you for sharing your imagination with me. The world you see is often much more interesting than my adult world. Thank you for sweet hugs and kisses and saying, “I love you.”

All my love always,
Mom

How I Became a Mom

I didn’t have a blog when H was born, and so could not share the story of her birth. In honor of my third Mother’s Day, I have decided to correct that. Also, I know a few of you loyal readers have expressed interest at various times of hearing about her birth.

This is a few hours after H was born.

H was due May 30, the Saturday after Memorial Day. We were new to Dover so we went to Rehoboth during Memorial Day weekend, and walked (I waddled) on the board walk, ate some fries, ate some ice cream, and looked at the water. It was almost hot. Not hot enough to explain the vast numbers of skinny children turning blue in the ice cold Atlantic, but hot enough that my belly started to sweat under my giant pants.

It was a quiet weekend. We went to bed on Monday night with no thoughts that anything would happen. When I woke up at 4am on Tuesday, I just needed to pee. As this happens all the time even when I’m not pregnant, it wasn’t remarkable. But when I got back in bed I had a contraction that kind of hurt. None of them had hurt before. A few minutes later I had another. I woke Josh up, and told him I was having contractions. While he may be a government-trained operative, my husband takes a little while to fully wake up. At first, half asleep, Josh suggested that we try to get some sleep because labor could be a while. I quickly disabused him of this “sleeping” notion. The contractions started at eight minutes apart and got closer from there.

Josh started timing the contractions, and we went downstairs for a while. I tried drinking some juice, and kneeling by the couch for the contractions. I went ahead and told Josh, “This is all your fault,” just to get it out of the way. At some point we went back upstairs and the contractions started making me nauseous. I insisted on calling our midwives. This was probably only about an hour and a half to two hours in. Josh thought I was freaking out. I thought that my contractions were two minutes apart and lasting one minute.

I told our midwife L (Given that home births are technically illegal in Delaware, I won’t use the midwives’ full names.) what was going on and that the contractions were making me nauseous. She told me very matter-of-factly, “Then go ahead and throw up.” I also had a contraction while we were on the phone. She said she’d get in the car right away. Throwing up, by the way, was a great idea. I felt way better afterward.

We moved into the guest room where we were set up for the birth. In case you’re wondering, you make the bed with nice sheets, wrap it in a painter’s drop cloth, and make the bed again in sheets you don’t care about. The midwives cleaned everything and nothing ended up with the slightest stain.

I very quickly became internally focused. We had practiced all these comfort positions in our birth class, lots of which involved making use of Josh. Turned out once I was in labor that I really didn’t want him to touch me much. I wasn’t mad at him or upset at him. I didn’t want anyone to really touch me. I just wanted to take all my attention and focus it on what I was doing. I’m not going to lie, it was painful, but it was not unbearable. It just took all my focus.

Eventually I started getting anxious about when the midwives would arrive. L lives in Maryland, so it is a bit of a drive. Just as I really started to freak out, they arrived. I knew that things were progressing, and I didn’t want it to go too far before they arrived.

I had not had either the OB or the midwives check me for dilation before. I knew that it would make me nervous either way. If I was dilated, I’d think it was any minute. If I wasn’t, I’d be disappointed. As soon as they walked in, around 7:40am, I asked/demanded that they check me. I was seven to eight centimeters, almost completely effaced, and a +2 station. They saw how hard I was working and suggested I get in the shower.

Even at the time I remember thinking, “The shower! Why didn’t I think of that?!” It was glorious. The warm water eased the contractions an enormous amount. I thought it would be nice to fill the tub and sit down. Just as we plugged it and it started to fill with the shower water I had a contraction that nearly brought me to my knees. It wasn’t that it was so painful. It’s that I wanted to push. Our midwife, S, told me, “No pushing until there’s nothing you can do in the world except push.” It might have taken two more contractions before I said, “It’s time.”

We dried off and went back to the guest room. I started pushing at about 8am. There’s nothing that can adequately prepare you for pushing. There’s no way to practice it. It’s a general tightening that comes very naturally, but to be really productive you have to focus your energy and attention on a very specific area. It helps if you can avoid tensing every other muscle in your body at the same time. This was something I kind of struggled with; I had jelly arms for a few hours after. I have no idea how you can push with an epidural if you can’t feel what you’re doing. I have never tried it clearly, but I am quite frankly baffled as to how it happens.

Pushing was my favorite part of labor. It gave me a chance to feel like I was actively doing something, and it didn’t hurt. When the contraction would start it would hurt a bit, but as soon as I started pushing, it just felt like pressure.

I pushed a good long time. I hadn’t thought that I would want a mirror or anything during labor. But when things started getting rough and it seemed like she was just staying in the same spot, the midwives let me feel her head coming down or Josh would take a picture of her head and show me. It was so incredibly encouraging.

I pushed on my back, just like all the good midwifery books say not to. But that was how I felt at the time. My midwives let me do what was comfortable for me. At one point they did have me get on hands and knees. The contraction was a lot more intense. It was too much for me at the time. I flipped back over. In retrospect, I think I was a little afraid of the power and intensity. I’m extremely curious to see if I feel the same way next time.

Josh had one leg, S had the other, and L was massaging my perineum. After every push Josh would give me a sip of water. He was right there the whole time doing whatever I needed and being a very calm presence. Excellent husband, he is. Finally she came down far enough for S to see that H had her hand on top of her head. Sneaky little baby was making it way harder to push her out because of that hand being up there. Go ahead; put your hand on your head right now. How much bigger does that make the total space needed to accommodate both arm and head? A lot.

Josh and S pulled her arm all the way out, she crowned, and was born seconds later. As soon as I felt the ring of fire from her crowning I said to myself, “This baby is being born RIGHT NOW,” and gave the biggest push yet. Josh and one of the midwives both kind of caught her at once. I very quickly reached down and pulled her directly to my chest. I immediately started sobbing, “She’s beautiful! She’s beautiful!” And she was the most beautiful creature I had every laid eyes on; it didn’t matter one bit that she was all wet and covered in goo. Josh still teases me about this.

I held her up to make sure she was in fact a she and then just held her tight. She didn’t cry too much; she just looked around and tried to figure out what had just happened and who all these people were. The midwives let us hold her until we were ready to cut the cord, which had fully stopped pulsing by then. Josh cut the cord, and the midwives gave her an exam and weighed her right on the bed with us. We all guessed weights. I won: 7lbs, 8oz.

I didn’t tear one bit, despite her rather rapid entry right at the end. I had pushed for two hours. She was born at 10:05am. The whole labor took six hours. It took another 45 minutes for the placenta to come out. Darn thing was just cozy up there. It took a mouthful of herbs, a shot of pitocin, and the threat of a catheter to finally get it out.

About two hours after the birth my parents got there. A little while later I got showered, the midwives saw me into my own bed, and I took a nap. When I woke up you would never be able to tell a birth had taken place. In fact, my parents slept in the same bed that very night.

Home births are not for everyone. Mine was such a wonderful, empowering experience. I have never felt so strong, so powerful before. And the euphoria your body creates afterward had me feeling like I’d do it all again just a few hours later. Then, of course, there was the precious, beautiful baby. She is the sweetest prize of all.

Quite Contrary

This morning I woke up in a hotel room in WV to find three to four inches of snow on my car, with more coming down. Just to be clear, it is indeed the 23^rd of April. It has officially been spring from more than a month. I’ve worn shorts; I’ve needed sun screen; but none of that matters when you’re dealing with mountains and Mother Nature.

I find today’s snow to be rather appropriate because it falls in honor of one Evelyn Tuckwiller’s birthday. She is my Grandmother-in-law, and today she turns 92. It’s been quite interesting getting to know her over the years as Josh’s girlfriend, then fiancé, and now wife. She is a woman of many contradictions and snow on her birthday is surely fitting for someone who would like you to believe that she’s as icy as she sometimes pretend to be. Truth is that under that façade is a warm spring just waiting to flower.

 

We surprised her on Friday night, arriving at Josh’s Aunt Sandy’s house, along with Josh’s mom and dad. She would never utter words like, “What a nice surprise!” Instead she wondered aloud why we’d bothered. She voiced similar sentiments the next day when her daughter Suzann, Suzann’s daughter, her husband, and their new baby all came in the door unannounced. They had flown in from California all night on the red-eye with a one-year-old. This nominates them for kid/grandkid/great grandkid of the year, if you ask me.

But however much MaMaw might try to put forth the idea that we needn’t have bothered and that she was only attending her birthday party to humor us, you could tell that she was very happy to have her family together. In fact she had on her Sunday best to attend her birthday party and sat patiently for group photos with all the family members who came to wish her well. The informal count put the guests at 82, 80 of which were directly related by blood or marriage. I would hesitate to say that I’m even related to 80 people on every branch of my family tree together, let alone 80 people who would come to my birthday party.

Growing up in an Italian family I am quite used to outsized family events, but I admit that I still struggle with the Tuckwiller family tree. I’m always grateful for my mother-in-law to explain for the umpteenth time who everyone is and how they’re related.

But by far the best part of the weekend was seeing MaMaw interact with her youngest great grandkids (she has close to 30 of them and 3 great great grandkids!). For each of them she has a special affection and loves to hold and cuddle them. Sorry, lady, but no one who sees you with those sweet little ones will believe for a second that you’re as brusque as you pretend to be.

So on this, her 92^nd birthday, I’d like to wish her a very happy birthday and many more so that we all have an excuse to surprise her, put her out, and make her attend her own birthday parties.