Baby John

I am filled with the spirits of affection, as my mother used to say.

John Daniel Thomsen was born April 11 at 5:27 pm, weighing 7.13 pounds.

I had heard countless times that second babies usually come quicker than the first. John was no exception, and it turns out this is the first of many things he has done differently from his brother.

John was due April 7, and whoever told me the cruelest thing doctors do is give pregnant women a due date was right. My mental calendar ran out on the 7th. For those next four days, I was certain every hiccup was the beginning of labor. I was afraid to call anyone for fear of it being mistaken as The Call. I packed my hospital bag fuller and fuller.

Mild contractions did finally begin Friday night, but I was too afraid of crying wolf to say anything. (Maybe if I kept quiet they'd really start!) I slept through the night, and by 9 am on Saturday the contractions were painful but still ten minutes apart. Will was at Grandma's, so I bounced on the exercise ball, tried to watch a movie, and mentally determined that I would not call the doctor until the contractions were closer. This was after all my second time at this -- I knew the ropes.

By around 2 pm, the contractions quickly picked up speed. I called the doctor on call, and he said I could come on to the hospital and get checked. (I remember thinking this last time, but there ought to be a siren or a flag or something you hang out your car window when you're headed to the hospital in labor. Red lights and labor pains don't mix.)

We got to Rex and were in a room by 3:30. As planned, the first thing I did was ask for the epidural. And could she rush it?

We need to check you first, said Peggy the nurse. I bet you're 9cm. 

To which I said, No way. Other women get to the hospital at 9cm. Not me. Just get me my epidural, and we'll all be fine. 

Wouldn't you know, I was 9cm.

I've never felt such a feeling of pride and horror at the same time.

I can still have the epidural, right?!

Dear nurse Peggy rushed like her pants were on fire to get me the blessed epidural. The anesthesiologist walked in the room, did his job, and I waited for the relief.

And waited.

Peggy put an ice pack on my leg: Do you feel this? 

Oh how I wished I didn't.

Dear nurse Peggy called the anesthesiologist back, and the moment he darkened the door, baby John started making his way. I can still see that doctor out of the corner of my eye make a 180 degree turn and leave the room. No use for him anymore.

I seriously have to do this without pain meds!?!

Oh dear nurse Peggy and Dr. Alvarez. Doctors and nurses, for all of their medical skills and knowledge, are first and foremost cheerleaders. Or they should be. Those two were.

A few moments into it, the thought hit me: I don't have a choice. I have to do this. Let's just get it over with!

And fifteen minutes later, John was born.

My cup overflows.


[More pics:]

Dr. Alvarez

Nurse Peggy

April 11, 2015: The day my second baby was born
and my first baby became big.

John's "gifts" to Will

Hospitals have great dirt

Proof John has endured much abuse from his brother since Day 1...

...and a lot of love...

...a whole lot of love.

Christmas 2014: Trucks, trains, and tractors!

Better late than never (and because one day far from now, I'm going to want to look back and know when Will's beloved tractor made its debut. Here it is.)

Christmas Eve.
Back at mom and dad's house after a couple of years off.
Mom would want it that way.

All of us upstairs watching old home videos - as tradition requires.

Will's loot. (When we found out baby #2 was a boy, we kinda let ourselves
go crazy on the boy toys.)

Sheer torture, huh, Will?

Breakfast. Again, as tradition dictates.

And then we headed out to the farm to try out Will's new tractor.
When Ryan suggested we buy this thing, I was certain that
Will would not be able to drive it for at least another year.
Boy was I WRONG. Within the first day, he was maneuvering
between trees and backing it up like a pro. It is safe to say:
Will's Favorite Toy Ever. 

The day after Christmas, Jan flew home to NC, and then two weeks later, Ryan, Will, and I moved to the farm. The blog-less months in between are covered here. And now we anxiously await the arrival of sweet baby brother, who, as of today, is one day late. (Maybe that means he'll be laid back like his Dad!)

Thankful.

The blogless months

Working, moving, and chasing a lively two-year old--while pregnant--has taken its obvious toll on this dear blog. (I wish I could say the blog was the only thing bearing the neglect of this well-intentioned but often-tired mama. Sigh, can't we all relate?)

When I look back over the past several (blog-less) months, I am overwhelmed with gratitude over the good things that have busied us. (Yes, we finally moved to the farm, and we love it here. In January, we welcomed Grandma Jan to North Carolina, and in March, I stopped working my part-time IBM job in anticipation of Baby #2, due in just two weeks.) If there's ever been a time of lavish, undeserved grace (let's be honest, there have been many), this is it. At the same time, we've wrestled alongside dear friends whose lavish grace has required a more eternal perspective to see. Our sweet, two-year-old friend Graham has been fighting a long, hard battle in the ICU for months now. New houses and more free time are good, but Jesus is better. We thank Graham and his parents for showing us that. They are teaching us more than they'll ever know.

Since pictures are better than words, I'll welcome myself back to the blog by leaving you with these:

The snow-covered new house.
We moved in the first week of January and got
 two weeks straight of snow and ice in February.

Will thought the snow/ice was more fun than he did last year,
but he still didn't love it. That comes genetically from me, I guess.

Sledding with his next-door-neighbor friend Makayla.

I of course lured him inside in whichever creative way I could.

Playing with Daddy's hats

As a side note, at the playground today, a little boy came up to Will and asked,
"Why are you so happy?"
I love my kid.

Dinner for Drew's bday. (This was the best of about 20 pics. Really.)

Ryan took Will to G-borough to watch his cousins play baseball one
Saturday recently. This is the most grown-up pic of him I've ever seen.
Seriously, where's my baby?

I'll help you with that, Daddy.

When the weather finally cooperated, we had some landscaping done.
The guys left this mound of dirt one day, and Will sat like that for over two hours.
Longest he has sat in one place in his entire life.

Logan even let him ride on the tractor

We've spent every warm minute since January outside.
(I don't have many pregnant pictures of me this time around -
it's not nearly as cute as it was last time, trust me.
A fat-cheeks selfie will have to suffice.)

Aiming to capitalize on Will's love for dirt
(aka, he'll sit still for longer than a nanosecond in its presence),
we set out to create a "dirt box" in the back yard.

He loves it.

My dear, dear friends organized a surprised shower for me.
(Unfortunately the organizer herself--Becca--is the one taking the pic!)
And still yet, some other sweet friends did the same thing, but I have no pic!
What awesome friends I have!

And finally, this is Will and his buddy Graham last summer.
We're praying fervently for our dear friends.

Christmas 2014 post coming soon! Better late than never!

Christmas isn't the same

I put up a Christmas tree this year for the first time in three years. As a kid (and even as a teenager) if you told me I'd go years without putting up a Christmas tree, I would have admitted myself to the mental ward in advance. Surely I was ill.

Truth is, I haven't been ill (per se); I just didn't plan on mom dying at Christmastime.

A woman came up to me at mom's memorial service two years ago and told me Christmas would never be the same again. She knew, because she lost her husband around that same time a couple of years prior.

It was an awful comment, even though she didn't mean it that way. (Still, I tucked away a mental note never to repeat the same offense if a friend loses a loved one at some noteworthy time on the calendar.)

It's obviously a comment I haven't forgotten, and in a sense, my dear naysayer was right.

Christmas isn't the same.

I now have a two-year old who runs to plug in the yites every morning before breakfast; who just can't keep his hands off the low-down ornaments that make mees (music); who has no idea that the doorbell he just heard announced the arrival of his new, very-own train table.

I know this isn't what our well-meaning guest meant when she said Christmas would never be the same, but oh, it's just the beginning of how right she actually was.

The day I lost mom marked a forever change in my Christmases on earth.

And the same thing happened the day I got married, the day I got pregnant, and the day I got pregnant again.

It is true. Our memorial-service visitor was right. Christmas would never be the same.

The cat in the sparkly hula skirt hangs on a sturdy branch near the top of my tree this year, dancing to the rhythm of my house when Will races his dump truck across the floor or slams a door shut. It, like every other ornament I have, is from mom--the year she gave it to me written in black ink on its tail.

Mom's not here, but her ornaments are.

She's not here, but I am.

And a precious, rowdy toddler is, too.

Christmas is definitely not the same.

At the risk of sounding however this sounds, Christmas is different not because it's sad now that she's gone, or because memories of her death now shroud my mind when I hear Christmas music (although those things are true), but Christmas is different because I think I embody her more this time of year than perhaps any other time.

I see the Dewey's stand at the mall and stop to buy a Moravian sugar cake to put away for Christmas morning, just like she always did. 

I drape red beads around my tree, hang an ornament on every, single viable branch, and crown it with Santa Claus, looking so Williamsburg at the top, just like she always did. 

I get dressed for the millionth Christmas party of the season, and before turning out the light in the bathroom, I stop in my tracks because my face and the blush on my cheeks look startlingly like her.

More and more these days, I hear myself talk, I go shopping, I lead Bible study, I decorate my Christmas tree, and I know I'm doing it all just like she did.

Christmas isn't the same. When you become a mom, it changes. When you lose a mom, it changes.

I'm actually grateful for a time of year when I can so obviously embody the mother I've lost while at the same time embrace the motherhood I've gained.

I'm so happy that the Christmas season is back in the Thomsen household. I grieved (ignored, whatever you want to call it) like I needed the last two Christmases, and now I'm ready to embrace the season,

beautiful yites included.

It's a table topper this year only because we are likely MOVING
the day (or so) after Christmas! That's another post, but I
promise a full-fledged tree next year!

(More about Mom's Christmas legacy)