Mother of a Filler Post

I began this post over two months ago, if that tells anybody what kind of priority this blog has been. It's been so long since I blogged that those of you in cyberspace might be wondering what in the Sam Hill is going on at the Olson Homestead. Not that you've lost any sleep. But your theoretical concern piques my heart, nonetheless. So here's a beginner of a filler post on what we've been doing here.

• Learning. We're heading into Week 18 of homeschooling--yes, that means we started back up in July--so we've been hip deep in larnin'. Reading? Check-check-check. Writing? Check. 'Rithmatic? Check-check. Catechism and daily prayer and bits of ancient history and science too. And Latin and piano lessons (for the Little P). Then there's tunnel-making and ball-rolling and leaf-pile-design and all kinds of free play for the littles, and all sorts of random stuff (I'm hoping the recent fascination with arachnids passes soon, because wheesh). It sounds like a lot, but it isn't. Maybe I'll explain that more thoroughly someday.

• House-selling. Well, it's not sold yet, and maybe I should have filed this under "learning." But it's been an interesting few months in a very small market. "Why are you selling your house?" you're probably wondering. Well, the short version is we'd like to both get rid of some debt with our huge equity and possibly get a bigger house before this one gets way too small. And the good news is we don't have to rush (if we sell, we can move, but we don't have to move rightthissecond). The better news is we've had five positive showings--a solid showing for this area--and springtime is a better time to sell. So we're optimistic.

• House-moving. Internally, that is. After eight years of a series of remodels and getting used to everybody sleeping on the first floor, Papa and I finally moved up by moving down to the ensuite master bedroom in the basement. With a walk-in closet and our own bathroom, I feel like I've finally reached some point of adulthood I didn't know I was missing. And it's really quiet down there! Unless Small Dude is screaming into the monitor. Pearly Girl transitioned cleanly into a big girl bed and her own room, and Superman and the Little Professor enjoy their big boy room. Yes, Papa did a three-room furniture shuffle (and repainting one room). I was awesome at giving directions, pointing, and picking up random screws. 

• Exploring regular freelance writing. Since late August, I've been given an awesome opportunity to write a weekly column for our local paper, the Star. It's been great practice for me, and the editor is amazing--constructive, insightful, encouraging in pushing me to improve. You can look up my columns here, under "Thoughts in the Heartland." 

• Kid growing. The Little Prof (6) is seriously steaming ahead in lessons (again, possibly more on that later). Superman (4.5) is looking to follow in his tracks ("I'm crazy about history!" he announced the other day). Pearly Girl (almost, almost 3) wants to do everything the boys do, and more. And Small Dude is a year old--a YEAR OLD! No walking yet, but he's crawling everywhere and starting to pull himself up on his knees (and eating random Cheerios off of the kitchen floor. Score!). We're thinking he might, just might, decide to go bipedal by Christmas, but it's actually kind of great that he's not walking or running or climbing stairs and furniture yet. Because..

• Kid growing, part V.  Yes, we have been blessed again. Olson Child will arrive in mid- to late April 2015! I'm doing much, much better in terms of energy and appetite than for a few months there in early fall, but keeping up with four kids is, for some reason, kind of time-consuming. I keep wondering why I'm so surprised by this. Like getting used to this life somehow also should mean it gets easier. It does, in some ways--few things they do surprise me--but in other ways, it's just a dump-fest--laundry, books, toys, needs. Thank goodness Someone Else is ultimately their Caretaker! This season is just that--a season. That gives me both heartache and incredible relief.

Well, that's about all I can put down for now. My pillow is calling.

Easter is still here

Here's our Easter picture for 2014. It took us a few weeks to get one taken, due to the flu and the haphazardness of child collection and getting everybody to sit and look and smile, preferably all at the same nanosecond. We generally succeeded, I think.

What isn't pictured here is the talking-to the older kids got about listening in church and Small Dude's screaming for food and Papa and my's exasperation at normal kid misbehavior (Small Dude's need for sustenance doesn't count, of course). Saying we were exasperated is putting it mucho mildly ("spitting nails furious" is closer, at least for me). And, as every parent knows, just because misbehavior is "normal" doesn't mean we let it slide. We have to discipline. And discipline is hard because we wonder why they don't just LISTEN and TRUST US and DO IT THE FIRST TIME, FOR PETE'S SAKE. God knows that better than we do, He who put up with--and still puts up with-- broken command after broken command. And this is why we still celebrate Easter going on three weeks after the one Sunday most people see on the calendar. One Father's anger poured out on His obedient Son, and the rest of us benefit eternally.

So what is pictured here are six very sinful people. Six people who have all been baptized and forgiven and who still go to church every Sunday because we need Jesus--in His word, in bread and wine that are His body and blood. And someday, in His heavenly kingdom, we will sit and look and smile and bask in the presence of Christ. He will show us, like He did to His disciples, His hands and His side. And He will tell us, "Peace to you." And peace to you, dear ones, this Easter.

Superman, Four Years Old

April is going out like a sopping, shivering lion here in Minnesota. But we refuse to kowtow to drenching doldrums. Here, we party. Especially when we've got a birthday to celebrate! 

So yesterday Superman and Little Professor helped make Starlight Yellow Cupcakes (no, I don't know why Betty Crocker named 'em that way. They're kinda sparkly once baked, I suppose). Superman picked Papa's apron to wear. Hence "The Rev" and the emblem of the Greatest Football Team Ever.

"Cheeeeeeese!" A.k.a. The normal posed Superman face.

The "Nice for Mommy" posed face.

 My helpers were stellar. They moved a little quick with the ingredients (and for the camera), but didn't spill much and really, really, REALLY enjoyed helping with the mixer on high-seven-speed. (Little Professor kept whispering for Superman to "make it go faster!")

I told them to help me take some selfies. "What's a selfie?" asked Little Professor. Because he spends time reading The Magic Treehouse series instead of Facebook (or analyses of media culture). Anyway, per usual silly boys, they kept making silly faces. So I finally did, too. If you can't beat 'em, silly with 'em!

 

As usual, I forgot to take a picture of the cupcakes going in the oven, coming out of the oven, pre-iced, or even iced. Suffice it to say homemade cake and icing are mucho better than the boxed kind. And green food coloring makes a mess. But a bright, cheerful one.

So the big day came. We like to spread out birthdays here, so there's still presents and cards waiting to be opened in the next few days. Superman had fun playing with stamps this morning, building a monstrous tent house with four blankets and an American flag (disguised as a blue handkerchief), and reading birthday books. His sibs, especially the Little Professor, were so excited! LP even made him a second card, complete with its own envelope and label, that he placed by Superman's pillow during his nap so he'd find it when he woke up. 

Papa came home to pick up Superman to take him to get some eggs--one of his favorite foods--and to give us a little time to do some decorating and last-minute wrapping.  Little Professor hand selected four cars--significance in numbers here--to give to Superman. He wrapped each one in tissue paper. And Superman LOVED them. Brotherly love on display! Then he came home to a little surprise, some gifts, a lot of screeching excitement, and bacon.

Only the really excited kids stand on chairs!

 

I love it!

 And the little sibs didn't want to miss out, either. Pearly Girl kept a close watch. And Small Dude bounced up and down with excitement.

Did someone say "PARTY?!"

We celebrate birthdays with simple things--cake, icing, a few gifts, lots of love. Maybe someday we'll have a no-holds-barred birthday bash, but for now, it's a happy day to spend together, share some squeezes, thank God for His good gift of life.

He wanted eggs and sausage and toast with jam for his birthday dinner. Who wouldn't grin?

 A year is no time and a year is a lot of time. Here's Superman last year with his green cake, and here he is this year with his green cupcake. May you be blessed with many more, our dear son!

One is ten. Two is fifteen. Three is seventeen. Four is BOOM.

Four months into to life with four ex utero, and my days are a mix of peace, fulfillment, meaning. Oh, and nine parts anger, stress, and denial that this--this noise and chaos and bodily-fluid-and-rambunktion cocktail--is our relatively-newish normal.

In the last five and half years, Papa and I have weathered the new parent experience (an insanely high learning curve), the two-under-two juggle, the three-easing-in gig. Pearly Girl's arrival was smooth, and within three weeks I was thinking, "This is easy. Cool!" Deluded, I thought I was proving to be just the kind of mega-awesome mom I always knew I was.

But the last few months have exploded my self-satisfied smugness. No, I can't point to crime-worthy messes or even particular instances so much as my general feeling of physical and emotional exhaustion. And I began realizing a few months ago that this wasn't depression; it was life. And if this was what my life was like, then my understanding of myself was being blasted to smithereens.

I had a breakthrough last month when I struck up a conversation with another mom of four whose kids are roughly a year ahead of each of ours. "So, does it get easier?" I asked hesitatingly, half-giggling, hoping that she could hear, and yet hoping she would miss, the barely-disguised hysteria behind my generic question.

"Yeah, it does," she said. Then she gazed down at her one-year-old and helped me to some perspective. "But four is hard. Everybody said, 'If you can do three, you can do four, five six.' And three for us was cake. But four was..." her voice trailed off. She looked at me. "I had a hard time. I had postpartum depression, which I'd never had with the other three kids. But my sisters-in-law helped. [They have four kids each, too.] They told me four was tough for them, too, but that it would get better." She paused, steadying the barely-walking brave soul hanging on to her pant leg. "Now the baby wants to go off on his own, and I'm like, 'He's not my baby anymore!' and at the same time I'm like, 'Go! Go!'"

Empathy comes in many forms, and sometimes it trickles into our lives almost unconsciously, emerging as in-the-trenches shared experience. Mom-of-four Amy put into words what I had been struggling to admit even to myself--that four kids is somehow astronomically harder to manage, but in subtle ways, that makes the very difficulty in care somehow negligible. I had felt like I was slowly drowning--and in truth, I still do, many days--but I felt like I couldn't acknowledge it because, well, three kids had been easy, and so many people told me that "if you could manage three, then you can manage four fine." Maybe someday I'll start second-guessing gross generalizations about parenting and spare myself the unrealistic expectations and inevitable guilty fallout.

I also felt like I couldn't acknowledge what our life is like because to do so prompts many people to jump to an illogical, if tenaciously popular, way of thinking. It goes something like this: if I, a mother of four, say that being a stay-at-home mother is hard, then I'm admitting failure. If I admit failure, then I 1) should really look into doing something more productive with my time, like working at something away from my children that tangibly and reliably rewards my efforts (unlike my current routine, which swings from high highs and low lows, like a bipolar monkey. Yep, pretty much like that), and 2) should stop embracing life and being open to more children. Because who in her right mind wants more of what causes her stress, sleeplessness, and six days straight of no showers? (Okay, it's usually not that bad. I had to pick a number that started with 's.' And 'seventeen' would have just scared people away.) In the midst of this juggle, I didn't know how to begin to respond to these arguments. In fact, I wasn't sure that I could personally categorically reject them, though logically I knew they were flawed.

A few years ago, Glennon Melton, a blogger at Momastery, wrote a great post entitled "Don't Carpe Diem," which went viral. In it, she discusses this very conundrum.

Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it's hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she's not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn't add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it's so hard means she IS doing it right...in her own way...and she happens to be honest.

I disagree with some points here: I'm not doing it right, and I can't judge motherhood by my own standard (more on that in a bit). But the honesty part is what struck me, both when Amy talked to me and I read what Glennon wrote to the blogosphere. What is this life but hardships? And why was I stressing so much about the sheer hardness of life with small children? When I spend more than two seconds listening to myself, I realize how often the wambulance wails in my head and how I really do need to kick the wimpiness to the curb. In Lutheran-speak, I need to confess and repent the real culprit behind my stress: my own pride. I need to banish the Pharisee of Superwoman who, in a different but related vein, tries to keep me enslaved to the belief that I can control my life the way I want--and show the world how I really can live the perfect parent-magazine-spread life and put all those other moms to shame. That I can, in fact, do motherhood right, and do it right all the time, perfectly.

I realize that I am staggering from one ditch of self-pity and naval-gazing to another ditch of self-glorifying Mommydom. Both ways leave me with zero comfort and plenty of pent-up anxiety. Worse yet, I am leaving the One who can actually steer the ship, right the course, calm my heart, and lead me and mine to the Way Everlasting when I insist on thinking all of these gifts are entitlements and rewards. And I end up buried. As hard as I pity myself or congratulate myself, the law written on my heart whispers the truth: I fail at this mommy thing. I sin against my children daily, hourly. And real pity doesn't apply to evil. The meek were truly helpless and deserving of pity; I'm a sinner worthy of death. And I dwell on myself to the exclusion of every real good gift, like a massive quantity of explosives simmering before a lighted fuse. As Chad Bird put it in this blogpost among many other fine ones, "Behold, the sin of the world, that takes away the Lamb of God!"

Struggling is not abnormal. Struggling is what we do in this life. But struggling should not excuse the sins that hide behind it. I am angry many times because I think God is unfair to make my life something other than an Emommy awards show, that my service to my children goes unnoticed by most of the world, usually including my children; that my efforts don't merit a paycheck or an impressive job title or an awesome alumni magazine write-up. And my anger is so incredibly sinful, so immeasurably petty and juvenile, because God Himself did for me what I so dimly, blunderingly do for my own children. He loves me first and puts Himself aside. And He did this in His earthly life with the ultimate humility and grace and endless love. And remarkably, He still does love me, the merit-less and worthless, and gives Himself to me still.

And for this I am eternally grateful. And I am reminded, however fleetingly in this frenzied life, that He carries my sorrows, even the silly ones; He was cursed for my transgressions, even from my most terrible hatred down to my most childish anger. Upon Him was laid the chastisement that brings me ultimate peace, and by His stripes, I--with the messy remnants of my pride and sins raining in and on and through me--am healed and cleansed.

Because explosions can be beautiful.

One Thousand--Ahem--Boons

No, really, Sister--thank YOU. Nice hat, too.

Maybe you've heard of or read Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts. It's a beautifully written read--thought-provoking, lyrical, laughter-inducing and certainly tear-inducing. It also, from my obviously Lutheran perspective, ultimately ends up heaping law upon law on Voskamp herself and her readers by concluding that we have to give thanks in all circumstances. Period. So DO IT, good Christians! Always! No excuses! What I began reading with so much hope and delight ended with me slinking back to the library dropbox, wondering what went wrong.

And what went wrong, of course, is that we can't actually give thanks in all circumstances all the time or even act like doing so is some act of penance or some act of works-righteousness contributing to some partnership-with-Jesus contract deal. And since we can't, because we're poor miserable sinners and we generally know it (thanks for this, Adriane!), this book that tries to emphasize the good ends up shackling us with more impossible expectations rather than giving us the Great Thanks-giver Himself. Because ultimately I need to know that Jesus could give thanks all the time because He was God, and Jesus loved me even unto death, and His vicarious atonement isn't conditional on any merit on my part, like giving thanks always. Otherwise His work wouldn't be, well, a something-for-nothing gift. I realize the hyphenated adjective there is superfluous, but it's amazing how many people think of "gift" as more like the beginning of a bartering deal. "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine. By the way, I've got an ingrown hair problem, but you're cool with that, right?" Thanks, but no. I'll take my birthdays and Christmases and back-scratching and Jesus without the sides of conditions. 

All that being said. Here I give you One Thousand Boons, my list of decidedly less--no, significantly less--than one thousand benefits that I* never, ever list when I'm coming up with things I'm thankful for. Enjoy, and go about your blessed life with all of its gifts and boons.

(*or anyone else, unless she's--or he's--crazy or warped. Join, please!)  

• The Friends of Meinders Community Library Annual Book Sale.  
• A room in which to lock myself into for five minutes of privacy. 
• That my belly button isn't in the middle of my head (that would be awkward).
• Angelika, who came up with those last two while 1) yelling at her kids through the locked bathroom door to give her some peace for five minutes and 2) explaining how truly awkward a belly button on the noggin would be. Yes, she's joined. She's actually probably a charter member.
• Accidentally dropped M & Ms under the kitchen table. That I find days later. (Surprise chocolate!)
• Bath salts and a sleep aid. Not used simultaneously but in tandem.
• And a glass of Riesling.
• The flip-down mirror by the passenger seat for mascara-application, hair-fluff-checking, and last-minute blotting of baby-stained clothing. Better than a personal stylist, IMPO.
• Bedtimes. For small children.
• Natch that. Sleeping children. 
• Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, and Sister Carrie. To remind me that my life is actually pretty s-ah-w-eeeeeeeeeet.
• Ear plugs.
• Ice packs.
• Three-packs of kid underwear.
• My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less Than Jesus' Blood and Righteousness. And that's a for-real boon.

Hiccups

When Little Professor was in utero, he often got the hiccups. I'm still mystified by the biological machinations that make this possible, seeing as though he floated in amniotic fluid and received oxygen directly into his bloodstream via God's wondrous creation, the umbilical cord. Yet there he was, maintaining an impressive esophageal rhythm that kept me feeling like my midsection was a strong second-hand on a tightly wound clock. Amazing, yes, but also just plain weird.

Small Dude repeated this feat, and like his oldest brother, has kept up the habit now that he's breathing oxygen through his windpipe. Such a small yet uncomfortable thing. He'll get a bad case that practically lifts him out of the bouncy seat with each hiccup, and I'll simultaneously snicker and sigh in sympathy, thinking of how he's nowhere close to drinking water or standing on his head to remedy his discomfort. But he'll outgrow it, and in the meantime, he'll squirm a little more and scowl and work 'em on out.

We're experiencing hiccups here, too. Some is Normal Family Adaptation to New Baby Mode. This resembles a roller-coaster ride, complete with careening turns, yelling, and a necessity for seat-belts, both literal and emotional. Some of it, though, seems more like a terminal case instead of a momentary change. With the addition of Small Dude, I'm finding the "hiccup" of his transition both routine and predictable as well as precarious and somewhat terrifying. I know the disruptions of newness will fade eventually, as will the sometimes overwhelming events that occur in a household with four children under six years of age. And for now, I'll trust that God will help me embrace all of the changes, their disquieting discomforts with their humorous additions. After all, hiccups often happen after belly-shaking laughter. And He knows our Small Dude--and Little Professor, Superman, and Pearly Girl--are big joy-givers.

Thankful for His times given

Today, I give thanks for many things.

Mostly, I give thanks for my family--my messy, loud, amazing, ever-changing family. 

God knows the worth of what He gives far more than I ever could. 

So, take and use Thy work, 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 

My times be in Thy hand! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

~From "Rabbi Ben Ezra" by Robert Browning

Running the Neatness Marathon: The Help

...who make life's work possible.
BTW, read this book.

Last year I blogged about beginning my years-long dream to declutter. Here we are, thirteen months later, one more baby later, and what do I have to show for it?

To be honest, I'm not finished with the project yet. But however slowly, decluttering has happened in bursts, small jumps, and after long interruptions of illness, travel, and life in general. Ultimately, I've learned that some of the biggest forward-moving parts of this process have involved the help of other people. And I don't mean "help" in a weasel word kind of way; I mean it in a "we couldn't do any of this stuff without the time, physical labor, and generosity of these people" way. We can't maintain God's gifts to us without help from our neighbors. Ooooooh! I'm sensing a wider lesson in all of this. Can you smell, too? (Go ahead. You can grin at my silliness.)

I'll give more details about the Olson family decluttering project later. I think you'll understand, though, if I first give credit where credit is due. So without further ado:

• Let me strike that "I" for a "we." If Papa wasn't on board for this long project, then progress would be infinitesimal at best and, um, negative at worst. What's negative progress, you ask? That would be moving backwards into a dung heap of squalor. It would be decline of the one-step-forward, twelve-steps-back variety. Without him, our floors would remain dirty because he would ignore the mop and vacuum or our children so I could clean. But to his awesome credit, he wields mop, vacuum, OR kid duty. Plus, he jumps in with gusto to our heavy duty declutter projects (i.e. he does most if not all of the heavy-duty physical labor). He initiated the steam-cleaning project, in fact. All this on top of his normal yard/garden/outdoor work--he's hauling leaves right now as I type and feed Small Dude. One word for this amazing husband: swoon!
• Another huge contributor to our project, though she doesn't know it, is my mom. She's visited a couple times this year, always at times where we desperately needed full-time assistance (i.e. after Papa's emergency surgery and after Small Dude was born). While she didn't sit and sort old papers or move furniture or tag items for the yard sale, she did wash dishes, clothes, kids, floors and generally keep our house spic-and-span so that once she was gone we didn't have to recover our house and so we could do other purging projects later. This is one of those small-but-huge gifts. If you get the inherent paradox.
• Then there's Dan, who moved furniture with Papa out of our house for our yard sale and a few things back in, all for a measly plate of sweet treats. I don't know about you, but people who move furniture without major rewards are self-givers of the heroic kind. 
• As are people who gift us their time and energy to watch our children! My friend Devina deserves a shout-out here. She, in her great conscientiousness, heard and remembered my lament last spring on my stalled cleanliness project and in her great kindness offered to take the three older kids (I was still pregnant) for an entire day so I we could clean. Then, when she had to reschedule the original date, she showed up an extra day and took all the kids--including her four--to the park! 
• In that category also there's also Gary and Carmen, who took Little Professor and Superman overnight and for a whole day so that Papa and I could steam-clean the carpets, move furniture, hang pictures on walls that have been bare for years. The same day, the uber-awesome Terri watched Pearly Girl, even when she and Joel had a relative coming to visit. Because of that one night and full day, Papa and I got stuff done that can only happen without little ones around (even hanging frames without pictures in them because if it's going to survive long in this house, as all parents of little tykes know, it cannot. be. on. the. floor. Or anywhere remotely accessible. Which means if Papa and I don't see it, it don't get done). So thanks to these awesome folks' help, we were kidless on that productive day. I mean, except for Small Dude, who was blessedly quiet and only needed feeding when I really, really needed to sit down anyway.

Such help like this is humbling because it reminds me of my inadequacy to do everything myself. Yes, "smart" as I might be, I actually fool myself into thinking far too often that I can actually accomplish everything on my list single-handedly. Which is ridiculously impossible. And so I give thanks for all of these people and their time and efforts, who--whether they knew it or not--were giving us the ability to run the neatness marathon in front of us.

Snips and Snails*

Other than my own suffocatingly slow reflexes when it comes to blogging lately (that's a really lame excuse for an apology for my absence here), we've been moving slower here generally in the Olson household. The temperature outside finally rose above freezing, so we've been lounging and soaking up the sun outside. We've also been sleeping like rocks at night due to all the fresh air time. Last Thursday, I sprained my ankle when I missed a step. I am very thankful that I sustained only a few scrapes, bruises, and a minor sprain, and I'm already moving much faster than I was a few days ago (does sitting on the couch for hours qualify as movement? Please say yes). Baby's complied by kicking me more since Thursday than I've felt yet in this pregnancy.

Anyway, beyond some physical snail-ness (excepting Baby), we've been waiting with patience for today's prenatal ultrasound. Because we found out today that Baby...is...a....

You didn't think I'd just spit it out like that, did you? Patience, patience!

All of us went for the appointment this morning. I asked the sonographer if she would only tell us the gender if she was really sure. I explained we know some recent instances of people finding out their child's gender, only to find out on birth-day that--oops!--Baby isn't a girl but a boy. Or vice-versa. She said she only shares what she's absolutely sure of (don't they all say that?). Then she said she knew what sex our Baby is. At that point I'd been lying on the table with the gel on my belly and Baby's picture up on the monitor for about five seconds. So Papa and I were a bit surprised that she said that. Then we both thought the same thing: that must mean...

Sorry for all these ellipses! At the same time the sonographer continued with her normal measurements and picture-taking (Brain! Heart! Stomach! A-maz-ing!), and we explained to the kids what we could see. "There's Baby's face! Do you see the heart beating? Look at Baby's kicks!" Superman said, "There's the eyes!" while we looked at the brain. We obviously haven't covered any biology yet. Then he said, "It's dark in here. Can we turn up the lights?" I was laughing at all of their comments so much Baby looked like an earthquake was happening. It was awesome.

So the boys were impressed to see Baby. Pearly Girl was impressed by the swivel stool in the room. After a few minutes, Little Professor abruptly told us that he thought Baby was a boy. He's been telling us for months--months!--that Baby was a girl. Surprised, Papa and I talked to him about it for a little bit, and then he or Superman asked the sonographer what she was doing now. She said, "I'm writing that your new baby is a boy." And she did. And he is!

Did you like how I snuck that in there?

Papa and I have been thinking for awhile that Baby is a boy. To have that hunch confirmed was still surprising--I suppose the difference between thinking about winning the lottery and actually winning it. I admit I felt a momentary let-down. We'd both hoped that Pearly Girl would get a sister. But then we both got really excited. A son! A son! Three sons! The sonographer then said, "And he's not shy at all." Boy, was she right. While Pearly Girl was modest to the point of us almost not finding out that she was girl until her birthday, Baby hid nothing in that all-important department. I'll refrain from including a tell-all picture here, but suffice it to say, we saw a little, er, "snip" that told all. :)

The little man was more shy when we saw him in the 3D. But we still got a peek at his face!

When we realized Baby is a boy, we celebrated. Little Professor said he was excited. Papa and I grinned at each other and expressed our joy. Pearly Girl smiled because we all were. But Superman got upset. "I don't want a boy," he kept saying. "I want a girl." He even put his head in his little hands and leaned against the table where I lay. We had to talk to him about how much fun a little brother will be, but he was still pretty despondent. I was surprised because he's never expressed a strong opinion on the subject (while LP stuck with his "sister" guess, Superman would change his mind every day), and his dejection was unexpected. He's a thoughtful one, our S. I don't know if he saw another brother as a competitor or really wanted a little sister so Pearly Girl would have a buddy. I suspect the latter. Superman is very aware of other people and shows an acute conscientiousness for his age (asking open ended questions to adults with no prompting, for example. Then again, he also yells at his brother and pushes his sister on a regular basis). My guess is that over time, Superman will come to love having a younger brother. And before he went to bed tonight, he told us, smiling, that he was excited about his little brother. So he's recovered somewhat.

And we have, too. Every life is a gift, as we've been reminded so clearly in the last day since the tornado in Moore, Oklahoma. Whether we expect what we get or not--and truly, who actually gets exactly what they expect?--God knows what is ultimately good. We give Him thanks for His gifts of life and salvation, comfort and steadfastness, and for our Baby Son.

*The phrase "snips and snails" is taken from an old nursery rhyme entitled "What are Little Boys Made of?" So no real sneaking going on here!

Because sometimes they sit still long enough for me to take their picture

Sometime in the distant future, I'll blog about learning progress this year. But for now, I'm pleased to share that our Little Professor has taken to reading books to Superman and Pearly Girl. Without being asked. And they actually sit and listen to him. I snuck into Pearly Girl's room at the beginning of quiet time and found them this way. I love Pearly Girl's expressions. The boys were totally absorbed in the book. (And oui, oui--that's a French dictionary that Pearly Girl loves to cart around. She's our cultured one.) Here's to many more sibling read-alongs in the future.   

Our Snowy Fun

Early Thursday morning, this is what I saw outside our front door.

And this gave me a blog-relief moment. Why? Because I've been sitting on pictures of the kids in the snow from, well, when it was still officially winter. And now I feel sanctioned to share them. "But--but--but snowfall in April?" you sputter. How about ice and sleet, heavy-dump white clod free-falls when tulips should be popping up in our front mulch bed instead? Ah, no matter. For I can give thanks in this circumstance--that snow, for the second/third/fifth time in two weeks, including just a few hours ago, hath extended my negligence from guilt into comfort. Besides, when life hands you snowstorms in April, they say, make hot chocolate. And it's about time for more hot chocolate, I say.

"Can't we go outside now, Mom? PLEEEEEASE?! Okay. CHEEEEEEEESE!"

 

"Here's my snowball. Can I go back and play now?

Can't...stop....eating...snow... 

C, thinking: What are you doing?!

We all looked! Amazing.

After making his sixth snow angel. Note the white stuff in his ear...and the smile!

"I'm cuuuuuld."

Best buds.

No sledding pics but this one. Papa's got the rest filed in his memory.

Superman, who seemed to prefer this kind of snow-pose.

AND...

Yes, she made it outside to play in the snow! Once!

She loved it.

You can't hear her, but she's humming. Yep, a Minnesota girl.