Two brothers

Two brothers. One date. One born--one died.

To the one who lives, God bless you. Your steadfastness in pressing forward, engaging in a good work is an inspiration. You have in your life: badgered me, annoyed me, praised me, allowed me to wear your t-shirts (a great privilege, I know), pushed my buttons, and tried to make me into a better person (etcetera, etcetera, and so forth). In watching you, I have seen what it is to be never-wavering, to be patient, and to persevere despite overwhelming odds. I love you more than I can possibly express.

To the one who died, God bless us all. The hole left in our hearts and lives through your absence, though softened by time, is a reminder that this life is short, and we are all in the hands of the Master. It is a reminder that Jesus Christ is a master craftsman who specializes in mending broken hearts. It is a reminder that because of and through His atonement, all good things are possible. Like one day, putting our arms around each other again. I miss you, but I am grateful for the sometimes still-sharp edges of the hole you left. It makes me remember what is important and what is not. I love you, little brother.

We shared dinner with the missionaries today (pork carnitas and Mexican rice, in case you were wondering. Delicious? So I'm told. I spent most of dinner feeding the three-month old, so I don't know from personal experience.)

One of the missionaries in a moment of "fun" called me Mom. It's official. I'm old.

Right Brain/Left Brain Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots Edition

My right brain and my left brain are at war. Ms. Right Brain loves to create things, to paint and draw and get crazy. Ms. Left Brain totally supports that, but wants to Make a Plan, and have a Purpose and a Time Limit. Since Ms. Left Brain has all the verbal gifts of the pair, she can go off for a while on those things. And she carries a clipboard and likes to check everything off. It's probably inevitable, but most of the time Ms. Right Brain just gets bored and leaves. And then what?

Note to self: have Ms. Left Brain make a list and go buy art supplies. And then invite her to take a nap.

Why not . . .

put toy cars in the microwave?

push the couch up to the bookcase in a dastardly plot to steal the Hamster?

dump out the dual purpose stool/garbage cans in order to open any door handle that isn't quite reachable?

cover the baby's head with green I-foam?

Hurricane Vilate and I hold hands a lot these days, since she goes everywhere that I go. It's sweet to be able to hold hands and do things together. And it's safer for the baby if Vilate never leaves my sight. But I think she's on to me . . .

A Few More Details

Star date, March 2010: I visit Prague with my husband, a romantic trip with just the two of us (and the currently non-hurricane Vilate). It's idyllic. I eat something called cabbage with three meats at a restaurant (note: I do not recommend this.) and begin to feel like my insides are being turned inside out. I become intimately familiar with every public WC in Prague center. After three days of this, my nausea begins to have a familiar feel to it. I am in denial.


Star date, May 2010: We cruise from New York to Southampton. Pregnant people are not supposed to cruise without a note from their doctors. I have no such note, since my insurance has conspired against me. I could only see a doctor in the DC region, but I haven't been there since March. The nausea remains unconfirmed as anything specific, and I am happy to leave it that way for the present. There are too many other things to stress about.

Star date, June 2010: What do you know, we ARE pregnant! 17 weeks--and it's a boy! This news, for some reason, is very poignant to me.



Star date, September 2010: I become an enormous slug-like creature. Walking is difficult, since my hips are all out of joint. The only place I can comfortably move around is in the pool.



Star date, October 2010: I am enormous. The size of my stomach makes my rear end look small. Which it's not.





Star date, November 14 2010: I am resigned to being overdue by two weeks, although my due date is three days in the future. I wake up in the middle of the night with extreme heartburn and nausea, and realize that my underwear are mysteriously wet. I alert my husband, and we both go back to sleep. When I get out of bed at a decent time, water gushes all over the floor. I shower, wash my hair, finish packing, and we take the kids to church where they can participate in the primary program and meet up with their assigned families.



The branch president gives us a ride to the hospital in his Mercedes. I nicely arrange my towel on the front seat, and pray not to make a mess. At the hospital, everyone speaks Czech, so they all speak to my husband (slugs don't speak Czech) and after I am monitored (in a room with several other women, who are all dressed in skimpy long t-shirts) I am put in my own room. The contractions still haven't really started, but they're coming . . .

I note that all of the uniforms for the hospital are thin white cotton. I am not sure whether or not the dark thong that everyone seems to be wearing is part of the uniform or not.


I take a long shower, and now the contractions have started. I use some Hypnobabies techniques to get myself under control, but I have a charlie horse of some sort in the bottom right-hand part of my uterus. This is not fun.

I finally get a light epidural (I can still feel the charlie horse), take a short nap, and then it's time to push. The baby comes out with his hand over his face, screaming and hollering. His shoulders are stuck, and his feet are running back and forth under my skin. I push again, Alan cuts the cord, and at some point the newborn grabs the scissors, and we have to take them away.


He is measured metrically, but I'll translate: 8 lbs, 14 oz; 20 inches long.

His name is Ammon Matthias. He has a dimple, and I have caught a hint of a mischievous little smile that promises interesting things for the future. He is absolutely precious.

What I did last weekend . . .

There is too much. Let me sum up.

Westley: Who are you? Are we enemies? Why am I on this wall? Where is Buttercup?
Inigo Montoya: Let me 'splain.
[pause]
Inigo Montoya: No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Buttercup is marry' Humperdinck in a little less than half an hour. So all we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal the princess, make our escape... after I kill Count Rugen.
Westley: That doesn't leave much time for dilly-dallying.

So:

1. From Kirtland, Ohio we went to New York. We ate hot dogs, saw the Statue of Liberty, and rode in the Ferris Wheel at Toys R Us. I did not see my aunt--which I regret deeply.

2. We cruised from New York to Southampton. No one fell off the boat and drowned. We did empty our supply of Children's Tylenol as everyone took turns with a mysterious fever. I wore two formal dresses and two different pairs of formal shoes. The black ones hurt--the brown ones looked fabulous. (Darn Ann Klein!)

3. From Southampton to London to Prague. A two-hour plane ride. In which we are convinced that the cruise was not a luxury. (You know what's fun? To be in the only row of seats on the plane where everyone is cheering for the take-off. The enthusiasm and excitement just put a smile on your face. It's just when all that enthusiasm and greased lightning-speed start trying to explore the rest of the plane . . .)

4. Prague. In which we buy a $250 lamp from the Marriott, (In all fairness, they provided the pens and left them out in an accessible place), move into our home, and attempt shopping for eight. On public transportation.

5. More Prague. In which I discover the beauty of Ordering Groceries Online, and my children discover the fun water fountain in the bathroom. (Who knew a bidet could be so versatile?)

6. Adjustments, discovery, myriads of small trips, and lots of swimming. (It's nice to have a pool. There, there, little luxury . . .)

7. A trip to Kyiv, Ukraine. Good times. (Did you know that nine people can fit in a small sedan taxi if most of them are quite small? Did you know a taxi driver's face could freeze in the exact same expression your grandma warned you about?)

8. And school starts. The three oldest started at Czech school today. After all of my anxiety and worry, it was amazingly restful and peaceful to play with the three little ones and read stories.

And maybe, eventually, there will be more detail. Let me know if there's anything you are particularly interested in knowing more about (Czech hospitals for example, don't seem to have the same hygienic or professional dress standards as US hospitals. That might be an interesting story . . .)