Santa's Magic

Let me begin by saying, Patrick (my younger brother) and I were those geeky kids who pledged their loyalty to Santa long after they knew in their heart of hearts that he had a bit of help from Mom and Dad. Each year, we were completely swept up in the magic of Christmas. Right after Thanksgiving, we would faithfully write our letters to the North Pole all the while defending Santa's good name to the know-it-all 6th graders by confidently pointing out the famous "Yes, Virgina There is a Santa Claus" entry in the encyclopedia. On Christmas Eve, we struggled not to burst with sheer excitement and joy as we wiled away the hours until time for bed. After dark, we'd turn on the radio to hear the Norad Santa tracker update us on the jolly old man's whereabouts. And finally, before heading up to bed, we'd carefully put out cookies and milk for Santa and veggies for the reindeer. No fear of us trying to spy on Santa. We knew good and well that kids who sneak down to get a peek only got coal in their stockings!

Christmas mornings were always full of more presents that we could ever imagine. We'd rush down the stairs after waking Mom and Dad. It was always such fun to see if Santa had eaten all of his cookies. Usually, he could only manage a bite or two and a sip of milk. Patrick and I would nod our heads knowingly. Santa must've been stuffed--after all, he had eaten millions of cookies by the time he came to the Englert household.

There's nothing quite like those wonder-filled days of Christmas past. As much as we often try as adults to recreate the magic, it's never quite the same.

This morning, we decided to take Lucy for her first visit to see jolly old St. Nick. Of course by the time we got to the mall, the queue of hyper kids and stressed moms was already forming. Mothers were frantically putting bows in hair, squeezing unwilling daughters into pantyhose, and cleaning off mouths all in preparation for the most important appointment of the year: those two minutes on Santa's lap.

I could feel my anxiety rising as Lucy happily looked around taking in the sights, smells (a Great American Cookie Company kiosk next Santa's house=marketing genius), and sounds. Just a bit longer I kept silently chanting, my fingers crossed that she'd be smiling once we got to the front of the queue.

And then, my anxiety melted away as I glimpsed one particulary cherubic little boy sitting on Santa's lap. This little towhead, dressed in his Sunday best, peered up at Santa in wide-eyed adoration. Though I couldn't hear their conversation, as Santa spoke to him, the little boy snuggled closer and laid his little head on Santa's shoulder. My eyes filled with tears. Just for a fleeting moment, it was Christmas Eve. Patrick and I were cuddled on the couch, taking one last look at the Sears' Wish Book, dreaming of morning.

Of course, I quickly regained my composure. Before I knew it, it was Lucy's turn to sit on old Chris Cringle's knee. All fear I had of her crying vanished as soon as Santa took her into his arms. "How old is she," Santa asked as Lucy looked around, wide-eyed. "She's four months," I replied. "That's just great. What a special Christmas this will be with your precious Lucy," he said. "You have a very Merry Christmas."

Thanks, Santa. Merry Christmas to you too!

--Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.-http://www.newseum.org/yesvirginia/

How (NOT) to Win the Father of the Year Award or Lucy's $600 Birth Video by Jamie

Well folks, we just got our six-hundred-dollar baby video back and boy am I happy. I know what you are thinking. I can hear you all now, “What these fools paid that kind of money for a birthing video, did they have a crew in there or something?” Oh no, let me clarify something here. I paid $600.00 for a non-professional birth video. One that I actually made with the camera I sold my “never played” Nintendo Wii to get after Emmy the not-quite-a-champion greyhound decided to eat the other small video camera we had. Do I have you interested now?

Let me start by reminding you what I do for a living--I'm an IT professional. It's my job to fix other people's computer mess-ups. Folks, this IT professional is an idiot! We all know we live in this nice new digital age. The cost of video cameras that shoot digitally have plummeted. We purchased ours, as I mentioned already, for the cost of one Wii and some change. I wanted this particular model specifically for the convenience that led me down the road to paying to get something that was already mine back. At this point, I am struggling to not go into some overly rambling technical spew of buzzwords so let me insert below the text I sent some friends after I made one of the largest mistakes of the century.

Subject: Step-by-step, how to win the new dad of the year award.
1. Purchase sd flash camera to use for video recording of the baby’s birth and subsequent various activities.
2. Make sure the memory card is large enough to make you lax in moving things off the camera for backup or archival to dvd.
3. Wait until your wife asks you to let your friends borrow said camera to make a video for their grandpa’s bday to send back to Utah.
4. Take camera upstairs and look for somewhere to move data off to so they can snag it.
5. Find out that you have so much stuff on disk that you only have one place to put it in short order.
6. You place said files from camera onto less than year old Seagate 400gig drive.
7. The copy is uneventful and no errors present. Files are there to be edited later on the mac mini for placement on a proper dvd etc.
8. A few days later fire up the drive to at least back these files up to a dvd or another disk you’ve found to be on the “safe” side.
9. Have the worst feeling ever as your gut sinks and you realize the drive is dead.
10. Realize you suck because you have now lost the only video you have of your first kid being born.
11. This step is optional (and could be delayed until when the wife asks to watch the footage again): It’s where you tell your wife and she goes !@#&^&* on you and beats you down like the sorry sack that you are. (Actual excerpt from email sent to friends...)

So as you hopefully can surmise, I made a big booboo. I broke the number one rule of keeping any important data safe. ALWAYS have more than one copy at any given time. I broke my own rule and it stunk in a major way. By taking the footage off of the camera so that it could be borrowed and placing a single copy, on a single external disk I was practically inviting good ole Murphy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murphy%27s_law) to come by and pay us a visit. He lives here anyway so it wasn’t a long trip.

Hard drives fail folks. Let me say it again just to make sure we all heard it. HARD DRIVES FAIL. It’s not if, it’s WHEN. If there is anything that is really special to you all out there that only exists in a single place and especially if that single place has moving parts (hard drive). Back it up now, or use a thumbdrive to move it to your significant other’s laptop. Do something, anything, just get those special pictures, videos, etc whatever into more than one place. Heck, I mean while we’re on the subject, let’s introduce a little of what they call in the business “geographic diversity”, that is to make your other copy exist somewhere away from you. This way if something happens to you house (fire, theft) etc that you don’t lose your main and your backup copy of your memories. Have that backup DVD sent to grandmas for safe keeping, or check out some of the numerous online backup firms, they are not that expensive for the peace of mind.

John at hddsavers.com of Florida was absolutely awesome in helping us get the data back. I would have saved a little bit of money had I not wasted many many many hours using some software( great software but i should have just sent this away from the beginning for the sake of time and sanity) until nothing at all would work and the drive finally gave up the ghost. John was able to open the drive up in his cleanroom facilities and do some parts swapping with a donor drive to get it wake up long enough to get the much needed files off. He placed the recovered data on a new external drive and shipped it up to us (keeping a copy until we confirmed we had recieved ours, in case the USPS had a visit from Murphy as well.

Needless to say, my wallet is much lighter now, but I have something back that was irreplacable--watching the miracle of our lives--Lucy--being born.

Lucy's First "Real" Trip to the Doctor's Office

Up until this point in Lucy's 4 months, she's only ever had to go to the doctor for well visits. Luckily, she hasn't been sick (knocking on proverbial wood as I type this) so we've been able to avoid the doctor's office. Today, we made our first trip. Ironically, the visit wasn't so much for Lucy as it was for me.

Most would describe our little Luce as a good baby. For the most part, she's easy-going and happy. She smiles at just about anyone she sees, and she loves meeting new people. However, last Monday began a string of trying days in which our usually smiling baby became a quite the little crier. Unfortunately, Lucy's unexplained crying phase coincided with her first Thanksgiving while her Uncle Patrick, Aunt Amy, Grandpa and Lisa were visiting. Each day, Lucy cried from the time she woke up until the time she went to sleep with a few moments of interaction inbetween. We began to worry. Is she teething? Is it gas? Maybe she's fighting sleep. Perhaps she's too hot. Maybe she's too cold. Is she just bored? Could she have an ear infection?

Finally, after another night of minimal sleep, I made a doctor's appointment this morning. Jamie dropped Lucy off at daycare, and I fully expected to get a call from them about her "fussiness." However, the morning went by with no call. When I walked in to pick her up, Lo and Behold there was Miss Fussy Pants (Jamie's new nickname for her) sitting at the table, watching her teachers, looking around, and smiling. When she saw me, she looked at me and flashed her little sideways grin, with her peacock hair standing straight up. "Has she cried a lot?" I asked. "No, not at all," they said. I packed her up in wonder and headed to the doctor's office with Lucy cooing happily from the backseat.

At the doctor's office, Lucy grinned for the nurse while she weighed her (she's 16 weeks and weighs about 12 lbs. 14 ounces). When Dr. Song came in and asked me to describe Lucy's problems, I could feel my cheeks growing red as I tried to explain her days of crying and our worries about acid reflux, teething, gas, constipation, ear aches, and more. As she examined Lucy, our little bundle of fussiness became the model baby. She dazzled Dr. Song with her bright eyes and smile, prompting Dr. Song to say, "Wow, she's such a laid-back baby." Oh, if only Dr. Song could've been at our house over Thanksgiving...

A few minutes later, we were on our way home with Lucy snoozing happily in the backseat.

What We Must Teach Our Children...

Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again ... And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work - we must all work - to make the world worthy of its children.-- Pablo Casals

While surfing the web tonight when I should've been asleep, I came across this quote, and it really resonated, especially in light of all of the tragedy in India and around the world. Our children are gifts--miracles. They are born full of possibility, innocent beings with an unlimited capacity to love. Somewhere along the way, we as adults, teach them hatred. We shatter their beautiful spirits. We focus so much of our attention on providing for our children's comfort. We spend millions of dollars as a nation on baby wipe warmers and bumbos and bedding. We make sure our children go to the best schools and strive to protect them from harm. Yet it seems that we spend little time protecting their innocence, their spirit. When I look at Lucy, I am awed by the endless possiblities for her. I want to provide her with every opportunity to achieve her dreams. But most of all, I want to sustain her innocence, her belief in good, and in the beauty of humankind. I don't want her to judge another on the basis of skin, or religion, or culture. I want her to know that she IS a marvel and never want to harm another. Perhaps I'm overly sentimental tonight as I sit in the quiet after my Thanksgiving guests have left. But when I look at my precious little girl who has finally fallen asleep, I am almost overwhelmed with love and hope. And I pray each day that I can help to make the world worthy of Lucy and all of its children.

Lucy Elf's First Christmas

Ever since baby Lucy was born, we've always lovingly called her our little elf. During a recent trip to Barnes&Noble, Jamie and I found out that Lucy really is an elf--she's on the cover of a book! Actually, we were out for the first time without our Lucy. In celebration of our 3rd wedding anniversary, we went to dinner at Saffron's (love some Indian food...) and then decided to walk around the book store. The whole time, though we enjoyed each other's company, we couldn't help but feel a bit fractured. When we went to the back to browse in the kid's section, we came across a fun little book called "Baby Elf's Christmas." Both of us laughed as we realized that the elf on the front was a spitting image of our daughter. Of course we had to buy it. But just seeing the cover of the book made us eager to get back home to our baby girl. We've already read it to Lucy several times, and she seems quite enthralled. Do you see the resemblance????

Daddy Time

Lucy is her Daddy's girl. One of her favorite things to do is sit in her Daddy's arms, pacifier in mouth, and watch tv. Not just any tv show--she only likes things her Daddy watches. We first discovered her affinity for all things "Jamie" when she was being particularly fussy one night after dinner. Jamie sat down in the recliner and, much to my chagrin, turned on a recorded episode of the British car show "Top Gear." I grumbled, but stopped complaining when I looked over and noticed Lucy intently staring at the screen. Jamie gave me a triumphant look. "That's my girl," he said. I couldn't help but smile. A few days later, she enjoyed a great episode of "Wasted Spaces," a total snooze of a show for me, but fascinating for Jamie as it involves lots of woodwork and building. This picture, from earlier today, is Lucy doing what she loves best--snuggling with her daddy watching a "man show."

Confessions of a Paranoid Mom

I've tried to fight it, but I've lost the battle. I'm that obsessive-compulsive, paranoid mother from the sitcom re-runs. It all started innocently enough--with a single sheet of paper. Each day, Lucy's teachers send home a document letting us know when she ate, was changed, etc. Standard reporting procedures for daycares across the country. No problem...good information for parents to know. But at the bottom of the page is one little line that says "Something to make you smile." The first few days of school, and occasionally since then, Lucy had comments like "Lucy is a joy" or "Lucy had a great day today. She loved watching the bears on the swing." Yes, I know that to most people these comments wouldn't mean a whole lot. But to a mother who fights guilt each time she drops off her baby girl, they are like little pearls of affirmation that she's not permanently damaging her daughter.

As the weeks have gone by, the comments have grown scarce. Now those who know me probably disagree, but I do like to think of myself as a semi-rational being. I realize that taking care of a classroom of infants doesn't leave a lot of time for Lucy's wonderful teachers (they call themselves the Grandmother brigade and really are great) to write extra comments on each baby's sheet. But when another mother came in to pick up her little one, looked at his sheet, and exclaimed, "Oh, how cute. Thomas loved the excersaucer!" I couldn't help but feel a stab of envy. The white glared extra bright on Lucy's paper. She had no comment. Of course I called Jamie to give him this news. "I think they don't like her," I said, fighting back tears. You can imagine his response. I blamed my hormones and let it go. Yet though I tried to ignore that little nagging voice, I couldn't.

My insecurity was worsened on Friday when I picked Lucy up. "Just get her sheet off the counter hon," they told me. Lucy's was on the bottom. As I went through page after page, I noticed that each of them had a fun little comment. I found out that Owen loved his peas and Brandon laughed out loud on the activity mat. My excitement grew as I wondered what Lucy had done that day. And then I got to hers. Blank space. No comment. The little nagging voice grew stronger.

Finally, my paranoia reached its climax on Monday. When I went in to get Lucy, her afternoon teachers mentioned that they had made art projects for Thanksgiving. You're probably wondering what sort of art project a 3 month can old do, but it's actually quite cute. When I was leaving, I peeked into Lucy's morning classroom and saw several of the little turkeys with each child's tiny handprints making up the turkey's feathers. I couldn't wait to see Lucy's. And then I noticed one sad little turkey down on the bottom. This turkey only had one feather. And rather than a feather, it was more like a little balled up fist. Alas, whose name was on the bottom? Lucy Copeland.

The nagging voice became a scream. "They don't like her," I told Jamie as I got into the car. "She never has comments on her sheet and her art project was the only one that wasn't finished." What could he say? How can you rationalize with a crazy, OCD new mom?

As I got angrier and found myself comtemplating going to Target, getting paints, re-doing the picture and taking into the daycare to replace Lucy's current one, I realized that I'd completely lost my mind!

No, Lucy doesn't usually have anything written on her sheet, but she sleeps from the time she's dropped off until the time I pick her up. Doesn't leave a lot of time for interaction. As for the turkey art project, Lucy doesn't like people messing with her hands. In fact, I have to give her teachers credit for even getting a little balled fist print from our sleeping beauty in the first place.

I don't know about lessons learned here other than the fact that I'm crazy and paranoid. I found a strange comfort though when telling Patrick this story and he remarked that he'd heard another lady complaining to her husband that she was afraid their infant son's teachers didn't like him. Patrick said to me, "I rolled my eyes and thought to myself that she was ridiculous. And you are too." Gotta love a sibling's honesty.

For now, I can't wait to add Lucy's first art project, a sad little turkey, to her baby book.

Our little techno girl

Over the past few weeks, Miss Lucy has really begun to "talk" more and more. Jamie's convinced that he has taught her to say "uh-oh." I think his determination may stem from the fact that "uh-oh" was one of his first words. Now, Lucy talks to us when she's happy, when she's excited, and especially when she's displeased. On our way into daycare this morning, she chatted the entire way. She's never too happy when I have to wake her up in the morning and drag her out into the cold, fall air.

I took this video clip last week. She adores her bouncer seat. You can see her excitment as she kicks her feet and waves her arms. I'm afraid she's going to have Jamie's affinity for all things technical and shiny!!

Most Babies are Born Bald for Good Reason

Wherever we go, people stop us to comment on Lucy's hair. Since I see her all of the time, I forget that most babies don't come into this world looking like they're wearing a wig. Other mothers wistfully stare at the little bows in Lucy's hair. One even told me about using toothpaste to keep her daughter's bow in. And yes, at times like these, I feel lucky, special even.

You see, MY munchkin always stands out in a crowd. Each day when I walk through the door of daycare, it's easy to spot her among the other precious baldies. I'll usually spy her shock of dark brown hair right away, and I always feel as if I could burst with joy.

Yesterday, when I walked into Lucy's room, I looked around and immediately the phrase "One of these Things is not Like the Others" came to mind. I spotted Lucy and yes she stood out among the other babies. But for different reasons--MY little precious bundle was the ONLY baby in the classroom with socks on her hands.

When she realized I was there to get her, she looked over at me, attempting to put her little sock hands in her mouth. For an instant, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Her teacher looked at me with hesitation and even a bit of fear as she said, "We had to put socks on her hands to keep her from pulling her hair. She's got a strong grip." I don't know if they thought I would be angry or if they thought I would accuse them of some strange form of baby punishment. Really, I just wondered why I hadn't thought of that brilliant idea myself.

Now, I'm feeling confused. Do I invest in more socks in order to color coordinate Lucy's outfits? What rules of fashion apply? Should socks on both hands and feet match? Should I coordinate the color of the hand socks to her shirt and the foot socks to her pants? Is it still considered a fashion faux pas if the white socks you're wearing with black pants are on your hands rather than your feet? So many questions, yet so little has been written about hand sock fashion sensibilities.

The moral of my story? For all you mothers who wish your babies had more hair: be glad you only have to worry about what sticky substance you're going to use to get that little bow to stay in and not how to color coordinate your infant's hand and foot socks. :-)

Not a Fan of the Lobster

Before having Lucy, I was a smug single. I'd visit restaurants with various friends and enjoy my quiet dinners. If by some chance there happened to be a wailing child sitting in the vicinity, my disdain was evident. What nerve did THOSE people have ruining MY dinner? Last weekend, I became THOSE people.

Our Saturday started off pleasant enough. We drove up toward the mountains to a tiny little place called Pumpkintown for their annual fall festival. The drive was gorgeous. Lucy slept and continued to sleep as we strolled her around. She even slept through the annual pole-climbing contest, which basically involves a bunch of people attempting to climb up a crisco-greased utility pole to grab a flag--but I digress.

As we headed home, I suddenly felt the urge to "Set My Sails for Kingfish." But sadly, the only Kingfish restaurants are a good 400 miles away. Instead, I told Jamie I'd like to go to Red Lobster for dinner. Lucy sat in her carseat smiling and looking around while we waited for a table.

Soon enough we were seated. That's when things took a turn---a bad, bad turn. We'd been sitting for less than 5 minutes when the first whimpers began. I quickly offered Lucy her pacifier. Immediately, she looked at me, gagged, and spit it right back out. Her whimpers became louder, and the squirming began. Maybe she just needs her diaper changed, I thought. I ordered my food and then whisked her off to the bathroom. I wasn't too concerned. We'd been out to eat many times, and she'd always been perfectly pleasant.

I got back to my seat, planning to rock my little furry-headed angel until she drifted to sleep. But as soon as I sat down, what were once whimpers became loud cries. My face getting hot as others at the tables around us shot us subtle glances, I tried my litany of calming techniques. But nothing worked. My mind began to race:

Ok, I'll feed her, I thought. I can handle it. I'm armed with my cover-up. So what if this restaurant is right next door to a bastion of modesty? I'm a modern woman. We live in a free society. If I want to feed my daughter, damn it, I should be able to. It's perfectly natural.

I tried desperately to maneuver myself into place. Yet Lucy's cries became wails. And as I fumbled to offer her what she wanted, I looked up to find a very large and very unpleasant looking man staring at me. Forget it, I said. I scooped my screaming baby up and made the walk of shame out of the restaurant.

But an odd thing happened. As soon as we crossed the threshhold to freedom, Lucy stopped crying. By the time we got to the car, Lucy was looking around smiling. I fed her and eagerly anticipated going back in to finally eat.

Walking back into the restaurant, everyone marveled at the sweet little sleeping baby. I put my little pumpkin back into her carseat and began to eat my food which had gotten cold. For the record, tepid shrimp scampi isn't so tasty. Less than a minute after sitting down, Lucy's eyes opened. She scanned the room, took note of her surroundings, furrowed her brow, and immediately let out a wail. Just get the check! I told Jamie. We've got to get out of here!

We hurriedly packed up and made the walk of shame once again. Yet as soon as we crossed the magic line into the night air, Lucy stopped crying. This time, before we even made it to our car, she was sleeping soundly, which she continued to do for the next few hours.

Now, some may say that we just had a case of a baby fighting sleep. But I disagree. My theory? Red Lobster is some sort of portal into newborn baby hell. One thingI do know for sure: there will be no Red Lobster in our foreseeable future.

Memories of Starlight

Looking back on childhood, some of my fondest memories are of my mom taking my brother Patrick and I to Huber's Farm in Starlight, Indiana. Though I know we went during other times of the year, it's those autumn visits that were the most fun.

Back then, going to Huber's was a big deal. We would pack up the car and head out on what seemed an endless road trip. Winding around the mountainous roads, Patrick and I would work to find creative ways to kill the time-sometimes by picking on each other!

As kids, Huber's offered a feast for the senses. We would gorge ourselves on cheese, summer sausage, tart apples, and homemade pumpkin ice cream. We were perfectly content feeding crusty bread crumbs to the fish down at the pond while waiting for the next hayride to take us out into the fields to pick pumpkins (We usually didn't buy one. "I'm not paying Huber's prices for the same pumpkins the farmer down the street charges less than half for!" my Nanny was particularly fond of saying). After the hayride, we would make our way into the old-fashioned market. After being out in the chill, autum-in-Indiana air, the warmth of the market and scent of freshly baked apple fritters enveloped us. Mom would give us $5 each, and we'd peruse the store picking out $.10 candy sticks for grandaddy, a jar or two of apple butter, and a gallon of Huber's famous apple cider. The day was complete only when we were sufficiently stuffed, happy, and ready for a nap.

Last weekend, I went to Huber's again, only this time I was the parent taking my child. As we headed over to Huber's, I couldn't help but notice how quickly the trip went by. What used to seem like hours was merely 30 minutes. Those "mountains" I remembered from childhood, while still impressive in height for the Midwest, were nothing more than hills.

Pulling into Huber's grassy parking lot, my excitment grew. Yet as I looked around, I felt my heart would break. An intense yearning for my mom took my breath away. How much I wished she could be there with us. That she could meet Lucy and hold her and cover her with kisses. I wanted her to be with us as we took pictures of Lucy on the pumpkins, as we savored our ice cream out in the crisp autumn air. I wanted her to push Lucy in the stroller down by the lake and hold her in her lap on a hayride out into the pumpkin fields.

It's funny how motherhood changes you. How many times did I hear "You'll never understand until you're a mother?" And now I do. As we walked around Huber's making new memories, I thought about mom and how she must've loved watching our glee as kids at Huber's. And I thought about how difficult it must've been for her to know that she would have to say goodbye.

Nothing Sweeter

Yesterday, after a long, stressful 10 hours of work, Jamie stumbled home tired and deflated. He came through the front door with his usual greeting to the dogs and made his way into the kitchen where I was managing to put together salads while balancing Lucy in one arm. "How was work?" I asked, knowing full well what his answer would be. "Busy..." he responded, hardly audible. Suddenly, I felt a stab of guilt. Though being at home with Lucy can be tiring and even trying during times of extreme fussiness, spending hours cuddling my sweet little pumpkin is priceless. I thought of the contrast between my day and Jamie's day. While I nibble on little baby toes and lose myself in our daughter's slate blue-gray eyes, Jamie spends his time solving network problems. And while I'm confident in my connection with our baby, in the past few weeks as he's come home from work later and later, I know he has questioned whether or not Lucy even knows he's her dad. But all of that changed in one indescribably beautiful moment last night. When he bent down to kiss her head, he said "Hey little girl, daddy missed you so much today." But instead of looking past him, Lucy looked him in the eyes and smiled. Not the little half smile of newborns--this smile lit up her entire face as she stared into her dad's eyes. And she continued to smile as her dad scooped her up into his arms, saying, "You really do know I'm your daddy. That makes my day." Suddenly, all of the stress melted away and for the first time in the weeks since Lucy came, Jamie could soak up every ounce of the joy of being a dad.

Giving Into the Dreaded "P" Word

As an inherently guilt-ridden person, I should have known that parenthood would bring about a whole new meaning to the word. Yesterday, after three days of watching Lucy attempt to force her little balled up fist into her mouth, listening as she made loud sucking sounds, and cringing in pain as my little "barracuda nurser" spent hours upon hours comfort nursing, I finally gave in to the dreaded "P" word. After what seemed to be a particularly dramatic crying spell, Jamie had taken our little raven-haired beauty upstairs in an attempt to soothe her. When the house became strangely quiet, I made my way upstairs to the bedroom only to find my husband lying on his back with Lucy vigorously sucking on his pinkie. In a moment mixed with desperation, frustration, a bit of disgust mixed with horror, and overwhelming guilt, I tore open the various packages of silicon goodness and popped the first of these objects into her mouth. Suddenly there was blessed silence--immediately followed by gagging, crying, and more gagging. For a moment, the guilt was crushing. As I reached down to cradle my little soprano whose voice is often at its finest at 4 am, I decided to give it another try. I reached for the next selection, this one sporting a fashionable turquoise trim and gingerly tickled her lips. To my absolute, albeit guilty, delight, the silence was golden. The three of us lay in bed for the next hour, Jamie watching old episodes of Heroes on his laptop, Lucy laying in between us contently watching her daddy, and me watching as my little one happily sucked on her Pacifier. At long last, I had given in.

Some musings on time...

Before Lucy arrived, everyone always told me to treasure each and every second of time with her because children grow up before you know it. And though I feel foolish saying this, yesterday I cried when I realized how quickly my two-week-old is already growing up. Yes, perhaps it's the hormones, but when I went to change Lucy's diaper and saw that her little dried (and a bit disgusting) umbilical cord had finally fallen off, I started crying. Yes, I know I'm being a bit dramatic. I mean, Lucy is only two weeks old. I still have plenty of time to savor each and every little toothless yawn and grin while she's sleeping. But seeing her cord come off, I realized just how precious this time is. On Saturday, she'll be three week's old. Before I know it, it'll be time for me to go back to work and then the time will really begin to fly. It's ironic that during my pregnancy, I couldn't wait for time to pass. I would mark each passing day on my calendar, silently urging them by. Now, I find myself willing time to slow down. I suppose all I can do is savor each and every precious moment with my little girl and not feel guilty for letting the dishes sit in the sink as the dustballs accumulate on the floor. The hours upon hours I sit in the recliner holding Lucy and staring into her eyes aren't wasted time. After all, as T.S. Eliot once wrote, "Time you enjoyed wasting is not wasted time." And I've thoroughly enjoyed "wasting" each and every second!

Baby's first Target trip awwww

Oh my goodness. The little lady isn't even a week old yet and she's been indoctrinated into the goodness that is Target.

Mom was a little worried about taking the little lady out but I think she'll be OK. We only let two homeless men hold her so she should be fine and free of disease for now. One of the men had a bit of an oozing sore but he assured me the folks at the free-clinic said it was nothing. He was nice enough so I figured what the heck.

Mom, a self-confessed Target-Fiend(tm) shed a tear as her little shopper-to-be crossed that magical threshold near the dollar items.

We're so proud.

In all seriousness, today was the second time we've taken her out because, well, we were getting a little stir crazy here in the house. Being the google-freak that I am, I tried to find opinions online for when it's ok for a proper trip out with a newly birthed earthling. And of course, since it's the Internet every whackjob out there can publish info (I'm not being elitist and excluding myself here :-) ). The info I found online ran the gammut from 6 weeks, to people talking about going to a Phish concert on the way home from the hospital (sweet).

So today Lucy got to meet her Great Grandpa Copeland down at the family hardware store in Clinton, SC and also spent some time with my own dad and my niece Lexie who was just about as sweet as she could be today.

Oh, and she went to Target.

-Jamie

New Pics! Jen will write a proper post for this later!

Lucy Adair Copeland has arrived! 9lbs 2oz and a nice 22" long

Not to mention a BREEZE of a 14 inch head that can traverse a birth canal with ease... NOT!

Luckily mom is A-OK and we are just loving up this little girl. I am in somewhat of a zombie state right now but I thought I'd upload a couple of pics to share for those of you out there who may be waiting on them.

Thanks for all the well-wishes!!

-Jamie

12+ hours and no baby so far...

Hi Everyone,

Just wanted to give a quick-update for those of you that may be keeping an eye on the blog here.
We initially were told to be here at the hospital at 6:30 this morning and then we checked in and were told that they were full and to wait til about 10. So we did, and when we arrived things still seemed a bit full. We did finally get checked in and such at what seemed to be closer to noon. To top it all off, we have no window, which Jennifer is none to thrilled about.

Not long after we got settled the Oxytocin started, then a bit later the Doctor came in and went ahead and broke her water. After this the contractions got a bit stronger than the mom to be cared for. After a bit of percieved resistance (which, I mean hey they told us, theyd give it whenever we wanted) Jennifer got the epidural (which was one of the scariest times in my life to see this happening, which yes I know this is routine and all but eh they were sticking a rather large needle into my wife's spine). Jennifer is now much much much more comfortable and as I am finishing up this post I just heard the nurse say she's at about 6cm dilated.

Looks like she's not going to be born on 8/8/08 after all.

More details to come! Keep those fingers crossed.

-Jamie

Fun little comic I've had in my cube for a while now

As part of my test to prove to my wife that I can indeed complete a blog-post and upload an image (so I can share fresh baby pics as she recovers) I decided to share this little XKCD comic.
If you like this one check out some others at http://www.xkcd.com.

-Jamie

The Surreal Life

Well...the big day has come and gone. Baby C still shows no signs of appearing anytime soon. Surprisingly, I'm not as frustrated as I thought I might be. Actually, it all seems a bit surreal. Consciously, I know that we'll be parents in just a few days, but my mind can't quite process the gravity of this reality. Believe it or not, I sometimes forget that I'm pregnant...that is until I feel Baby C moving around or I cry out in pain after hitting my stomach against various household objects including refrigerator doors, dresser drawers, etc. Sometimes one does not realize how far her stomach protrudes. :-)

BUT, we do have some exciting news. IF Baby C doesn't decide to make an appearance sooner, we are scheduled to be induced Friday morning at 6:30. Exciting, yet scary prospect. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers. Jamie is cool and collected right now, but I'm sure he'll freak out once Friday is here. We'll keep you posted. Hopefully we'll have some photos to upload this weekend! Love to you all...

Still Waiting...

A friend (and mother of four precious little chickens) recently told me that the last month of pregnancy is longer than the previous 8. She wasn't kidding. The past four weeks have been the slowest of my life. It's not that I'm physically uncomfortable. In fact, I have to admit that this whole pregnancy business hasn't been
as bad as I had feared. I've been really fortunate overall. What I hadn't anticipated, however, was the mental/emotional toll these last few weeks of waiting would take. Every time I feel a kick or a squirm, I wonder, "Is this it?" Of course I know that true labor pains can't be ignored, but maybe it's the hope of Baby C's arrival that keeps me constantly wondering if the slightest twitch might signal her impending debut in our lives. Though I don't like to admit my "control-freak" tendencies, when faced with something I have absolutely no control over, I'm slowly going a bit insane! I suppose there's nothing to do but wait patiently. I'll continue devouring books (the latest--a 700 page novel on Marie Antoinette finished in less than a week), obsessively straighten the house, and continue to drive my poor husband insane. And maybe, just maybe, Baby C will be here just when I least expect it.