{my moses basket}

I had always wondered how Baby's Breath flowers earned their name. I now know that it is not because they smell like actual baby's breath; at least not my baby's. Avram's breath usually smells like rotten broccoli.

I walked past a bundle of said flowers in the grocery store the other day, and I think I figured it out. Those little white flowers look exactly like the tiny curdled milk pieces Ave outputs whenever he spits up.

Not sure I find the flowers quite as pretty as I used to.

To be completely honest I have good days and bad days. The good days I am at peace. The good days I can laugh and play all day with Avram. The good days I am a normal, functional human being. The good days I know the Lord is good, I know He is working this all out for good, I know the future will be good.

And then...then there are the bad days.

The bad days, I get mad. I get mad that there are teenage girls, wanting anything but a baby, getting pregnant every day and having perfectly healthy babies. I get mad at the women I see on the train feeding their kids Flaming Hots and Pepsi for breakfast and then telling them to "shut the hell up" every time they try to talk. I get mad at Avram for not walking and talking and solving math problems and playing the harpsichord already, because, come on, give your mother a little assurance already. I get mad at God for giving my baby so many challenges before he even stepped out of my belly and into a world that's scary even with all your ducks in a row. I get mad at Him for not giving us any answers or any way to prepare for the future or even a solid diagnosis, because that's the least He could do if He's going to drop such a bomb in our laps like this. I get mad that I had such a scary and scarring pregnancy and labor that I'm practically terrified to go through it all again. Then I get sad because who knows what kinds of things other kids will same to him in elementary school, and don't even get me started on the dark, evil abyss that is middle school. I get sad because this shunt is something he's going to have the rest of his life, and every time he gets a headache or feels nauseous he's going to worry that it's malfunctioning.

But these are the days that I have to put Ave in the basket and float him down the river. I have to swallow my pride and let go of my death-grip on the controls, and resolve myself to the fact that I cannot save him, or heal him, or always protect him. I have to trust that the Lord is the one guiding the currents of the stream, that He will be the one to see Avram through all the way to the end, that He is the one who has placed the right people along the banks, people who will help and encourage and support and pray for Avram. I have to put him in the basket and let go.

And when I do, the bad days become good days again. And day by day, inch by inch, the good days are outnumbering the bad days. The good days are winning.

{waving the white flag}

Well, I have just about had it with all this baby-schedule crap. This babe has his own schedule, thank you very much (Don't get me wrong, he is a wonderful sleeper. He's already snoozing 6- 7 hours straight at night--"Halle!", as my wonderful friend Missy would say). He definitely has his dad and Uncle Paul's stubbornness.

If you know Jason, this might be hard to believe. If you know my brother, on the other hand, it might not.

When Jason was little and his mom put him in his room for time-out, she had to stand outside & use all her weight to keep the door shut because he would try to get out. When he realized he was barricaded in, he would start chucking toys at the door Rambo-style like they were hand grenades.

When Paul was little and he was spanked, he refused to cry. He would grit his teeth, furrow his brow, and take it like a man. There was no way he was crying on anyone else's terms but his own.

When I was little, if you even looked at me like you were mad, I'd tear up and start to apologize. I am a peace-keeping, people-pleasing, everybody-get-along soul.

Not this tiny dude.

I've been trying to get Ave to be up for an hour and a half, then sleep for an hour and a half. Some days, he's totally game. Then, some days (who am I kidding, it's most days), when I put him down for his nap, he looks up at me and frowns. He doesn't cry: he makes a legitimate, upside-down-U, frown. Bottom lip totally puckered, sad-eyed like a puppy dog.

If I leave him, he enacts his fool-proof master plan of loosening his diaper so he can wet the bed and make me feel like freaking Hitler.

If I pick him up, I swear he won't look me in the face. It's like he's saying, "Well, once you apologize, we can play nice again. But not unless you mean it."

{why i love my husband}

FYI, this post will probably be really confusing if you didn't read the {small bits of light} post, or if you have never heard of this incredibly awful poem. If you found this poem helpful or encouraging, I don't mean to offend. It might have just been bad timing.

Yesterday I was having the crap-hole of crap-hole days. It may or may not have had something to do with the fact that my you-know-what finally started again and I am feeling like a hormonal Attila the Hun, or that I need to have parental control settings on our internet so I don't sit around Googling horror stories about brain abnormalities all day. Or that I haven't slept more than 5 hours at a time in over 2 months. Or that I spend 99% of my day entertaining a 2 month old.

Whatever it was, I was a royal disaster yesterday. As my friend Betsy says, it was a total emotional-wedgie day. When J came home from work, I was somewhere in between irrationally angry and thoroughly depressed.

"What's the matter? Are you thinking about that stupid poem?"

"Yeah. Wait, no. I guess. Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, don't. You know why? Italy was out of the Cup in the first round. The first round. And you know who's going to the finals?"

"No. I need ice cream."

"The Dutch! The Dutch are going to the finals. Who the heck cares about Italy? They can't even get their population to increase, I mean, how hard is that to do? The Dutch are DOMINATING."

And that, ladies & gentlemen, is why I love my husband.

{wednesday morning snippets}

After a much-needed trip back to Fort Wayne to celebrate the Fourth, we are back at home base. While it's nice to have the little mister back in his routine & to not be living out of our suitcase, it is a much more solitary life back in Chicago. 48 hours back and I'm already feeling a little stir crazy. I am seriously considering asking our mail-woman (Is that the PC way to say it? Mail-lady? Mail-mam? Mail-person?) to deliver our mail in small increments throughout the day. It would make life just that much more exciting.

I'm not gonna lie: I'm trying hard to mask my feelings of resentment towards the babe because he doesn't yet have his stuff together enough to go to the movie theater. I am dying to see Toy Story 3. Maybe if we top off his bedtime Bubba with a couple drops of Baby Tylenol he would stay in a euphoric state long enough (Kidding, people. Relax. But really.).

When we first came to check out this apartment for the first time, I immediately realized how much quieter it was than our old apartment. I thought, "YES, no more rap music blasting through cheap speakers at 2am."

Well, I was wrong. Sort of. Mostly only about the rap part.

I suppose I should be grateful that we live in a more culturally diverse neighborhood. Instead of solely TuPac & Beyonce, we now have Toby Keith, Coldplay, ACDC, & mariachi music for our listening pleasure. I guess that's something.

I think my cabin fever led me to terrorize a couple of pre-teen boys last night. It was 10:30pm, and the babe had been down for about an hour after a very sticky, sweaty day. The two of us had just lounged around in our underwear & took soak-breaks in his baby bath tub all day since it was so disgustingly hot. It was so nice to finally have a little break.

Then, right outside our living room window, bottle rockets go off. Mind you, we have no AC & all our windows have to be open. If I had been wearing more clothes, they would have torn into tiny pieces as I morphed into Hulk mode.

"HEY. It's TEN THIRTY and I've got a BABY sleeping.

KNOCK IT OFF."

One of them may or may not have soiled his pants as they took off running down the street.

At first, I let out a faint evil scientist laugh, but then I instantly felt like a cranky old bag. I guess it's payback for when I was 16 and thought it was super cool to drive around with my music blasting at 1am.

This morning, Ave & I took a 7am stroll to the grocery store before the heat wave rolled back in. As we were waiting in line to buy some homemade pizza ingredients, he stirred from his nap and started staring at his feet. For a solid five minutes his big baby-blue eyes just stared down those little butterball feet, as if he was saying to himself, "Holy cats, where did THOSE come from? They are marvelous!"

...maybe I don't mind staying home all day after all.