Blog Post by Geneva, Age Four

"I love the whole wide world. I have a new slip 'n slide. That's all I'm going to say today. Daddy has a cut on his foot. He put some gauze on it. I couldn't do the monkey bars when I was three, but now I'm four so I can do the monkey bars. The end."

Today my darling oldest child is four. My life as a parent, the ferocious love and sense of purpose I feel as a mother, is also four. Right now Geneva is thinking about what she has accomplished now that she's no longer three-- monkey bars, primarily. But today I'm thinking about where she is going. I don't really have any idea where that will be, to be honest, but I know how she will get there. Feist and passion lead to the monkey bars and beyond.

Happy Birthday, Geneva!

Bum Bum

No, not the Law and Order music.

"Bum bum" is Lavender's ubiquitous word, or maybe I should call it her prototype word. It's the word  from which almost every other word she says is derived. For instance, "pom bum" is pumpkin, "bu' buh" is buckle, and "bom bom" is bottle. Usually. There's a certain amount of fluidity between words, and most of my Lavender Comprehension comes from context. Still, it feels really good to be able to say that my baby daughter speaks and I understand her. I can't describe how dense and inept I feel when I have a child making urgent, repeated requests of me that I cannot for the life of me translate into some form of useable English. I'm sure Lavender would liken the experience to talking to a dog: she asks a question that seems perfectly clear; I cock my head to one side and prick up my ears, or wag my tail and bark. So now, finally, I'm able to make sense of most of what she says. Most of it is "bum bum," and that's just fine. It's better than fine. We're communicating.


Here is a list of Lavender's words that sound almost indistinguishable from "bum bum." For some of them, being on this list makes a lot of sense. For others, I'm dying to see how her brain made that leap, but in the end I'll probably never know.

Buckle
Bottom
Car noise
Spoon
Bottle
Drum
Potty
Pumpkin
Crabapple

My Dear Daughter

Three years ago I gave birth to a daughter, my first ever very own child. I had the surreal experience, on that Tuesday morning, of seeing a face I had never laid eyes on before and knowing it instantly and intimately. From the funny little crease over her nose to the shape of her bottom lip, I recognized her as easily as I recognized my own reflection. She was my girl, more precious to me than thought or heartbeat or breath, and this letter is for her.

Geneva, you have been a self-described "big girl" ever since you could hold up three fingers by pinching your pinkie under your thumb. Sometimes I forget just how young, just how new you still are, because of the challenges you constantly seek for yourself. You are three years old and you put on your own clothes, make your own sandwiches, buckle yourself into your carseat (sometimes), wash your own spills and even post your own mail. I love this about you... but it is not why I love you.

Your flair for self-expression is a source of constant joy and amusement to me-- and I hope it is for you, too. I delight in your complicated stories about the mice you rescue from oncoming trains or the wolves who decide to give up being big and bad. You employ such words and phrases as "parasaurolophus," "conveyor belt," and "moderate your voice." Once you informed me that your doll was real, and that she was made of bones and magic. If you don't know the word for something, it's no trouble for you to simply describe it or give an analogue. I clearly remember that when you didn't have a word for tupperware, you referred to it as "like a tank, or a jam pot." You soak up language wherever you find it, and then transform it into something beautiful and inimitable as you tell us your thoughts on life, the world, and everything. I love this about you... but it is not why I love you.

Although you are certainly an extroverted, outgoing child whom I remind every day-- or possibly every minute-- to slow down and be gentle, you are truly a kind and compassionate person. Beyond your good habits of saying "please" and "thank you," you express unprompted, genuine gratitude for things like interesting books, fresh food and sunny days. It is a rare day indeed that you do not tell me, in a matter-of-fact voice that makes it all the sweeter, "I love you, Mom." And as a big sister I have gotten to see you truly shine. You cheer for Lavender when she tries a new food and often give her tastes of whatever you're having-- even if I announce that she's had enough already. You sound the alarm whenever your little sister gets anywhere near the open front door or a set of stairs. It makes me catch my breath each time I see you hugging, kissing, patting and caressing her, and hear your little voice murmuring "Lavender. Lavender. Lavender." I love this about you... but it is not why I love you. 

You are smart. You are frighteningly smart. You know that bubbles rise in water because they are made of air, that sharks hunt using their sense of smell, that the Earth is part of a solar system of planets, that mixing blue and yellow makes green, and that m-a-p-s spells maps. I think your intelligence shows even more, however, in the things you do not yet know. You want to know why the bad guys in your stories make such poor choices. If I tell you that the metal silver is used in telephones, you want to know what else it is used in. I've all but given up on sugarcoating things for your benefit; you see through the euphemism and circumlocution, then tell me what I should have said: "Oh, so it didn't die because it was old. Someone killed it. That's what happened, Mom." So far in your life, there is nothing so frightening or uncomfortable that you'd rather remain ignorant on the subject. Your curiosity is so natural, and your mind so quick, that I stand in awe of you. You will be much, much smarter than I am by the time you are in your teens and I regard this knowledge with a mixture of terror and pride. I love this about you... but it is not why I love you.

I love you because you are my daughter. 

From the moment you were born and I held you in my arms-- you screaming and pooping, me weeping and grinning-- I have adored you beyond condition. There is not anything that could keep me from loving you, because I cherish you without reason or ration. You are exactly who you are meant to be, and you are mine. And every day since your birth I have found new things to love about you, the girl I have always loved just because.

Happy Birthday, Maya Rose!

Dear Little Maya, 

It has been a joy to watch you grow ever since you were just a bump in the Pioneer Elementary faculty photo. You are stubborn and sweet, gentle and kind, fiercely loyal and fabulously affectionate. Thank you for sharing your beautiful self with my family, for being Geneva's best friend, for tolerating the chaos of the Zoglman house and for bringing a little bit of calm with you wherever you go. Most of all, thank you for being exactly who you are. My gratitude for the simple fact that you are in this world goes beyond words. I hope someday I can explain to you properly how much I love you. Until then, I'll tell you with hugs and kisses.

Mama Maica

Oh, and tell your mom thanks for throwing such a rockin' Third Birthday Party!

Happy Birthday to one of the coolest kids I know!

Feeding Time

Here's a video of me feeding Lavender.

Okay, okay, so she's not actually a baby sulcata tortoise, but I think she and the tortoise would have a lot to talk about. I'm certainly not concerned that Lavender seems to be an inexpert eater-- she's six months old, and nursing round the clock, so eating solid food at this point is purely recreational. But oh, she wants to. She sits in her high chair at mealtimes, smacking her lips imploringly at her chewing, swallowing family members. It's hard not to sympathize.

About a week ago I went on a baby food-making bender, and our freezer is now stocked with enough mashed apple and sweet potato to feed a veritable infant army. We've barely made a dent in our ample supply, because so very little of the food actually makes it into Lavender's stomach. The first hurdle is getting her to open her mouth, which inexplicably clamps shut right about the time I have finished heating a tiny bowl of mushy vittles and am sitting down to feed her. My knee-jerk reaction is to make all sorts of Jim Carey-esque faces, although I'm aware of a small voice in the back of my mind telling me that this has never once caused her to open her mouth. Eventually of her own accord Lavender opens up and I swoop in with the spoon, at which point I encounter the second hurdle: her tiny, ninja-quick hands. Suddenly she has the dexterity of a concert pianist and is hell-bent on inserting that spoon directly into her nose. If I can manage to reclaim the spoon before all of the food has been spilled, then I can proceed to hurdle number three: getting the food to stay in Lavender's mouth. The second the spoon touches her tongue her face contorts in surprise and displeasure; imagine the tragedy mask of ancient Grecian theater. Any puree that made it in comes dribbling right back out again. I proceed to feed her the exact same bite of food about fourteen times, at which point it is indistinguishable from her own saliva and she happily swallows it. Aaaaaaaand scene.

I had forgotten what it was like to feed a baby. My foolish brain edited out the goofy faces, the awkward hand-spoon-mouth angles, the giant, giant messes. My recollection of feeding Geneva is mostly of us scarfing down cream of wheat together out of pretty Christmas dishes. I think I idealized those early meals because, frankly, it got so much more challenging. Next came the Dropping Food on the Floor Phase, the Oh My God, Are You Choking? Phase, the Eating Everything Including Sand Phase, the I Don't Know Which is Worse, Using Your Fork or Not Using Your Fork Phase, the Requesting Every Imaginable Condiment Phase, and Geneva's current Phase: May I Be Excuuuuuuuuuuused? So I know I have my work cut out for me. Lavender may even invent new phases I haven't yet experienced. Then in two years when she's contriving all sorts of excuses to leave the table, I can look back with fondness on the days when, although she stunk at it, she loved sitting at the table and sharing a meal with me one painstaking bite at a time.



Oh look, cream of wheat in Christmas dishes! I'm nothing if not predictable.

I'm including this one only because it fits in with the title of the blog post. Nana was taking a well-earned Christmas Nap when Geneva decided to line up the various components of a plastic sandwich on her sleeping form. Some cruel person (me) decided to photograph rather than intervene.

Birth Story

Here we go! Geneva is asleep in her bunk bed, Lavender is snoozing on my chest, and I'm here in the basement ready at last to write down the story of Lavender's birth. I'm actually really curious about how this tale is going to unfold for a couple of reasons. First of all, I've been getting an average of four hours of sleep over the last two weeks, so my clarity and attention to detail may be... iffy. Secondly, I have requested a copy of my chart from my midwives but haven't yet received it, and I imagine that my recollection of my labor and delivery experience will be quite different from what they documented. I may find out later that what I've written here is inaccurate in some ways. I kind of expect it, actually. As any mother will tell you, labor and delivery are surreal in the extreme. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm okay with being vague or even inaccurate. This is my daughter's birth as I will always remember it, and that makes it real to me.

My due date as I had calculated it-- July 1st, 2011-- was a Friday. I had spent the morning visiting my friend Sylvia and her kids, and aside from one attention-grabbing contraction during our playdate I had not noticed anything that made me think the birth was imminent. Geneva and I came home and spent the rest of the afternoon napping, tidying up and playing with sidewalk chalk. It was just after five o'clock and I had put off making dinner as long as I could. Geneva and I were still chalking up the front walk, and as I bent forward to write on the pavement I felt a weird pop deep inside my gut. I froze for a second, but when nothing else happened I figured I had imagined it. Seconds passed, and then I felt a slight trickle. Not sure if my membranes had ruptured or if I had just lost the last of my bladder control, I collected Geneva and took her with me into the bathroom. After all, my water didn't break with Geneva until I was pushing, so I had no frame of reference. I made it to the bathroom, barely sat down and felt a decidedly non-bladder related whoosh. Feeling very certain now that This Was It, I went to look for my phone to call Avery, but before I could dial, it rang. It was Avery, calling to let me know he was just getting off work. I told him my water had broken and he should come straight home, then hung up so that I could call Kristin, my midwife. I explained to her what had happened and she asked me to call her back if I noticed contractions that were getting very strong or very regular so that she could start making the hour-long drive from Prosser to Yakima. Having called the midwife made the whole thing seem very legit. This was the point at which I remember getting really, really excited.

After getting off the phone with Kristin I found myself basically glued to the toilet for the next fifteen minutes. Having your digestive system "flush" itself at the onset of labor is very common, but I had also started contracting every three minutes and found the bathroom to be a very uncomfortable place in which to labor. Geneva was still with me and was very aware of my discomfort. She kept nuzzling my belly with her face, petting it with her hands and telling me "Mommy, I'll make you happy!" It was downright painful to have a toddler face smashed into my poor contracting tummy, but I couldn't find it in me to ask her to stop. It was just one of the sweetest things I have ever seen. Besides, labor was progressing very quickly, and I was already at the point where I needed someone there to support me. I called the midwife again and told her to cancel her dinner plans.

Between contractions I was able to throw on some comfortable clothes, waddle out to the couch and start a TV show for Geneva to watch. It was just before 5:30 now, less than half an hour since my water had broken. From that time on I was, to a certain extent, in my own little world. While Geneva watched Yo Gabba Gabba, I knelt over the arm of the couch with my head in a basket on the end table. Avery arrived shortly thereafter, followed closely by Ali, Pablo and Maya. I was coherent enough for brief conversation, but I have no idea what was said. I think I suggested that Maya and Geneva play downstairs, because that is where they spent the next couple of hours, watching TV and dancing to music with Ali. Pablo helped Avery set up the birth tub in the living room, and around six o'clock I had to roust myself from my laboring stupor in order to get off the couch and into the water. I found myself wondering if it was worth the effort to even get up. I looked at the clock and moaned in horror, "I've only been doing this for an hour??" It was a bit of a low point for me. Then I got in the tub and, as they say, my hope was restored.

Laboring in the water was-- well, it was still labor, but it was far more manageable. I recognized Kristin's truck pulling up in front of our house around 6:30, and was surprised to note that she and Selma, the midwife in training, were wearing scrubs. It makes absolute sense, of course, but it was a reminder to me that my labor was not only a personal journey but also a medical event. I thought of blood, guts... stitches... and started to feel a little nervous. Still, I was very glad to see them. Avery seized the opportunity to use the bathroom and I told him to "pee like the wind," my super-hilarious way of asking him to hurry back. He did, and then ducked outside to cut me a beautiful bouquet of lavender from our yard. It is currently hanging from our kitchen window, and is something I will treasure until it falls completely apart.

Here is where my timeline gets really fuzzy. My contractions were getting very strong, peaking early, lasting for about four days each (obviously I'm exaggerating a little), and at each peak I would feel a slight urge to push. I don't know if I had sounded calm or collected before this point, but I do know that I started to get loud. Quite loud. I wasn't screaming, mind you, but rather... singing. At least, I was hitting notes. I dealt with each contraction by intoning a note and then trying my hardest to bring it down lower. I also squeezed the bejeezus out of Avery's hands. He would whisper "down, Lavender, down" while I was contracting, and I can't think of anything he could have done better. Those words kept me focused on both the physical task at hand-- bringing my baby down through my body-- and on the bigger, more important goal of labor: meeting Lavender herself.

The midwives were a calm, unobtrusive presence. I only remember Selma checking the baby's heartbeat with the doppler two or three times, and there was never any big fuss made about it. They waited until I was between contractions to interact with me, whether it was to listen to the baby or to offer me sips of water and Gatorade. Though I was thirsty, the thought of swallowing anything made me vaguely nauseous, and I was only able to manage one small gulp after each contraction. They kept the water in the tub warm with pots of boiled water from the stove. I remember loving the sensation of each new pot of water as it was added, and I only got overheated once. At one point I realized that my back had been feeling progressively tighter and tighter to the point of being painful, and I mentioned this to the midwives. Kristin asked if she could check me and I said yes, so she performed a quick internal exam and then suggested that I might be able to get the baby's head into a better position if I stood up in the tub and put one foot up on the edge. I reluctantly did, and was overcome almost immediately by a huge contraction; I literally splashed back down into the water. When it had subsided I stood up again and put the other foot on the edge of the tub. After a moment I sensed that the baby had shifted, and felt a new kind of pressure in my hips. I recognized this feeling from my labor with Geneva: I knew I was fully dilated. "She's coming!" I said, and sank back down into the water.

The urge to push-- the overpowering, overwhelming urge-- came on slowly. I would sense the need to bear down for a few seconds and then it would subside. I didn't fight it, nor did I try to push for longer than I felt compelled to, and I don't recall when I really started to push in earnest. I do, however, remember when I began to experience that peculiar burning sensation that comes as the baby moves into the birth canal. I also remember thinking that this child was trying to float to the top of the water; there seemed to be entirely too much pressure toward the front (top?) of my pelvis, and I actually leaned back in the deluded hope that "aiming" her at the surface would alleviate that pressure. Still only pushing in short bursts, I reached down into the tub with both hands, hoping to feel my baby and guide her out myself, but as she crowned I found it was just a little too much for me to process alone. I couldn't focus on pushing, on catching, and on trying to control the baby's descent to avoid tears. I let go, and became almost completely unaware of my surroundings.

Then suddenly, almost with a pop, her head was out! The joy and relief of that moment, even as dazed as I was, is indescribable. Labor was over! My child was here! Without waiting for any signals from my body I gave another terrific shove to get her shoulders out, and Lavender was born. I have no idea how she got from the water to my arms, and I couldn't tell you who was with me or what they said. I do know Lavender was crying-- screeching, almost--  and that she was a beautiful purpley pink color. She opened her eyes and looked at me down her upturned nose, and I noticed that her eyebrows arched on the outside edges, not in the middle like mine. I was in my own living room next to the fireplace, facing southeast. The light coming in through the window was the soft, filtered light of evening. I looked at my baby and said, "so you're Lavender." That is how I will always remember meeting my second daughter. The time was 7:51pm. I had labored for two hours and forty-five minutes.

There's more to the story, of course. Geneva not only got to meet her little sister, but was allowed to help with the weighing and measuring, and even cut the cord. My mom arrived an hour after Lavender was born, to the extreme delight of both Geneva and me. There were other, less picturesque moments too: wolfing down spinach and mushroom pizza while Kristin showed us the placenta (don't judge me. I was hungry) and receiving stitches more painful than childbirth itself. But these all seem like events that happened in Lavender's life, whereas the birth story marks the beginning of her life. Her birth is also the beginning of our life as a family of four.

And so the Zoglman family adventure chronicles continue, with another cast member so beautiful and beloved that it feels like we've been waiting for her all this time.

One Week

A week after Lavender was born, I spent my first morning home alone with just the girls. It was only for an hour or so, but it felt significant. I wondered if I would be completely overwhelmed, if the kids would be miserable, or some other horrible foreshadowing of my life as a stay-at-home mother of two. I suppose I was being melodramatic; it's hard to keep things in perspective with as little sleep as I'm getting.

We were just fine. Most of the mess was contained in the nursery, where we quickly created what looked like a very happy disaster area. Geneva picked out her own clothing-- a pink diaper and a bike helmet-- and was very proud of herself. Lavender spent her time dozing, nursing, and watching Geneva with an intensity I didn't think newborns could muster. At one point I had G, L and the cat on my lap at the same time (yes, milk got everywhere). I'm still exhausted, still sleep-deprived... but based on that one hour alone with my girls, I think I'll be okay.

Later that evening I took some time to snap a few (hundred) pictures of my littlest girl. She gained almost a full pound during her first week of life, and I don't want to miss this-- tiny, tiny Lavender, before she grows up and takes on the world.

Coming soon: labor and delivery story!

Two Years Ago: a love letter

On June 9th, 2009, Geneva Lynn was born.

Two years ago I didn't know I could nurse while walking. Two years ago I had never had someone else's poop under my fingernails. Two years ago I'd never attempted to make pink horsey pancakes. Two years ago I did not routinely sing or narrate my actions at the grocery store. Two years ago if someone vomited I did not lunge to catch it. Two years ago I said "cocoa" and "milk" instead of "tocoa" and "milkies." Two years ago I could not have understood how much my parents love me, simply because I had never experienced it firsthand.

I get it now. I know what it is to be so fascinated with another human being that you can hardly bear to blink. I know how to love someone in such a weird, fanatical way that even her farts seem precious. I know that there is something fierce living within me now, something that would rise up and make me strong, even terrifying, if my child were ever threatened. I will forever be a better person for having been a mother, and that knowledge makes me adore her all the more.

And how could I not? Even if that primitive part of my brain weren't screaming at me to nourish and protect my offspring, I would still be head over heels for her. I love that she makes jokes by quoting Beatrix Potter at opportune moments. I love how enthusiastic she is about gardening. I love that she voluntarily runs through the sprinkler in fifty degree weather. I am proud of her every day for being such a perceptive, articulate person, and for the kindness she is already learning to show others. No daughter I could have imagined would have turned out half as good as the one I got.

Happy birthday, sweetest Geneva Lynn. Welcome to being two. I love you more than you can ever know... unless you have a daughter of your own someday.

June 9th, 2009

June 9th, 2010

June 9th, 2011

What's the opposite of debunking?

...Bunking, of course! And that's what we did to Geneva's room: we bunked it.

When I was two I helped my daddy put together a bed. I stabbed him in the eye with a screwdriver. Geneva refrained from inflicting injury, and was in fact a very good helper. I, on the other hand, was basically useless during the assembly of this bed. I took pictures of Geneva scattering key pieces of hardware around the room, and I don't think Avery was much amused. I'm glad he's forgiving-- and quite the handyman!


Once the mattresses had been delivered, Monkey Child spent about ninety seconds in the bottom bunk before deciding that the top was, as they say, where it's at. At nights we still require her to sleep on the bottom, but I did take a nap up on top with her once and I can see the appeal. I always wished I had a sister with whom to share a room, and bunk beds figured heavily into that fantasy. I kind of imagined it would be like a non-stop sleepover, or maybe summer camp. Geneva and Lavender will have to report back to me about the reality of room-sharing, but my guess is that like all social endeavors, sharing a small space with another person will come with its ups and downs. My advice to the girls will be this: 1) focus on the ups rather than dwelling on the downs, and 2) sorry Lavender, but Geneva technically has "dibs" on the top.

And so we've successfully transitioned our girl from crib to toddler bed to bunk. I want to say a BIG thank you to Robert and Melba, who provided the bunk frames, and to Geneva for Avery's two functioning eyeballs.