We're Moving!

No, we're not moving houses. We had a family meeting and reviewed our site statistics. Despite the fact that we have very low commenters on this blog (three), we have quite a large readership. We don't mind that you all don't comment. We have an understanding - we provide material, you read. Our relationship to each other is understood. However, we did feel the need to move to a site that we control and we own, so, web developer husband bought us our own domain name for Christmas. You'll now be able to find us at www.fromnorthofhere.com A lot like our current address, just without blogger.

The new site has some new features: a calendar (so you can see how often we post, or you can figure out what today is...), a photo album (so we can put baby photos up), a search feature, a catagories section, and - my own favorite - the posts have the title and then a small description. This way you'll see something like "Not Exactly a Transportation Strike" and the description "We do a 30 minute mile". If that looks like a post you want to read, you click the "more" button. If you think "I really don't care if they are the slowest people in the world" then you don't have to read it.

Some of you may not like the change. Change is good. You will get used to the change. We've moved all posts over and will soon be bringing up the photo album. We hope you will come visit us at our new home and we hope you will invite your friends and family members. Remember to reset your bookmarks to www.fromnorthofhere.com If the blog doesn't work out for us, we can always sell northern-themed knick knacks off the site. We can do what we want, it's a room of our own.

Hope to see you all soon.

Chris, Jolene, Wilson, Reagan & animals.

Christmas Songs by Wilson, Part 2

Tonight at dinner he wanted to sing us a song between the main course and dessert:

"I wish you a Merry Christmas, I wish you a Merry Christmas, I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year" (so far, so good) "Diamonds we bring for you and your skin, diamonds for Christmas and a Happy New Year!"

Well, he can come wish us a Merry Christmas anytime, as long as he's bringing diamonds!

The Waiting Game

Today we had our last sonogram for Reagan. Guess what - still don't know what he/she is. However, Reagan is healthy and that's all we needed to know.

I know some of you think we secretly know and just aren't saying anything. Truly and honestly, we don't have any idea. It really doesn't make any difference. You either get a boy or a girl. If Reagan is a boy we've got all the boy stuff. If Reagan is a girl then we have a boy and a girl at home. What would really be impressive is an ultrasound that would tell me things like sleep patterns, temperment, what kind of teenager Reagan will be... Those things I would love to find out now, but gender doesn't matter so much. Knowing if this kid will be a picky eater, that would be worth finding out.

So we'll all just play the waiting game together. It's just a few more weeks. Reagan will be here before you know it. Then we'll know.

Not Exactly a Transportation Strike...

Chris took Kenneth, Lesley, and kids to the airport this morning for their trip. He left the house before anyone else was up. I woke up, got Wilson up, got us dressed. We watched the news - the coverage of the transportation strike in NYC. I was impressed with the commuters' fortitude. They were walking. "You gotta do what you gotta do" one pedestrian said. That's right I thought.

I was impressed, because we left the house at 7:50. Plenty of time to leisurely drive to work. We stepped out the front door, I shut it behind me and then I noticed there was no car in the driveway. No car on the street either. No transportation. There was a car, tucked safely in the garage, but here's the thing - we have 2 keys to our house, Chris has one (on his way to DFW airport) and Lesley has the other because she used it to feed the pets while we were gone (also on the way to DFW airport). I have a cell phone, I just never carry it with me. So... Weighing our options here:

1. Break in.
2. Go next door and wake up the neighbors.
3. Sit down and hope Chris eventually comes home.
4. Live like the New Yorkers and hoof it.

We start walking. It's not too far and, remembering the news from the day "You gotta do what you gotta do." It's one mile from our house to work. It takes 3 minutes to drive, so, I figure it should only take us 10 to walk it...

My calculations were a little, well, off. The thing is that none of the people featured on the news are in week 33 of a 40 week pregnancy. None of these people had a three year old in tow. He's been sick. I bundle him tight in his coat so all you can see are his dark eyes. In his left hand he is clutching his beloved "doggy with spots" and he's holding my hand with his right. He's doing ok - until we get to the end of our street.

"Let's go home and get the car."

"Can't. It's in the garage and I don't have a key."

"Daddy has a key."

"Daddy's at the airport and he doesn't know we need in. Besides, this is fun. Walking. This is healthy exercise."

"I hate exercise."

We make it to another block.

"You can carry me."

"No, I can't. This is fun. People are doing the same thing in New York right now."

"I need to sit down."

"Just keep going."

We turn north and trudge on.

"That's just great! Now there's mud!"

"It's not mud. That's dirt."

"Mud IS dirt, Mom."

"It's fine. Keep walking."

We head east.

"I'm sick. I should be in bed."

"No, you have allergies. I gave you medicine. It will start working. Besides, walking is healthy. It will keep you from getting sick so much."

"It's just too far. It keeps going and going."

"This is a fun adventure. Just like the people in New York are having."

"I'm going to wait here. You go on ahead."

"I can't leave you here!"

"You go on ahead." He's whining now. He has stopped. He walks to the curb.

"You're coming with me. Let's get going."

"I'm just going to wait here."

"For what?! You're coming with me. You never leave a man behind."

"I can't make it."

We keep going. I distract him by mentioning his class Christmas party. Stewart will be waiting for him. Lucy will be waiting for him. He can't let Stewart and Lucy down - they are waiting for him. We have to keep going.

"Look, I can see the big dome. We're almost there."

"I think we should go home."

"No, we shouldn't. It's farther to go home than go on to school."

"It's too cold out here. I'm sick. I think I'm going to throw up."

"You're not. You're fine. You have allergies."

I coax him the rest of the way, wondering where on earth a three year old learns to be such a quitter. I make a note that we're going to have to work on his disaster and problem solving skills.

I march his royal pessimist into school. I tell him we should be proud. We didn't use any gasoline. We are prepared for any transportation strikes. We are doing what we gotta do. We are survivors. Lucy and Stewart will be proud. There will be cheering and hugs because he has made it, walking to school from our house.

His teacher meets us at the door - "Lucy and Stewart have strep throat. Since Wilson plays with them all the time, you might want to keep an eye on him..." He looks up at me. Only his eyes are showing through the small opening in the coat hood. The eyes are glaring at me. It is 8:15. The three minute, one mile trip has taken this very pregnant woman and sick preschooler nearly thirty minutes... So I waddle and he drags a 30 minute mile.

"I told you I was sick and you didn't listen to me. You made me walk. This is Texas."

He lets me take his coat off and he staggers away to the couch. No hug. No goodbye. No "thanks for not leaving me on the sidewalk." No "thanks for keeping me going and pushing me to the goal"... As I get to my office, Chris calls. If we had just waited at home for 5 minutes, we would have gotten a ride, and we would have gotten to school faster than we actually did. "You gotta do what you gotta do" and sometimes what you gotta do is sit on your rear and wait for the calvary to arrive.

Christmas Songs by Wilson

9 pm - Bathtime. Mom and Boy.

"Mom, I want to sing my favorite Christmas song."
"What's your favorite song?"
"The one about the ducks."
"The Twelve Days of Christmas?"
"No." Frustration building for Boy, "The one about the ducks."
"How does it go?"
"Release all the ducks."
"There's not a Christmas song about ducks getting released."
More frustration - he has a dumb Mom and that would frustrate anyone. He sighs and starts singing:
"Release all the ducks. Release all the ducks. Release all the ducks. Expresso for fifty bucks."

I finally figure out what Christmas song this is (after a long, long time) and I decide to see if my family can figure it out. I call my Mom. I tell her Wilson's favorite Christmas song is "Release All the Ducks." Mom says "Oh, Feliz Navidad?"

Apparently being a dumb mom is not hereditary. Where was she while I was trying to figure out that song for a half hour?!

Because of Fyodor Dostoevsky

8:00 pm December 18, 1999. Baylor University, Miller Chapel. Six years ago. That's sort of the beginning and the ending to the entire story.

I will bring you up on the preface to December 18, 1999. I was to have graduated in December 1998, but I withdrew my name from the graduation list a month before graduation. No, I wasn't failing anything. I took my name off the graduation list because there was a green flyer posted just outside Miller Chapel that said "The Problem of Evil - Spring 1999" and a list of the works to be covered in the class. I saw it - The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky. As a high school student I read the book and it's what had set my mind to majoring in English. I couldn't leave college without reading it in a seminar and my grad school application wasn't going to be reviewed for another semester - my only option was to put graduation off for a year. I ran to the Dean's office and removed my name. The Administrative Assistant asked me why. "They're reading Dostoevsky next semester." She looked at me. The woman asked if I were sure. Yes. Absolutely. Because sometimes you can't let graduation get in the way of your education. "It's your money..." She said as she crossed my name out of the line up.

In addition to Dostoevsky I had to sign up for three other classes to maintain full time status. I will tell you that he was two seats down from me in the only class left open during late registration. I will tell you that I am not a romantic, but he smiled at me and I knew. I never spoke to him. He smiled and I knew. He says I didn't smile back. He says I looked at him and then started talking to some other guy. Maybe. I don't remember that part I just remember a kind, friendly smile and kind eyes.

A few months later we met in the library over a stack of books piled high on a shared table. He was wearing khaki pants and a plaid shirt. It was the last day of February. He asked what I would do after graduation which was a scant 11 weeks off. Grad school. PhD in English Literature. He seemed genuinely interested in my overview an analysis of The Brothers Karamazov.

Long story short - no graduate school for me. No MA. No MFA. No PhD. No dissertation on the correspondence between the works of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Paul Tillich, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and R.S. Thomas. If he hadn't smiled at me that day, if he hadn't seemed so interested in Dostoevsky, if he hadn't signed up for the same class because it was the only other one still open during late registration, there would have been no whirlwind wedding in the chapel where a year earlier a green flyer caught my eye four weeks before graduating. No tiny first apartment. No Wilson. No Reagan. No rental house with unpredictable water and utilities. No mutt dogs who actually validate my compulsion to vacuum everyday. No messes. No excitement. No family of my own. I would have gone on with academia and I wouldn't have known all about Batman, Superman, mutt dogs, Star Wars, seafood, and I would have earned a wall full of framed parchment, but I would have missed out on love and a full, rich life.

The first gift I bought him was a copy of Dostoevsky book in May of 1999. He hasn't read it, but he knows I never really expected him to. It's there on the shelf for Wilson and Reagan to discover one day. They will read the letter I wrote to a young college student who, just 11 weeks before I gave him the book was a stranger at a shared table on the last day of February, 1999. They owe their existences to God and an 1880 book by Russian author whose book ends:
"Well, let's go! And we go like this now, hand in hand."
"And eternally so, all our lives hand in hand!"

Hand in hand. Wouldn't have done it any other way.

America's Next Top (Preschool) Model

The Christmas cards were made. The stamps were on the addressed envelopes. One thing was missing from our annual postal onslaught of Merry Christmases – missing one photo of darling son in Christmas attire.

We dress him up. We explain to him that we are going to go take a few photos of him for the Christmas cards. We promise hot chocolate WITH marshmallows if the photo session comes off without a hitch. No whining. No running around like a maniac. No complaining. Just a quick snap-snap and a few poses for our Christmas cards. He shakes on it. Hot chocolate. Marshmallows. No photo shoot dramatics. The three parties were in total agreement. We head off.

We are not the only parents who have remembered last minute Christmas pictures. The botanical garden is full of children wearing Christmas outfits and uncomfortable shoes. There are mothers and fathers carrying around cameras and light reflectors. I feel better about our photo tardiness. Then, we open his door and get him from his booster seat. And I realized that, unlike the other parents taking photos of children, we are not dealing with a three year old boy. We are dealing with a modeling primadonna.

It was not cold. Not too cold, anyway. I would venture that the temperature was hovering right at 50. He had on winter clothes. It was not cold. He stepped on to the sidewalk and immediately told us, his photographers, “This is too cold to do today.” No, it’s not too cold and it must be done today. It must be done right now, in fact. Just a few pictures, then hot chocolate and marshmallows. “I think it’s too cold.” No, it’s not and if we hurry we can get to the hot chocolate. I think seriously about telling him about what cold REALLY is but decide that comes way too close to those hardship stories my dad used to tell about walking miles to school in the snow, uphill both ways while avoiding the bears...

He follows his father for a few minutes. Chris gets a location and starts to get ready. My job, at this point, is not one of mother, but of “baby wrangler” as they call them in professional child modeling. I have to pose the boy and make him stay put, but keep him happy.

“Actually,” he says with all the embodiment of a supermodel “I don’t like this spot.” What? “I don’t want to stand here.” Do it anyway. Marshmallows on the line. “Are these large marshmallows or small ones?” Large. “Is the hot chocolate instant?” Huh? It’s whatever we have at home. The camera makes clicking noises. He smiles for the photos. Then he frowns. “How many marshmallows do I get? It is actually cold out here.” It depends on how good you are and it’s not cold out here. Really.

Location number two. “What is for dinner?” Chicken. “I don’t want chicken before hot chocolate. I want chocolate and marshmallows before chicken.” More clicking noises on the camera. He begins to jump up and down. We tell him to stop. “It’s freezing out here.” Other parents are looking at us now. Their children sit and smile. Their children cooperate. Ours is negotiating the terms of his contract. Which he has, as I point out, breeched with the photo shoot dramatics and there may not be any marshmallows. Ever. He comes close to telling me he never signed anything and his lawyer never approved the contract. I start to have visions of the three of us on one of those magazines “Child Christmas Card Model Divorces Parents for Breech of Contract”… We hurry through the photo taking. We change locations, renegotiate the contract, I have to keep him covered with a blanket between shots. He tells us he doesn’t like chicken, cold weather, or Christmas cards. And the blanket isn't warm enough. He tells me he will probably get the flu and need a physician. I tell Chris it’s just not worth it. I never want to have his picture taken again. This is unreasonable. The boy is unreasonable. He's demanding.

We view the proofs at home. Out of 200 we have 5 that are decent and show a happy, joyful boy - not a mini supermodel being dramatic. He crawls on my lap and we come to the picture of the two of us. He had refused any more pictures unless I was in the picture with him. There we are, both of us forcing smiles between arguing the terms of the pictures and the marshmallowed chocolate.. “Mom, this one of us is my favorite. You look very pretty. You should have a marshmallow too.”

How does he always know just what to say?

Siblings

Wilson - 3, Reagan - 31 weeks
December 2005 

Name Change

To the Bureau of Motherly Affairs, Name Change Department:

12/9/2005

Dear Office of Motherly Affairs:

I am acknowledging your paperwork, requesting a permanent name change. In February 2002 I received one (1) delivery of 8 lb. 2 oz. baby boy at 6:01 pm. Soon thereafter baby boy began speaking and I became 'mama' or 'mommy'. 'Mommy' has been fine. I have even been completely fine with being introduced as 'Wilson's Mommy'. This title was fine. I am fine with 'Mommy'.

I am accepting a permanent name change from you now for the following reason - slowly after Thanksgiving my son, issued to me in 2002, began replacing 'Mommy' with 'Mom'. I thought this was a phase, introduced to him by noticing that my brother, sister, and I refer to our own mother as 'Mom'. I believed this would pass. It has not.

He has transitioned to this much like he weened himself. It snuck up on me. I have tried correcting this by saying 'Mommy' everytime he says 'Mom'. I have tried ignoring him until he switches back and calls me 'Mommy'. This last technique has completely backfired - instead of switching back to 'Mommy' he escalates to 'Jolene'.

I am not excited about this name change. I have waited many years to be 'Mommy' and somehow he feels I've moved to 'Mom'. Somehow he has gathered that since there is a sibling on the way he must become the "big boy" and he believes this means he can no longer call me 'Mommy'. This has happened entirely too fast for someone who has waited so long to hear 'Mommy' in reference to herself. For one thing, I have a Mom. I have noticed several things that are different between 'Mommy' and 'Mom:

• You snuggle with Mommy. You roll your eyes at Mom when she asks if you want to snuggle.
• You kiss Mommy in front of everyone without hesitation. You pretend like Mom is a stranger so your friends think you gave birth to yourself.
• You pick all sorts of flowers, weeds, grasses for Mommy because she is on your mind. Mom has to hound you down for a 5 second response to "How was your day?"

Basically this all boils down to thinking you need 'Mom' less than you need 'Mommy'. Maybe. Maybe he does need me less than he did a few weeks ago. I would like to file a complaint with your department - you should have allowed me to stay 'Mommy' with this child until the one that is currently in the production process learned to say 'Mommy'. I fear this second child will stay in the 'Mommy' phase for a shorter period of time since there will already be another person in the house giving me the 'Mom' treatment.

Reluctantly I await your permanent change to my name. I am not happy about this. Not happy at all. This was a terrible thing to do to me, 8 months pregnant and at the Holiday Season, no less. I am notifying all of his friends' mommies, and they are aware of the upcoming change. We would boycott, but we have all decided to let them grow, reluctantly. I take solice in knowing that one day he will go from hearing 'Daddy' to 'Dad' and he will understand why I've had a confused, pained look on my face these last few weeks.

On a related topic - why is it the same time I became 'Mom' did his 'daddy' suddenly become 'Your Honor'? I would like to point out here that while his father has sat for jury duty, he has no experience in legal issues - unless it's representing himself in traffic court...

I still think this was a terrible time for you to spring the name change on me. It is, after all, Christmas.

Sincerely,

Wilson's Mom

Wild Thing

Wilson showed up in the living room after his bath tonight. He's been reading "Where the Wild Things Are" every night with me. He shows up in the living room, stark naked, wearing only a pair of SpongeBob Squarepants swimming goggles. He clears his throat:

"Mom?"
"Yes?"

He stands there and pulls his goggles up so they are resting on his forehead now. He holds his left hand straight up in the air.

"Announcing the Wild Rumpus!"

And with that, his wild rumpus did, in fact, ensue. There is a lot of pent-up energy in a boy who did not get playtime outside because of cold weather and ice. We are awaiting the natural end of the wild rumpus. We are hopeful that, like the wintry mix outside, the wild rumpus will soon blow over, he will put on some clothes, and take off the goggles. Until then, we are thankful he announced the rumpus. It was kind of him to give us the "rumpus warning".

Mitten Expert

It got cold here. Fast. Saturday it was nearly 90 degrees outside, today it is sleeting and the natives are driving like maniacs on the snow, preparing for the Armageddon that is a "wintry mix" in Texas.

To prepare for freezing temperatures I took Will out last night to buy mittens. He needs mittens on the playground. As he puts it, you can't swing with your hands in your pockets. He's right. We are at the store in the mitten section which has obviously been hit and ravaged by panicking North Texas mommies who heeded the prediction a day in advance. By the time we get to the mitten section there are 5 pairs left and only two choices in color. He picks red. The blue would have matched his coat better, but he picked red. Whatever. It's not like he's going to wear these more than 10 times this season, I promise. Later he will be using them for boxing gloves I assure you so he might as well pick something he likes.

We buy mittens and get in the car on the way home. He has to wear them, of course. I unhook them and pass each mitten back. Soon sounds of mitten frustration reach the front seat. He's gotten one mitten on but can't put the other hand in the mitten because the mitten-clad hand is of no use to pull it up. He gives up. I encourage him that it can be done. He's close to ultimate 3 year old frustration. Chris tells him to wait until we get home. Meltdown approaches. I turn around and show him that your teeth are not just for eating, they are for putting on the second mitten too.

Will and Chris look at me like I've just suggested the most moronic idea ever uttered. I nod and tell Wilson I know what I'm talking about. He uses his teeth. Viola! Two mittens on hands. Chris rolled his eyes at me. Wilson looks at his mittens in amazement.

"Mommy, you are so smart. You're the smartest mommy ever. You are so smart with mittens, Mommy."

I see the inscription now on my tomb - "She knew all about mittens."

First Days In St. Louis.

Will and Adison playing outside.

Me and my boy. 

Nathan and Adison. 

Poppy and Adison. 

Will and Amber. 

The Science Center

The whole reason we went was to see the life-sized dinosaur exhibit. It's all Will talked about. Then we got there and he wouldn't go near it.

He's convinced it's going to eat him. 

The boys performing laser surgery. 

Checking our heart rate. 

How you grow. 

Wilson monitoring traffic over I-40. 

The Magic House Trip

Chris playing with electricity.

Learning how the check out works. 

Chris and Wilson with the water guns. 

Christy and Adison in the ball pool. 

So they all want to see how the static ball thing works and they elected me. Fine - if Reagan comes out with some static sensitivity issues, the Magic House staff did assure me this would not harm him/her. 

Mom's turn. 

Christy and Adison's turn 

Hmmm, their hair isn't working. 

Thanksgiving

Clean up crew.

The man and his turkey. Just so you know, he eats as he carves. 

Us - ready for the turkey. 

Christmas Party

Amber and Adison

Nate, Christy, and Adison