november sunset

over my shoulder the cold of autumn
creeps in with clouds
covering chill, clinging
smokey skies at dusk.

fingerholes of sunset peer
through the thickness,
turning leaves burnt rust;
crimson crashing gold and ochre
tumbling from limbs onto
damp,dewy dying grasses.

sun settles herself
beyond the horizon.
clouds catching ever deeper
shades of slate and ash,
blending blues and blushing pinks.
speckled spatter-drops
trickle swiftly from the sky
and usher in the quiet nightfall.

pods

We’d lived near the water for some time when the children were struck with the idea to take a boat out of the harbor, and make a day trip of seeing what there was to see. We’d been to the Aquarium many times; in fact one of our sons maintained that going there for his every birthday was the best present ever – since he was two years old.

We looked up some information and found a relatively inexpensive day trip. It was a new kind of trip though. It was a program run by a local University. The Engineering students created not boats, but “pods,” while the Computer Science techs wrote code and programmed them to follow a specific route. The Marine Biology students mapped out that route and recorded information relevant to life, both plant and animal, that was likely to be seen along the way. Then they let the Marketing students do their work.

We arrived at the University’s “Jump Point,” they called it. We took public transportation in through the downtown area, like we always did. We stood in line and presented our online booking voucher, together with our Aquarium membership card for a deeper discount. As we waited for our pod with other groups of excited people on the covered docks, my nose twitched. It was brief, but I told my husband I would be right back. I stepped out of the shelter into the warm late summer sunshine, faced west, closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I could still smell it. My eyes popped open and I spun around narrowing my eyes, searching the horizon for the source of the smell that hit me like a brick in the hazy, summer heat. My husband gestured at me from our place in line to hurry back. I smelled thunderstorms. Not just regular ones, the storms that turned the skies green. My eyes searched to the skies for any sign of disturbance found a calm sea, bright blue arching up from the grey and dusty blue that stretched before me. My nose was raised in the Midwest, with the rest of me. I knew that smell. Nine times out of ten, I had the windows latched, all the furniture and toys in the back yard stowed, and the kids in the basement before the weather people here cottoned on to the danger and issued a watch. I knew; I don’t know how, I just did.

We discovered that we would have to be broken up into two smaller groups to more evenly distribute the weight of the six of us. I did not like the idea of being sealed into some kind of pod for hours all by myself – with the boys. Or the girls. The students assured me it was safe, taking our family out of line to show us a board of safety features, obviously created to soothe the fears of raging hydrophobes like myself. Daddy took the girls and I took the boys.

The interior of the pod was small, about six feet in diameter, and smelled of new rubber and salt water. The windows went all the way around except in two places; one about a foot wide which was the obvious anchor point for the sealed glass and the other was the curved submarine-like door which hissed as it sealed itself shut. The seats reminded me of classic diner booths; the boys could easily move about the pod and see in virtually any direction at once. I took note of the first aid kit, packets of small paper bags just the right size for puking into, and a tightly sealed bucket bolted to the floor in the center of the little round room. Upon lifting the lid, it became abundantly clear that the thoroughly scrubbed bucket was for the used paper bags.

We lurched sideways – forward –whatever. Five minutes out from the land, I could see the skies to the south of us were churning black. Something didn’t look right in those skies, although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I tried to calm my gnawing stomach by chewing a hole through my left cheek. The boys were still jumping from seat to seat, literally crawling around me in their excitement. The calm voice of the narrator droned on about sea life under the water before maddeningly explaining that we were preparing to dive. Just then the little pod sloshed to a halt and paused. The recording stopped. I held my breath, as if I would have to hold it the whole time we were underwater. It waited a breath longer than I could, then lurched forward again, turning exactly 180 degrees. Back towards the coast.

At first I thought there was a malfunction. Or maybe we didn’t pay for the whole cruise, but I saw all the little black pods shuffling back to the shore all at once. A woman’s voice came over the sound system, not nearly as calm as the recording blathering about sea kelp. “Everyone has been ordered ashore by the Transportation Authority. Stay calm and do not attempt to leave the craft for any reason.” Leave the craft….why? And as I thought those words, as I spoke them aloud at the very instant I thought them, as my head turned south while the words tumbled from my lips, I already knew the answer. Waterspouts. Tornadoes on the water. Oh. My. God. That is what had looked different from so very, very far away. The rain was not just coming down. It was also going up.

I crushed the rising panic hard into my stomach; packed it into some kind of box and locked it down so I could deal with my sons. My younger one, the marine enthusiast, was starting to realize we weren’t going to dive anytime soon, and had already begun his protests. I told them there was a storm and we had to go back to be safe. My older son must have seen through my locked box, seen the panic in my eyes, because he looked directly south and asked in a very small voice if it was a bad storm like from when I was little. I could not answer him. I did not know how bad it would be and I could not lie to him. I scanned the little room once again and discovered a cubby in the seats for life jackets. Just four. That’s why we had to split up into two groups. I prayed my husband wasn’t just sitting there looking out the window and was fastening the girls into the lifejackets as well. I clutched my boys to me and we watched the skies tumble in.

The pod stopped moving at some point, but the water was so choppy we hadn’t noticed exactly when. Three little paper bags had already made their way into the little sealed bucket on the floor and my stomach was contemplating a fourth. I then noticed that we were the only pod left that I could see. That did it. I pressed the panic button – well it was labeled “For Life Emergency Only – Coast Guard.” A red light flashed above our heads on the top of the pod’s exterior, but we could see it reflected off the water and the raindrops trickling down the windows. We waited some more. I wondered where my husband and the girls were. My little son started crying. I closed my eyes on my own tears and cuddled him as close as I could around the bulk of the life jackets. I left my other arm around my other son, who had lain down with his head on my lap. We stared out at sea and waited.

The wind was picking up and I could clearly see two waterspouts to our south. One was far out to sea, but the other was massive and near the coastline. I could see that it was still some distance away, but not knowing the wind speed, nor how far down the coast it actually was, that distance was no comfort to me. The waves around us had little foamy caps on them. I was watching the little crests and humming softly to the boys when we were bumped. I craned my neck and the boys jumped up. There was a tug pushing us to shore. The relief spread from my crown all the way to my feet in one hot instant, and I felt very faint. I slumped down on the floor shoved my head between my knees and breathed. My frightened sons copied my movements, thinking that was what we were supposed to do. I supposed it saved them from thunking their heads against the glass with every nudge from the rescue tug. My stomach emptied once again and the boys made fun of me; at least they were back to normal.

The sight of the Jump Point as our pod turned in sight of land again was the sweetest conglomeration of molded metal, painted steel and spotlights I had ever seen. Bar none. They had trouble opening the seal on the hatch because of the increase in pressure caused by the storm. I screamed into the cracks to stand back – I would kick this door down if I lost both legs doing it. And kick I did. The boys jumped and cheered as I bustled them out of the pod, throwing our life jackets into the arms of the nearest person wearing a University Sweatshirt. A quick scan of the small number of people on the dock showed no other members of my family. Water sprayed into the covered dock from the open sea. The rush of the wind and water was so loud no one could even attempt to tell me where my family had gone, if they had been able to hear me ask. We all struggled against the wind, holding tight to the rails, down the metal stairs into a building. I glanced back over my shoulder some 50 yards to where we’d just been standing and watched our pod get flipped up and out to sea again as if it were merely a loose bottle cap on the side of a busy road. The rescue tug tipped onto its side and the edges of my world bled black, my last fleeting thought for the safety of my girls as well, as the Coastie behind me caught me and rushed the rest of us inside.

**********

and that is when i woke up. i couldn’t breathe. i put my head between my knees and inhaled until my lungs could hold no more. i exhaled slowly and picked at a thread from the bedsheet. the moonlight cast a mournful glow upon the trees outside my window. i stood slowly and made my way to the childrens’ rooms. i sat on each of their beds with them, kissing and holding hands, not waking them. and trying so very hard not to cry.

so no. i can’t go on a cruise yet. i still haven’t gotten over my fear of the water. i still can’t stand the thought of being too far from the land to “make it back” – even without the terror of the uncommon waterspouts. i just can’t.

half-gone

my shift was half gone when i realized that the sun had come up, i hadn't had a break, and i was suddenly starving. good thing i was tapped to go on break just then. and this is just pre-thanksgiving. next week should be REAL fun.

the day was half gone when i woke up from my nap at noon today, ready to get started on everything i have on the calendar for today, after work, that is.

my cold is half gone. well, prolly more than half gone; i'm just feeling tired and headache-y.

my brain cells are half gone because my dear darling dickhead of a husband thinks he's sick too and has decided to bury himself in bed, blaring dream theater's new album from his laptop for hours on end. it was blasting when i arrived home at 11, it was still going when i woke up from my nap at noon, and i imagine it never shut up the whole 2 hours i was at the cookie booth sale. it's still going. i've even shut the office door. i think he just turned it up. call me old, whatever, i listen to my music loud too, just not ALL THE DAMN TIME!!!! moderation is the key.

my patience is half gone, with trying to run a household in a fog half the week, not getting any help from dh or the kids, and the dog begging to be walked 24/7. ok, maybe not that much; maybe 14/7. she doesn't even move at 3:00 when i'm leaving for work. i'm trying to make things work, i just feel run-down and tired all the time and i wish i had a second or third pair of hands sometimes. like now. i need to walk the dog and make dinner, but i'm still freezing from being outside all afternoon and all i wanna do is join everyone else under blankies and veg.

*sigh*

off to make dinner. i guess the dog will wait until dishes are done.

with the onset of the major travel season spiraling towards us, i feel the need to blog about the top things i say daily in my job:

1) are you aware of the restriction on liquids, creams, and gels in carryon luggage aboard the aircraft? if you can pour it, dribble it, squeeze it, smear it, squirt it, gargle it, spray it, or gloop it, it is a restricted item. even if you purchase a bottle of water or juice in the airport, if you are on the outside of the checkpoint with said bottle, it goes in the trash. you can carry containers labeled up to 3.4 fluid ounces, so long as they can ALL fit into a quart size clear plastic zipper bag. we do not provide clear plastic zipper bags at the security checkpoint. they cost about $1.50 for a box of 50. make the investment before arriving at the airport. key word: LABELED. if the toothpaste tube says 8 fluid ounces and there's only 4 squirts of toothpaste left in the tube, it still can't go. period. if it's a 12 oz spray can of olive oil, it can't go. even if it's the uber-expensive proactiv -- facial care products, if the container states more than 3.4 fl oz, it's not getting on my planes. check it under the plane or prepare to toss it out.

2) please take all large electronic items such as CPAP machines, laptops, dvd players, and video game consoles out of their bags – completely out – and put them into a bin on their own. "on their own" means nothing on top, nothing underneath. if you place these items inside a bag or place items on top of them, they will have to be removed from the x-ray machine and re-run, causing a delay for all passengers, not just you.

3) please keep your boarding pass in your hand. your left hand, your right hand, both hands; doesn't really make a difference to me. don't put it in your mouth, please. that's just nasty. i must view your boarding pass before you can enter the secure area of the airport. if you leave it in your coat pocket or bag, someone has to stop the flow of customer traffic and hunt it down for you. keep it on your person.

4) please remove all metal objects from your body before walking through the metal detector. unless your cell phone is made of wood, it is a metal object and it will alarm the metal detector. if your belt buckle is the size of a dinner plate, yes, it will set off the metal detector. some underwire bras, coupled with closed loop bracelets or heavy earrings, will pack enough of a punch to require additional screening after setting off the alarm on the metal detector. my advice? let the boobs sag and pack the jewelry. it's a plane ride, not a fashion show.

5) if you have bags that can zip, buckle, snap, tie, velcro or somehow close themselves, please do not use a bin for these items. likewise, if your bag is so large that it doesn't actually fit into a bin, don't use one. these bags can be placed directly on the conveyor belt, flat on their sides.

6) all outerwear, heavy jackets, sweaters and hoodies must be placed through the x-ray machine. yes, even the babies' favorite stuffed animals and blankies. all footwear must be removed and x-rayed. footwear includes boots, running shoes, slides, mules, slippers, sandals and flip-flops. the conveyor belt is actually much cleaner than the floor - the one you're walking barefooted on because you decided against wearing socks in public for some ungodly reason. people got some smelly feet and you're walking barefoot through all that foot-funk. i suggest slip-on shoes or clogs and socks or those little medical footies.

7) do not attempt to put your child or pet into the x-ray machine because you don't want to "bother them" by removing them from their carseat or carrier. no exceptions. wake them up or book a later flight.

8) do not get special custom wrapping on gifts, hand carry them onto a plane, and then fuss at security when it must be unwrapped and viewed. we unwrap the prezzies as if they were for us. *rip rip tear!* we get so little joy. security is in no way responsible for reimbursing wrapping fees or re-wrapping prezzies at all. if it looks ugly on the x-ray, it will be opened. it doesn't matter what you say is in the box. it will be visually inspected.

9) for heaven's sake, pack light. you don't need a kitchen sink in your carryon. or a fan. or a wii. check it under the plane or ship it via commercial carrier to your final destination. if you think it will take too long to ship, you can most likely live without it for the duration of your trip. most, if not all delays at the security checkpoint can be avoided if you just pack what you will physically NEED on the plane.

these and many more travel tips are available at TSA's website or by looking up your departing and arriving airports for specific local information. this public service announcement has been brought to you by your friendly, neighborhood katerooni, the *fnc.

*i've been dubbed the fucking new chick.

brush

holy.

mother.

of.

socks.

i had to do a double take. then a triple take. i looked around the room. i stared hard into his face to see if i was really seeing this face. he wasn't much taller than me...maybe 5'9". he was wearing the darkened wraparound glasses. his unshaven face and intentionally mussed hair. his casual glance around the room. he was with another dude, well over 6 feet tall, hard edge to his face and wearing a faded blue tee sporting the union jack.

i got three words for you.

larry mullins. bono.

and me without a camera on my fourth day on the job. they noticed that i recognized them. and they noticed that i hadn't started jumping up and down and screaming. they both looked directly into my face as they gathered up their bags, put on their shoes and belts, and walked down the pier to their plane. bono nodded and winked as he turned away.

and me without a camera.

i swore on my grandmother's grave to my supervisor that i had just seen bono. she had a good look at him as he walked away. "a lot of celebrities come through here in early morning, hoping that no one's had enough coffee yet to notice them. it very well could be him. he has a nice face," she added.

and me without a camera. *sob*

un.be.liev.a.ble.

unbelievable.

it started last friday. not a couple of days ago....LAST last friday. yeah. i been busy. from the top, with feeling.

sometimes, the dog doesn't eat her breakfast. for whatever reason, she decides internally that she does not require sustenance at this time and does not eat. inevitably the puking starts about 2 pm. when my oldest had not yet arrived from middle school via her consistently-tardy bus, i tossed the dog in the car for the 1/2 mile trip down the road to the school so i wouldn't have to clean up cold vomit after picking up kids from school. although, in hindsight, as i drove down the road, i really would prefer cold vomit on a hardwood floor than warm sick on the van carpet. oh, yeah, and i forgot a bunch of stuff i needed to give another parent TONIGHT. so i drove around the block to get my stuff and aforementioned daughter had arrived. i dropped off the dog and left to pick up kids. when i returned, a strange woman walked out of my home.

my dog had bolted from the house, had been hit by a car and she and her husband "hoped i didn't mind" that they came in to bring the dog home. holy shit. $450 later, the dog is deemed "sore" by the vet ER doctor and we decline overnight observation (to the tune of an additional $1K.) saturday went a bit better, aside from the fact that the pain meds apparently took away the dog's ability to control her potty functions. we dealt. oh, and my husband bit his tongue. i prescribed a swipe of brandy on a cotton swab.

if you know me even partly well, you might know that i have a little anxiety problem. as in, when i get nervous or upset, my head shuts down everything except the "diarrhea" and "nausea" functions in my body. well, i was nervous AND upset about becoming a member of the working world again, after being barefoot and pregnant for most of the past 10 years. quite nervous.

sunday, i began orientation for my new job with the department of homeland security. please hold your applause until the end of the program. i learned that, not only will my first paycheck not come until 8 november, but i have to shell out money for a parking pass ($33 for the last 2 days of october plus another $33 for november) before i even get that check - oh, and i have to buy clothes too since the uniforms typically take 2 weeks. or longer. and at some point i decided to let a big fat nail puncture one of my tires. joy. now i have to drive the husband's POS car, while he finds someone to repair my tire.

my stomach calmed down by wednesday, but the training is pretty intense. i have been unable to eat breakfast since saturday. i managed to choke something down about lunchtime, to keep from passing out, but it was a rough few days, also taking into consideration that members of this class were subject to the airline restrictions on liquids past the security checkpoint - basically, we had to buy most of our lunches at the airport kiosks...prior to that first paycheck, of course.

we traded cars for a few days to get a check-up for the POS, to discover he has a major transmission leak. yay. meanwhile, my house is deteriorating before my eyes. this must be what it looks like when dh comes home from work and i've been playing on the computer all day. or maybe not. at least he's making dinner from the menu i made, following the recipes and getting the kids to school on time. no one's had a bath all week (because it's not on the list, see) and every night i come home, he tells me more vociferously how much he's glad i've done this part for the past 11 years. he's doing much better than i thought he would. but the fact remains.....he's doing maybe half of what i typically do each day. maybe.

the end of his tongue is now a gargantuan pus-filled glob and he insists that if he puts brandy on it (like i told him to do days ago) it will hurt. well, no shit, sherlock. it hurts because it's killing the germ-nest built there when you bit it and didn't immediately put a cotton swab of brandy over the cut. fucking duh. he walks around the house, acting like he's been hit by a car, taking frequent naps and complaining of the noise. dude has had the house to himself for 4 days, doing next to nothing and he's acting like he's been this powerhouse of activity and just can't stand the thought of one more domestic chore. matter of fact, friday's dishes are still stacked on the counter because i put my ass to bed early last night. and he did too. lightweight.

i am now a bundle of nerves. i am hemorrhaging money this week. and although i have put in 54 hours, we won't see the results of those hours for weeks. today is testing day. tomorrow is my first day "on the job." i went to bed earlier than i had the rest of the week (before 10:00, ladies...) and i woke at 2:30am. and 3:30am. and 4:30am. and 5:22am. the alarm was set to go off at 5:25 so i sat and stretched for a moment, deep calming breaths against the nauseous waves of panic rising in my gut. odd. the radio wasn't on yet. upon closer inspection, the alarm light was blinking. and no sound was coming out. i walked over and checked the volume and got the quiet "shhhhhhhhhhhhh" of radio static. the radio station was off-air. holy mother of socks. if i hadn't awoken 3 minutes early in a panic, i'd have slept late. yay stupid stomach, i guess.

on my way in to my last class today, the check engine light comes on in the POS car. i am only a few miles from my destination and i soldier on, praying that what ever is wrong, the car won't die on me before i hit the employee lot. it didn't. i nervoused my way through three bathroom trips (in three different bathrooms, even!) before the test began at 9am. i later found out that i aced both written portions and scored a 90 on the visual portion. please hold your applause until the end. our class had to finish up some mandatory updates to the curriculum we just passed and in the middle of it all, the entire system crashed. so now we get to come in, on our own time, off the clock, and finish it. more joy.

when i got home early, due to the system crash, i found out that the minivan (which i hadn't gotten to drive all week...i miss my van!!) has a busted rim. yes, i said busted. as in irreparable.  fergus was driving down the freeway and there was a manhole cover missing (on a highway???) and the tire busted and the rim is bent all to hell. yes, in fact, it was the tire we just paid to repair.

so now i have two shit-cars to choose to attempt to get my ass to work by no later than 4 am tomorrow morning. not one place would help us out. no one could help us find a rim, let alone install it, before close of business saturday. and no one is open on sunday.

i think i am going to cry. because hopefully, when i arrive home after my shift around 10am on sunday (and wash the one pair of black pants and one white shirt i own to take the place of the uniform that i won't have for two+ weeks), this ten-day-long-week-from-hell will be over. then we can start creating a new schedule to call "normal."

you can applaud now if you feel the need, or even remember what there was to clap about. i forgot.

Hercules

God help me, the child was sitting on my sciatic nerve. Again. I stood up, shook my leg and walked in a small circle around the waiting room to increase the circulation and tried to perch on the edge of the uncomfortable chair. That hurt worse and made the baby shift. It beat its head into my bladder and stuck one stubborn baby foot under my ribcage and pushed. I waddled up to the nurses station, kicking my leg out to one side again, thinking that I must look like some kind of deranged, plucked and stuffed Thanksgiving turkey.

"Hi, I'm going to pee on the floor here. Can I just pee in the cup and write on it with a Sharpie? Better yet, just look at the records from the past 8 months and the two previous normal pregnancies. Nothing is going on in there that shouldn't. Just write 'ditto'. Trust me. I just need to go. Now."

She took a blank label off of a stack, glaring at the printer out of one eye and me out of the other. I snatched the label out of her hand, as well as the pen, and ran at top speed for a 38-week pregnant woman with one leg. Well, one working leg. I sat down on the toilet, peed in the cup, sealed the jar and for the next five minutes, wrote my entire life history onto a military-issue one-inch by three-inch envelope address label. And then I took another five minutes to finish peeing. I told her I had to go. She was standing there waiting with my label stuck to the edge of her index finger when I got back, almost triumphantly. Whatever.

The appointment went like all appointments did. I peed. They stabbed my arm and wrapped number tapes around my girth. They had no idea when I was due and I had already used my one allowed ultrasound. One week the child was measuring big, the next week they said I had gained too much weight. (Way to go doc, I'm already feeling like a pregnant elephant. Let's play "Make the Hormonal Preggo Lady Cry.") We're all winging it here. Every single one of the doctors who had been assigned to me over the past 8 months had been deployed. I had no idea who was going to deliver this baby. The thought occurred that it might even be me.

We lived 79 miles from the nearest American base with maternity hospital facilities in the United Queendom. That is a two-hour drive on a good day with clear weather and little traffic, meaning NO farm equipment on the roads, and no lorries (tractor trailers) blocking all lanes of traffic going 10 kph to protest the staggering rise in the cost of petrol gasoline. We had used the nearest A&E hospital before, which certainly had a maternity ward and it was a mere 14 miles away. However, since we, and everyone else we knew, left the Accident & Emergency Centre in much worse condition than we arrived, we opted out of the National Health System. We decided that the risks were about equal in delivering a child in the car on the side of the road and delivering a child in a hospital that did not use an autoclave or any other sterilization equipment and had a blood poisoning record that would shock the settlers of this fine country.

So I packed my baby bag. I had the diapers and wipes. I had the gender-neutral homecoming outfits - two of them in fact. I had the freshly laundered baby seat, a new backpack diaper bag, and the receiving blankets that were just for this new little bundle. I packed my overnight bag. I had warm socks, jammies, a stress ball, toiletries, my teddy bear ready at the last instant and sweats for the grueling two-hour ride home. I had my kids go-bags ready. I had some favorite books and toys, a gift for each of them from their new sibling, and a pair of jammies and change of clothes each, in case of a middle-of-the-night or mid-afternoon run. And then I had the delivery bag.

An ER nurse friend of mine helped me assemble what I would need in case of an emergency delivery. I had an ironed sheet, folded and sealed into a zipper bag, likewise a few receiving blankets washed, dried, ironed and zipped up for sterilization. I had a pair of extremely strong scissors that could cut through denim and seatbelts. I had a big silver mixing bowl for fluid capture, washed and placed in a fresh plastic garbage bag. I had an umbilical cord clip for the baby. I had extra blankets and a freshly laundered stock of donated black towels (so they wouldn't stain.) I had flares and a gallon jug of water that had been boiled. I had a book on emergency deliveries with the chapter clearly marked and accessible with a binder clip. All this was carefully packed into a large paper bag and stowed in the trunk, "just in case." On the outside of the paper bag, I had written the on-call OB pager, the American military hospital OB line, and the base police, in case we decided we wanted an escort. I diligently kept my phone charged.

After one exhausting false alarm that began at 3 am in my 38th week, I got sick. Monkey-bad sick. I could not breathe for coughing. I could not cough without peeing. So I basically just walked around wearing wet pads. I kept a change of underwear and pants in the diaper bag, it was that bad. Exactly one week later, I timed the very strong contractions at seven minutes apart when I called the OB ward to tell them we were two hours out. We drove through the fine mist and gathering fog for 2 hours and 20 minutes. I was timing at four minutes by the time we arrived at almost 7 pm and there was a wheelchair waiting for me at the door. I mostly wheezed through my breathing, trying hard not to cough on anyone, but I was surrounded by hospital personnel. I had a temperature of 102 degrees, and I was already exhausted. I don't know what they put into the cocktail flowing into my arm, but the pain started to go away, and my breathing eased for the first time in days. They brought in a nice man with a long name who told me about a fabulous place called "Intrathecal." If I wasn't already married, he'd have been mine.

At 9:50 pm, there was an audible *pop* and the air pressure in the hospital decreased somewhat when I delivered a 9 pound 15 and 3/4 oz baby boy with blond peach fuzz and bright blue eyes. He wanted nothing more than to climb back into that nice warm place away from all the bright lights and cold February fog, and he screamed loud enough to tell the whole base. He was the only blond and by far the biggest baby of the five on the ward, so he quickly earned the nicknames "Hercules" and "Peach Fuzz." He knew my voice from the start. He screamed while they weighed him and I sang his name over the cacophony of instruments and vitals stats being flung about the room. He calmed immediately, but only when he could hear my voice; which prompted me to shush everyone in the room, so I could sing. Hey, I was high. Step off.

My little Hercules is now six and a half, and he is well on his way to success in first grade. He is still blond and his eyes have stayed the same remarkable icy-blue, unlike the other three kids, whose eyes changed before they hit one year. He is still louder than he really needs to be at times. But he is sweet, funny, smelly, handsome, quick to laugh, hard to please, and most of all, he's mine.



inspiration by mommymatter. verbiage by kater.