The roasted (in brick oven) vegetable quesidillas (cooked on brick stove) were really, really good.

We have done a little planting.  We’ve had several dafodills bloom, and the tulips and iris are ready to bust.

In other garden news, an orange bell pepper, orange mint, dill, lemon balm, dill, and chives are in the ground.  The lettuce which over-wintered is going crazy, and some of it tastes like bacon.  I don’t know what it is, because it’s from a mixed lettuce seed packet, and process of elimination hasn’t worked it out yet.  But it’s bacon-lettuce.  Who knew.

In Lucy news, she is fiesty as ever.  Wants to watch a movie every day, and rarely gets to.  But she likes “writing” scribbles and “reading” books she has memorized, or just looking at the pictures.  And she loves the zoo.

In Samantha news, she is getting the last four pesky teeth through.  She is running.  And she has a nice long list of words now, including Da, dog (which also means cat), doll, bowl (which also seems to mean spoon and basket), Papa, Ma, banana (which is sometimes “ba” and sometimes “nana”), ball, no, diaper, book, door, open, hot…those are all that come to mind at the moment.  She has been walking around the house “reading” books out loud over the last couple of days, which is really, really cute.

So that’s the update.  Craig’s working a lot, and I spent the day baking.  Which reminds me, happy St. Joseph’s Day.  Here’s the bread I made:

It’s supposed to look like St. Joseph’s beard.  Judge for yourself.  I also made egg-free chocolate chip cookies (surprisingly delicious, once you make it past the cookie dough that acts like toasted bread crumbs), vegetable broth, two pans of bread pudding, and dinner today.  I wish I could say days like this were the reason I haven’t written in so long, but it’s really been more a combination of distraction and laziness.  So hopefully more interesting things will happen soon for me to share with you, and I’ll feel like sharing it.  In the mean time, here’s a pic of the girls with their friend Cylis to hold you over.

And here’s the card with their lovely description:

“I think it looks like Winnie the poo walking towards the right while holding a stick with a beehive on it, and bees following him.”

This was one where Lucy got her hands on the glue with out supervision…but at least it is appreciated!  Keep the pics coming!

On my hip
is where you belong,
little one.
 
Between these hips you rode
quietly
for nine long
(short) months;
 
Through these hips you passed
Turning that long
(short) night
into morning;

On this hip,
now right,
now left,
you sit watching, learning,
reaching with your short
(long) arms
for what catches your eye.

In my arms,
on my hip,
is where you belong,
little one.

And I should profess again my love for NPR.  Last weekend we were driving to Baton Rouge and happened to hear the music review at the end of the Friday edition of All Things Considered.  Lucy was dancing in her car seat, and I was cracking up.

So apparently Stefan Shepherd‘s review has catapulted the South Carolina band Lunch Money to semi-stardom.  We ordered the CD almost as soon as we got to Baton Rouge.  And I love it.  And Craig doesn’t mind it.  And Lucy dances to it, and is already singing “Are You a Rabbit” around the house.  The lyrics are witty, without sacrificing good vocabulary (reticulated python!).  I love the fun, fast sound that dominates the CD, and the slower and calmer songs just make me happy.

So Samantha is no longer sleeping, so I guess I’m done, but if you are looking for some fun, clean music, check out Lunch Money.  Goodnight all!

I have been musing on the implications of this sudden change for a few days now. Shortly before Samantha was born, I was having a conversation with a friend who is an artist and stay-at-home mom by trade about how now, as her daughter is reaching a year old, she is finally getting back the creative energy which had seemed lacking since the birth. I think we both attributed the difference to the fact that her energy was being spent breastfeeding and raising an infant when her husband is out of town much of the time. But after my experience over the last two weeks, I have started to wonder if there may be another factor in my own lack of creative energy than simple exhaustion.

The birth of our first daughter was not at all what I had expected or prepared for. We went through Bradley classes and were prepared to have an unmedicated and as uninterviened-upon a birth as the local hospitals and birth culture would allow. After twelve hours of labor in the hospital, our doctor realized that he had missed the fact that our daughter was in a breech position, and in a matter of seconds I went from a low risk, unmedicated annoyance to the nursing staff to an automatic C-section. It was devastating, to say the least, despite the fact that we ended up with a beautiful, healthy little girl and no major complications.

I’m not sure that that day was when I lost the creative impetus that I remember having in high school. It could have been earlier, in four years of undergraduate focused on other people’s research, or the year of master’s work when my eyes crossed almost daily from reading so many texts. There was little time for creating for pleasure when I had three or four 12-15 page papers to write each semester.

I should note at some point that the lack of creative feeling was never total. I sewed, sometimes with a vengeance, and throughout college I went out of my way to find and capture beauty with my camera. But I have, for too long I fear, been away from all non-academic expression of the word.

Long history aside, I wondered what could have happened in the last two weeks that would renew my desire to write. Why do I suddenly feel compelled to put words on a page, and why do care so much less what any given reader may think now than I did even a month ago? I’m not sure, but a have a couple of theories.

First, this may be simply pragmatic. I have experienced both ends of the birthing spectrum now, and have a desire to share this experience with others, so that they can share my joy and possibly avoid some of my suffering. What easier way to accomplish this than web publishing, and how else could I reach such a potentially large audience?

Perhaps I have been given a glimpse of how fragile life is and want to leave something behind. Perhaps I am merely hoping, like the ancient Romans, to have my name remembered by later generations, and writing seems like a good way to go about it.

I think it more likely, however, that this demonstrates yet another instance of how power, or an apparent lack thereof, can change a person’s perceptions and actions. When I was rolled into the operating room for Lucy’s birth, I was entirely powerless. Sure, I could have refused to sign the waivers or go through with the C-section. That never crossed my mind. From the moment they said “breech” I felt trapped. My baby was kept away from me for hours. I was physically incapable of even standing up to do anything about it if I had thought to. Bonding was difficult. Breastfeeding was difficult. I had no control over the way my child had come into the world, her first experiences, or how she was treated by the adults around her. It is almost an example of Maslow’s Hierarchy for a Psyc 101 class: when safety is not present, creativity is not a priority and will not be pursued.

The birth of my second daughter somehow seems to have exorcised these demons. I chose exactly how she would come into the world, and we were blessed enough to have a midwife who was supportive and caring and respected our wishes as long as they were reasonable. She did not deliver my baby, nor did she deliver me from my baby and the work of birthing her. She empowered me to birth my own baby exactly as my body directed me to. She allowed me to prove to myself that I am powerful. I have been granted by God the power to bring new life into the world by the amazing, overwhelming working of my body. It is a holy thing to labor, and yes, to suffer, in this work. I am convinced it was sanctifying in some small way. And the awareness of the power of my body to participate in creating something so astonishing as a tiny, helpless child with an immortal soul has surely convinced me that I am capable of creating, even if my medium be something so lowly as mere human words.