lions

I've found it! There is a bit of us in Zoralee. Our lion genes are coming through.

The image of a lioness was important to me during my last trimester, when I was envisioning giving birth. She represents unwavering strength, stability, grace, and efficiency. From what I read, a lot of laboring women are helped by imagining or looking at pictures or artwork of certain animals.

When Zoralee was a week old and we were first adjusting to sleep deprivation, I had a dream that Jason and I were riding along in a Jeep over rough back roads, hunting. Then I had an overhead view of the scene and saw a dead lion and lioness in the back of the Jeep. I knew that they were us too. When I awoke (probably within an hour of konking out), I thought about how fitting it was that we were both the hunters and the hunted; we'd put ourselves in this situation, essentially killing ourselves. Ha! Reminds me of a Jerry Seinfeld sketch about his newborn baby. The idea was that babies look innocent, but they're actually a reminder of your own frailty and mortality. "Make no mistake about it - they're here to replace us!"

And now, in her fourth week of life, Zoralee has turned into a regular baby lion! She cries a little less now when she wants something and growls instead. No foolin. In the night, when she's sleeping fitfully, she growls and grunts until she wakes herself enough to cry. We've been thinking it is the influence of Molly the Schnauzer, who growls as her primary communication, no matter her emotion. Could be, but I think there's a little lion in Zoralee too.

Christmas time

Merry Christmas, friends! And happy new year. And happy six days in between.

The holiday thing we looked the most forward to was Zoralee meeting her Aunt Rachel and Uncle Cam. They had actually driven over from Portland for the birth when my waters began leaking in early December, but they had to return home a couple days later, before the delivery, on account of work and responsibilities. So, this was their first, much anticipated, out-of-womb meeting.

All of us kids and the three spouses were home, and we were joined by Cameron's mom, Linda, and Jason's mom, Barbara. The star of the show was our very own Zoralee Rena; it has been quite some time since there has been a baby around. She put forth a veritable plethora of facial expressions and bodily poses, which warranted taking, oh, roughly 4,937 photos. It's kind of sad to see the focus switch so suddenly and thoroughly away from the family's dogs, but Gunther and Molly wore jingle bell collars, and Murray and Peanut wore a Santa beard and an elf costume, respectively, so the cameras were turned on them for at least a few minutes.

* * *

We always read the Christmas story as recorded in the Gospel of Luke before delving into gift opening, and this year I was the reader. New things struck me, having just given birth myself. What a walk or donkey ride that must've been as Mary and Joseph approached Bethlehem, she being very close to delivery. For months ahead, I prepared my surroundings for labor; Mary had to take what was available. In this case, a stable. I was surrounded by family, she by cattle. The image of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes is so fresh to me. I've seen or heard the line a thousand times, but now I have a swaddled baby myself, and I know the feel of her so securely wrapped, so sweetly scented, and in my arms. Mary received visitors, worshippers who knew her babe was special, a gift to the world. I watch my baby receive extra love and attention too, because she's the first of her generation in our family, a symbol of hope, of the continuation of our ways.

* * *

And Mary pondered these things and treasured them in her heart. Me too.

(Jason took this last photo tonight)

* * *

Our Christmas time activities were playing Tripole, Risk, and Scrabble, watching movies, shoveling snow, piling into a borrowed van to tour Christmas light displays on common houses around the Valley (it was a pretty measly showing "in these hard times"), experimenting with having the horses pull sleds, eating seafood chowder and other delights, and passing the baby around.

pouting babies: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em

three strikes

In two days' time last week, we got three self-induced parenting strikes. Fortunately, no one has showed up on our doorstep to declare us out of the game.

Strike One:

Jason, Barb, and Zoralee dropped me off at the salon to get a trim, and then they headed to the coffee shop. Once there, Jason hopped out of the pickup and started walking inside, only to turn around and see his mother still standing by the pickup looking confused. "What's the matter, Ma?" he asked. "Well, aren't we taking the baby inside?" she said. Oh yeah. The baby.

Strike Two:

Last Sunday was such a busy day with church, Heather's birthday lunch, and going to see the completed music studio that Luke has been working on for months (which I'm so proud of him for - he used lots of salvaged materials and free labor from friends in exchange for studio time)...

...that I somehow forgot to change Zoralee's diaper for like EIGHT HOURS. I had a good cry over that one.

Strike Three (the least traumatic):

That same Sunday morning, I had rifled through all her clothes trying to find some type of pants or leggings to go with her purple dress. I don't take matching too seriously, but this dress was given to her by one of our fellow church-goers, so I didn't just want to throw on green striped pants. I couldn't find anything, so eventually we took her with bare legs and an extra blanket. That evening when I finally did change her diaper, I discovered the third strike:

I had laundered the purple dress, put it on Zoralee, and given her a previous diaper changing that day without seeing the panties attached to the inside. What's worse, the dress buttons up the back, so when I initally dressed her, the thing must've been splayed fully open.

Awesome.