Resolutions

New Year's Resolutions intrigue me.  Not because I like making them, and not because they produce any lasting change.

Here's my theory: people always have time for what they truly value.  If you truly love reading, you will find time to read.  If you truly value baking, then you will find time to bake (I don't, so I won't).  I've found that even the busiest of people have time for their special pleasure. 

When someone says, "I would really like to do x, but I just don't have time for it," then I know that they don't really want to do it.  They just want me to think they want to do it.

Recently someone saw me reading a book and said, "You're so lucky that you have time to read. I just don't have that kind of time."  It's true that I am blessed with large amounts of time right now (although now that Kekoa is more distractible while eating, I find that time slipping away!).  But this same person is nearly constantly posting on Facebook.  Surely 15 of those minutes could have been used on a book?  -unless of course, she didn't actually want to read a book, but felt that she needed to make an excuse. 

The same goes for New Year's Resolutions: they reveal what people think they should value.

For example: Joe says that his resolution is to lose weight and eat healthier.  That tells me that he thinks he should value his health.  But he doesn't actually value his health.  If he actually valued his health, then it wouldn't be a resolution so much as a way of life.  Our deepest priorities have a tendency of becoming a part of us - if you have to mechanically perform the motions, then you don't really care about it.  Self-discipline only takes you so far.

Do you want to make a resolution that will stick this year?  Your behavior will change when your beliefs and priorities do.  And it will have nothing to do with the new year. 
 
So anyway.  Resolutions are kind of treated as a joke in our culture.  But I find them far more telling.  They are the indicators of what our culture is and what we think we ought to be.

Perhaps more importantly, they indicate what we never will be.

Half a Year

Dear loyal fans of yours truly,

You are quite lucky to get a post from me commemorating the advent of my six month birthday - after all, it requires that I take time away from trying to get at the wrapping paper under the tree.  You're welcome.

This has been a great month for me because there's a lot of paper lying around.  I love eating paper.  If it hadn't been for eating paper, Mommy might not have noticed my new tooth at all when she was fishing pieces out of my mouth.



Helping Mommy wrap.

 
I've been especially helpful in Christmas preparations as Mommy's little helper.  These days, I'm a big fan of Mommy.

Oh I'm sorry, did I say big fan? That doesn't quite capture it. These days, I'm a IF MOMMY DOESN'T WALK INTO THE ROOM RIGHT NOW I'M GOING TO DIE fan of Mommy. It's fun. I'm working on scaring off every babysitter within a fifty-five mile radius.

Another way I scare off babysitters is by being a very busy little boy.  I like to practice standing.  I am pretty excited to get my busy little hands on more of the world. Must. touch. all. the. things.  

This month I also learned how to express my preferences with my voice.  I can pick which book to read, which page to stay on the longest, when I want to be picked up (always.  I shouldn't have to express this one.  It should be assumed.), and when I want to drink from Mommy's water bottle.

Speaking of Mommy's water bottle, Mommy got tired of sharing her water and gave me my own sippy cup.  I love it!  I can hold it and drink out of it all by myself.  Sometimes I don't want to stop drinking from it, but I don't want any more water, so I just let it dribble out of my mouth.

I heard Mommy tell Daddy that this new stage of communication has been delightful, because she's getting to know me as a person instead of a passive observer.  But do not be deceived: it's been a cold hard road for me.  One day I expressed my preference to read Good Night, Spot for the tenth time instead of taking a nap - and Mommy said no.

In fact, she told me that contrary to my opinion, I was not the center of the universe and my wish was not her command! 

Surely, Grandma, you can see that Mommy clearly does not understand the universe.  You know that the world revolves around me.  Please contact her and correct her misconceptions ASAP.

Six Months

[ed. note: this shot may have done me in.  He got so anxious to hold the camera that he flung Kekoa teddy off his back and somehow managed to inch forward.  NOT. READY.]

 

I hope you all have a Merry Christmas - thanks for all the wrapping paper!

Love,

Kekoa



[ed. note, part 2: all sleep deprivation, center-of-the-universe comments, and kidding aside, this really has been a delightful month.  We are sooo enjoying getting to know Kekoa as a human being with likes, dislikes, and a great big personality.  Instead of stimulating Kekoa, we now get to interact with him, and it's so. much. fun.  We are loving his giggles and smiles and excitement and the stubborn will power he puts into achieving new milestones.]

Don't Mind Me, I'm Just a Little Crazy

This month, all the work we've done toward correcting our sleep debt from the first two months of Kekoa's life was erased. Kaput.  It all started with an innocent introduction:

But ended in angry red splotches all over Kekoa's neck, arms, and torso:

It looks like a self-portrait, doesn't it?  That's one talented baby. 

The result is that our darling little boy started napping in 15-30 minute increments and waking up every 45-60 minutes at night with the itchies.

And then!  As if that wasn't enough to produce some eye-rubbing, he started teething.  We didn't even notice until the first tooth cut because we just assumed the fussiness was due to the rash (so much for parent-of-the-year!).

I'm a fairly organized person.  I keep a careful calendar.  We are punctual people who like to be prepared way ahead of time.

It's just a little bit scary when you don't even notice your decreased mental functions until you start making stupid mistakes.  Twice now I've written things on the wrong day on my calendar.  The other night I wrote the wrong time and we showed up as the party was ending.  [they took pity on us and pulled out the leftovers.  that was nice of them.]

I was thinking about writing a post about sleep deprivation, and I thought "Haha, I should write about how I'm afraid to even post anything because I don't know it will come out right."  As a joke, right?

Funny joke.  I came here and realized that my half-finished rough draft had been accidentally published, sans pictures and with random sentence fragments reminding me where to start again.  So I guess you guys get to see my editing process. *sigh*

(Oh wait.  Kekoa wrote that...so clearly it was his fault).

Is this what it's like to be losing your mind?  You don't notice anything different because you lose it gradually...bit by bit...but in the isolated moments of sanity, you realize that your marbles are clattering around on the floor. 

I'm starting to feel a distinct lack of self-confidence.  So many times I've walked up to a doorstep and started to second-guess myself: "Is this the right time?  Is this the right day?  Oh my gosh, what if they're in their pjs?"

The rash is mostly clear.  The first tooth has cut, the second is on its way.  My leg is jiggling uncontrollably because I don't often drink caffeine, but lately I've been taking just a little bit more...

Will I read this post tomorrow and discover some uber-embarrassing mistake?  I can only wonder.

But in the meantime, at least I'm oblivious to the crazy, as long as it lasts.

An Introvert Confronts Weakness

Here's something you probably know about me: I am an introvert. 

(If you don't know this about me, hi, have we met?  Because I'm guessing we haven't).

I am not an introvert who feels the need to pretend to be an extrovert.  I am quite at peace with my introverted-ness, thankyouverymuch.  I am proud of the strengths of my personality.

But oh, the weaknesses.

Contrary to popular extroverted belief, introverts don't hate people.  But they are more highly reactive to their environments. They process events differently.  Some say that introverts process stimuli more deeply ("a rich inner life," they say), and that accounts for the greater energy expense.  I am not so smug as to make that assertion.

Extroverts tend to recharge through social interaction.  Introverts tend to recharge through alone time.  So while I may enjoy myself at a party as much as the next person, it depletes my emotional resources.  I don't mind so much.  I'm pretty careful not to overbook myself, because it's best for all concerned - trust me (better yet, ask my husband).

But God's been convicting me of something lately, related to my introvertedness.

You know those spiritual gift tests?  My spiritual gifts correlate pretty strongly with my personality.  And down there at the bottom, every time, is this little thing called hospitality.

Yeah, hospitality.  I'm pretty bad at it.  You know that moment in most churches where they tell you to greet those around you?  HATE. IT.  It makes me squirm.  It makes me stutter.  It makes my heart pound and palms sweat like most people fear heights or snakes.  Because in my head, I hear: "Hey everyone!  Go shake the hand of that stranger!  You won't have enough time to say anything important, just chit-chat for a while! Oh, and if you don't do it, you're gonna look like a Scrooge."

Ugh. Ick. Ack. Blech. *shudder*

(On a side note, our home church doesn't do that.  I wonder how much of my initial attraction when we were church-hunting was subconsciously influenced by the lack of squirmy awkwardness of an obliged greeting?)

But here's the thing: hospitality is still a command.  For introverted, non-small-talking, socially awkward me.

(Disclaimer: in the below paragraphs, I'm not blaming my mom at all.  She's practicing her gifts, and that's awesome.)

My mom is a ten-talent hospitality personality.  Open up her home?  Sure, no problem.  With decaf, half-caf, hot cocoa, and ten different kinds of tea.  Growing up, we had baby showers, wedding showers, craft parties, cast parties, swimming parties, holiday meals...even two wedding receptions in our backyard.  You name it, my mom hosted it. 

I am the man in the parable with one talent.  BUT.  It's my responsibility to refuse to bury it.  I have to use it, and trust that even though my "interest rate" makes drying paint look like it's on fast-forward, God will use it.

I've been trying to do better about having people over.  About greeting the lady in the church lobby.  About initiating relationships.  About maintaining them.  And guys, it's so hard.

My lessons started small: letting go of the perfectionism that wants my one-talent hospitality to somehow look and feel like my mom's ten-talent.  Wanting to invite everyone over.  Wanting to let people stay as late as they want.  Wanting to be able to revive a lagging conversation with a joke or sheer energy.

But I am not called to this.  I am an introvert.  I *have* to keep a light schedule,or else I begin to snap at my family.  I *have* to at some point go to bed, because I am not a nice person otherwise.   I *have* to share what we have, and not try to overstretch myself with exotic menus. I *have* to focus my relationship-building on small groups of people because otherwise I get overwhelmed and my family suffers.

 I have to allow for my weaknesses, even as I confront them.  To ignore my weaknesses would be to take an alcoholic to an open bar and expect him to stay sober.

So....moral of the story is: I'm an introvert.  But that does not excuse me from obedience to commands.  I have to trust that should God require me to serve Him through a late-night, exotic dinner party, then He will provide the grace and resources necessary to do so.

But in the meantime, I need to develop my one talent in accordance with my personality and ability.  I may not be called to host weekly get-togethers, but I am called, always, to love those around me with an open heart. 

What's your one talent?

Story Time!

I was homeschooled, and therefore, our version of "parties" in high school was to go someplace with our parents and little siblings and meet up with other kids and their parents.  Wild and crazy, I know.

One party which was actually a business meeting for our parents, four of us high school girls organized a game of Catch Phrase among the kids (remember when Catch Phrase was popular?  Those were the days).  We divided the teams evenly according to reading ability, put the youngest kids on our laps so they could "help" us, and started to play.

One boy (how old was he?  Not sure, but probably 6-8) got passed the disc.  "Okay," he said.  "It's one of your private parts."

The circle froze.  Horrified, the other kids looked at us older girls, pleading with their eyes for us to do something.

I practically threw the four year old on my lap across the room and scrambled to come to his aid before any homeschooled little ears burned off in embarrassment.  I peeked over his shoulder...

It all made sense now.  I whispered a clue in his ear to use.

"It's the opposite of top," he said.

"Bottom!"  The kids all shouted.  We older girls tried desperately not to laugh too loud.  Crisis averted.

Or so I thought.  The disc was passed around the circle several more times.  Points were awarded.  And it came back to our friend....

"It's one of your private parts again!"

I was faster this time.  "Say it's the part of a chair that you sit on."

"It's a part of a chair that you sit on."

"Seat!"

The game ended here, because all four of us high school girls were either crying or lying gasping on the floor from laughter while the younger kids looked around confused.  I mean, what ARE the odds?

It was the most memorable game I've ever played.


Why did I feel the need to post that?  Because Kekoa is demonstrating that he understands the concept of language.  Which means, soon he'll start picking up on specific meanings.  Which means...

We have to start picking the words we're going to use for bathroom functions and anatomy.  Because as we all know, if you don't want a word shouted down the church hallway, don't teach it to your kid.

A New Kind of Productivity

Kekoa and I have developed a bit of a routine in the mornings.  My alarm goes off.  He's usually already awake, so I sleepily change his diaper and then crawl back into bed to feed him.  While he eats, I doze, read, or do absolutely nothing. 

When he finishes, I pretend to be asleep.  Sometimes I'll roll over so he can only see my back.

And thus begins the great joy of the mornings.  Little hands poke at me, saying, "Mommy, wake up!"  His little head burrows into me.  He jabbers and sqawks and prods, and his legs kick wildly in the air.  Then...I sit up, open my eyes wide, and say: "Boo!"

Let the giggle-fest begin.

We tickle and tell stories (his storytelling ability is rather like Faulkner's: wildly incoherent but somehow captivating) and play peek-a-boo.  We kiss and snuggle and then he flies on the wings of Airplane Mommy.  "It's a bird!  It's a plane!  It's SuperBaby!"

We are early wakers. But we can hardly be called early risers. It may be quite some time before we're "up" in the ordinary sense of the word: dressed, breakfasted, doing housework. 

I love those mornings.  He loves those mornings.  And I know they are teaching him a world of lessons: Love.  Trust.  Language.  Laughter.  Muscle Development. 

But some days, it can be a blow to my pride.  Josh comes home and asks, "So what did you do today?"

Um.  I, uh ... showered (maybe).  I fed the baby...often.   I made dinner.  I emailed a friend, took a walk, read a book.

I'm used to "quantifying" my productivity.  I prefer, when asked about my progress, to be able to say: "I outlined my paper due next month."  "I organized a year's worth of our company's financial records."  Or at the very least, be able to explain my apparent unproductivity: "I sat in a meeting.  For three hours."

You can't quantify a child's snuggles.  You can't measure contributions to his "confidence meter."

Sometimes I find myself giving embarrassingly specific answers to Josh's question, trying to make it sound "productive." In doing so, sometimes those little details become less a byproduct of love and more of a game of oneupmanship - not as a competition with Josh, but to myself.  A laundry list I can check off, incontrovertible proof that I have done something with my day.  Did the baseboards need to be wiped down again?  Probably not, but I did it anyway.

I know in my heart investing in Kekoa is the most valuable thing I can do.  But I still want that concrete evidence for myself: I'm not wasting my time.  I'm not mooching off Josh's paycheck while I sit at home and help myself to whatever catches my eye in the pantry.

I love our mornings together, just Kekoa and me.  I cherish them enough that I don't mind so terribly the sense of laziness for still being in my pjs long after start of business hours.  It's a new lesson for me:   productivity isn't always measured in word counts and employee evaluations. 

In fact, when it comes to the business of raising little people, it almost never is.  So I'm trying to just enjoy it, because right now, for perhaps the only time in my life:

My work is, quite literally, play.

Hello, Grandparents!

As you probably know, it's my five-month birthday (how could you ever forget???).  It's been quite an eventful month for me.  I think you'll find in my letter that I'm practically grown-up by now, because I'm doing awfully grown-up things.  I think I must have hit a growth spurt as well, because Mommy and Daddy are constantly saying things like, "Oh my goodness, remember how TINY he was?"

 

And in my five month picture, the bib fit me better than it fit Kekoa teddy, who has very narrow shoulders.  I thought that was very nice, especially since it has lovely fringe around the bottom that I love to eat.

 



 

 

My musical education has started early, and I spend some time each day faithfully practicing my piano.  I did petition Mommy for a REAL piano that doesn't require quite so much tummy time, but she reminded me of three things: (1) Beethoven sawed the legs off HIS piano, so I'm right up there with the greats; (2)  I couldn't reach the pedals anyway; and (3) most people with real pianos have only lame black-and-white keys instead of my incredibly awesome multi-colored ones. 

 

That made me sad. Those poor dears with black-and-white keys.  I don't know how they stand such poor technology.

 

 

 

 

Another big boy thing I've done this month is eat real food.  I don't like avocado, I'm okay with pears, and all in all I much prefer the spoon (or my fingers!) to any actual food.  Also, I discovered that my high chair is best used for my piano while Mommy and Daddy are eating.  Voila, perfect solution to the excessive tummy time problem!

 

 

Mommy says we're taking a break from real food until December.  But I take that to mean baby food; grown-up food is still fair game.  The other day I managed to get my hands (and mouth) on a piece of chocolate Mommy was eating.  It tasted much better than the avocado. 

 



I've gotten pretty good at sitting up when I want to (if I don't want to, then I just flop right on over), so now I'm into jumping.  I LOVE jumping, spinning, twirling...and monkeys.  I really love monkeys.

 



 

Like Daddy, I'm an avid gamer.  Like Mommy, I really prefer cooperative games to competitive games.  And my uncanny ability to invent games is quite remarkable.

My current favorite is quite simple, really: I hold my hand up to Mommy's mouth, she kisses it, and then we both laugh.  I'm telling you guys, it's a RIOT.  I'm thinking of marketing my creative skills to Hasbro. 

Well, that's all for now!  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I'm already plotting how to get my hands on some of that sugared-up sweet potato casserole, or maybe some pumpkin pie.  With so many cousins to distract the adults, I'm thinking we can pull off quite the raid. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

just don't swallow

You know that scene in Ratatouille where Anton Ego breaks in on a press conference?  Linguini is happily -- arrogantly -- fielding questions when Ego's initimidating string bean of a body pushes through the crowd.  Threats are made.  Taunts are exchanged.  And Linguini makes what he believes to be the parting shot:

"You're awfully thin for someone who likes food!"

The crowd gasps.  Anton stops, turns, and spits out, "I don't *like* food.  I love it.  If I don't love it, I. Don't. Swallow."

I've been reading a lot lately.  In fact, I've been procrastinating on a full introduction to solid foods because then Kekoa won't need to nurse as often, which means I won't get to read as often.  Sad.  :(

But the inevitable happens, as it always has in the past.  I pick up a fabulous book.  I remember how wonderful reading is.  I go on a "reading binge," where I frequent the local library and read as if my life depended on it. 

And then, that book happens.

You know, the book that has been highly touted and critically acclaimed.  The book that is on every single "100 books you must read" list.  The one about which you must be able to converse intelligently if you want intellectuals to give you the time of the day.

The book that bores you to tears.

You fight, you struggle, you claw your way to the end.  Or maybe you don't - it doesn't really matter.  Because when you finish, you are defeated.  You are an un-intellectual (or worse, an anti-intellectual).  You obviously do not appreciate great art when you read.  Your soul must not be developed highly enough to understand, to commune with the truth you encountered.

The binge is over.  You can go back to real life now.  And when someone says, "Have you read _____?"  You may or may not be able to say yes.  But whether you finished it or not, you will be forced to hang your head in shame and mumble assent as they gush about how that book formed their soul. 

And of course, to say that their soul was formed by an utterly dry, completely pointless, overly wordy piece of junk that somehow wormed its way into the classics wouldn't be at all nice.

This time around, the book for me is Catch-22.  It's not that Heller isn't clever.  It's that he thinks he is clever, and therefore feels the need to repeat his clever joke again. and again.  You thought it was funny when one bureaucrat signs his name as "Washington Irving" to official documents?  Well then, it must be twice as funny if TWO officials sign their names as Washington Irving. And maybe throw in a John Milton for good measure.

It's not that the book shouldn't have been written....it's just that the 450 pages could have been written in 100, and probably shouldn't have exceeded 200.

So anyway.  I didn't finish it. 

But!  I am happy to report that I am still reading.  Because at last, I have come to the place where I  don't have to cram that dry lump of a book down my throat. 

Because if I don't love it, then I don't have to swallow it.

"Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails...

...that's what little boys are made out of."


Kekoa has a cold.

The main result of this is that my clothes, arms, blankets, sofas, and carpet look like we were invaded by a hostile force of angry slugs leaving glistening trails of slime behind them. 

I'm feeling a certain enmity toward slugs right now.

Someday (!) all my kids will be old enough to understand the concept of a tissue.  If I'm lucky, they may even be able to use one all by themselves. 

Until then, laundry calls. 

4 Months Picture Post!

Dear Grandma, Grandpa, Nana, and Papa,

I know we just got to see most of you (we missed you, Papa!), but you know how I am.  Always changing and stuff like that.  So I'm going to tell you a little bit what it's like to be FOUR months old!

This is me and my Kekoa teddy at four months old.  We're the same height!  I'm pretty good at sitting up now with a little support.  I can sit by myself for a few seconds, but then I usually faceplant and I don't really like that.

 

Fall is here.  I don't know exactly what that means, but mommy says it everytime she bundles me up.  I really like being changed, so it's great to wear extra clothes!  I like to stretch out changing times so that I get as much attention as possible.  

 



 

Sitting up isn't the only skill I've been working on.  My feet are my new favorite toy!  I love to suck on my toes.  

 

Also: for some reason, Mommy is obsessed with matching my diapers to my outfits.  I'm not sure why, because they're just going to have to be changed anyway.  Girls.  Anyway, that's why there's a picture of me in my underpants.  I'm so embarrassed.

 

 

I also liked playing with my fingers for the first half of the month, but I'm over it now.  That was soooo two weeks ago.

 

We had a hurricane here last week.  You guys were all worried about us, but I don't know why.  I love hurricanes!  They brought three of my favorite things:  Daddy stayed home from work for TWO WHOLE DAYS, we had a pajama day, and Daddy read to me before my naps.

 

We're reading A Very Hungry Caterpillar by a guy named Eric Carle.  I'm a fan of his.  It all started when Mommy read A Grouchy Ladybug to me.  I liked the pictures so much that she pulled out the other Eric Carle books we had: A House for Hermit Crab and The Tiny Seed (Mommy's friend Molly gave it to me!).  I love the big, bright pictures, and sometimes I like to hold the book (I'm still trying to figure out how the pages work).  Now we always read books before naptime so that I'm calm enough to sleep.

 

 

Again with the matching diaper.  Mom!

Anyway, those are the changes of the last month, and there are LOTS more on the horizon.  Because of my reflux, the doctor said it'd be a good idea to start me on solids soon, and I couldn't agree more.  I'm so jealous of my cousins who get to eat real food, and I'm always trying to grab at Mommy and Daddy's food.  Once I managed to get a handful of ketchup and I licked it ALL off my fingers.  Yum!  Next time I'm going for the whipped cream!

I'm still a little guy - 13 pounds - but Mommy says that's not a surprise at all considering my genes.  And she says that I should be grateful because she can carry me longer.  I do love being carried, so I guess that's a good thing.  I'm sleeping much better now, so we're all a lot happier.

Love you all!

Kekoa

These are the broken days

There used to be a name for days in which at least one member of our household cried.  We called them bad days.

Now we call them normal days. 

There's a new kind of day now.  They are the days where the baby wakes up choking on his own congestion and we pin down all four of his flailing limbs and suck the snot out with a bulb syringe.

The days when dad barely makes it two steps in the door before the baby is thrust into his arms and the wife is clinging to his neck.

These are the broken days.  The exhausting days.  The fridge-is-empty-because-no-way-was-mom-going-to-wake-baby-up-for-grocery-shopping days.

We have the stereotypical romantic days too, holding baby in the rocking chair as he gazes up adoringly.  Plump baby hands grasping fingers.  Sloppy baby kisses on the cheek.  Waking up to baby coos and gurgles (dear manufacturers, why is that not a programmed alarm feature?)

But I've come to realize:

That the easy days are a manifestation of the love I build up on the broken days.

I don't choose to love him when he nestles secure in my arms.  My love for him isn't growing.  I'm simply feeling.

I choose to love him when I'm siphoning the snot out of his nose at two in the morning.  And believe me, it's not a feeling.  It's a cold, hard reality. 

I love him, and it is hard.  I love him, and sometimes I wish it wasn't quite so much so I could give away the awful responsibility of a mother's love.

I think I love him most on the days when I'm so broken I'm just not sure how I'm going to make it through the day as his mommy.  Let alone four more kids. [or just one more.  At some point impossibility has no degrees] 

Someday, he'll be an adult holding his newborn son for the first time and I will reminiscence and tell him how much I loved his own little baby self.  And he will think I loved rocking him, holding him, tickling him. 

He will be right, of course.

But he won't realize that in my mind, I'm thinking of the baby whose nose was always running and whose little legs were simply too skinny to create a tight diaper seal.  I don't love him in spite of the broken days.  I love him because of them.  Because they force my love to grow enough to overcome, sacrifice, withstand.

The broken days cannot be separated from the lovely.

To Teach a Mind

Tonight there was a thunderstorm.  A huge clap shuddered our third-story apartment and woke Kekoa up.  He cried.  I comforted.  He cried some more.  I picked him up.  And he fell asleep in my arms, as I read on the couch.

And as I lay him back so I could pack Josh's lunch, I looked at his sweet sleeping face.  I love when he sleeps.  It is then he is the universal ideal of what a baby should be - adorable, innocent, sweet, cuddly, pudgy.  Reality when awake, of course, is noisy, awkward, lovable, messy, and demanding.

And as I looked at his face, with a little dribble of drool trailing out of the corner of his mouth, and his padded tush, and his dimply little elbows, it hit me hard, all over again.

I am responsible for feeding this little boy's soul.

He will grow up and meet his sin nature and meet my sin nature and Lord willing, meet my Savior and welcome his Savior.  He will learn to read and Lord willing, he will learn to love.  He will watch my face, my tone, my actions and he will make them his face, his tone, his actions.  And then he will be a teenager and he will do the opposite, for a while.  And then he will choose.  He will choose the way he perceives to be better.

Holy cow.

For a moment I was crushed under the serious weight of responsibility.

And then the weight was lifted as I remembered:  I am only the feeder.  I am by no means the shepherd.  

I am responsible to teach and show him the way of goodness and truth.  But I am not responsible for whether he follows that way.  I am responsible for loving his soul. But I am not responsible for saving it.

Because heaven help us if I was.  Guilt, fear, pain would reign supreme in my life.

And grace would not.  Because if I were responsible for his life direction, then how could I forgive when he veers from what I believe to be right?  How could I not hold it against him when his very actions scream to me, "You failed as a parent"?

This weekend a couple who had met Josh's brother for the first time were talking to us about our upbringings.  "You come from a good family," they said.  "You both do."

I smiled and thanked them.  It's true.  We do.  But if the perception that we come from good families are based solely on our actions, then what would be said if we were not mature adults?  That we come from a bad family?  That clearly, our failures as human beings were due to our parents' failures as parents.

No.  Parents influence.  But God determines.

The quotation at the top of my blog is from The Chosen by Chaim Potok (if you've never read it, I HIGHLY recommend it.  That book touched my soul).  I will do everything in my power to help my little boy's mind understand the state of his soul.

But in the end, I am free.  My child's soul does not depend on me.  But no fear, no guilt.

Only grace.

From the time a little girl is about nine years old, the world finds it necessary to inundate her with talks, articles, lessons, and lectures on body image.  So of course every girl grows up hearing "you are beautiful no matter what you look like," which of course makes her wonder what she looks like and why everyone would question that she finds herself beautiful.

And so, most young women spend their time in their prime trying to achieve the perfect look.  Hint: a post-baby body is not the ideal.

Theoretically, a young mother should be at her most vulnerable.  Stretch marks.  Hair that's never neat because it's a perfect grip for little hands.   Abs that have forgotten that they're supposed to be muscles ("tone?  what's that??).  Red-rimmed, sandpapered, sleep-deprived eyes.

And after all the hard work of getting back into shape, you realize that you can lose the weight...but you will never be the same.

But gosh darn it guys, I *grew* a human being.

Kekoa is at the age where he can have preferences, and now that he is able to roll, scoot, and grab things, he can even express them.  And I find myself immensely gratified at how much he depends on me.

I'll put him on the floor for tummy time and lay down nearby to read.  And before I know it, there's a little baby snuggled into my side, reaching for my face.

I love the way he grabs my neck or arm at church as he socializes with all the ladies coming to coo at him, as if to say, "I've got my anchor.  Everything will be okay."

I love his post-naptime haze where he's trying to decide whether he likes the world again, and he burrows his face into my neck.

I love when  he's laying on the bed or couch as Josh and I talk.  He'll hook his foot up on my leg, or grab tight onto my fingers, and just watch.  And smile.

How can you have poor body image when you -- your warmth, your feel, your face, your fingers -- are the center of that little baby's world?  When all it takes to calm him down from a scary experience is your hand, heavy and warm on his back?  When he sees your face walking in the door and that little toothless grin breaks out in sheer, perfect joy?

Answer: you can't.  Because you are no longer the center of your thoughts and desires.  Because you care more about your baby than about other people's opinions.

Because your baby loves you.

Unrelated Things about our New Place

1)  It's awesome.  And here's a secret - I never actually saw the place.  Josh picked it out all by himself.  The first time I saw it was for the walk-through before moving in.  Yay Josh!

2)  I miss "our" dog.  And our neighbor girls.

3)  We are a five minute walk from the library.  Literally, five minutes.  (!!!!!!!)  I. am. happy.

4)  We have a dishwasher for the first time since getting married.  And you know what?  It's not really all that.  We still have to rinse the dishes and scrub off crusty stuff...we just do it with colder water and no dish soap.  So really, not all that much less work.

5)  Did I mention we're FIVE MINUTES FROM THE LIBRARY??!!?!?!  We've been here one week and we've been there....four times.

6)  And five minutes from all our P-ville family members.  Oh my gosh.  So happy.

7)  The local Panera donates all the day-old bread that they can't sell to our apartment complex, and they put it out on a table and it's free for the taking.  French bread, sandwich rolls, vanilla cream cakes.  And here I just made it back to pre-pregnancy weight...goodbye to all that! 

8)  I love unpacking.  I love finding places for everything. 

9) So. Much. Room.  And a walk-in closet that makes our clothes look pitiful.

10)  We moved to cut down on Josh's commute and gas.  But of course, now we drive twice as much because it's half as far.    Hopefully the novelty will wear off and twenty minutes will seem long again.

Dear Grandma and Nana,

Mommy says she doesn't have time to blog because she's supposed to be packing.  I don't know what that means, but I do know it means less snuggle time than usual, so I don't like it very much.  So I thought I would write a letter to you.  After all, Mommy says if it wasn't for you two, I would probably run around naked most of the time instead of having cute outfits.

Speaking of cute outfits, Mommy calls this one "the hippobottomus."  I don't get it, but she and Daddy think it's funny.

"I want a hippobottomus for Christmas"

Some of my favorite things to do include talking, especially when adults talk back to me in my language.  Then I just don't want to stop cooing and squealing.   I also really like being carried.  Mommy says she's really glad that I was a little baby, and that I'm her best exercise program. 

I try to be a helpful little boy.  When someone says "I'm going to change your diaper now," I hold my legs up all by myself.  Mommy says it would be even more helpful if I would just do all my business at once instead of waiting for a clean diaper to finish the job, but I think that's asking a bit much, don't you think?

I also am old enough to like toys.  If you ever felt like getting me one, I like toys that make lots and lots of noise.  Mommy and Daddy would LOVE that too!  My favorite toy is Mr. Lion on my toy bar, but I get frustrated because I try to talk to him and he never talks back.  Then I cry and Mommy has to take the toy bar off and I'm happy again. 

One of Mommy's students sent me a piano, and I really like watching Mommy play it for me.  Soon I'll be able to play it all by myself!

I discovered my bear this week.

This week, I rolled over from my back to my tummy.  At first Mommy thought she was imagining it, because most babies roll over from tummy to back first.  Then the very next morning, Daddy saw me roll over from tummy to back.  I decided to celebrate my accomplishments by not sleeping.  Ever.  YAY!!!  More time with Mommy and Daddy!

Daddy started school again.  I don't know what that means, but I do know that I don't see him between Tuesday night and Friday night.  Friday nights are my favorite part of the week.  I just stare and stare and stare at Daddy, and I smile more for him on that night than I do the rest of the week.  I think Daddy likes it too, because he lets me fall asleep on his chest sometimes.  When Mommy asks if  he wants a break, he says, "Can I have five more minutes?"

I think Mommy likes that, because then she always gives both of us a kiss.  Then she forgets when the five minutes is up.

I also secretly like baths.  I always cry when I first go into the water.  But then I forget to pretend that I don't like them and just smile and smile.   Mommy says I take baths because then she'll kiss me more, but I don't really think that's true.  I think she probably already kisses me as much as possible.

I should go now because I bet Mommy would like my help packing.  But I will see you both in October!  I love you!

~Kekoa

"tired of all this drama"

During my angsty teenage years, I heard some advice.  Never make any big decisions or have a big conversation when you are:

Hungry
Angry
Lonely
Tired

I added to it "never post on the internet" - although these days I might as well delete facebook and my blog if I'm not going to post when I'm tired. 

BUT!  You can be thankful to the person who gve me that advice.  You were spared the gruesome details of this week, which are pretty well described by the song "No More Drama"

On Sunday, we were moving this Saturday. 
On Monday, we weren't moving...possibly until October. 
On Tuesday, we were probably moving on Saturday the 21st.
As of yesterday (Wednesday) evening, we're moving again on Saturday!  :D :D :D  This momma with her empty pantry and defeathered nest all is pretty happy about that.

But.  I had stopped packing.  So now lesson learned: no matter how diligent you are on packing early...there will be a last minute scramble.  And we're showing the apartment tonight, so I'm trying to keep the pretty stuff out and the boxes to a minimum. 

Fortunately, I expect it to take about two hours tomorrow to wrap things up.  Two hours translated into "I have an almost-three-month-old" is really more like half a day, but that's doable.

Anyway.  Pray that the drama is over and this time the move date holds up.

Oh this life we lead

This morning I woke up at 4:00am to the sound of my two favorite men chatting it up.  Josh was murmuring something about a car, and Kekoa was cooing and squealing in response.  His little legs were kicking frantically.

I was about to remind Josh that we don't talk to Baby when he wakes up in the middle of the night, lest he think it's playtime.  And then it dawned on me.

They were both still fast asleep.

At least Kekoa comes by it honestly.

~~~~

The second incident occurred this afternoon.  Kekoa woke up early from his nap, while I was scrubbing the oven.  I stuck him in his rocking chair, put the toy bar in, and returned to my messy task.

Only a minute later, he started fussing.  But I couldn't tell what was wrong. It wasn't his hungry cry, or his tired cry, or his "I need to fill my diaper" cry.  It wasn't even his "hey, somebody pick up the baby!" cry.

Then I noticed that he was staring intently at the turtle on the toy bar as he cried, and I knew exactly what was wrong.  I usually put his toy bar in so that the lion is to his right, and the turtle is to his left.  But this time I had put it in the other way.

I promptly righted the situation and he immediately stopped crying.  He struck up a cooing conversation with Mr. Lion, and I was able to finish cleaning the oven in peace.

Ah well, takes one to know one.  At least he comes by that honestly as well.

"Oh Mr. Lion, how very nice to see you in your proper place!"

Too Much Good Stuff

Lately I keep reading articles online, and thinking "Man, this is so good.  I have to remember this one."  And I have to share them too.  So here's a list of my favorites this month - seriously, give some of them a read.

1)  I once did a post on why the approach to purity taken with teen girls today just doesn't work.  This is probably the best article I've seen that sums it up: telling girls to be pure for their future husbands does them a serious disservice.

  "Christ is the source of everything we need and the giver of all good gifts … but in telling people about Him, it’s possible we’ve sold them on a solution for life’s problems and not life itself."

2)  From my political theory professor at PHC, the rhetoric of a culture "war" has done more harm than good.  So how do we change the culture?

"One solution looks primarily to the political arena for redress; the other, like the Good Samaritan, takes the wounded traveler and cares for him. Do you want to change the culture? Practice hospitality."


3)  Homeschoolers in particular really tout the family as their central values.  But should it be the center?  As a brand-new SAHM, this article is really challenging.   h/t my pastor for sharing it.

"But I found myself, while he described the feelings of idolatry---the sense that this is my whole life, this is what I live for, this is what I dream of, this is what completes me and gives me significance---thinking that, for me, this is family."

4)  Also shared by my pastor, this article addresses the issue of parenting with grace that I referenced earlier on my blog.

I begin by saying, "Remember how Jesus said we were to treat one another?"

"I'm not Jesus!" my oldest responds immediately, his face scrunched up as his feet stomp the tile floor.

5)  As I rediscover the love of reading, this article is a real challenge.  Both homeschoolers who overshelter their children and those who are eager to read all different viewpoints can take heed of this one.  We are not to isolate ourselves culturally...but we also aren't to confuse "engaging" the culture with unqualified enjoyment of the culture.

"Second, we've gone off the rails in confusing cultural engagement with consumerism and entertainment"

6)  Finally, remember my friend who I quoted on gourmet meals?  She posted this link, which is hands-down my favorite post EVER.  I swear they just changed the name of one of my facebook friends, who practically makes these posts verbatim.

"People continue to check Molly’s posts out of morbid curiosity.
“It’s an exercise in ‘How is my life inferior today?’” says one. “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger.”

Moving

We're moving next week.  My feelings on it couldn't be any more mixed.

On one hand, I'm really excited.  I'm excited to be near Josh's brothers, and my blue-eyed niece and my brown-eyed nephews, and my sister-in-law.  I'm excited to be able to invite people over without the drive being an inconvenience for them.  I'm excited to be within walking distance of the library (!!!), the park, and my alma mate.

Not to mention that I LOVE the act of moving.  Is that just me?  I adore packing, and discovering old treasures at the top of the closet like the box of letters Josh wrote to me during our summer apart.  I enjoy taking a pile of perfectly good but unloved-by-us stuff to Goodwill.  And what's better than the feeling of organizing a brand-new (to me) kitchen?  It's like getting a new journal, with pages fresh and begging to be filled in.

But...

I am so, so sad to leave this little farm.  I'm in love with our apartment.   I like that the kitchen is a part of the main room, so I can cook and be a part of the daily happenings.  I like that I can clean it in fifteen minutes a day.  I like that our five little neighbor girls come running to talk to us whenever they hear our door open.

But most of all, this year has led to some major lifestyle changes, ones that I hope will stick with us for the rest of our lives.  Changes that have us absolutely determined to - someday - come back to West Virginia.  We want this.

It's the hard work, self-sufficiency lifestyle of our landlords that have us searching for out-of-the-box ways to use the ingredients and supplies already in our home.  That have forced us to value the things we have, rather than the things we want.

It's the need to be intentional about our friendships and relationships, instead of waiting for them to just "happen."  About choosing the people we want to be our closest friends.

It's the distance from the high-stress, always-on-the-go lifestyle of NoVa.    It's the time on the drive where we can just chat.  Sing country songs with the radio.  Ride in silence, each admiring the beauty of the drive.

It's the walks together as we pick out our dream houses, complete with window shutters and a front porch swing ("and rocking chairs, because we'll never be able to get the grandkids off the swing").  It's the dreaming that brings us to talks about long-term plans, goals, and hopes.  And more kids.

It's the kindness of the people everywhere we go.  The old men who stop us to see if we need a ride or if we would like to cut across their lawn for a shorter walk ("oh, thank you, but we're actually walking for the exercise!").  People who aren't too busy, too stressed, too exhausted, too mistrustful to smile and say hello.

I'm going to miss that.

I often tell people that in hindsight, if we had known Josh was going to change jobs, we wouldn't have moved.   That's true.  We never would have knowingly chosen his commute.  And we were hoping to be able to stay here for at least a couple years.

But in hindsight, that may have been God's providence.  We're both so glad we lived here.  Our mindsets and goals have changed drastically.  Our lifestyle and commitments have been so much more intentional.  I'm becoming better at managing our home. We're both becoming better at maximizing the time that we have together.

*Sigh*

I've now managed to write myself into nostalgia.  But isn't that a good thing?  We love where we've been, we love where we are, and we love where we're going.

And let me tell you...this guy's ready to go places

Grace-filled parenting

Here's a not-so-"sorta" for you.  The area where passion is a must.  One that's really been on my mind a lot.

How do you emulate grace for your children?  How do you help them value integrity and good behavior without making it the end-all?  How do you provide consistent consequences for wrong actions while still avoiding legalism?

I am amazed at how many churched young people have no concept of grace.  And yet...I had a majorly convicting realization the other day.

As he usually does, Josh asked me how my day had been.  "Oh, it was a bad day.  He was sooo fussy and just wanted to be held all the time, and his naptimes were way too short."  And then I stopped.  And I realized something.

 I am already parenting without grace.  I am already basing my evaluation of my child on how well his performance matches up to my expectations.

Ouch.  Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Now if spiritual Kanani were parenting, her focus wouldn't be simply on his behavior, or even distinguishing between "good" and "bad" days..  The quality of the day would be based on my ability to attend to my baby's deepest (and not-so-deep) needs.

And one of those deepest needs is the need to know that my love of him is not based on his behavior.

But what does that look like?  It doesn't seem that complicated with infants.  They're not willfully defying you.   When parenting infants, grace means your main concern is the reason behind the performance.  Loving your baby and truly desiring to meet his needs, without getting frustrated that you're in the church lobby with an overstimulated baby AGAIN while your friend's baby happily lets mom sit through the service.  After all, he didn't choose to be overstimulated.

But what does that look like when children are old enough to willfully defy you?  You still have to provide consequences.  You still have to help them learn how to behave.

So how do you do that?

I know there are a couple core principles:

-First, I have to extend grace to myself (and my husband!) first.  If the kids see me beating myself up, they will get the idea that perfection is the goal.

-Second, I have to strive to understand why they are behaving in a particular way.  Sometimes punishment might not be the most effective way to address a hurting heart.

-Third, I have to be generous with expressions of my love for them - and when I tell them why I love them, the focus should not be on performance-based criteria.

-Fourth, when punishments are necessary, they should be based on the misbehavior itself, rather than on my disappointment with them.  Another reason to decide beforehand how we are going to address specific problems: so that our punishments do not reflect our emotional reaction to a child, say, misbehaving in front of an acquaintance that we wanted to impress.

But I still need help in what this looks like on a practical level.  I'm serious when I say that I really want (need) feedback.  How do you show your children grace without teaching them licentiousness?

The Luxury of "Sorta"

I found my new favorite blog to follow this week while doing a little research.  It really resonated with me, so I went to the "About" section to read about the author.  I don't agree with all her positions - but that's kinda the point.

And it reminded me of something that really hit me hard after Kekoa was born: the luxury my generation has to be "sorta".

It started during a conversation with one of my midwives, halfway through the pregnancy.  She asked me if I had a particular birthing philosophy that I was going to use.  I told her that I had seen a few Bradley births and I was interested in trying it out.  "Okay," she said.

Her eyes, however, hesitated.  I noticed.  And asked if she had any suggestions for a better birth experience.

"Well, Bradley can be a very effective method.  If you want a natural childbirth, there are a lot of good tips and techniques.

But...sometimes the Bradley philosophy is mistrustful of doctors.  I want you to trust me while I'm birthing your baby.  If you feel like I or the nurses are working against you, then it's going to be more stressful for you.

Also, Bradley's original philosophy is based on medical practices from several decades ago.   I'm completely behind natural childbirth, but if an emergency came up, I wouldn't want you stressing about the medical implications.  Things have changed a lot."

And to be honest, that kind of was along the lines of what I was thinking anyway.  I read Dr. Bradley's book (Husband-Coached Childbirth), and I didn't agree with a lot of his premises (for one thing, he uses "animals do it" as an argument far too many times.  Yes, and animals also pick bugs off each other and eat them!).  So while I was fine with using the technique, I wasn't sure I liked his reasons.

So...I had a sorta Bradley birth.  And I'm glad I did, because some of it was helpful.  But a strictly Bradley approach wouldn't have worked with my labor.  For one thing, I completely skipped the "serious" emotional signpost, but left for the hospital anyway (whew!  So glad we did!).  For another, coaching was only helpful to me in the car.  The rest of the time, I was relaxed. Someone trying to help me through contractions only reminded me that contractions are supposed to be painful - and therefore, they were.

If I hadn't been "sorta" behind Bradley, I would have felt guilty for not doing it "right".  Even now, sometimes I do feel guilty that I didn't need Josh more.

As I was processing the birth, this really got me thinking.  My parents' generation didn't have the luxury of taking a "sorta" approach.  Medically, you couldn't birth naturally unless you were really committed to it and ready to fight for it.

I didn't have to fight.

Homeschooling was the same way.  My parents were in the pioneering generation - you were either completely behind the philosophy or you weren't.  There wasn't the option for outside classes, etc.  They had to figure things out for themselves.

I get to chew the meat of their experiences, and spit out the bones.

And the list goes on and on.  I am "sorta" into attachment parenting, and I "sorta" use baby whisperer techniques.  Like Megan on the blog, I'm "sorta" into natural living and DIY solutions.

My generation has this luxury.  We can take advantage of the trail-blazing by our parents, and the advantage of technological and medical improvements, and get the best of both worlds.

We have the luxury of resisting the mainstream without being rebels, of making different lifestyle choices without being labeled as complete wackos.

What an awesome privilege, right?  I don't need to feel guilty because I don't agree 100% with a particular philosophy.  I can wear a sling AND have a routine.  I can homeschool AND take advantage of other classes.  I can use cloth diapers AND disposables when convenient.  I can eat healthily AND enjoy a hot dog every now and then.  No guilt.  No fear.

Thanks to "wacko" pioneers like my homeschooling parents, life is no longer either/or.

That's is not an excuse to be complacent, or to lack in passion and convictions - but it is a blessing.  It means that we can get away from the extremism that so often builds up walls - but without compromising our beliefs.

What a luxury that is indeed.  :)

The Friendship That Wasn't

Today on our walk, Kekoa and I saw a caterpillar which had been flipped upside down and was flopping about quite effectively on its back, with its little legs waving wildly in the air.

Or rather, I saw a caterpillar.  The whole point of taking the walk at that particular moment of time was to calm a very angry little boy down after a gregarious cup of water attempted to make friends with his head.  Apparently, Kekoa isn't quite as sociable as I thought.

Needless to say, the friendship was very trying for all parties involved, and caused Kekoa to be quite upset enough to forget that he needed a nap.

Anyway.  I don't think he noticed the caterpillar.

I thought about flipping the caterpillar over, but he seemed to be so happily mobile on his back that I almost thought he might have done it on purpose, the way little girls love to walk around on their hands.  I left him quite literally doing the worm.

Sorry Little Bear, the kid's got you...

2 Months

Are We All Braggarts?

I love, love this article:  http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10000872396390444184704577587091630924000.html


We were talking about this at small group one night - the way the internet allows us to see the best of people, and never their failures.  The way we carefully manage our online presence to be the best we can be.

The way we effectively shut people out of our lives by not allowing a single failure to slip through the cracks.

I've most seen this in the area of food.  One friend posted a laugh-out-loud status a couple weeks ago: "If a gourmet meal was made and no one took a picture on Instragram, did it happen?"  The word "homemade" has become a sneaky way of saying, "Look at me, I'm a domestic goddess."  Congratulations, you boiled some noodles, added some cheese, and baked them.  Way to go making your homemade gourmet mac n' cheese, you domestic goddess, you.

I think social media has almost become a way for us to stand on a table in the middle of the cafeteria and scream, "Hey everyone, look at me!"  Come look at my blog.  Look at my baby.  Look at my mad sewing skills.  Look at my frugality.  Look at how far I can run.  Look at what my amazing husband did for me (because I deserve it, of course!).

So.  How do you break the cycle?  Is it by posting your mistakes, failures, etc.?  Or by not posting at all?  Is there a difference between "sharing your life" and bragging?  Where's the line?  Is it just me, or are the people who openly acknowledge, "Hey, do you mind if I brag a bit?" the least annoying of all?

Dear Kekoa,

You wake up smiling.  Toothless grins capture my heart.

Your grinning mouth dribbles a milky trail, as you meet my eyes with thanks.

I could have at least four more of these, I think.

AND THEN:

I hear that familiar squirt -- again (didn't I just change you??).

You headbang your way to sleep.

(at least we have an explanation for any future brain damage).

Then you decide that naps are for BABIES [and Mom, Daddy says I'm the MAN of the house while he's gone, your eyes tell me.]

What a sweet only child.

What an imp!

In need of recommendations

I've found myself with a lot more time than I expected.  Not time when I can actually do stuff, mind you.  I'm talking about feeding times.

Most advice you read on breastfeeding seem to create two categories: women who prize breastfeeding as an almost spiritual experience and give their full and undivided attention at every feed, and women who view it as strictly business and can't wait for the day they wean.

The first is a little melodramatic and unrealistic, and the second is a little sad.  I love the time I feed my baby, and I try to give Kekoa my full and undivided attention for a few feeds each day so that he will love it too.  BUT every mom needs "me" time too, even if it means free time where I'm pinned down with a baby on my lap.

So I started reading.  The Kindle only requires one hand to turn pages, so it's easy to manage without fumbling around.  And I'm moving through books a lot faster than I expected!

When Josh started school, I made myself a list of books to read by the time he graduated.   Below (italics are the ones I finished during his first year):

1.  The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (Baum)
2.  The Deerslayer (Cooper)
3.  The Hunt for Red October (Clancy)
4.  A Rose for Emily (Faulkner)
5.  The Man Who Knew Too Much (Chesterton)
6.  The Face (Koontz)
7.  Atlas Shrugged (Rand)
8.  Love in the Ruins (Percy)
9.  Of Mice and Men (Steinbeck)
10.  The Greatest Man in the World (Thurber)
11.  Slaughterhouse Five (Vonnegut)
12.  Catcher in the Rye (Salinger)
13.  For Whom the Bell Tolls (Hemingway)
14.  How to Win Friends and Influence People (Carnegie)
15.  Swiss Family Robinson (Wyss)
16.  The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People (Covey)
17.  Catch-22 (Heller)
18.  Into the Wild (Krakauer)
19.  The Divine Comedy (Dante) - I've read Inferno, but not the others
20.  East of Eden (Steinbeck)
21.  The Thin Red Line (Jones)
22.  His Dark Materials (Pullman)
23.  Tess of the D'Ubervilles (Hardy)
24.  Rebecca (Du Maurier)
25.  The Time Traveller's Wife (Niffeneggar)
26.  Gone with the Wind (Mitchell) - I have to admit, I started this one, but Scarlett annoyed me so much I put it down.  Life is too short to spend it angry with books.
27.  The Wind in the Willows (Grahame)
28.  Emma (Austen)
29.  Persuasion (Austen)
30.  The Kite Runner (Hosseini)
31.  Memoirs of a Geisha (Golden)
32.  Winnie the Pooh (Milne)
33.  One Hundred Years of Solitude (Marquez)
34.  Life of Pi (Martel)
35.  Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
36.  The Lovely Bones (Sebold)
37.  The Secret Garden (Burnett) - how had I never read this one????  I read the Great Illustrated Classics when I was young.
38.  The Little Prince (Saint-Exupery)
39. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (Dahl) - I still love the old movie the best, but reading the book helped me appreciate the new movie as well.
40.  Five People You Meet in Heaven
41.  The Sound and the Fury (Faulkner) - another I started and put down.  Stream of consciousness drives me crazy.
42.  Northanger Abbey (Austen)
43.  The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (Doyle)
44.  Kidnapped (Stevenson)
45.  The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood (Pyle)
46.  Flowers for Algernon (Keyes)
47.  The Time Machine (Wells)
48.  The War of the Worlds (Wells)
49.  The Art of War (Sunzi)
50.  Leaves of Grass (Whitman)
51.  The Turn of the Screw (James)
52.  The Hunger Games (Collins)
53.  The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Hugo)
54.  The House of the Spirits (Allende)
55.  Fahrenheit 451 (Bradbury)
56.  David Copperfield (Dickens)
57.  Zorro (Allende)
58.  Ask Jeeves (Wodehouse)
59.  Three Men and a Maid (Wodehouse)
60.  The Kingkiller Chronicles (the third book is not yet released, I've read the first two)
61.  One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (Kesey)


 As you can see, the goal was to be as varied as possible - in writing style, era, topics, cultures, and viewpoints.  These are all books I had never read.  They made the list because (a) it sounded interesting and I wanted to read it; (b) it was recommended to me; (c) it is a classic and I wanted to be able to say I've read it :P (also, because classics are often referenced and I like understanding those references); or (d) it was free on the kindle.

When I got pregnant, I assumed that I probably wouldn't finish my list.  I was okay with that.  But I didn't anticipate the time I would have during feedings, and reading is far better than browsing youtube.

60 books.  Three years.  I've finished (or put down) 27 of them, which leaves me with 33 remaining.  Some of them I know I'll love.  Others are complete wild cards - I may hate them, love them, or not make it past the first chapter.  With literally thousands of books in the world, I don't like to waste time on bad ones.

What I need from you are suggestions for a few more.  I would like to reach 75 books total, which I think is reasonable (I worked full-time through most of Josh's first year, and not all the books I read were on this list.  So 24 each year should be very doable).

Please, any favorites?  Must-reads?  Little-known discoveries?