Winter Joy

Even though I was born in the middle of winter and have lived in the Midwest my entire life, I do not accept winter as a legitimate season. I must have accepted it as a kid, because I have memories of my mom slathering Vaseline on my face before sending me outside to jump in the snow. But I remember these things like I was a different person in a different life. Who would hurl herself willingly into a pile of snow? I guess the same person who would ride her bike down steep hills without holding onto the handle bars -- another memory I cannot reconcile with my current self. The person I am today would never let go of the handle bars on a hill. The person I am today sits inside and complains about snow while sipping tea.

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Last year I started to see my hatred for winter as a character flaw. No matter how I looked at it, basically I had a sucky attitude about a reality that I wasn't willing to change. (It seems like you live where you do because you have to, but really, if you have about $65 you can physically remove yourself from winter and go south by bus.) I was tired of stomping my boots and cursing the snow-laden heavens for three months months every year. But rather than simply not complaining, I decided to try something even more challenging. I decided to enjoy winter.

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You should have seen me -- it was so cute. I had no idea how to start loving winter, so I just did all of the things that characters in Christmas movies do. I made hot cocoa and watched old movies and wore cute gloves and scarves. I snuggled on my couch, I read books, I looked out my window and smiled contentedly at the falling flakes. I also made a private blog in which I wrote about how charming and enjoyable winter is.

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All of this took me about five hours. And it was only late November.

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So last winter was okay. This winter, however. This winter I really figured it out. The very best thing to do if you want to avoid winter altogether: have a baby. Better yet, have a baby in your house so that you don't even have to go outside to get to the hospital.

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Think about it. When you wake up for work at 6:30 on a really dark, ugly winter morning, what do you really want to do? You want to quit your job and climb back into bed for as long as you please. You want to stay in your pajamas and have people bring you food on the couch. You want to hang out with friends, but you don't necessarily want to get dressed or go anywhere. You want to take naps and eat chocolate and not look in any mirrors.

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Having a baby in the winter is like a dream come true. I thought that I didn't want a December baby, but I couldn't have timed it any more perfectly. The holidays ended, I had a baby, and now I just looked outside and it's February 23. I'm just ready to start interacting fully with the outside world, and it's time to go on vacation to South Carolina! When I get home, there might be grass.

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But the best thing about having a baby in the winter (in case you aren't fully convinced that pushing an eight pound human out of your private place is worth the winter escape)...

... You get to fall in love and cuddle all day long.

Poopsie Daisy

Yesterday evening found me feeling like the world's most capable new mom. Pete was on his way home from work. I had homemade chocolate chip cookies cooling on the counter. The house was tidy. And my sweet newborn was dressed in an adorable outfit that I had made myself out of a shrunken wool sweater. She's relaxed, she's rested, she's artsy: Supermom.

I finished feeding Anders, burped him, then spent a few minutes cooing at him. We were gazing into each other's eyes when I saw him scrunch up his little nose and furrow his little brow. Then I heard: SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT. Splat. Sp. Lat.
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I took him to the changing table, hoping for the best and cursing my decision to put him in a disposable diaper for the evening. Sure enough, the poop had leaked. And leaked. It was all the way up his back and seeping through the multiple layers of his handmade outfit.

I pulled the onesie over his head, trying to not drag the mustard-like feces through his hair. I stripped him down and brought him over to the bathroom. Thank goodness we had left the inflatable tub inflated. I set it on the floor and placed him face down in the empty tub, which he loved. (Not.) I then took a washcloth and sponged down his back and head.
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I was ready to cuddle him up in a towel when I saw something a little concerning... is it... yup! He peed! My son was now facedown in his own urine. I rinsed out to the tub, flipped him over, and sponged down his front side. WAAHHH!!!! WAAHHH!!! WAAHH!!! (Roughly translated: "I want to go back to the womb!!!") Ordinarily I would have had the space heater running for ten minutes before bathing him, but he should have thought of that before he pooped out of his shoulder blades.
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As soon as he was dried and dressed I heard a knock on the back door. This is the part of the evening that found me humbly thanking God for friends and community. Because behind that door was a friend with impeccable timing and a home cooked meal. Maybe Anders' hand-stitched outfit was ruined for the evening, maybe my bathroom looked like someone had torn through with a leaf blower, and definitely we were going to be a little late for small group. But by golly, there was dinner on the table.