Onward and Upward!

MY NEW WEBSITE IS UP! CLICK ON THIS LINK: www.myecdysis.com

DRY THOSE TEARS! Notes from Home Plate will continue...in a larger platform.

My new home is called MY ECDYSIS (explanations later...)


To help you navigate go to the main page of the website. Peruse. Look around. Read up. Get used to my new digs.

To find the archives from this blog, "Notes from Home Plate:"

Go to WRITING.

Look for NOTES FROM HOME PLATE.

Here you will find the archive to all the posts in this blog.

My most recent posts will be on the front page of the website.

Thanks for reading, friends and family! We're moving on up!

Pictures! Isaiah 5 Months

CLICK HERE and look for the album name: Isaiah 5 months

He's getting huge. There's no other way to say it.

Best Friends Change

His new best friend is his thumb.

The thumb may soon be dethroned, though. Today, early evening, Isaiah was sitting in my lap after I got home from work while Nick and I caught up on our day, exchanging details and stories. All of a sudden we paused and watched Isaiah lean forward and pull his big right toe into his sloppy cute big mouth. His toes are his new best friends by next week, I predict.

Suck, suck. Chomp chomp.

Quick Update

If you think that we've been too busy for blogging, your thinking is correct.

Here's some updates on your favorite Cleveland family...

I've won the last 2 weigh-ins, up until this past Sunday when Nick swiftly kicked my butt.
Don't be excited. Some wins are just about holding steady while the other gains a pound or has a monstrous Saturday night meal and has a bad Sunday morning weigh-in. But, hey, a win's a win.

Nick and I signed up to run a 5k on June 5th. That's right. The day after our wedding anniversary, the day after we find out who wins the first leg of the competition.

Isaiah started solids! This past Thursday he had his first taste of a banana! This morning he had his first taste of rice cereal. He treats the spoon like a pacifier, but he's getting the hang of it. His neck and head stability are improving weekly and his eczema is under control (for the most part).

I am on a no dairy, no egg diet. This means I am a vegan who eats meat. (I love that oxymoron.) This has been established by Isaiah's allergist who found that he is most certainly allergic to eggs and milk and dairy. We'll see how this goes. Doc said it's likely that Isaiah will outgrow it. I hope so.

Have I ever mentioned that milk is my all-time favorite drink? Or how every morning I made myself a delicious veggie omelette?

Somehow it got to be the middle of May and I gasped at the calendar when I saw that on Wednesday, my favorite Gerber head is going to be FIVE MONTHS OLD!

And that concludes this brief update.

Dusting Off an Old Clip and Some Photos...

A Note from Isaiah

The 12 Startling Similarities Between God and the Right Editor

I've been a writer all my life. I cannot remember a time when my right hand did not grasp a pen and moved left to right on a page, documenting the significant and insignificant morsels of living.

A few years ago, I was struck by lightning and had the tremendous opportunity to work with make/shift magazine, and with Jess Hoffman, and slowly begin learning about the fundamentals of editing.

Editing has its moments of excruciating difficulty. It is not the free flowing creative river that is writing. It can be an unpredictable whiplash that stings every time you work with a new writer. I've had the magnificent pleasure of learning from many different kinds of writers and editors and, today, thought of the countless similarities I began seeing in my relationship with God and my relationship with editing.

This is what I found...

The Twelve Startling Similarities Between God and the Right Editor

1) The Editor works with you and your ideas, trying to observe and guide and not intercede.

2) When you are excessively verbose, the Editor gets to the heart of what you are saying.

3) The Editor is patient, but nudges you from time to time.

4) The Editor knows that the writer must equally trust the Editor and believe in herself.

5) The Editor has worked with so many different kinds of writers, you know there's nothing that the Editor hasn't seen.

6) The Editor knows what is sacred and carefully addresses issues close to your heart.

7) The Editor has a vision, but it is co-authored.

8) Ultimately, the Editor wants your best self, your best work, and works with you to make that manifest.

9) Often times in conversation with the Editor, you realize hidden truths underneath a lot of rubble.

10) "I know what I know, what do YOU think?"

11) The Editor will never give you an assignment that is too large for you to handle.

12) The Editor has a way of arranging things that leaves you mystified, dumbstruck, and grateful.

So, to all the writers out there: I wish you not only deep, rich soil to till your work in, I wish you a gracious and visionary editor who believes in your ability to fruitfully open a truth for yourself to share with the world.

Nick's Reflection

Though I am a main subject of this blog, I have never written a post. However, on the occasion of my Grandpa’s death, I wanted to write something in his honor.
I love you Grandpa Borchers.
Nick

Reflections on the death of my Grandpa

At times of death we are always advised to trust God.
What does this mean?
If trusting in God means things will happen as we want,
then my trust is shattered.

I want to hear another story from Grandpa about working at Stolle’s;
I want to ask my Uncle Bob if the Reds can turn it around this year; and
I want to laugh with my cousin Nathan about random college stories.

Obviously, trusting God is not getting what we want.
So, what is it?

Ultimately, trusting in God is believing that life is bigger than what we see,
that our lives do not end.

I believe all three of these family members live on in me.
Grandpa lives on as I laugh at a corny joke.
Bob lives on as I squeeze every bit of excitement out of a normal day.
Nathan lives on as I experience the sheer joy of being with others.

Our loved ones don’t just live on in metaphorical ways.
They see what we do not, they see the big picture of our lives.
They understand the sadness we are experiencing now is just a phase,
a small blip in what will ultimately be unending joy and peace with God.

And when I pay close enough attention,
for a brief instant, I can feel their presence still with me.
They are not with me in the same way, but they are still with me.
The veil between me and them is thin and even transparent at times.

So, I know this summer on a hot afternoon
as I sit down with Isaiah to watch a Reds-Pirates game,
we will be surrounded by three other big baseball fans.
This belief in life allows me to truly trust in God during this difficult week.

It's Not Just My Imagination

There are days where I wonder if there are some unexplained things about the relationship between mother and child. I mean, think about it, a growing human being forms his bones, blood, and organs INSIDE a woman's body. Everything the mother is, quite literally, is given to her child. It's quite extraordinary.

There are days when I just look at the little Meatball and wonder, how did this kid ever fit inside me? How did he come from me?

Well, I soon found the explanation.

While Nick was in El Salvador, I was busy trying to clean our office. The one room that is consistently neglected because, since no one else but Nick or I ever go in there, it never meets the "we should pick up the living room before so and so come over," or "we're having company over so make sure you scrub the toilet and vaccuum," requirements.

So, while I was hauling boxes of recycled paper out of the house and pouring through old papers, I came across one of my baby pictures. I saw it and I just stared. It was almost eerie.

It was the same feeling when Nick took this picture of me and Isaiah in the hospital. It was a feeling like, "I've seen this picture before somewhere, but I can't think of what picture it is."



I found the picture.

You tell me.

Is there some unexplained force that binds me with Isaiah?

I don't know.

But since we look like almost identical twins from birth, I'm open to anything.

In Memory

There was no way to describe how nervous I was when I first met Nick's Grandpa Borchers back in 2004. I've never met anyone's grandparents before and the idea of meeting them was so nerve-wracking, I even called my mom beforehand to talk out my jitters.

She didn't help much. "Oh, this is a very big occassion. Make sure you wear a very nice outfit. Address them properly. Be yourself, but don't talk too much...." The suggestions went on and on.

That only added to the anxiety. Even my Dad made a follow-up call when I got home. "Well," he sounded like one of my grad school buds after I went out on a date, "what did you end up wearing?"

Dick was sitting in his recliner when I timidly walked over to be introduced. My parents advice was ringing in my head. His smile and handshake put me at ease and I let out a quick breath of relief that I got through the first five minutes. I doubt he ever knew how nervous I was to meet him, so I doubt he knew how much I appreciated that big, sincere smile that he gave me. I'm already a fan of electric smiles and infectious laughs, and I honestly don't think there are many better than Dick's. I can see his smile in his children, especially Rog and Linda, and it always makes me smile in recognition of its origin.

But my favorite memory of him had to have been when Nick and I came back from Nicaragua in 2007 after doing a mission trip together. Nick and I were separated into different groups and I was sent to dig ditches, deep into the earth, to help in the process of making latrines.

I could barely pick up the equipment, it was so heavy, and when I lowered myself into the ditch, I was, literally, in a hole so deep I couldn't feel the wind at all. And then I started to feel like I was baking in the soil. The sun was beating on me and no wind could reach me. I tried to think positive thoughts, but the labor was just too intense for me. After a few hapless attempts, I started coughing and got dizzy and climbed out. I returned to my ditch several times, but it was as obvious as a cloud on a perfect blue sky that I was not making much progress. I defended myself to Nick, "I was BAKING, baking I tell you, in that ditch. I felt like I was going to pass out!"

On our first trip to Russia after Nicaragua, Nick promptly told his grandparents of my suffering and how I was clearly not cut out for manual labor in the sun.

I didn't know how Dick would react to that story of my wimpy-ness, given that he was a hard-working farmer who could have at one time probably dug ten ditches in a day.

He loved it.

Over the years, every holiday or visit when I leaned over to greet him and shake his hand, he'd hold on to my hand for an extra second and ask, "Have you dug any ditches lately?" His hearty laugh followed when I smiled and emphatically shook my head NO and retold the details of my failure as a dirt digger. He really got a kick out of that. And Nick always got a kick out of his Grandpa getting a kick out of it.

I only knew Dick for the past six years, the last years of his life. Oftentimes, I marvel at how we can meet people in the last turn of their life, just as we are in the main throttle of our own. What a gift it is.

In a loving and resting peace, I imagine him now. And it's because of that mega-watt smile he shared with me that first day back in 2004 that I often try to smile at newcomers and make others comfortable in my home. It's always the small things in life that make a difference and leave an impact on others.

I'm just one of the many, I'm sure, who were touched by his life, family, and kindness.

Tears Behind the Wheel

Have you ever cried while driving?

That's probably not the safest thing to do.

I mean, it's not as dangerous as drinking and driving or texting while driving, but CRYING has its own level of wrong, too.

I realized this as I was wiping away tears this morning after I took Isaiah to the doctor. The little Meatball is having a terrible week. Probably the worst in his four moths of existence.

Isaiah's been struggling with moderate eczema for quite some time and Nick and I have been playing detective, trying to figure out what triggers it or how we can relieve it. Last month we figured out that the space heater in his room is the culprit.

So we unplugged the darn thing and layered him in extra shirts and socks when he went to bed.

And then spring came.

His eczema flared last week and I wondered if maybe it's something in his milk. So I took out 99% of dairy in my diet.

No change.

This week, I gave up eggs. No change.

Poor little guy looked miserable. And I was having a breakdown watching his splotches begin to spread over his head, face, torso and arms. His little uncoordinated hands were scratching his head and belly while he cried and I would try to comfort him while I bawled myself.

What a mess.

So I took him to the doctor for three things: eczema, possible teething, and a bad cough.

Isaiah laughed and wiggled as the doctor examined him and thought the tongue stick to examine his mouth was the greatest thing ever and laughed in the doctor's face.

Despite the laughs, he had a low grade fever and his eczema needs some serious attention. I fired away with questions and more questions. Without Nick there to calmly interject something very Borchers-esque, my motor mouth went nuts. Luckily, the doctor didn't mind my fretting. (I assume fretting mothers are quite common in a pediatric setting.)

So, I hauled my 17.5lb elephant back to the car and got in the driver's seat to head to Rite Aid to pick up his prescriptions.

I kept glancing in my rear view mirror to see his baby mirror. He looked so much like Nick, but covered in red patches of itch, and handled everything so well. His skin, fever, and cough coupled with Nick's departure got the best of me and my tear ducts. And that's when the bawling happened and my vision blurred from crying.

And that's why I am writing to caution all who cry while driving - it's just as hazardous as texting.

You can't see ANYTHING.

Growth off the Charts

Bleh. I hate when Nick is gone.

He left this morning at 3:45am to catch his 6am flight to El Salvador. Meanwhile, my mom has arrived to help take care of Isaiah and my sister is moving in to the third floor upstairs. All the Factora women in one household - it's like a huge slumber party for Isaiah.

Speaking of our favorite meatball, yesterday he officially turned 4 months old and looks every bit of it as well. According to my mom who saw him last 3 weeks ago, when she feasted her eyes on him again, she couldn't believe the length of his legs. I didn't know what else to say except, "I know. I know. I know."

When I hold Isaiah, I feel like I'm holding onto a very soft baby elephant. There are days when I just can't friggin believe how strong he is. My sister-in-law and mother were gazing at him yesterday in his car seat and Suzi commented,"You might want to start thinking about upgrading your car seat. Uh, his feet are starting to dangle over the edge." I glanced down. She was right.

Guess what else Isaiah is up to? TEETHING.

Yes, TEETHING.

I was wondering what's been up with the buckets of drool flapping out of his mouth the past two weeks and his munching on his hand immediately after he's eaten and him barreling down on his bottom lip like he needs his gums to be in contact with something. Suzi said, "They may not be popping out, but that doesn't mean he's already teething."

And then my mom asked, "Are you sure he's not yet ready for solids?"

And that's when my head exploded.

NEW CAR SEATS. TEETHING. SOLIDS.

I complained like a little girl to my mom, "What the hell are all those books good for if they're not preparing me in time for Isaiah's development? He's not supposed to be teething or eating solids yet, say the books I'm reading."

And the common sense advice reply, "Well, those book are written for the average timeline of a baby. Isaiah may not be average."

When I consider how his onesies are 12-18 months and starting to get tight in length, that might make sense.

Meanwhile, Nick takes off to El Salvador for five days and I'm left with an elephant of a son and a stomach full of battery acid because of Nick's international travels.

Screw the books. I'm listening to my mother.

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 6

The intensity. THE INTENSITY.

Isaiah 4 months

Pictures, pictures, pictures...

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 5

It's a bit late to post it now, but just so you're aware that I am now WINNING...

Even when I'm sick, I'll never be so sick that I cannot compete.

Recovery

I've been recovering from some nasty virus this week. Doctor said it's just one of those things you catch during spring that makes you feel like you're underwater and can't hear anything cause your ears are plugged, like your legs weigh 8726 lbs because they're achy and heavy, like it's middle of summer because of a low grade fever, like you're part robot part frog because of laryngitis, like you want to suffocate yourself with your own pillow because you are miserable.

But, I'm slowly getting better.

Nick had to take a couple days off from work to take care of Isaiah so I don't breathe on him at all.

Ugh.

So, this week hasn't been the greatest and, from the inside of my house, it looks to be a beautiful spring. Too gosh darn bad I'm allergic to it.

Don't forget to stop and smell the flowers (unless you're allergic to the pollen, like me.)

Isaiah certainly has.

All the Superhero I Need

GO CAVS!

Isaiah's First Easter

I'm sick as a dog! Ugh, I hate it.

I'm stuck in bed and took the opportunity to finish a belated video for Isaiah's first Easter...Enjoy!

Off to Russia

Off to see grandparents and great grandparents and uncles and Aunt Kelly and...

The Changes of Spring

And suddenly, in Isaiah's world, this THING happened. There was no build-up. There was no transition. HEAT appeared.

And just like that, I had to explain it to him: SPRING is here. Or as Nick says, "Just tell him that each day is the best day of his life because the weather keeps getting better and better for the next six months." That's true if you were born on December 20th.

Isaiah's legs are suddenly bare, no more extra onesies and winter caps. The warmer has been removed from his car seat to keep his skin air cool and his plumpy aura pleasant. It's suddenly warm and the first day it went from the 40s to the 80s, Isaiah slept almost half the day, as if his body went into some sort of confused mode that drank all of his energy, "I have to regulate the temperature of this big baby, we need to shut down," is what I imagine his cells and neurons communicating to one another.

It's been about three and a half months since Nick's and my life took a radical turn. And things are indeed different, as I reflect on the past year. I believe Isaiah was conceived during this past week and, if you believe that life begins the moment of conception, Isaiah is technically a year old already. He friggin looks like a toddler anyway, so that feels appropriate to write.

When he's fussy or won't stop making noises, sometimes I pick him up and go outside and show him all the signs of new life in the world. The tulips springing out from the ground in our back yard, the tiny budding flowers, and the tips of green beginning to open themselves into leaves on the trees. Isaiah's fascinated by the color and the wind on his face and I start laughing to myself when I look at him look at spring. For me, Isaiah's the ultimate sign of new life and here he is, grazing the new spring grass with his chubby foot.

The gorgeous weather has also permitted us to go for long walks together and that has made ALL the difference during the day. No more being cooped inside the house, no more praying for the snow to stop trapping us indoors. I feel free! Boundless! And I'm enjoying it while I can because I know in a handful of weeks, my allergies will bound me to the house once more and I will be unable to take meds because of nursing Isaiah. This will definitely be interesting. I'm going to look like a bloated, congested goat.

Isaiah's life keeps changing our world and the worrying, planning, and mild anxiety doesn't seem to stop. Ironically, accompanying all of this is a deep serenity that I was not prepared to find in parenting. Sometimes, when it's just me and Isaiah, and I'm singing him to sleep, I kiss him on the top of his head and can feel the soft spot. A physically vulnerable place on his body revealing his pure youth - his skull is still fusing together, his brain is still growing. And in this place where I rest my mouth, I can feel his heartbeat. His heartbeat. I can feel his actual heartbeat at the top of his head. Something about that often makes me cry. In so many ways, Isaiah is this utterly dependent little thing of a human who can only wiggle around, half roll on a couch, and yelp for his needs. And yet he is his own person. He's a completely separate human being from me and Nick, a person who will grow into his own, and experience his own choices and trials, failures and triumphs. He has his own heart. He doesn't need mine or Nick's.

That realization startled me. Isaiah is his own person.

Somewhere in the future I see myself struggling to let him go. Whether that's his first day at kindergarten, his first boy/girl party, his driver's license, or college decision, I don't know. I can't fathom how this little miracle is someday going to leave us and show us his own heart's identity.

For now, I'm just enjoying those moments of realization and relishing in all the little epiphanies he brings me on a daily basis. For now, that is more than enough.

Isaiah is a gift that is endlessly unwrapping.

Isaiah - 3 and a Half Months

SEE MORE PICS HERE!

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 4

Don't doubt.

Happy Easter

My Little Super Hero, Part 2

My Little Super Hero

My Good Friday Homily

Today, I will be fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine: to deliver a "homily" at a Catholic church service. Because it is Good Friday, and it is not technically a mass, lay parishioners are allowed to deliver a reflection. This year, I was asked to offer my thoughts.

When I was growing up, I always knew better than to ask my mom if I was allowed to do anything during Holy Week. On our refrigerator, she would post the church bulletin and with a highlighter, go through and underline every single mass, reconciliation time, and service offered. I was the youngest of four and all of us were expected to attend, no matter what was going on. No exceptions.

It got really difficult when I was in high school. And since it was Easter break, people would have all kinds of get-togethers and parties. And since we were on vacation, you knew everyone was going to be there. Everyone, that is, but me. One time, though, I did get the nerve to ask my mom if I could go to a party. She just raised her eyebrows at me and say, “Lisa, are you going to a party on the day of our Lord’s death?”

So, you can imagine, I did not go.

I didn’t want to be a party-goer during Good Friday, so I just thought to myself, “This is just a sacrifice I’ll make by staying home.” All the while, though, I was wishing I was with my friends. Remember, as a teenager, staying home on a Friday night of vacation was a really, big deal.

My mom was right. Today is a day, among many things, about grief. It is a day typically marked with solemnity, a sobering awareness that’s almost palpable. Good Friday is when we relive the most intense story in the gospel – the Passion. It is a time that we, typically and appropriately, regard with mourning and reflective hearts. It is, after all, the day that Jesus dies.

How do we move into these hours? Is it with heavy hearts? Spiritually, that makes sense. But is there more to Good Friday than just the quiet grief and observation of Jesus’ death? Perhaps it is more than just staying home and self-sacrifice. Perhaps it is more than just the quiet 3 o’clock hour.

Personally, I know that I am able to move through this darkness because I know the light of the resurrection is but stone roll away. I have heard the sounds of Easter before, I have seen Easter lilies bloom. I have the strength to move through the darkness of Good Friday because I know and believe that today will pass. Friday passes into Holy Saturday and Holy Saturday gives way to a Sunday miracle.

But, is that what I want my Good Friday to be about? Waiting for Sunday? What is your Good Friday about? Perhaps Good Friday is the opportunity to find and witness someone else’s passion. Who in your world, who in your life, who in your heart do you know is dying? Who are those people in your life whose tomorrow, next week, and all the days of this year will be Good Friday?

Today we gather and remember the suffering of Christ. It’s easy to be overcome by the physicality of Jesus’ suffering: the scourging, the crown of thorns, three falls of Christ. But what haunts me the most about the Passion is that Jesus, who walked in the knowledge, faith, and trust that he was God’s son, believed that he was abandoned by God. Jesus! I cannot think of a more crushing anguish or more profound loneliness than to believe you have been forgotten, even forsaken, by God. The one who created you.

Someone, somewhere today is going through precisely that pain, that division from God, believing that they are forgotten. Beyond these walls, or maybe within these walls there are those who are living the Good Friday that Jesus experienced. I don’t know any one in my life who endured the brutal violence Jesus did, but I do know people who are going through the psychological and spiritual trauma Jesus did. In my world, I see my friend Katherine who is ostracized from her family because she is a lesbian and is no longer invited to her family’s Easter celebrations. I see a place called Payatas, a community I visited in the Philippines that lives at the base of dumpster where the people sift through the garbage with their bare hands for food that can be recooked for their families. I see my friend Emily who has been trying but has not been able to conceive a child for many years. I think of my mother who is walking with her mother through the last stages of life.

Who in your life is in the darkness? And who are we to be afraid to bring light to them? If Good Friday is anything, it is a day to put aside any fear we may have, and let the light of God move the stone from someone’s tomb.

How do we do that? For myself, I write letters. I send handwritten letters on ordinary days. I try not to wait for holidays or birthdays or anniversaries to remind someone they are not forgotten. This may seem very small or just a crack at their seemingly insurmountable suffering, but I am often amazed at how much light comes through one small crack. But what is even more astounding to witness is how much darkness is dispelled by that crack.

To truly follow Christ is not just observing his death, but remembering why he died. Jesus was killed because he brought light to those in darkness. So, perhaps today is more than just brokenness and sacrifice. Perhaps it is a day not to enter, not be enveloped, not become one with the darkness, but to be the light, however small.

I would like to leave you with one question and I hope you can come back to it often as you move through your Good Friday: What will you do to dispel the darkness?

Isaiah's First Spring

Isaiah 14 weeks

Dear Isaiah,

I am exhausted. You are adorable.

Apparently, this is how parenthood works. Nick loses his hair. I lose my cuteness. You grow hair and gain cuteness. We give it all to you, my dear child.

Your Dad these days is putting up shelves in the kitchen. Wonderful bright, white, wide, and sturdy shelves are now gracing a once-empty wall. On these shelves will be glass jars full of colorful beans, pastas, dried fruit, and anything else we could move out of the cabinets and onto the walls. This has been a longtime project of mine and I'm so excited to see it come to fruition.

We took you to Home Depot for the first time this past weekend to pick everything up. Of course you slept through everything, even my nearly knocking the cart over with my clumsiness. You're such a champ.

You even survived the hours of drilling in our kitchen. Your eyes get really big and your whole body goes still, like there's a huge monster in the kitchen waiting to eat both of us up. It's just your Dad, though, trying to make me happy with my happy kitchen project. He's thoughtful like that.

Your Lola, my mother, goes home today after a wonderful 3 week visit. Oh, she is so attached to you, I think she was seriously thinking about taking you home with her to Virginia. And now, this morning, I am realizing how much I had come to depend on her over these few weeks. The kitchen sink is full, the vacuum needs to be run. Sheets need to be cleaned. Sleep needs to occur, and we need eggs, veggies, and juice in the fridge.

And it's Holy Week.

Mothers are the source of sanity, I've found. Having MY mom here calmed me in a way and freed me to do so many things, I can't help but feel like grandparents are the greatest people in the world right now. Everyday should be GRANDPARENT'S DAY in my book.

And now, as I write this, I can hear you wiggling around in your crib through the monitor. It's just you and me again, Isaiah.

You are now three and a half months and I don't think you have growth spurts, I think you just have had one long growth spurt since you were taken out of my womb. Your face is changing, you limbs are strong, and your neck is gaining stability. You no longer look like an infant, but a chubby, beautiful BABY. Your little face is starting to resemble that of a little boy and it often makes me tear up. Your father and I can hardly believe how blessed we are to witness you grow.

And now, as I write this, I can hear you start talking to yourself which, I know now, is a 10 minute countdown to a huge yelp that translates into: HEY! GET ME OUT OF HERE AND LET'S GET GOING WITH THE DAY!

Love,
Mama

And It Went PING!

What possessed me to order a large soda at the CAVS game yesterday is beyond me. I hadn't had caffeine in over a year, not since I was pregnant, and suddenly, I decide - in some sort of a daze - that WILD CHERRY PEPSI was a fantastic idea to wake me up to witness some Lebron magic.

After scoring CAVS tickets from my friend, Alexis, as a belated birthday gift, Nick and I enjoyed an adults-only afternoon and dinner, courtesy of Alexis who supplied the tickets and my mom who supplied childcare.

The game was unexpectedly thrilling as the Sacramento Kings kept it interesting. Although, the most interesting part of the game had nothing to do with the game. After my bulb of brilliance went off and I slurped down my drink and immediately began to have a headache, I heard a sharp PING! noise from the floor and felt Nick tense up and began looking frantically through the legs and feet of strangers sitting around us.

Hyped from our favorite legal drug of choice, I shouted a caffeinated, "DID YOU JUST DROP YOUR WEDDING RING? HERE? AT THE Q? HERE?! IN THE NOSEBLEED SECTION?!"

The man next to us looked at me. His eyebrows went soaring. The men in front of us sensed troubled and Nick asked them to look down at their feet for his ring. As they fished around for Nick's half of fidelity, affection, and honor, I muttered obscenities into the popcorn and furiously slurped even faster. The Wild Cherry was wild indeed.

Luckily (for Nick) it was retrieved and returned to his fourth finger. Of course, my motor mouth couldn't stop running, "JUST PUT IT ON AND KEEP IT ON!"

This would be a hilarious time to mention that I do NOT have my wedding ring on either. I took it off when I was pregnant because my hands were often swollen and I have yet to put it back on.

Caffeinated hypocrite, you could call me.

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 3

Worry not. Next week, I shall come roaring back. It will be Easter Sunday and, appropriately, you will see a second resurrection that morning in addition to Christ's.

The Evolution of the Grandson

My brother Fran has four kids, 3 of them are boys. Nick and I try to visit their family in North Canton as often as we can. Now that the weather is turning, it's easier to get down there and let all the kids run around. (Well, Isaiah, for now, just kind of lays there.) It's amazing to me to know they will all grow up together and are so close in age. Cousins are an invaluable part of our lives and I know it's true for Nick and I that we love spending time with our cousins. So, it's important for us to see Isaiah grow familiar with his.

When we see our niece and nephews, we get a glimpse of what's in store for us down the road. A lot of it looks wonderful. Some of it looks a bit intimidating...

Right after this picture was taken, Zach started hiding in the living room. He finally admitted to Suzi (my sister-in-law and Zach's mom) that he had swallowed a nickel. Specifically, it was Jesse's nickel.

Apparently this wasn't the first time one of the kids swallowed a coin. So after a scolding and punishment, Zach was sent to his room. Jesse, looking adorably confused as to why Zach was in trouble asked what happened. When he realized his beloved little $.05 was missing he screamed at the top of his lungs, "MY NICKEL!!!!!!"

As sad as he was, I couldn't help but laugh my butt off -- he was just so darned cute and the situation was so ridiculous. He left the table with his head down in utter sorrow.

I looked at Isaiah, munching away on tongue and watching angels float around him, and wondered what was in store for him. If he was going to swallow any precious heirlooms or coveted trinkets in the future.

God, I hope not. I still need to learn know how to do the heimlich maneuver.

Sweet Sixteen Ready

A Near Apologetic Letter

CLICK HERE FOR MORE PICS

Dear Isaiah,

I want to be able to apologize for what we put you through in your first trip to Cincinnati, but, honestly, I don't think I should because it was a trip you had to make. While the traveling threw all kinds of baby wrenches in your schedule, the payoff was immeasurable and I can assure you, you had a great time.

Thursday we left for your parents' ol' stompin' grounds - the Queen City of Cincinnati. This is the place where, above all other places we could have gone to college, your father and I chose to go to Xavier. This is the place we met, where we became friends and also where we got married. It's an important place to us and we will always be visiting - and not just because my favorite restaurant, Ambar, is in Cincinnait, but because some of our closest friends are here as well.

So, you'll have to forgive us for what we put you through. Oh, I could see it in your muddy olive-colored eyes -- you couldn't recognize anything or anyone around you. We, as the books call it, overstimulated you. In return, you wailed like you had never wailed before in your entire 3 months of existence. This broke our hearts.

But they mended quickly when we got to introduce you to all of our friends, including the long time server at Ambar who I once thought I would eventually marry because I tipped him well enough over the past twelve years to purchase a new Ferrari. Luckily, I didn't marry him. I married your Dad, who celebrated his 31st birthday on Friday, March 19.

And to prove how lovingly patient your 31 year old Dad is, let me tell you what happened Friday morning...

We were staying with Julie and Pat Ryan, aka Julie and Goatee, and that morning we were getting ready for a full day of visiting. I thought to send a quick email reminder to my family that it was Nick's birthday and wrote, "Don't forget that tomorrow is Nick's birthday..."

Your Dad, who loves to read over my shoulder, gently cleared his throat, "Um, you know that TODAY is my birthday right?"

Me. I fumbled the days of the week. Me.

The person who makes a SPEECH on her birthday every year. I got your Dad's birthday wrong.

Le sigh.

But, as usual, he was laughing and forgiving while I buried my face in his shoulder and two fat tears of embarrassment sloped down my cheeks. I felt horrible. He thought it was hilarious which only made me feel worse because you know, my dear son, had the situation been reversed, I would've been bawling my eyes out if Nick got the wrong day for MY special day.

You slept like a true Factora on the way back home. You even slept through the fist pumping as we listened to Northern Iowa take down the indomitable Kansas over the radio in a true NCAA thriller.

Anyway, you met some very wonderful and important people and got your first taste of southern Ohio and March madness.

So, in addition to seeing Grandma & Grandpa Borchers and your Uncle Keith and dine at Palomino's (didn't you LOVE your window seat overlooking Fountain Square?), you learned some important lessons:

1) Forgive like your father.
2) Always root for the underdog.

Sleep well, little one.

Love,
Mama

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 2

The smack talk this morning nearly woke up Isaiah.

The Difference Between Baseball Players and Isaiah

Me: Isaiah needs new clothes. His legs are getting too long. Thank God my mom bought some new clothes for him because I hate cutting the feet off of those pajamas.

Nick: I saw that baseball outfit though. That fit him well.

Me: For now, but it's starting to get tight. That's the first time he wore that, too!

Nick: Well, baseball uniforms are actually supposed to fit like that, slightly form-fitting.

Me: You realize, though, that it's a BABY OUTFIT that supposed to mimic a baseball uniform. He's not really supposed to be an actual baseball player.

Bottom line - he needs bigger clothes.

Spring and Baseball

Batter up.

MORE PICS HERE!

Happy St. Patty's!

Growing up Filipino, I never thought I'd say this: my son is part Irish.

Happy St. Pat's!

Week 12

Some photos for your enjoyment!

CLICK HERE

Sunday Weigh-In

...and if you couldn't figure it out: "W" stands for win.

Dammit.

Bath Time!

Control

My wonderful mama has flown in from Virginia to stay for a weeks with us so she can help out with Isaiah. I never appreciated another set of hands around the house so much in my life. You'd think that between Nick and I, we'd have everything under control.

Shatter those expectations right now. There's no such thing as control when you're learning how to be a parent for the first time. Quite the opposite, you'll find that nearly everything is actually OUT OF CONTROL.

For example - let's take the bathroom.

Once the pride and joy of our house when we got a few things redone, but since Isaiah has come along, it has evolved into a banished and neglected corner on the second floor. It is in such dire need of a cleaning that even NICK said something about how we need to get control of that thing. By "thing," we're talking about the overdue scrubbing of the tub. Our BRAND NEW tub that we've neglected for months now.

Control is a funny illusion of life. We THINK we know what's around the corner because we anticipate problems, we logically hypothesize the risks and factors of every decision and, understandably, wait for the expected outcome.

Remember, though, that an illusion is something that appears to be real. It presents itself as something actual, something tangible, but it is, in fact, not.

It's like how I believe I have Isaiah's schedule in control and then, out of nowhere, he decides he's bored out of his mind and wiggles like crazy for an hour. He's fed, dry, and not tired. He's just wiggling. Wiggle, wiggle.

He wiggles out of his bouncer, he wiggles off the blanket on the floor, he wiggles out of my arms, he wiggles to the corner of the couch. And I think, "I can't control this boy."

Ah HA! Parenting lesson #827462 - NO CHILD IS UNDER OUR CONTROL, PARTICULARLY CHUBBY NEWBORNS.

And thus Nick and I feel out of control at times. We do our best to stay in routine, not make any plans and be nerdy 30-somethings with no lives outside our jobs and domestic responsibilities that include trips to Home Depot. We have learned that control is, quite frankly, laughable.

I thought I had control of nursing Isaiah and yet, still, every stinking week, something comes up. This week, for example, I developed a low grade fever on Sunday. My leg muscles were achy and my whole body was sore. I couldn't believe I was sick. Considering how neurotic I've been about washing and/or sanitizing my hands every time I touch an unsterilized door knob, I didn't think I'd catch any bug.

And as it turns out, I was dehydrated. I kept drinking waterbottles full of H20 and didn't have to pee at all. Miraculously (insert sarcasm there), the next morning my fever broke. I kept drinking and drinking and by the early afternoon, I felt as fine as a shiny new button.

How could I forget to increase my water intake? Nursing, working out, the weather is *just* beginning to warm up...hello? Water? More of it?

Before I admonished myself too harshly, Nick shared a story with me that made me feel oodles better...

The other night Nick woke up in the middle of the night because he heard Isaiah on the monitor. Nick thought Isaiah was just fussing around but he still got up to listen to the monitor more closely. He was alarmed, though, when he realized that Isaiah's breathing was making an irregular high pitched squeak, like he was having trouble breathing. As he started to move quickly toward the door, concerned that maybe Isaiah was sick or in a bad sleeping position, he noticed that the high pitched noise was moving with him, despite he was growing further and further away from the monitor.

"It was my own breathing," Nick told me. "It was my own freaking nose that was making those noises. I couldn't even distinguish my own self from a baby monitor."

Mhm. That's bad, babe, I thought.

So, you have a dehydrated and dizzy mom and a dad who can't hear his own nostrils.

Perfect.

It's On...It's SO On

For those who know us best, the gene that determines competitiveness runs strong in both Factora and Borchers families. It has to. I've never met anyone who's more competitive than I am. That is, not until I met Nick.

Competitiveness comes in many forms. There's the obvious kind that reveals itself in sports. The Michael Jordan/Tiger Woods (sans sex scandal) kind of competition. This is the "I CANNOT LOSE. EVER." gene which makes athletes train twice as hard and cultivates a near military discipline that most of us civilians would find unbearable.

Then there's other genes of competition, more subtle but just as lethal. This competitive gene revolves around the oratory debate stratosphere, aka "I MUST BE RIGHT. I AM RIGHT." kind of thinking. It's a gene that makes its way into the most innocuous of situations - bowling, finding a parking space, starting a campfire, any household project, insurance claims...

You think these situations are not competitive? Move in with us for a week, you'll understand after that.

No matter what the situation, Nick and I often pit ourselves against the opponent, be it a piece of stubborn firewood that will not flame up along with the others or a slow car in the Panera Bread parking lot who is blocking traffic. Everything's a competition. No dispute too small, no challenge too big. There are two trophy words uttered in our house that carry more weight than anything: I WIN.

Sometimes it's shouted, sometimes it's whispered into a billowing pile of laundry. Whatever needs conquering shall be conquered in our house.

So, you can imagine the kind of raised eyebrows and smack talk in our marriage when the competition is between us. It can get ugly, but it's always entertaining. Many people do not know that Nick is, as Keith Borchers said in his best man speech at our wedding, "an ego maniac who thinks he's sweet at everything."

Save opera and any form of dancing, this is true about Nicholas David Borchers. He hates losing. He can't stand being second. He likes strategy and mind-games during poker. He's all about focus and readjustment. Don't be fooled by his calm demeanor. There's a beast inside him called THE WINNER'S CIRCLE.

And then there's me. Don't think that I don't have my own monster and even according to Nick, I may be more competitive than him. There's a reason why I have the Rocky IV soundtrack on my iPod. Most people wouldn't see it coming, kind of like a CATEGORY FIVE HURRICANE that didn't come up on your weather outlook.

My competitiveness is often stuffed away because of its monstrosity. It can and has ruined moments of friendly game playing. While everyone else shrugs after a loss, I seethe inside. Competitiveness is like a constant search for perfection, which can never be attained. So, the desire to win or be right or dominate knows no rest. But, it's not always appropriate to be competitive so I, along with Nick, keep it to myself. We're like two man-eating sharks in a Sea World tank: it's in our blood and in our nature, but we're trained to be harmless.

That was a long introduction into the heart of this post, but it's critical for you to know the background of our competitive edges.

Nick and I have a combined goal to be and become healthier parents. Running around with Isaiah necessitates optimal states of health so we decided to commit to losing a few pounds. I need to shed my pregnancy weight and Nick, many months ago, invented a campaign called, "Don't Get Fat" because of his fear of rolling into a "fat new dad."

So we made a deal and the stakes are high.

Beginning Sunday, March 7th, we are having our own personal Biggest Loser competition. We adapted the show to our own lives and here are the ground rules:

Weekly weigh-ins on Sunday
Largest percentage of weight loss wins
Two goal dates: June 4, 2010 (our 5 year anniversary) and September 4, 2010.
Whoever has the largest percentage of weight loss on June 4, 2010 has the intermediate prize - winner gets one evening of their choice every week to go out and do whatever s/he wants while Isaiah is with the other parent.

If you don't understand the impact of that reward, go back and read it again. This prize is HUGE. This can mean going out with your friends. For Nick it can mean going to play racquetball with Books and Sam or going to the library for a few hours. For me that means extended trips to a coffee shop or taking my time at a farmer's market.

The ultimate prize, come September 4, will be individualized. Nick has yet to announce what his prize will be if he wins. If I win, I get to go to the conference of my choice in any part of the United States. (I'm such a nerd. I adore conferences on writing, feminism, media, etc...) Beside the fact that I want to shed my preggers weight, that conference-attending prize alone all but guarantees that I will win. Hello? Travel? Hotels? Learning? Meeting new writers and artists? That's what I was born to do.

This competition is huge and normally, I would not post something like this on our blog, but I figured if our friends and family - and God knows who else on the internet is reading this - is in the know, we are accountable to seeing this through. And we will.

It's man vs. woman. Focus vs. Passion. Tall vs. Short. Endurance vs. Intervals.

Choose your team now and place your bets. Nick is team blue. I am team green.

Cheers to a healthier Borchers/Factora-Borchers family in 2010.

(And, here's to ME, cause you know I'm going to lick this thing...)

The Irony

Writing, for me, serves many purposes. Not only is it my passion, my center, my lifelong dream and goal, writing is also cathartic. When I write, it always relieves something. It helps me share the good. It also helps me release the aggravation.

Today, I am writing for the latter.

It is my first taste in understanding how parents can simultaneously love their child and also want to run away to Bora Bora alone and get lost in the beauty of the ocean, away from screaming cries and milk stains and the smell of diapers and the sight of bad eczema.

Today Isaiah was a complete paradox. After sleeping through the night consistently for over a month (I know, I know - we're incredibly blessed and I shouldn't be complaining), he didn't last night. He WAH!ed and AIGH!ed for an hour while I tried everything to calm him down, but...to no avail.

He woke at 8am and was just as fussy. So I stripped him down to his diaper to look for any signs of...anything - rashes, bumps, bruises - signs of discomfort or hurt. Nada.

While he laid on our big bed squirming like a fish out of water with nothing but his diaper on, I couldn't help but laugh at how adorable he looked. His pure smooth skin (except his face where he has eczema, poor guy) and fat rolls...he looked like an enormous human cinnabon, just ready to be eaten. So I leaned over and teased him, calling him my favorite pumpkin and gave him a friendly zerbert on his stomach.

And thus came Isaiah's first laugh.

3 hearty, adorable chuckles erupted from his tiny little mouth and I squealed in delight.

That was the highlight of the day.

The rest of the day he was either fussing, crying, yelping, or sadfacing. I was at my wit's end and contemplated what Bora Bora looked like this time of year. I could hear it calling my name. Liiiiiisssssaaaaaa...LLLLLLLiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssaaaaaa

I was brought back to reality when Isaiah spit up on me for the fifth time.

It was a toss-up between me and his burp cloth for WORST SMELL IN THE LIVING ROOM. We both were covered in Isaiah's regurgitation.

Of course it had to be a night when Nick worked late until 9pm. He walked in to find me on the floor, lightly bouncing Isaiah in his bouncer while his eyelids drooped closer and closer to a close. My other hand was stuffing dinner in my face because I hadn't eaten in hours. Taking care of Isaiah required both hands all day. Food was secondary. By 9pm, I was so ravenous, I felt like I was going to eat a piece of old firewood laying in the fireplace. It looked like a hotdog at the time.

Luckily, I was able to scarf down dinner while Isaiah bounced around for a few minutes. Nick had barely entered the house when I announced that I needed to go upstairs and get my sanity back. "I'm going to take a shower. If you need me, I'm NOT available."

It's ironic that Isaiah's first laugh came today when I spent most of the day near tears with Bora Bora dreams. Nothing, not even the promise of spring in three weeks could alleviate the stress of a restless baby.

And so, I write.

2010 State of the Self Address

Four years ago I began delivering the “State of the Self;” a reflection on the past year of life which is always given the evening of my birthday. This is my 2010 State of the Self.

February 27, 1979 is the day I stopped breathing someone else’s air and began breathing on my own. It was not by choice. The woman’s body is built only to support another life for so long before the placenta begins to thin, before the protective and nourishing sac of life begins to deteriorate. It’s like our birthday is our first eviction and the landlord is our mother’s body.

A birth. A day.

I spare no indulgence on the 27th of February and, previous to this year, birthdays always meant my customary helium balloon, sheet cake with vanilla satin icing, and a long list of “must to do” things that include morning mimosas, naps, writing, dreaming, and sniffing around closets and car trunks for my hidden gifts. For the record, I never pretend to be more than a child on my birthday, save the mimosas.

But this birthday is different. This is my first birthday as a mother. This is the first birthday in which the word “birth” and “day” have extracted themselves from streamers and sweets and grew into profound meaning. “Birth,” as in, a son, my firstborn. Day has grown to be more than the frame of 24 hours. “Day” is now gift.

Last year, my State of the Self focused on my identity as a writer. My pen itself nearly throbbed with pain as I described the challenges of creative writing. Now, I worry less about identity as a writer and more about truthfulness. Being truthful with Isaiah may very well be the most challenging task of my life.

And one truth I am going to share with my son is to take moments for himself. Or as I like to put it: Breathe in the awesome. I never understood those who hated their birthday. I suppose it can be viewed as a self-important concept, but the celebration of life, of my own life has always superceded any other reason to deny the day. Those who dread their birthday often do so because of a number – age. Or it reminds them of death.

Birth, for me, evokes the boundless beginning of life.

But if birthdays aren’t your cup of tea, I hope and pray that you do find a day, a time to rejoice in your own life in the very miracle of your existence. Because if we can’t find a reason or an hour to relish in our blessings, to be authentically and radically grateful for our friends, family, lovers, gifts, talents, experiences, insights, and lessons – I don’t know if we’re truly seeing ourselves – or life – clearly enough.

Thirty-one years is more than enough reason for cake and drinks. And after birthing my son, I know that thirty-one seconds alone is more than enough reason for celebration. The paradox of birth – its fragility and its power – must, begs, needs to be recognized. And celebrated. Isaiah has taught me that.

So, my state at 31 is one of utter grace. Grace of understanding. Grace of frustration. Grace of holy parenting and emotion. It is a period of firsts and failures and finding that my life can hold so much more than I ever thought possible. That realization also came with the responsibility that I myself am capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.

It is my birthday wish that everyone – at some point in their life – births new life and it need not be a child. A revolution, a concept, relationship, invention, methodology, habit or path that inducts an enhanced thought-process, a better more gentle way of loving and being in the world.

Because if we all took a moment to birth and rejoice in our own birthing, the state of grace would no longer be a temporary lingering, but an everlasting positioning of soul.

Birthdays

Happy Birthday to Keith and Kay!

Big hugs from Isaiah to his Grandma and Godfather!

Isaiah 9 Weeks

Isaiah and Love

I am listening to Isaiah gulp down his milk.

He is in the other room with Nick. The strains of the television are loud, but they still cannot drown out the long sighs and squirms and squeaks of our little one. As I write this, though I cannot see him, I know he is draining his bottle, staring at the intricate patterns of the ceiling, and kicking his legs into the air.

Isaiah is 9 weeks old. Nick and I can scarcely believe it. I cannot imagine the level of disbelief I will be in when he is 9 months, 9 years or 19 years old. Those days will come, but for now, I just watch and observe my big little guy, chasing the winter blues away - which are so common for Clevelanders - with his rainbow wide smile and fat rolls on his wrists and ankles.

My father recently commented that from the photos I have taken of him, it's obvious that Isaiah is the love of my life. And I couldn't agree more. He's the love of OUR lives - Nick and mine. Every little thing he does evokes a reaction from us that reminds me how I was when I was falling in love with Nick. All the tiny details of your beloved's existence seem to burn into your memory. Nothing seems as interesting or intriguing as what is happening in their world. Life seems more exciting when you know you are going to see this person and when you see their smile...ahhhh, it's like the world was just reborn, everything's new and beautiful again.

Isaiah has moved the furniture in our hearts and has promptly and decidedly plopped his round little bottom into the middle of it. He takes up every inch we have of energy and attention, laughter and frustration, sleep and concern. This is the transition of parenthood, I assume. You begin to learn to live outside yourself. Love of self still continues, obviously (and necessarily), but the center of well-being shifts. It's no longer contained in my life, it exists in this chubby 22 inch body who cannot do anything but need, cry, and wiggle. And somehow, incredibly, this person also delivers immeasurable joy.

Sweet Isaiah, these 9 weeks have been life-changing. Your father and I will never be able to adequately explain how nuts we are about you. I hope you know that you have introduced us to a new and deeper kind of love that we never knew before. Not only have you brought this love out of us for you, but it has also further deepened our love for one another.

Gluttony, Maybe

So, the little Gerber Face received ashes today. I mean, THANK GOD, because it's been a little over 3 weeks since his baptism and he really needed to be straightened out before things got too out of hand. You saw his Valentine's Day picture, right? Flipping the camera off like he's a deranged teenager already? My sweet boy is getting a little too edgy for me. So, hopefully the ashes will set him straight. "Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel," are mighty good words to live by.

But what sin (other than the Valentine birdy he gave me) can this sweet cherub commit? Vanity? No. Rage? Hardly. Greed? Nope. Envy? Never. Sloth, pride, lust? NO.

Gluttony?

Mhm, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll....

What do you call one's inability to stop drinking milk? Borderline gluttonous behavior?

He's too new to sin, but it's good to have received ashes nonetheless.

He behaved like an angel, of course, throughout all of mass, and even for the soup and faith discussion we attended after mass. Nick was leading a discussion about Lent and prayer. Isaiah was like a little Lenten prayer all on his own - so quiet, holy, pure, and awesome.

So begins 40 days of meditation and fish Fridays. Nick and I decided that although we think he would try to participate as a devout Catholic, we're not going to let him fast this year.

Isaiah - 8 Weeks, 2 Days on Mardi Gras

My Funny 8 Week Old Valentine

He's getting a little too fresh these days and thinks flipping his parents off (with BOTH hands nonetheless) is acceptable.

Here's more pics of our sweet Cupid...

Almost 8 Weeks Old

Who Doesn't Love a 4am Wake-up Call?

All the little things I never understood before about parenting, I am quickly beginning to understand now.

I used to look at parents of babies and wonder how in the world they can keep their head on their shoulders when a baby is crying like it's the end of the world Answer: you get used to it.

At parties or gatherings of any sort, how do mothers simultaneously socialize, balance a plate of food in one hand, baby on the other arm, and smile? Answer: women are capable of anything.

Reuseable diapers seem like a good idea. Answer: They're not.

Why do parents keep a million framed pictures of their babies? Isn't one enough? Answer: You can never have too many pictures of Baby.

How do people wake up in the middle of the night to take care of the endless needs of a child? Answer: Hormones and Love.

I do believe there must be some sort of hormonal explanation for my newfound ability to meet 3 or 4am head-on. Seriously, I was the type of person who could sleep through hurricanes and thunderbolts, loud music and alarm clocks. Give me a chair, bed, reclining anything and I will sleep. On land or on a plane, I even fell asleep while floating in a friend's backyard pool in highschool.

I used to boast my sleep agility stories like war vet stories. I've fallen asleep propped up against a wall in a dentist's office. In the back of a truck on a bumpy dirt road. On someone's shoulder in front of a campfire. IN FRONT OF AN AIRLINE CHECK-IN DESK THAT WAS REPEATEDLY CALLING MY NAME.

These instances are all true.

And now...

[le sigh...]

Now, one little meep or beep or squeak or tweek or gurgle or belch or cough or sniff or anything from my little one and my eyes are OPEN, head is rising off the pillow with one eye on the door the other enviously watching my dear spouse snore his life away into his pillow.

Isaiah has changed our lives. He's brought us unimaginable joy and the wonderful gift of big and small laughs. E.g. Thinking about how he'll probably be taller than me by the first grade or giggling over his tiny little toe peaking out from one of the sewn holes in a knit blanket.

There's no further proof of the power of a first baby than the altered sleeping patterns of a night owl like myself.

Nick has a belief that the older one gets, the more prominent the true self becomes. For the most part, I firmly agree with him. However, my "true" self might be put on hold until Isaiah is 18 and away at college. Or my "true" self is permanently changed to reveal a mother who used to need a sledgehammer to the gut to wake up and now wakes at the slightest wind passing through the nursery. My "true" self loved sleep, so much so that I'd sleep through historical moments (the 2000 presidential election result/debacle) or natural disasters (tornado like conditions). Alas, my "true" self has changed. And that's all due to my son.

Answer: I couldn't imagine it any other way.

Pic of the Week

This is one of my favorite pictures from the past week.

Isaiah, near sleep, is laying on Nick's chest. To keep him company and to shield Isaiah's eyes from the overhead lamplight, Nick ducks under the blanket with him.

I melt. Just melt.

Too funny. Too cute. Too many delicate memories that have to be captured.

Isaiah - Almost 7 Weeks

See more pics here!

Isaiah - 6 Weeks & 2 Days

Growing

I forgot to mention that on Isaiah's last appointment, he got his Hepatitis B shot. Our awesome pediatrician, Dr. Cochran, grabbed one of his meaty thighs and stuck him with the syringe and pumped that stuff right into his little body. I watched his reaction.

Nothing at first and then the torture face appeared. Dr. Cochran promptly picked him and handed him to me. I wanted to wail out of pity for my sweet little pumpkin head but decided his tears were enough. I gathered him in my arms and he spit up all over me, old milk that was resting in his belly from breakfast and shot out of his mouth from being startled so suddenly.

After I secured him inside the folds of my arms, he quieted and I felt my first triumphant surge of motherhood. He stopped crying! I'm not only a milk machine to him, he is comforted by me. Well, I thought to myself, we do spend 19 out of 24 hours of the day together. The five hours are when I in the basement doing laundry, getting a shower, or sneak in a walk. All when Nick is available to watch him. With all that time together, he should be comforted by his Momma.

In other words, we're bonding.

Isaiah's smiles are increasing in frequency. Nick received his first dose of Isaiah's ray of sunshine yesterday. It's just adorable, simply adorable.

And if being covered in milk stains and learning quick diaper changing tricks isn't enough excitement already, I must re-announce that my new website is still underway. I've been working with my webdesigner for months. The project has taken so long because of my pregnancy. It's been a stop and go process, but we're nearing the end. Two weeks or so from now, it shall be ready and shortly after that it will be unveiled.

So, remember that Notes from Home Plate will still be up and available, but, likely, I will cease writing on this blog in the next month or so and will shift my writing to the new website which will feature many different forms of writing and other issues in which I have vested interest. But don't worry, you'll still have a healthy dose of Isaiah updates and my poking fun at Nick.

As January trickles to an end and the world turns pink and red for February, I am in awe of how quickly time passes. My sweet boy is almost 6 weeks old! And as he grows out of his newborn clothes as quickly as the transforming Hulk ripped through his human clothes, our hearts are growing with him as he gains every ounce and stretches another inch.

Isaiah, nothing compares to you. Nothing.

Gaining His Wings

Happy to report that Isaiah's latest doctor"s appointment went great! He's 12lbs 5 oz!

My sweet giant cherub!

Week 4 and Baptism

This is a work in progress because there are more Baptism pictures on the way, but here's a sneak peak of Isaiah's special day!

TAKE A LOOK!

Show Me That Smile

The weeks are flying by and I can scarcely believe Isaiah is already a month old. A month? A whole month? I can't remember when time went so quickly. I have a feeling that it's going to be like that a lot and soon I will be saying things like, "I can't believe he's crawling," "I can't believe he's talking," "I can't believe he's on a tricycle..."

I better reverse this whole, "I can't believe..." because it's all going to unfold eventually and I want to be able to soak up and enjoy every minute of it.

Isaiah is sporadically sleeping through the night. Last night he slept from midnight to 7am, which is highly unusual for someone so young, but I've given up worrying so I'm not frazzled by it at all. He's getting chunkier every day (and cuter by the minute) and I have no worries about his weight gain either.

The most heart-melting moment this week happened yesterday. Isaiah and I had a long day together. We were cooped up in the house all day and he was just fussing for a few hours straight, not sleeping, constantly hungry, and bopping his head around like one of those bophead toys where the neck is a spring and the huge head swings in all directions. Finally, I fed him after having a long talk with him. Afterward, I looked down at his face. He was listening intently to my voice and, out of nowhere, gave me his first baby smile.

It wiped every irritated feeling out of my world and all I did was melt into his little face.

He smiled.

A real smile, not a muscle reflex or little side lip curl - it was his entire mouth widening into a big adorable upside down rainbow.

Suddenly, I wasn't worried about anything and all was sunny in the world. There were no earthquakes in Haiti, John Edwards wasn't a moron, it was the day before spring arrived, and a new batch of Rice Krispie Treats were waiting on the kitchen counter.

It was the quickest antidote to the world's problems that I have ever encountered.

The first smile, so gentle, so NEW from my firstborn son was beyond uplifting.

Nothing, not even a new episode of Grey's Anatomy, could hold my attention after that And with delivering his first smile, he promptly fell into a deep 7 hour sleep, as if trying to give me rest when he knows he deprived me of it throughout the day. And this morning, he woke like an angel, barely crying, just cooing and grunting and then feeding with no problems.

Ahh, my little cherub...If only everyone had a newborn to love who gave their first smiles everyday, I firmly believe we would end all wars, disease, and corruption. Yes, new life is that powerful.