the next day

When we told our family about this pregnancy, I felt myself keeping my excitement somewhere across the room. 

We all worried the baby could be on his way out of this world even as he was on his way in.

Death brushing past makes people hungry to connect to more people in a big push toward life, a celebration of surviving.

When Hank arrived, healthy, the room was soon full of people who love him, a celebration of surviving.

the first night

I am mostly still lost in a fog between the dream and the day, mostly still wondering at the way the universe sneaks so many good things into such a small package.

Because I am not entirely sure I will ever get around to creating a fourth baby album, and because I know there are still a few people who read here and might appreciate additional images, these, from the evening of Hank's arrival:

so much more to share, but for now:

Charles Hanley Betz
born March 10
at 9:08 pm
9 pounds, 19 inches

pregnant pause

It's been a long week, pregnant beyond me, beyond a mother, moments taut around all of us.
Time slows for family and friends who check in periodically, loved ones watching anxiously from sidelines, waiting with us.  Time slows, and these days time doesn't do that often, usually sliding downhill fast, days pass in blinks and decades are gone in gulps, usually we're busy fussing over too many things to notice minute hands.  Lately though, wondering when a new human will arrive, we're playing inside slowed moments, hearts clenched in prayers of gratitude and eager hopefulness, a bursting roundness and joyful anticipation about all of us.  The baby's silence somehow adds power, building suspense, a reminder that something significant will soon happen.  We can hardly wait.

seven on the seventh

Dear Tucker,

You are seven and I am sentimental.

Speaking of, so are you, actually. You opened a card from family in Seattle and your voice cracked a bit reading it.  You fought back tears as you shared aloud a letter from RoRo that explained the science kits you'd be receiving in the mail each month.  And when Kate gave you the book you'd circled in your Scholastic order, the one about molecules, you said so sincerely "I've been looking forward to this!"

You are seven and you are sentimental.  And you are so many other things.

You are such a wonderful mix of worldliness and innocence.  You are wise and funny and tender.
You love animals and innocence and beauty.  You avoid cruelty and conflict.
You are full of big ideas, and are far less inclined to large doses of my lap.
You are interested in elements and compounds, in zombies and mazes and knock-knock jokes.
You ask powerful questions and chuckle at funny poetry.
You are are good at math and music and you spin stories into gold.
Last night you said you might rather be an author than a scientist, and I said you could be both.
I told you about the book I just finished, the one by the neurosurgeon who strung words like pearls.
You can be both, buddy.  There is nothing you can't do.

You've had cake and pie all week, and as I've watched you blow out all the candles, always allowing your little brother to help, I've felt myself wishing for something inexpressible, for something that would make me a mother fine and worthy of you.
You are one of my greatest birthday gifts ever.  That you are here at all, healthy and thriving, not to mention kind and creative, adventurous and generous, feels like more than a miracle.
You are so special, Tucker.  And I cannot believe my good fortune to grow with you.

Shine on, sweetheart.
And know that you are always, always loved.

still waiting

life lately

ukulele/harmonica duet

snowball fight

art work

no coats and architecting

Osmo

reading to Aunt Kate

laying on the vent to get warm (rather than actually putting on clothes)

making treats

Dominos

measuring and resting

studying Lego design ideas

watching movies together

experimenting

building Legos

reading bedtime books