Loving Lily

Being a newborn must be an incredibly confusing experience. To leave the comfort of the warm, wet womb and enter the outside world of noises, lights, drafts, and--in Lily’s case--wet kisses, head patting, loud greetings and snuggles from the two little girls that love her more than anything.

People ask me if Sage and Eliza are jealous of their new sister. The answer is no way! What they’re jealous of is their mom--for getting to be the only true mother to Lily. And for having the final say on whether or not they can hold her while walking around like I do, show her their best trampoline moves a few inches from her resting place on my bed, try to get her to suck the pacifier she dislikes, and take her for a ride in their doll stroller. (I fear I may have overused my vetoing power in the last month.)

Sage and Eliza’s love for their new sister is so sweet and sometimes so stifling (for both Lily and me)! But mostly sweet.

I can’t help but smile when Sage calls Lily her little “sweetie heart.” And when she snuggles up next to a crying Lily, offers her a finger to hold, and sings the words of the lullaby from Tarzan, “Come, stop your crying…” This week Sage found my neck pillow, which she took to be a mini Boppy nursing pillow. She plunked herself down with her baby doll on the couch near where I was feeding Lily, fitted the neck pillow around her waist, and proceeded to lift up her shirt and nurse her doll with a proud smile on her face.

Eliza, aka The Stifler, always has to greet Lily after a long absence (two minutes or more) by running to her side and calling out loudly, “Baby! Little Sister!” I overheard Eliza encouraging Lily this week “Do you want to get down and crawl?” And while I was nursing Lily, Eliza beelined over (do newborns have magnetic power?), pulled her shirt up, and said, “I want Lily to drink one of mine.”

I’m sure that Lily’s waking moments contain an overwhelming quantity of noises, lights and jolts from little hands and bodies. But sometime in the future I think she’ll realize that all those pats on her head, giggling voices, and offerings of stuffed animals (as big as she is) are how we spell love around here.

Lily's first game of Old Maid

Perfecting the passport photo

During this past month, the photogenicity (or lack thereof) of our family has been put to the test. I'm not sure we all passed.

It began with passport pictures for our trip to Jerusalem over Christmas.

Mark's passport was still valid, so he was spared the white-wall photo shoot. Mine expired this year, so I had my mom take my picture before she left for Jerusalem. What is it about a big photo shoot--where the resulting picture will be used for the next ten years--that encourages every possible blackhead and zit to surface? And that encourages major water retention in the facial area? (Erma Bombeck said, "There is nothing more miserable in the world than to arrive in paradise and look like your passport photo.") I was too lazy to try again, so I printed the picture, paid my dues and sent it in. Unfortunately for me, the U.S. Passport Agency accepted my mug shot, and thus ensured the photographic preservation of Jack Sprat's wife (who could eat no lean) for the next ten years.

Check out the happy Sprat couple, aka Mark and Janel.

Lily's passport picture required two separate photo shoots, three outfits, and three adults all trying to mop up spit up and get her to face the camera with open eyes. Our window of opportunity for catching a 1-week-old baby with open eyes, but not screaming mouth (i.e. not nursing), was very small.

The bloopers:

Licking the flower / 1-eyed Statue of Liberty

Not-so-happy baby

And the final cut:

Getting a newborn's picture for a passport is a joke in and of itself. But the application was even more amusing. Height? 19 inches (for two more weeks). Eye color? Gray (for two more months). Identifying characteristics: uh...Usually can be found sucking on a pacifier.

We didn't need passports for Sage and Eliza, because (here's my guilty confession) we're not taking them with us to Jerusalem. My good friend, Amy, who is making the sacrifice of the century, has very, very, very generously agreed to take Sage and Eliza for a week. And that deserves a gushing post of thanks in and of itself.

But Eliza, perhaps not wanting to miss out in all this passport photo fun, arranged for her own photo shoot. One corner of Mark's office is set up with a white sheet and a special camera for taking passport-like pictures for his clients' applications. During a visit, Eliza made herself at home in that corner, and Sage accidentally snapped her picture. Unfortunately for Eliza, I don't think the U.S. Passport Agency will accept her mug shot.

Lest you worry that Sage may feel left out of all this photographic excitement, let me assure you that she got her own limelight when I took her to the mall for a photo shoot before we cut her long hair for the first time. If only I had thought to ask them to whip out their white background--maybe we could have had at least one family member with a great passport picture (and nowhere to go with it). Here's a few of the (many) pictures I let myself be talked into buying.

Now with all the passport photos done I can relax a little. And enjoy a laugh at other people's picture problems. Like this one.

Church without mom

Even though my dad is a fervent advocate of bringing newborns out in public (especially to church) soon after their birth, I opted out of taking Lily to her first church meeting at the ripe old age of 6 days old. It was a good idea, too, because Lily ended up having a rotten night, and 9:00am came only a few hours after she finally bit the dust. And what was extra fortuitous was that I missed out on the little episode that happened at church.

We spent the weekend in Provo, so Mark got the older girls ready and took them to our old ward for the day of their Primary Program presentation. [They were excited to see my sister, Becca, the Primary chorister, in action!] On the way in, Sage noticed a little orange paintball in the grass and couldn't resist bringing it into the church with her. When Mark found her playing with it, he took it from her (thank goodness), and put it on the floor next to our diaper bag (darn it). Eliza, acting very much her two years of age, got bored soon into the meeting and began playing on the floor. It didn't take long before her eye caught the bright orange paintball, and she became engrossed with it. Like any good two year old, she felt she had to investigate all of its properties, and popped it in her mouth. When she told me later what happened, she called the paintball a "squishy ball." And, as anyone who has played paintball would know, paintballs are only "squishy" once they've been popped.

And that's exactly what happened when her little teeth pierced the capsule. The orange paint began seeping out of her mouth, and she gagged on the plastic capsule that remained in her mouth. Luckily Mark had cupped his hands under Eliza's chin to capture the escaping orange paint, so when the vomit started pouring out, he was able to catch most of the first few heaves. But Eliza kept gagging, and the vomit kept coming. And coming. You wouldn't believe that a little paintball the size of your pinky could cause seven rounds of vomit. But it did.

Along with half of the rest of the congregation, my brother-in-law, Jordan, noticed Eliza's little show and Mark's predicament. Fortunately Jordan had the presence of mind to grab Eliza's jacket, and came to Mark's rescue just as his hands were getting full (no pun intended). The jacket proved to be an effective barf bucket for Eliza's neon-orange regurgitated breakfast, and the boys rushed Eliza to the bathroom for a hose-down in the sink. She came back sporting a sweatshirt and track pants (intended for, but not limited to, accidents of a potty-training nature).

When Mark brought the girls back from church, I was shocked to see Eliza's new outfit. This is what I was told:
Sage: I found a little orange paintball outside the church.
Eliza: And I put the squishy ball in my mouth. And I choked.
Mark: Yeah. Seven times.

Apparently this is the kind of episode that makes it into email forwards and Sunday phone calls home to parents and grandparents, because my sister, Becca, got this email from my mom in Jerusalem.

Dear Becca, It was fun to talk to you the other day...even if you were sleep-deprived for the big program on Sunday. How did the Primary Program go? We rode with the Skinners today and they were telling me about a little "event" that happened during the middle of the Program. [Note from Janel: the Skinners' son and his family live in Becca's ward.] I guess a child got a toy stuck in his mouth and started to choke and gag. Then, according to their little granddaughter, "Chunks of stuff came flying out of his mouth!" Sounds pretty eventful! Ha! Love, Mom


My mom is one of my most ardent blog supporters. She always leaves me encouraging, sweet comments. That's how I know that she will get this message:

That barfing little boy was your granddaughter, Mom.

A new US citizen

On November 3, Mark called one of his coworkers to report his absence and left this little message:

"Hi. I'm just calling to make an appointment for an immigration consultation. I have a baby that was born in the United States, and I am wanting to know how long I have to wait before she can petition for me to get papers. I don't know if this part is important, but she was born today at 6:32am, and she weighed 7 pounds, 8 ounces, and was 19 1/2 inches long. So, if you could call me back I would really appreciate it."

Here's the new little U.S. citizen herself, Lily Jean Williams:


After a week and a half of false labor, I wasn't sure what to think when I woke up a few times early Monday morning with cramping. At 4:15am I got up to take a bath, but got deterred reading a few online articles about false labor. Around 4:30, I realized that the cramping was getting more regular, so I began to record these little contractions. After 9 minutes my paper read: 4:30, 4:33, 4:36, 4:39. Suddenly the early morning haze cleared, as I employed my superior math skills to determine that this was true labor, and I rushed to wake up Mark (and pack my hospital bag...oops).

We called a neighbor to come over, and I showered quickly, because I'm vain. I even attempted to put in my contacts, and dab on some makeup. (Because, hello, in what other 48 hour time period will I ever have so many pictures taken of me? And, because I looked retarded in my immediate post-delivery pics from rounds 1 and 2, but those pictures are off-limits for deleting.) Alas, my vanity was in vain, because not only did I not get the contacts in, but we also forgot my entire hospital bag in our haste to leave. No pictures at all. No documentation of my frazzled state. Not a bad plan, actually.

We forgot the toiletries, clothes and camera, but I did NOT forgot to grab my absentee ballot as I was walking out the door. Mark got the car and met me at the mailbox where I jammed in those blue envelopes (between contractions) and climbed in for a painful ride.

We arrived at the hospital, where I tried to tell everyone in sight that I had fast labors, in hopes of getting an epidural going ASAP. But at 5:00am, everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion, and at 6:00am, I was still waiting (not so patiently) for that epidural and for the nurse to finish her "paperwork" and notice that I was in transition. The anesthesiologist finally showed up with sleepy sand in his eyes, and gave me an epidural in what he later called "the wrong spot." The results: no numbness whatsoever....and just in time to push out the baby.

Can we take a break from this self-centered monologue and allow me to apologize for all this information about ME?!?!? It makes me feel like this music video.

Okay, now back to me. My doctor gave me a pudenal block right before I began to push, which was a blessing (although I never thought I would call 5 shots to "that" region a blessing). Five pushes later, at 6:32am, Lily Jean Williams took her first breath.

I want to sound like a loving and great mother from the first second, but to be honest, I didn't have much interest in the baby once she was out. I was happy to let Mark be her parent (and grateful for the first--but not only time--that she has another parent.) In the meantime, I retrained myself in the art of breathing normally and congratulated myself on having survived my second "ring of fire" and for not having kicked any doctors in the face--a distinct urge I had during Eliza's natural birth two years ago. It doesn't sound very complimentary to myself, but I needed some time before I was ready to be compassionate, attentive and loving to the new baby that had just ripped out my body. (Literally, ripped.) I felt the same way when Eliza was born (a natural birth), but I didn't feel that way with Sage (an epidural birth).

I am so glad Lily is a part of our family. When we drove home from the hospital (all 5 of us squished in our little Subaru), it just felt right and good. I look forward to bonding more with Lily (no doubt she has some late night sessions planned for us), and growing to love her more each time she snuggles up on my shoulder and falls asleep. And each time I get to smell her fresh out of the bath. And each time she grabs my finger in her little grasp, and I realize how much she needs me, and how much I need and love her. Welcome to the United States, Lily, and to our family.