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.

Halloween (pity) party

I’m feeling really sorry for myself right now. No nesting urges. Just pity partying.

It may have something to do with being beaten out at delivery by my sister, who had the same due date (a full week from today). Darn it, if only I had been hiking the Y twice a week like her (I know!)—hello, I mean, if only I had been walking anywhere other than the house to the car more at least twice a week during the last 9 months….

Or maybe it’s because of an irritating project I initiated with Sage at 8:30 tonight. She was asked to bring 18 treats to her preschool Halloween party tomorrow. We got home late from visiting my new niece, Amy (not Lily, don’t worry), so the project got started way too late.

We decided to make pumpkin-shaped Rice Krispy treats. After using nearly all the marshmallows to make the first batch, which yielded a paltry 7 pumpkins, I realized we were in trouble. What other ingredient has the consistency of a marshmallow? I was even desperate enough to wonder if I picked out enough Lucky Charms marshmallows, would they possible melt down to an appropriate consistency? Right.

That brought me to wonder why in the world I was making 18 treats. There are only 12 kids in Sage’s class (she loves to tell me there are 6 boys and 6 girls), and probably 9-10 who come regularly. Does the number 18 include the teachers? Their kids? Their pets? It was then that I decided there was no way I was making 18, even if it had been physically possible at that point in time.

I set Sage to work making faces out of chocolate chips on the pumpkins while I made another batch (heavy on the Krispies and food coloring and light on the marshmallows). Just as I was finishing stirring, I looked over and noticed that Sage was picking off the chocolate chips we had just put on. “What are you doing?” I asked incredulously. “I want them to have ‘o’ mouths” was her response. The problem was that now that she’d endowed every pumpkin with an “o” mouth, the chocolate chips no longer looked like faces—rather a random sprinkling (due to preschool imprecision with locating the mathematical placement of the eyes, nose and mouth--whether “o” or other).

I know that kids’ crafts and projects just aren’t bound to look great every time. In fact, sometimes I have to reign myself in to not take control of the art projects I set up for Sage. (Like the Halloween foam project pictured below that Danielle coordinated--notice Sage's fluffy pink "pig" at the top.) But Sage's pumpkin Rice Krispy faces were intended for public viewing and consumption. And they looked like monster-alien pumpkins. Which I guess, is a Halloweenish thing. Even if it's weird.

Partly because the marshmallow mixture was hardening, and mostly because I didn’t have the energy to wage this battle, I decided to ignore her artistic license. Distract and conquer. I asked Sage to put the drops of food coloring in the marshmallow mixture. She successfully over-dyed the marshmallows with red (what kid can resist an extra squeeze or two of those tiny, squishy little bottles?), and when she picked up the yellow she looked a little guilty and unsure. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “This one doesn’t work.” “What happened to it?” I asked pointedly, recognizing the look she wore. “I put a sprinkle in it.” What? Sure enough, Sage had found a single sprinkle ball (from a cooking project several days past) that had escaped all my table wiping and Eliza’s hobby of sprinkle-drinking, just to be found and inserted by Sage in the tiny opening of the food coloring bottle. What a perfect fit. Perfect for sealing up the bottle.

My energy, patience and interest in this project and in helping Sage have homemade treats to take to her party were waning. As in, they were gone, and I was trying not to throw a fit. I pried the whole food coloring lid off with a knife, and ignored Sage when she said “What are you doing that for, Mommy?”

I pressed out the last few pumpkins—which were probably ½ as thick as the first ones I made—but hey, we made 16 total! Then I started cleanup, and I looked over to see Sage licking the ice cubes left in the tray. What a classic end to our project.

In Sage's defense, she's usually a great cooking and craft partner. Usually. But it’s going to be a long time before we attempt Rice Krispy pumpkins again. Like until I get Alzheimer’s.

Service can involve dum dums

My visiting teacher is the Primary Secretary in our ward. She told me that she asked Sage to give the prayer but Sage said no. (Believe me, Sage got a talking to about that one.) I told the secretary to assign away, and sure enough, Sage came home with a talk assignment the following week. Her topic was “Because others serve me, I too want to serve.”

I thought of an easy outline, then asked Sage for specific details on how Mark, her sunbeam teacher and I serve her, and specific ideas about how to serve Eliza, our neighbor, and Jesus. Here’s what we came up with. (Don't be blown away by the amazing new doctrine contained here:)

Serving others means helping them.

My mom serves me by helping me do art projects. [hold up a noodle art pumpkin]

My dad serves me by helping me read. [hold up the picture scriptures he uses to teach her to read]

My teacher, Sister Rose, serves me by teaching me about Jesus. [hold up pic of Jesus]

I can serve others, too.

I can serve my sister, Eliza, by sharing toys with her. [hold up a doll]

I can serve my neighbor, Mary, by taking her treats. [hold up a sucker]

I can serve Jesus by saying kind words to everyone. [hold up pic of Jesus]

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Now here are my disclaimers:
I wanted Sage to say “I can serve my neighbor Mary by helping her in her garden” but she insisted on the treats one. And, just so you know, we don’t always take our neighbors Dum Dums. And I'm almost too embarrassed to admit that on the "share toys" part, Sage held up the little miniskirted Barbie she got from her Happy Meal the night before. And I know an elbow-macaroni pumpkin is not your standard Halloween craft, but Danielle got Sage really hooked on noodle art. So there.

In spite of Sage's regular history with stage fright (many talks having been whispered into the side of my skirt and then translated by me to the Primary), she pulled through on this talk. Perhaps it was the tiny little podium that inspired her. Or the fact that every kid was staring attentively, no doubt interested in how a noodle-pumpkin, Happy Meal Barbie, and dum dum sucker related to church. Or maybe it was the promise of the Dum Dum sucker that instilled courage in Sage, but she got right up (holding my hand tightly during the whole talk) and gave the whole thing from memory.

As I wrote up Sage's talk experience for my journal, I decided to make my own version of service ideas, because, quite honestly, with my birthday coming up in a few months, I don't want anyone to think that my "Love Language" is the gifting of a tasty Dum Dum. Here’s a few I thought of.

Mark serves me by reading my blog and taking the kids so I can exercise and helping the girls clean up the house so I don’t have to bend down or play cheerleader at the end of the day! [I know, “Acts of service” is my love language!]

Sage serves me by smiling at me with her mischievous grin and not holding grudges when I get upset at her for things that all 4-year-olds do, and a few things that other 4-year-olds don’t do.

Eliza serves me by having outgrown her habit of finger-painting in her poopy diaper and by wrapping her skinny little arms around me and giving me tight bear hugs and calling me “Little Mommy” after I call her “Little Liza.” [She’s the only one who calls me little right now!]

Krista and Bryce serve me by not stealing Mark and my now number-one choice for baby #3's name, Lily!

I can serve my neighbors by being less nervous to talk about church, Jesus, and my beliefs.

I can serve my family by spending less time at the computer and getting in bed on time.

I can serve myself by procrastinating less and by trying to resurrect my piano skills.

I can serve my husband by being less anal with money, cell phone minutes and miles put on the car.

How about for you? Do Dum Dums make the cut?

One donkey and one elephant in the family

In the car, I had a little political discussion with my toddlers after we dropped off a neighbor to complete her early polling. Sage asked where our neighbor was going, and I tried to explain voting to her (again). I told Sage that there were two men [the preschool version] that are trying to convince people they can be the best president of the United States, and we have to say them which one we want by voting.

In an effort to provide more information without introducing concepts such as deficits and entitlements, I told Sage that one of the guys has white skin and white hair and looks like her Grandpa Williams and is named McCain. I told her the other has darker skin, like her friends at preschool (except he’s not Latin…shh!), and his name is Obama.

Based on the wealth of information I had provided her, I figured my 4-year-old was now empowered to make an informed decision. Or at least an amusing one. “So who do you think we should vote for, Sage?” I asked.

“The Cain” she replied without hesitating--clearly forgetting everything we've ever taught her about the book of Genesis.

I was pretty sure I had skewed Sage’s vote in McCain’s favor by commenting on his resemblance to her grandpa, or that she subconsciously must be associating him with McDonald’s. So I asked why she chose McCain. The matter-of-fact response: “Because I like his name better.” To which Eliza piped up, “I like Obama.”

So, I guess we’re officially split down the middle.

A little pressure

Now that I’m down to three weeks before the baby comes, I’ve begun to feel a little pressure—both that of little fetus elbows investigating places she should not have access to, as well as that pressure of choosing the perfect name to go with the baby who I only know by the way her extremities feel when being rammed into various parts of my torso.

I don’t consider myself a very stubborn person, but when Eliza was born, I may have exhibited some stubbornness in rejecting certain proposed names. And my dear husband, who even less people would call stubborn, decided to join my new game. And thus it was that Eliza was officially, according to the state of Indiana, Female Williams for 29 days. Finally, on the day before our insurance would refuse to pay for her hospital bills if she didn’t have a name, Female became Eliza in what I like to call “The Great Compromise.” It was almost the “3/5 Compromise,” in that I felt my contributions in the area of pregnancy/labor/delivery warranted me an extra 1/5 of the total vote. But I also wanted to remain happily married, so “The Great Compromise” was built: Mark and my favorite names were both discarded, and Eliza’s name was born—just in time to be a 1-month birthday present for Female.

Lest you think we were lazy or unconcerned about choosing a name, allow me to assure you that I read through book after book and checked out website after website of “Best Baby Names.”

You wouldn’t believe the suggestions out there, my friends. No wonder it was so hard for me to choose. I kept getting distracted by websites that offered me the chance of a lifetime to “Give Yourself a New Name.” The appeal of that website didn’t last long, as, following my best analysis of my personality, it chose me the new stunning name of “Lucille Uta Williams.” Even Female Williams sounds better than that.

Other than to have my baby named before she is born, another wish that is high up on my list is to have the book called “25,001 Best Baby Names” censored from the face of the earth. Not only does it make a fraudulent claim in the title, but it also contains approximately 24,001 of the dumbest name suggestions I’ve ever heard. For each suggested name, the author included its origin and meaning. And I’m pretty sure she (or her elementary school aged kids) made up half of them.

For example:

LaTeasa (Spanish): a flirtatious woman.

Who said “LaTeasa” has any kind of Spanish origin? Because of the La? Then is LaDawn Spanish, too? I’m not buying LaTeasa's origin or meaning, and certainly not its inclusion in a book of “Best Baby Names.”

Or:

Radcliffe (English): of the red cliffs.

That definition seems like someone’s bad attempt at giving a Balderdash answer.

A few other special ones include:

Arwa (Arabic): female mountain goat [Just what every kid wants to explain to their middle school peers.]

Lerola (Latin): resembling a blackbird [Not sure this is a flattering comparison.]

Gath-rimmon (Hebrew)—referring to the pomegranate press. [I promise this was in the girls’ names section.]

Lo-rumahamah (Hebrew): one who does not receive mercy [Nothing like this to give a kid a complex from the start.]

Podarge (Greek): one of harpies [No commentary necessary.]

Radella (English): Elfin counselor [I don’t like Lord of the Rings quite enough.]

At other times, while thumbing through the baby names book, I thought I was reading a dictionary of verbs instead of a book of names for people. Kiss, Flirt, Favor…?

The crowning offense of “25,001 Best Baby Names” was that my name (with any of its spellings) was nowhere to be found. Best names, my foot.

So, there you go. There’s my best defense as to why we didn’t name Eliza for so long. And why, with three weeks still before the [as yet unnamed] baby’s due date, I’ve begun to develop an ulcer.

P.S. Someone thinks Lily is a better middle name than first name. And the way I see it, he has 2/5 of the vote at this point in time. We'll see.