Hello, My Name Is...

     Three days old, and our baby boy was without a name.  "How's Michael Anthony Dominic Joseph Vincent Vito this morning?" became my room attendant's way to greet us. "Girl, you're goin' home tomorrow," she told me on day two, "and baby boy still ain't got no name."  The woman with the social security paperwork left each day, shaking her head. "Does my grandson have a name YET?" my mother asked every time we spoke.  Even the card labeled "Baby Boy Pinciaro" on his bassinet seemed to mock my indecisiveness. What kind of mother can't name her child? When big sister Gianna came to visit and said "Hi baby Tony" a decision was made.  We announced that his name was Anthony Vito as family, friends, and hospital staff breathed a collective sigh of relief.
     Fast forward several years and it was time for Tony to start preschool.  That Sunday, he was moved up to the three year old room for Sunday School as well. A few days later he came to me and said "Mama, who's Anthony?  I have his name tag and his folder.  My teachers at school and at church keep calling me that.  I keep tellin' them I don't know he." And the question now became what kind of mother doesn't tell her child the name she finally decided upon? 
     It took a while, but Tony was finally convinced that he and Anthony were one and the same.  The damage, however, was done.  Whenever he meets someone new he nods and says, "Okay John.  But what's your REAL name?  You know.  The one your Mama forgot to tell you about."

Spilling the Beans

     Until a few months ago, I had never heard of a Keurig.  As a proud owner of a 12 cup Mr. Coffee, my grounds come in bulk and my loyalty vacillates between Folgers and Maxwell House depending upon which is on sale. What did not escape me, however, was that everyone seemed to be talking about K-cups.  "Once you try one, you'll never go back to the old way", "It allows for spontaneity and variety", and "I'm telling all my friends about them" were a few of the comments I heard which led to my now defunct belief that a K-cup was a new form of birth control.  It seemed that folks were talking about these cups EVERYWHERE and I found it shocking and somewhat scandalous that something so personal was being discussed so publicly.
     It was at a family friend's house that I finally learned the truth.  Over brunch, the host asked if Joe and I had ever tried a K-cup.  I had no idea how to respond to this and was standing there with my mouth agape as he continued, "My wife and I love them and even at our age, we made the switch."  "At our age?"  I wondered, weren't they past the age where one has to worry about needing such things? "You really need to try it", he pressured, as I felt the hives creeping up my neck. "Our daughter and son-in-law got us hooked."  That was definitely more than I ever wanted to know, and as I was gearing up to bolt he finished with "We have flavored creamer, but you may want to use plain milk and sugar the first time so that the true flavor of the coffee comes through."  Wait.  Did he say COFFEE?  He led me, dumbfounded, to a variety of individual cups of flavored coffee and introduced me to his Keurig machine.  I watched in awe as it worked it's magic, and as I enjoyed my first mug of coffee from a K-cup I realized exactly what all the hype was about.
     Shortly after I became in the know about these little cups of bliss, I was at a friend's bridal shower.  When she opened a Keurig and a large assortment of K-cups that a group of church ladies had chipped in to buy, I started to giggle.  When one of those white-haired ladies suggested that these cups changed her life, I began to howl.  By the time my friend's future mother-in-law mentioned how much her son will enjoy them, I had tears streaming down my face (quite unbecoming for a bridal attendant at a quaint tea house). These K-cups were not for the bride and groom on their wedding night, but to be enjoyed the morning after.  

Two's Company But Three's A Crowd?

     Shortly after we were married, it began.  By "it" I am referring to the push for a baby.  My mother reminded me that she was past the ideal age to become a grandmother, friends joked that we could leave on our honeymoon as a couple and come home as a family, and my great-aunt eyed my still-flat stomach suspiciously when we came home that first Christmas without any baby news.
     Our announcement several years later that we were expecting was met with proclamations such as "I can finally BUY things in the baby department" (my mother), "It'll be so much fun to be pregnant together" (my best friend), and "It's about time, I was starting to get worried" (if you haven't guessed, that was my aunt). Before baby #1 had started solids, the barrage of questions regarding when she was going to become a big sister began.  A little over a year later, we were expecting baby #2.  News of his impending arrival was also met with great jubilation and tears of joy.
     Once we had both a boy and a girl the assumption around town was that our baby making days were over.  "How nice", folks would say, "you got one of each after only two tries" as if having two or more children of the same sex was somehow less than ideal. When we made the announcement that we were expecting baby #3 we received much different responses including "Are you kidding?" (my brother-in-law), "You better go get a second job" (my father-in-law to my husband), "You two just don't quit" (my best friend's opinionated mother-in-law), and my personal favorite "This IS going to be it, right?" from the nosy neighborhood grocery store cashier. Many people thought this pregnancy had to be a complete surprise to us, including my father who reminded us on more than one occasion that vasectomies were both common and very safe.
     When our baby boy was born, everyone was thrilled of course, except maybe the cashier.  My first time at the store with all three kids was met with a wary eye and a comment of "I don't know where you're going to put the groceries. Your buggy is already full."
    While I am (fairly) certain that our family is complete, only God knows for sure.  I am prepared, however, with the perfect response next time someone implies that three kids is more than enough  With a straight face I'm going to say "Actually, I'm expecting. We're hoping for twins."

Let Me Tell You 'Bout the Birds and the Bees...

     After my daughter grilled me at bath time for several days with specific anatomical questions about how babies are born, I finally told her just how that happens. My vague answer that "the doctor" helps the Mommy get the baby out that placated her at age three would no longer suffice. At the ripe old age of four, she wanted to know EXACTLY how the doctor helped Mommies get their babies out and from EXACTLY where. According to the parenting books I had read, this conversation wasn't supposed to take place until she was much closer to puberty.  I shouldn't have been surprised that she was ready to discuss this topic before she even started preschool. Our little girl frequently asked questions that other children her age did not such as "Which species of birds migrate and how do they know when to depart?" (age three) and "When the earth rotates on it's axis why don't we fall off?" (age four). She had always been fascinated by the workings of the human body as well.  Several months before this conversation, she had checked out a junior high level textbook from the library titled "The Excretory System".  Instead of Disney Princess or My Little Pony, we talked about kidneys at bedtime.
     A few days after we had this conversation,  my husband was reading to her from her children's Bible as part of the bedtime routine.  This particular evening's story was of Jesus's birth, one of her favorites.  Before he began reading, she said " Daddy, I know how Jesus was born."  I'm certain that my husband was expecting her to tell him that it was in a manger or on Christmas Eve. Instead, she simply stated "He came out of Mary's (insert cutesy name for female private part)." Joe replied "Who. Told. You. THAT?!" to which she said "Mommy."  Mistaking his shock and embarrassment for confusion, she gently patted his arm and said "Don't worry, Daddy.  I'm sure if you ask, Mommy will explain it all to you too."
     A couple of years later, after a few days of public school and half a dozen bus rides, she wanted to know how Mommies became pregnant. She also wanted to know why God would decide to give a fourteen year old a baby. I explained to her that God created a way for a married man and woman to show love to one another that sometimes results in a baby.  I told her that when this occurs outside of marriage, a woman can also become pregnant. She asked me if Daddy knew about this, and when I assured her that he did she was not convinced.  Although she wanted more details, I told her this was all the information she was getting.  I then reminded her, as I typically do when we have these sorts of talks, that this information was not to be shared with her friends because their parents may not appreciate it.  My daughter then rolled her eyes and said "They still think that their baby brothers and sisters came out of their Mommies' belly buttons.  They must be getting their information from their dads."

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

    
     Those that know me well, or even a little bit, are aware of my practical nature, level head, and ability to separate facts from feelings and make decisions accordingly.   It is this very side of me that knows I am one more plastic tub of baby clothes or box of finger paintings away from qualifying to appear on an episode of Hoarders.  Every time my husband descends from the attic, his left eye is twitching. Just today my mother feared she'd lose my rogue toddler among the crates and boxes in the basement.
     When it comes to my children's belongings and creations, my common sense characteristics disappear faster than puzzle pieces. I cannot choose between the cuddly blankets I wrapped them in as infants, so I saved them all.  My heart aches at the thought of one their drawings of our family (with big heads, stick appendages, and missing bodies) at the bottom of the trash can.  I cannot bear to part with any of the frilly dresses that my daughter twirled in on each of her birthdays or the Toy Story tee-shirt that my middle child wore nearly every single day for an entire summer. And my plan to go through every scrap of paper my daughter brought home from Kindergarten at the end of the year and only keep what was most meaningful?  I have to confess that we are now more than half way through first grade and that has yet to happen.
     So when one afternoon almost a year ago I saw my daughter running up the driveway after school carrying a beautifully painted rainbow with multi-colored streamers fluttering behind her, I knew this was something I would never be able to part with.  It was a cheerful reminder of spring after a seemingly never-ending winter as well as of the innocence of childhood.  It added a splash of color to the muted tones of our dining room as it hung from the chandelier and a surge of joy to my heart every time I looked at it.  It caused me to reminisce about the lullaby I sang to my little girl as I rocked to her to sleep as a baby, or as I stroked her hair snuggled in bed next to her as she got older on the nights she had trouble falling asleep....the same lullaby my mom sang to me...Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
     After months hanging in the place of honor, I decided it was time to take it down and pack it away for safe keeping in her memory box, where I put the most cherished items that will stay with me even after time and space (or my hubby/mother's joined forces)  cause me to pare down my stash. As I was humming the strains to that precious tune while dozens of memories flooded through my mind, my daughter enters the room.  I told her how much this rainbow meant to me, and how I planned to keep it forever.  And then she said with a shrug "I don't know why.  I was absent on the day the class made those and the teacher gave me that one.  It was an extra."