Well, if I'm going to publicly lament, I must also publicly say Thanks Be to Grandma, who gave Asher 24 hours of undiluted doting, then gave Brian and me six completely kid-free hours yesterday afternoon. It was the first time since December 19, 2006 I have ever dropped my children off anywhere and immediately relaxed. It normally takes me 2-3 hours to decompress before my mind can actually trust that they really are going to be okay while I'm gone. Then I have about 30 minutes of actually enjoying my time alone, before I start to worry about getting them back home in time for bed. Yesterday, though, my shoulders were lower before we even left her neighborhood, and those six hours did WONDERS for my attitude. Praise Jesus for Grandmas.
Six hours of easy breathing, followed by one very scary phone call. Tiny round not-quite-three-week-old baby H choked yesterday and briefly turned blue before vomiting dramatically and returning to his perfectly healthy pink state just before the paramedics arrived. My sister was a mess (as she should be), but baby H was fine. The paramedics said there was no reason to even take him in, and showed her what to do if he choked again (if he chokes again, friends, the paramedics will probably be called to take in my sister, but okay, go ahead and show us, just in case) over the weekend. All the while, he sat looking perfectly healthy and perfectly likely to inhale again, though my sister isn't buying it. I went immediately to their house, of course, and he even had the audacity to curl into my chest and sleep uneventfully on my shoulder for a couple of hours before rooting on my collarbone. Tiny sons of ours, you learn so early how to stop our hearts.
And now we're home from church this morning, protecting other babies from Silas' runny nose, making cupcakes for the week's festivities, and praising God for perfectly round, pink, breathing babies.
Happy Sunday all.