This has been a busy week... Saturday morning a beloved nephew was Baptised, followed by a family gathering. Sunday morning at church Dadguy gave Henry a name and a blessing, followed by a family gathering (at OUR house no less). Monday Henry had his two month old doctor's visit and immunizations, followed by Tylenol and exacerbated by all the snot and misery he and I are sharing; A cold to beat out all colds.
No. Really. I am SURE that my misery far exceeds your misery.
Good news is, he's up to 13 pounds and is hitting all the milestones that he should. Bad news is... there still isn't a cure for the common, wretched cold.
Then on Tuesday was Birdie's seventh birthday with the cake and attendant party to accomplish... an event that I promise to cover in a post tomorrow. Ish. Tomorrow-ish, unless all hell breaks loose... and it may.
All of this with my head so full of snot it feels like... choose your own @%$# metaphor, simile or otherwise... whatever.
I am concerning myself with the blessing of the boy-o in this post. Three things have occurred to me, with this blessing of my last child, and they came upon me in this order.
1. There is a Catch 22 in preparing a house for a big event that will take place first thing in the morning when that house is inhabited by a number of the small minions. It is as follows... it is useless to clean any earlier than after the kiddos go to bed, the night before the event. However. If you WAIT till the night before said event... at least ONE of said minions will wake up a-puking, thereby foiling your cleaning. Catch 22, sux 2 B-U.
2. While I am perfectly aware, and have been, obviously, that I have a boy baby as opposed to my myriad girl babies, it has been just that in my mind... my boy baby. We call him boy, and I refer to him as a boy, kiddo, brother or baby, but Sunday night it occurred to me that we have a son. For some reason the semantics make a difference. I now have a son.
3. Don't know why, but I have been completely without sentimentality in viewing the ending of my procreative period. Rather than any feelings of grief or sorrow at the end of any portion of my gestation or giving birth my feelings have been more along the lines of "good CRAP! Thank heavens I will never have to do THAT ever again!" and "if I can just gut my way through this, it'll be the last time... I can do it just this last time." I have been wondering if I am especially cold hearted or callow as I have watched these many "lasts" with glee. Then late Tuesday night as I was pulling Henry's freshly laundered blessing suit, that had been provided by my MIL, out of the dryer and placed it carefully with the exquisite blessing dresses that my MIL had hand made for each one of my daughters. I was thinking to myself where I could purchase archival quality boxes or bags to keep these treasures in, until each child would be ready to claim them when they were old enough (read: married and having a child of their own).