Despite my total humiliation
at Mass yesterday, it was really a beautiful day for our family. We are
still catching our collective breath at this sudden shift in our
fortunes: exchanging our pajama-wearing freelance lifestyle for a more
conventional Daddy-commutes-to-the-office arrangement. It is a good
thing Rilla came along to teach me how to get a day’s writing done
before the rest of the house is stirring.

We’re all a jumble of emotions: excited about
the adventure, heartbroken to leave our friends here, curious to know
if Southern California can possibly compare to this gorgeous valley
nestled up against the Blue Ridge Mountains, anxious about the hellish
logistics of a cross-country move. So much to decide, so much to do.
Our heads are full and our minds a-whirl.

Rose’s Communion had been planned for yesterday
because her godparents, Scott’s brother and his wife, were stopping off
to visit us for a night on their way down to grandma’s house with the
kids. Rose is a reserved child who hates to be the center of attention,
which is why we’d arranged for her to make her First Communion at a
small daily Mass instead of a big standing-room-only Sunday one. The
decision to have Rilla baptized immediately following the Mass was a
hasty last-minute one made after Scott decided to accept the job offer
in California. We realized we’re going to have a hectic and crazy-busy
rest of the summer and it made sense to go ahead and have the baby
baptized now instead of late July as we’d been planning, even though
most of our relatives wouldn’t be able to come on such short notice.

In all the chaos I hadn’t really noticed that
yesterday was the feast day of Blessed Junipero Serra, an
eighteenth-century Franciscan priest who founded missions all along the
coast of California. Imagine how my heart thumped when our priest, Fr.
Francis, began his homily with a story about his trip to San Diego last
year when he visited the mission established by Father Junipero. He
spoke about Junipero’s travels and how he was so full of joy in the
gospel that he couldn’t help sharing it wherever he went. The homily
ended with these words, which are still ringing in my ears:

"Like Bl. Junipero, we too are sent forth to—through our lives and occasionally through our words—share our joy with others."

To share our joy. I thought about how that is really why I blog: to share my joy in my children, my husband, the books we love, the hard-fought battles we win…I
just realized I’ve got it right up there in my sidebar: "to share the
resources that make learning a joy." A kind reader made that comment on this blog early on, and I grabbed hold of it (with her permission) as expressive of exactly what I want to be doing here.

And now it seems we’re being sent forth to
share our joy "through our lives and occasionally our words," to quote
Fr. Francis quoting St. Francis, in a new place far away. It will be
hard to leave these bonny green hills we love so much, but then I
always say that the Bonny Glen is a state of mind (which means that we
don’t always live there, but we do try). We’ll make a lilting house of
our new home, too.

So here’s how it went. Rose’s First Communion took place at a Saturday morning Mass, which is generally smaller than a Sunday Mass. Only a handful of devoted daily-Mass-goers make it to church that early on a Saturday morning. Our family and friends filled the two front rows, right in front of the priests. Rose was beaming and beautiful, quietly shining with joy on her big day.

Mass began, and then—right in the middle of the opening prayers—someone’s cell phone started ringing behind me. Well, not ringing so much as singing—its ringer was set to play a brassy, up-tempo When the Saints Go Marchin’ In. I could hear it right behind me where my brother-in-law, Pete, was sitting. I shot him a glare: Honestly, Pete. We’re in CHURCH. Don’t you know better than to turn off the ringer before Mass begins? But the song keeps ringing, Pete does nothing, and EVERYONE IS SITTING HERE LISTENING TO THIS FOOL’S PHONE INTERRUPT THE PRAYER. I am mortified. Over my shoulder I shoot Pete another glare—and that’s when it dawns on me that the music is coming from MY DIAPER BAG.

It’s MY phone.

Which I forgot to turn off.

Because I’m the fool.

Ha, and I thought I was mortified before.

I remember that I set the ringer to play Oh When the Saints whenever Scott’s other brother Jay calls, to be funny, because Jay is a saintly man. The kind of saintly person who, say, gets up at five in the morning to drive three hours to the hastily scheduled Baptism of his newest niece and the First Communion of her big sister, after getting home from the airport at midnight the night before. The kind of person who jumps into the car for a trip like this even without knowing all the firm details such as what time Mass begins, which is why he was calling.

Oh Lord I want to be in that number…

All this is flashing through my mind, the horror of realizing that the phone is buried under a bagful of diapers and burp cloths and spare outfits and our current read-aloud and a stray shoe and the cheese knife with the cow on the handle which for some reason Wonderboy fervently believes belongs in my bag and keeps standing on tiptoe to retrieve from the silverware drawer so he can put it with the diapers and wipes as is right and proper…all this, flashing through my mind while the priest is speaking the solemn and reverent words to begin the celebration of the Mass on this important day.

When the saints go marching in…

I knew I couldn’t get to the phone without dumping out the entire bag and then, you know, there’d be a cheese knife clattering on the pew to the accompaniment of the tinny saints…so I did what any panicked and humiliated mother with no composure whatsoever would do: I snatched up the bag and RAN OUT OF THE SANCTUARY. Oh yes I did. RAN. Right down the center aisle with all eyes upon me, clutching my merrily tooting bag to my chest. Flung open the door and hurled the bag into the lobby like it contained a live grenade.

Slunk back up the aisle to my seat in shame. Rose, serene and lovely in her Communion veil, gazed at me reproachfully. Honestly, Mama, don’t you know you’re supposed to turn off your phone before going into church?

This was taken on the day of Jane’s First Communion three years ago. The little one is Rose. Today it’s her turn. How quickly the time goes!

You were that baby, and that was me kissing you.

Happy Birthday, butterfly girl.

The way a newborn stretches and arches her back when you pick her up while she’s sleeping, so taut and curved in your hands, and then melts into you when you bring her close.

The way her fists press up under her cheeks when she’s nursing.

The way I have to keep washing yogurt off the back of her head because her brother cannot stop kissing her, even when he’s in the middle of a meal.

The little things.

Or four.

Six weeks! She is six weeks old already! Who keeps pushing the fast forward button?

Yes, I know it’s grainy and badly lit. Yes, I know I need to spend more time studying Tracey’s advice. But look! A smile! One of thousands. She is the smiliest baby. When she is awake.

It is not all giddy lightheartedness around here. We can be solemn, too.

Sometimes we have important things to say, in a jovial manner.

Whistling is a pleasant way to pass the time.

Actually, it was quite easy. As it happens, ClubMom went with the first name I suggested. I am delighted to announce that my new MomBlog, to be launched very soon, will be called The Lilting House, a phrase I borrowed from…oh, but why don’t I let you guess! Anyone know? Hint: I’ll reveal the answer on Poetry Friday. (And no fair Googling.)

And while I’m asking questions, here’s another: I’d love your input, dear readers, on what brings you to Bonny Glen (and therefore what you might like to see at The Lilting House also). What is here that’s worth your valuable time? Please don’t think I’m fishing for compliments…I’m just thinking about what direction I’m going to go with the new blog and am wondering what sorts of things my readers are most interested in. How to live a living-books life? Book reviews? Curriculum recommendations? Time-sucking internet links? Or is it the photos of the backs of my children’s heads? I know! It’s the background, isn’t it, the gorgeously rich colors of the woolen fabric. Which, yes, I did weave myself a hundred years ago and thank you very much for asking. (And yes, I would be willing to sell the loom upon which it was woven, assuming I can find it under all that dust.)

So now’s your chance, O Bonny Glen Readers, to let me know what makes you click!

(Click to enlarge.)

HT for the newspaper generator: Jinkies!

What with yesterday being our wedding anniversary AND Mother’s Day AND the baby’s one-month-birthday if you’re keeping track of such things, there was a bit of nostalgia on the air around here last night. Scott was ransacking the house looking for a tape on which to record the final episode of West Wing (sob! more nostalgia!) and he happened upon what seems to have been our first baby-video ever. We vaguely remember making this tape; Jane was maybe six weeks old and we borrowed a camcorder from our neighbors so as to record the Many Exciting Things she was doing. Drooling! Waving her arms! Staring blankly at the camera! Staring blankly at the orange plastic bear hanging from the baby gym thing! (Notice how carefully it is positioned, not directly above her, oh noooo, we were far too savvy for that, you have to hang it a little to one side so that it dangles above baby’s arm instead of her nose, all the best books say so. Notice too that she is not lying flat upon the floor, oh nooooooo, that would be poor technique; you must put baby in her little terrycloth bouncy chair so that she is reclining at an angle for best plastic-bear-swatting results. Now she is positioned for optimum bear attack. All you, earnest parent, must do is wait. And wait. Don’t forget to turn on the camcorder. You don’t want to miss a single whacking of the bear. Oh look! It’s about to happen, her arm is twitching! It’s moving, waving—nay, it is actually flailing about! HONEY LOOK SHE’S ALMOST HITTING IT!!! ARE YOU GETTING THIS ON TAPE? LOOK!! SHE CAME SO CLOSE THAT TIME! THE BEAR ACTUALLY SWAYED IN THE BREEZE CAUSED BY HER FLAILING ARM! FOR PITY’S SAKE DON’T STOP TAPING!!!!)

We had hours of this stuff. Hours of closeups on Jane’s infant face. Every tiny shift of expression made the new parents behind the camera gasp or giggle or coo. We listened to ourselves rhapsodize over this small miracle we seemed desperate to capture on film lest her magical feats disappear from history without a record. There must be twenty minutes of tape devoted to watching her sleep. On the bed, on the sofa, in my arms, on the floor, oh there she is on the bed again!

Watching the tape, Scott and I were convulsed with laughter at our new-parent obsessiveness, but the girls were enchanted. At first they all thought it was our new baby, their baby. It’s true that when Scott first popped the tape into the VCR, the resemblance between our firstborn and our fifthborn took my breath away. For the longest time, I could not see Jane at all: it was like I was watching a video we might have made yesterday. (Except we wouldn’t. We are too old and jaded. Alas for the new baby, there shall be no visual record of the first time she whacks at a dangling plastic bear. I don’t think we even possess any plastic bears suitable for dangling. I’m pretty sure the baby gym migrated to Good Will sometime between Beanie and Wonderboy. Oh, the tragedy, this poor deprived infant.)

Jane didn’t recognize the apartment in the video. We moved when she was four, but I thought it might look vaguely familiar. It didn’t, except for the blue tablecloth which is still on our table, and the red and white quilt which still goes on our bed in winter, and the bookshelves which are still unfinished. Even my hair looked exactly the same. Scott still plays some of those same songs on his guitar. I still get a kick out of the little o a baby’s mouth sometimes makes.

Jane and I have finally decided upon a blog name for the new baby. After weeks of discussion, during which such possibilities as Daisy, Joy, and Stellina (yes, we liked the book that much), we hit upon a name we like as much as those and which just seems to fit. Henceforth (cue trumpets) she shall be known as Rilla. Jane likes it because A) it’s pretty and B) she loves Rilla of Ingleside perhaps even a little more than her beloved Jane of Lantern Hill. I like it, of course, because it allows me to further indulge my lifelong secret desire to be Anne of Green Gables. Now that I’m all grown up I must be Anne of Ingleside and have my own little Rilla. So. It’s official. Because, you know, anything you announce on your blog becomes Official, if you say so. We are all officials now, so long as we have an ISP.

Ah, little Rilla! Your parents have learned how to edit baby videos, and no longer do we have endless hours to devote to patient anticipation of your first attempts to touch a toy. When you sleep, we cannot hover in silence with the camera, capturing each tiny sigh, each cryptic expression flitting across your face. When you sleep, we do not even tell the other children to be quiet: you must learn from the outset to sleep through the clamor. There will never not be a clamor in your home.

But there will be kisses. Already I think your kisses-received tally tops your siblings’, and that’s from Wonderboy alone. He likes to kiss the top of your head and then press his cheek against you and say “Awww”—because, you know, that’s the hug noise. We will try to catch this on tape at least once.

But don’t get your hopes up about the bear.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is not shaken:
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Loves’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom,
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

—William Shakespeare

Today is our twelfth wedding anniversary! We call it the birthday of our family—certainly the best birthday of my life. Truly have we looked upon some tempests and not been shaken, and for that I credit my good sense in marrying a man with an unquenchable sense of humor. Also he gives excellent footrubs.