I figured that after all these years of childbearing I had probably become immune to its allure, but yesterday morning I found out differently. One minute I was sitting cooly in my obstetrician’s office (okay, as cooly as one can sit while wearing one of those preposterous paper get-ups they call “johnnies”) and discussing the various challenges and benefits of homeschooling. I was a normal, grown-up, reasonable adult woman. In the next minute, however, with a flip of a switch on the ultrasound machine, I was reduced to mushy blob of motherly emotion.

Mesmerized by the fluid, fuzzy, black and white image on the screen, I melted and gushed “Ooooh, look… he’s sucking his thumb!”

And he was. Had any baby ever sucked a thumb so sweetly? Had any baby ever kicked with such striking confidence? Did ever any child in the history of the universe swim with such perfect strokes or twist and turn with such graceful style? What tiny hands! What adorable feet! What a delightful little dancer!

When the doctor turned off the machine, she handed me a printed picture- a hazy, indistinct representation of the miniature person we had just been spying on. I clutched it in my hands, scrutinized it, and then tucked it carefully in my purse.

Now it is on my refrigerator where I’ve already looked at it and re-looked at it about a dozen times, always with a big goofy grin on my face.

Who would have thought? I’m still a sucker after all these years.

You would think that a household that includes a father who is a teacher, a mother who is a writer, and half a dozen little people who are homeschooled would be an easy place to find a pencil…. Not so!

I discovered this maddening fact last school year when each morning we would begin our school day with a desperate search of the entire house for some kind of writing implement. One day this summer, after scribbling a phone message onto the gas bill using a highlighter, I decided that this school year would be different. I got a good pencil sharpener and went to Staples where I bought boxes and boxes and boxes of No. 2 yellow pencils.

Problem solved.

Now we always have a pencil when we need one. There are dozens of perfectly sharpened pencils in a glass jar on the kitchen counter. There are pencils on the counter too. There are pencils in the bathroom, on the stairs, under the couch, in Eamon’s bed, and scattered across the kitchen tiles. There are pointy pencil tips in Gabrielle’s mouth as she toddles precariously through the living room. There are pencils in her grubby fists as she practices their use on the walls, on the stairs, and on the wooden floors.

At lunchtime today, when I found two pencils nestled next to the mayonnaise in the refrigerator, I thought longingly of the good old days when it would require an exhaustive search of the entire house and a belly-slither under a bed to locate a single miniature nub to write out a grocery list.

Like I said, problem solved. I’m a genius.

My husband Dan is a Yankee. Not the New York kind, mind you- he’s a die-hard Red Sox fan. No, Dan is a born and bred in New Hampshire kind of Yankee. This means he actually believes things like “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” is suspicious of modern technology, and absolutely disdains spending money on anything he didn’t make, design, grow, or build himself.

Which leads us to my dilemma: How to convince this old Yankee that my current dial-up internet connection is inadequate, unreliable, and too slow, and that we simply MUST get a DSL connection?

“What?” he laughs. “Why should we spend money every month to get you something that you already have?”

I need help here. Maybe we could start a campaign to convince him of the importance and legitimacy of my request. Send him an email!… Oh, except he doesn’t have an account. Call his cell phone!… But of course, he doesn’t have one. Call him at home!… Except the number is unlisted, we have no machine, and he never answers the thing anyway.

I’m beginning to think that he only way to get through to this guy is to follow him out to where he’s working on the addition to our house, grab hold of his hammer midswing, make eye-contact, and say, “I need DSL.”

But then, he would only say that he’s thinking the money would be better spent on installing a hand pump connected to our well and a solid granite sink in the addition so that we can access water in cases of emergency. Geeesh… A Yankee sure knows how to make an old-fashioned, simple, country kind of girl feel like a spoiled and worldly woman!

Years ago, when I first read Erma Bombeck’s description of how she once fell asleep during a root canal, I thought she was joking. You see, I wasn’t a mother back then.

Today, however, when I consider being tipped back in an upholstered chair while easy-listening music plays softly in the background and all my kids are in someone else’s care for an extended period of time, I can’t help but think: What a wonderful opportunity for a nap!

Being pregnant doesn’t help. It’s during these early months of pregnancy that I am most likely to be jolted awake by an elbow to my ribs and the sound of my children’s alarmed voices in my ear: “Mama– Finish the story!” I open my eyes, refocus on the page, and finish reading poor Peter Rabbit through the rest of Mr. McGregor’s garden and all the way back home to his bed… where I should be.

So far this afternoon my hormones have lulled me to sleep in the van on the way home from Mass, on the living room couch, and for a brief spell on my own bed when I put Gabrielle down for her nap. I willed myself awake just long enough to move a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer and clear the sink of breakfast and lunchtime dishes.

Now, to continue along these productive lines, perhaps I should head outside where the kids are playing. There’s an inviting spot out there in the warm grass where I could watch them play, feel the gentle breeze, soak up the friendly sunshine, and *yawn* maybe close my eyes for just one little minute

Over the past couple of weeks Dan and I have been stressing out about not yet having found an 8th grade teacher for our parish’s religious education program (Dan is DRE).

We considered combining the 7th and 8th grade classes but rejected that idea as impractical. We wrung our hands and lamented the fact that “people just aren’t willing to volunteer anymore.” We whined and complained about parents who want their children in the program but are unwilling to help make it possible. We worried. We moaned. We griped.

But did we pray about it?… Um, no. At least I didn’t. I was too busy complaining about the problem to even ask God to help us solve it.

Nonetheless, God sent us Denise. This bright, energetic mother of four walked into the parish office yesterday to introduce herself (she is a new parishioner) and to inquire: Did we need a CCD teacher? She enjoys working with teens, she explained, and was hoping to find a volunteer position.

Thank you God, for your goodness and generosity in meeting the needs we forget to bring to you and answering even those prayers we neglect to say.

It’s official. Stephen has given up “twosies.”

Most parents are familiar with onesies, but for those of you who have not heard of “twosies,” I should explain that “twosie” is our family word for a pacifier. Our first child used to call them “twos” because she always needed to have TWO of them- one in the mouth, one just in case. Stephen, however, made them “twosies.” He also made their use a true form of art.

He could hang his lip, beak-like, over the top if it. He could articulate complex sentences- and make them understood- without removing it from his mouth. He could chomp on it sideways, like an old man with a cigar, while concentrating on particularly vexing problems.

But Stephen is 3 years old now, and his habit was becoming a bit of an embarrassment- it was time for the “twosies” to go. Anticipating a struggle, I approached him with a cautious plan.

“Hey Stephen, if you can go for three days and three nights without a twosie, at the end we’ll give you a prize.”

I explained that he could choose the prize. It could be a toy or a book or a game- whatever he wanted- as long as he gave up the “twosies.”

“Okay,” he said, and it was as easy as that.

He never even mentioned “twosies” again. We tracked his progress on a sticker chart and at the end we made a trip to Wal-Mart where he picked out an enormous Tonka dump truck.

Now as I watch him fill his truck with blocks and then dump them on the floor with a satisfying crash, I can’t help but marvel at the ease of it all. I never could have guessed that getting a 3 year old to give up a lifelong habit would be as simple as bribing him with a truck, but Stephen is more grown-up than I realized. He doesn’t need me to nurse him, wrap him in blankets, or rock him to sleep. He doesn’t need booties or bottles and he doesn’t need “twosies.”

Stephen is ready to abandon babyhood. That is how it should be, and I am happy about it… I think.