Isaiah is half naked with a broom in his hand. The warm weather we had this weekend revived all the flies in Siloam Springs and they are currently living in my front room. Isaiah responded to this by taking off his pants and diaper and grabbing a broom to destroy them…. he gets that from his father.

My son is a wonderment. I see so much graciousness in him, more so than what Garrett and I have. When I see things that I know I couldn’t have possibly done, but they are so good and wonderful that someone has to take credit, I usually just blame it on God. I think Isaiah is who he is because of God. I haven’t completely worked out that line of reasoning, but I know he is so pure and good that I couldn’t take credit for that.

Yesterday Isaiah was baptized. It took less than five minuets but, I am certain, changed my life forever. For our family, Isaiah’s baptism was a recognition of his membership into the church and the acknowledgement that God redeems us to Himself even before we can acknowledge it through faith. Something about that baptism flipped a switch and reminded me that, “WHOA! This is a human life!” His soul has assigned value in Creation, he is a member in the Kingdom of God, he matters, and I am in charge of his care. THAT was a bit overwhelming. I can say, though, I am thankful that I was given this child, and this assignment, but it isn’t to be completed alone. I have Garrett. Garrett is BEYOND awesome as a father and friend. We also have our community. Our church. Our friends. All these people who are willing to link arms with us and help guide Isaiah, in love, toward a life that is his to live…

Stupid tears

This weekend reminded me, in SO many ways, to hold fast to those who are willing to not take the easy way out. Hold fast to those who will confront the hard stuff with you. Hold fast to those who will affirm that there is good in your despite your shortcomings. Hold fast to the piece of innocence in all of us….

It is that mix of dirt and deity. That innocence and love that shows on my son’s face (even when he half naked annihilating flies).

Happy Monday Y’all.

I am not a very good cook. I’ve had my moments and I can make some good meals, but that happens very rarely. I don’t really like to cook and don’t have a great desire to improve myself so its really not a big deal. And for the most part, people leave me alone about it. Its just not my thing and the people who really know me, understand that. I’ve met a few people who have let me know that my dislike of cooking is a reflection of my skills as a wife and a mother. I figure that as long as we are healthy and happy, then I’m probably doing ok without being a gourmet house cook. But for whatever reason, last night I got ambitious and decided that making French Onion soup sounded like a great idea.

I have never made French Onion soup and maybe had never even had French Onion soup, but I saw the recipe in Real Simple and it sounded delicious so I thought we’d try it. Plus, as you probably know, a major component of French Onion soup is a toasted hunk of bread with melty cheese on it and I am a sucker for toasted bread and melty cheese.

So Rusty and I set out to make this soup, and let me preface this next section by letting you know that I have terrible knives. Terrible, awful knives that require a sawing action to cut through tomatoes. Tomatoes! I am perfectly aware that my knives are crap so I knew that thinly slicing three large onions would take me about 8 years, not to mention the arm exertion and smelly hands I would have for three solid days. For some reason I happen to have a mandoline in my kitchen drawer. I have no idea where this scary kitchen tool came from, I certainly didn’t buy it, but I imagine Rusty’s mom had something to do with it’s existence in my drawer. I have acquired a corkscrew, a pie pan, and several cups via Carol’s Kitchen so it wouldn’t surprise me if the mandoline was another stolen utensil. Anyway, given the three large onions I had to thinly slice, and the prospect of smelly hands, and the crap knives, I decided the mandoline was the way to go, never mind the fact that I am a real dunce when it comes to sharp things and once tried to use a cheese knife to cut some lemons.

Basically I was planning to use scary kitchen utensil that I had never used before to make a soup I had never even tasted before. Maybe you can see where this is headed.

I got through the first 1/2 onion with no problem, but then one of the prongs broke out of the safety cover and since one was already broken out I was left with only one prong. I was ready to admit defeat and finish up with my crap knives but the onion smelling hands were just too much for me to handle so I thought I’d just wildly over-estimate my cutting skills and finish the onion slicing on the mandoline…without the safety cover.

Again, maybe you can see where this is headed.

There we are, Rusty and me in the kitchen with an ever growing pile of thinly sliced onions. My hand is precariously close to the sharp edge, sans safety cover, and Rusty has a look of dread on his face. “Don’t worry!” I say, mentally scoffing him for his lack of faith, “I’ll be careful!” Ahhh…those pompous words. They weren’t even out of my mouth before the outside of my right thumb went sliding through the slicer, just behind a hunk of onion.

We both gasped and then Rusty goes “Ack! Do you need stitches!?” And then I’m standing there in the kitchen holding my bloody thumb, looking around for something to put on it. What I really needed was a werewolf, ready to tear off his shirt and sop up my blood (New Moon, anyone?). So I’m just standing there, looking around, with blooding pouring off my finger,  and Rusty starts to back away from me going “Umm. I don’t do well with blood..” He was obviously looking for a place to pass out so I said “Well get away from me!” and then ran to the bathroom to finish trying to figure out what to do. And I’m still just standing there when Rusty comes in with the first aid kit and hands me some gauze.

We do all the appropriate things, like staring at the blood as it drips in the sink, putting pressure on the wound and wondering at my amazing amount of stupidity and then I decide that I should maybe wash it. There was onion juice in the wound, you know. So I tell Rusty to get the alcohol (rubbing alcohol, though tequila would have been alot funnier) and help me pour it on my finger. He reluctantly agrees and we go back into the bathroom. He carefully pours some alcohol into the cap and holds it over my hand, gritting his teeth and grimacing. He looks at me for permission because he knows its going to sting like the dickens.

And then he pours. And he’s bouncing up and down on the balls of hit feet yelling “Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh my gosh! It’s ok, you can yell if you want to!” and I’m just standing there looking at him because seriously? I don’t feel anything at all. And then Rusty, in true Rusty fashion says, “No really. It’s ok if you yell and cuss. I won’t get mad at you. They’ve scientifically proven that cussing helps deal with pain” and I’m like, “No really, Rusty. I don’t feel anything at all.” And then he walks away, amazed at my pain threshold.

Two onion scented hours later the soup was done, and wouldn’t you know it, it was gross.

So my finger is disabled and I had no idea how much I used my right thumb until today when I popped the cut open a good three or four times. The soup was a failure and I’ve been through more than my share of jumbo sized Band-Aids. But at least my hands don’t stink like onion.

Over at home… I am pretty much just complaining about life. We all have those days, don’t we?

My OB tends to think I am hilarious. Actually, most of my friends think I am pretty funny, too. What isn’t funny is being so damn hairy. Now that I think of it, maybe that is why they laugh at me….. it BETTER not be!

The other day, at our routine checkup, the amazing Dr. Crownover asked me how I was feeling. A blush came over my face and I started to explain:

Jasmine: Dr. Crownover, before you see my belly I have a confession to make…

*Dr. Crownover gave a very medical, yet attentive look…*

Jasmine: So…. as my belly has gotten bigger I have become increasingly insecure about how hairy my belly is. In a moment of weakness I decided I would wax my belly.

*Dr. Crownover’s attentive look melts away and he doubles over in laughter*

Jasmine: Seriously! Don’t laugh. I got into the first strip, and I thought, “Who the hell’s idea was this! But then I was already in over my head and I had to finish it… now it is growing back, and I am all itchy. GAW! What is wrong with me!!!!”

*Garrett interjects*

Garrett: I told her not to be insecure about it. I told her that her body was normal.

Jasmine: Shut up Garrett! You don’t get an opinion! You shaved your face into a trucker “stash” …. people who look like that don’t get opinions on what is normal.

*Side note: Days before Garrett shaved his beard into a handlebar mustache and decided that he loved the trucker look. I laughed at him every time I looked at him. THEN he thought it was an awesome idea to wear it to my appointment. Because, ya know, that look is cool? What! No! It isn’t cool. All he needed was a cut- off flannel shirt and an “I love mom” tattoo… geez!

Dr. Crownover: OH! I didn’t even notice your mustache Garrett, I like it… I like it *Up until this point I believed my OB was a great honest man, now I believe he is a filthy filthy liar!*

My belly itches like an S.O.B and the little red bumps from my shirt rubbing the hair that is growing in is not very pretty… it is actually worse than being hairy. Because now I am hairy/bumpy/red. A dead sexy combination.

*Fast forward to today*

After a vigorous step aerobic workout Sadie and I decided to go to lunch. We talk about a plethora of things. Sadie is smart. She is a real brain. But today, she looked at me with all seriousness, she, “When we get closer to having the babies we should go get our nails done, and then make someone wax our lady parts so we will look all nice for the delivery…”

I evaded the remark. I was having flashbacks of a couple of weeks earlier where I got that dumbass bright idea to wax my belly. I don’t think Sadie and I can be friends if she starts suggesting things like this. Next she will ask me about anal bleaching….

Apparently all you need is a highball glass and a black maid to impress my husband;

Garrett: I think I miss the era of the 50’s and 60’s.

Jasmine: Why? You wouldn’t be able to legally marry me!

Garrett: No just the way they dressed… I watched Mad Men last night.

 I guess I need to NOT let him watch shows or movies later than the 60’s. Next he is gonna want me to call him “Mista”  or “Boss” while bringing him a Mint Julep *YUM* and commanding  me to mop the porch in my Mammy outfit. Garrett and I are not only from intensely different families, we e are different cultures and races that are light years apart. Garrett is a beautiful, kind, and open-minded man… he just…haa a vivid imagination. Movies and TV shows and books, sometimes, get him a little carried away.

(After watching Crooklyn, the movie)

Garrett: Did you ever live on a stoop?

Jasmine: I did grow up in the hood… but I am from OKLAHOMA not BROOKLYN.

Garrett: Well I was just wondering. Sounds like “stoop life” would be fun…

Jasmine: Yeah, I mean, since Brooklyn is the natural habitat of the black person? What the hell Garrett!

(When Isaiah, our son, was born)

Garrett: He has such smooth hair! Will this stuff fall out and then the nappy lamb’s wool stuff grow underneath.

Jasmine: NO Garrett! Jesus! He is PART African American… and “nappy” is a rude word!

Garrett: Well I know it is… but I am talking to my WIFE, and you knew what I meant. I would never say that to someone else.

Jasmine: Uhh yeah, because it is rude.

Garrrett: No, because they would probably have a knife or a gun!

Jasmine:…… I can’t even believe you.

(later)

Jasmine: Children who are biracial usually have smoother hair, but it isn’t a guarantee. White people have different textures of hair also, you know.

Garrett: I guess our different textures just aren’t as noticeable. So I am gonna have to learn how to “grease” his hair?

Jasmine: Yes. And if we ever have a daughter, you’ll have to learn how to braid too.

Garrett: I will leave that up to you, ya’ll are naturally good at corn rows.

Jasmine: WHAT! It isn’t a genetic disposition!

Garrett: Nooooo I was just saying that African Americans all grew up braiding and beading each other’s hair.

Jasmine: *Blank stare*

(After seeing an ethnic hair commercial)

Garrett: Can we Afro Isaiah’s hair! Oh my God! PLEASE! Can we!

Jasmine: Afros are only worn because our hair is so hard to manage. They aren’t REALLY fashion statements anymore! Afros, I think, are only cool to white people….

Garrett: OR we could totally cut his hair short and then cut lines into the back, like Chris Brown or Kanye West!

Jasmine: He is a two year old… he isn’t a performer. I swear! Next you are gonna request him a Gherri Curl!.

Garrett: Why do you ruin all my fun?

Jasmine: Because your fun is stupid- and stereotypical.

(Upon meeting my friend MiMi, who was born in Africa)

Garrett: So do you speak the African clicking language?

MiMi: *Blank Stare*

Garrett: No seriously, you know what I am talking about right? The one where they click to talk *imitates clicking noises*

MiMi: Jasmine! WHAT is he talking about I went to a private school…. WHAT is he talking about?

Jasmine: I guess he assumes everyone from Africa lives in a hut, just ignore him.

Garrett: OH MY GOD YA’LL are RUDE. It is not like that was even a weird question to ask someone from Africa!

Last night I had a dream that I had sex with Taylor Lautner (that Jacob kid from Twilight). I kind of wish I was kidding, and so do you, because it isn’t a happy visual for anyone. I do need to comment, though, that if one was to have sex with a shape-shifting werewolf boy it could result in hairballs, just sayin’.

Sadie and I have been slacking, haven’t we!  We apologize [Well I apologize and if Sadie doesn't I am saying she apologizes anyway...don't worry, I'll pinch her!]

Here are some updates:

*Baby Addison is kicking. I never got used to Isaiah flipping and flapping around and I don’t think I will with this one either.

*I got an article published in a local magazine “Peekaboo”….as soon as I figure out where they put it, online, I will post a link.

*I’ve watched Twilight eight times in the last week and a half, which accounts for that bizarre dream. It also accounts why Garrett walks around the house when it is on spouting, “what the hell Jasmine, AGAIN!?”

*I started a new job, I am pretty stoked about it.

*Tis the season for Pumpkin Spice Lattes, which means a mouth orgasm for me… another gross visual [you're welcome].

*Living with a husband who has sleep apnea is amazing, By “amazing” I mean, ‘Sweet baby Jesus when you can’t sleep because you are pregnant and uncomfortable and then you have Darth Vader sleeping next to you, you kind of wish that a Jedi would come and silence him with light saber. [okay. I went too far with the Star Wars reference, I know]

Happy Labor Day.

In the 60’s there was a huge movement involving dream interpretations. People clamored to buy dream journals and jot down there detailed dreams as soon as their eyes popped open from their nighttime adventures. Psychologists (I am using that term VERY loosely) touted the ability to diagnose the psyche of their clients based on the workings of their dreams. If you dreamed you were flying it would mean____________. If you dreamed you were a man it would mean_____________. The fad has continued into 2010, but more as an “alternative psychology” approach. It is interesting the effects that neurotransmitters have on dreams. Pregnancy hormones, in general, effect the body in such interesting ways it is hard to create a baseline for the masses. While one woman may have tender breasts, another woman may ravenously crave Goulash, and yet another will experience no symptoms but the occasional strange dream.

 Pregnancy dreams, possibly because of the flood of hormones, can also become highly sexually charged. I wonder what that means about the psyche or if that is only biochemical?For example, if you were pregnant and you dreamed that you were having sex with your boss, but your boss was actually your husband… what would that mean? And if this dream was SO friggin’ amazing, because the sex was out of this world, that you woke yourself up…what would that mean? AND if when you woke yourself  up you realized that in your dreaming state you had LITERALLY initiated sex with your sleeping…what would that mean? Hypothetically, of course.

Yesterday I painted my kitchen. I am planning to write about the whole painting fiasco here in a little bit. I don’t have a large kitchen so I didn’t expect that it would take more than a day to do all the prep work, the painting and the clean-up, but I knew that part of the day Norah would have to entertain herself. This is not unusual for us, she entertains herself very well. I am not the kind of mother who wants to be up in Norah’s business all day long. In fact, when I have to be all up in her business I get sort of cranky and snappy. I just need my own time and my own space every once in a while.

Usually this works out fine. Norah does not need me to entertain her all day. She is perfectly ok playing by herself for a while, and for this I am very grateful. But yesterday I noticed something  interesting.

I put our babygate in the space between the kitchen and the dining room so I could paint while Norah was awake and not run the risk of her pulling a paintcan on her head. I kept a good eye on her, but I was not actively entertaining her or anything. For a few minutes, when I first put the gate up, she stood at it and talked to me, jabbering and singing and throwing things over the gate. Then she crawled away and things got quiet. A little too quiet…if you know what I mean. So I called “Norah?” and she answered “Geh?”. I looked around the corner and saw her reading a book. No big deal. Then a few seconds later she dragged her toys over to the baby gate. She accumulated a few and then sat down at the gate to play.

And in that little gesture, the desire to be near me even if we were not engaged in the same thing, I saw Rusty.

I know, that is also a developmental thing, the looking and searching for and wanting to be near Mama, but I also know what Norah’s daddy is like. He does not like to be alone when he does things, even if not being alone means someone sitting near him and doing something totally different. He will frequently just come and sit in the room I am in, not doing anything, just being near me. Which, you know, is sweet. He likes my company. He is a quality time person. So while I know that Norah’s behavior was probably more of an acting out of her developmental stage than anything else, I wonder if Norah will be similar to Rusty in that need-to-be-near-ness?

And here I was, thinking she was my little clone…