Family – Page 6 – Angel Wheeler

2 months

My dear Emma Kate,

You are two months old already! Time is zipping past. I can’t hardly stand it. I’m cherishing every day I have with you. The biggest piece of advice I get from other moms is to not blink and take lots of pictures because you’ll be grown before I know it. They aren’t lying either. You are surely growing fast.

Today at the doctor you weighed 11 pounds 4 ounces. You’ve gained 4 pounds since birth. Thats about an ounce a day. You were whopping 23 inches long. Your growth chart shows you to be in the 75th percentile, which means only 25% of other 2 month olds are longer. Me and your daddy can’t figure out where you got your longness. If you keep it up, you won’t have to stand on the front row of your class pictures like your dad and I always did.

You are becoming much more vocal. That’s mommy’s nice way of saying you’ve started having crying jags! They’re not bad at all, but sometimes you begin to cry and we don’t know what’s wrong. But you eventually settle down, and are your happy little self again.

This month you visited both Ruidoso, NM and Tahlequah, OK to meet kinfolk. You stayed with babysitters for the first time ever. The first one being you Aunt Linette who kept you while your daddy and I went for a walk together. You’ve also stayed with your Grand about 4 times now. So far, that’s going real well. Mama only has 2 weeks left before she returns to work and it’s going to be so hard leaving you every day. But the evening time will be ours. We will cuddle, and hug, and kiss, and play. And then summertime will be here and we’ll have all day together again.

We’ve been spending some time outdoors since the Spring weather has come. You have no interest at all in the chickens, or horses, or dogs, even though they are real interested in you. Drew and Grace want to smell you and lick you and find out who you are. The chickens think you’re some kind of treat I’m bringing out to them, and the horses just think it’s feeding time too.

You still smile like a champion and are making some pretty high pitched squeals that will soon turn into laughs. You hate being on your tummy, but Mama makes you have tummy time everyday anyway. It’s good for you.

You get a nightly massage after your bath and I love that sweet time with you. I think you like it too, except you’re pretty ticklish on your belly. Even though your daddy said it would never happen, you are sleeping with us in the bed, but you’re not sleeping through the night yet.

The Bible says children are a reward from the Lord. A reward!!! I don’t know what we did to get a prize like you, but I thank God for you everyday!

We love you more than you can ever know.

XOXO,

Mama

Shots.

In two short days, my baby girl has to get her 2 month shots.

Oh, how I dread it. To the very core.

She’s oblivious. She doesn’t know what is up ahead. But I do.

She is content and happy, living in her little 2 month world. Trusting her mama and daddy to take care of her, without a worry in the world, unsuspecting of what is to come. I want to prepare her. I’ve tried telling her about it, reassuring her that it won’t last long, that everything will be okay, that it’s not meant to harm her, but it’s to protect her in the future. But she doesn’t understand my language. I want to avoid this necessary evil. But I know she needs it.

When my old cowdog Fancy had to be put to sleep, I couldn’t stand it. It was the best thing for her, as she was in a lot of pain. My mother and I took her to the vet, and as much as I wanted to stay and pet her head while the needle was injected, I just couldn’t bear it. I left the exam room and cried in the waiting room instead. It was just too much. My mom stayed with her as she closed her big, brown, trusting eyes for good. I wish now I would have stayed with her, letting her know I was there.

With EK, I want to escape as well. I want her dad to stay with her and I would rather wait in the waiting room and not witness her going through the pain. But I would never leave her. I will endure her cries, and hold her tight, and comfort her.

We are told in the Bible that we cannot know God’s thoughts. Isaiah 55:8 My thoughts are not your thoughts. Neither are your ways, my ways, declares the Lord. But sometimes, I believe He allows us, in our mortality, to experience small, ever so minute glimpses of His ways.

He, as our Heavenly Father, sees the big picture. He knows what is coming our way. He knows our tomorrow and the days after that. He too wants to protect us from the pain and discomfort of our “shots”, but perhaps it is better for us in the long run to experience them now. When we receive word of death of a close one, or a troubling diagnosis, or loss of a job, or relationship, we are rattled, shaken, and upset. We don’t understand why it happened, but God does, and also why it needed to happen. We may be caught off guard, but He never is. And perhaps He too tried to prepare us. Maybe He spoke to us, told us it wouldn’t last long, that it will all be okay, that it is not for harm, but for our good. But we don’t always understand His language. He doesn’t abandon us to wait in the waiting room. He holds us close, speaks comfort and wipes every tear from our eye.

What an awesome Father we have.

My grandmother had this photograph framed and hanging in her bedroom for as long as I could remember. It is from the local newspaper in 1976.

The caption read “Mrs. Anne Briggs holds Angel’s hand while she gets her immunization shots. Angel looks nervous but didn’t cry. RN Berlinda Leyba of Texas State Department of Health gave shots.”

Maybe EK will have a little of her mama in her and handle her shots well also.

If you will, send up a prayer for her. And for me.

All Her Parts

Our baby girl turned 8 weeks old yesterday.

People say she’s tiny, but she’s already grown so much to me.

I tried to capture her in all her little 8 week oldness. She’s changing so much, so quickly.

Her daddy’s in love with her side profile. And all the rest of her too.

I’m in love with her eyelashes. And all the rest of her too.

A friend said it best. “We couldn’t have ordered one better.”

Thank you God for our Emma Kate. All of her.

Babywearing 101

My sister told me it was for wearing my baby as she handed me the baby wrap. I looked at her like she had stepped off the planet Zonkers. It was an excessively long piece of material designed to be twisted, wrapped, tied, and superglued to my body. I’ve seen people wearing these contraptions with a baby strapped to them before, and quite honestly, I didn’t want to be one of them.

And then little EK came along. I quickly discovered the need to grow six more arms. If I could be any super hero of my choosing? That’s easy. OCTOPUS MOM! Washing dishes is not the easiest task with a newborn in your arms. It’s practically impossible. As are many other chores. It takes two hands to wash a pot, fold a towel, make a bed. Now, don’t get me wrong. EK is fine and content being put down. She’s a great baby. It’s not really her, you see. It’s me. I want to hold her. I can’t hardly stand leaving her in one room to go work in another. I realize I will only have myself to blame later on down the road.

The day Jolea presented me with this monstrosity of material, we tried it out. My niece Ash was reading the directions in Greek I think, my sister was trying to follow them, I was standing there arms spread, sweating like a dog, dangling a fake baby by the arm, while my sister steered, groped, and maneuvered this wrap around my body.

When I tried it with an actual baby, after watching several videos entitled, “How to put on a baby wrap for idiots”, the actual baby hated it. I only made her stay in there for a couple of minutes, thinking it might grow on her, but, uh, no. She hollered.

Today was a beautiful day weather wise. One of those Spring days I wish everyday was like. I wanted to go for a walk to enjoy this delightful day and also not one person has offered to take this post pregnancy weight off my hands. Or my belly. I’ve tried the stroller, but the dirt roads are just a bit too bumpy for my little baby just yet. So, my other option was the wrap. I can now actually put the thing on without the idiot’s instructions. I’ve never worn a straight jacket before, at least not that I’ll admit to, but I’m thinking this isn’t far from it. Once the baby was good and secure, we headed out.

I’m not sure if EK is just a bit small for the forward facing position or if I just have a little bit too much swing in my hips, but it was a bumpy ride for the little darling. I felt the need to hold her head to keep from whiplashing her. She didn’t cry during this attempt, and surprisingly she fell asleep. We set off with the sun beating down, the birds singing, and the gravel crunching.

It’s ironic to me that I carried EK on the front of my body for 9 months with relatively few problems, but walking a mile just about did me in. Nevermind the fact that she was about 4 pounds lighter and swimming in a bowl of water upside down, controlling her own head and neck way back then. Nevertheless, I got quite the workout. I used muscles that hadn’t been used in quite some time and my brow got a good mopping too.

The farther we walked, the hotter we both got. I’m sure wintertime is a great season to wear this outfit, but someone really needs to make one out of mesh for this hot momma, and I mean that literally. When we got home and unstrapped ourselves from it, I reminded myself of a horse after a long hard day with a saddle blanket on, if you know what I mean.

what we look like after. EK's a little whopper jawed.

I then celebrated our accomplishment with 3 cookies and a glass of milk.

Emma just had the milk, but she was sure eyeballing my cookies.

Just Emma

Eat, sleep, poop, repeat.

Our days zoom past.

Eat, sleep, poop, repeat.

And I’m not just talking about EK either.

Eat, sleep, poop, repeat.

Sometimes in addition to the aforementioned, we take pictures.

And on occasion, I’ll get a request from a family member for more pictures of EK.

They pretty much all look the same. EK is either sleeping or awake.

This past weekend my niece, Ash, decided to play photographer. Inspired by my friend Lacee who recently crammed my baby in a bucket and took some amazing pictures, Ash tried to reenact the same look, with some decent results like the one below.

I must go now.

One of us needs to eat, sleep, or poop.

And I’m not saying who.

Celebrate Good Times

My little traveler has already visited 3 states in her six short weeks of being alive. She’s practically a world traveler.

Her first trip was to the Green Country of Northeastern Oklahoma to visit her Okie relatives. Mainly this sweet great-grandmother who just so happens to share her birthday.

There’s only a mere 94 years difference in their ages.

We attended a wedding and EK put on a skirt, or rather a tutu, for the first time in her little life.

One shoe on and one shoe off. Sounds like a nursery rhyme.

It was her first outing besides doctor checkups and of course, we forgot the diaper bag. And of course, we needed the diaper bag.

This past Saturday, we celebrated more birthdays. I turned 37, and EK turned 6 weeks old. We celebrated with chocolate cake and tall glasses of whole milk while visiting more relatives in the mountains of New Mexico.

We sat by a crackling fire and watched the pine branches grow heavy with wet, fluffy snow and enjoyed good food and great hosts.

And now we’re back in the Lone Star State, nailing our feet to the prairie grasses.

Change and Creation—my year in review

I’m three days late, but I wanted to take some time and reflect on the year 2011. It’s long gone now, but still deserves some time of remembrance. Any blogger worth their weight in blogging ability has already accomplished this feat, however, it’s me we’re talking about here.

I began this post a couple of days ago with the best of intentions, but I was (and still am) having trouble getting my thoughts nailed down to make it coherent, but alas, I’ll try.

I’m experiencing mixed emotions about the new year, and about saying good-bye to the old. This is a new phenomenon for me. I usually wake up on January first of whatever year it happens to be, and go about my usual life. Just another day. But this January 1st, 2012, I found myself at a crossroads. There’s a song by the Bellamy Brothers where one line says, “he’s an old hippie and he don’t know what to do, should he hang on to the old, should he grab on to the new.” Oh how I can relate.

Last January there was a movement if you will, instead of resolutions, choose a word for the year. A word that will define you. A word that you will focus on during the year. Like hope or faith or happiness or fitness. My friend Suzanne asked me what my word was. I took a while to think, and finally I chose the word create. I wanted to create great writing. I wanted to create a home for J-Dub and myself in our new country dump, I wanted to create a wonderful garden, a chicken coop, so many new things.

How little did I know that with creation comes change or perhaps change begets creation. But I can look back now and affirm, create was my word.

We lost my dad to a heart attack in February and I began to create a life of only memories. Whether through facebook or blog comments or email or phone calls, we spoke daily. I’m thankful for technology, for through that our relationship grew closer and we knew each other better than ever. Creating a new life without him has been hard for me.

Less than a month after burying my dad, J-Dub and I packed our horse trailer with boxes and furniture and moved to a place outside of town. A place that needed (and still does) a lot of work. We had spent the previous winter attempting to create a home for ourselves along with a plethora of mistakes, problems and money that come with home improvements. Moving is life changing and not knowing where the dadgum lightbulbs are kept is more than irritating. Shortly after moving in, like 4 days, I got a box of little chicks in the mail and my life was changed forever! I spent the spring and summer, raising those babies and adjusting to the country life with snakes in the front yard, water wells breaking, drought, wild fires and wind. And with wind, lots and lots of dust.

In May, I felt like I was losing my ever loving mind. I believed Satan had come in and taken control of my body. I felt like a raging lunatic, and then while on a trip visiting my dad’s grave for Memorial Day weekend, I discovered the cause of my angst. I was pregnant. So the summer was spent in shock and adjustment. And the fall was spent in shock and adjustment. And now that we are three weeks away from giving birth, I’m still in disbelief and adjusting. Someone told me in a comment on this blog that God gives us nine months to prepare for childbirth. I’m here to tell you, I probably could be a pretty good elephant because nine months isn’t enough time for me.

Although I desired to create great writing, and a wonderful home, and new and beautiful things in 2011, I never would have fathomed that I would create a daughter. What a change. What a creation. What a scary experience.

Plans for building a new fence and putting up a barn were replaced with painting a nursery and choosing a name. A whole new dimension has been added to my life. God has given me a great task. He has chosen me to be the mother of a little girl who I worry I won’t do right by.

With this great task ahead, I find myself fearing the new year. Afraid of what it holds. I find myself walking by sight rather than faith, fearful of the next step. And the one after that. And the one after that.

My 2011 was a year of adjustment. Lots of changes took place, the kind of changes that rate high up on the stress level list. So why don’t I want to move on? As I ponder, I decide it must be the familiarity of the old and the fear of the new. I am embarking on this new year, expecting more changes and I’m frightened that the struggles I faced in 2011 will follow me into the new year.

I’ve been weepy the last two days and it appears this day is no different. My present prayer is that my sorrow will be turned to joy, my worry will be changed to rejoicing.

Like the old hippie, should I hang on to the old or should I grab onto the new?

If I look to the scriptures, I am instructed to remember the days of old, remember what God has done for me, how He has carried me through, and then press forward to what is ahead, walk by faith, finish the race, and trust in the Lord.

Hang on or grab onto? I’ll try to do both.

And so I go.

Happy 2012.

In Memory of My Dad #36–relatives

I’m so glad to have discovered a story from my dad to share with you today. Months ago, my sister sent via her husband, a large canvas box filled with Tahlequah Times Journal newspapers from the years my dad worked there. I thought I had shared all the “stories” and was left with sports articles of how the Tulsa Hurricane Little Leaguers won the Championship or Arnold Palmer’s hole-in-one. But today, I uncovered some more commentaries. This one was written on Sept. 14, 1996 by my dad Bob Briggs. I miss him dearly. I wish he were here with me this morning, stoking the fire, listening to some classic rock, drinking coffee on this frosty December morning as we look forward to little Miss Emma Kate to arrive in six short weeks (give or take a day or two). He would’ve liked this day.

She was always a heroine of mine. I admired her from day one when we were attending a small country school there at Briggs, Oklahoma. We walked the long miles to school together and talked of many things, of the many dreams that two country kids knew the outside world held for them.

She, being a couple of years older than me, always took my part when I got into a skirmish with the older boys. You know how kids on kids are? That’s the roughest kind of play there is and the girl was also a pretty good rough and tumble fighter herself.

She never had much time or even the chance to be a child herself. Her mom worked at many menial jobs trying to hold her small family together after the girl’s father left. She was regulated to the task of caring for her younger sisters and brothers—so there went her childhood.

Then, one day, the girl was gone from the small house on the south side of town where she had lived with her siblings and hard-working mother.

She had married a young man and moved out of state. She was 16—so there went her teenage years.

When she could have been readying herself for the prom and having fun with her friends, she was busy having children of her own and keeping house for the man she chose to be her lifelong mate.

I don’t recall seeing the girl smile much as a child. There weren’t many occasions for her to smile in later years either. The man she married, though a boy himself, drank to excess and was generous to a fault. But I’ll say this for him, he never missed a day’s work.

The three children she and her husband produced, grew into teenagers and faced the typical teen problems of today, but she went the extra mile to see the kids were raised up with Christian values.

I guess I was always proud of the girl that became a woman more out of necessity than the process of growing. She went back to school and earned her diploma and learned to drive a car after she was married. She worked for a newspaper in west Texas and stuck with her husband until he quit the whiskey. And mightily fought the drug demons along with her son.

Now she and her husband have a house full of grandchildren and three well-adjusted children. And when she should be kicking back and enjoying the fruits of their labor, she is girding her loins for a battle the doctors have no name for. She’s been religious most of her life and I hope it carries her through these trying times.

I’m writing this on her birthday so she’ll know that my love and prayers go with her. Happy Birthday, sis. May you have many more years of happiness.

****************************

Speaking of relatives, my brother surprised me a couple of weeks ago by inviting me to his place for a T-bone dinner.

Being the type that haunts fast food places and convenience stores I readily accepted.

He put the potatoes on to slow bake and the corn-on-the-cob went into a large pot on the stove. Then he peeled the lid from a bottle of Jim Beam and we retreated to the patio where the coals were just beginning to turn a nice shade of grey and plopped two inch-high steaks on the grill.

The hour we waited for the steaks turned into three and we talked of new cars and old friends. Relatives make good fodder for conversation when you’re in the process of getting into the cups and non of ours (except unknown grandfathers and our three sisters, who are saints) escaped unscathed.

Cousins, uncles, aunts and brothers-in-law all were praised or caught hell with equal zeal and fervor as the levels dropped steadily on the bottle.

About mid-night, I was treated to one of the finest charcoaled steaks I’ve ever laid into. My brother rummaged through his lower cabinets until he found a long forgotten six-pack of Busch and we talked on and on till the early morning.

My brother became so adament on one point of the conversation, he said, “That’s the truth, brother, and if it ain’t, I hope that moon up there comes flying through the air and crashes into the earth.”

Later on we slept.

I was awakened by the pattering of rain of a passing storm. My brother slept peacefully in his chair as Sissy, his chowdog, slept at his feet. I looked through the branches of the huge evergreen that graces his bakyard and saw the low flying rainclouds as they made their way toward Adair County. The clouds broke a little and there was that moon—-that sucker hadn’t moved a bit.

Gobble, Gobble, Wobble

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Yes, I know the song refers to the Christmas season, but I disagree. I believe the Thanksgiving season is the most wonderful time. It is my favorite by far.

This thanksgiving, 2011, I am blessed beyond my wildest comprehension. There has been loss.

And there has been gain.

How much things can change in one year.
This time last year, I saw my dad alive for the last time. We sat on the steps of my old house on a beautiful Autumn day as birds honked above overhead. I mistakenly called them geese. He was quick to inform me they were sandhill cranes. He always loved the birds.

We took a drive around the old Celanese plant where he spent some time working years ago, and although we didn’t say much of anything, I’m sure he was venturing down his own memory lane, just as I am now. Days gone by. Out of reach.

I snapped this last picture of him and my sister lying in the floor, right before we watched Four Christmases together. He forgot that blue handkerchief when he left. It’s now washed and folded and put away in a box of things, along with a pair of glasses left forgotten. He passed away the following February, and I have missed him everyday since.

But we shall meet again, and there will be rejoicing.

This time next year, we will have a 10 month old little girl crawling around, possibly beginning to pull up, yanking all the popcorn and cranberries strands from the Christmas tree. She will have brown hair and brown eyes and little dimples on her knees. We will play peek-a-boo and patty cake, feed her pumpkin pie with lots of whipped cream, and smother her in kisses.

And I’ll be tired, but it will all be worth it.

Things change. There’s no doubt I’ve changed.
And thank God for that.

Robert Frost said he could sum life up in three words. “It goes on.”

And thank God for that too.

I hope you take a moment to be thankful today and everyday. We are so blessed.
Praise God.

Cherish Loved Ones.

Be happy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Love,
Angel

In Memory of My Dad #32–Arm Wrestling

Sports events that take place in bars include wet t-shirt contests, women’s mud wrestling, chug-a-lug contests, belch offs and arm wrestling. What makes them different from normal sports is their spirit of bawdy, drunken democracy. Anyone can join in.

Arm wrestling has long been a favorite way for men to match strength since big muscles came into vogue at the turn of the century, but until fairly recently, it was sheer anarchy with the guys going against each other anytime, hell-bent on destroying each other or at least trying to break an opponent’s arm. There is no regard for rules, sportsmanship or the other namby-pamby moral implications of the game.

A man can come into a bar, sit and drink like a gentleman, and the minute he starts getting in his cups, here comes the challenge, “Let’s arm wrestle!”

Now there is a higher standard. The American Arm Wrestling Association sponsors matches in the swankiest casinos in Las Vegas. They even have a team of chiropractic and medical doctors on hand for injuries.

While not yet as refined as golf, bowling, or even semi-pro tobacco spitting, the arm wrestling association is trying to find some respect.

Like chess, it demands such concentration that it sucks a contestant dry. Whereas chess players use brains in putting their opponent in check, arm wrestlers must use muscle to achieve their goal of defeating an opponent and in neither sport do brains or muscle alone make the winners. The winners are the ones who have mastered the psychological edge that it takes to beat their opponents. Which in arm wrestling is to force the other guy’s arm down on the table before he forces your own arm down.

To gain an edge, arm wrestlers make themselves as repugnant as possible. They may grow a Fu-Man-Chu mustache or shave their heads or perhaps grow a full beard. Or they may adopt a fearsome nickname such as the Hulbert Maniac or Bonecrusher. They might drool, bark or even go so far as to start speaking in tongues as they approach the table where the match occurs.

Bill “the animal” Brewski is said to drink motor oil straight from the can and eat fistfuls of live cockroaches to gather his superhuman strength. Most competitors are manual laborers with huge arms, the kind of man who uses Lava and Borax to get their hands clean after work, the kind of man who will order beer by the pitcher when he’s drinking by himself.

But good technique will beat raw strength any time, aside from the psychological games already mentioned. Good technique means knowing how to curl an opponent’s wrist after “lock up” (the initial coupling of hands with the first thumb knuckle visible). This way the opponent is not ready for a surprise slam. One slim kid that I knew from Hobbs, New Mexico used this tactic. He would stand stock still after lock up, offering only enough resistance to stay motionless, all the while pumping blood into his arm readying himself for the kill while his opponent grunted and strained and generally exhausted himself.

There are two ways to arm wrestle, standing up and sitting down. AAA rules specify that when standing, a contestant must keep one foot on the floor at all times (the other may be wrapped around a table leg), and it is a foul to use any other part of the body other than the forearm to try to pin an opponent. During a seated match kicking under the table is forbidden, and you are required to keep one buttock in contact with the seat at all times. competitions take place in weight categories that range from 0-135 pounds to 242 pounds and over for men, while the women go in the 0-120 and 140 pounds and over.

Arm wrestlers are looking at the sport being in the International Olympic games soon.

written by Bob Briggs