In going over my 'Next Generation' posts, I realized that James hasn't yet been featured in a starring role. It's been a momentous week for our second son, so there's no better time for me to rhapsodize about him than now.
When Christian was our only child, Patrick and I had difficulty imagining that we could ever cherish anyone else as much as we did him. But it's a miracle how a parent's love expands to include each person that comes into the family. When James was born, I thought my heart would break, it was so full.
I went into labor with James on a tempestuous night in October. I had trained to be eligible for the Birthing Center at our hospital--a cozy, private place with Jacuzzi tubs, soft lighting, and minimal intervention. I was looking forward to laboring in that hot tub, I can tell you.
So imagine my dismay when we arrived at St. Luke's-Roosevelt after an agonizingly bumpy taxicab ride and were told that the Birthing Center was full, and that I'd have to deliver in the regular obstetrics ward. Apparently the precipitous drop in atmospheric pressure when the storm moved in had caused every slightly ripe woman in Manhattan to start contractions. The hospital staff was overwhelmed and harried; there were gowned women in wheelchairs lining the halls, panting and moaning with their partners beside them, waiting to give birth.
I was shown into a draped-off area of an exam room; a resident came in a few minutes later to check to see how far along I was. I told him I was moving pretty quickly and that I was really hurting. He replied, "You're only at four centimeters; you're not in that much pain."
Not in that much pain.I barely restrained myself from kicking him in the teeth (he was in the perfect position to receive such a blow). Patrick and I were moved into a private labor-delivery-recovery room and told that my doctor was on her way.
I knew this labor was going fast; I also knew that, since I couldn't be in a hot tub, I wanted medication pretty darn quick. I was afraid that if I didn't get on the anaesthesiologist's radar soon, the pain-free window would close. Patrick, the best advocate in the world, went out to the hall and barked for help. I begged the responding nurse to have me checked again; the arrogant resident who had admitted me returned to my bedside.
"Mrs. Perkins, I just checked you 20 minutes ago. You can see that we're very busy here tonight. You can't have made that much progress." My lawyer then used his best powers of persuasion to convince him otherwise.
Yeah. I'd progressed to
nine centimeters: five centimeters in 20 minutes. The look of shock on the resident's face was
almost enough validation for me--but more on that later.
The anaesthesiologist rushed in, gave me a 'walking epidural'; for those of you who choose medication for labor, I highly recommend this route. Blessed, blessed relief. (In some other post, I'll explain why I opted for this again with Hope, but forewent meds entirely with Tess and Daniel.)
Patrick put the Fauré
Requiem CD on; I realize that a requiem doesn't sound like the most auspicious music to have playing while a baby is being born, but this is one of the most soothing and uplifting pieces of music in the world. My doctor arrived, and James appeared not long afterwards.
We later spoke to my OB about the resident; she was incensed and told me at my six-week check-up that he had been banned from the OB/GYN rotation due to his insensitivity. "He should have known better," she told me. "We teach them always to respect what new mothers are going through, and that women know better than anyone what they are experiencing."
The next day, I watched the Braves spank the Yankees in Game 1 of the World Series from my hospital bed, nursing James all the while. Was that when James's love affair with baseball began? I think it's likely.
Christian adjusted to big brotherhood beautifully. When Patrick gave James his
baby's blessing at church, he blessed James that he and Christian would always be best friends; this has been the happy case for the past 10 years. Christian hosted an eighth-grade graduation party for his close friends the other night; James was a welcome guest and fit right in, despite the fact that everyone else was three years older.
After the colicky series of squalls that was Christian's first year, I was braced for a second serving of the same. But James's babyhood was like gliding on a sea of glass. Beanie Babies were popular at the time; James was such a contented and snuggly little sack of stuffing that I dubbed him my Bean Bag Boy, 'Beanie' for short. He still does not chafe under that nickname; I'll probably still be calling him that when he's sixty.
He turned into a lively toddler, though, needing two trips to the emergency room before he was even out of diapers--once for jumping off the radiator (pretending to be Superman) and breaking his arm, and once (on New Year's Day) for cutting his eyebrow open on the pedal of Christian's Santa-delivered bicycle.
James has many gifts, mimicry and a vivid imagination being the most entertaining. I love to watch him play in the yard from one of our windows. He'll do both play-by-play and color commentary for his own pitching and batting sessions. He'll grab a couple of bamboo poles and imitate the moves he's seen in
House of Flying Daggers and
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Or he'll use his bat as an air guitar, performing as George Harrison or Jimmy Page before an audience of thousands. He's way better than TV.
James is a
clutch player. Several times during the Little League season, he kept his head and made key plays--either in the field or at the plate--that won the game for his team. I love that his athletic skills are developing, but I love even more that he can keep his wits about him under pressure. James's team took first place in the Minor division this year partly due to his efforts. He picked up his trophy at the Little League picnic yesterday; it has pride of place on the mantel at the moment.
He's also a great student. He reads far above grade level, probably because he's always wanted to be able to discuss what Christian is reading, who is himself an advanced reader. He also has an intuitive grasp of mathematical concepts. James was one of a few kids awarded the
Presidential Award for Academic Excellence at fifth-grade graduation earlier this week, meaning that his GPA was 92 or higher for the year. Keep it up, Bean!
For a while, I would find intriguing opening paragraphs of James's original stories around the house; either he's keeping better track of his creative work, or he's left off writing for the moment. I hope the former is true, because he has great ideas and can get his readers absorbed in his plots quickly.
James is a deep thinker and has strong faith. He asks excellent theological questions; I hope he always will. I prefer questions to answers; we know so little as mortals that we are in danger of having our minds closed to further light and knowledge when we assume we know all the answers. Questions keep us humble and open, always actively searching for more; James is a great example of that.
He is compassionate and full of affection. He never leaves the house or goes up to bed without giving Patrick and me hearty hugs. He gives terrific shoulder rubs spontaneously. There's more I could tell you, but I'm afraid you'd start thinking that he's too good to be true. I'll just end by saying that James, like Mary Poppins, is "practically perfect in every way," and I couldn't do without him.
Yesterday I went to check on the summer squash, shown here with a 12-inch ruler and a fat, yellow cucumber. How did I miss this monster? It looks remarkably like the Doomsday Machine in a Star Trek episode--the device Daniel calls 'the robot pyoom-pyoom.' It will be morphing into many dozen squash muffins in the near future. 
Here's Daniel with his water pyoom-pyoom. 'Pyoom-pyoom' is his word for anything--from muskets to phasers--that fires high-velocity projectiles.
James, Hope, and Tess console themselves in Christian's absence (he's at Scout Camp this week) with some focused and sustained sprinkler running. Good times. 
I wish I could insert a fragrance link. Aren't my Stargazer Lilies beautiful? Note how the close focus keeps all the weeds out of the image. Also note how I took and posted zero photos of Christian and me planting 12 trees and 18 bushes last Saturday. There's nothing like digging through rocky clay in 90-degree weather with 90% humidity to give you heat exhaustion, I tell you. The process hasn't been pretty, but my permaculture garden is on its way.
Jane's rhapsodies were in no way hyperbolic. The Butterscotch bar is a perfect realization of the ideal chocolate bar. I won't wax poetic, since most of you don't have regular access to these, either; it would be just plain mean if I did. But next time you find yourself in Merrie Olde, do yourself a favor and bring back a duffel bag full. 
3) I bought many books at Readercon—riches, I tell you. The first in my juicy to-be-read pile was In the Forest of Forgetting, by 
4) I got an award during my sabbatical! 
I love Bon Jovi! Especially now that he has short hair; he's aged very well. (Kara, you have my permission to stop respecting me.) And "You Give Love a Bad Name" has exactly the right amount of anger (and heavy drums) to make it a good running song for me.
What's wrong with you people? Don't you believe in forgiveness and repentance? Poor Latrell made one (admittedly large) mistake, apologized, and sought counseling for anger management. He's made reparations. Give him a break! It's been years since that happened!
5) This was a tricky question, as all four of these selections were in heavy rotation at my house of origin circa 1978. I got Saturday Night Fever first, but as a gift. My sister Stephanie owned ABBA:Arrival on cassette. Billy Joel's brilliant album The Stranger was the second I ever bought, making b) Grease the correct choice.
7) It's comforting to me that so many of you agree that all of these critically acclaimed writers are highly overrated. But c) Hemingway is the correct answer, because he's the most revered of the four. I also hate most Steinbeck (except for The Winter of our Discontent), most Updike (except for The Witches of Eastwick), and most Fitzgerald (maybe all, since I can't come up with any exceptions right now).
8) b) Pilgrim's Progress, by Ralph Vaughan Williams. Pilgrim's Progress is my favorite book, and RVW is my favorite composer. The combination is magic. Unfortunately, this opera has significant staging problems, and consequently is very rarely performed.
And now for the ugly:
Oh, Mitt. I am so very sorry. Though we share a 
