Deja Vu
It actually started last night, the ice storm that swept into town. Again, I heard the sound of the ice hitting the windows and felt the chill in the house competing against our overworked furnace. I awoke to find the world decorated with beautiful, crystal ice jewels just as it was the day my sweetness was born. I wish I had taken a picture of it. I was too busy worrying about whether I should drive the kids to their activities or stay safely home. We stayed home. How my midwives made it here the night that Iryna was born, I will never understand.
But it is amazing to me that this ice storm has revisited us at the exact same time this year as it did last. As I type this, I sit not even two feet from the very spot on which she was born. One year ago.
One year ago, she was born "Irina." A spelling error we later found out. Or, more accurately, a cultural error. We thought we were giving her a Ukrainian name. We gave her a Russian name. And don't you dare say, "It's all the same," around a Uki. They don't take too kindly to that. Post Soviet Ukraine has even changed the name of Kiev. It is now Kyiv. And don't ever, EVER say "The Ukraine." Thems fightin' words, I tell ya. So apparently it was a colossal error.
One year later, Iryna naps in her bouncy chair, blissfully unaware that the name on the wall in her bedroom does not match the name now on her corrected birth certificate. Of course, she spends so little time in her bedroom anyway choosing instead to sleep snuggled warmly between the very two people who created her. She sleeps each night bathed in love and down comforters, sipping milk straight from the tap, and edging out the dog for more territory. She's making her way.
One year ago, she wasn't tiny, but she was delicate. Her fragile newborn skin burned from too long a soak in amniotic fluid. Her long, elegant fingers grasping for security. Her perfectly formed mouth seeking out nourishment and comfort. Her head surprisingly void of hair. She was bundled in fleece: warm and toasty and sweet.
One year later she is still sweet. My sweetest baby yet. She loves to give hugs and smiles. Her giggle is infectious and she isn't stingy with it, either. She sings. Lordy, that girl loves to sing. And she'll sit quietly playing at my feet during mass or the kids' swimming lessons, something the other two would never do. People comment all the time on what a great disposition she has. My reward, I tell them as I motion to the older two. But she really is. She's like a prize. Or a big heart shaped box of chocolates. A Valentine. That's what she is. She's my Valentine.
Happy 1st Birthday to my sweet, sweet, peace and love, Valentine baby.
But it is amazing to me that this ice storm has revisited us at the exact same time this year as it did last. As I type this, I sit not even two feet from the very spot on which she was born. One year ago.
One year ago, she was born "Irina." A spelling error we later found out. Or, more accurately, a cultural error. We thought we were giving her a Ukrainian name. We gave her a Russian name. And don't you dare say, "It's all the same," around a Uki. They don't take too kindly to that. Post Soviet Ukraine has even changed the name of Kiev. It is now Kyiv. And don't ever, EVER say "The Ukraine." Thems fightin' words, I tell ya. So apparently it was a colossal error.
One year later, Iryna naps in her bouncy chair, blissfully unaware that the name on the wall in her bedroom does not match the name now on her corrected birth certificate. Of course, she spends so little time in her bedroom anyway choosing instead to sleep snuggled warmly between the very two people who created her. She sleeps each night bathed in love and down comforters, sipping milk straight from the tap, and edging out the dog for more territory. She's making her way.
One year ago, she wasn't tiny, but she was delicate. Her fragile newborn skin burned from too long a soak in amniotic fluid. Her long, elegant fingers grasping for security. Her perfectly formed mouth seeking out nourishment and comfort. Her head surprisingly void of hair. She was bundled in fleece: warm and toasty and sweet.
One year later she is still sweet. My sweetest baby yet. She loves to give hugs and smiles. Her giggle is infectious and she isn't stingy with it, either. She sings. Lordy, that girl loves to sing. And she'll sit quietly playing at my feet during mass or the kids' swimming lessons, something the other two would never do. People comment all the time on what a great disposition she has. My reward, I tell them as I motion to the older two. But she really is. She's like a prize. Or a big heart shaped box of chocolates. A Valentine. That's what she is. She's my Valentine.
Happy 1st Birthday to my sweet, sweet, peace and love, Valentine baby.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 9:23 PM
2 Comments:
We were thinking the same - lol! At 10am Tues night, a mom called saying she was having contractions. This time, I sent my anti-birth vibes - lol! Apparently they stopped since we didn't need to go into the ice - lol!
So a big Happy Birthday to Iryna, Irina, or whoever she is ;-) Post pix!!!!
Love, Tammi
Awww. That's sweet. Hey third time's the charm. I was baby #3 too. We're #3! We're #3! So if I were Ukrainian would I be Davyd? Anyhoo, just thought I'd say hi to the whole family and let you know I can't use my old email address so I'm using my gmail one now: david.professordave@gmail.com Check out the blog to find out why.
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