The shot above and the next four are from a photo shoot
his Aunt Alisa did for us when he was two weeks old.
his Aunt Alisa did for us when he was two weeks old.
This one is from a couple of weeks ago...
And these are from a bath just today.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Perfect Peter
That's what we're calling him at our house these days, because he really is the perfect baby. Eats well, sleeps well, rarely cries, and puts up with a lot of tough love:
Thursday, December 22, 2011
On Christmas Cards and Guilt
You may have noticed (or not) that we didn't send Christmas cards this year. My excuse is that I just had a baby which, I'm finding, is a great excuse for a lot of things.
"Oh, you need volunteers for the blood drive? Sorry, I just had a baby."
"I'm not going to be able to wait in this long food line. Can I cut to the front? See, I just had a baby."
"You like my stretchy pants? I won't be wearing real clothes for a while, because I just had a baby."
"Honey, I'm going to nap while you wrangle the monkeys we call our offspring. I'm soooooo tired since I just had a baby."
Also, I was thinking today as I arranged for display the Christmas cards I have received (and this is with NO ill-will or finger-pointing to those who have sent them, just an observation as one who has sent and will continue to send such cards), "When did it become a tradition to send pictures of yourself to your friends and family for Christmas? Like this is your gift to them? Photos of you?"
In other words, "Oh, did you want a Christmas card from the Johnsons this year? So you could treasure a photo of me weighing more than I have in over a decade? Sorry, not going to happen. You see, I just had a baby."
"Oh, you need volunteers for the blood drive? Sorry, I just had a baby."
"I'm not going to be able to wait in this long food line. Can I cut to the front? See, I just had a baby."
"You like my stretchy pants? I won't be wearing real clothes for a while, because I just had a baby."
"Honey, I'm going to nap while you wrangle the monkeys we call our offspring. I'm soooooo tired since I just had a baby."
Also, I was thinking today as I arranged for display the Christmas cards I have received (and this is with NO ill-will or finger-pointing to those who have sent them, just an observation as one who has sent and will continue to send such cards), "When did it become a tradition to send pictures of yourself to your friends and family for Christmas? Like this is your gift to them? Photos of you?"
In other words, "Oh, did you want a Christmas card from the Johnsons this year? So you could treasure a photo of me weighing more than I have in over a decade? Sorry, not going to happen. You see, I just had a baby."
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Not the birth story
Since I didn't bore the blogosphere with details about my first two births, I'm not about to go ruining my record now. (Ironically, I love reading other people's birth stories.) Suffice it to say that Peter's was my roughest delivery yet, but only because he was posterior and I had to push more than five times. And the labor was only about three hours start to finish -- with a perfect epidural -- so I certainly won't complain!
In fact, complaining is about the last thing I ever want to do again. I can feel that my life is so good, and I can also feel it slipping through my fingers: when I watch Truman walk through the door to his preschool, too-big backpack slipping off of him; when I realize Caleb is so heavy I can hardly hoist him over the crib rail to put him down for a nap; when I try to remember what my older boys were like at Peter's age and the memories, so recent, are already dim.
I've cried blessed little since Peter was born, but in two- or three-minute bursts it comes out. Motherhood will break your heart, one way or another. There is a certain anguish in loving a little person so much and knowing that, in some ways, you will fail him. And with the addition of our third little boy, I feel sometimes like my heart might burst from loving him AND the other two so much -- and, lest I forget, the good good man I married. My love for him has grown with each baby too.
So, no birth story. But man, it's a good life.
In fact, complaining is about the last thing I ever want to do again. I can feel that my life is so good, and I can also feel it slipping through my fingers: when I watch Truman walk through the door to his preschool, too-big backpack slipping off of him; when I realize Caleb is so heavy I can hardly hoist him over the crib rail to put him down for a nap; when I try to remember what my older boys were like at Peter's age and the memories, so recent, are already dim.
I've cried blessed little since Peter was born, but in two- or three-minute bursts it comes out. Motherhood will break your heart, one way or another. There is a certain anguish in loving a little person so much and knowing that, in some ways, you will fail him. And with the addition of our third little boy, I feel sometimes like my heart might burst from loving him AND the other two so much -- and, lest I forget, the good good man I married. My love for him has grown with each baby too.
So, no birth story. But man, it's a good life.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Peter Jens Johnson
He has a name! I am sure Brittany will post details about the delivery soonish. Here are some newer pictures.
Monday, November 28, 2011
New Baby Johnson
We are pleased to announce the birth of our third boy (name still to be determined). He was born at 2:27 pm, was 7 lbs 3 oz and 20 inches long. He and Brittany are doing great. Check out his hairy back and arms.
-matt
Saturday, October 29, 2011
The Monster, The Witch and the Elephant
...and the priest (with a glass of milk, do we love it?). And the tiny skeleton.
Happy Halloween!
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Self-healing Van
So our minivan (which was 'new to us' five months ago but hasn't been 'new' in over a decade) has power locks that have never worked quite right for us. The passenger side sliding door never locks or unlocks with the rest of them, it just sits there. Until the last two days, when it has randomly decided to fall in line a couple of times.
I was telling Matt about this yesterday when we started talking about how cool it would be if you had a car that gradually got less run-down and beat-up rather than more: painted over its own rust spots, popped out its own dents, and eventually turned itself into a 2011 Honda Odyssey. The ultimate self-healing car.
Fast forward to Zumba this morning. Caleb and I walked out of the church and he wouldn't get in the car. I coaxed him inside with the keys, which he put in the ignition, then he spent a few minutes avoiding my snatches at him (my ever-growing belly makes it hard to drag him out of the front seat of the car), pushing buttons, turning on the A/C, etc. etc. Then I caught him, strapped him in his seat and closed his door.
I went around to my door. It was locked. One of the many buttons Caleb had pushed was the power locks. No big deal, I thought. That sliding door never locks.
Except for this time. The third time in its life. So there was Caleb, strapped in tight, looking at me through the window and expecting to leave any moment. And there was my phone sitting next to him in the car. And there were my keys in the ignition. And my spare key was at the seminary, only a couple of miles away, but in Matt's pocket as he stood in front of a class of teenagers. And there I was dripping sweat.
I flagged down a friend who offered to take me to the seminary, but retracted the offer when she realized the van might get too hot in that amount of time. So instead she found the police dispatch number on her iPhone, then we waited around for about ten minutes watching Caleb get red-faced and sweaty in the car as it heated up (thankfully it was only about 11 AM and today wasn't a scorcher).
So the police officer showed up, looked at me disdainfully, slipped his hanger-looking thing into the car and hit the power lock button. At which point all the doors unlocked.
Except for the passenger side sliding door. Because, you see, that door never locks or unlocks with the rest of them.
When I got home, I cursed the self-healing car. And then myself for forgetting that another spare key was hanging from the key holder in my kitchen - five blocks from the church!
C'est la vie.
I was telling Matt about this yesterday when we started talking about how cool it would be if you had a car that gradually got less run-down and beat-up rather than more: painted over its own rust spots, popped out its own dents, and eventually turned itself into a 2011 Honda Odyssey. The ultimate self-healing car.
Fast forward to Zumba this morning. Caleb and I walked out of the church and he wouldn't get in the car. I coaxed him inside with the keys, which he put in the ignition, then he spent a few minutes avoiding my snatches at him (my ever-growing belly makes it hard to drag him out of the front seat of the car), pushing buttons, turning on the A/C, etc. etc. Then I caught him, strapped him in his seat and closed his door.
I went around to my door. It was locked. One of the many buttons Caleb had pushed was the power locks. No big deal, I thought. That sliding door never locks.
Except for this time. The third time in its life. So there was Caleb, strapped in tight, looking at me through the window and expecting to leave any moment. And there was my phone sitting next to him in the car. And there were my keys in the ignition. And my spare key was at the seminary, only a couple of miles away, but in Matt's pocket as he stood in front of a class of teenagers. And there I was dripping sweat.
I flagged down a friend who offered to take me to the seminary, but retracted the offer when she realized the van might get too hot in that amount of time. So instead she found the police dispatch number on her iPhone, then we waited around for about ten minutes watching Caleb get red-faced and sweaty in the car as it heated up (thankfully it was only about 11 AM and today wasn't a scorcher).
So the police officer showed up, looked at me disdainfully, slipped his hanger-looking thing into the car and hit the power lock button. At which point all the doors unlocked.
Except for the passenger side sliding door. Because, you see, that door never locks or unlocks with the rest of them.
When I got home, I cursed the self-healing car. And then myself for forgetting that another spare key was hanging from the key holder in my kitchen - five blocks from the church!
C'est la vie.
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