You are not my son, you are a SNORT!

Before Nat was born, I was in hospital a few times overnight having my blood pressure taken every two hours.  That was fantastic for my stress levels, and consequently it was great for my blood pressure.  But medicine knows best.

Anyway.  It was interesting being an inpatient on the maternity ward before actually becoming a mother.  I had the opportunity to hear many different babies crying all through the night while the nurses' bell rang over and over again.  At one stage the door between the ward and Birth Suite was left open for a time and I enjoyed the soothing sounds of a woman in hard, active labour, most probaby the pushing stage.  It gave me a unique opportunity to look forward to my turn the following day.  It was a wonderful way to spend my final few nights of non-motherhood before I had to -you know- have interrupted sleep every night for the next decade.  But medicine knows best.

I got a little carried away in the previous two paragraphs, but I was trying in a roundabout way to introduce the topic of Other People's Babies And Their Cries.  During those nights (and the night when I was hospitalised before the birth of Anna-Lucia for the same reasons) I lay awake listening to Other People's Babies' Cries.  Some of them were hoarse and raspy, others were insistent and grating, and some were just plain bizarre.  All of them made me think, "I bet that mother is mortified to know that her baby has such an embarrassing cry, and we are all listening."  I sure was arrogant.  But I share my weaknesses with you.

The first night in hospital after the births of Nat and Anna-Lucia, I watched them as they screwed up their tiny faces, opened their minuscule mouths ... and ROARED.  "I must say," I congratulated myself, "they are loud, but they have very normal cries.  Not too hoarse, raspy or grating, and nothing bizarre."

And lo, I filled with pride.

But God wanted to remind me that pride goes before ... a fall, and so when He was creating sweet Joseph, he dipped into the Bottle of Weird Wails.

On Joseph's first night in the hospital, I watched in puzzled amazement as my beautiful baby boy opened his tiny mouth and cried, "raasssp ... SNORT!  raasssp ... SNORT!"

From, as you probably know, "Are You My Mother?" (c) 1960 P. D. Eastman.

But since two surgeons had just sliced me open and most probaby allowed a cat and a dog to fight it out inside me, I decided I couldn't care less about the cry my little bloke was emitting.

He's seven months old now, and he still snorts.

On Sunday a friend of ours did the devotion part of the church service before communion.  It was great, but we struggled to hear what she was saying over our children who took turns becoming frustrated and loud.

At the end, our friend said, "Now let's share in the communion entirely free of distractions."

I turned to the couple behind us who had a 2½ year old girl and whispered, "Did she just say 'free of distractions'?"  "Yeah, we had a laugh at that too," they replied.

So on we went with communion.  Communion is open for all who love Jesus at our church, and so once our kids get some basic concepts about God, Jesus and Jesus' death on the cross for us, we let them join us if they're in "the right place" and can focus on the meaning of it.

I was trying to hold Joseph while I got two pieces of bread and two minuscule cups of juice to share with Anna-Lucia.  Then Joseph grabbed a cup and spilled it on the little tray.

He went on to be loud and difficult while I gave Anna-Lucia her bread and juice, and continued arching his back and whinging as Anna-Lucia and I said quietly, "Thankyou God, for Jesus."

Then during the final prayer he arched backwards right over my arm, and he sucked in one great big

SNORRRRRRRRRRT!

It was later commented on by someone sitting several rows behind us.

"Entirely free of distractions."  Yeah.