I Love Lucy

People, I have slacked. It’s been awhile since my last post.

(Why does this sound like confession? Or at least what I assume confession sounds like based on what I’ve seen in the movies. I was raised Baptist. We didn’t do confession because, well, Baptists don’t sin, or didn’t you know that?)

Anyway, a few things have changed since the last time I logged on here to spew my rhetoric, namely, I added a member to the family.


Everyone please extend a warm interwebs welcome to Lucinda Frances Sanderlin, born March 29 at 4:13 p.m., and weighing in at 7 pounds, 14 ounces and measuring a respectable 21 inches long.

(“Welcome, Lucinda” — that’s your part, btw)

(And why is it that we always feel compelled to ask and/or share a baby’s birth weight and length? Does it matter? I know a five year old boy who is wayyyy tiny for his age now but weighed a whopping 9 lbs at birth. And my own son Bo,  who is off-the-charts huge, weighed just a measly 7 lbs, 10 oz. at birth. Now he’s so big that people assume he’s a few years older and assume that he’s “special” – in the short bus sense of the word – because his behavior matches his age and not his size. Somewhere around the second or third month of life weights and lengths stop being important, though. And aren’t we glad for that? Can you imagine introducing yourself to people at, say, a political fundraiser as, “Rebekah, 6 lbs 10 oz at birth but now I’m tippin’ the scales at ….” Like I would actually post my weight on the internet!


Anyway, Lucinda, or “Lucy”, “Lucy-Goosey”, “Spruce Goose”, “Luce maGoose”, “Sprucey”, “LaLuce”, “LuLu” (and whatever else we happen to think of in the moment — though Lucy is her main nickname) is a healthy, somewhat happy little girl. At least, she’s as happy as a newborn can be, provided that she doesn’t know how to smile yet and spends her day simply sleeping, eating, pooping and trying to stay as close to me as possible. We are very blessed.

Welcome to the world, Baby Girl!


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