Prep Work

Thursday, A texted the above picture to me. Her and G were baking cookies for Santa. G has begun to understand Christmas traditions and thus was eager to make the best cookies for Santa that he could. The best cookies are seperated from average cookies by the amount of frosting caked onto the cookie and sugar sprinkles generously poured onto the frosting.


Friday, Christmas Eve, G woke early, a day early, but was greeted with the gift of his very own skis. This of course after he broke the yard stick in an unsupervised Warren Miller moment on the basement stairs.

The ski's were a hit and G took to the flat trail easily. "Wow, this is slippery!" was all he had to say. A few hundred yards later he was ready to get into the sled with his crew.



The testing of his athleticism now behind us, it was time for dad to get to work. We made good of two hours and G slept some and ate some. When we returned to the car and I pulled him out of the sled, he handed me the last cookie from the bag once filled with a half dozen or so. "Here Daddy, I saved it for you." The sandwich, apple and granola bar were untouched.

About 20-minutes into our hour or so drive home he said he didn't want to make our usual DQ stop for a corn dog. At the forty minute mark he said his tummy hurt. He usually says this when he's hungry so I payed no attention. Not that I turned the radio up to ignore him. I just gave the comment as much credit as a kid riding down HWY 1 saying he just saw a killer whale jump out of the water with a tattoo that read, BMX RULES on its' side.

A few minutes later as we came into town and were stuck behind a city bus calling on every stop, block after block, G said he was going to barf but was interrupted by his own hurling of way too many sugar cookies.


Now, to digress for a moment, any potential or soon to be parent reading this, I give this golden nugget of advice: Learn how to remove the straps and padding of your child seats BEFORE trying to work around the pool of vomit.

At any rate, later in the evening at the Christmas Eve service, G proudly told everyone who would listen that "Today I skied and I barfed!"

Just before bed, he was excited to leave Santa a cookie but was slightly apprehensive that Santa too, would barf. So was Santa.



As with many times in life, the best way to get over a bad experience is to get back on the horse, have a little hair of the dog, put your nose to the grindstone, or soldier through. Today G and I did all that. We talked in great detail on the drive up the mountain about why he barfed. I reassured him that by not eating cookies for lunch his odds of barfing were drastically lowered. I expanded about sunscreen and skin cancer but lost him. Then I promised him a reward if he in turn promised to be brave.

Back to Normal

Life at the NewmaForma Service Corsa is getting back to normal. After our brief toe dabbing back into the world of Cyclocross earlier this fall, we have transitioned to Cross Country Skiing for the winter. The less damp mountain air is a little more gentle on my joints just as the softer snow is more forgiving than say, pavement. G and I were both too amped up to take pictures on our first voyage of the season until finally, as we returned home, he was calmed down enough for the above shot. Once in the house, he rallied, stood on a yard stick and skated around the living room, re-enacting our adventure, screaming to A that we had gone skiing. Thus ending her morning of peace and quiet.

Met Wind Komt Sterkte

For all the analogies, pigeon English gesturing and completely illogical logic that I heard from the old Belgian bike racing aficionados who had a (generally fatalistic) answer for everything, one nugget that has stood the test of time for me is;

"It's not the rain that makes you strong, but the wind. The rain only makes you wet."

I interpret that to mean it's not the obvious but the subtle that forges us. For example, it wasn't the physical running of the stairs to the Philadelphia Museum of Art that got Rocky Balboa to go the distance against Apollo Creed but rather getting up at 4:30 every morning to do it on a diet of 5 raw eggs (fiction).

Adrienne lost the baby last week. There has been a lot of wind and rain for us over the years, but this experience has enabled us to look at, act on and appreciate real hard our faith in God, our love for each other, and our family and friends.

In classic form, there is a back-story. On Sunday night around 10:30 all three of us started puking. So violently that I thought any one of us might not just bear hug the toilet while kneeling in front of it, but rip it out of the floor and throw it through the window with a single contraction of the abs. It was that bad. Gavin and I fought over a garbage can to sink our heads into at 3:30 in the morning while watching Mickey Mouse's Clubhouse over and over and over again. A stayed up stairs having dibs on her own bathroom. This lasted for about 10 hours. Every 15-minutes. Some forty bouts of heaving times 3 people. Then the fever, misery and diarrhea lasted another 7 days.

An E.R. ultrasound on Monday showed that baby Quattro (the 4th Newmaforma) had a strong heartbeat and even fingers, toes and a nose. Friday night, after another day in the hospital for fluids and monitoring, A went into labor and early Saturday morning, A's birthday, Quattro passed. The rest of the weekend was like a semi-conscious hang over from our viral induced week of sleepless fasting and purging. Monday night, 8 days on, we finally sat down to dinner as a family, a Newma-trifecta, for a meal of soup and crackers. Another 4 days of doctor visits, surgery and consults between her 3 specialists and A seems to be out of the woods.

When we explained the risks of this pregnancy to friends, the most common response was that there was seemingly no good ending. Watching daily the pain A was in and the process of shots and blood draws from her tiny, hard to tap veins, I wondered how she was going to fair through another 6 months with no guarantees of longevity for her or Quattro.

We had to talk through various scenarios I would rather not consider. Reflecting on previous struggles through our 13 years of marriage and marveling at how God has provided and reassured us through it all we realized how resilient and trusting of him we have become. Things work out. One scenario or another there is always a positive. Quattro missed a life on earth, instead skipping straight to Heaven. A remains a part of our family, but the more subtle positive is that over the last months, through heady conversations and in passing, I have been able to tell her how much I love her.