Last week we had my brother’s family over for supper, pus my sister-in-law’s two nephews who were staying the night with them.

For supper, I sauteed two big bunches of kale in my largest skillet. I made a South African-style tomato-onion gravy from a recipe I found online. Eucefe made xima. And then I also grilled a bunch of chicken and hardboiled a dozen eggs to serve on the side. For the dessert, I turned a half gallon of milk into pudding, dumped a quart of leftover huckleberry fill from the bakery into a bowl, and plated some old-fashioned brown sugar cookies I’d had in the freezer. 

I served the meal buffet style, hovering behind the island and chatting with everyone as they filed by. While the guest nephews filled me in on the whereabouts of their parents and their evening sleeping arrangements, they piled xima, tomato gravy, and greens on their plates before disappearing outside to eat their dinner by the firepit.

Later, when I played the evening back in my head, I was surprised to discover that it was the nephews that stuck with me. Not the boys themselves — I didn’t talk with them that much — but the way they matter-of-factly approached the meal. That night’s food was plain, yes, but also unusual, yet those boys didn’t even bat an eye. Instead, they took enthusiastic portions and then ate it, the end.

In a culture glutted with choice, preference, food obsessions, and health fads, the simple act of eating what is served — no questions, no picking, no whining, no hesitation — is astonishing.

Which is exactly what made it an evening headliner.

This same time, years previous: eight fun things, a special weekend, six fun things, how we homeschool: Jane, the quotidian (3.30.20). Asian slaw, for-real serious, the art of human rights, absorbing the words, the quotidian (3.30.15), the quotidian (3.31.14), Good Friday fun, braided bread.

After months of brainstorming and discussion, my husband and I have finally chosen our grandparent names.

I am going to be Ama. I made up the name by removing the M from Mama, which is what my kids called me. (Since announcing it, I’ve learned it’s a name that lots of other grandmas use, but I wasn’t consciously aware of it until I came up with it myself.) To me, the name invokes simplicity, warmth, earthiness, and practicality.

I puzzled out the name last week while I was holding the baby, so I ran it by him. “Well, hello there, lovey boy, it’s your Ama,” and then I paused to see how I felt. Did the name clang and clunk? Did I feel embarrassed? Was it weird?

Calling myself Ama felt strange, sure (because having a new name is kinda odd), but it didn’t feel put-on or phoney. It felt like me. So later, when I ran the name by my daughter, my husband, and my mother, and no one appeared appalled, I knew my months of indecision were over.

The poll my nieces and nephews made upon learning a baby was on the way.

My husband’s name was harder, mostly because he never thought about it, and then when he did think about it, it was only under duress and then he just vetoed all my suggestions.

The only name that he was even remotely receptive towards was Papi — pronounced “poppy” but not spelled that way because “I don’t want my name to be a flower.” 

He was drawn to Papi because he was “Papa” to our children (though they usually call him either his actual name or Dad), because I often call him Papi just for fun, and because it’s a common name in the Spanish-speaking places we’ve lived. To both of us, the name has a cozy, warm feeling.

So there you have it: we are Ama and Papi.

Of course, whether or not the wee one accepts our choices remains to be seen.

But whatever happens, we’re here for it — and for him.

This same time, years previous: six good things, redbud, the quotidian (3.28.22), update from the north, milk bread, the quotidian (3.26.18), the quotidian (3.27.17), more springtime babies, seven-minute egg, our oaf, a list, a spat.

Yesterday afternoon, I asked Eucefe to bring in the cows. Every evening we separate the two calves from their mamas, so the cows get ushered up one side of the field, and then through a couple paddocks. Juniper and Mickey are held in one, and the rest of the cows meander on through to the other side for their evening munchies.

From the kitchen window, I noticed the cows didn’t seem to be moving much, or at all, so I told my younger son to go out and help. But that didn’t seem to be doing much either. And then I heard my son yelling.

“There’s another calf! We have three now!” 

“We have two,” I shouted back. “What are you talking about!” 

“Nope! There are definitely three! It’s still wet!”

My son was holding something. I squinted. It was a calf. It did not have white spots and it wasn’t black. 

HOLY SHIT THERE WAS ANOTHER CALF.

I sprinted down to the field and, sure enough, a new calf was wobble-prancing about, its brown swirls still stiff from amniotic fluid.

_{^{photo credit: my younger son}}

But who was the mother? We didn’t have any other pregnant cows. Did the calf belong to a neighbor? Did Butterscotch or Gracie deliver a twin — several weeks after the first? Was that even a thing?

I was utterly bamboozled. Staggered. Flummoxed. Gobsmacked. I just stood there and stared.

My son pointed out that Imogene had mucus and bloody discharge. What the heck? She was only 15 months old. Hadn’t she been in a separate pasture when the bull paid his visit? And she hadn’t been pregnant. We would’ve noticed if she’d been pregnant.

_{^{photo credit: my younger son}}

The boys got the calves and Imogene separated from the cows. Imogene was mildly bagged up (but not nearly as much as the other mamas), and she didn’t seem particularly interested in the calf. She just stood there, chewing hay like it was a wad of Bubblicious. I half expected her to blow a bubble.

When I told my husband, he was surprised, but also not really. He’d noticed all the signs . . . without noticing. He’d chalked her added weight up to a good appetite. The enlarged udder probably meant she was ready to breed. He’d even noticed that her vulva had been super swollen that morning but dismissed it without even thinking.

Isn’t it crazy? If we don’t expect to see something, it simply isn’t there — until it sprouts legs and takes off walking.

_{^{photo credit: my older daughter}}

There’s a name for this phenomenon: inattentional blindness. There are tests you can take that demonstrate it, including this one:

Kinda makes me wonder what else I’m not seeing…

P.S. I named the new one Little Miss Oopsie. Imogene is turning out to be a fantastic teen mom.

This same time, years previous: truly wild, spring hits, apricot couronne, the pigpen, the quotidian (3.24.14), over the moon, roasted vegetables, snappy happy.