After all that tedious, exhausting, mind-numbing waiting, the puppies finally arrived, all eight of them.

Eight.

EIGHT!

It all started (or so we thought) yesterday morning when our daughter, who had been having sleepovers with Charlotte in the downstairs bedroom, banged on the ceiling (our bedroom floor) at two o’clock. We hustled downstairs to find Charlotte nesting furiously, whining and panting, etc. But after an hour of hoopla, she up and fell asleep, the stinker.

The next morning we decided my daughter could go to work like normal.

But then Charlotte refused to eat her breakfast … hmm, interesting.
She did, however, accept an egg … so, never mind.
And then she threw it up … Oh. (!!!)

So my daughter decided not to go to work after all. She spent the morning reading beside a panting, panting, panting Charlotte who could barely be persuaded to leave the whelping box to go pee and poop (diarrhea! progress!).

The hours ticked by.

Charlotte: pant-pant-pant.

Daughter: read-read-read.

Me: mope-mope-mope.

And then at 2:30, a mucus plug! Pacing! Whimpering! Brief bouts of pushing! Forty-five minutes later, a couple (semi-terrifying) shrieking howl-barks, and out slipped a ball of black and white wrapped in plastic, or so it appeared. Charlotte licked away the membrane, chewed off the umbilical cord, scarfed the placenta, and woosh—out into the world slipped pup number two, wheee!

For the next several hours, that was the routine. My daughter jotted down the birth times and sexes. The kids took turns calling friends with updates. There was much (poorly) suppressed squealing and jostling to get the best view. The first puppy squeaks and whimpers may have inspired a few ecstatic tears of joy. The cousins came and got to see pups four and five come out. Another girlfriend watched pup seven emerge. My friend and her four kids made it from town in time to see the last delivery. What a party!

My older daughter was so buzzed that she couldn’t eat supper. Not until bedtime, a couple hours after the last birth, did she finally calm down enough to eat something.

Charlotte, it turns out, is a champion mother. Except for the time she was licking one puppy’s head while scream-bark birthing another and visions of her jaws clamping down and decapitating the helpless critter flitted across my mind, she has never once shown any signs of ineptitude. In fact, so committed is she to her mothering duties that we have to carry her outside for potty breaks, after which she immediately races back at the door and whines to get in.

I was sightly flummoxed to see all these black and white pups, I must admit. Did Mr. Tiny not fulfill his duty? Was there an imposter? But then I Googled the markings of newborn beagles and was relieved to see that black and white is what they’re supposed to be. It will be fun to see their colors change over the next few weeks.

As for me, I have a new lease on life. That night I made myself a cocktail to celebrate (lime, triple sec, vodka, and seltzer) and this morning I slept in.

It’s good to be on the other side.

This same time, years previous: chocobananas, white icing, of a sun-filled evening, strawberry daiquiri base, and grocery shopping.

Charlotte is due to deliver any day now.

Yesterday morning she went on a nest-making rampage, digging a hole under the bridal wreath bush, biting out the pointy roots, piling up the dirt and leaves to make a soft floor. Today she was even more frenzied—six nests, total. She built one under the porch stairs and then tried to climb out through the stairs (instead of via the opening at the end) and got stuck a la Pooh after his honey binge.

My daughter built a whelping box (with my husband’s help) . Even though the one side is low enough to jump over, it’s a struggle for Charlotte and her sagging belly. Charlotte is now spending her nights on the floor of the downstairs bedroom, beside the box, my daughter within arm’s reach on the sofa above her.

I am surprised by how affected I am by the impending delivery. I keep one ear cocked for the jingle of Charlotte’s tags. I tiptoe behind her, scrutinizing her every move. Is she panting? Was that a whimper? Is she walking somewhere with purpose, or is she pacing in discomfort? I lift her tail and peer at her nether regions. I look at the concrete floor after she sits on it: is that spot of moisture from discharge or wet feet?

I feel frozen with all the waiting. Yesterday I spent the day moping, actually moping. After supper, I laid down on the couch and didn’t get back up, so exhausted was I from the suspense. It’s ridiculous.

Anyway, this is how I’m frittering my days.

In the meantime, how many pups are in there? Want to place bets?

This same time, years previous: meat market: life in the raw and the best chocolate ice cream ever.

Two weeks ago, I decided we were done with studies for the year. I didn’t tell the children when we were stopping, partly because I wasn’t sure exactly when that would be, and partly because I was afraid they’d start begging and whining (more than normal). We had worked fairly consistently over the last few months and were in a pleasant groove. There was no need to shake things up with threats of freedom.

But spring had definitely sprung. With the hotter days, I needed my cool mornings for outside work and kitchen tasks—both feel unbearable in the middle of the afternoon. Plus, on sunny mornings, the kids tend to wake up and walk out. No one has much patience for sitting inside and reading when the birds are chirping (and pooping all over the porch) so merrily.

All that first week, we reveled in our freedom. A trip to town, a baking project, gardening—all of these no longer felt like one more thing to squeeze into a crowded day. Instead, they were what the day was about. There was time for afternoon walks, magazine reading, visiting with friends, and volunteering. Kids gushed over their free time, got totally bored, and then eventually found something to do.

Towards the end of the week when I was reviewing the photos from the last few days, I realized that even though we were no longer doing our studies, learning hadn’t been diminished in the least. In fact, it had, perhaps, even increased.

For example:

Not pictured:

*the twin babies that the older three have been taking care of as Mother’s Helpers
*the new-to-our-area Muslim family that came for an afternoon visit
*the already-mentioned new job at the horse farm.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.3.13) and hypothesizing.