Peeing on Trees

So perhaps you are thinking that I fell off the face of the Earth? Well, yes, I did. Into the abyss that is Mommyness. I have been up to my eyeballs in parenthood. Wait, no...there was that time 6 weeks ago from last Thursday that I got to experience the incredibly rare, solo pee break. Granted it only lasted about 2 minutes, but for 120 glorious seconds it was just me, the loo, and that golden yet ever elusive Silence.  I won't go so far as to say it was pure bliss, but damn it was close.

So, yes, I've been occupied. Not because of the homeschooling. Yeah, that didn't last. Long story short, phase I of the Homeschooling Back Pedal began when I realized that 2 out of 3 kids needed to return to our local public school.  My oldest is the one who was most interested in homeschooling, and the other two didn't care too much either way. So while the 5 and 7 year old went back to our brick-and-mortar school I continued to homeschool my oldest. That lasted a few more weeks until phase II of the Back Pedal; she realized that I'm not nearly as interesting to be around 24 hours a day. I know. Shocker. And so now my 3 oldest are back in school, leaving me with just my little one for the bulk of the day...and leaving me wondering why I've been too stinkin' busy to keep up with this blog thing. 

And if wondering where my time goes doesn't have me feeling incompetent, perhaps today's phone call from the school principal will do the trick. Yeah, so focusing on the positive: nobody was hurt.  But apparently I've failed as a mother, where bathroom habits are concerned. My only son decided to Use A Tree during recess rather than a urinal in the boys' room.  Yes, that is correct, my son peed on a tree at school.  Apparently my appreciation for some alone time in the WC is not a trait shared by my boy.

I Can't Keep Up

Aw, geez. It's seriously been well over a month since my last post??? How can that be?? I swear, I just opened that grandiose box of K'Nex a week ago...really. Time is playing tricks on me. Not funny, time. Not funny.

So the school year ended (May 21st! I know! Crazy, right? So early. Back in my day, we went to school until mid June or later. Of course we also had to walk up hill both ways...through snow.) And we went to visit my parents up North. Then we returned back home seemingly seconds before my In-Laws arrived for a week's visit, only to find that our one dog, whom we left in the care of a neighbor, seemed to have not been let out of his crate in almost a week. Yes, there was a lot of Seeming going on: the In-Laws seeming to arrive when we did? Good. The poor dog seeming to have been held captive? Awful.  And it's totally and completely not funny and a majorly upsetting thing, so now I'm moving on.

So we had a fabulous time with my parents up North, and then we had an equally fabulous time with my In-Laws, including my two sisters-in-law, 1 niece, and 1 nephew. Both visits? Entirely too short.  Since that time my husband has constructed 3 new homes. Ok, no, he only actually just made two built-in desks, to include painting the office area of the house (for the second time in less than two years, but we won't go there), and he's now started Nursing School (I swear the man is a Professional Degree Collector. The pay is not as good as you might think.)... So what else have we been doing with our summer? Well, we've been to the lake a few times. First visit we encountered: one very large, dead & semi-devoured fish and plural vultures, a snake, a mole, a lost dog, and a turtle...I think one of our neighbors is a mosquito farmer, as that is the only logical explanation as to why the mosquitoes are so bad in our yard...Little Miss L. called 9-1-1 on my "locked" cell phone a few days ago...We harvested a pumpkin from our garden...Miss A. had her 5th birthday this last weekend (yeah yeah yeah...birth story, I know. I'm so far behind being behind)...we almost ended up with a 3rd dog last night when a sweet doberman?/rottweiler?/lab mix pup followed my hubby, two of the kids and our dogs home...after the 4th (of July) I will be solo-driving the 4 kids and myself back up North to visit the grandparents for a couple of weeks...and the decision has been made: I will be homeschooling Z, K, and A, beginning with this school year coming up. Yeah, I might be crazy, but I already knew that...and I figured you did too.  So. How's your summer been?

K'NEX: Tantrums & Tour Guides

So a while back I signed up, as a "Mommy Blogger", to get some K'Nex from the Fabulous K'Nex Folks in exchange for reviewing them on my blog.  And so here we are, a good month or more since I received a 14 pound box of Pure Kid Joy.  The day I received the hefty package I stashed it in the garage.  My intent was to go through the box that night, and sort and wrap the K'Nex and give them to my kids as a surprise.  A sort of Christmas In April, if you will.  Well the box sat there. And sat there and sat there. And so we could have done a Christmas In May sort of thing...except for the fact that I decided I was too lazy to crawl into the attic to fetch the wrapping paper and so a few nights ago I managed to bribe the kids into getting ready for bed a good 1/2 hour earlier than normal.  I told them I had a box of stuff for them once they had their jammies on.  So with 3 jammy-clad children eagerly awaiting (I had already laid the littlest one down for the night) I cut open the box. 

Mrs. K'Nex had hooked us up!!  The motherload of K'Nex was sitting in a box in our living room! Sets of "Construction Crew"s, "Micro-bots", Sesame Street character Kid K'Nex, a Fire Rescue set that can be configured 10 different ways to make various vehicles, and a bucket of 350 of the coolest little building appariti a kid could want! Now, I've got to confess: up until this point I've always been a Lego gal. It's what we, my husband and I, grew up with (did they even have K'Nex back in the 70s?) and so it's what we've gotten for our kids.  And now, nothing against Legos, cuz I still love 'em, but these K'Nex??? They totally rock! First of all, my kids can use them along with the Legos we already have. But the K'Nex are more than just building bricks.  There are stick majiggers, and connector thingys and all kinds of pieces and parts that my kids can use to build the contraption shown in the directions provided or to create whatever their little engineering imaginations might think up. 

That first night that we were introduced to K'Nex I gave my three eldest children 1/2 an hour to play.  My B.P.E. (see previous post if you need clarification on the acronym) for the first time in her short little life, actually listened (for the most part) when I said it was bedtime.  She was thoroughly enjoying the K'Nex, but knew that her little body was tired and ready for bed. The 7-year-old, however, was a completely different story. The tantrum he threw, in protest of having to leave the K'Nex only long enough to get a good night's sleep, could have taught any 2 or 3-year-old a thing or two about Tantrum Technique.  It was ridiculous.  And I considered packing him up and sending him away UPS, except for the UPS store was already closed for the day.  Lucky for No Felon Record me.  And the 9-year-old? Let's just say she's picked up the Passive Agressive trait from my brother, as she kept telling me "Ok mommy" each of the 6 billion times I told her it was time for bed.

The next day the K'Nex play continued promptly after school.  My 7-year-old diligently worked away for an hour or more, creating and building.  And when my 9-year-old completed Speedy, one of the Micro-bots, she carried "him" all through the house on a thorough and guided tour of our abode.  I do believe my aspiring teacher may someday have a summer job as a museum tour guide. 

The Sesame Street sets are listed as being for ages 2-5, and the other sets are for "5+" and "7+".  My almost-5-year-old was challenged by the Sesame Street sets when trying to build it like the picture, but thoroughly enjoyed coming up with some wacky combos of Cookie Monster, Ernie, and Elmo.  My 1-year-old enjoyed playing with those creations of the almost-5-year-old, and most of the pieces were large enough for the littlest one to play with without fear of any choking hazards. The other sets (for ages 5 and above) are a totally different story.  There are many small and a few teeny-tiny pieces that could easily be snacked on by the 1-year-old, so we've restricted the construction sites of those sets to the kitchen table or breakfast bar.

So there's a new favorite toy in the B family house.  Maybe I can get some more to complete our never-ending kitchen remodel.

It's In The Genes, Just Not My Genes

As my husband prepared to take our four children to the park I began chanting an unfamiliar but frighteningly cathartic mantra: I will not do any cleaning. I will not do any cleaning. I will not do any cleaning. I will not do any cleaning.  And with those opening remarks there are soooooo many directions I could take this:  I could write about what I'd like to be doing right now (a multitude of things other than cleaning), I could write about how my house always seems to be a mess even though I'm almost constantly cleaning, I could write about how difficult it is for me to just sit down and be when I'm at home (because there are always dog hair, toys, clothes and books to be picked up, laundry to sort, wash, or fold, meals to be prepared or cleaned up. Case in point: within 10 minutes of my episode of chanting I was spraying tub & tile cleaner in one bathtub and toilet bowl cleaner in the toilet.  Mind you, I haven't actually scrubbed anything yet (this was a few short minutes ago), but the intent is there: while my hubby has taken the children to the park, partially for the purpose of giving me a little time to myself in a peaceful, still, and quiet house, the distractions of dirt & grime are bellowing at me: "step away from the blog!" and "don't even think about putting your feet up to enjoy a good book!"  But (please exucse my journalistic meandering) let's focus on my husband for a moment, shall we? As I've said, he has taken our entire rambunctious brood to the park. It's a bird, it's a plane! No, it's Super Dad!! Right? Yes, in so many ways he is an amazing husband and father.  And I love him immensely.  But let me tell you why he's a jackass.

A few nights ago, as my hubby clanked spoon against bowl, gobbling up what I'm sure was a rather large bowl of ice cream (one of my most favorite food groups), I hunkered down at the computer in the other room simply to keep my distance from said ice cream.  As you may (or may not) know I have been trying to shed some weight, and with my love of ice cream it is best if I do not come within 50 ft. of it.  Think of it as a Restraining Order. And as you may (or may not) know my husband doesn't need to lose a single pound.  Super Dad is approximately the same size that he was twenty years ago, in his Track Star college days.

So a short while later, when the coast was clear, I popped my trusty bag of Smartpop (the indulgence I'll allow myself) and cozied up on the sofa with my Super Dad of a husband so we could watch a show.  Now. Normally I share my popcorn willfully. But after Super Dad scarfed 1/2 a gallon of the forbidden frozen dairy concoction? He ought to know to leave my popcorn to the chubby one. Paws off.  So after he took a few fistfuls of my fibrous, grainy snack I gave him The Look. Yeah, I know you know what look I'm talking about.  That look.  And when he semi-jokingly said "I'm trying to gain some weight." I didn't really get the joke.  Because why is that funny?  Is he mocking me?  Then he proceeds to share that since his weigh-in (an Army thing) a month prior he has lost five pounds.  Five pounds.  Lost five pounds.  Mr. I Don't Need To Lose An Ounce has lost five pounds and is now trying to gain it back. Meanwhile his wife, Ms. I Gained An Average Of 48 Pounds With Each Of Five Pregnancies struggles to lose as least some of that "baby fat".  So yeah. Super Dad is a Jackass. There. I said it and I feel better.  Frighteningly cathartic.  Now if you'll excuse me there's a tub and toilet in this quiet, kidless house that need scrubbing.

Hubby's Last Words

I shouldn't be here right now.  Baby is napping, sick hubby is also sleeping, clean laundry beckons to be folded, dishes are getting crustier.  Shit, I haven't even wiped the kitchen table free of this mornings cheerios-and-milk droppings.  But I just gotta ask something.

What is it about men and getting sick?  When I feel myself getting sick (a flu, a terrible cold, a sore throat, whatever the run-of-the-mill case may be) I recognize it and might say to my husband "I feel pretty crappy.  I hope I'm not getting sick."  After all, I'm not dying.  But last night my husband (my dear, sweet, hard-working, fabulous dad to our children and best friend of mine) says to me, in a most ominous tone: "Something's not right."  As if he might have some sort of a brain tumor or something equally terribly frightening.  I'm not saying he doesn't feel well. I'm not trying to discredit his feelings, be it nauseau, headache, or whatever.  But seriously? I wish I'd video recorded his forebodding "Something's not right" as if the world were coming to an end, so that I could post it here...for all other heterosexual women to see as witness to the fact that, No, their husbands/male significant others are not the only ones.

And cue little Miss L's cries.  Gee, a 30 minute nap *sigh*. Gonna be a long day for this mama.

It's Gotta Be The Scale

I am slow. No, no. I don't mean mentally slow. Ok, well I may be a little slow up in the attic (proven by how many? of my previous posts), but that is certainly the fault of my offspring and the intellectual capacity of mine that they have sucked right outta me.  But I'm not talking about that kind of slow.  I'm talking about a physiological sluggishness.  Seriously.

Case in point: Well, I was getting out of the shower tonight (*exciting side note: that was the second shower today! That's right two showers in the same day! I don't remember when that last happened! Of course even memories of things as recent as this last week are fuzzy, and I'd say that it could have been a couple of days ago but those of you who keep up with me on Facebook know all about my FB confessions and that I don't always get a shower every day...) Where the hell was I?  Ok, drying off from my second.--yeah, baby, that's right, victorious!--shower of the day, I realized that my back was peeling.  What am I? Some sort of skin-peeling lizardy-reptilian creature? Then I recalled my sunburn...when the heck was that (gotta go check...).  Ok, on the 3rd of April...so that's over two weeks ago, and I'm just now peeling?  See? Physiologically Slow. Fact.  As proven by the shedding. 

And this brings me to an update on my whole I Don't "Go" On Diets I Eat Healthy Hey! I Think I'll Try The Slim Fast Plan saga.  So as I said in my last post I lost two pounds over Easter, in spite of my manic indulgence in choc--...Now wait. I'm not gonna totally rehash the events of said week, as they have since brought me much anguish and dissappointment.  You may be wondering why a two pound weight loss would cause "anguish" and "dissappointment"? Well, fine, I'll tell you why...because the following week...the week when I actually steered clear of those sinful, seemingly-innocent, peanut-buttery, pseudo-egg shaped, chocolate-covered, cellulite-loving, Reese's bastards...I gained two pounds.  Yeah, more than a week after my sloven indulgence I gained two pounds. Not when I weighed myself a few days after the train-wreck occurred...but rather a whole week after the I Live For Chocolate Week weigh in.  Really? I mean, who does that?? Whose body takes ten days to register a weight gain?  See? Physiologically, I'm pokey.  As proven by the shedding and now the delayed weight gain.

On the bright side (can you see my eyes rolling?), those two weeks cancelled each other out.  And then this last week?

Nada. Zip. Zilch. 

And I thought I did pretty well, steering clear of high-fat, high-calorie foods, doin' the Slim Fast meal replacements twice a day and eating healthy snacks and a meal.   And as anyone who has ever tried to knows, losing weight seems to take much longer than gaining weight. But the scale read the same this week as it did last week. I guess maybe I'll see this current weeks weight loss sometime, you know, later this year, or maybe in 2011.  Truthfully, I'm fairly certain that it's my scale that's slow...not me. And so yeah, I'll blame my peeling skin on that damn scale too. And the sunburn in the first place.  How's that?

Slim Fast-er Please

So not counting my teenage years, when brain function dictates that at least 51% of actions and decisions shall be stupid, I have mostly stuck with the philosophy that "diets" don't work. I believe that the best way to lose weight healthfully is to alter one's eating habits: to make better, smarter, food choices. I don't believe that "going on a diet" makes any sense, seeing as how a person's diet refers to what they eat...not a weightloss plan.  And the only way to lose weight sensibly and keep it off is to change the diet, not "go on" a diet.  That just doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.

And so, here I am, 3 weeks into The Slim Fast Meal Replacement plan.  No, I apparently haven't progressed much in brain power since my 15th birthday...so does that mean I'm aging well?!! Ok, sidetracked yet again by a topic for another post.  Focus, middle-aged mama, focus! So, yeah, I'm doin' the Slim Fast thing and it's going well: down 3 pounds in both of the first two weeks and 2 pounds lost in the 3rd week.  I'd say that's fabulously good seeing as how the middle of my Week 3 was riddled with Reese's peanut butter eggs and chocolate damn rabbits.

Have I ever mentioned that I love chocolate? I mean LOVE chocolate. Ok, no, not divorce-my-husband-and-marry-a-solid-chocolate-person kind of love.  But the most self destructive kind: the no-self-control love.  The kind where I don't buy chocolate to just "have around" and enjoy every once in a while because if it's in my house I will eat it.  I cannot wrap my brain around the notion that my husband can buy a single chocolate bar, put it in the freezer and leave it there for months. For Months.  Did you hear me??? I said FOR MONTHS.  I never even knew that was humanly possible, to have chocolate, paid for and in your domicile, and not eat it, and yet he does it. Or he used to. He has since learned that any chocolate put away for winter --or whatever the hell he's waiting for when he buys it and stashes it away like a damn chipmunk in the first place-- is just not safe in my house.  And so this is why I, generally speaking, do not buy chocolate except on special occasions for my special little people. Even then, I'm likely to try and snatch a little piece from the innocent youth in the family.  You know, only when they've gotten an absurd amount...and only when they're not looking.  Shut up! This is not confession and you are not even Catholic.  Sorry.  Those tiny voices again. 

So, yeah, 8 pounds down in spite of Easter? Heck yeah, I was pretty pleased.  So I did what any healthy, sensible, estrogen-filled being who loves chocolate would do in my position: on my next trip to the grocery store I purchased a package of 1/2 a dozen Reese's peanut butter eggs.  Afterall, they were on clearance. Practically impossible to not buy them.  And I am proud to say that I put them in the freezer when I got home. Or, at least, the four that were left.  And I noticed today  (a good 48 hours later, I might add *said quite proudly, bordering on arrogance*) a certain empty yellow and orange wrapper that my husband left on the counter.  Guess he found 'em in the freezer and figured he'd better grab one while he could.  No more storin' chocolate for that chipmunk.

So this Slim Fast thing is working out pretty well.  But I am mixing it up a little bit. Last week, while at Target one day in early afternoon I realized that I hadn't had my lunchtime Slim Fast shake, and I was hungry.  So that afternoon I went with the Snickers Meal Replacement.  You know... just keepin' it fresh.

Evidence of Idiocy

I spent an hour or so weeding the front yard today.  Right around noon.  Because, you know, that's the best time of day to be outside.  Especially in the South.

And just in case you weren't sure...

this is what stupid looks like:

The Fashion Sense of a Father of 4

What a great weekend!! I spent Saturday heaving and wretching while my dear husband tried to keep all 4 kids occupied, check in on and tend to me as needed, take our son to baseball practice with a 1- and a 4-year-old girl in tow. 

Ok, yes...that first statement is a little sarcastic. But wasn't it better to read that than 'Oh dear god this weekend was stolen from me (*insert hysterical sobbing*) by a vicious and still-hangin'-on flu virus'? Yeah, I thought so too. 

So yesterday I was feeling better.  Define "better"?  Well, I wasn't attached to a Puke Bowl or hanging my head over the porcelain throne...I actually spent some time in a vertical position...and while the attempt I made at Swiffering and vacuuming (a job that I normally whip out in 20 minutes, albeit several times throughout the day, took me a good hour) sent me back to the sofa for a substantial amount of time...I apparently felt well enough to be agitated by the fashion statement that was my 1-year-old. 

Now, all of my children have their own unique fashion sense.  And 99% of the time what you will find them wearing is of their choosing.  Case in point: my 9-year-old wore a vampire-ish halloween costume for school photos. No. I'm not kidding.  And while we had decided to stop ordering school photos at the beginning of this year, I find myself drawn to that Girl Dracula photo order form, prepared to write out a hefty check in order to get several 8 x 10 glossies and possibly a wall poster, envisioning it as fabulous blackmail material some day.  Ok, totally off point now...going back.) 

My children wear what they want.  And so they often look like they have chosen their own outfits. Not that I'm any fashionista, but that's a whole other topic.  My little Ray of Sunshine is the one exception thusfar.  At fourteen months she just isn't there yet...not feeling the need to assert her independence in that way.  Hell, she'll walk around totally buck naked and be happy. Anyways, in my time of need, my dear husband, who is the most fabulous father you could ever imagine, took care of picking out Miss L.'s clothing and got her dressed. Picture it: the long sleeve top is from The Children's Place (love that store!!!): an artsy-fartsy sort of pattern, combined with some repetitive geometric patterns: deep blue, turquoise, red, pink, yellow and white.  The pants are Old Navy (love that store too!!!) cargo, in a cream/tan/green camo/hawaiian print. I really should have taken a photo, but the Swiffering had sucked any possibility of that right outta me.  True testament to just how cute our 1-year-old is, she still looked absolutely adorable....but in a horribly wretched sort of way.

Can you USPS a kid??

So, I won't go into the details at this point (it's still too fresh to be funny to me) but my 4 year old (Miss A.) is my Button Pusher Extraordinaire.  And what transpired the other day prompted me to call my folks, a few hours later (when the steam had stopped coming out of my ears and nose), to tell them to be on the look out for a 40 pound package with air holes.  To give you an idea of what I'm dealing with, in regards to being the Mom of little Miss B.P.E. (yeah, Button Pusher Extraordinaire) my Mom's response...the B.P.E.s own grandmother...was this: "Well...be sure to let us know when you send her...so we can move." 
*sigh* 
So, if raising my little B.P.E. doesn't kill me, I'm gonna be one freakishly strong mama by the time she leaves the nest.

"Commented" By A Boy

So, last Friday when my kids got home from school, my 9-year-old was blushingly thrilled about something that had happened while they were dancing in music class.  In that rotating-back-and-forth-like-a-washing-machine-agitator way that would send a twirly skirt out like an umbrella being opened, and with a grin from ear to ear she said:
 "A boy commented me today".
 I replied, correcting her as all good mom's (*ahem*) do "A boy complimented you today?"
"Yeah." (still grinning ear to ear)
My husband asked "What did he say?"
"He said he'd never seen anybody dance like that before!"

So perhaps, as my own mom pointed out, my oldest was "commented" rather than "complimented".

Is this the innocence of youth, or evidence of great self confidence?  Either way, I'm good!

What The Hell Did I Do To My Hair?!?

So I've got 30 minutes. My timer on my mobile phone is set and when it goes off I will check to see if my hair has regained some of it's composure, or if I, in fact, will be bald or even more oddly colored than I was just a few minutes ago.

Last week I colored my hair. Bought a shade of Feria that is specifically made for dark brown hair and supposed to be a cool tone of brown...called Downtown Brown (I know, groovy, right? *wink*) and is supposed to be not brassy. Except on me it's not even close to being not brassy...I look like an ugly penny. My head looks like an ugly penny. I don't mean that all pennies are ugly...just the one on my head. If the pic on the box is Downtown Brown then this color is Middle of Hickville Ick-Orange. But I've tried to like it, I've tried to embrace it (after all, I've invested $9.58 plus tax), but every time I catch an unexpected glance of myself in a mirror I go **GASP** and damn near drop the baby. That's not good. And the attempt to embrace it was surrendered today when I dropped $13.46 plus tax, on a dark mahogany color that also comes with some highlightey stuff. (I know, I've got the terms so down pat I should probably open up my own hair place...you know, where people go to have their hair colored and cut by other people. OK, so now I'm being a shit. But it's Sandi and Hillary's fault. I'm bitter that my two most favorite Hair Place People choose to stay located in their hometowns in Pennsylvania and California, respectively, instead of following me all around the world to be my Personal Hair People...but that's a whole other post for a whole other day)

So, I'm waiting...I think I have about 15 minutes left...to see if the deep reddish color I just applied will fix the icky penny color or make me go bald.

As I stepped out of my bathroom a few moments ago, bright red noggin and all, I noticed a stinky dog smell. Which reminds me that I only bathed 1/2 of the dynamic canine duo the other day...which also reminds me that I never wrote about The Dog Bathing Incident of '010, which occurred last week. I think I blocked it from memory for good reason. Maybe when my body & psyche have both healed from that event I will be able to post about it. For now, I just wanna focus on what's happening atop my head. Keep your fingers crossed for me...I can't be droppin' another ten to fifteen bucks on hair color stuff that I'll just screw up again. And I just can't pull off the bald look.

Edited on 2/25: so it turned out ok! Here's my self portrait photo------>
No comments needed from the peanut gallery on the lovely look on my face...this was the best photo out of a bazillion, where the flash & the mirror weren't duking it out and you could actually see my hair, and not just the blank wall (I haven't got very good self-portrait photography aim)

Flattery Will Get You Nowhere

Aaaaahhhhhhhhhh children. The lovely effect they can have on one's self esteem. Truly. I just finished cleaning the kids' bathroom. First time in a week. Well, oh ok, first time in close to 2 weeks (but not a full two weeks, I swear it!) So I scrub the whole damn thing, top to bottom (excluding the ceiling...but that has that nasty popcorn texture crap and truly, scrubbing it won't help, except to get a jump start on the popcorn removal...and that's a project for a different day) Where was I? Ok, scrubbed bathroom: I used my Shaklee Basic H2 (love it!) for some parts, and Melaleuca's Tub & Tile cleaner (thanks Audrey! love it too!) on the rest. Now the Shaklee is odorless, but the Melaleuca is not...and since I went a little nuts practically saturating the floor and tub with the magic elixir, I cracked the window to air out the bathroom. My kids tend to be a bit sensitive to strong odors. Shortly after I finished my scrub-down my 3rd born child/4-year-old delight, sassy Miss A. made a trip to the loo for a potty break. From the kitchen I hear her holler:

"Pee-YOOOO! It stinks in here Mommy!"

"Oh, yeah, I just got done cleaning it...sorry. I opened the window a bit, that should help."

"No, it smells like YOU!"

Well. Gee. Thanks. Now don't I feel like a million bucks? Pardon me while I go rub myself with a pine tree air freshener to clean up.

Mem'ry: Birth of a Ray of Sunshine

Well, today (ok, well a month ago now...this has been a work in progress) my sweet, littlest love is 1 year old, and so it seems a fitting time to write her birth story. Hey. Better late than never...this will be the first birth story I've written...my oldest is 9 (oops.) So this post falls under the "Mem'ries" category. Sorry, I don't believe I've previously categorized any posts, but feel safe in saying that they all fall under both "Mayhem" and "Madness", in case you're needing that little OCD marker.

In any event...Little Miss L. is my fourth child, but the fifth child I've actually given birth too. All five of the previous children were born, as well-behaved fetuses are, before their actual due dates. But no. Not this little babe...she was due on January 3rd...but arrived on January 12th. Nine days late, for those of you whose brains function as well as mine And for anyone who has never been pregnant and in full expectation of giving birth prior to the due date I have this to say: you have never known crazy like being a woman past her due date.

Never.

Ever.

Totally freakin' nuts, I tell ya. In those last couple of weeks my midwife would try and reassure me: "You will eventually give birth." I, logically, believed that she was lying. My due date came and went and I was seriously pondering the belief that I would, in fact, be the first woman ever to be pregnant for a few years...maybe even eternally. I would joke that the baby was so far developed at that point that she was going to stick her arm out, waving, "hey! can I get a few cheeseburgers in here please?!???" (I know, that's a visual that most of you can do without. Trust me, I understand. Afterall, those are my parts in reference.)

I spent the last 3 months of my pregnancy sure I was going to give birth to a 15 pound baby. No really. I'm sure most women feel this way, especially with their first pregnany (you know...everything is so new and unknown that first time around...when your gut gets to be about 1/2 the size it will be when you actually give birth you think it can't possibly get any bigger...yet it does) but I've got multi-gravida, or whatever it's called, on my side, for this seemingly insane thought. The weights of the first 4 kiddos? In order: 8 pounds 2 ounces, 8 pounds 12 ounces, 8 pounds 2 ounces again (10 days before the due date), and (wait for it...) 9 pounds 9 ounces. It seemed reasonable to my hormone-whacked mind that this current kiddo would easily be bigger. Because not only had the first 3, my own babies, been decent sized, the fourth (my surrogate baby) is the genetic creation of two teeny-tiny, ultra lean people. Seriously, the two of them can probably both fit in my pants...at the same time...with room to spare. The fact that I birthed Mr & Mrs. Teenytiny's (I say this with great love, respect, and admiration, as Mr & Mrs Teenytiny are now dear family to me) nine pound nine ouncer could mean only one of two things: this new baby of mine would either be a large bowling ball, or a toddler...immediately. Add to that the aforementioned fact that Little Miss L. was 9 days past her due date and you may understand why, by the day I actually went into labor, I was thinking she'd weigh a good 20 pounds. What?! I didn't say I was logical. Shoot...step into my shoes a moment and you'd understand why logic was not a resident in my attic.

But where was I?? 20 lb. cheeseburger-eating newborns...oh yeah...so let me back up a bit.

So it was Christmas time, 2008. My folks were planning on driving down from Pa. shortly after Christmas day. For weeks I tried to get my Mom to pinpoint their exact arrival date. I kept thinking the baby was going to be born on the 27th, and I was concerned that my parents would not arrive in time (note: my parents were not present for the birth of my other 3 children, although they were present for the birth of my surrogate baby. but I'll save that for another birth story.) So my mom drove down from Pa. on December 26th. (My dad stayed behind due to poor sick kitty technicalities.) The plan was for my mom to stay a couple of weeks (be here for the birth and to spend some time with newborn Miss L.) and then return home. Then my dad would drive down to spend a couple of weeks with us. My in-laws arrived a couple of days after my mom. Normally, this would be a great occasion!! I love my parents and my husband's parents, and I am very close to them all. A wonderful time to celebrate that 3/4 of themwere with us for a visit!! But I was sooooo damn grumpy, miserable, and Over being pregnant that I couldn't even stand myself. It seemed like days and days that I sat with my butt glued to our recliner and my fingers glued to the buttons on my mobile phone wasting away hours on Solitaire or Bubble Breaker. I couldn't even participate in conversation with those folks dearest to me. I was an Insaniac. Yeah, it's a word. And I defined it from January 4th through the 12th, 2009.

So I began my pregnancy with OBGYN care. The beginning of my pregnancy was in California, where I had a good relationship with an OBGYN and one of his Nurse Practitioners. I would have loved to have continued my prenatal care with them, but I couldn't convince either of them to up and move with us to Georgia (I know! crazy, right?) So upon arrival to our new domicile I began receiving prenatal care from our local military hospital. Where do I go next with this story?? Well, my assigned doctor was good...but I daresay his definition of "Natural Childbirth" is only that a child be born vaginally, whereas I was referring to Natural Childbirth as that with minimal intervention, including monitoring, drugs, and freedom of laboring positions. So I did some checking around and found both a doula with a lot of experience, and also a newer midwife. I really liked both of them, and felt much more comfortable with the prospect of having a homebirth on my terms rather than a "natural" birth in the hospital where Dr. Intervention was planning on breaking my water, confining me to bed, and hooking me up to an I.V. whether I needed it or not.

I considered hiring the doula, to help me through labor in the hospital, but in my heart I knew I wanted a homebirth: I'd given birth 4 previous times: 2 times in a German hospital with no medication, and 2 times in a California hospital. Now, I've not always been an advocate of Natural Childbirth. In fact, with my first child, Miss Z., my very first question to my German doctors was "Will I be able to get an epidural?" That was my primary concern. In fact, I think it was just about my only concern. And I was assured that I would be able to get the epidural, but when it came time for the epidural I was told that "All the anesthesiologists are busy". And from there I panicked...many hours, an episiotomy, and a vacuum extraction later, my oldest was born. Without an epidural or any pain meds. By the time I went into labor with My Boy (2-1/2 years later) I had it set in my mind that there would never be an epidural (I didn't want to again be panicked and let down) and so I didn't ask for one, I just labored and delivered au naturale. With my 3rd, in California, I did opt for the demerol. I was told it would take the edge off. It did help me to speak while I was in labor but otherwise I didn't find it all that beneficial, and not worth the exposure to the baby. And with my 4th, my surrogate baby, I went into it intending on getting an epidural. But when I asked for the epidural there was one anesthesiologist in surgery and the other was ??? who knows where. So it wasn't in the cards for me to get an epidural, and I think in my mind I hadn't really wanted one, because I took the lack-of-anesthesiologists in stride, and went on to actively labor, using a birthing ball, squatting, holding on to the edge of the bed...anyways, that's a birth story for a different day! But my labor and delivery history is such that, by this 5th pregnancy, I felt quite comfortable in my own abilities and my knowledge of my self as a birther. By this point in my life I was comfortable with the possibility of a homebirth. So I decided to hire the midwife.

I was about 30some weeks pregnant when I began going to the midwife for prenatal care, and the doula I mentioned earlier also happened to be the midwife's assistant, later to become an apprentice midwife. So I had both of these wonderful ladies looking out for the health & well being of me and Miss L. At the same time, I continued with my prenatal check-ups with Dr. Intervention at the military hospital. I decided it was best not to severe any ties, so that, should my pregnancy have become high risk or should an issue have arisen, I would have all my ducks in a row to deliver at the hospital. At my 38 week appointment the doctor wanted me to schedule a date to be induced. Actually, he had been telling me to schedule that with the labor and delivery department since my 36 week check-up. And knowing how I felt about interventions he did share with me that "the absolute longest they'd let" me "go" was to 41 weeks, and then I "would have to be induced". At first I told him "Oh, I'm not going to be pregnant that long". Then I just didn't say anything. And when he kept pushing me about induction I stopped making appointments with him altogether. That was 38 weeks, the last doctor's appointment that I had. And my midwife and apprentice midwife kept a close watch on my vitals and on the baby's vitals: my blood pressure continued to be fantastic, the baby's heart rate was perfect, she continued to move frequently and vigorously, as she did throughout the pregnancy (in spite of the fact that she was running out of space in my vast uterus and weighing at least 20 pounds). So, aside from my consuming worry of being permanently pregnant, I felt that everything was well and good.

Well, my due date of January 3rd came and went. And so did my mom. As she headed back to Pa. she called me a few times within the first few hours of her drive:

"Are you in labor?"

"No mom."

"'Cuz I can turn around if you are!"

"Ok mom, you can turn around and come back, but I'm not in labor. You'll just be sitting here waiting, like the rest of us, for the baby that doesn't want to be born."

A few nights later....middle of the night...I finally start to have contractions. They weren't Knock Me On My Butt strong, but they were strong enough, and seemed to be frequent enough, that I took notice. I had actually been sleeping, and started to keep track of the contractions on a little slip of paper: I'd write down the time, then go back to sleep when the contraction ended. This went on for a few hours. I think the contractions started around midnight/1 a.m. on the 12th. Shortly after 4 a.m. I decided to get up and take a shower. I figured that would make the contractions stop if it was false labor, and if it wasn't, well, the shower would be relaxing and refreshing. I didn't call my midwife right away, as it was so early and I figured I had plenty of time: aside from the freakish shortness of labor for my Sweet Boy (about 6 hours from start to birth), my labors had been pretty decent in length: the first was over 24 hours, the 3rd had been 12+ hours and so had the 4th. I figured I could easily take a shower and give my midwife another hour of sleep before waking her. Contractions picked up in intensity and frequency while I was in the shower, and before I knew it it was 5:00 a.m. I was so busy working through the contractions that my "quick" shower had turned into a one-hour event. I told my husband to call our midwife, and he had to do it, as I was too busy in Labor Land to be bothered with a telephone in my hand, let alone to my ear with conversation as a necessity. As it happened, I would not have woken my midwife if I'd called earlier: another client of hers, a first-time mom whose due date was 2 weeks away, was also in labor and our midwife was by her side.

Within about 20 minutes (maybe less?) the apprentice midwife was in our room with us. My husband had begun setting up the birthing tub, and I guess they were filling it with water. Shortly after, sometime after 6 a.m., I think, my kids were up, my mother in law was up, asking how she could help and assisting our apprentice midwife. My poor father in law was sick as a dog, trying to keep his distance for multiple reasons, I believe. I labored on the bed while the birthing tub was being filled with warm water. My apprentice midwife was on the phone with the midwife a few times over the next couple of hours. The midwife wanted her to check my dilation: if I was close to fully dilated she was going to high-tail it to our house. At first I refused. I was worried that she would check me and I wouldn't be nearly as dilated as I felt: I was feeling like "gee I should be a good 6 or 7 cm" but I was afraid that I would only actually be 3 or 4 cm dilated. Afterall, I hadn't been in labor that long! So I got into the birthing tub to labor in there a bit, but after only a few minutes I decided to let her check me.

At this point, about 6:30 a.m., I was so involved in the contractions, which were right on top of each other. By the time I got myself into a cooperative position it was ~7:15 a.m. The apprentice midwife checked my cervix: I was a good 9 cm!!! I couldn't believe it. I was in a bit of shock but so relieved! I labored a bit on the bed, as I worked my way back to the warm water of the birthing tub. The apprentice midwife went to the living room to let our kids and my mother in law know that if they wanted to see the baby be born then now was the time!

I labored in the water, my husband right by my side (or foot, as the case may be), and within 1/2 an hour and with only a few pushes beautiful little Miss L. was born, into her daddy's hands, at 7:42 a.m.

The midwife apprentice helped me to turn around and sit down in the water (I had delivered leaning forward, over the edge of the birthing tub) and lay Miss L. on my chest. She was perfect, and as serene as any baby has ever been.

After a few minutes of sitting in the water we got up out of the birthing tub and moved to the bed, drying off as we went. Not only had I not torn (the first time I didn't in all 5 of my births), but there wasn't any bleeding. My water did not "have to" be broken...it broke on it's own, sometime in that last 30 minutes before she perfectly entered the world, possibly just as I pushed her out. It wasn't easy, by any means, but it was quick...and mighty powerful. And I am not the same person I was before. Well, I am me...only stronger.

heavy-weight mutts & bitty baby

so apparently Pergo the dog is a light weight. I've got 2 dogs that are, apparently, not light weights. My gut wanted hardwood flooring. We installed laminate (specifically & actually Pergo) that I love the look of! it's really pretty...but functionally and aesthetically not what I really wanted. Shoulda listened to my gut. *sigh*

And in a completely unrelated gripe:

baby L. had her 1 year check up. All's good, even if the doctor, who I don't really care for, looked at me with great doubt when I told her that this 18 pound cutie eats more than most 4 year olds I know. She (baby L.) had to get some blood drawn (standard hematocrit, I was told) and the doctor, of who I'm not particularly fond, said that she would "...only call if there is an issue with the blood work." O.k., fair enough. So a nurse calls today from the doctor's office "...regarding L.s blood work results." sending me into a full blown panic in a split second. The nurse: "The doctor wanted me to let you know that her blood work came back perfectly normal." wtf?? Don't tell me you won't call unless there's an issue and then turn around and call me. Grrrrrr. Mama bear mad. Did I mention I don't particularly care for this doctor???

Creativity Derailed

So, apparently this blogging thing is just going to be a quarterly event for me. This whole Running a Household thing is really eating up my time...go figure. And then there are these little people I keep finding at my computer...in my chair...at my desk. Ok, so the definition of "my" in Momish is: shared, used, or abused by all the offspring of said mommy. So anyways, the blogging constantly gets pushed aside, as does the cleaning of the interior of my Momivan and the bathing of the dogs (aka Dumb & Dumber). Then again, the dog bath thing is one of those *Man Jobs. Or why can't the kids apply the Momish definition of "my" to the dogs? Afterall, they are my dogs...and then maybe if they would bathe the dogs I could get a few minutes on my computer to ramble on about Man jobs and such. Ehh. Off I go...the laundry is calling.

*see earlier post