Honeybees, Communion and Ponderings.

This is strange new territory we are in right now.    Familiar and yet, kind of like returning to your college campus, things are not quite the same and your vague recollections will get you to the right area but not quite the right location.    "Didn't we used to do...?",  "Wasn't there something that worked...?"  These half thoughts and ponderings fill our days now.  "What did we do with the first two?",   "Is this normal?  I don't remember so much (sleeping, pooping, crying, etc.)"   We thought it would be easier this time around because we were experienced, but what we've learned is that in three years the IOS (infant operating system) has had an upgrade and our memory banks have become slightly inadequate to the task. 

This is how I started a blog entry about four months ago.  You may notice you have not seen it before.  True.  You got me there.  I started it and it took me three days to write that paragraph between trying to balance the start of first grade for Miss Six, adjustment issues for Little Middle and can we just talk for a second about cluster feedings?  

Things began to level out and feel like familiar territory right around week ten which is ironically when I returned to work.  Suddenly we were right back in the land of chaos and unhappily so on my part.  I was beating myself up daily for the ways in which I was not up to the task:  forgotten lunches,  barely brushed hair, "good enough" clothing matches, forgetting about meetings, missing a form, forgetting my name, resenting my spouse who continued to just roll with his schedule uninterrupted on a work day.

We are blessed to have a home childcare provider who loves our children as her own and this made the return to work as easy as it would ever be, but I still drove away the first morning in tears.   And let's be honest it's really hard to be a nursing mom at work.  While no one will tell you that you can't take a break to pump, in my case, there isn't a guaranteed space throughout the day and the job pace doesn't really include breaks at the right times, and how many times do I want to bring my boobs into conversation, even if indirectly, by asking others to leave my "designated" space for ten minutes or apologizing for being late because I was pumping in a closet with my back against the door that doesn't lock?  The guilt over wanting to be a nursing mom and then the guilt over feeling it would just be easier to hand over formula in the morning and not have to sit exposed several times a day at work.  The guilt.  The great big, bone-crushing, soul-sucking guilt.

And then there comes the introduction of growth into the equation.  We are doing one of many of our push-pull dances with Miss Six.  Her darling little mouth has taken on a sassiness that stops me in my tracks.  She exhibits weird, graceless "rock star", (her words), poses that involve shaking of a booty she doesn't have.  I have recently had a conversation that included the following "Unless you are a honey bee, we don't communicate in this house by butt waggling."    And trying to help her find boundaries.  Yes, we can have fun and giggle about bathroom humor in the house, but no, you may not take it to school and share it with your teacher.   Yes, I will check your backpack every morning from now on because you have hoarding tendencies and I do not want a repeat of day two of school.  (For those of you who are curious, Miss Six took a collection of tampons in a tin box into school and asked her teacher of two days what they were.  UGH....No, I didn't skip parent conferences, but yes, I wanted to!)

And my house.  There are interventions for people who are not yet at my stage of disorganization.  Mine probably involves a torch and a rebuilding plan.  My living room can hold twenty six-year-olds based on past experience.  Right now, it just looks like they all came home from boarding school and got naked.  Laundry as far as the eye can see...Always.  Never-ending uphill climbing, nailing of Jello to a tree, cat herding.  And if by some grace of divinity I get it to the upstairs, one of the Bigs will need the pair of undies at the bottom and suddenly it will all be on the floor indistinguishable from the clothes that were on the floor needing to come down to be washed again.

 And into this mix, I decide that it's time to reintroduce church to my children.  The first attempt was on Communion Sunday.  In our previous church, children were downstairs in the children's room.  This was Miss Six's first experience.  As the bread was passed, she had many questions about the little cubes and why could she only have one piece and was it really made of His body?...  When the passing of "wine" came around, I expected her to react more strongly to the idea of his blood...Not a peep.  Thinking myself in the clear, I took a deep breath and as the congregation sat in silence she faux-whispered "That wasn't a very good snack!"  We have some work ahead of us .

 So, in the event that it is another four months before I get a chance to post again.  Have a fabulous holiday season, winter season, and early 2014.

 Much love and  exhaustion,

Mama

Babies, Boots, and Parachutes

We are entering a phase where we can count the time until our third daughter's arrival in days rather than weeks or months.  It is no less scary or daunting this time around in many ways.  Even having done this twice before, I still lie awake wondering "How are we going to do this?"    The responsibility of this whole new life is awe-filled and fraught with the seriousness of "getting this right".  Some have asked if we are ready.  I don't know.  I don't know that we were ever ready with any of the girls, or that one can ever truly be ready. 

I've begun likening it to parachuting.  You want to do it.  You get on the plane with your kit packed.  You know it's almost time and you get to the door and freeze.  Are you ready?  Suddenly, you're not so sure.  Fortunately nature, much like the military, has planned this moment out.  There is someone whose sole job is to place their aggressively-soled boot squarely in your rear quarters and "help" you through the door.  Wee #3 has been going through her warm up paces.  Several nights we have been counting contractions and questioning "Now?"  Her boots are small and not so rugged, but no less insistent that really, I am not the boss here.  When it's time, I will not be in the driver's seat.

 I take comfort in knowing that there are many families who have taken the leap from two to three or more and are managing to stay afloat emotionally, financially, and in terms of sanity.  My paternal grandmother managed to do so with seven children, five boys and two girls, and a twenty year span between oldest and youngest.  Surely we too can do this.

 The consolation prize for still having this level of worry and wonder the third time around is the many ways in which we are more relaxed.    With the first baby, everything was matched and carefully color coordinated.  The nursery was ready months in advance.  The car seat was not only purchased but installed by the end of the second trimester.  Nothing wrong with any of that.  Nothing at all.  And I expect many of my first-time expectant mom friends are in the same place.  This time around we found ourselves needing to replace many of the necessary items because of the span between our first two and our last baby.  Is this crib set up?  Nope.  Do we have a coming home outfit?  Nope.  Are the baby clothes washed in special detergent and carefully laid out in sizes and seasonal need?  Nope.  Is my hospital bag packed?  Nope.  Do we have a carseat?  As of yesterday, we do.    With twenty days to spare.  All good.

 Also somewhat rewarding is the sense of peace that we have this time around knowing that there's no point in worrying about how big the baby is.  It isn't as though we can do anything about it.    I had one night of angst and then put it away.  Meh...she'll be what she will be.    The doctor who ran the ultrasound stated she had a "prominent nose".  Heard it before.  Didn't happen.  Not going to let it get in the way of enjoying the last weeks of being the mother of two.  The first time around, I spent a month pondering how a baby wearing the equivalent of nose glasses could possibly capture my heart.  Would I be able to see past an enormous schnoz?  Was I capable of that kind of blind love?  I'll never know, because it didn't happen of course.  She was born with the tiniest little button nose and the most intense blue-eyed gaze and we were of course so smitten that other than making sure she HAD a nose, we couldn't tell you anything more about it.

 So are we ready?  I guess it depends on the definition.  I still find myself thinking of things I promised myself I would do in my forties when my two daughters were a certain age and realizing that these plans are now at best, late forties.  I find myself planning our trip to Disney and then realizing that this has been moved out a bit farther and my oldest will be a pre-teen when this happens.   I've counted how old I will be when my youngest graduates high school and recognized that I will have a college freshmen and a middle school student at the same time.    These all give me pause.  But with two babies to our credit, both growing into interesting and vastly different children, I know that there is no way to really KNOW what kind of ride we are in for with Wee #3.  But our tickets are purchased.  The plane has left the ground and we are at cruising altitude.  The boot is mere inches from our collective caboose.  

 Ready?  We will be.

My Life as a Shelf

I am noticing lately how my routine is preparing for being forty while my brain solidly resists, firmly believing I am still only twenty-five.

For example, my shelf in the bathroom now contains a product that promises to lift, smooth and plump parts of my facial landscape I never previously thought about.  It sits there in its squat, solid glory in a glass container that quietly announces a long-term relationship.  It isn't flashy.  it doesn't smell like a tropical fruit.  It isn't tinted or fancy by any stretch.   It doesn't have a fancy pump or sparkly letters.  It doesn't promise overnight success.   And it has sunscreen.   A lot of sunscreen. 
 
(If that doesn't scream long-term commitment I don't know what does, especially when I think about my routine of younger years which included trying to have as much sun-color as possible. )
 
And this seems like a statement about my life in general.  This year I have started to allow that life doesn't last forever.  I am fallible.  My packaging is weak and needs care.  I am not immune to breaks, serious illness, etc.  Perhaps this is because I have lost two souls dear to me and am in the agonizing process of yet another.  Perhaps it is simply that some part of my primitive brain is telling me to slow up and make long-range plans.  There isn't endless time for frittering and waste.  Take care or you may be sorry later.  Maybe it was the stark realization when my grandfather passed that everyone in my family moved into a new slot.   The new oldest generation was my parents.  Which meant....I was now taking my parents spot.  Life was marching on and we all had new roles.
 
Whatever it is, I find myself thinking about things in long-range perspective.  Will I still want this five, ten, more years from now?  Do I need it?  What is it teaching my children when they see me doing X?  How do I want to spend my fifties?  My seventies? 

My mother and Oprah swear that forty is when you find yourself.  Know who you are.  Find the inner strength to accept who you are and ignore those who don't.   Maybe this is the first tinge of this awakening.  I don't know.  And I don't know what to think of it. It's foreign.   It's one of those things that I find myself only vaguely aware of unless I stop and question.  Kind of like this first time you feel your baby move and you question "Wait?  Was that it?  What was that?"  It's not unpleasant, it's just kind of "not me" or at least not the "me" I'm used to being.

And so if the bathroom shelf is a euphemism for this stage, it seems that my life is moving toward quality not quantity, solidity not flash and sparkle, and investment in the future and not a focus on passing fad.    It will be different.  But I kind of like this girl I'm getting to know.  I hope she sticks around a while.

W(h)ine with my Cheese, (depending on what kind it is and whether or not I like it today).

In trying to convince myself to go grocery shopping today, I started looking at recipes .  Looking at recipes made me realize I don't enjoy cooking anymore.  Realizing that I began to wonder why, because I used to be a bit of a foodie.  After pondering  few moments I came to the conclusion that it was related to the fact that everything I place on the table becomes a point of contention.  

Little One is in a fairly typical toddler pattern of loving something one day and abhorring it the next the next.    We recently went through a phase where pasta in sauce had to be taken noodle by noodle to the sink and washed before being consumed, like a little raccoon.  I can grit my teeth and try to outlast this phase, but it's the hardcore "I'm not trying it.  I don't like it {based on the way it looks} and I never will." refusal that wear me down.  And what makes this harder for me is that I can't just take a break from the battle and offer them quick and easy offerings once in a while, like frozen pizza, mac in the blue box, etc. because they won't eat those either.   

To this end I made a list today of the foods that my children will eat at least 50% of the times they are offered. It was not very long.   It was not particularly balanced.  It was a little shameful honestly. 

So, hot dogs yes but hamburgers no.  Peanut butter yes but not on a piece of bread, rice cake or celery.  On a spoon in isolation.   Apples occasionally, but only if peeled, sliced and cored.   Deli meat no.  Cold meat of any persuasion no.  Anything served on bread, no.   Carrots raw with hummus for one , and only cooked for the other.  Broccoli as long as it doesn't have a stem of unusual length.  Eggs, never.  Grains, (barley, oats, quinoa, wheat berries….), nothing doing.  Cheese for one, but only if it's cheddar.  No bagels, English muffins, or muffins that contain berries.  The list goes on and on. 

What I can count on day after day is a glass of milk.  A tablespoon or two of peanut butter.  Rice.  Beets.  These are the only four constants.  Can a child live on this?  Thrive?  For how long? 

The advice I receive from other parents is all fabulous and sensible.  It just hasn't made a difference yet almost 18 months in.  I keep waiting for the light to come on and the choir of angels to reward waiting them out, but it ….Just. Isn't. Happening. 

Celery, Guns N Roses, and a Fight

You would be amazed at the solid connection between 80's pop and the stage of independence and rebellion we are in right now.  Let's take Twisted Sister,  We're Not Gonna Take It: 

 

We're not gonna take it
No, we ain't gonna take it
We're not gonna take it anymore

We've got the right to choose and
There ain't no way we'll lose it

 

My children are in a developmental turning point and I am in a gestational turning point.  Simultaneously.  There is a seriously large lot of emotion in our house of late.  My husband is fortunate that he is working mandatory overtime right now as usually things are all cried out by the time he walks in at bedtime and the snuggly, doe-eyed daughters have returned.  His wife, well, not snuggly or doe-eyed, but usually not planning the demise of anyone either….anymore.

 

Both girls are working through a struggle for independence.  For those who have met my daughters this is more hostile, hysterical take-over than mere "let me do it myself".  What is particularly hard to watch and live through is that often their need to assert independence comes when I most need compliance.  For example, Little One wants to dress herself, but with one arm in the neck of her shirt and trying to put the other in through the cuff first, it is blisteringly hard to refrain from just taking over and doing it myself.  This is often happening as I stand at the door waiting to leave for work, with a meeting looming on the horizon.  (Also important to know that the clothes have been on offer for nearly an hour and frequently I have had her dressed once and she is naked again for need of one more ballerina twirl in the fairy princess dress.) 

 

Miss Six is struggling with the natural step down that comes from being too big to curl up in my lap completely or be toted around on a hip, but still needing that cuddly time.  She is simply not satisfied by an arm around her shoulder while we read or holding her hand as we grocery shop, etc.  She wants to be in my lap.  (A lap which is gradually less present than the week before these days.)  For her, independence comes from alternately pushing me away and then begging to return to babyhood.  It's a somewhat scary push-pull to be in the middle of.    I know that much of what I'm seeing is her search for an answer as to who she is in our changing family dynamics, but there are times when the foreshadowing of her teen years shows through and my blood runs cold…( and  not because …"my angel's in the centerfold".   Sorry, I digress, Pandora is running on 80's pop)…  I know it's normal but it doesn't take away the sting of sarcastic, know-it-all.

 

Sweet Child O Mine, was a song I loved in high school and while I know it was not written from the perspective of a mother watching her child, try for a minute to abandon what you know about the song and think about watching your child grow and become someone other than your little girl.  Try to allow it to encompass that moment when you see her for the person she is becoming and not for the small bundle you brought home from the hospital. 

 

…She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Now and then when I see her face
She takes me away to that special place
And if I'd stare too long
I'd probably break down and cry…

 

The Mr. is lovingly referred to as "the stubborn one" in his family.  The horror stories of his childhood are often bandied about over family dinners.  The phrase "I hope you have one just like you." sounded funny until the realization hit that this also meant it happening to me, and lately mostly to me because of our schedule.  Little One is apparently the legacy in the co-ed fraternity of "Stubbornousity".  The potential for pushing the line, digging in the heels and forcing Mama to make a decision about which hill to die on seems endless.   Some days I applaud her and want to bow at the feet of the master and other days and I just want cry and scream and have a tantrum myself.  If Little One had a theme song, she would likely channel REM with I Won't Back Down.

 

Well I won't back down, no I won't back down
You could stand me up at the gates of hell
But I won't back down

Gonna stand my ground, won't be turned around
And I'll keep this world from draggin' me down
Gonna stand my ground and I won't back down

 

Which leads me to my own turning point.  We are soundly in the second trimester, lovingly alluded to as the one where your energy rebounds.  HA!  Not for this Mama of two approaching her fourth decade and working full-time.  You know that celery that gets lost in the bottom of the crisper drawer and comes out bent into a hairpin yet still green?  That's me.  I still look like myself on the outside but I have the structural integrity of wilted vegetation.  By 5:00 I am dicing my vegetable likenesses and hoping that I remembered to turn on the burner under the soup pot, (and not the one under my cutting board),or standing at the fridge door with carrots in one hand and no clue what I needed them for in the other.  Or I find myself staring at my old friend Shiraz and wishing we lived in France where a daily glass of wine is not frowned upon during pregnancy.

 

In a moment of reflection on my own childhood, I remember a commercial that came on in between adult shows that used to catch me by surprise because it made my stoic mother cry.  Sometimes I play it to remind myself that time is fleeting and my children are only temporary in many ways.  They will always be mine, but not always as they are now.  And so, while this song may have been written any time, it is a song of the 80's for me because that is when I became aware of it.  Grab a tissue and enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9Tn-H251Uc

 

Reality In A Box

Reality.  Every time I think I finally have a handle on it, the darn thing becomes more elusive.

About Christmas time my husband and I began to suspect that the "stomach bug" that I couldn't shake was of the nine month variety.  This immediately led to a furtive trip to the drug store with a home test tucked snugly into the basket of last-minute gift wrapping needs etc.

While the box says something to the effect of "so easy a caveman could do it", I have to tell you that confirmation line is not always quite so blaze blue as depicted on the box.  In my house, that leads to a really long 24 hour wait until you can wee on the second stick the following morning.  Again, the lines look possible, but wait, maybe not.  I'm just not sure.

So I say to the Mr.  "You go to the store and get another kit and we'll do this again.  Just to be sure."  And why do I send him?  Because I work in this town and the weekend cashier is a former student of mine and I guarantee that while I am in the aisle trying to find the box I need, I will run into at minimum six people I know.  Questions will be asked.

You gotta love a man who is so freaked out about the prospect of a third pregnancy-to-newborn run in the house that he buys the economy pack of tests; 6 in a box! 

Yes, we used them all.  Yes, we stood shoulder to shoulder watching the line get more pronounced, and then we scrutinized the living hell out of it.  "That's two lines right?....  I mean, they are intersecting in the middle and making a 'plus'....  Aren't they?....Can you do one more?" 

Then we both looked at each other shell-shocked but grinning just the tiniest bit.  Okay, we can do this thing.  It'll be okay.  We have to keep saying that out loud. 

Because, let's be honest.  I am closing in on 39.  We have two daughters who are amazing and brilliantly growing and changing, but never, ever easy.  We both work.  Both jobs are crazy in their demands on time and both are important.  And, in the very near future, we will be outnumbered.  (A good friend of mine refers to this as "zone defense".)

There's a lot that is scary in making the jump from family of four to mini-van-required territory.  As the person who typically gets us out the door in the morning for school, daycare etc.  I really don't begin to know how I will get three children ready and not be at work in my skivvies with bed-head and yesterday's eyeliner in Tammy Faye streaks from this mornings stress-induced crying jag. 

I worry.  A lot.  (This is just a given.)  But currently I worry about my ability to make all of the balls stay in there every morning so that everyone lands where they need to at the right time of day. 

The most common reaction to the announcement of this pregnancy has been, "So you're gonna stop working now, right?"  This is so hard.  Yes,  if the financial world were different, it would probably make sense to take a few years off and get this brood settled and into school.   But the reality is, that's not my life.  And yes, I do feel guilty about the time I miss with them when they are at school, daycare etc. and I am at work.    Being a mother isn't easy no matter what.  Being a mom who works away from home and her kids, (because let's be honest, SAHM are working too and Damn hard!), comes with the perpetual balance of knowing that nobody can ever get your 100%.

And so I leave you with the reaction of my OB when I called in to request my first check-up.  "You're shitting me!  You went for another one!  Didn't we talk about what caused this in the first place?.......You husband is HOPING for another girl?  He does know they go through puberty right?"

Reality....Zone Defense....Worry.....Balance....

And then the first ultrasound, and hearing the heart beat for the first time.  Instant blissful love.  Tears and magic.

This will be okay great too. 



 

Little Girls

"Some day I'll land in the nut house
With all the nuts and the squirrels
There I'll stay
Until the prohibition of
Little girls."

-Annie, the musical

 

I love my duo of girlies.  I love that they are creative and imaginative.  I'm just drowning in little girl accessories and cast-offs right now and a little overwhelmed and this song has been cycling through my head most of the morning.  Can you hear Carol Burnett cackling as Miss Hannigan?  I can. 

 

Because I feel like I don't have enough time to spend with them during the week and then our weekend time is often used up with errands, grocery shopping and house cleaning,  I easily get suckered into "projicks".  "But this one isn't messy!" they cry.  "We'll pick it up!" they protest. 

 

And just like the infomercial for losing half your body weight without diet or pesky exercise, I fall for it. 

 

Currently, (and let me say that this "projick" started somewhere in the 6:00 a.m. time frame),  Miss 5 has cut two dozen construction paper hearts out of the very center of each piece of paper, abandoning the scraps in her wake.  She has pulled down markers to write her messages "Hape Holuda"  (Happy Holidays) and left them scattered across the table sans caps.  Two paper plates have been taken from the pantry and ragged eyeholes cut into them.  Mid-"projick" the string to hold it onto ones head was deemed too short, so both masks and the related props have been relocated to the living room floor on the way to a more desirable venture.

 

Tape.  Let's pause for a moment to reflect on the magnificence of tape.  Miss 5 has found the tape and has made a remarkable bandage for one of her dolls.  She has also taped each and every one of her Barbie dolls eyes and has moved onto the button-eyed scare-master, Lalaloopsy. 

 

"I'm giving them contacts." she tells me.  Well, of course. 

 

She is clearly running an understaffed office as she is currently the doctor, receptionist, and patient's mother.  The split personality conversation in the other room is about the only thing that is keeping me from crying.   My favorite so far is "Where is your shirt?!  You went to the doctor without a shirt?  What were you thinking?...(quick aside)  "The rest of you will have to wait your turn.  I don't have any more shirts."  I don't know what's going on in this office, but I think I may cancel my appointment.

 

Everywhere you go in our play space, you'll find a Barbie shoe.  Vampy, trampy, plastic detritus.  They look cute in the box, they're even remotely cute on her feet.  (The one and only one time they were ON her feet.)  But mostly, they are just underfoot.  Irritatingly pokish, but low on the Lego scale of pain induction.  Our vacuum has hoovered up a few.  Several are somewhere in the dogs digestive system.  And yet, everywhere I go, there they are.

 

It seems that everything a little girl might desire comes with many, many little accessories.  As do the little girls themselves.  Miss 5 has just donned her third party dress in an hour and I'm sure the rejects are lying in a heap on her floor.  Little One aspires to be as well dressed and has come downstairs in an outfit of her own making.  (Read undies, tank top, wool hat and snow boots.)  The volume of laundry in our house is stunning already.  The addition of "I needed a new ow-fit" to our repertoire is not helping.  And let's be honest, sometimes it really is easier to potentially needlessly rewash it than it is to run through the three-point cleanliness check for each item.  Socks and undies are an automatic re-wash.  Some things I just don't want to inspect too closely.

 

It was way easier when they couldn't open gates, reach the top shelf, move a chair to create a ladder, etc.  This independence that I longed for is turning on me.