Funny Tres

The extra visitor

We had a small nativity play at the church Christmas party last Friday. The Primary children stood in a chorus line behind Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus, singing carols between bits of narration. Tres, who is not yet old enough for Primary (though she will be in January), asked if she could stand and sing with the big kids and I said sure.

Except that when everybody filed in, she ran over to Mary and Joseph and the baby instead. She knelt down and gazed adoringly at the swaddled plastic doll. I crawled up to the front discreetly and whispered, "Tres! You can go stand with the big kids! They need you to sing songs with them!"

She gave me the dirtiest of dirty looks, put her finger to her lips and very loudly said:

"SSSSHHHHH!! The baby!"

And so the play continued with the tableau of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus ... and Tres.


Things Tres said while watching the Nutcracker ballet

(And not in a whisper, either.)

• Oh, look at those cute ballerinas!
• That house isn't real, huh? They're just pretending it's a house.
• I like her shoes so much!
• [When the main girl receives the Nutcracker -- during a lull in the music, so I think the whole auditorium heard her] Oh, that's a berry nice present!
• How come her's wearing her pajamas?
• Mom, I saw a mouse's bum!
• Are those sholdiers trying to do Kung Fun Panda?
• I'm not scared of the ballet anymore! The bad mouse is just having a costume!
• How come that boy doesn't have any pants?
• That was FANTASTIC!!

Everyone's a critic

Tres and I watched the morning news together a few days ago and saw some 19th-century style carolers, all dolled up in Victorian garb and singing with gusto.

"Mom," Tres said to me, "I think I hate those guys."

Oh. Okay, then!


~RCH~

Oh wait, look! I did blog about the baby!

I haven't blogged in (let's see, how old is that baby?) almost two months. I am busier than I had been before my last post, and far more tired -- but otherwise fine. I have things I want to blog about, but I keep thinking I have to write about that baby first. It wouldn't be fair to go on talking about my everyday life without some grand introduction of the fourth little Smooch, would it?

Except that if I continue to wait for the energy to write a lovely and profound post about her arrival, I'll never blog again. So here's a picture of the wee baby at ~1 week old which you may or may not have seen already on Facebook or on my Flickr stream. (It's in B/W because she was jaundiced at the time and I couldn't get her color to look right.)



Isn't she lovely? Don't you just want to kiss her? She's a very good-natured baby; she puts up with a lot of loving abuse from her sisters (particularly from Tres, who constantly wants to hug her and hold her and rub her hands all over Cuatro's face while she sleeps for some reason). Uno and Dos are eager and actually helpful helpers. Dos is like a second mother to the baby; she holds her and feeds her and soothes her like a natural. Uno is equally sweet, though she lacks confidence in her childcare abilities.

Cuatro is, like all my babies, on the small side. She weighed 6 lbs 8 oz at birth (tied with Uno as the smallest of my four) and hasn't been gaining as quickly as my pediatrician would hope. I think she's in the neighborhood of 8-1/2 lbs now, if our home scale is accurate and I did my math right (holding her as I stood on, then weighing myself alone and subtracting the difference); the internet tells me that puts her in the 3rd percentile.

I've pretty much stopped nursing her. We didn't get off to a great start: She stayed for four days in the NICU, trying to clear my insulin from her system and regulate her own blood sugar. For a hospital supposedly supportive of breastfeeding, they were certainly eager to give her formula. Plus I think they inadvertently caused her jaundice: The doctor wanted to stretch the time between feedings (from every two to three hours to every four hours) to see how that affected her sugar levels. Her sugars did great, but -- surprise! -- she got a bit dehydrated, and spiraled down from there. Jaundiced babies sleep a lot, which means they don't eat as well, which means they get more dehydrated and more jaundiced, which means they sleep a lot, which means.... Then they gave her more formula because it supposedly counteracts jaundice better than breast milk. (Uno also had jaundice as an infant and her doctor told me the same thing. I've since read elsewhere -- in actual medical journals, not the internet, lol -- that that isn't true, but when experts disagree I guess you go with the one in front of you...? Or at least I do. I'm kind of non-confrontational that way.)

Anyway, so my supply started out less than great, and then she got thrush which made it painful to feed her. I continued to pump, but that's less effective than feeding her the regular way, diminishing my supply a little more. I was stressed out and struggling to fit her needs into our already established schedule. I often didn't have time to pump and feed her -- that takes twice as long; it's the worst of both worlds (the bother of preparing and cleaning supplies for bottle feeding vs. finding long stretches of uninterrupted time to nurse). Gradually I went from supplementing nursing with formula to supplementing her formula with breastfeeding and I realized yesterday that I haven't nursed her in days. The last time I tried, she fussed crazily, thrashing her head all around (ouch), probably frustrated because she couldn't get much out.

Cuatro has her 2-month appointment next week. I think I'll return the hospital pump I rented when I go.

I feel bad. Not because I'm feeding her formula -- it's not poisonous; Uno was a formula fed baby and she thrived (arguably better than my two breastfed babies, even) -- but because I feel like I didn't give it a committed enough try. I gave up pretty easily. With Uno I had the excuse that first-time motherhood is overwhelming, plus I had to return to work. This time my only excuse is.... Well, I don't know that I have an excuse for not fighting harder. Just that I'm tired, that I have way too many other obligations, and if an easier option is available I'll take it and say thank you. (Thank you, Enfamil company.) Still. What does it say that I refuse to make any effort for my daughter?

Oh well. Pick your battles, RCH. The best you can do is all you can do (even if it isn't great).

In any case, Cuatro doesn't seem to mind my lackluster efforts; she's a very happy, chill baby. She's just developing her social smile, which is fun. So far she's unimpressed by my fake and dramatic sneezing, but the little elephant and hippo that hang down from a bar above her bouncy seat are her BFFs and her face lights up whenever she sees them. She's recently discovered how to maneuver her hands well enough to touch them.

Oh! And the consensus about whom she resembles most -- I meant to tell you that, too! Most people say she looks like me. I find it very difficult to determine that during the infant stage; babies don't really look like themselves in the early months, IMHO. But her hair pokes up and refuses to lie (or be shellacked) flat; when she's awake, she often opens her eyes excessively wide (almost troll doll-ish, lol); she's constantly got her tongue poking out. From what I hear, that describes me as an infant. So I guess it must be true. :-)

Such a sweet little potato pie, that kid.

Well hey, look at that: I wrote a whole blog post about the baby after all! I guess now I can get on with blogging other things without feeling neglectful.

You know, in all my spare time.

Awesome. :-)


~RCH~

So today's the day

(Allegedly. They won't start the induction until evening, so who knows. And what if we run into a problem like with Tres, where they say ha ha, never mind, no induction for you today -- call back tomorrow?)

Anyway. Supposedly Cuatro will make her debut tonight. I expect her to come quickly after things get started, as each of my previous labors has been faster than the last. I have faith that things will go smoothly.

And yet.... It's hitting me what a BIG FAT LIFE CHANGER this is. Right now? Our life is what it is. We've got a routine. Tomorrow at this time? We'll have an ENTIRELY NEW PERSON. Not just new to us, but new. In the whole history of the world, there has never been a Cuatro before and it'll be my (/our) job to take care of her and fold her into our family and fit her into our previously comfortable routine. That's a big deal! And a big responsibility.

I couldn't sleep last night. I lay awake thinking, maybe this isn't so bad with her on the inside. I'm fairly used to the GD diet restrictions by now, and I'm probably healthier for it. I eat lots of fruits and vegetables, much less processed food.... Sure, I have elephantine swollen feet, but I can live with that. I don't mind fielding random strangers' questions and dumb comments about my huge belly. Maybe Cuatro should just stay there.

I have easy labors, relative to what I understand other women go through, but I still don't like the process. It's not fun. It hurts at the end. You lose all modesty. You get no rest even after all the work is done.

That's another thing I was thinking late last night: They ought to have a half-way house for recently delivered mothers! Particularly ones with other young children. After all that work -- the nine months of nausea + exhaustion + discomfort + carrying around a bowling ball and then the tough job of getting said bowling ball out -- it would be nice to be able to rest for a few days. But where are you going to do that? Not at the hospital; they'll wake you up every few hours to poke at you. Not at home; the new baby will need to be fed every two hours or so, and in my situation there are three other little people who'll continue to have needs as well. No rest anywhere. So I propose a half-way house: Leave the hospital, go to a lovely spa-like place (with highly qualified nannies and nurses to handle the bulk of the baby care 24/7) for just a day or two to recuperate and gear up for the tough battle ahead, and then go home to face the real world with renewed vigor. Genius, right?

Yeeps.

I'm excited, really. Newborn babies are sweet. They're floppy and small and nothing bad has ever happened to them; they've never done anything bad to anyone else (unless you count the GD and elephant feet). They're perfect. They're a world of possibility wrapped up in a tiny pink package. This will be a wonderful change, however challenging the transition.

I guess maybe I should pack a hospital bag.


~RCH~

Friday ramblings

"Wake up, little feller!" I hear Tres calling from the other room. She's playing with her dolls and stuffed animals. Where does she learn words like feller? LOL.

She's been obsessed with nightmares lately. She asked me repeatedly what a nightmare is, and for the first day or so I'd answer her by saying it was a bad or sad or scary dream, but nothing real -- just a story that your brain tells you when you sleep. Nothing that can actually hurt you. It became clear to me that explanation didn't work for her, though; she talks about nightmares as if they're tangible monsters: "Can a nightmare come in and get me in my nap time, too? Is he blue or green? Dooz he talk?" So today I switched tactics: I simply told her that nightmares aren't allowed in our house. They can't come in. I made a rule. This seems to be working much better so far; she seems relieved. I'm crossing my fingers that tonight's bedtime will go more smoothly than it did the last two nights!

She's three now, by the way, that Tres. I don't have any pictures of the festivities. For one thing, I've been insanely busy; DH's coworkers were very sweet to throw me a baby shower on the afternoon of Tres's birthday, so I had to really scramble to get the house clean and the family party ready after leaving that. I felt a little too harried and stressed to worry about digging out my tripod and camera! But more than that, even, I wanted to be present for her birthday. I don't take a lot of candids of my children because I don't know how to be both the photographer and the in-the-moment mom (can it be done?) and I'd rather be the mom for those milestones. But I'll need to start testing out the natural light in the parlor and dining room soon, so I'll see if Tres will let me take formal birthday portraits next week sometime.

She's such a sweet little kid. She's had to come to most of my doctor's appointments lately (three visits this week, wheee!) and she charms the doctor and nurses and office staff each time with her sly smile and precociously large and clear vocabulary. She got a haircut last week (mostly just a trim so we can still do fancy styles, but she insisted on bangs -- oy) and one of the nurses complimented her on it. "Fank you berry much!" Tres said. "And I like your pretty shoes." Then, "Could I have some Smarties, please? I like to be smart!" How could anybody resist that 26-lb sweet potato? She racks up the Smarties left and right at those appointments, ahtellyouwhut.

And the appointments. *SIGH!* So many doctor visits, so much time wasted on everybody's part! I understand that with three complicating factors (old lady; clotting disorder; gestational diabetes) they need to manage their legal risk by seeing and documenting my progress thoroughly. But I'm more than the sum of those three facts, and when you look at me as an individual, and this pregnancy as an individual pregnancy, it's clear that everything is FINE. Each of the growth ultrasounds has been normal. I've never had an iffy non-stress test. My blood sugar is well controlled by diet. I have no complaints, no bleeding, no clotting, no errant contractions (not even those faker-baker Braxton Hicks!), no nothing. So why all the continued fuss?

I had hoped to set an official induction date at today's appointment -- I'm 36 weeks today, just three weeks away from the vague time frame we had previously discussed -- but my OB wasn't in (her father died; so sad) and the nurses just handled the testing and sent me home. I'm so, so tired of being pregnant. Still, as slowly as each uncomfortable individual moment passes, the days seem to fly by anyway. Three weeks will be over before I know it!

How will I handle four children? Seriously! Four! What have I gotten myself into?

At least wee babies are cute. I have lots of tiny little outfits and itty bitty socks and a large inflatable duck to use as a baby bath when Cuatro gets here. These things excite me, lol.

*SIGH.*

Three weeks-ish. Yeah.


~RCH~

Some Things

Things I think are dumb about OB care

1. Gestational diabetes. Obviously I'm bitter, lol, but really: You make a woman drink an entire soda bottle full of nothing but sugar and orange food coloring in under five minutes; what do you expect her glucose levels to do? Oh, what, they're high? After chugging a bottle of pure sugar? Are you serious? AMAZING.

And the symptoms of high blood sugar: Fatigue. Irritability. Frequent urination. Uh.... Sounds like a fairly normal pregnancy to me! :-P I feel no better and no worse for keeping my glucose levels under control (which I have been doing quite well with diet, thank you very much). I'm still worn out; the general discomforts of this huge belly still make me irritable; I still have a baby using my bladder as her personal trampoline. Explain THAT, gestational diabetes!

(Disclaimer: I know GD is true; I know there is a problem with the way my body reacts to sugar. Nobody needs to feel compelled to educate me on the subject. Just let me have my little rant please.)

2. Non-stress tests. I'm almost to the point at which my OB and Maternal / Fetal specialist want me to do twice weekly non-stress testing (at which they will strap monitors to my belly for a given period of time to make sure the kid's heart is still beating or something). Never mind that I have to drive 90 minutes each way to the doctor because our small hospital doesn't have the equipment. Leaving that annoyance completely out of the question -- what's the point? In the absence of some reason to worry that the heart might not be beating (say, if I hadn't felt any of her usual movement or if I'd started to bleed or been in a car accident or some other traumatic event), what are biweekly NSTs supposed to accomplish? Heaven forbid, I could have a normal NST on a Tuesday and an unexplained still birth on Wednesday. (Knock on wood that I won't.) They're not predictive or preventative of anything. The only point I can think of is to reassure hypothetical lawyers.

But enough of the grouchy things.


Things I love about my new house



1. The curb appeal. I've never lived in a house so charming from the outside! It's got classic lines, a lovely columned front porch with a huge old-timey lantern hanging from the portico, lots of large trees, and sits on one of the few remaining brick streets in town. It makes me smile every time I come home to it.

2. The natural light. Every room has windows, and every window is GINORMOUS. We're talking ~8 feet tall (I'm guessing; my measuring tape collapses if I try to extend it to the top of the window frames), 5+ feet wide.... The formal parlor and dining room both have large bay windows (with southern and western exposures, respectively). I've mostly kept the shutters closed so the house doesn't get too hot, but as fall arrives and things get more temperate I'm going to start experimenting with the light for portraits. I have to get ready to document Cuatro's first everything, after all (or at least for those few months before she's mobile and runs away from my camera like the other girls do)!

3. Having two bathrooms again. Ahhhh! Definitely a plus in a family with small children (with their attendant small bladders and short tempers) and a pregnant lady. ;-)

4. Having a dish washer again! I couldn't keep up with dishes for five people multiplied by three meals a day (plus snacks!) (plus cooking pots and pans!) when I had to wash them by hand in our little rental house -- dishes were my nemesis. My sink was always full of dirties; my counter and stove were always full of drying things. But now? A load or two a day in the handy-dandy dishwasher, and it's so much easier to keep the kitchen looking tidy! Hooray for modern conveniences! (Though funny that I had to move into a 108-year-old house to have them again....)

5. Historic details. I love the molding throughout the house. I love the high ceilings. I love the random carving on the banister. I love the pocket doors. I love the dining room chandelier -- which, the Realtor informed us, is original to the house (1902); it used to be a gas lamp, she said, but the homeowners converted it to electricity around the '20s (and if we ever want to sell it, call her first! Though why would we want to?).



6. Storage. There are spaces everywhere! For everything! From storage bench window seats tucked in cozy nooks at the end of hallways to good sized closets to a mudroom and pantry and (slightly creepy, low-ceilinged) basement with shelves and space galore...! Not to mention the garage and separate storage shed outside. Score.

7. Stairs. That's an odd thing to love in this age of open floor plans, but it's nice to have a clean division of public space (living room, parlor, kitchen, etc., downstairs) and personal space (bedrooms, full bath upstairs). Plus it offers me daily opportunities for exercise, lol.

8. Proximity to the library. Our new house is about two blocks from our town's very nice public library -- walking distance! We rarely went there before, but now I've got all three girls signed up for story hours (Tuesday afternoons for Uno and Dos; Wednesday mornings for Tres) and we plan to spend much more time there.


Things DH found today while working to clear out the overgrown yard

1. A turtle (whom the girls have christened Alex; they hope he will stick around and be our pet)



2. An old fashioned iron



3. A sun face paving stone




Things Uno said about DH's findings

1. "Holy crap!"

2. "Can you believe these amazing artifacts? They don't make this stuff anymore. I bet it's clear from the 1960s!"

3. "What if there are more artifacts underneath the house? And people could come from all over and pay to see them? And there would be reporters and photographers with flashes and we could be famous!"


Things I want to eat immediately after Cuatro gets here, if it's true that GD disappears at delivery (which it had better or I might punch somebody)

1. Pizza Hut pan pizza -- any flavor will do (though I like tomato and mushroom quite a lot) as long as it has that thick golden brown buttery delicious crust!

2. A small strawberry malt.


Hmmmm. I guess that's all for now. :-)


~RCH~

Conversation with Tres

TRES: Mommy, I want pickles!

RCH: Just a minute, let me finish this....

TRES: Meow, meow, I'm a cat! I need pickles!

RCH: Cats don't eat pickles.

TRES: What do they eat?

RCH: Well ... mice, for one thing. Can I get you a mouse to eat?

TRES: [Horrified look; mouth agape]

~ Thoughtful Pause ~

TRES: Woof, woof! I'm a doggy!


~RCH~

Brief updates

I ought to be in bed already, but it's the older girls' first day of school tomorrow (1st and 2nd grade, respectively) and I feel anxious. Poor Tres wishes it were her first day of school, too, but she missed the cut-off for public preschool by a month and a few days, and I don't know of any private (non-daycare) preschools here. Oh well. She'll be stuck at home with me for another year. It'll build character.

Anyway, the updates:

House

We bought the house! Signed the papers, got the keys, and we're now the proud holders of two mortgages. (Please. If you know ANYBODY who would like to move to small town Southeastern Idaho, send them my way. 6 bedrooms, 2 baths, fully finished basement, and the tiered back yard provides a gorgeous view of the valley below.)

We haven't moved in yet -- we had to make a few repairs first (hey, it's a 100+ year old house) -- but DH has a few days off this week and we hope to be settled there by, say, Friday at the latest. I'll see about posting pictures later so you can see the place in all its historic gorgeousness. :-)


Baby

Cuatro seems to be doing well, though at my last appointment (shortly after I failed the 1-hour glucose tolerance test) she was measuring a little bigger than has been her normal. Ooops. I'll do the 3-hour GTT this Wednesday. I plan to eat only protein the entire day before, lol. DH says there's no way to beat the test, but I'm going to give it my all!

At the last ultrasound, the tech let me know that Cuatro already (27w4d at the time) has lots of hair. The kid still has plenty of time to grow. She'll be a Rapunzel by the time she comes out!

We've decided on her name -- it's a little bit historic and a little bit familial and (I think) quite lovely. In keeping with the other girls' super secret identities, if you'd like to know the name just email me and I'd be happy to share. (If you don't know me well enough to have my email address, you don't know me well enough to find out my children's names. So there.)


Primary

I've accepted the call to lead the entire Primary (essentially the Sunday School for children from 18 months to 11 years old) of our congregation. Lucky for me, it's a tiny congregation; we might have 10 kids on a really good day. For the record, I am not a leader; I shouldn't be in charge of anything, lol. But this will be an opportunity for growth. ;-)

So far it's gone all right, but we have a program coming up in approximately one month. With so little time left, I'd have thought that the outgoing Primary president would have written the program already ... but nope. So now I have the challenge not only of figuring out how to put together a Primary program (which I've never done) but of how to fill the time (~45 minutes) with so few children and not much time for them to learn their (as of yet unwritten) parts.

I'm a little bit paralyzed by the stress of that (and also by Bejeweled Blitz, whose siren song calls to me any time I sit at the computer to look up info on Primary programs). That's the wrong reaction, I know. I MUST MAKE PROGRESS ON THAT THIS WEEK.

You know, along with the whole moving into a new house and the kids starting a new school year business. But at least I haven't started my twice weekly doctor's appointments yet.


Old Lady

Which reminds me: I had my Old Lady birthday last week! I am now 35, officially of Advanced Maternal Age. Whatever! Because of that (and also because of my clotting condition), my OB and the MF specialist want me to start coming in twice a week for stress tests (or non-stress tests, or whatever they're called) beginning at 32 weeks. Never mind that it's a 3-hour round trip, not counting all the waiting around in the doctor's office. UGH. I asked if we could whittle it down to once a week, but my OB didn't seem to think that was a good idea.

"I suppose you could," she said, "but I'd have to note in your chart that you were non-compliant...."

:: eye roll ::

It feels like so much fuss over nothing. I swear, I am the easiest-peasiest pregnant lady ever. (Knock on wood.) What a waste of time.

On the bright side, though, that will be six hours of peaceful, quiet alone time each week as I drive to and from my appointments. Yay.


Okay, I think that's all for now. I really should get to bed -- there will be no sleeping in tomorrow! :-)


~RCH~

Some days are like that. Even in Australia.

Bad Citizenship Award

On Saturday morning I took the girls on a massive shopping trip to Walmart: We needed the usual horde of groceries, ingredients for Dos's upcoming birthday dinner, and school supplies purchased using two separate and obnoxiously specific lists for 1st and 2nd grades, respectively. The whole ordeal took way too long. Uno and Dos kept wandering away, as they are wont to do, and by the end Tres (who every day insists she's too big for naps) kept putting her head down on the handle of the shopping cart and closing her eyes. None of us had eaten. All of us were worn out, but maybe particularly the hungry / irritated / tired / hormonal pregnant lady.

After 2 hours of that madness, I loaded up the children and the boxes of crayons and eraser tops and glue sticks and pointy scissors (not safety scissors!! Fiskar's brand only!!) and the frozen perishables. We began our drive home, pausing momentarily at a light to wait for the green arrow signaling us to turn left. But as I did, a car zoomed up and swerved around me, cutting me off. This was a single turn lane, folks; you just don't do that.

But whatever. People are dumb, I figured, and at least they were ahead of me now instead of behind where they could smack into me. The car continued to drive erratically. The passenger door opened, then swung closed again. The car veered suddenly, without slowing down, onto a side street and as I passed I saw the passenger door open again and a girl (late teens, maybe early 20s?) tumble out onto the road as the car continued on. I don't know if she jumped or was pushed.

I kept going.

I drove the rest of the way home. I was exhausted. I had melty items in the car in humid, 95F weather. I had vulnerable young children who needed food and sleep more than they needed to be involved in what was possibly a volatile domestic altercation. Besides, what could I do? I didn't get the license plate number (I think it started with a K?); I don't know what kind of car it was (definitely not a sedan, but not a full SUV -- maybe a hatchback or one of those mini SUVs?) and I didn't even remember the name of the side street (I think it was the one just past the liquor store, and for sure before the stop sign).

I did call DH at work as soon as I got home, and he relayed my (not terribly helpful) information to the police officer who happened to be at the ER, but it was really nothing anybody could follow up on.

All day long -- all weekend, and even still -- I felt guilty. I should have turned around and gone back. I should have made sure the girl was okay (I did see her stumble out of the road and onto the side walk as I drove past, so I know I didn't leave her dead in the gutter). I should have at least taken a cell phone pic of the car (though my cell was in my pocket, not easily accessible as I drove). I should have done something.

I had three (and a half!) little kids with me. I'm not a very observant person and make a terrible witness. It was probably just teenagers being dumb, not something more sinister. I have plenty of reasonable, legitimate excuses for doing nothing. Still, a line from the fabulous, long-canceled tv show Brooklyn Bridge keeps echoing in my brain. Grandma Sophie Berger (played beautifully by Marion Ross) was giving her grandson a talking-to: "There will always be a reason to do the wrong thing, and the smarter the person the better the reason. You're smart. Do the right thing."

I didn't.

I've felt miserable about it ever since.


Zzzzzz!

Tres occasionally wakes up in the middle of the night. Sometimes I can tuck her in and soothe her back to sleep in her bed, but more often I have to pull her out of the crib and drag her to the living room to sleep with me on the couch. (I can't leave her in her bedroom or she'd wake up her two roomies; I can't take her to my bed because it's only a double and not big enough to fit three people comfortably -- plus DH needs his sleep so he doesn't kill anybody at his literally life-or-death job the next day.)

I wouldn't mind this arrangement if she'd stay on her end of the sofa. I always put her down foot to foot, so both our heads have an arm of the couch to lean up against and we can be together but not right on top of each other. Sadly, right on top of each other is what Tres prefers. I'll lay her down, then lie down myself and get comfy and immediately she's climbing over my legs and plopping her head right down on my belly. Which, incidentally, makes it very difficult for this pregnant lady to breathe. Breathing is kind of important.

I'll scoot her over. "I'm sorry I squashed your baby," she'll say, and then scoot back and squash the baby again. Add in some kicking (not from the kid on the inside), some tossing and turning, more adjusting and less oxygen -- not to mention all the times I'd have to get up and use the bathroom even without a fetus and a toddler pressing against my bladder -- and you have my average super-not-restful night on the couch with Tres.

We had one of those nights on Saturday.

Waaaaaaah.


My last day as teacher

I've been a Sunday School teacher for 8-12yo kids since last fall. We have a few rowdies in the class, but they're mostly good -- albeit excessively energetic -- kids. Being neither intimidating nor a very strict person by nature, I've given them a fair amount of leeway: I tolerate the wiggling and the joking and the occasional tangential conversation. We get through the stories, and I can tell by the brief review we do each subsequent Sunday that they usually got something out of the last week's lesson.

Two of the boys in my class, brothers, seem to have gotten a bad rap with the congregation. Several people have felt compelled to tell me how disruptive and disrespectful they are -- though having been with them for the last ~10 months or so, I disagree. Yes, they're ... well, rowdy; they have loud voices and excitable spirits that don't quite fit in their tween bodies. They get off track easily. But I have never sensed that they meant any harm. They're good hearted kids who just need a few years to mature into the fine men I'm sure they'll become.

Another boy in my class has had a very difficult life. He only joined us a few months ago (and he comes only sporadically) so I don't know him or his story well. The parts I do know are pretty sad: His dad is in prison; his brother was shot and killed in random gang violence; he moved here from the West coast with his mom and sister to get away from the dangers of that previous life -- which is good on the one hand, but on the other means he's adrift in what must seem like a completely foreign place with none of his familiar friends. All that's got to be tough on top of the usual angst that comes with the transition from childhood into adolescence.

I understand why he acts out. I try to give him just as much leeway as I do for the brothers or for any of the other kids. But I have my limits.

Yesterday was my last day as a Sunday School teacher (beginning next week, I'll be in charge of the entire Primary -- the organization for all the children, ages 1-1/2 to 12yo, in the congregation -- eeek!). The brothers were there, the boy with the hard-knock life was there and he had brought a friend. We also had three other younger and far more docile children who really tried to pay attention to the lesson about the OT prophet Samuel, but nearly all my energy (and remember, after a night with Tres it wasn't much) went toward defusing the combustible dynamic created by those four boys.

I should have separated them. I should have spread them out to the far corners of the room. Instead, I tried to keep them involved by having them read a verse here and there from the scriptures or making them answer questions. I tried to ignore the crude inside jokes and bad behavior and reward them when they paid attention. They wouldn't focus. Each fed off the others' energy.

At one point I looked up from my Bible to see the boy from the rough background hit his friend in the face, a nice hard smack.

I'd had enough. I tolerate a lot, more than most teachers ever would, but I draw the line at physical violence in church. Seriously, that's not asking much, is it? UGH. I told them all to remember who they were and where they were, then I pulled that boy out of class and tried to find someone who could deal with him one-on-one so I could go back to handle the rest of the class. We found his mother taking a nap on the couch in the foyer, so I left him with her and returned to finish my last lesson.

Now obviously something had precipitated that smack. All four boys had been acting up throughout the lesson so I don't doubt he was provoked; he later claimed that his friend had hit him first, though I didn't see or hear it. They all got a good firm talking-to when I got back, but everyone else got to stay in class. I thought I'd handled the situation reasonably well. All things considered. Given what I had to work with, and my own physical and emotional state.

But a few minutes before the end of class the boy's mother poked her head in the door and asked if her son could come back in. I said he could if he was willing to be calm. She asked if he had been the only one misbehaving and I said no, but -- and I was about to say that he was the only one I saw actually hit another person, but she lay into me about how unfairly I'd treated him. If they all acted up, they all should have been kicked out. How dare I single out her son, kick him out of class, and deny him the opportunity to learn? "We don't come here to sit in the hall," she said to me in front of all the kids, "and if that's the kind of treatment we're going to get maybe we just won't come anymore."

The uncharitable part of me was thinking, "Phew! That would make teaching this class much easier!" And the selfish part thought, "Geez, I don't want to be responsible for someone leaving the church and never coming back!"

But another part of me realized she was right: I could have handled it a million different ways -- from nipping the problem in the bud far earlier to making him sit in the corner alone, but where he could still hear and learn the gospel. I didn't do it right.

I muttered a meek apology and finished up the lesson. And as soon as it was over, as soon as we'd said the Amens for the closing prayer and the kids all filed out, my eyes welled up and I started to sob: Regret, for having handled things wrong for a boy in a very vulnerable situation (no matter how tough he acts); humiliation for having been reprimanded in front of everyone; exhaustion after a rough night with Tres; lingering guilt over having done nothing for the girl tossed from a moving car the day before; random unnameable hormonal emotions....

DH found me and insisted I tell him what happened -- we all know talking is a bad idea when I'm upset, so that didn't help; I just cried harder. I tried to walk briskly and discreetly to the Mother's Lounge where I could cry alone and in peace, but another of the Primary teachers saw me and hugged me and tried to console me. Also sweet, also not remotely helpful and meanwhile there I was stuck in the hallway with my eyes and nose all red and dripping for everyone to see. Cue more humiliation, more reason for tears.... Ay yi yi.

I sobbed for a solid hour in the Mother's Room with the lights off, missing singing time (including the Primary children singing Dos a happy birthday song) and Dos's talk about how she can follow the example of Jesus. I went through eleven tissues. I felt so sad and overwhelmed and worn flat out.


Burn, baby, burn

Today is Dos's 6th birthday, but yesterday was the only day DH had off for either the week before or the week after, so we had the family party last night at his parents' house. She requested spaghetti and meatballs, so I made way too much (seriously, waaaay too much -- we'd be eating leftovers for weeks if that didn't violate food safety rules and common sense). As I was taking the meatballs out of the oven (at the same time the noodles were finishing and the older girls fighting and Tres hovering dangerously underfoot), the pan slipped from my oven mitt and landed on my arm just above my elbow.

Ouch.

It's not a bad burn; mostly it just stung for a long while but stinging is different than actual pain. We didn't have anything to put on it, so I asked MIL when we got to her house if she had any aloe vera gel. She said she didn't, but had I tried pickle juice? Apparently that helps. I dabbed some on a napkin and put it on my arm. I don't know if it helped or not, really -- as I said, it was more irritating than painful anyway -- but I'll keep that trick in mind for the inevitable next time.

And in the meantime, my burn looks nice and impressive.


Raw and ragged

I never fully recovered from my meltdown yesterday. I stopped crying and started functioning eventually, of course, but my heart remained an unattractively gaping wound.

At dinner, DH asked what furniture I thought we should get for the new house right away (the negotiations are finalized, though we won't be able to close until Aug 16th for some reason; the only furniture we have so far is beds for everyone and a kitchen table and chairs -- everything else we'll have to get, though I don't plan on furnishing the entire place all at once). I said I thought we should get a couch for the family room, and everything else could wait. I said I envisioned a pretty L-shaped sectional with a sleeper in it, because we won't have any place for guests to sleep otherwise.

"Oh, don't get a sleeper," MIL said. "They're too heavy to move around and they're never comfortable. Don't waste your money."

"Oh," I said. And my eyes welled up (though I kept it in, just barely!).

Something that trivial should not make me cry. UGH.

After we put the girls to bed last night, DH insisted on talking again. (Why? Why does he do that?? What is this stupid thing called communication, anyway?) I broke down again: I just feel so ... tired. And I know I'm going to keep feeling tired, and it's only going to get worse before it gets better, and -- between growing ever more uncomfortable and then feeding a baby every two hours day and night all while taking care of three others -- it's not going to get better for a very very long time. Knowing that wears me out more. I just want to sleep. I want the sleep to be restful (ha!).

*Sigh.*

But some days (or entire weekends) are like that, I guess. Even in Australia.


~RCH~

Ten Eight Things On My Mind

On the one hand, I don't feel like I have the energy or attention span lately to formulate an entire post on a single subject. On the other hand, I hate neglecting the reader(s) of my blog. So I've decided to give you this rambly, disjointed list of things on my mind instead of any articulate, cohesive thoughts.

You're welcome.

1. All three girls are loudly playing Dora Candyland around the kitchen table. It's been at the very top of the game closet for a long time, so they don't quite remember how to play it. Uno, in what I assume to be typical oldest child fashion, is making up the rules ... in her favor. The other two haven't caught on yet, but it sounds like they're having fun so I'll stay out of it.

2. My sister and her family came up from Atlanta to spend the 4th of July weekend with us. I love that they're close enough to make road trips viable, and that her family enjoys road trips so much (I do, but DH isn't such a fan, boo-hoo). All the girls miss their cousins, but Tres, especially, (who at 2yo has a less firm grasp on the realities of time) keeps asking when she can see them again. Every morning she wakes up hoping to see the boys chilling in their sleeping bags in the living room and every morning she's disappointed. Awwww!

3. I'm a little more than half way through my fourth pregnancy (fifth, if you count the one that ended early), and I'm getting nervous -- as always -- that I won't know it if I'm going into labor. I've never felt contractions without the help of pitocin; the first time, my water broke on its own and then nothing happened for a day (at which point they gave me the kick start) and each of the other times I've been induced. We're planning an induction this time, as well, but what happens if Cuatro tries to come on her own a little early? Will I know? What if I don't?

Obviously, I know what contractions feel like at the very end -- they hurt, lol. But I've been hooked up to monitors plenty of times by now, right before or just after being dosed with Pitocin, and seen contractions come and go on the screen that I never feel (or at least not strongly enough to differentiate them from other 9-month discomforts). And even when I do start to feel them, they're not the distinct and measurable contractions I understand other women experience. It's not Zero Pain, Oy That Hurts, Now It's Over For X Number of Minutes So Stop the Stopwatch! I'd have no idea how to time them because it's more like (Ever-present) Vague Discomfort, Gradual Increase of Discomfort With No Distinct Beginning, Gradual Easing (but not cessation) of Discomfort With No Distinct End. By the time I know for sure it's not just the usual aches and pains of pregnancy, the contractions are right on top of each other and I'm minutes from delivering.

So yeah. You'd think I'd know how to do this by now, on my fourth kid, but I still worry. If it doesn't happen as planned (no labor whatsoever until I arrive at the hospital and am suitably supervised!), I'm not going to know it's happening at all until it's too late. Eeeeek!

4. I had an appointment with the specialist last week (I get monthly ultrasounds to make sure she's growing on target; apparently clotting disorders can make for small babies and/or low fluid levels) and DH came with me. After we finished with my doctor, we (well, he -- but I tagged along) had a lunch meeting with some of the staff of that hospital so that DH, in his capacity as Medical Director of our little hospital's ER, could meet some of the big city doctors he sends his more seriously ill patients on to. Several of the doctors asked where I was from as we made introductions, and I always replied, "out West."

Here's the thing: I love my home state of Utah. It has gorgeous scenery, dry heat in the summer, it's easy to navigate, the people are friendly, and it's ... home. But I hate to reveal that I'm from there because then people assume they know all about me -- and in one sense, they're right; I am a walking cliché: "Are you Mormon?" Yes. "Did you grow up with tons of brothers and sisters?" Yep, I'm the third of eight. "Did you go to BYU?" For one shameful semester, lol, and then I wised up. But just because they know something about me doesn't mean they know anything about me, if you know what I mean. I hate to let them think that they do.

I am far more than the sum of my demographic parts, thank you very much.

5. This is a very random one, but I wonder if anybody watches Jay Leno anymore. I don't, on principle. I know the whole Tonight Show fiasco of last Spring wasn't entirely his fault -- he didn't personally steal Conan's job; it's more like he (gleefully) ended up in possession of stolen property after the NBC execs ripped Conan off. Hmmmm. Anyway. The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. I used to tune in occasionally for the wacky headlines or the Jay Walking skits, but now I use that time slot to catch up on shows I've DVRed.

6. We are in the process of trying to buy a house -- the second one from my Window Shopping post, in fact (the first one got snatched up -- after almost two years on the market -- a couple weeks after I blogged about it). The house is more than 100 years old, so DH wants to be extra extremely thorough with the inspections. We had a general inspection already, but DH has called friends of his or his dad who are electricians, plumbers, and HVAC professionals, respectively, to take a more detailed look. He figures that if we're already going to be paying two mortgages (somebody, ANYBODY want to buy a house in small town Idaho???) we don't need to get into a money pit that constantly needs repair. He's right, of course. But I'm just anxious to have it all settled. I need to nest!

7. And on that note: The previous owners painted the middle of each kitchen cabinet with white paint and decorative blue flowers. If everything goes well and we get the house, I will change that. My question is, can I repaint the cabinets to look like regular wood again? Or will I have to paint all of the cabinets in a solid (non-wood stain) color? What about the wood trim throughout the rest of the room? Would it look weird if it were different from the cabinets?

8. I love The Electric Company on PBS. The music is fabulous. Silent E is totally a ninja. :-)

Huh. I had meant to blog ten things, but my mind is completely blank and now Uno is begging to use the computer so she can make a fairy at Pixie Hollow. So I guess that's all. :-P


~RCH~

Wherein I ramble about, you know, stuff

DH is a girly man

If you're my Facebook friend, you already know the news: Numero Cuatro (thanks for the spelling correction, Alison! I had no idea!) is another girl. Apparently DH has no Y chromosomes, lol. I thought I would be ecstatic at that news -- I have always been a girls' girl; boys seem like an alien race I've never been able to figure out (so how could I parent one?). I love being a mom of daughters. I love to see the bond of sisterhood developing among these first three. Honestly, I've always felt a little (or a lot) relieved to get a girl.

But.... But....

This is final. There will be no Cinco. Our last name will die out with DH. I feel very conflicted about that. I feel like I've "won" at DH's expense, or something.

I was talking to a guy the other day who (I believe) was trying to congratulate me on having so many girls, though his comments later caused me to have a giant hormonal meltdown. He said that having a son after having two daughters was amazing in an unexpectedly different way because he could look into that tiny baby's eyes and really know what life had in store for him: What it might feel like to get picked on in the boy's locker room, or to nervously ask a girl out on a first date, or whatever. I think he meant to say that I was lucky to have that bond of automatic empathy with all of my children. Later, though, all I could think about was what DH would never have.

My meltdown began with a few silent, stoic tears -- but then DH, who insists that talking things out is a good thing (grumble, grumble), made me tell him what was wrong. The more I tried to spit it out, the sobbier I got until I was choking on tears and could no longer breathe through my stuffed up nose. It was awesome. (Why can't he just leave me alone until the emotional moment passes? Distract me rather than making me focus on the sadness? Talking-schmalking, I say! GEEZ.)

He insists he's happy to have four girls, and I believe him. He says that having daughters "softens" him in a way he needs; he worries that if he had a son, he'd be as hard on him as he is on himself (or as his dad was with him growing up). I shouldn't be sad on his account, he tells me. (And besides, it's his fault, lol.)

But.... But....


Names

If Cuatro had been a boy, he'd be named already (with the boy name we picked out for Uno). But Fate Babyess remains nameless. It's tricky, because each of the other girls have names with Significance! Uno is named after two of the best women I know, her grandmothers; Dos is named after a courageous religious figure; Tres is named for two sisters of DH's grandfather, feisty, funny, hard-working women he admired.

Cuatro, too, needs something to inspire her, something to live up to -- not just a name that sounds nice (though that would be cool too, lol). And plus it ought to go well with the other girls' names, which are all old fashioned and on the strong side of the strong - prissy continuum. If we go the family name route, it ought to be from my side this time (for the sake of symmetry). I would also consider names of religious, historical, and/or literary significance -- but the farther it gets from a personal connection with the name, the better the name would have to be to make the cut.

Oh, and I have five sisters who all have beautiful names that would fit my criteria, but I can't use any of them because then the others would think I loved that sister better. (And even if they didn't -- because really, my sisters aren't petty like that -- it just doesn't seem right.) So that's five good names off the table right there. :-P

See? No pressure at all. Don't know why we haven't figured something out yet.


Maternity pants

I hate them. They always feel like they're falling down, no matter how huge my belly gets. I still have one pair of regular jeans I can squeeze into, and two pairs of knit pants. I will resist the maternity pants for as long as possible.


The great debate

I almost forgot to mention! We discussed my clotting condition -- and my complete lack of any actual clotting -- with the Maternal-Fetal specialist on Monday. In her opinion, I do not need anticoagulation. (Insert mental picture of me doing the happy dance.) I asked her about baby aspirin, but she felt that any potential benefits were too small to risk its side effects, especially toward the end of the pregnancy. So it's nothing. YAY!!!

I did buy some purple grape juice and ginger ale at the grocery store yesterday. And I'll try to eat stuff with garlic in it. I've read that each of those has natural anticoagulant properties. Maybe that will ease DH's fears? Couldn't hurt, anyway. Woo-hoo! :-)


Tres's favorite joke

TRES: Knock-knock!

RCH: Who's there?

TRES: [Anything random]

RCH: [Anything] who?

TRES: K-K! [Pumps fist in the air] YESSS!!!

I don't have the slightest idea what the joke means, or why Tres seems to think she's pulling one over on us when telling it (which she'll do over and over until we answer, "Nobody's home!"). But she thinks she's hilarious.


~RCH~

What's up with the Turnip

I signed up for a weekly newsletter that updates me on my pregnancy every Friday. It tells me how the little Fate Baby should be developing, what it can do (hear and sense light, recently), how I should expect to feel, and answers to common questions. All very fascinating. I'm not sure why this stuff still interests me, four babies on; it's hardly novel anymore. I guess it helps me feel connected to the little parasite taking over my belly.

For the record, this week the baby is the size of a turnip (last week he or she was an avocado).

DH got to come to my second doctor's appointment, which was last Tuesday. I can't remember how many times he accompanied me to OB visits in previous pregnancies, but I guarantee it wasn't very often (if at all). The first time, he was a busy medical student; then he was a busy resident; then he was one of only two doctors in an entire rural county and couldn't take time off. Now, as the director of the ER, he's the one making the schedule, woo-hoo-hoo-wah-ah-ah! Which may actually be irrelevant, because he makes the schedule way in advance. So really it was coincidental that he had that day off, but in any case I'm grateful. MIL came over to take the older two girls to school (their second-to-last day) and play with Tres. DH and I left the house just after 7am to make the 8:30 appointment; thanks to some unexpected construction, we showed up just a few minutes late ... and then had to wait for about two hours before the nurse called my name. Normally I'd be annoyed by that, but DH had me laughing all morning. It felt more like a date than a doctor's appointment. It's silly to say, but I felt wooed. :-)

...Until we got back to the room, of course, at which point I felt ganged up on, lol. I say that only half seriously; both my doctor and my husband want the best for me, which I appreciate, but I disagree with their conclusions about what that should be: They want me to prophylactically treat my clotting disorder, despite the fact that I've never personally had any problems because of it (my sister has, but I think she soaked up all the bad luck in the family and the rest of us are fine). Apparently I have a 10% greater chance than the average pg woman of having a blood clot. (The stats get worse for women who have a personal history of clotting already, or who have inherited the mutation from both parents instead of just one.) "That may not seem like a lot," the doctor said, "unless you consider that the potential bad outcome of, say, a pulmonary embolism is DEATH."

Oh sure, play the death card why don't you!

*Sigh.* The decision is allegedly mine, but I have a feeling that I'll be guilted into shooting myself in the legs a couple times a day, every day, with blood thinners that leave huge, ugly, painful bruises -- despite the 90% chance that it's for no reason at all, that I'd be "preventing" something that never would have happened to me in the first place.

Is it okay if I feel bitter about that? Because I do. Stupid mutated genes, grumble, grumble.

The rest of the appointment consisted of discussing my Advanced Maternal Age, yay. I'm still a spring chicken, birthing-wise, but I will turn 35 (the magic Old Lady age) before the end of the pregnancy and thus I've been dumped into that category of high risk and defective eggs. This means I get to consult with a Maternal-Fetal specialist a week from tomorrow (an appointment DH will also get to come to!): We will visit with a genetic counselor, have an ultrasound (I'll be 18 weeks -- maybe they'll be able to tell me what flavor this kid is?), then meet with the M/F specialist herself. Sounds like it'll be a fun way to spend a morning -- unless, of course, my eggs do turn out to have been defective in any way (in which case I'll be even more grateful that DH is there with me).

At last week's appointment we also decided which hospital I'll go to to have the baby (and we're definitely planning on induction, given the distance -- if I waited for contractions, I'd likely end up having the baby in the car somewhere in the middle of nowhere with bad cell phone reception). The city has two very good hospitals, one Catholic and one private. We decided to go with the Catholic hospital because it's closer by about 15 minutes (which may or may not be critical when it comes right down to it!), my OB says they have better digs for the dads, and plus what if they have nuns for nurses? Ooooh! LOL. I'm such a nerd, but that last part especially excites me.

Anyway, that's the news on the turnip for this week. I'm getting bigger (though mostly not in maternity clothes yet -- geez, I hate maternity clothes!) and soon even random strangers will know I'm knocked up. Quick funny story and then I'll end: We waited for quite a while to tell Uno and Dos because they are big blabber mouths. The Sunday after we told them, they blurted out the news to their Primary teacher at church. As the teacher related to me later, she said, "How exciting! Are your mom and dad telling people yet?" The girls answered, in all their enthusiasm and innocence, "No -- but we are!" Tee-hee.

And that is all for now.


~RCH~

:: Bangs head against the wall ::

Oh my goodness. I can't believe I'm adding a 4th to this mix.

It's been one of those days all day long: I woke up with frazzled nerves (DH says I mumbled all night long, so I guess what sleep I got was not the restful kind -- for either of us) and every single sound the kids have made has grated on me all day. This morning we had happy fort-building noises, then squealy-screamy fighting-over-a-balloon noises, then the sounds of the older two practicing for their second-ever piano lessons with Grandpa. (We don't have a piano, sadly, but we got a mini keyboard at Radio Shack. Which means the girls enjoy laying down a kickin' synthesizer drum beat behind their repetitive three-note song. AWESOME.)

I got some peace at noon when I put Tres down for a nap and DH, who had the day off, took the other girls to his parents' house for their piano lessons. But I blinked and they were home, those children with their inability to whisper, and Tres woke up before she should have. Cue the loud video game noises, the hey-it's-my-turn! noises, the I'm-huuuuuuungry whining. I tried to lie down for much of the afternoon, since DH was home to pick up the slack, but Tres kept coming in every few minutes to kiss my headache or give me an imaginary bandaid with fairies on it. Sweet, but still not terribly restful.

Still very frazzled feeling.

Bedtime consisted of the usual craziness, the herding of reluctant, easily distracted cats toward pajamas and tooth brushing and story time. Dos livened things up by throwing a fit at one of my choices of stories, and then throwing a bigger fit when I acquiesced and stopped reading the objectionable story. So I cut reading time short (see, I have this crazy rule that you don't get to kick your mother without a consequence) and put everyone in their own beds. Tres cried and screamed because she didn't want to be cooped up in her crib yet. Dos continued to wail and flail over who knows what (she was so tired, anything I'd have done would have been wrong in her eyes). Uno remained the very picture of calm; I think she likes it when Dos has tantrums because it makes her (Uno) seem so rational.

Ay yi yi.

They're not asleep yet. Dos sobbed for a long while -- "I only wanted Mommy to read me that story! I promise I wouldn't throw a fit anymore!" -- and I almost felt bad. Sometimes I'm torn between wanting to be merciful and actually teaching them that kicking your mom (or anyone else) is wrong. Sigh. But it worked out all right; I can hear Uno reading amazing true facts about weather to her by the light of their night light. It's not the book Dos wanted (or didn't want, depending on which moment you asked her) but it's calmed her down; the girls still get their story and I get to stick to my guns. It seems like a reasonable compromise all around, so I will not go in and remind them to go to sleep yet.

*SIGH.*

I feel so fried. I felt fried by 9am, and this was a day when I had DH home with us the whole time! Those days are rare! What am I going to do when squealy-screamy Quatro gets here? You know I won't be getting any restful sleep then! How will I survive? How in the world did my mom raise eight of us and stay so sweet and sane??

Clearly I am not her.


~RCH~

Babies, babies, babies!

For weeks I've been terrorized by this bird nearly every time I left the house:



We have two bushes to either side of the front porch; whenever I walked past the one closest to the driveway, this sweet little bird would bolt out of the bush, scaring the crap out of me. (You'd think I'd come to expect it, but I'd startle every time.)

It finally occurred to me that if the same bird kept returning to the same low bush, she probably had a nest inside. So earlier this week I checked. I carefully pulled apart the branches and peeked inside, expecting to find an empty nest that I could show the girls. But what did I see instead?



These guys!



Aren't they the cutest things ever?

Their position in the bush is right at the older girls' eye level, so now every time we go outside we (carefully, quietly, and respectfully) check on the babies. I get hourly reports each afternoon after school:

"The babies are sleeping!"

"The babies are waiting for their mama to bring them some worms!"

"The mama bird was with them, and I didn't even scare her away! I don't think she knew I was watching them!"

I have no idea how long it takes for baby robins to grow up and learn to fly, but I'm sure we'll all be sad when they do. In the meantime, I totally love these little guys. They're so, so sweet.

Plus, being able to feel excited about babies, generally -- even little birdie ones -- helps me feel a little more excited about my own (completely unexpected and possibly immaculately conceived) baby. Look for Quatro to debut in late October or early November. :-P

So there. Now the announcement has been made. But mostly you should gush over how adorable our baby birds are. CUTEST. THINGS. EVER. :-)


~RCH~

Anybody else have this issue?

Any other Blogger bloggers, that is:

For the last couple months, I've been repeatedly hit by Asian spam commenters every week or so. They hit 10-15 posts at once, leaving a big long link in Asian characters with the odd English word thrown in the mix (志色教館,AV女優,SEX,咆哮小老鼠,85cc免費影片, as copied & pasted from a recent comment). It's pretty obviously porn.

I can go in and delete them, of course, and that's what I've been doing. 10-15 permanent deletes, one at a time, every week or so. But it's annoying. I'm losing patience.

I changed my posting options so that my blog won't be crawled by search engines; I'm not sure how else random porn spammers would find me. That hasn't seemed to help, though. I'm beginning to wonder if I should set my blog to private, at least for a little while until they stop harassing me. But maybe that's equally annoying?

UGH. Anybody else have this problem? Or is it just lucky me? What should I do?


~RCH~

The Mysterious Case of the Doorbell in the Night

Once upon a time last Sunday night, DH helped me put the girls to bed and then left for his 12-hour shift in the ER. I putzed around the house for a while, considered the laundry (and then didn't do any), enjoyed the quiet and finally, at around 10pm, put on my own pajamas and headed to bed.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.

I sat up. Who would ring the doorbell after 10pm? I wasn't expecting anyone. I didn't want to answer the door in my PJs. I figured I could safely ignore it, so I lay back down ... until I remembered that I hadn't locked the deadbolt when DH left.

I got up, tiptoed to the door in case someone was still patiently waiting for me to answer, very slowly and quietly turned the lock and then ran back to bed.

I had no idea who could have been at the door, but I didn't think much of it. It could have been an inconsiderate neighbor wanting to borrow ingredients for a late night snack; it could have been some stranger with a flat tire wanting to use the phone (though who doesn't have a cell these days? Even I do, and I hate phones!). In any case, it likely had nothing to do with me, personally, and when I didn't answer they moved on to someone else or gave up entirely. After that single ring of the bell -- nothing, and I went to sleep.

Until 1:15 in the morning, when the deep silence of a sleeping house was shattered by the tinny sound of the doorbell.

I sat straight up in bed. The house was locked. I had no intention of opening the door. But who could it be?

My half-asleep brain spun through a Rolodex of odd possibilities: Maybe MIL was in trouble and needed a place to spend the night (though she'd go to SIL's before coming here). Maybe one of my far away family or friends had taken a spontaneous road trip to see me, and wanted to surprise me as soon as they arrived, no matter the time (wishful thinking! Though for the record, please call before ringing the bell in the middle of the night). Maybe some desperate unwed mother had abandoned her baby on our stoop and wanted to make sure I found him before morning, before he would have succumbed to the elements (yeah, I told you I was still half asleep!).

Nothing made any sense. I felt vaguely uneasy. The door remained quiet again for almost an hour, and then the ringing began again -- more frequently, more aggressively. Every couple of minutes, the doorbell would ring two or three times in quick succession. Ignoring it would not be an option if I wanted the kids to stay asleep, if I wanted to get any sleep.

But what could I do? There I was, defenseless, a woman alone in the house with three small children to protect. More ominous possibilities ran through my head now: What if someone was out there waiting for my resolve to wear down, and when I finally did answer the door to make him stop, he'd rush in and attack me? Someone too lazy or drugged out to pick a lock, or someone who gets off on the psychological assault as much as the physical...?

I've never been nervous about DH working nights; I've never let my imagination run wild over the phantom creaks and groans of a house or random bangs and bumps in the night. I love the feeling of having the whole dark, quiet world to myself. But these noises were not the passive sounds of the house shifting and settling, these were forceful, insistent -- and most creepy of all, external -- noises that would not let me go.

I texted DH at work, hoping he wasn't too busy with a medical emergency to help me with my domestic one. "It's 2am. Someone keeps ringing the bell," I wrote, "and it's FREAKING ME OUT."

He called right back. "Have you checked to see who it is?" he asked. No, I said. We don't have a peephole in the door, and I didn't want to risk peeking through the curtains of the big picture window for fear that whoever was out there would see me (or, for that matter, that I would see him and confirm my worst fears). "Just look," DH said.

I peeked quickly from the far edge of the curtain. I saw no one. Of course, I wouldn't if he were standing very close to the door.

I told DH. The doorbell rang again. "Okay," he said, "Why don't you stand on a chair and look down through the half circle window at the top of the door, just to make sure. There won't be any blind spots from there."

I slowly dragged a kitchen chair across the carpet. I stood on it and rose up on my tiptoes, terrified that I would look down and meet a pair of eyeballs staring back at me.

I checked.

The porch was empty.

"No one," I told DH.

"You know how that doorbell sticks sometimes?" he said. "Sometimes you have to push it twice to get it to stop buzzing? I bet it has a short in the wiring. See if you can find a switch to turn it off and call me back."

I dragged the chair beneath the doorbell chimes and removed the case. No switch, but a clear and simple diagram of the wiring: One master wire; one wire for the front door; one wire for the back (though we don't have a back door, so go figure that one); each wire connected to a metal loop to complete the circuit. I dug out a screw driver and pried the front door wire away from its connection. It took a few tries because the wire was so used to curling securely around the loop that it kept falling back into place. Every touch of the screwdriver to the wire set off sparks and a new round of frenzied ringing.

Miraculously, none of the children woke up through any of this.

Finally I had it disconnected. I called DH to report my success. "You see?" he said. "Nothing to worry about. We live in a very safe neighborhood. You're going to be fine. Besides," he teased, "if any more of those very polite burglars come back, just do what you did before -- don't open the door."

UGH.

He would understand if he were a girl. I wasn't worried about being robbed. There are worse things than having your stuff stolen.

Still keyed up from all the tension of the night, I turned on the TV to help me unwind. I watched a DVRd episode of Bones -- because what's more calming than a forensic crime drama? -- and finally fell asleep around 4am.

I rose again at 7am to get the girls ready for school, exhausted but relieved to be done with the mysterious case of the doorbell in the night.


~RCH~

Window shopping and small town life

It's Spring! Or almost, anyway; today was actually really cold. But I've seen leaf buds on a few trees, and it's March for heaven's sake! Change is a-brewin'! The world is about to slip on its axis and drop down into that most fabulous of seasons where everything is alive and growing and reaching its arms up to the sun. We're on the cusp, kids. Any day now. :-)

DH had the day off today. We spent the afternoon looking at houses. Ours out West still hasn't sold yet, but our realtor assures us that things will start to pick up with the warm weather and I'm not concerned. Besides, the market here is just as slow; if we find a house we love and can't make an offer for another 6 months or more it's likely to still be available. And in the meantime it's fun to dream.

The realtor, a friend of DH's uncle, took us to her favorite house first:



OH MY GOODNESS.

I was all set to be reasonable because it's something like 4,000 square feet; I'm a bad housekeeper in the ~900 square feet we've got now so what do I need with three stories plus a basement? But! But! Hardwood floors throughout. Huge high ceilings. Beautiful dark wood molding. Fireplaces. A sun room! Large windows everywhere, including a row of original stained glass windows on the second floor landing. Radiators with decorative covers. Pocket doors. A laundry chute, even! Charm oozing from every corner of the place. Oooooozing, I tell you. Each of the five bedrooms was huge and painted in lovely colors I would have chosen myself (but see, I wouldn't have to now!). Oh, and did I mention that the master bedroom has its own sitting room that opens up to the balcony and a porch swing? Hmmmm?

In love yet?

It doesn't help that I spent my college years here, swinging on a similar porch swing:



We really don't need that much house, but holy cow does it tug at my heart.

She took us to this house, DH's favorite, next:



This one is plenty spacious, too, but "only" has two stories and a basement (for short people -- very low ceilings down there!). It has beautiful large windows, plantation shutters, storage bench window seats, pocket doors, fireplaces with all sorts of charm.... I wouldn't have chosen the wallpaper or paint, but that's easy enough to change. It looks a little more broken-in than the first one -- but that's probably a good thing; my girls (and I, with my own slovenly ways) would probably tear up that first house shamefully. This one feels more lived in, less museumy. It's homey.

Still. Do you feel my slight lack of enthusiasm? "I never should have let you see that first one," DH said as we left the second. LOL. He's right. I would probably have raved obnoxiously about his favorite if I hadn't seen the other one first.

Not that we're planning to get either of them, of course. We're still just window shopping, and I'd like to look at a few mid-century ranch houses. And bricks. I like bricks.

We actually did look at a single story house earlier in the day, though it isn't on the market yet. DH had heard that its owners were thinking of moving, so we just knocked on the door and the lady of the house was gracious enough to show us around. It was a beautiful, well cared for home but I don't think it had enough yard for our needs. Oh well.

The house isn't what I wanted to tell you about that visit, anyway. DH knew the woman's family; her son had been his junior high school English teacher, and he knew some of her grandchildren as well. As we walked through the rooms he kept stopping to ask about all the photos. "Is that Mike, there? Hasn't changed much. That can't be Sarah! She was just a kid the last time I saw her! Now whose wedding was this?" They talked and reminisced, and then we came to a photo of the woman's sister.

"How's she doing?" DH asked.

"She passed away three years ago, actually. Broke my heart."

We offered our condolences.

"It was lung cancer; she was a smoker, you know. They diagnosed her in June and she was gone by October. I always told her...." She sighed. "My parents put her in bed with me when she was a year old and I was around ten. We shared a room for the next eight years, until I got married. In fact, on my wedding day she sat down on K's lap and cried, just begging him not to take me away from her.... She was my little buddy, always."

Talk about tugging at your heart! Honestly, I had to fight back the tears. So sweet and sad.

I love the way DH talks to people here. Even growing up, he was intimately connected to the community: His grandpa was a mason who helped build many of the older houses; his great uncle was a doctor; his parents and an uncle were all teachers; one way or another, they -- and DH -- came to know just about every family in town. And now, again, as a doctor himself, he's got his finger on the pulse. He knows everyone's stories, how they all intersect with each other, who their grandparents and first cousins and ex-wives all are....

He didn't have the benefit of knowing everyone so well when we first got to our old town, but his nurse did. She'd been there forever and seen everyone and everything. We spent a 4th of July afternoon at her house one year and listened to her and her daughter tell the most fascinating stories over burgers and potato salad. The one snippet I remember best was the punchline to a story about someone the daughter had gone to school with. After first cataloging his family connections and noting his chronic bad luck: "The train comes through on that line, what, about once every ten years? And of course he manages to get hit by it!" Everybody laughed (as I recall the guy in question only ended up with a broken leg; I'm sure it wouldn't have been funny if he'd been more seriously hurt).

But anyway.

I was thinking about those conversations tonight, and it reminded me of a poem I'd read years ago in the book The Language of Life, a collection of conversations with poets by the journalist Bill Moyers. I dug it up and hope it's all right to reprint that poem here with proper attribution.

Genealogy
by James A. Autry (begins on pg. 18 of The Language of Life)

You are
in these hills
who you were and who you will become
and not just who you are

      She was a McKinstry
      and his mother was a Smith

And the listeners nod
at what the combination will produce
those generations to come
of thievery or honesty
of heathens or Christians
of slovenly men or working

      'Course her mother was a Sprayberry

And the new name rises
to the shaking of heads
the tightening of lips
the widening of eyes

      And his daddy's mother was a McIlhenney

Oh god a McIlhenney
and silence prays for the unborn children
those little McKinstry Smith Sprayberry McIlhenneys

      Her daddy was no count and her daddy's daddy was no count

Old Brother Jim Goff said it
when Mary Allen was pregnant

      Might as well send that chile
      to the penitentiary soon he's born
      gonna end up there anyway

But that lineage could also forgive
with benign expectation
of transgressions to come

      'Course, what do you expect
      his grandaddy was a Wilkins

or

      The Whitsells are a little crazy
      but they generally don't beat up nobody outside the family

or

      You can't expect much work out of a Latham
      but they won't steal from you

In other times and other places
there are new families and new names

      He's ex P&G
      out of Benton and Bowles
      and was brand management with Colgate

And listeners sip Dewar's and soda or puff New True Lights
and know how people will do things
they are expected to do
New fathers spring up and new sons and grandsons
always in jeopardy of leaving the family

      Watch young Dillard
      if he can work for Burton he's golden
      but he could be out tomorrow

And new marriages are bartered for old-fashioned reasons

      If you want a direct marketing guy
      get a headhunter after someone at Time Inc.

Through it all
communities new and old watch and judge and make sure
the names are in order
and everyone understands


I've said it before: Growing up, I never wanted to live in a small town. I felt stifled in mid-sized suburbia, where each town flowed into the next until you hit the City. I could never have imagined I'd end up in rural America, let alone that I'd enjoy it! But the older I get, the more I'm convinced that all the world's a small town. Even in the biggest metropolis, you have your neighborhoods of intimate familiarity, the places you always shop, the faces you always see, the landmarks you've stopped looking at because you know them with your eyes closed. A congregation, a company, a neighborhood, a school.... Each of them is merely a variation on a theme, and just as much a small town as this burg surrounded by fields and farms. And all just as lovely.

See? It must be Spring. I'm beginning to bloom where I'm planted. ;-)


~RCH~

A little of this, a little of that

I don't have the gift of follow-through. Or a lot of uninterrupted time, for that matter. Tres, in particular, likes to come glomp on me as soon as I sit down to type. "Help me, help me Mommy!" she says, begging me to hoist her onto my lap, where she proceeds to jump up and down on my legs and cover my eyes. It's awesome, let me tell you. Not surprisingly, this leads to half-finished blog posts.

Well, dangit! I'm tired of putting off their completion any longer! Also, I am too tired to actually complete them. So here you go:


Career Goals [from about two weeks ago]

Uno, having watched Babe this morning, has decided that as soon as she's old enough she will run for President of the United States on a platform of vegetarianism. And also the important issue of lemonade vs. water in drinking fountains (she supports lemonade).

Dos continues to aspire to be a soldier, though she hasn't yet settled on a particular branch of the military.

Tres told me yesterday (even before seeing Babe!) that when she grows up she wants to be a baby pig. Or maybe the letter N.


Favorite Things [from last weekend]

I am not as, um, special as Oprah, so I will not be giving anything away. Sorry. But seriously, how awesome is this stuff?

Have One on Me by Joanna Newsom - The eccentric folk harpist is an acquired taste, an artist people either love or hate with little in between. I get that. I've loved her since I first heard Sprout And The Bean on college radio in West Texas, but this latest album of hers.... Wah! It's so lovely, lyrically, musically. It feels like the soundtrack to some wonderfully moody afternoon, a solitary drive on back roads or a walk in the woods. I don't know. It's just fabulous. I can't say enough. (I started by downloading On A Good Day and Occident, but in the end I had to get the whole thing. Anyway, those are good places to start.)

Clickin' Moms - I just added a banner for this forum to my side bar. I follow lots of photographers' blogs for inspiration and appreciate the articles at Digital Photography School, but in terms of direct, supportive and helpful interaction with other photographers of all levels, Clickin' Moms is the place for me. It is a subscription-based forum, but the price is small; at (IIRC) around $6 per month, I think I get way more than my money's worth. (And despite the name, not all the forum members are moms. Most are, but it's certainly not required!)

eShakti - Have you ever thought to yourself, "Wow, that dress would look great on me if only it had (any / shorter / longer / different) sleeves or X neckline instead of Y..."? As one whose religious choices can narrow her clothing options, I can tell you I think that all the freaking time, lol. Though I imagine a lot of women do, actually; what flatters one body type doesn't suit every body type. Well here comes eShakti to the rescue! They offer customizable women's clothing in sizes 0-26w to which you can make adjustments (sleeve, neckline, hem length, etc) or get a more precise fit than you would elsewhere. I've never ordered from there, as I just stumbled on the site today, so I can't speak to the quality. But the prices seem very reasonable, especially considering the service they offer.

Cook This, Not That!: Kitchen Survival Guide - We eat out way too much. Way too ridiculously much. I picked this book up at the grocery store after Uno conned me into making a fancy dinner for Valentine's Day and needed a good recipe for roast chicken. That recipe, and others I've tried since, are all very easy and tasty -- and all have (along with the main photo of the completed dish) a small picture of a comparable meal from a restaurant with a note about how many calories the restaurant version has vs. the one in the book. HOLY COW. No wonder I'm not skinny, lol. Long story short, this cookbook is a very handy reference and a good motivator to cook at home!

[There was supposed to be more stuff after that, but I've forgotten now what it was. :-P]


Depressed [from a couple nights ago]

Uno is terribly homesick; she tells me every day how much she hates it here, how much she misses her old friends and the mountains and the Taco Bus, how mad she is at Grandma for smoking (she knows that among our reasons for moving was the precarious health of DH's parents who live here; Uno's 7yo brain has interpreted that to mean that it's all MIL's fault that our lives were uprooted -- *sigh*).

She has random stomach aches. She never wants to go to school (though she continues to do well, and she has lots of friends). I've talked to her teacher, who says that Uno does fine during the very structured moments or the wild and crazy fun of recess -- but that she'll sometimes find Uno silently crying in the in-between times when she has a moment to herself to think about things. When she asks what's wrong, Uno never says anything more than, "I'll be okay. I just miss my mom."

Which is odd, because at home she's always mad at me. I don't love her enough; I treat her like a slave; I couldn't possibly be her real mother or I wouldn't behave the way I do with her.

None of this was an issue before Christmas break; she seemed to have adjusted just fine to the move before then. As I said, she has lots of friends; she's constantly being invited to birthday parties. Her teacher doesn't believe she's being bullied by anyone, and Uno insists nobody has been mean to her. She's just ... homesick.

I don't know what to do for her. I feel like I should know; I was a mopey kid, too. I remember writing a note to the world when I was about her age -- a plea to someone, anyone to notice me and love me. "I feel like everybody takes me for granite," the note said. My smart-alecky brother found it tucked at the bottom of a tree where I'd left it. "People think you're a rock?" he asked. Cue humiliation and further mopiness.

Of course my childish melancholy evolved into something more pathological as I grew up. Uno (any of them, really) has a strong genetic predisposition to depression, if she doesn't have it already. I don't want that for her, but I don't know how to prevent it -- and frankly her outbursts irritate / anger me more often than stoke the fires of my compassion. How terrible is that? I just want the whining and melodrama to stop; I don't want to see the worst parts of myself reflected in her. (So you see, she's right: I am a horrible mother.)

So far my strategy has been to assure her that it's okay to miss our old life. I remind her how much we loved West Texas, but that we came to love the Mountain West too. I let her know that I miss our old home, too, and my family and friends. I try to reminisce in a positive way, and then brainstorm with her the things we like about our new life here (a movie theater closer than an hour away! A bowling alley! The other side of the family that we rarely saw before! Beautiful National Forest land! Fireflies in the summer! Snow days for no good reason!).

[I meant to write more, but I'm sure this is enough. Any ideas / experiences from my friends in Comment Land?]


* * *

Well, that about clears out the recent unfinished posts. I'll finish with some fun baby-isms from the increasingly grown up (2yo) Tres to lighten the mood:

Helicopter = hellodoctor
Hippopotamus = happomotomus
Ice cream = hice cream
Small baby dog = puppet (a mix between puppy and "I want to pet it," I believe)

:-)


~RCH~

Quote of the Day

Narration on American Idol: He did well in his first audition in Orlando, despite a difficult upbringing....

RCH: Why, what's his story?

DH: He was difficultly up-brought.


~RCH~

Free Will Astrology

Back in the day when we were geographically close, my BFF Beckle and I had a tradition: Any time we went to lunch at an establishment that carried the [Salt Lake] City Weekly, we would each take a turn reading aloud the other's horoscope from Rob Brezsny's Free Will Astrology column. As I've mentioned before, his are always entertaining and very often meaningful and, while I don't check them every week, I do take a peek from time to time when I remember to.

I really like mine for this week:

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22)

A friend of mine has woven her life together with a Leo who doesn't fully appreciate the ways she expresses her adoration. She asked me to use my bully pulpit as a horoscope writer to convey a message to her lover, and I agreed, because I think it's excellent advice for all of the Leo tribe this Valentine season. Here's what she said: "Just because somebody doesn't always love you the way you wish they would, doesn't mean they don't love you the best they can and with all they have." Are you willing to consider the possibility that maybe you should take that plea to heart, Leo? I hope so, because then you'll be able to get some of the good loving you've closed yourself off from.


And now for you, Beckle, and also my other BFF, K2 (I am very drawn to Bulls, apparently! :-) )

TAURUS (April 20-May 20):

In my view, 2010 is the year you should expand your world. That could mean enlarging your circle of allies or building a bigger web of connections. It might mean broadening your appeal or widening your frame of reference or opening your mind to possibilities you've been closed to. It may even involve extending your territory or increasing the range of your travels. However you choose to expand, Taurus, I urge you to put love at the heart of your efforts. Love should be the fuel that motivates you and the reference point that ensures you're always making smart moves. For inspiration, memorize this line by poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning: "I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach." In your case, Taurus, "thee" should mean the whole world.


I'd say that both of those are good advice for anyone. :-)


~RCH~