Fashionistas

DOS: Mom, can I wear this to the grocery store so everybody can see how pretty I look?

RCH: Sure, kiddo.

DOS: Yessssss!


~RCH~

Seven Things

I've been tagged by the Seven Things meme! Now it's my turn to divulge seven interesting things about myself. Last spring I came up with 101 (well, sort of; I did pad that list a bit) and I answered five questions in May (though the person I tagged with that never did hers, grrr!) so I'll try not to repeat any. Do you suppose there are really that many interesting things about me? About anyone? I guess we'll see!

1. I took General Psych 101 in college. One in-class assignment had us complete the story of a woman who came to an academic or professional crossroads in her life (I don't remember the specifics). Apparently there were two common scenarios that people chose: One that indicated a yearning for success, and one that indicated fear of it. My response didn't fit either of those. According to the professor, my answer -- that the woman said, "Screw it all!" and ran off to live out her days in an artists' colony -- indicated instead that I had an unconventional definition of success.
   
   I don't think she was right, though. I think I fear it. And failure, too, of course; nobody wants to fail. I'm often paralyzed between the two extremes in what some would describe as perfectionism but which I know to be the simple crazies. ;-)


2. I do admit to being a little unconventional, though. For instance, though I come from a family that values education very highly, I've never cared about grades. An education? Yes, absolutely. But no arbitrary letter on a piece of paper is going to change (or even accurately reflect) how smart I am or am not. It doesn't motivate me to learn, and in fact quite often has had the opposite effect. In school, if I didn't feel like a particular assignment would benefit me intellectually (whether or not it would affect me academically), I wouldn't do it. Why waste my time? Not to mention the teachers'.
   
   As a senior in high school, my AP English Lit teacher called me on it: I had earned a C (I didn't bother with the grammar unit; I speak and write just fine, thank you) but she gave me an A. I went to talk to her about it, totally willing to take my C, terrified that she'd made a mistake and some poor grade-hungry schlub had been unfairly branded with my mediocrity. No, she said, I did it on purpose. For the same reason you didn't turn in the worksheets, I suspect: Out of spite. You get an A. So there. I loved her already, but loved her even more after that -- for her sense of humor, sure, but also because she saw right through me.
   
   (Disclaimer: This happened the last semester of my senior year; I'd already been accepted to college; my grades, whatever they were, were by that point meaningless to everyone, not just to me.)


3. This sounds terrible for a good Mormon girl to say (though it won't surprise anyone who knows me well) but I loooove the smell of cigarettes. (Lit ones, anyway. Unlit cigarettes -- and the tobacco harvest generally -- smell like black licorice. Nasty.) Cigarettes remind me of the time I spent in the Tar Lung state and all my friends there. I've never smoked and never will, but if I were going to consciously decide to take up a vice, that would be the one.
   
   MIL is always so polite about her habit. She smokes outside when we're around, and if I come out to sit with her she'll move so that I'm not downwind. I really, really wish she would quit -- I want her around for a lot longer than she will be at this rate; her health is already bad -- but as long as she's still smoking, I do wish she'd sit next to me when she does it, lol.


4. A snippet from my day on Tuesday:
   
   The girls and I had an orgy of Christmas decoration all afternoon. We hauled out the fake tree, strung the lights, hung the ornaments (most of which now reside no more than three and a half feet above the floor -- it's adorably bottom heavy, our tree), and set out the nativity, various snow men, and a couple of mancrackers. All that excitement devolved into angsty, whiney energy by evening, and I put the older two to bed screaming. (To clarify, they were the ones screaming. Though I wanted to as well.) I had to play Bedtime Enforcer several times -- ugh -- but I think they were both asleep by 10:00 or 10:30pm. (Sadly, although their bedtime is 8:00pm, that's usually how it goes around here.)
   
   DH was on call and plenty busy. Tres and I hung out in my bedroom, alternately nursing and not; I tried to lull her to sleep while staying awake, myself, so I could watch the DVRed episode of House with DH when he came home. But she got a second wind after a while. I pulled up my knees and set her against them in my lap and we made faces at each other. I tried to get her to laugh; Tres giggles in her sleep sometimes, but apparently I'm not amusing enough when she's awake.
   
   I woke up to DH calling my name sometime after midnight. He'd just gotten home. Tres still lay in my lap, eyes wide open, staring up at her sleepy momma.


5. Speaking of babies, I'm a baby schlepper! I wish I were cool enough to be a baby wearer -- one of those women who has mastered the art of carrying their infants / toddlers in a ring sling or pouch -- but I just haven't managed it so far. They seem complicated. I've never tried a ring sling, but I've heard through the mommy grapevine that their renowned versatility (so many options for different carrying positions!) comes with a steep learning curve. I did get a Maya Pouch when Dos was little, but my height, at 5'4", put me right between sizes; the retailer recommended the smaller pouch, but I'm not convinced that either one would fit comfortably and carrying her in it never felt as natural as I had hoped it would. I don't want a Baby Bjorn or any other stiff backed carrier; they leave your hands conveniently free, sure, but the whole point of baby wearing is to mimic the sensation of being cuddled. Right?
   
   I haven't managed to wear any of my babies, so I schlepp them instead. I don't believe an infant can be spoiled by too much holding; being spoiled requires the mental capacity to manipulate, and brilliant though she may be, Tres isn't there yet. Being held -- feeling protected and safe in a very big, very loud, very unfamiliar world -- is as essential a need for her as food or sleep and I'm happy to oblige. If she's awake, she's in my arms. (My left arm mostly. I'm going to end up with lopsided mommy muscles.)
   
   Different people having different parenting styles and philosophies, and that's fine, but this is what works for us and makes us both happy.


6. Okay, I'm struggling to come up with anything else already.... Perhaps there are only five interesting things about me. (Or 101+5+5.... A hundred and eleven things?)


7. Oooh, how's this? Our final item, inspired by the mess all around me: I am a complete slob. Living with DH for the past six and a half years has not cured me of this tendency; when he's out of town, I let the house go to hell in a lovely handbag on purpose just to enjoy the chaos. (I do clean up before he gets back.) The office, this computer -- technically they're the family's, not mine but DH prefers to work at his actual office, the clinic a few blocks away, so I have staked my claim to this one room of the house. Papers litter the desk. And the floor. Three color coded baskets scattered on the floor catch the tiny semblance of organization I require (green for items to be dealt with relatively soon; blue for items to be shredded; purple for items to be filed if we ever get a filing cabinet). Toys find their way in here, as do unused picture frames, random CDs, a bouncy seat for the baby.
   
   DH would tell you that the rest of the house is not immaculate (but he's anal retentive and I really don't think his definition of immaculate counts), but it's certainly better than this. He keeps telling me I'd feel better if I cleaned it up (I'd feel better? LOL). I tell him just to keep the door shut and stay out. I need one space that feels like mine and mine alone, a sanctuary. This mess is it.

There. Seven things (if #6 counts); narcissism at its finest, as promised! Now it's your turn. I won't make assignments, since the last time I did that (*cough, cough!* Seester!) the person never followed through. But I look forward to reading someone else's seven now. :-)


~RCH~

Another for the Quote Book

Dos kept correctly pointing out letters on signs as we drove around the other day, so I congratulated her on how well she was doing, and told her that skill would help her learn how to read pretty soon.

She beamed.

"I've got a smart mouth, don't I, Mommy?"

Uh.... Yeah, kid. LOL.


~RCH~

How do you solve a problem like Uno?

I really will get to the rest of those birth stories, I promise (I've got Dos's half written). But in the meantime, I have some photos to share.

Uno wore this dress and sweater to church on Sunday and for the first time in a week I didn't hate her hair. It took me until yesterday to figure out why: She's got a Maria Von Trapp vibe now, lol. So we took some pictures. :-)

How do you solve a problem like Uno? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?


She's a flibbertijibbet!


A will-o'-the wisp!


A clown!


...Oh, how do you solve a problem like Uno?


How do you catch a moonbeam in your hand?



~RCH~

The prodigy

Uno got mad at me today and threatened to run away to Texas; she even emptied all her drawers into a left-over gift bag so she'd have clothes to wear on her trip.

"That's fine," I told her, "but remember you can't go outside without a grownup."

She harrumphed and stomped off.

A few minutes later she came back repentant, holding my cane like a microphone stand, and crooned for me her very own country song. Dos then joined in, and the three of us have been singing it all afternoon. It goes like this:

I wanna' go to Texas
but I don't wanna' go alone
I wanna' go to Texas
'cause Texas is my home

Chorus:
I wanna' go to Texas
with my family
I wanna' go to Texas
with my family
I wanna' go to Texas
with my family

I wanna' ride some horses
and go to Chuck E. Cheese
I wanna' go to Texas
with my family

(repeat chorus)

I wanna' go to Texas
no more of Idaho
I wanna go to Texas
'cause Texas is my home

(repeat chorus ad nauseum, then finish randomly but with a big flourish)

We called my parents (my mom wasn't home, but my dad and a sister were) so they could hear it, too, but with the pressure of a wider audience the girls seemed to get stuck on the chorus. Oh well. I think it's fabulous.

Pardon me for saying so, but I think that kid's a genius. :-)


~RCH~


P.S.: You may have noticed Uno's "snazzy" (and I use that term sarcastically) new hairdo in the photo.... She cut it herself last Monday -- AARRGGHH! -- and we fixed it up (another sarcastic usage) at the craptastic Walmart hair salon. I meant to blog about it but haven't yet; this little note, and the personal reminder that hair grows back, may suffice. :-P

Blessings

We briefly interrupt this series of birth stories to bring you a photo of Tres in her christening gown. She was blessed in church last Sunday, November 4, by her father. She wore a dress made by my best friend Mrs. McMitchell from scraps of fabric from my wedding dress (which itself was lovingly made by my other best friend's mom, a second mother to me, Momalue); Uno and Dos also wore this dress when they were each blessed.



The photo is a quadtone rather than a strict black-and-white. Any thoughts on this treatment? Should I try to brighten her face a little or leave it as is?

Not that I'm at all biased, but she's a pretty baby, isn't she? ::LOVE:: :-)


~RCH~

How she got here, Part 1

I've been meaning to write Tres's birth story. It occurs to me that, while I've told their stories here and there, I haven't written about the other girls' arrivals for the record, either. So maybe I'll do that now.

Uno
My first pregnancy. Though I still had some lingering fears and neuroses about doctors (yes, even after having been married to one for a year and a half), 37 weeks as the incubator of an adorable parasite had left me feeling a little demoralized. I didn't care anymore what it took; I wanted that kid OUT. And although I had an induction scheduled five days later, my body had made no progress on its own and that light at the end of the tunnel offered no comfort.

"I feel about as likely to have this baby any time soon as I did five months ago," I told DH over dinner as I pushed around the nasty food on my plate. I think I ate three bites before giving up.

I stayed up until around midnight watching TV, and then went to sleep -- or tried to, anyway. At 2am I got up to go to the bathroom; on the way back to bed my water broke. DH insisted we should go straight to the hospital but I made him call my doctor first, because that's what the books say you should do. ("Not at 2:00 in the morning," he said. "Not when it's obvious your water broke. Not when your husband is a 4th year medical student who ought to-- no, who does know better.") I think he's still irritated about that. Oops.

I still had Lovenox in my system so the first doctor to come see me was the anesthesiologist to say that I couldn't have an epidural; the blood thinner could react with it in such a way as to leave me permanently paralyzed. I don't remember anymore if I had even wanted an epidural -- I had overcome my fear of needles by then (though not my fear of pain) but it seems profoundly unnatural to lose most or all sensation in your lower half. That still freaks me out. In any case, after discussing my options I decided to use Nubain for pain relief. And then we sat around waiting for that pain to come.

We waited. And we waited. Nothing happened for hours. The doctors weren't sure what to do with me -- wait for labor to develop on its own (which it didn't seem to want to do) and risk infection? Give me pitocin to jump start the process and risk complications from my clotting disorder and / or the Lovenox still in my system? About ten hours after I arrived, they decided to go ahead with the pitocin. And still, even as contractions finally began to register on the hospital monitors, I waited for the pain.

Apparently these not-so-painful labors run in the family: I turned out to be not quite as tough as my mother -- who used no pain meds in any of her eight deliveries, and who, mere seconds after the first one popped out, exclaimed, "That was fun! Let's do it again!" (seriously!) -- but so far my sisters and I seem to have some magic buffer against the ravages of labor contractions. At least the initial ones. Thumbs up for those genes!

I grew increasingly hungry and sad as the day wore on; I hadn't eaten much the night before and as far as I knew I was only allowed ice chips until after the baby showed up. She didn't seem terribly anxious to get there. Imagine my delight and surprise, then, when a hospital food services employee brought me a bowl of weak tomato broth for lunch, and another with chicken broth for dinner. Who knew hospital food could taste so good?

By evening the pitocin-induced contractions I'd had since noon finally got strong enough to feel uncomfortable, and eventually even painful, so I asked for a dose of Nubain in my IV. It took effect almost immediately: I felt pleasantly heavy and floaty, and the pain dialed back a notch to where it had been about an hour before. I asked for two more doses before all was said and done.

We hit the 24-hour mark at 2am the next morning -- one full day since my water had broken, and still no baby. I'd been awake for nearly two days straight (having slept only a couple hours the night before) and, broth aside, hadn't eaten much to fuel this little birthing marathon. I started to get testy. I felt the urge to push long before I was dilated enough for pushing to do any good. It being my first labor, and not having taken any classes to know how to relax or what to do, I started to feel a little panicky. I was about 7cm when I asked DH when I'd be able to push for real. (It was very clear to me that I meant, do I really have to get all the way to 10? Or can I push when I just get close to 10cm?)

He replied, "You can push when they tell you to."

I looked at him with eyes like daggers, dug my nails into his hand, and said, "THAT'S THE STUPIDEST ANSWER I'VE EVER HEARD. Obviously when they tell me to. WHEN WILL THAT BE?"

He apologized and I apologized and that was as close as I came to the swearing, head-spinning, demon-possessed L&D stereotype from television and movies. I couldn't afford to curse when it did come time to push; the contractions were too close together and I could only breathe between them. I would have had to waste an entire contraction or two to get any good swear words out and it simply wasn't worth the trouble. So I pushed when they told me to, and breathed in between. But half way through the process I realized I wasn't giving 100% effort, as if merely following instructions at their most basic ought to be good enough to get by. So then I started pushing for real, pushing for a few seconds beyond what I thought I had strength for, even, and finally at 3:09am -- 25 hours after labor began! -- 6 lb 8 oz Uno arrived.

The first words my daughter heard her mother say: "Oh my gosh! Look at that!" As if I had expected something other than a baby. I don't remember it, but DH says the doctor and nurses all giggled.

They took her to the nursery shortly thereafter and I fell almost immediately to sleep. I have never in my life felt so completely exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally. I slept better than the dead -- apparently through a couple vitals checks, even! -- and woke up at mid-morning, transformed into this strange person called Mom.

More to come....


~RCH~