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~