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~