A Friend Indeed

I admit, I might be cheating a little here. I'm tired and when I sit down to write about our experiences, or the kids, transitions, life, anything, it just doesn't flow from my sluggish brain.

I've been privileged to have some heart sisters in my life. Women I couldn't live with out. Women I want beside me at my not so finest hour. Women I hope my children will adore and have to turn to their whole lives. Elise is one of them. So, I hope you'll bear with us through one more post about Babynater's birth. After all, this blog isn't just about practicing my writing and maybe entertaining a few readers, it's also a record of this gorgeous, gone in a blink of an eye time in our lives. I want Nate to have this letter for always.

*********************************************

Dear Nate,

Even though you are only 14 days old, I have known you for more than half a year. I knew you when you were an idea, then a bump, then a slightly larger bump. I knew you as rendered your mother unable to drink a chai and push a stroller at the same time (Gasp!). Then (the horror continues) I knew you when you actually created a chai prohibition; the midwife suggesting you were measuring large and perhaps a cut back in sugar was called for.

All I have to say is: thank god she stopped drinking those chais! You would have been a 10+ pounder for sure had the 4x/week (uh, I mean 1x/week Matt....) consumption continued.

And I knew you as you took your first breath. I saw you pass over that threshold where your mother's body had sustained you and held you close, and into the world. I saw your mother as she sat on the bed at the hospital, cool as a cucumber, making sarcastic comments about her decision not to wax before the big event. I saw her as she began to be unable to laugh through the contractions. I held her leg as she pushed and pushed and cursed and cried and, with beauty and strength and belief in herself, birthed a baby.

Now Nate, I realize you've only been on the outside for a few weeks but you know how you have some moments in your life that remain, like a photo in your head, with you always? I have a few and they are all from times when I felt the most alive, the most present. Catching the first glimpse of your hair is, for me, one of those times.

(I realize it may not be for you because of that whole conscious memory thing, not to mention the fact that your poor little head was getting the begezus squeezed out of it and you are probably not going to be a big fan of any stories involving you and your mother's vagina, but let's focus on me here.)

Your hair, tinted red and moving forward and back inside your mom, coming close and closer into contact with the outside world - we didn't know if you were a boy or a girl, didn't know what kind of personality you would have, when you would smile or crawl or walk or get married or sound like as you gave your first cry, but I could see the top of your head. I could see you, this person, about to emerge from my dear friend Stacey (who I believe at that point was screaming "He's not moving!!! Why isn't he moving??? Somebody help me!!!") and it was spectacular. As was the rest of you that followed.

So thank you, Stacey. I am more honored and touched and giddy that you wanted me to be there with you than I will be able to say. And also a thank you from Jeremy (my husband) whose first question to me after I came home was "...so?" as in "so... since you ended up with a bum emergency c-section the first time did seeing an unmediated birth make you want to give it one more shot so that you don't spend the rest of your life feeling like you missed out on one of the great privileges of being a woman?" To which I could honestly answer "Nope, I think I'm good. It was amazing and awe inspiring, but I think I can live the rest of my life without being in that much pain."

Happy birthday Baby Nate, and much love to you all, anyfamily!

Birth Control

I asked my gorgeous baby sister, Aunt D, if she'd write about the Babynater's birth from her perspective. We've done a lot of crazy, fun, scary, sometimes not-so-wise things together and we're the best kind of sisters, the kind that are best friends too.


Thinking about it though, even now in our thirties, I'm the older sister, usually in control, perhaps a bit bossy. (She's rolling her eyes at that 'perhaps.') It was strange to have her by my side and be so vulnerable. Strange and wonderful, she was fantastic. If I were to have another baby (no, not happening), I'd ask her, no I'd beg her, to be by my side.

Here's her view of Nate's arrival, in her own hilarious words.
***********************************************

My evil plan worked! I successfully delayed Stacey’s labor for over two weeks! Fear not; karma’s a beast and I’m sure I’ll get mine. I’m not the obvious candidate for birth-watcher-person having never given birth nor seen it. I vaguely recall horrifying sixth grade videos, but I’ve suppressed most of late elementary school through high school graduation. (I had an extensive awkward period.) Having been invited to the party, there was no WAY I was going to miss it.

My plane landed on reindeer strewn tundra at 9:30 on Saturday night and less than 10 hours later Stacey and I were in a tiny examination room watching little contraction mountains float across the screen. She was wearing lots of suction cups and no pants and trying to explain effacement to me between contractions.

The next four hours were not the screaming, sweaty endurance race I expected. We just hung out in the sunny, lovely hospital room eating egg mcmuffins and chatting. It was like Stacey, Matt, Elise, Doula Bobbette and I had picked a really weird place for a breakfast date. We talked; Stacey occasionally contracted, making no noise and causing no interruption to the conversation.

She walked around for a while and Bobbette rubbed her ankle to make the contractions stronger. (Right. Unclear on this one. Anyone else not buying the ankle bone contraction causal structure?) Bobbette pulled on a toe and made Stacey wag her tail, hop on one foot, left foot green, etc. She was either screwing with us or the doula school is friendly with the pharmacy club if you know what I mean. Whatever it was worked. Stacey was at 8 cm when her midwife, Sara, arrived.

Time to break her water!

I’m a bit unclear on this part. I remember thinking Sara had on really big earrings and that I likely wouldn’t have chosen them to wear to a birth. I remember the “sack was really thick” ‘cause…ew and also hehe sack. Then suddenly she was pushing and I was somewhere between Elise and Matt on Stacey’s left. If I leaned forward I could see birthing; if not, I could just see Stacey’s leg and lots of arms.

It seemed painful (professional opinion). She yelled and got really sweaty and everyone was touching her. I had a full conversation with myself about whether I should be touching her too.

Me: She’s in pain. Let her know you’re here.

Me: She’s so sweaty and there are lots of hands. I hate being touched when I’m sweaty. Let her breathe.

Me: She’s screaming. Hold her haHOLYSHITISTHATTHEBABY’SHEAD?!

Wow, that shit is cool. A BABY was being born RIGHT THERE! Amazing. And, yet, so poorly designed. Seriously, HP? That’s the best you could come up with? Was there a committee involved?

Stacey: “It’s stuck! It’s not moving!”

The room: “No! It’s coming! You’re doing great! GoooOOOO STACEY!!”

Stacey, in this low, throaty, terror movie voice: “EEETZZSTUUUUUCK…”

So baby is sticking out to the neck and not advancing, and Sara shoves her WHOLE HAND in there and turns the head with the other hand. It seriously looked like the head would pop off. Stacey made a noise that I can still hear - like a werewolf being eaten by a pterodactyl - horrifying and mesmerizing and slimy and still cool.

And then there was Nate - gray and silent. The floor disappeared and it was sit down or fall down time for me. In the movies, babies cry right away…there’s no gray moment/hour of heart stopping silence. I was wholly unprepared. But, then he moved, and he made a little sound, and the world turned back on from the baby out to the walls.

The whole day was crazy and I’m so glad that I made it in time to “help." There was the afternoon ordeal, but that’s kind of glossed over now – and it’s not really part of the birth anyway (although it does contribute to the birth control!).

My husband is happy that I’ve had my baby fix for a while and that we can stick with just the dog for now. But really, what does he know? When I told him that Cue called the baby Dat New One he thought I meant Dat Nguyen from the Cowboys. Umm, wha? The man needs to babysit.

And The Blanket Goes To...

I had so much fun with all your guesses in the anybaby poll. Without further ado, let's dole out the points and see if I can keep this short for once.

Birth day and time: June 28 at 12:25 p.m.

Amber from Chantings from the Underbrush takes the 10 points with her guess of June 28 at 1:52 p.m. She guessed her own birthday and birth time. Nice. Aunt D got very close as well, but she's disqualified for being related to a blog sponsor. She was only guessing the day she arrived anyway.

Birth weight: Actual weight was 9 lbs 3 oz.

Andrea of The Sweet Life wins this category with her guess of 8 lbs 12 oz. Ten points. I don't even have to feel bitter about her guessing such a big baby, since our little Babynater (Matt's nickname, not mine) was even a bit larger. Sara J, Amy and IIDLYYCKMA all guessed close to nine pounds for honorable mentions.

How to make a big baby look small - let his very tall Dad hold him.

If our little boy had been a beer? I mean a girl...


We would have named her Hailey Pauline. Hailey inspired by Hale's Ales Brewery in Seattle. Pauline because we wanted a name that started with "P" for the baby's middle name. In the pseudo-Jewish/Yiddish/superstitious crap traditions of my family, you honor a living relative by giving a baby their initial. {You never give a baby the same name as an older relative because the angel of death can get confused. I know. Dark. Morbid. Welcome to my family.} My mom and Dad's first names start with "P" and so did Matt's Grandmother's first name. There you have it. Kind of anticlimactic.

Manic Mommy was the first to guess Hailey for ten points. Melissa Joff, Gayle and Akilah also had the right name.

Let's talk about sex, baby: BOY! Matt is a one trick pony. He makes stocky, ruddy lads.

Aren't they cute though?
Hit 40 from Sane Without Drugs was the first to predict we'd have yet another boy. She takes the ten points.

After all of the guessing, when the points had settled, I'm A Smart One hangs onto her lead and wins the handmade blanket. Congratulations!! We are all googly-eyed with excitement that it's you.


Email me, Kym, my darling, and we can discuss design.

Over and Under

I suppose, to be proper, that this should be easy and light-hearted, with lots of pictures and gushing professions of love. We are in love, all six of us with each other, but that's not all that's in me right now. I don't know all that's in me. I'm scattered like this post.

The first few weeks post partum are hard, whether it's your first baby or your fourth or your tenth. Hard and happy and sad and intense.

I'm a little overwhelmed. There's no getting around it. Nine days ago I had a handle on my life. We had a routine that worked. I could take my three toddlers almost anywhere, though some places (the grocery store) horrified me more than others. Now, I feel in over my head. I forgot those insistent newborn cries and the unrelenting urge to respond immediately with milk, comfort, with both hands, no matter who is sitting on the potty, or crawling into trouble, or ripping wires out of my computer. I have a new weakness in my usually easy and consistent discipline and it's name is Nate. My underlings have identified it and exploit it with ease.


(I can't believe I'm sharing this picture, but it pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?)

I'm a little overwrought. I'm wound too tight, walking a narrow emotional ledge between laughter and tears. It's a combination of things. Hormones, I'm sure. Plain old overtiredness. Part of it is just that it's over. You plan and hope and smile and dream and then suddenly it's happening and then it's over. Our third and final pregnancy is over, the birth, that first crazy-beautiful week. No more trimesters, no more moments in the bathroom, heart beating hard as I strain to see that faint pink line, no more ultrasounds or names.

Now, we live our family of six. That is so right and so sad all at the same time.


I've never had post partum depression, but I can imagine it. I can imagine it in the bizarre sadness that strikes me at certain thoughts, small and huge. The way I can cry because we are out of turkey or because the stroller is too heavy for me to push. The same huge, sobbing tears overflow when I walk around the corner and find Garrett lying on his side beside Nate, not touching his blanket, because I told him, please do not step on, molest, trample and/or touch his blanket, but gently stroking Nate's head, murmuring loving words.


Those tears find me every single morning when Quinn patters into our room as I lay beside Nate, nursing him. The cool, still morning air soothes my tired eyes and his firm, insistent pull relieves the pressure in my breasts. Quinn waddles to my side around his full diaper. "New baby?" It's a demand. "He's right here," I tell him, "he's drinking milk." Like an emperor reviewing his troops, he's gone to get the newspaper and make coffee with Daddy.


I'm absolutely overjoyed. I've always thought that 'overjoyed' was a strange word. It implies joy that is too strong, almost too much to take. This week has been full of joy like that. There's too much to take in. I want to sit for hours, curled into the corner of our couch and let Nate sleep on my chest, full to the brim with milk and comfort. But, Quinn pulls my hand, "Baby down, momma," he says imperiously, "baby seat. Momma come." I want to follow him wherever he leads. He is going to be two in just 24 days and I can't let this time slip away. I can't let him, with his chubby toddler legs and contagious baby chortle, slip away.



Simultaneously, Saige and Garrett hurtle towards four with all the momentum they can muster. Right now, they will still sit in my lap. Right now, they still bring me owies for kissing and treasures for oohing and aahing. Tomorrow, they won't.

***********************************************
There's a bridge over the road that I take into the city. I drive under it at least once a day. It's a skywalk the connects a parking garage to the Women's Health wing of the largest downtown hospital. I have walked it twice, hugely pregnant, scared and ready, breathing quietly through contractions. Both times I've left the wing by another door, where Matt could pull up close with the car and collect me and our brand new baby boy.

That bridge looms so large in my consciousness. It never fails to draw my eyes and cause a pang in my heart. In it's constant stream of traffic, pregnant women, elated families, friends with balloons, solitary men walking fast, women in wheelchairs, it personifies for me the constant cycle. There's the day I am there, giving birth to my second son, and then there's two years of days in between, each one with other women, other stories, and then there's the day I am there giving birth to my third son. The very next day, after I have climbed into our red car and driven away, there are other women crossing that bridge.

*********************************************
Someone wrote to me a few days ago and mentioned that I was lucky. It surprised me a little because I know. I mean I really, deeply know that I am lucky. I wonder whether that part of me comes across here or maybe it is lost in my sarcastic sense of humor and the honest complaints and frustrations that I share.

I consider luck the golden thread that runs through it all. The unsaid addendum to every word I write. I'm overtired and lucky. I'm sick of playing with my kids and lucky. I just want a moment to myself and I am so very, very lucky. I am happy and busy and unsure and fallible and lucky.

I don't believe in being blessed. I don't have a god that rewards or withholds. I believe that the powerful force for order instead of chaos in this universe is too large, too cosmic, to smite or bestow. All that's left is luck and random chance. That comforts me, though I know it's hard for some to understand. Still, somewhere deep inside my pagan soul I resist drawing any attention to my perceived luck for fear that vengeful fates in billowing robes with wind wild hair might gaze on me with ill humor and take it all away.

We all have our griefs and our triumphs. We all have our intimate joys. We all have different words, I think, for that unbearable gratefulness that wells up inside of us and we all have different words for the place where we focus our thankfulness. For me, early in the morning with the sun-dappled maples outside of our window fluttering and this new baby curled like a kitten into my side I pray, in my own way. I thank the life force that holds it all together for maples and sunshine and new babies.


With a deep breath, I think, please, please, let our luck hold.

A Child Is Born

Every seven seconds in the United States. Eight every minute, four hundred and eighty every hour. Four every single second in the world. I thought about that this weekend, as we experienced the birth of our fourth child. It's such a common thing, the birth of a baby, not notable, really, in the great scheme of this world. And still, one of the biggest moments of your life, when it's yours.

So many stories playing out simultaneously, so much joy, grief, drama, relief, happiness. The story of one single child's moment of entry, one more drop in the ocean, doesn't seem all that important.

Except that this one is ours. Unique and miraculous.

I started having serious contractions shortly after my sister arrived on Saturday night and I stayed up most of the night, thinking about stars and snowflakes and other unique beauties and trying not to get too stressed out about the likely pain of the next day. We took a walk early in the morning. She drove me the five minutes down the hill to the hospital at 7:00, so that we could see if enough had changed and I could be admitted without implementing our entire, carefully delineated, nine-point child care plan.

(Bye-bye baby tummy.)

The hospital was church quiet, coated in a sticky feeling of cleanliness and anticipation like a house in the final moments before the guests arrive for a party. I had dilated to six centimeters overnight and the triage nurse handed us our tickets to the main event and showed me to my room, while Dianna drove home to collect Matt and my things and call in our reinforcements.

I loved this birth. It went exactly as I had hoped, right up until the actual pushing. My sister and my darling friend, Elise, Matt and I hung out, chatted and laughed and told stories. It felt a little weird, at first, to be sitting in that huge (hotel suite huge, this hospital has a brand new labor and delivery wing with all the bells and whistles) sterile, sunny room, on a hospital bed in a windy little gown, discussing politics and life and trying to ignore the contractions and the building anticipation and, for me, more than a little fear about the stages to come.

Matt went to McDonalds to get my traditional milkshake and buy everyone else breakfast (and because Matt likes any excuse to leave the room and have something active and, did I mention outside the room, to do). After two hours, the nurse did a quick check and declared me still a six, which plunged me into the depths of well-shit-I've-got-all-these-people-sitting-around-here-for-nothing despair, but about fifteen minutes later, my midwife arrived and I was an eight. We are going with the fact that I dilated to eight in those two hours because I just like the story better that way.

Sara said we could break my water if I was ready, and I was, except that I knew things would get hellishly painful and transitiony as soon as she did it. I tried not to panic and bolt. No, that wasn't so much an option either, considering that then I had a strong chance of breaking my own water and not conveniently sitting on their freakishly absorbent pad. I gave the green light and she let the floods loose and I don't really know for a while. We still joked a little, in between contractions, but it was quiet. The contractions were hard and I was focused on breathing and not hurting anyone.

I have to say the first three hours were pretty zen, on a scale of zen to out of control screaming. I just asked Dianna and she agrees. I have good memories. A little before noon, Sara said, "you're starting to look pushy when you breathe, you shouldn't be breathing through the urge to push." I know I was a little because pushing hurts kind of like...it hurts kind of like being split in half at your vagina to push a baby into the world. With a little nausea. And an uncontrollable urge to keep pushing as hard as you can even though it hurts like being split in half at your vagina.

Brace yourselves, this is where zen flew out the window and I screamed like a pig dipped in honey being chased by a swarm of angry bees. Those killer Texas bees that immigrated from South America, not regular old honey bees.

I pushed and started out just crying because I told myself I wouldn't scream inane things this time. That I would continue to be zen and calm and controlled. By the second set of contractions, I was sobbing that it hurt, that I couldn't do it, that it hurt. I think it took about five contractions? Thirty minutes? Twenty pushes, maybe?

I screamed that I was dying. That was nurse Laurie's favorite.
When the head started to show, Sara told me to reach down, to look, to touch his hair. I screamed, "NO LOOKING, NO TOUCHING, JUST GET IT OUT." That was Elise's favorite.
I screamed, "why is this taking so long." That was my doula's favorite.
I screamed, "someone help me," which, you know, hello? Duh? Matt, Dianna, Elise, the doula, the midwife and three nurses were helping me.

Elise was the most incredible friend. She was right there, holding my leg, telling me that she could see his beautiful hair. Dianna, my amazing sister, hid a little farther back towards my head, but she took peeks and took amazing pictures and cried at exactly the right time. They made the day extra specially beautiful. They also allowed Matt, my six foot three inch, strong as a rock lump of quivering jelly, to hide by my head, whispering that he loved me and resting his ashen head on the bed so that he didn't keel over and require medical care.

Right at the end, I screamed that I didn't think he was moving, that he was stuck. That actually turned out to be true, one of his huge football linebacker shoulders was stuck under my pelvis somewhere. Sara was amazing, she reached up there like on those slightly horrifying veterinarian shows and turned him a little so that I could push him out the rest of the way.

And then, there he was, our one in almost seven billion. Perfect. Huge, but perfect.



Matt managed to say that it was a boy. Our third boy. Nathaniel Patrick. Baby Nate. His story in this world started at 12:25 p.m. on Sunday, June 28, 2009. I can write that he was 9 lbs 3 oz, 22 inches, that he was a little shocked and bruised from being stuck and it took him a moment to breathe, that he nursed right away like a little pro, that we loved him instantly, beyond thought, and will always. He'll have to take it from there.



**********************************************
There's more to my story of the day. A little drama. I hemorrhaged severely about a half an hour after the birth. By the time we realized what was happening and got a handle on the situation, I had lost two liters of blood that had to be birthed itself as a frighteningly large blood clot. It was a long, horrible afternoon that ended with a blood transfusion. It ended well though, I was fine, Nate was fine. We are all home, adjusting, learning, loving the addition of Nate to our family. Or, as Quinn likes to call him, "Dat new one."

Thank you so much for all of your love and well wishes. Having your comments and tweets and emails to read as I recovered lighted up the whole day.

Bloggity Boppity Boo

BlogHer
Chicago

That's how it feels in my mind. Lighted. Flashing. Exciting. Frightening. Can't wait. Except when I kind of don't want to go because oh my, remember how you can be shy and kind of awkward and, um, sometimes not so good at making conversation? Fun! Or torture. One of the two.

Well, whatever, I am going because I want to meet so many people even if I have nothing to say because I'm a bit socially inept like that.

What am I most worried about? Nothing, really. Everything. I think I'm probably just like you? (Don't answer that.) I'd really like it if people liked me. You know, me, me, not I-had-five-hours-to-edit-this me. I'd really like it if I didn't blab on at some session and embarrass myself. I'd really like it if I didn't sit in a corner in silence at some party and embarrass myself.

Hang on, that's not all. I have far more specific angst.

1) I hope I'm close to amusing enough to entertain my roommate, even marginally. Actually, I lie. I want her to amuse me with her fabulous one-liners, all weekend. Pressure reversal. Genius. Oh, and I want her to love me. In return, I promise not to hug her. She hates that.

2) I'm very concerned about my total lack of mobile communication capabilities. Brace yourselves. I have a prepaid cell phone for emergencies. That's it. In this day, I know, shocking. I'm afraid that because no one will be able to tweet/DM/IM/text and/or beam me up Scottie, I won't know where to go or be able to meet with anyone to go. I'll feel left out and read a book in my room. Because, ahem, I enjoy reading books and I do not enjoy pulling on my big girl panties and walking into big gatherings A-L-O-N-E. Gulp.

3) Rest at peace, ladies and gentlemen, no one will covet my clothes/bag/computer/shoes/hairstyle or poor complexion. I will be approximately three weeks post partum. Yes, those are my maternity jeans. You might covet my boobs, but only because they will be so full of milk that I won't be able to breathe. Don't worry, those beautiful girls have a very limited lifespan, in eight months, it's back to a flat board with nipples that could poke through steel.

4) I'm afraid someone will judge me for ditching my three-week-old baby to attend. The timing was bad, but I really wanted to make it, without squalling boob attachment. I do breastfeed, and yes, it will be hard. I will absolutely regret it, forever, if I lose my milk or baby refuses to nurse after the conference. But, don't worry about the wee one. I've bought a really good crate and one of those huge hamster water dispensers, which I plan to fill with breast milk before I leave. I jest. I'm leaving all four kids with their father and my mother. Both have successfully cared for children without significant incident in the past. (Which won't preclude me from shedding tears when my mom calls to tell me that my baby hasn't eaten in two days.)

I feel some pressure toward additional disclosure. No illusions for the big weekend. Should we hit the big issues now and get them out of the way?

Hugging: Willing. I often go to the wrong side and cause an awkward cheek bump. Fair warning.

Remembering names: Not a chance. My mind is like a steel sieve. I suck. Please call me AnyMommy so that I can squeal CUTIE BOOTY CAKES or MOMMYTIME or VODKAMOM or NORWINDIANS without feeling like a complete idiot.

Pillows: Two, very fluffy, not flat.

Arms or abs: Preferably both, but if I have to choose... Arms. Biceps. Yum.

Leonardo: Not cute, too skinny, too scruffy.

Josh Lucas: Drool.

Spanking: I prefer the term, swatting, ahem, bottoms only.

Obama: So not going there.

Single Payer Plan: Aha. Not there either.

Circumcision: Twice. Watched. Not that traumatic. Am evil, swatting, child abuser.

Drinking: Yes, almost any time.

Dancing: Only after above and it's not pretty.

Trash TV: Hello! My favorite topic of conversation.

Jon and Kate: Early stuff is hilarious; recent developments are sad; hoopla over water and butt swat are ridiculous.

Miscarriages: Three.

Children: Nearly four, names involve the alphabet, no need to know my kids if I am allowed to be reminded eight times about yours.

Gay marriage: Absolutely.

California S.C. ruling: Correct on the law. (Before you yell at me, I READ that 200 page bad boy. If you haven't done the same, I respectfully ain't all that interested in being bashed.) Some of the extreme outrage demonstrates rampant misunderstanding of our, actually brilliant and fairly well functioning, legal system.

Constitutions that can be flippantly amended to reduce/limit fundamental rights: Abhorrent. Come on, California.

Breastfeeding: Love it. Convenient carry along packaging, no refrigeration needed.

Tandem/Cross/Shared/Co-breastfeeding: Sure. Anyone have a baby I can borrow? I hate pumping. Never mind. I'll be drinking.

Bloggers I'd like to meet, but fear they won't have time: Maggie, Dammit, Her Bad Mother, Black Hockey Jesus, Velveteen Mind, Room 704 women, Renee and her Cutie Booty, Flotsam, MamaSpohr, Playgroupie.

Bloggers I plan to accost because I feel like I know them but I really don't and they will be frightened and run: Sweet Life, Growing Up Mo, Maura, Issa, MommyTime, Vodka Mom, Marinka, AMomTwoBoys, MommyGeekology, Norwindians, Heart at Preschool, Backpacking Dad, Just Another Mommy Blog, Ann's Rants, Carolyn Online, Manic Mommy, Headless Mom, Amy in Ohio, Smart Ass Mom, OHMommy, Bernthis, Amazing Greis. There are more, but I have to stop because I'm scaring myself.

Lawyers: Are for sucks. (Takes one to know one.)

Attachment parenting: Lovely, in theory.

Coke or Pepsi: Pepsi, there's no contest, Neil. The whole point is the sugar.

SAHM/WAHM/WOHM/CABM*: Though it makes me nervous, I love meeting woman and other moms. I hate acronyms.

*Crazy Ass Blogging Moms

Good Mom/Bad Mom: Sit. Stay. Roll over. Blech. Love your kids? Me too. Make mistakes? Me too.

Favorite fast food: No thanks, I love to eat out, the more local and wonderful the restaurant, the better. I've only passed through Chicago. Anyone?

Coffee: Well, some form of caffeine, yes please, every day. Early. Preferably, SB chai tea.

Are you going? Say hi to me. I'm scared too.

You Are My Sunshine

First, I purchased the sun. Soon after, I began contemplating disposing of bodies.

The sun is a nightlight. It's actually a sun/moon nightlight invented by a brilliant dad. It has a little alarm clock like timer on the back that you set so that the moon is on at night, glowing with a soft blue glow, and then, at whatever time you deem appropriate for wake up, or get out of bed, or commence noise pollution operations, you set the clock so that the bright yellow sun comes on.

Simple. Beautiful. Easily explained to two toddlers (Ess and Gee) who think that the entire world, which does emphatically include their mother, should get up whenever their little eyeballs pop open in the morning. And, you know, they rise with the sun, which has an irritating habit of making an earlier and earlier appearance throughout the summer.

We reviewed the new rules with care. I showed them the moon and the sun. I carefully explained that when the moon glowed blue, it was quiet time, and when the sun turned yellow (at 7:00 a.m.), they could talk, yell, read books. Morning.

I plugged the thing in the first night and the pretty blue moon glowed softly. Or terrifyingly. Whatever. Gee moaned for fifteen minutes before I caved. "No moon. No scary moon. No blue moon. No moon face."

For the love. But, I have advanced degrees. I solved this problem. I set the moon to come on at 6:00 a.m., before they usually wake, and the sun to follow at 7:00 a.m. Brilliance.

It worked perfectly for about three days. Since then, for the last three months, mornings go something like this.

Gee: (somewhere between 5:00 a.m. and 6:30 a.m., creeping into our door) I have to pee-pee.
Matt and I: Go.
Me: And then back in your bed until the sun comes on. Quietly.

I believe I've mentioned that he's the slowest functioning organism currently alive on the planet. He drags his feet, he knocks around in the bathroom, he pees, he stands there and screws with the curtains.

Quiet. He's still in there. I'm wide awake.

Me: Gee?
Gee: Yes, Momma?
Me: Go back to bed until the sun comes on.
Gee: Okay.

FLUSH! Patter, patter, patter.

I roll over, rearrange my seventeen pillows, lay my weary head down. Sleep creeps back over me, slowly.

ABCs. I hear the ABCs. Soft, but gaining volume.

Me: Ess, IS THE SUN ON?
Ess: No.
Me: Then, it's quiet time, no talking, no singing, quiet time until the sun comes on.
Ess: Okay.

Quiet. Sleep coming.

Gee: Ess? Ess! I'm the kangaroo and you're the tigger!!
Me: Gee, IS THE SUN ON?
Gee: No.
Me: Then It Is Quiet Time.

Cue: Gareh - sun on? No! No, Gareh!

Matt's shoulders are shaking.

Me: What?
Matt: You're kind of obsessed with the sun. Just a little.
Me: Your point?
Matt: It's not like you're sleeping, you're just all worked up about them being quiet. You could just relax, they are in their rooms.
Me: Are you applying logic to this situation? Because, I could hurt you right now.
Gee: Momma? Can we sing?
Me: Is the sun on?
Gee: No.
Me: Then, Quiet! Time!

Me: (yell/whispering to Matt) I want to sleep. Just until 7:00 a.m. It's not that hard. It's a toddler level concept. Moon - NO TALKY. Sun - TALKY. They get it. They are baiting me.
Matt: You're foaming at the mouth a little.
Me: (to Matt) All they have to do is be quiet until the sun turns yellow. They can get this... (yelled to my now chattering kids)... OMIGOD, IF I HEAR ANOTHER SOUND BEFORE THAT SUN COMES ON NEITHER OF YOU WILL EAT A COOKIE UNTIL YOU ARE FORTY... (to Matt) I don't want to get up in the sixes. I want sevens. It's not that much to ask. I'm not saying they have to sleep until ten. They don't have to sleep at all, they just have to lay quietly in their beds for thirty minutes.

I flop down and roll over, pull the blankets up over my ears. For two minutes, it is blissfully quiet. I drift a little, start to sink, to dream.

A cacophony of noise erupts from all sides, in stereo.

Ess: (blaring, like a fog horn of wakefulness) MOMMATHESUNISONMOMMATHESUNISON. THE SUN IS ON! THE SUN IS ON! (She will not be quiet again for twelve hours.)

Simultaneously, Gee patters to our door and throws it open. MOMMA! DADDY! THE SUN IS ON! IT'S TIME TO GETUP!!!

He is so joyful. It's both amusing and horrifying.

Cue: SUN ON! SUN ON, MOMMA. UP! Up! Up! UP!

Matt convulses with mirth. "Um, darling, sunshine, light of my life? I think the sun might be on."

Justifiable familiocide? Oh, I think so.

I will miss this time, I will miss this time, I will miss this time, I will miss this time...

*****************************************
The non-labor labor continues. I had an appointment this afternoon. The good news is, I am now 4 1/2 centimeters dilated with 'bulging waters.' I have no idea either, although I picture a huge water balloon with a baby's hand in it waving around, protruding from...yeah, I know, we don't want to go there do we?

The crazy news is, there is no news. My midwife stripped the ever loving heck out of my membranes, which means she rooted around a bit and tried to separate the amniotic sack from the cervix. She was thorough, I think she might have given the baby a pat on the ass while she was in there. It's not a breech baby. That was hours ago now and there is not a lot happening. It appears AnyBaby is in there for the long haul.

So, on that note, it's late. Good night all. I don't want to hear a single word out of any of you until the SUN COMES ON. Am I clear?