Post-Christmas Perks

Christmas wiped out the last three weeks but good. Amounts spent were carefully calibrated, piles measured, number of gifts to open evened out. Tamales were made for Christmas Eve dinner (thank you, Mari!), some delicious brunch and then traditional ham and potatoes were prepared and eaten for the day itself. We sang, we read scriptures, we visited family. My work here is done, for the month. Whew!

The Christmas season aside, this is my favorite time of the year in San Diego. I've been called a wimp more than once for living in a city with almost no climatological adversity, but I sure love those sunny, 70 degree December days. The dirt is soft and rich, since it is the rainy season, and the weeds come out with a gentle tug. Everything is green and thriving. The sun is warm on my back as I kneel in the damp ground and clear stinging nettle from under my budding apricot tree. Mmmmmmm. This is the weather we pay for!

Vacation time is a blessing for family relationships as well. The children are so much more relaxed with no school and sports craziness, and minus all that pressure, we are all easier to get along with. We still have our moments, however. At the conclusion last night's fervent family prayer (that the mother was certain entered into the hearts of each family member), two children exploded with ill-will even before the last consonant of the "Amen" had been completed. "Why were you poking me all through prayer?!" "You were tapping your gross foot on me the entire time!" The parents, who in former years may have knocked a couple of heads together for the offense of contention during family prayer, merely exchanged weary looks of mutual sympathy. If we survive the children, we're going on a LONG cruise around the world, a few times.

Gloom and doom

The dog woke me at 2:30 this morning, barking her fool head off. And before I continue, I should note that the only thing in my life that ever fills my head with your common every day expletives, is that DOG! I ran down stairs in my robe and threw her in the garage, getting wet grass on my cold, bare feet that cost me some time removing before climbing back in the bed. Seth was up an hour later, just as I finally drifted off to sleep, because he has a raging poison oak thing going. He got up and bumped around, and coated himself with some expensive dermatologist-recommended cream, and I managed to reach dreamland again about twenty minutes before time to get up for seminary.

It was my turn to get up, so up I got, very groggily and grumpily. I remarked to Matt after everyone was off to school that come April, I will be just that sleepy every morning. We were doomed, I said. He remonstrated that we weren't doomed. He's right, of course--it is a blessing, not a curse, that will visit our family in a few short months. But sleep-deprived ladies feel doomed when they consider a future of prolonged sleep deprivation. And said sleep deprivation looms much more ominously at 40 than it did a few years back.

Gender discovered--It's a boy!

I hadn't thought I had any preference, boy or girl, until the moment we found it he was a boy--then I felt a twinge of disappointment. The girls were hoping to even out the numbers a bit, so maybe I was disappointed for them. "There are too many boys!" Mariah insisted that night, when we were all together in the kitchen. "Who should we get rid of?" I asked her, hoping that the question would cause her to reflect that we couldn't spare anyone. She, however, started naming off her brothers one by one, as they took turns looking offended. I told her that Sadie, Mom and she would have to stick together, with all those boys in the house.

The boys are pleased. "Score!" was Macon's text in response to the good news.

This business of being able to find out the gender ahead of time is a beautiful use of modern technology. What an amazing window into what was not before seen--we know the baby has all his tiny parts--a perfectly formed little person, whose job is to gain another seven or eight pounds and perfect some of those less developed and currently unneeded organs like his lungs. We know that he is a boy, which tells us a great deal about him--he will need to be taught to provide, protect, and preside in his home.

I had one very sobering response to my jubilant "It's a boy!" annunciation text (although in this case, I had texted "Es niño!") A friend responded in her own language: "What a great blessing to have a boy! It is better, because the women in this world work harder and suffer more than the men!" This lady has had some cause to feel this way, because the men in her life had not often been what they should have been. It should not be like that--men and women are made to share the burdens of work and of sorrow, as well as the joys. It makes me determined that my sons should be taught to work hard, and be honorable and faithful husbands and fathers. That is what will give them and their families the most happiness--now and later.

Moaning Myrtle

I've always been quite sentimental. Emotions created by books, movies, church meetings, and Maxwell House commercials quickly well up into tears, and I have had to master the art of crying silently to myself in order to avoid detection. When I'm pregnant, the sentimentalism moves into the realm of the ridiculous. This morning as I read the movie review for the newest Potter installment, I was moved to tears in anticipation of being sad during the actual film! When I was pregnant with Noah, and the final installment of the new Star Wars movies came out, I was humiliated to find I was crying as Anakin strangled Padme! Anakin and Padme, for crying out loud? Nobody cared about that romance, least of all me. And I confess I wept when the animated lightning bug from "The Princess and the Frog" was squashed by the bad guy. I wasn't pregnant that time.

I was sobbing over the morning paper the other day, glad that everyone was off at work and school and unable to see the spectacle of the matriarch of the family weeping big tears of sympathy over a man who had lost his wife two years hence. He deserved those tears of course, much more than George Lucas and Disney did, and more than JK Rowling will, when I shed tears in the theater tonight for Harry Potter and his friends. I think I might be more happy about all this weeping if it were more logical--if I wept only when something was truly sad, or truly beautiful, and not because I have allowed my emotions to be manipulated by Hollywood or an instant coffee marketing campaign.

I'll work on being more choosy about where and when I dissolve into a flood of tears. In the meantime, however, I count at least five fictional characters who will meet their demise tonight. I'm bringing plenty of tissues.

When did my nice children get to be teenagers?

I kicked the two answering to that description out of bed at the crack of 10:40 and made them do some chores. They didn't complain too much (they had complained plenty the day before, so they were out of new excuses, I guess), however, they did fill my house with thumping bass and that talking pseudo-rap that passes as a melody line these days. Matt wants to know if our music sounded this bad to our parents. Maybe if it weren't cranked up to "11," I could stand to listen to it.

I used to put on my own music when it was time to motivate the children to do chores. Now he who puts on the music generally follows a might-makes-right pecking order. Noah started working on his chores first, so he popped in a Primary CD and picked up Legos to "Called to Serve" ("I like to work to the 'forward, pressing forward' part," he told me. Now, isn't that a nice boy? One day, he too will be fourteen.) Seth entered the room after eating his pancakes and bullied Noah into letting him put on a CD of his own, and then before I know it, Macon has started his chores, has hooked his itunes up to speakers and is blasting Offspring through the house. Six foot seven wins the music battle, every time.

As for the pregnancy update, the belly begins to catch up to the backside, and 2nd tri energy is keeping me going. The major downside for the whole condition is the short fuse, especially where tantrums are concerned. Is it not common knowledge that five-years-old is too old for an aisle-shaking fit at Walmart?? I have sworn not to take the child back there until she turns six. And she got no potato chips, either. Urk.

Dignity is overrated

If this were multiple choice, I'd choose, "a"--be pregnant, no daycare, or
"b"--run a daycare without being pregnant; but life being what it is, I get "c"--all of the above. Naps are a thing of the past now, and Matt and I just take turns getting up with the seminary kids--tomorrow it is my turn for an hour or so of extra sleep.

I'm starting to feel the baby twitching around in there, which is pretty darn cool. Those little twitches make up for inconveniences like having to hitch up one's pants every twenty or thirty minutes. My compression hose, which I wear to keep my veins from exploding out of my skin, want to inch down my legs, so I have to pull those up all the time; and the maternity pants are a problem all by themselves. I would like to know if there are maternity pants in existence that can be worn comfortably all day. I have never found a pair that doesn't need frequent adjustment, but this could be because I'm too cheap to buy them for myself and end up borrowing from other people not exactly my size. In any case, I spend the entire day yanking up my bottoms.

And talking of things undignified and graceless, I hope no one ever sees me put those compression hose on, and not just because I am in my unmentionables when I do it. I lie on my back like an overturned beetle, my legs waving in the air, while straining to stretch unyielding fabric around them. After one leg is tightly bound, I rest, breathing hard, getting up my courage to stuff the other leg into the nylon leg girdle. The second leg is the worst, because it begins tethered to the other leg, and then there's that belly, which is only getting bigger, getting in the way of one's knees. After last pregnancy, I was so happy to see the back of my compression hose, I shipped them off immediately to my sister. She seemed happy to send them back.

Confession

I slept until 11 this morning. Technically, I first woke up at five and got a couple of kids off to seminary, then returned and got a few more off to elementary school. Eli is the only kid who doesn't require my help at all--he gets himself up, makes breakfast, packs up, and says, "Bye," on his way out. I'm considering him leaving him everything, at my demise.

After all was peaceful in the house, I crashed. Matt had been out of town, and the strain of being Dad and Mom to everyone while simultaneously growing a baby did me in. I slept like the dead until 11:17. I find that after a three hour nap, I have all the energy necessary to whirlwind clean my house, take care of my mini-day care, and also manage my own children efficidently. I think I shall adopt it as a regular part of my day.

Vanity Victorious

My leg is up on my desk. It is supposed to be above my heart for maximum vein relief, but I haven't yet figured out how to comfortably rest with my leg at such an angle as to be higher than my heart. Varicose veins get worse with every pregnancy, my doctor says, which I had already proven in a single-subject experiment on the malady. They usually kick in around the 28th week of pregnancy, he says. Clearly his research has not extended to 40-year-old mothers of six and a half, whose genetic predisposition to them can be seen in the purple legs of every one of her foremothers. I have a great grandmother who gave birth to twenty-one children. Twenty-one! That would be three times the number of pregnancies I've less than cheerfully endured. I asked her granddaughter, my own mother, what Grandma Lydia's legs looked like after having so vigorously pursued her own biotic potential. She couldn't recall ever having noticed them. I would venture a guess that Grandma took care to always wear long dresses, so that no notice would be taken.

I saw a woman in the thrift store the other day, while shopping for Halloween costumes with the children. Her legs looked terrible! Bulging multi-colored veins in many distorted shapes bought a smile of delight to my face. I could have kissed her. This mother of I knew not how many children had battle scars, just like me--visible marks of motherly sacrifice to bring children into the world. How noble! How elevated that sentiment!

It gives me a wonderfully warm glow, as I dig up the number of a local plastic surgeon, and post it on my bulletin board, with the notice "Call in six months!"

Nap, doze, snooze

I'm tired! I sleep when I can, and if I'm not sleeping, I'm thinking about the next opportunity for sleep. I'm not very fond of my pregnant self--she sleeps a ton, can't seem to get her thoughts together in any coherent fashion, loses her temper more frequently and moves real SLOW. I'm stuck with her for some months, however, so I guess I better see if I can find her good points.

The elementary school kids are out this week for intercession; I took them to the zoo. They seemed to have a great time. We had passes for the older kids when they were this age--life was simpler then since we didn't have any teenagers! It also may have been the first time I'd been to the zoo without a baby or toddler in tow. Everyone walked, everyone took care of their own bathroom issues, no one missed a nap and got fussy (except me). I said as much to my 10-year-old daughter, pointing out that it was the easiest zoo trip of my adult life. "It won't be like that next time," she replied.

Exit 1st trimester, enter cold virus

Just as the energy started to return and the nausea to abate, I got a virus. It wasn't terrible, but it kept me on the couch with a drippy nose and a headache. I did a lot of sleeping and a good bit of reading, so it wasn't all bad. I started with a comfort novel or two--you can't go wrong with Austen, but when I finished Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility, I moved on to The Firm. WHY did I waste my time with Grisham? And worse, WHY did I continue to waste my time after I figured out reading the book would be a waste of time? Apparently, it is okay to cheat on one's wife, as long as it was someone else's fault (??), and she never finds out about it.

This is just the sort of reading a girl like me needs to avoid, in my weakened and unattractive state. Back to Austen, where men like that get all the punishment they richly deserve, and men like my husband get the girl . . . and happily ever after.

Where exactly does a baby fit into this lifestyle?

Yesterday was a blur; today will be more of the same. After grabbing the small people from elementary school, I rushed home to make an early dinner (not to be eaten just yet, keep your hands out of it!) Then I threw everyone in the van to watch Seth's football game. He played! He tackled, he long-snapped, the family was happy. We left in time to go home and eat the waiting dinner, then back in the van again for Noah's pack meeting. A rollicking good time, complete with bucket pyramid relays and elaborate web-making, and an Arrow of Light.

Then home to clean up that dinner (partially done), read to the two smallest people (done), and fall asleep long before Matt got home from a church visit (some people need their beauty rest).

Today we drive fourteen varsity water polo boys to a tournament, pick up Seth from football while simultaneously dropping of Eli for a Scout campout, catch one or two polo games, and attend the temple in between since we'll be so close.

And baby? I guess this time next year, baby will spend much of his life in the car. Poor fellow.

Technology opens an early window

Even in the last five years, technology has improved. At my first prenatal visit, nine weeks along and the baby just a couple of inches in length, I got to see his tiny fists moving around, and hear a heartbeat! I was feeling pretty crummy, and that little window into the miracle of new life made all the inconvenience and ickiness fade in importance. What's a few more varicose veins, anyway?

It is incomprehensible that the tiny little creature can already be so complete--organs, moving limbs, and that beautiful heartbeat that takes your breath away.

All that magic and wonder zipped me up on all the griping and moaning. For an hour or so, anyway.

Another blow to the vanity

Last pregnancy, or maybe it was the one before, the varicose vein situation got out of hand. Blue and purple veins exploded all over my left leg, almost overnight, as if the blood got over the dam somehow and overwhelmed the veins all at one time. It made my legs look horribly bruised, at first glance. I was relaxing on the beach with some of my husband's family during that pregnancy, when my mother-in-law suddenly gasped, "Good heavens!! What happened to your legs!?"

I am twelve weeks along, and the baby is roughly the size of a plum. So small, and yet those veins are starting to bulge again. I'm watching the other leg. With any luck, I'll have a matching set after this baby is born.

Yes, I would like some cheese with my whine

Six children is already a great many children. We're spinning plates like mad, making sure homework is done, extra-curricular activities are attended punctually, no one is dabbling in the occult. The plate representing a clean and orderly home fell off its stick long ago, and crunches sadly under our feet as we dash about, keeping the others from falling. Not unlike the sound our feet make in the actual kitchen. I'm going to have to blame that on the pregnancy, and I don't care if it's even the real reason for the mess.

Sleep has taken a serious hit around here, as well. I fall in bed no later than 8:30, but children and pets conspire against me to be sure I don't get too much of that precious commodity. A typical night, I wake up again around 11:30 or 12, when our oldest is just climbing into bed after having completed several hours of homework. "I have practice early tomorrow," he says, when I go to check on him. I sigh, and set my alarm back fifteen minutes, to 4:45. Sometime in the wee hours, the dog decides we need protection from the local wildlife. Feeling some responsibility to the sleep of the neighbors, Matt and I throw on clothes and go try to shut her up. If all goes well, I'll sleep what's left of the night 'til the 4:45 am alarm, unless the 5-year-old has a bad dream.

At least I'll be prepared for the new critter, who is unlikely to sleep any more than that.

La Mujer Propone, Dios Dispone

All I could think about at first was my nicely planned life, all upside down. I had long been congratulating myself, whenever I heard of someone else's happy news, that I would not have to lie around nauseous for that interminable first trimester, ever again. A woman with her belly out to here always made me grateful that labor would never more loom large in my future. I was happy for the new moms, of course, but I was plenty smug that I'd closed that chapter in my life.

Soon all I could think about was nausea and fatigue. And that it is WAY worse at 40 than it was at 35, when I had my last one. I'm not that old, for crying out loud, snide "advanced maternal age" labels on my medical chart notwithstanding. My body sure feels older this time, though. I crawl in bed at 8:30 p.m. and don't move until I absolutely have to get up. That is, after my husband has singlehandedly gotten all 6 kids out the door to their various schools. And when I know I'll throw up if I don't get food, now. If it weren't for the nausea, I might not get up at all. Pregnancy in one's twenties is a breeze, in comparison.

These were my thoughts as I crawled up the stairs with one small stack of laundry, stopping to rest with my head pressed against the soft carpet, waiting for the roiling nausea to pass.

Three days late are three days too many

All the baby toys and clothes had been given away years ago, as if that was a reliable form of birth control. Yet despite those careful efforts, I was still sitting on my bed with my calendar, counting and recounting days since my last period.

The next morning, I looked with a growing feeling of panic at the early pregnancy test. "Inconclusive," my husband said over my shoulder, after studying the two vertical lines that should have shown a plus and a vertical line in case of pregnancy. "I'm pregnant," I replied. He was skeptical, given the sketchy test, but I knew. With or without the pale pink plus-sign, there was a new little person already growing inside of me.

After twenty years of marriage and six children, we had our first unplanned pregnancy.