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.