Parenting Revisited

I got up to get kids to seminary for the first time in seven weeks. Matt has shouldered the morning load alone, and has done a great job; but the past year of growing a baby and having a baby has severely compromised our effectiveness as parents. I can't remember the last time we parented with any wisdom and backbone. We're back, however, so those kids had better LOOK OUT!

Honestly, the baby is an excellent excuse, but not altogether responsible for our parenting issues. We've been watching the Cosby Show from the eighties recently, a great entertainment, but also a constant reminder that we stink as parents! I realize that the Huxtables are a fictional family, which allows them to be perfect in ways the rest of us who have actual challenges and adversity cannot attain. Still. Why can't I handle messy rooms and poor grades with wit and serenity, and crack everyone up while I'm about it?

Telling people I have seven children always raises eyebrows, and I'm certain people keep their opinions about our family size mostly to themselves. Once in a while, however, someone lets it all out. The other day a gal responded that having seven kids was great, if I could handle them. I almost laughed right out loud. Who said I could handle seven kids? I wanted to tell her if she knew someone that could handle seven kids, to give her my card; I could use the help.

He likes us!

It is always such a happy day when the baby smiles. Six weeks of ambivalent response to all the TLC is finally richly rewarded with a big smile--he likes us! We think it is because he recognizes his special people and loves us best until he gives those same smiles to a stranger who stops to coo over him. Anyway, it is very cute, and keeps the food and snuggles coming despite our fatigue.

Seminary plus new baby is not easy--the parents have on a number of occasions ignored the alarm and decided an extra hour of sleep was worth the chance that the boys would not pass seminary this year. I seem to remember getting the children up and ready for school myself with other newborns, but am unequal to the task this year. Matt gets everyone up and to school, and I wander downstairs after feeding the baby and showering, just in time for my first daycare child to arrive. He's starting to sleep more at night, however, so the bags under his parents' eyes may soon begin to fade.

These particular smiles are for Sadie, who loves to pick him up, especially if it means delaying homework or chores. Baby smiles always make me think that there is someone in that little body after all, and not just genetic material combined to form his particular tiny shape. It is his first attempt to show us who he is, and we anxiously await the next little clue to his personality.

Back in the thick of things

My parents left today, ending what was two weeks of 'vacation.' Mom did laundry, cleaned my house, and held the baby while Dad took charge of clipping up branches and mowing my lawn. At forty years of age, I find that I still need my parents! I wish I could keep them for a while.

The other side of labor and delivery is a wonderful place, sleepless nights notwithstanding. Beforehand is all anxiety and self-doubt, discomfort and impatience; after is glorious! I've never run a marathon or climbed Mt. Everest (nor will I, either), but I think that feeling of I AM THE WOMAN! when those feats are accomplished is the same as the one I get after managing my own labor pains without any anesthesia. (Please sit down! No really, all that applause is just embarrassing! Autographs will be AFTER the celebration gala.) And besides my ego inflating, there is that tiny, soft little person to love and hold and share with grandmas and aunties. Yes, the view is much better after birth than before.

Happy ending, blessed beginning

Living proof that pregnancies do end, after all!

Losing marbles, such as they are

I used to have a very good brain. I was very proud of it. Now it is only a shadow of its former self, with most of its splendor leached out by seven pregnancies.  In the ninth month of this pregnancy, I have had to dumb down my nightly sudoku puzzle to an easier level, which has been very painful. I found that I had five in a row of the toughest puzzles completely ruined, so I turned back to the previous section in defeat and humiliation. This is only one example--the usual air traffic control job of getting kids to their several activities has befuddled me of late, so Matt has had to be both brains and brawn of this operation. Good thing he's up to the task.

Still waiting and wondering on when this little person is going to show up. Of course, I haven't even reached the due date yet, so I have no business being so antsy. And yet we do get antsy, all of us, for every long second between the 38th week and the time the baby comes. My mother claims that she didn't want the baby to come on time, because she had too much to do to get ready. I don't know that I have complete confidence in her memory on this one (sorry, Mom)--"this is the time that Mommies start to get anxious," as my friend sagely put it to me the other day. The contractions keep coming, and making slow progress (due to a cranky uterus, according to the nurse practitioner).

This nurse practitioner was not my friend today. Besides accusing my uterus of being cranky, she also mentioned that having a baby at forty was practically elderly. I think she was trying to be funny, but I find I didn't laugh. She discovered that there was more cranky about me than she had originally guessed. If my brain had been up to firing off a sharp retort, you can be sure I would have given her one.

Waiting

You'd think I'd know better by now. I do know better--I've resisted all attempts to move the due date closer; when the doctor says, "Could happen any time," I plug my ears and hum "Battle Hymn of the Republic;" when friends tell me they think I'll go early, I change the subject to how they think the Padres will fare this year. Psychologically, I know it is best for me to think that that baby will come two weeks after the due date. And yet, when the pre-contraction contractions kick in, I am the one getting prematurely excited. I think, "Well, maybe," and then just end up grumpily resetting all my psychological defenses.

Meanwhile, life plugs along without worrying about baby's timetable. The 17-year-old pulls an almost all-nighter for a gigantic AP project, waking me up at four, curse him, to tell me his plan. The fifteen-year-old falls dead asleep on the couch for five hours in the afternoon because he is growing like a weed and needs his beauty rest. The thirteen-year-old wrestles at school, bikes home, eats several pounds of food, and dashes off to rugby practice. The ten-year-old makes earrings, since she has no homework, then goes off to basketball, which is only an acceptable way to pass her time if one of her friends is there. The nine-year old and five-year-old, also known as flint and steel, play together happily, much to mother's surprise and delight, before starting their homework.

At least waiting for baby does have a predetermined end, unlike many things we wait for and chew our nails over in life. In two weeks, one way or another, I will be able to tie my own shoes again, walk without a waddle, and switch to my other side in bed without a three point turn.

This is no time to panic!

Actually, two weeks away from the big day, give or take, is the perfect time to panic. This is the time one remembers there is only one way out of the pregnancy, and that is through the valley of the shadow of death. I awoke at 3:30 this morning (to visit the bathroom, of course), but I couldn't get back to sleep for the sense of impending doom. I remember all too well all the sensations of labor and delivery, and spent an hour and a half arguing with myself about whether I could do it again without the epidural. Scratch that, I know I can do it again. The question is, do I want to do it again.

Noah's was the only delivery where I decided that an epidural was the way to go--Macon was an emergency C-section, and the other four were natural, no-drug deliveries. (Since Noah learned this, he tells everyone that I took drugs when I was pregnant with him. That usually raises a few eyebrows.) I didn't particularly like the epidural; it made me feel weepy and needy. I did not mind placidly watching basketball, however, as I waited for transition to be over. That part was okay.

What I want to avoid are those last overpowering waves of transition labor and the leg shaking, back-aching, get-that-kid-out pushing phase. One of my labors, after the baby had finally slipped out into someone's waiting hands, I lay back on the pillow and closed my eyes, and stayed there. Some short while later, another well-meaning someone was ready to give me the baby, and I was so exhausted, I didn't particularly want to hold it! Once I opened my eyes, adrenaline and maternal instinct took over, and I was all about the tiny person I had just delivered. But those few minutes of just let me die are what kept me awake last night, dreading it all.

Three teenagers and a baby

By the end of the week, we will have three teenagers. I like teenagers--they are a lot of fun. But I don't like some of the baggage they carry around, like tons of homework, late nights of completing said homework, crazy running around schedules, and the occasional tendency to turn a simple conversation into a major confrontation. I have friends and family members who homeschool, and I sometimes daydream about my children getting a full night's sleep, rather than staying up into the wee hours and then getting up in the wee hours for seminary. But it just doesn't seem right for our family. Someone would have to instruct them, and that someone would rather not.

In about a month, I will have three teenagers and a new baby, plus three other wonderful smaller people. This will be a new challenge for sure, but one I am at last looking forward to, rather than wondering with trepidation if it can be done. Actually, I still wonder that, but it will be done, whether it is possible or no.

Baby is growing well, the pregnancy has been textbook perfect; we are praying that it will continue this way. A friend of mine, who also was pregnant at forty-something asked me at church the other day how I was doing. "Fine," I said. "Just fine." She laughed. "How are you really?" she persisted, "Because having Ellen just about killed me!" I have thought about that every day of this pregnancy with a chuckle--it does feel much harder to be pregnant older, and with so many other people, teenage or not, demanding one's full motherly attention. But something Matt said in the temple last week kind of turned it all around for me--pregnancy is without a doubt a form of consecration. Mom gives it all up--comfort, healthy veins, time, sometimes more--for something more important, and something critical to the great plan of happiness.

Kvetch

Matt is traveling every single week in February, which happens to be a month that we have a ton going on. I realize he is working very hard to support this enormous family, however I begin to suspect the man of arranging work trips in order to get some R&R!. We talk late at night, after my long workday, plus marshaling and feeding our own kids, taking care of a church calling or two, and cleaning up the mess we call our kitchen, and I'm exhausted in the bed. He's watching a movie in a room that someone cleaned for him that very morning, no seminary wake up time on his horizon. I find I cannot be at all mature about this disparity.

I'm also getting a bit churched out, to be honest. I have responsibilities that are church related every single night this week, amounting to some twenty hours of being away from home. I figure I can skip the next month of Sunday church service with an even exchange of hours. Although I fear that may make me an idle and wicked girl, so I won't risk it.

Did I mention all the kids save one got the flu this past week? And has anyone forgotten I'm eight months pregnant?

I don't know if all that whining was cathartic, but I will cease and desist for today. I should mention that I'm VERY GRATEFUL that I did not get the flu myself--that may have just been the end of the world as we know it here in Poway.

So many children, she didn't know what to do

Long periods between posts generally mean I have lost my sense of humor! I'm not sure where it has gotten to, unless it has been swallowed up by fatigue. I checked myself in the mirror this morning, and sure enough, my mouth is set in a disapproving frown, pulling down at the corners without my bidding.

One thing that did make me laugh yesterday was an email that appeared in my inbox, naming me as someone nominated to be a local woman's history honoree, for being "amazing" in some way or another. This is the work of one of my dastardly friends, who hasn't spent enough time in my presence to rule me out for such a reward. I'm just ordinary--the old woman who lives in a shoe, spanking her children soundly and giving them broth for dinner far more frequently than she probably should. If in twenty years I find that my kids have turned out okay, if I have managed to run my business well enough to help get our money pit of a house into shape, if I can at that point find myself volunteering in the community--it seems to me that that is the time of life where I might look back and say that I did some amazing things. Right now, I'm just holding on by my fingernails and trying not to fall. The fact that I haven't fallen is, so far, my most amazing accomplishment.

Time and Priorities

I have entered that portion of the pregnancy where time slows down to a crawl. This is a mystery unexplained by neither scientist nor philosopher--how it is that life rushes by like a Japanese bullet train, but the pregnancy ceases to progress except at a snail's pace. I've been thirty weeks along for a full month now, I'm sure of it.

Before I hit the third tri skids, I took the younger kids to see "Tangled." Not a bad little Disney movie, but the five-year-old was traumatized by the sad ending. (Spoiler alert.) At the end, when the handsome "prince" dies as he cuts off Rapunzel's magical golden hair (which turns it brown and unmagical), the entire theater was distraught--how would they pull this out? How would they save her one true love? Mariah was no exception, but her anxiety was hair-focused. Mommy, what happened to her hair? How will she get her hair back? The true love's recovery was no consolation for the tragedy of becoming a brunette.

Antidote for contention, and a little too much optimism

Thank heavens for game time during family home evening. Yesterday from the opening song on, family members took turns being contentious--criticizing, annoying, making snide comments. As soon as we got into a good game of Apples to Apples, however, laughter and silliness smoothed over all the former irritation. It makes a case for skipping the lesson and songs. Speaking of songs, I'd like to register a complaint wherever such things are registered that my children are so averse to singing. In my family of origin, that was one of the funnest parts of FHE--my kids seem to think that I invented singing just to torture them.

Matt and I are running to keep up with the six kids we already have out in the world, as well as the jobs we do to keep them fed and sheltered. Every now and again, I get a feeling of panic. "How are we going to do this?" I asked Matt the other day. "How will it be possible to juggle another ball with all these other balls in the air?" He didn't seem worried. "We'll just teach the balls correct principles, and they'll juggle themselves." Eh . . .

Aren't I Hideous, Boy?

I'm obsessing way too much about things I can't control--all physical stuff. The veins are going to keep bulging. The belly is going to keep growing, as will the backside. I didn't obsess so much when I was younger and pregnant--youth is beautiful.

I've decided I need to do one of two things: take Madam Mim's attitude and be delighted with dumpiness ("Aren't I hideous, Boy?" she asks, hopping around with glee, "Perfectly revolting?"), or decide to embrace the new, improved, aging me. Maybe some combination of the two: I'll remind myself how gorgeous I am on a daily basis, but when my daughters recoil at the sight of my legs and exclaim, "Mom! Your legs are FREAKY!" as they do every evening, I shall thank them in the spirit of Madam Mim.

In other news, the oldest boy grows handsomer, perhaps taller (although he hopes he's done), and cagier every blessed day. He's always been very close-mouthed about his personal life, and even seems to delight in keeping everything a secret from me. Yesterday he strolled past me while I was weeding the cactus garden. "Hello, Mom," he says as he heads up the driveway. My suspicions were immediately aroused, based on his distance from the laptop. "Where are you going?" I want to know. "For a walk," he replies, as if he is in the habit of taking the air on occasion. I request more details, but he only responds he'll be back in five minutes. He does return in five minutes, adding to the mystery by bearing a plate of cookies in his hands. Well, now I know that a girl is involved, but he heads off any nosy questions. "Someone owed me a plate of cookies, Mom. We'll leave it at that."

Confounded boy. Not one detail to ease the mother's curiosity. When I complain of this treatment from time to time, he reassures me that Sadie will be sure and tell all her secrets, like a good girl. Maybe. Unless she keeps me in the dark as well, since she holds her future varicosities against me. (Aren't we hideous, Boy?)

Tears and Laughter

Pregnancy hormones with pregnancy fatigue can produce tears and sadness. Plus, I've been adjusting to the new full-time daycare schedule, and lamenting the loss of sweet freedom, which makes me prone to feeling a bit blue now and again. All this means that for the last two weeks, I have finished up Thursday blubbering quietly to myself. I try to hide it from Matt, because it makes him feel guilty (provider guilt), but he notices anyway, which is worse, because not only am I crying, but I'm not talking to him about it! This week, however, I managed to make it through Thursday with my usual optimism intact, which I call a major victory.

Now if only I can get my doctor to quit mentioning that my weight "took another jump" since the last time I saw him. How much? I want to know. "Six pounds. But it was over the holidays, and it has been five weeks since your last visit." Psh. Six pounds, big deal. Talk to me when it's seven.

I'm taking a prenatal yoga class, which is my only form of exercise now that the daycare is using up all my workout time. It's pretty fruity, and provides me with some chuckles to combat all the weeping. As long as I make sure that I don't interfere with the flow of energy on the bottoms of my feet by keeping the strap up close to the toes, or accidentally send someone negative energy when I was supposed to be sending positive, I generally have a good class. It is just lucky I'm more inhibited than my sons, who recommend laughing out loud, then saying, "What? Oh, you were serious!"

Chief Cook and Bottom Washer

My husband has always accused me of being a terrible salesman. (Evidence he has collected against me: I pull something from the fridge, taste it, make a face, then offer it to him. Or if I have something to sell on Craigslist, I downplay the good points in order to be completely open about the bad.) This has become a problem now that I have to sell myself to make my living. I run a relatively new daycare, begun in September of last year, and open my home to inquiring parents as often as they come knocking, baring my housekeeping, parenting and childcare skills, and our family's general mayhem for general criticism and intrusion.

Today's hapless couple showed up right after lunch (mess in the kitchen), during one daycare child's filling her diaper (stench for the duration of the visit), and just as my youngest son was feeling his neediest (I'm not even going to elaborate on that scene--I'm not that bad a salesman). I find it difficult to appear professional with all of that going on around me. Although, since my profession is all about mess, smelly bottoms, and needy children, I suppose if I endure all that with a smile, it is the best I can do.

Mud, glorious mud!

The van got stuck in our yard two nights ago. I mean wheel-spinning, mud-spurting stuck. Matt and the boys spent a fruitless four+ hours trying all the usual tricks, before coming inside defeated. Triple A winched it out the next morning, leaving two deep, water-filled trenches by the orchard. Fortunately, I had three 8 and 9 year old boys here today, who knew exactly what to do with such a beautiful thing. After a couple of hours, we hosed them off, loaded the washer, and sent them to the showers. Mud+boots+a couple of shovels = boy heaven.

The teenagers are back in school. We know this because they come home and do homework for hours, fall in bed around one, and get up at five the next morning for seminary. Or, if they are Seth last night, they skip the homework part, fall asleep at three in the afternoon and don't wake up until seminary time this a.m. We're thinking growth spurt. The boy already complains that none of his jeans fit him, and he needs some new ones.

As for the pregnancy update, if I get nine hours of sleep a night, I'm good. I've just officially entered the third trimester, which means this sleep is interrupted every two hours so I can shift around to the less achy hip. I remember this pregnancy side effect, and not at all fondly. Whose idea was this, again??