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??