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.

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.

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.

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.