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!"