So, we did a thing....

As many of you may recall, we had a pregnancy loss in 2015 that knocked us for a big loop. It was a winding and arduous journey to healing enough to function on the most basic level. We grew our family unintentionally as it were, and out of it has come great adventure. Imagine some of our surprise, when a year and a half later, that we learned that we were expecting another little person!
Because of our loss, we waited with bated breath for labs and scans to confirm it was in fact a potentially viable pregnancy. I didn't trust my body to do things the same way at 40 as it did even at 37. We were too scared to announce anything outside of precious few who we trusted with the news, and knew would be supportive of what ever came of the pregnancy. Add to it, the family size comments we garnered previously, and there was just little room for dealing with the kind of garbage that comes from negative opinions. Every pregnancy has been darkened by something, and our hearts just didn't have the capacity for more of it. The decision was made that we'd keep it off social media and basically keep it quiet till we couldn't. We told the kids at Christmas, and were met with a variety of reactions from them. As the pregnancy progressed, I kept a photo journal of weekly bump pictures. And by Easter, there was pretty much NO more hiding it at all. If anyone asked, I wasn't going to deny it, but I still wasn't going about intentionally announcing it either. And for once, aside from the keeping it quiet, we were able to enjoy this pregnancy. We didn't have to deal with the barrage of comments fraught with other people's opinions. And that has become part of our healing. We didn't even tell family members outside of our kids and my husband's parents.

Then I was gifted an opportunity to model for a photographer, and the session was on my due date. I have not ever been able to do something like this, and fully expecting that this really *is* our last baby, I was excited for the chance to document it with something better than bathroom selfies and pictures taken by my kids.





And here I am now, typing this from the hospital with a freshly hatched mini human beside me who is our Rainbow Baby. She was born on Friday the 14th, and we are embarking on this new leg of our family's journey. She's an opinionated little stinker and getting her here was its own adventure. We're hooked up to phototherapy lights at the moment due to some elevated bilirubin.

Birthday gifts

It's been a while since I posted anything, which is not uncommon for me to do around here. Like a lot of people, I thrive on the instantaneous potential for feedback over on crackbook. As those folks over there know, I've recently been tasked with my father's care. He had a stroke, or multiple strokes, over the Christmas holidays. It is coming to light exactly the small missteps others made that led us to where we are today. It has only been a week, and like God tells us, "we know not the hour" of the culmination of this leg of the journey. I have high hopes to tolerate it for the long haul, with the rocky crags, the beautiful sunrises, the smooth terrain, and the potholes along the way.

As my readers know, I couch virtually everything in humor, whether it's truly an amusing situation, a heart rending one, or something that has drawn my ire. My father has a certain wit about him, and he instilled it in me. He is also the genetic source of my debaucherous side. He also taught us many other lessons. He is a living message of "preach the Gospel at all times, use words if necessary." He has always given his time and talent where he could. He has served as church sexton, usher at Mass, and bread slinger at a food mission. The bosses at the bread mission expressed concern over a man of a certain age who was heaving stacks of full bread trays, 5 at a time. My father quite handily put their concerns aside with his feisty wit and determination, outslinging "the young bucks"  as he calls them, and finishing the prep work for his station in less time than it took for the younger volunteers to even get their product to their stations.  Telling him no means he is even more determined to prove the naysayer wrong.

And this stroke has slapped him with a big fat NO. No, sir, you can't drive anymore, because you are blind in the right half of both eyes (hemianopsia). No sir, you can't be alone anymore because not only can you not see half your world, but you will now start seeing things nobody else can, your depth perception is skewed, and your idea of slow is still too fast for your safety. No, sir, your dementia has been made worse by the stroke, and life as we know it has changed. No, sir, you must use that walker because the vision loss is going to affect your balance. No, sir, it is no longer your time to give and do for others, but it is your time to receive. And he quite simply does not know how to sit back and accept others serving him.

For a man who has always given, always done for himself and others, this is a huge blow. It is a slow painful death to a man to not be needed. And as I just typed that, I realized that in my insistence on serving him, I have inadvertently caused him to not be needed. My oldest sister suggested I have him help with small tasks that he can do, like folding the baby's diapers for me. This is a lesson to me as well, because like my father, I have a need to do things for myself. I need to loosen the reins on the small tasks so I can focus on where my purpose currently lies. That purpose is to manage my father's care and keeping, that of my household, and to work on growing my business. And my other purpose is to serve as my dad's protector - from himself, the pitfalls of his environment, and people who would take advantage of him.

Dad has always taught us to never expect anything from anyone, but should someone give you something, you are to be damn grateful for it. It has a link to his upbringing during the 1930s, with parents who, to be polite, were difficult. For whatever reason, Dad feels unworthy. He's always felt that way, but it is truly showing itself as an impediment at the moment. He feels unworthy of being served in his old age. I know how that feels. It's exactly how I felt when I attended a retreat at church, and these women refused to let me lift a finger to do anything except tuck myself into bed, dress myself, and use the bathroom. To a mom who did so much for her family on a daily basis, it was truly FOREIGN to have someone else take care of her. Right now, I've been speaking a horrible foreign language to Dad, and he can't translate.

So, here's this aged man, who has been forced out of his world, and into ours. His presence in our home was my birthday present. He was discharged from the rehab hospital the day after my birthday. I was joking the week prior, and still do, "Happy Birthday! Here's the care and keeping of your father!" It's a very important task, and it's not rainbows and sparkly fairy unicorn farts by any stretch of the imagination. But humor is how I handle things. Despite the snark of the outward appearance of that statement, I am finally getting the opportunity to see a part of my father he hid from the world. His vulnerability calls for my strengths to be put into action. The life experiences I've collected along the way with Devildog have been training grounds for this stretch of the journey.

Having a dad who was 49 when I was born, I always had an appreciation and respect for the elderly. They've been there, done that, got a thousand t-shirts to show for it. Just this week alone, I have seen beautiful things about him, about my oldest sister, and about my husband and children. And that is a gift that can't be taken lightly.

Turkeys have their own mind

So  I left off with a reblog of the mom who summed up the sentiments I was feeling at the time. I was a watched pot and hating it. Don't make any pregnant woman feel like a watched pot. It's horrible, and incredibly frustrating. Not to mention, it's pretty darn RUDE. (queue Michelle Tanner's "how ruuude!")

Things after that were a bit of a whirlwind. The following week was another litany of work, babysitting the Godchildren, my own doctor's appointment, and a house with visitors. I was trying clary sage oil and red raspberry leaf tea to motivate the spawn to well, spawn. Not a lot was happening. I swear the kid was waiting for the chaos to cease before he graced us with his presence. I should've had the doctor stir the pot (aka strip/sweep membranes) at that week's appointment, but I didn't. I figured that I would give him a chance to exit on his own first. Being Thanksgiving week, the OB's office was closed Thursday and Friday, and MamaX3 had her OB & NST appointments Tuesday. I didn't want to be dealing with crazy traffic Wednesday, and had plans to be cooking things in advance that day anyway. Yes, we were still planning on hosting Thanksgiving because we are insane. So, my appointment was on Monday, 2 days after my due date. I had the doc sweep membranes at that visit. And the contractions I'd been having the previous week got more noticeable and frequent. And I told them I wasn't going to go forward with the induction scheduled for the next day, because the decision to induce just did not give me peace.

The next day, I was sitting on the Godchildren. Yes, didn't you read a few sentences up? I am insane. MamaX3 came home, and we started having contractions every 5 minutes, alternating who went first. I decided I needed to go home just in case it was hormonal feedback, and just in case I really *was* in labor. I got home and the contractions spaced themselves back out, but they were getting stronger. I reluctantly called the OB's office and the nurse asked what was going on, I told her, and she said, "Well, you've convinced me". Ugh that was not what I wanted to hear. I don't entirely know why, aside from the fact that it was going to mean coming home from the hospital ON Thanksgiving, and totally leaving my MIL to handle Thanksgiving prep. So, I called Devildog to come home, preventing him from getting overtime that day.

It took a bit of time to get to the hospital, partly because Devildog had to shower and wash the work grunge off his person, partly because it was the start of rush hour going in the direction of most of the traffic, and add Thanksgiving traffic to the mix. It was shortly after 5pm when we arrived. I will spare the male readers the triage portion of the initial intake. I will say the nurse was giving me crap about bailing on the induction and then showing up in labor that night. I love nurses whose sense of humor matches mine.

Being that I have such fast deliveries, the OB was hesitant to let me leave. Any other woman presenting like I was, she would have potentially sent home. Knowing how fast things can escalate, I decided it would be judicious to stay. I asked for the epidural early, because I was figuring I'd eventually get tired, start fighting contractions, and having trouble. To get the epidural, one must have 2 bags of IV fluid, to avoid blood pressure tanking to lethal levels. I got to my room a little after six p.m., and things started moving faster and getting stronger within the hour. By 7:30, I was sensing that I was not going to make it to the epidural, and told Devildog as much. By 7:45 the contractions were practically non-stop. At that point, I told him I hit transition. Not wishing a repeat of Blur's exit, he called the desk, telling them to get the doctor. Meanwhile, my nurse who was advised of just how fast things went with #2 & #4, went off in search of the anesthesiologist. She must not have been in the room when I told Devildog I wasn't going to make it to the epidural, nor did she have bat hearing. She returned just shy of 8 p.m., and at that moment, I started feeling immense pressure. I said as much, and she asked if it was with or without a contraction. (BOTH, honey - it's seriously GO time. Clearly, you haven't had expeditious patients like me before.)

And then...an explosive gush flooded the place. Devildog made an awful face, saying "yea, your water broke. It stinks!" I asked him what it smelled like because I could not smell it at all, being north of the carnage. His response? "rotting meat". Seriously? Some other woman would have been offended, but luckily for him, I'm not some other woman. Although, when you think about it, if you pull the plug on a tub of water that has been sealed up for the better part of 9 months, things are going to be a bit stagnant, so it made sense in a way. The nurse left the room, I hope to get the OB, not the anesthesiologist. All I know is the next several minutes were what felt like a single, long, contraction. It was probably more like ten 2-minute contractions piled on top of each other with a 10 second break between them.

A mere 23 minutes after the explosive gush, the baby was born, and I was completely out of breath, being asked if I wanted the oxygen mask. Yes, please, breathing is overrated sometimes, but I'd like to NOT pass out within seconds after expelling a mini-human from my nether regions, thank you. Nothing incites an obstetrical riot like a freshly spawned mother losing consciousness, so yea, let's avoid that.

If I'd gone back home, or stayed home till my water broke or contractions were closer together/stronger, then I would have been having a baby at home or on the side of the road. I have a friend who had one of her children inside 15 minutes on the kitchen floor. I didn't want that happening here. I warned everyone that I have very fast deliveries, and this was no exception. Upon hearing the story, a few people made comments about a greased pig.

Yes, I've got a case of greased pig, greased chute. Except, in the throes of it all, none of it felt like greased anything, probably because he was partially sunny-side-up. By the time you propel the 5th from your person, you not only have a clue as to how your body operates in childbirth, your body expedites things that much more than it already had in the past. But this turkey had his own timeline for the exit, as do all other babies. He's going to have birthday cake for Thanksgiving some years.

Look at those fat turkey legs

Cheers, Devildogs

It's a Marine thing, and unless you are one, you would never understand.

Happy Birthday to all my Devildogs. Born in Tun Tavern on 10 November 1775, and hard charging ever since, every Marine has 2 birthdays. There's the one that brought their physical presence to this earth, and then there's the one that made them who they are. And you can bet your beer that the latter is the one they'll cherish most. They throw the biggest best party for themselves, and make no apologies for it. (Besides, when have you ever known a Marine to need to apologize?) They hold their forebears in high regard for paving the way ahead of them. They can tell who is another Marine, almost on sight. They cover the six of any fellow Marine that needs it. They give 1000%, and they don't quit. They shoot first, then ask questions, but there are few questions given their marksmanship.

I know these things about them. But I'll never *know* these things. I love my Marine. And I have a love for all the other Marines. I am who I am today, in part because of my spousal connection to the Corps. I have grown and blossomed and become as feisty as I am, because I learned things I would have only learned as a Marine's wife. I am strong, capable, independent, and (marginally) adaptable, because I had to be those things at a young age. While most people my age were going to college and partying, I was married with 2 kids, living at Camp Lejeune, and supporting my husband's career. It's where I learned how to get in the wheelbarrow sometimes, and when I had to be the one pushing it. My father taught me to be able to handle little things like minor repairs, taking care of vehicles etc. Knowing those things helped my husband not worry about the house falling down around me because I was incapable of handling it. To this day, 20 years later, he still trusts me to be able to handle stuff. Sometimes, I'd like for him to not leave as much of that pesky stuff to my charge though.

To all you potential employers out there: Don't overlook the military spouse, or the spouses of veterans. Generally, these folks are highly employable for the latent skill sets that come from being a military spouse. They understand the concept of a work ethic and loyalty, are more willing to stretch themselves to achieve results, and are often adaptable. As Semper Fidelis is the Marine's motto, Semper Gumby is the motto of the Marine spouse.

So, Happy Birthday Devildogs. And thank you to all who shared them with the rest of us.

(Photo shamelessly snagged from Devildog Graphix)

Progress of my peace

I'm slowly making peace with my defiant friend's slow exit. I still suck as a friend, and I'll always regret that. My friend isn't on the imminent deathbed with the "last call". But when you feel your body betraying you, and nothing's working right, and you're always feeling like crap, and a good day is just a LESS crappy day, you generally prefer to warn people that your body isn't Tupperware with a nifty replacement guarantee when it breaks. And when people like me get those kinds of warnings after such a plucky individual defies every odd and prediction with gusto for DECADES, I take those warnings very seriously. My kneejerk reactions are often TOO serious, and I end up making things worse. But I am wired to just blow off what ever initial reaction comes to me and move forward. I hope I got the better part of the emotional ugly out of the way the other day. I have been spared the pain of losing a lot of people around me in my life. My husband has not, so his reactions to death are vastly different from mine. I didn't know this detail about him till the other day when I shared with him that my emotional guts were all tangled and I was useless most of that day. Even 20 years together with my husband, and I am still discovering little tidbits about him. Meanwhile, I'm generally an open book most times. So I just brain dump somewhere - a friend, here on the blog, over on Crackbook, who ever is willing to put up with my blathering for a while. I do better once I've gotten whatever it is off my mind and heart and get that kind of roadblock out of my way. Then I plug the cracks and leaks, and I pick up and keep going. Life doesn't stop just because I'm having an emotional or mental explosion. I don't have the wherewithal to just stop and crawl in a hole. That just makes me crazier. When I get certain kinds of energy, I just have to expend it somehow. It's not always pretty either. The other day was just plain ugly. I imagine there will be other unpleasant moments as I move along this part of my journey. I can't *always* be sunshine, rainbows and fairy farts. But I can be honest about what's on my mind, in my heart and go back and apologize when I've gone overboard.
I do have regrets, but that's a short list by comparison to those things that I count as blessings. I have so many that I can't even begin to name them all. I'm grateful for all of them, and don't think I'll ever repay them, or even pay them all forward. But I wouldn't be where I am if it weren't for other people in my life.

Also, 19 years ago at an UNGODLY hour of the morning, after an overnight labor with a young, albeit awesome labor coach who has stuck around all this time, a mini human emerged. So, to my oldest, Happy Birthday! You're becoming quite an amazing person, and I am so glad all those lectures about work ethic and common sense sunk in after all.
And to myself : Happy BirthING Day.

Birthdaying

It's a record, I've posted more than one blog in 8 weeks' time.
Oh. Sorry. I guess that floor came up and smacked you. Stupid chair, why didn't you keep my reader from falling?

In any case, my birthday is this weekend, and since last year demonstrated that I can't be taken out in public, I decided to do a birthday party for myself at home. And in usual fashion, I am making at least a weekend out of it. The kids are out of school Friday for planning day. I worked doggedly Thursday, long into the evening, with multiple interruptions to get all my work done so I can stay in bed longer and enjoy my coffee on Friday. I get to skip having to wake up at the butt crack-o-dawn and zero dark thirty to take people to meet their educational facilities. So, Thursday was my Friday. My Thursday-Friday means, I enjoyed some Irish Cream. My Friday-Friday may be for the Rum & Dr Pepper after the party preparations are done (or during them, who knows). Devildog must go to bed early Friday, because HE must get up at the crack of zero-dark-really-asinine on Saturday morning, to fulfill a commitment he made. I'll have to tell you about the commitment later. That commitment cemented my decision to stay at home to celebrate my birthday.

And there is no theme, no planning of minutiae, no type A anything with any of my gatherings at my awesome-for-entertaining house. Literally, it seems like all my parties here are "show up, put random food on the counter, pour drinks, and visit with people". It's what works for us. Now, for Christmas dinner there was a chow line but that was out of sheer necessity. With that many people and that much food, there was no way formality would have worked AT ALL here. Plus there's nothing formal about us or our house. Which is completely right up our alley because we're not plan to the nth anything people. I announced loose plans for a birthday the week prior, not sure if Friday or Saturday would be the better party day. I finally decided at the crux of Sunday/Monday that Saturday was best because we could start earlier in the day, and I needed Friday to get stuff ready. And seeing as how my husband has to go to bed early Friday, that would put a cramp in the debauchery my friends and I can create for ourselves. Not exactly conducive to birthdaying when you have to shush your friends because "the baby husband is trying to sleep"

236

Happy 236th Birthday United States Marine Corps!


OOHRAH Devildogs! Go eat some cake.

Happy Birthday Dad!

It's my dad's 84th birthday. It's his brother's 88th birthday. It is also the 92nd anniversary of their parents' wedding.
He'll tell you Grandpa was a mathematician, but I'll tell you that Grandma had a very regular cycle.

Birthdays and brains

Clone turned 9 Tuesday. NINE. That's like - half grown already. I kind of feel old, but then I realize I'm apparently not allowed to do that yet. She has a sister behind her that is running headlong to age 2 later this year. But to have 2 teenage boys, and now an official pre-teen girl...I think I'll just feel a little old. She asked for makeup for her birthday.

I've been raptured by Facebook apparently, because my ADD, instant-gratification self seems to be addicted to the stuff. That, and I've been crocheting. I tried a new pattern, which means I have a new mindless project that I can do when I need to unwind but can't muster the cognitive function to follow another pattern. I have too many things on my knitting needles and crochet hooks. I have let myself get unfocused again. School is out for the summer next week. I have mixed thoughts about this given Devildog's class schedule and homework load in conjunction with my varying workload, and the propensity for the kids to get bored easily. I've been trying to figure out how to meld it all this summer and my brain shuts down before I start.
I've been dealing with frequent visits to the pediatrician with the youngest. Her nickname has been changed to The Blur. For the sake of fewer keystrokes, it's just Blur. I took her for 18 month shots and at that point she weighed 21 pounds, at 32 inches tall. She was "on target" according to the CDC growth chart for height, but less than the 5th percentile for weight. There was bloodwork to check thyroid levels, and some other basics. Everything came back negative or normal. Then we had to do another round of labs to verify more clearly the thyroid levels, as well as collect exit samples to rule out parasitic causes for such a peanut. I was willing to entertain the thyroid concerns because there is a family history of thyroid stuff. Outside of finding anything in the labwork, I think she simply hit the genetic lottery. My dad weighed 155 pounds till he was 70. Then he gained 5 pounds. I weigh 10 pounds more than I did in high school, and I'm sitting on that leftover 10 from growing the Blur. It's slowly leaving, but I'm out of shape and that's another issue altogether - albeit related. My brother is a skinny rail. My kids eat way better than my siblings and I did as children. I offer the Blur everything we eat for dinner. She loves fruits, and don't you dare try to avoid a choking hazard by cutting her grapes. She will not eat them if you do.

She's an independent-minded toddler who is constantly moving from the time her eyes open till we can finally get her to stop moving to go to sleep. I can't get any knitting or crocheting done without setting down the work to keep her off the monkey bars, or she's trying to "hep" me. Her vocabulary is growing exponentially, and she's putting words together in sentences. We can have little conversations with her. She's starting to articulate her needs, either with words or a few of the signs we've taught her. She's learning Spanish words. She climbs, jumps, runs, rides scooter toys, puts on her own shoes, dresses, undresses, brushes her hair and teeth, washes her hands, and rips off her diapers and prefers to be naked. Till she wants to get dressed. She's interested in using the big potty. That has occurred twice in the last 2 days, but I'm not holding hope she'll be the youngest and easiest trained. I'm still convinced that she'll be like her sister and pee on the floors for the next 2 years.

In short, she's hitting or exceeding every other developmental milestone for children her age.
And by the time she's 9, I think Persnickety will have a nice long Ph.D. thesis to edit for her.

Busy birthday weekend

My husband just thinks of his birthday as another ordinary day. I grew up with this mindset in my parents' house, and I didn't like it one bit. Ok, so you don't have to spend your annual salary on a bash to commemorate the day you were born. But just a little sumpthin' to say "woohoo" should be standard. I am thankful for his friends who put out the call to say "hey, lets get together." R & C have been renovating their house, and they had a bit of a house re-warming, plus a few cupcakes since it was Devildog's birthday. Of course, this circle of friends follows the principle "any excuse to drink". While we were there, C & S called him to say "Hey, since we're hosting an oyster roast next weekend, we should watch the race at your house tomorrow. I mean, it is your birthday and all." They brought pretty much all the side dishes. Cleanup was easier than if I'd cooked.
Thankfully I vacuumed Saturday before we left the house. This morning I sorted through the papers on the peninsula in the kitchen before leaving for church.
Thank you FLYLady for your wisdom, that we could host friends without a lot of angst and stress to get the house ready for company. The girls enjoyed the playset Devildog built. The boys fished in the pond and came up empty handed. The guys watched the race. And when they left, I rescued my kitchen and took a nap.

A little birthday present for myself

We had to get the guys measured for tuxedos for SIL's wedding. Devildog and I are part of the gang of people at the front of the church in monkey suits and fancy dresses. The Clone is a flower girl. The boys are ushers. I had Devildog drop the girls and me off at DSW while they got measured. Clone was quickly bored because there are no little girl size shoes there. I made my way back to the clearance corner and searched the big-foot sizes to see if something suited my fancy. As usual, most of what I tried on was too narrow in the toes and quickly went back to the racks. Shoe shopping is frustrating, possibly more so than shopping for pants or undergarments. First of all, there aren't enough size 9 and 10 wide width on the market at a price point this mom of 4 is willing to pay. I refuse to sacrifice fit and comfort for cute alone. It has to look good, fit well, and feel comfortable to come home with me. I have mildly high standards when we're talking about my feet - the one place my body relies on to carry me where I have to go. These would normally not even show up on my radar because they're fuschia. But, shopping to replenish my wardrobe this year has prompted me to consider colors and styles I wouldn't have looked at before. I tried them on and they're comfortable little shoes. I am figuring I can wear them with a variety of other things in my closet, so they wouldn't be one outfit wonders. They weren't too narrow in the toes, didn't have 4 inch heels that would make me fall on my face with the first step, and upon further investigation, they had a pretty clearance sticker.
So, here's my question for you - knowing my cheapskate tendencies, how much did I pay for these shoes?
It made for an even happier "Happy Birthday To Me!" moment.

Burdens & Birthdays

Today is my 17th BirthING Day. He's survived this long without me killing him, and that alone is a miracle. He's literally half my age, and acts it. We'll see if he survives to age 18. He's made some unwise choices, and carries a lot of perfectionism. If he can't do it right, he just rather assume to not bother. It's causing him problems. It no longer causes me problems so much as him, because I no longer assume responsibility for his choices. Besides he's long become outside the influence of his parents. We're just a couple hard-nosed old people who know nothing. So we left him to his decisions and the accompanying consequences. In turn, he no longer gets anything beyond basic food and shelter from us. It wouldn't surprise me if he has characterized us in an unpleasant manner, but I actually expect that. I figure eventually he'll own his choices and behave accordingly. Till then, I just follow St. Monica's example.

This morning was also the recommittal of my mother's remains in a new resting place. The ground for a new National Cemetery had not yet been broken when Mom left Dad behind. The next closest National Cemetery with space available in 2005 was down in Bushnell - quite the drive from where we are. With the promise of moving her as soon as we could, that's where Mom went. Finally in 2007, the new one opened and Dad was antsy every day, trying to save as much money as he could to get Mom moved. We couldn't just get a moving van and bring Mom to the new place, it had to be done by a funeral home. The exhumation and reburial was at no cost to Dad, but transport was. For his 83rd birthday, my oldest sister got the paperwork going and helped Dad get it done. So today, 2 weeks later, and on my son's birthday, Mom was reburied in the cemetery closer to home. Dad can finally relax and stop fretting about it, worried that he would leave us burdened with moving her.

We met Eileen, one of the volunteer auxilliary women who attend each burial, as a silent witness so no one is ever buried alone. My mother's reburial was not unlike her deathbed and funeral - a mix of every thing we are. Lots of bantering, some ribbing and some solemn moments. I'm sure Eileen did not expect us to be, well..., US. In her beautiful line of work, she sees those left here, suffering in their darkest of days, and probably rarely gets a family that has ample levity to share. We all met at the main building and drove my sister's car to the grave, and I left my camera in the mom-bus. I did have my phone with me though. It's very interesting to see how they do such a job. As they filled in the grave, tamping the dirt, my brother said something about tossing a box of Imitrex in there with her. I had to ask him to explain. He said that she had headaches all the time and was always taking Imitrex, and here they are pounding on her head with a tamper.












Dad didn't fall apart as much as we expected that he would. I think he's just relieved that he has mom closer to home. When we met members of the staff there or the guy from the funeral home, Dad kept referring to us as "her children" like he had no part in creating or raising us. I beg to differ, as I find myself repeating stuff my Dad used to say all the time. He is the reason we all have a sense of humor in the first place. I am thankful that for his birthday a couple weeks ago, the beginning of an unburdening began for him.

keep trying baby

I was looking through post titles, and found the one about the baby getting mobile back in January. Then 4 months later she's started another level of mobility. She's not walking on her own yet, but she's been thinking about it, and attempting it. She takes half a step and loses her balance. She's been rising to stand by herself without having to pull up on something else for support for a week or so. It's kind of interesting to watch her and you can just see the gears turning as she attempts these new developments. She keeps getting back up and trying again till something shiny distracts her for a minute. I keep hearing Dori in Finding Nemo, except it relates to my baby walking, not fish swimming the deep blue sea trying to find a lost offspring.
However, I'm also in a deep dark sea trying to find a lost offspring in my oldest son. But it's at that point in a parent's and a child's life when the parent can not convince the child of anything on a map being correct, so that child must swim the ocean and hopefully win against the currents and riptides. I think I may be in the territory that is familiar to St. Monica with regards to her son St. Augustine.
To say the least it's a bit stressful, and I've got so much going on that my ability to sit down and knit on that sweater I started is limited. Sadly even my mundane project I can work in the dark is needing repairs before I can proceed with it. I'm bound by the activities and naptimes of a certain little person who sees fit to only sleep in short spurts of time resembling a joke for a nap. I wear my shoulders in my ears more often than I should, and that is also compounded by a co-sleeping-to-nurse-baby-at-night-and-get-some-sleep-too arrangement. The chiropractor asked me how long we planned to nurse. My answer "as long as it takes, I have no idea" was not enthusiastically received, but the chiro is there to realign me and his concern is that I keep UNaligning myself. Prime example is right now as I type, I'm sitting with my legs crossed (hello vericose veins!) leaning back on my tailbone that was broken 9 years ago, with said baby on my chest - asleep for a power nap. Nevermind, she just squirmed and fussed till I put her tummy down on my lap...not that it's much better. I can't reach my knitting. And my coffee needs to be warmed.
And also as I type this my birthday girl is now awake after fighting sleep to stay up till midnight of her birthday. I got "first wishes" as the new tradition in my family goes. It's a little contest we all have to see who gets to wish the birthday person a Happy Birthday first, as in - stroke of midnight 12:00:00 birthday wishes. And now that the baby is up (5 mins later, I tell you it's a power nap for this girl. She fights sleep!), I can go warm up my own coffee since the older spawn haven't gotten that for me.
I have no idea what we're doing this Memorial Day/Clone birthday. I did make California Caviar and a tomato-cucumber salad just in case we do something. Now that I have replenished the mayo supply, I can also make potato salad among other things. Devildog was trying to get something thrown together with a friend. Any excuse to hang with a long missed friend right? We did take Clone to see the new Shrek movie in 3D with a friend yesterday. The girls absolutely loved it, as did we. The baby was a little restless and fussy, but we timed it around Devildog's work schedule, which happened to coincide with Mini-Human's naptime. It's a good story line, and I enjoyed the movie. I don't go to movies often, and I definitely didn't feel like it was a waste of money. I forsee buying this when it comes out on DVD. At least that way, I can pause the show when someone gets fussy.

And I read this before posting, wow what ADOS I have. It's probably due to interrupted insufficient sleep, lack of adequate coffee this morning, and my shoulders trying to get to my ears out of habit. I think I'll go make a french toast brunch for the Clone. I bought a loaf of Texas toast bread just for the occasion.

A new member of the "mommy club"

My friend Kristin just had a baby boy today. He was a week late, and not nestling into mom's pelvis. The doctors induced, and after a 24 hour process that was not going anywhere, the decision was made to do a cesarean birth. Once they got in there, they found the reason he didn't move down was that he danced so much his cord was wrapped around him. I sent her a text to tell her I'd been thinking about her and praying for her today, and she responded that she needed it. I then said that I told the baby to send her guardian angel to watch over the baby and help him get outta there, and that I was sending mine to help her get the baby out too. I'd hoped that maybe my speedy delivery vibes would help her somehow, since there was some Buddah-belleh rubbing going on earlier last year. Oh well, I'm only *so* helpful at any given point. At least she now has her heart's desire finally. It's been a tumultuous journey for her to get here, and she made it.
Congratulations, Kristen and Jere.

Birthday Loot

I have a load of awesome friends. I suppose it kind of makes up for a crummy childhood perhaps? Birthdays as a kid sucked about as much as an industrial strength shop vac. Then I grew up and expected my husband to have a different approach to my birthday than my parents had. That was erroneous of me. My sister suggested at the time that I lower my expectations. I responded with something along the lines of "*F* that! I'll just give MYSELF a good birthday." That was 11 years ago, and my birthdays don't suck anymore. I make a full week of it, or a weekend of it - depending on when my birthday falls during the week. Yes, I milk it as much as I can, and I don't hide my birthday. Of course the caveat to that as I get further into my 30s is that I reveal my age. I don't mind it but I've noticed I'm growing self-conscious about the number for some reason. But I love my birthday now, regardless of the number, and I especially love gifts.
I really wasn't expecting to be given so much for my birthday. It was better than Christmas for me lol. I'm breathing better for one thing. And for another I got a bunch of neat stuff.

I belong to the Ministry Of Mothers Sharing (MOMS) at church and we had a general meeting on my birthday. I was figuring someone would bring cake since I not so subtly hinted what day it was. But I was given my favorite shower gel from Bath & Body Works, and a pretty Yankee Candle tart warmer - plus cake.
My sister baked me a cake involving cocoa, hazelnut creamer, buttercream, and a bunch of yum. She did laundry and hung with the teenagers while I was gone to the meeting. She also gave me a big exercise ball like the one she loaned me when I was trying to get the baby to move closer to the exit.
My son's friend gave me a cupcake from Publix - which anyone in the southeast knows Publix bakery is awesome.
The friend that taught me to knit, sent a care package. It arrived from the upper Midwest on my rain-drenched birthday, just as she'd hoped it would. She's trying to destash yarn. So am I, but the big projects in my queue don't have enough of the appropriate yarn in my stash, and I need to avoid buying yarn. Yarn money and space in general are lacking here. But I have enough yarn now to finish a couple of the big projects I have on my list. In that loot was 3 hanks of wool yarn she's allergic to and can't even touch. She sent the rest of what will be the baby's christening outfit, a knitted drawstring bag (in her attempt to destash lol), some table food feeders and some Whoppers candy. She sent those because the Dirty Santa exchange at the holiday party resulted in me coming home with a double feature chick flick dvd, accompanied by some stale candy. The card she sent made me laugh. The front had a cartoon woman doing those "finger quotes" and it said 'Happy "29th" Birthday'. Inside it said 'From your "110" pound friend'. I laughed, opened the gift, and cracked up even more. Not only were they fresh Whoppers, it was a bigger box than the original.
I'm going to the Midnight Knit In (crochet too) as part of my birthday weekend. I don't get a chance to visit the yarn shop all that often, but I make a point to do the Midnight events if I can.
I also will be making use of those birthday freebies I registered for with Moe's and Sticky Fingers. Burrito and ribs make a birthday yummy. So do three different varieties of cake. And friends who are awesome - even the ones I play tag with so much lately. I much prefer my friend-filled birthday now than those as a kid.

It's my birthday

A year ago, I was in cahootz with Persnickety to go tool around Disney. We did that but with a stowaway. I couldn't imbibe on the beer I procured a couple weeks earlier. I could barely get through an hour without feeling green or eating something. I was still busy arguing with God that I was not pregnant, that it was perimenopause.

I very obviously LOST that argument.

I used to call my mom at the stroke of midnight and wish her a Happy BirthING Day. I'm not driving the hours to Bushnell to tell her gravestone. Her neighbors might not like the excitement anyway.

My younger brother, sister and I have a little game we play on birthdays. We try to call the birthday person first, just so we can claim "first birthday wishes". This year, the oldest son stayed up just to be the first one to wish me Happy Birthday at the stroke of midnight.

For my birthday, I have planned: waking up to take the boys to school because Beast has tutoring at 7:30. (::checks clock::) meh, sleep is apparently overrated. A chiropractor appointment - 2 long weeks since the last one and I am in sooo need of an adjustment. I'm back to walking like I did when I was bursting at the seams pregnant with the mini-human. I feel old. Devildog so much as called me old. He likes to rub it in that I'm older than he is, like 3 months means all that much in the grand scheme of things here. I have some school-related junk to tend to, and I plan on mooching Moe's for my birthday burrito. Sometime soon I need to hit up Sticky Fingers for my free birthday entree. Perhaps a date with my Devildog? Or maybe one of my birthday-neighbor friends wants to plan something.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm overdue for sleep. The older I get the more difficult it is to stay cute on just a few hours' nap.

All I want for my birthday

Suburban Correspondent inspired today's blog post.
Last year, Persnickety and I tooled around Disney for my birthday. I was freshly planted with the mini-human, but wasn't 100% sure at that point. I was still arguing with God that it was perimenopause, NOT another baby. I lost that argument big time. She's cute and smart and funny (because I haven't made babies any other way), and I think I'll keep her. This year, Disney changed their freebie to "do something for someone else, ya schmuck" and quite honestly, I've got lots calling my name, and the Mouse isn't loud enough. I did have fun with what we thought was a child-free trip. Hence that's how the baby was tagged as "The Stowaway" on my blog, and the pregnancy ticker.
So here we are rounding the corner to another birthday and I'm trying to figure out what I want to do for it. I grew up with crummy birthdays. I can count on ONE hand how many childhood birthdays were any fun, had some kind of commemoration even. ONE hand. My parents treated birthdays as just any other day. I didn't even get cake. Occasionally I got cupcakes to share with classmates, but not every year. Birthdays sucked like an industrial strength shop vac. My sister suggested I just lower my expectations so I wasn't disappointed. I did one better. I decided that I was not going to rely on those around me to do something for my birthday. Devildog looks at it as just another day too, and that's just annoying. He just doesn't particularly care, even saying "Why am I going to point out that I'm OLD?"
The first year I gave myself a good birthday, I made a weekend of it. My birthday was on a Thursday or Friday that year. I did a monthly girls night out on the 3rd Thursday with some board buddies, and it started with that - and I ordered what I wanted, not what was least expensive. Friday, I came home from work and did NOTHING. The kids ate PB&J sandwiches that they made themselves. Saturday and Sunday, I went shopping for new underwear at Victoria Secret's Semi-Annual Clearance sale. YAY for wedgie-free drawers! That has become a yearly part of my birthday ritual now. I go in June, just because I can.
That year, I enjoyed my birthday for a change. It didn't suck. And since then, I've made a point to do something for my own darn birthday because my kids are only so capable and resourceful, and my husband has no interest. I will say that last year, I got a call from the oldest while I was at Disney, asking if he could bake a cake for me for my birthday. SURE! So I got home really late, and the kids left the cake on the stove for me. I took pictures of it (not sure which memory card at this point) and waited till they were all home from school the next day to eat any of it.
This year? not sure entirely but it will involve a round of the usual Birthday freebies from those places I signed up for, and visit to my favorite local yarn shop for the Midnight Knit In. The Yarntender does them every couple months in addition to the weekly Wednesday & Friday extended hours for yarnies to gather. One of the other girls at the shop shares my birthday, and Persnickety's is a couple weeks after mine - maybe we can plan ahead and Persnickety can join us finally (hint hint?!?!) She's a couple weeks younger than I am. But, I - nevermind, I'll be nice. On one trip 'Snick and FCB took, she got me a plaque that says "It's great to have a friend to grow old with. YOU GO FIRST!" Just what I wanted for my birthday - to be told that I'm OLD.

And the adventure begins....

After my last post, I went to bed, woke up a few hours later and called the hospital to make sure they were available for the induction and some freak force hadn't sent 30 other women to the hospital in the throes of labor. All systems were go, and I was on my way to evict a baby. I am just going to post a "reader's digest" version for now, other details may appear later as time permits.
I got to the hospital, was put into a room, with one of those *lovely* gowns that are too big for me, even that pregnant. Can we raid pediatrics for a gown more my size?
The doctor broke my water at 8, pitocin was started at 9 after several attempts to get the darn IV to not pinch me. I finally asked that it be redone because there was no "unpinching" of the first.
By 11 I was not having a party by any means.
By 12 I was a sniveling baby.
By 12:30 I was fighting the contractions and whining about an epidural.
At 12:50 I asked for the epidural.
The nurse called the anesthesiologist, stepped into the hallway for the epidural cart and brought it in, turned around to do something w/ the monitor and
At 12:51 I had to push - no time for epidural now because the baby exit was completely ready for the baby to leave the nest.
At 12:56 the baby was out - yelling that she was cold and did not appreciate having landed on the end of the bed. She only landed there because things moved so fast the bed didn't get broken down, and the doctor had to pause to unwrap the cord from the baby's neck.
The doctor almost didn't get to the room in time, barely got her hands into gloves and had to change clothes when she was done. It was a war zone for a few minutes. We were the talk of the maternity unit, and the OB's office.

My hips are still bothering me, and I think I broke my tailbone again. I need to go see a chiropractor for a realignment. It's been a busy week, and looking busier as time goes forward.

Her name means "peace-maker", she has a lot of hair, very functional lungs and a huge appetite.
For the sake of the blog...I might keep her name as Thumper, or change it to something like Torpedo. Heck, I might even go with Nascar for her - she goes from zero to sixty in no time flat.

And in other news....

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEAST! Sorry, I didn't get you much for your birthday but I did get you a little sister ;) Yea, I know...I suck at this mom thing apparently.

Happy Birthing Day to me

Nope, the Stowaway/Thumper hasn't escaped the oven yet. However the oldest brother has survived to mark 16 years of adventure. He was born at a ridiculously early hour, weighing 7 pounds, 6.4 ounces. The nurse weighed him and turned to ask me where I was hiding him.
I can't wait till he's an adult. I am going to set my alarm for that time in the morning and call him and yell into the phone "it's a boy!" and hang up cackling. Bwahahahaha!!! I'm such an evol mother!

Happy Birthday RW.

Overacheiving child

My blog is suffering for lack of humor or exciting news in my own life. I blog about what I know. Somehow you find that entertaining enough to read my drivel. Thank you much for keeping me employed here.
The excitement of my weekend is that it's my birthing day. Go back and read that before you post comments or I'll publicly lambaste you for not paying attention. Yes, I said "birthING", as in - one of my spawn was born a certain number of years ago. This occasion celebrates the Clone exiting the womb, and fairly effeciently I will add. Persnickety calls me a machine. 'Snick, Thanks for jinxing me. I feel loved. Really.
The timing of these things also coincides with the annual school district's "Reading Celebration" event. A previous superintendent implemented a standard that students should read 25 age appropriate (or tougher) books per year. Adjustments and allowances were made for novels that had so many pages, it would kill a cat if dropped on the unsuspecting feline. The subsequent Sups never changed that standard, and I actually don't disagree with it. So the kids that read at least 25 books got invited to this big vendor-fest downtown. My Clone qualified, something like 5 times over.
She is one of those girls I disliked in school. SHE went on record as having read 147 books. Yes, that was correct: one hundred forty seven. I had to staple an extra sheet of paper in her agenda book to extend her reading log. She likes to read, and I'm not going to prevent that. So I took her to the event, she earned it. Free lunch was involved for the kids, and who am I to argue that? I kidnapped the landlord's spawn since he took Beast for servitude elsewhere.
The girls and I suffered the beating sun and 90 plus degrees (no arguing the temps either, preggo thermometer rules are in place here). Clone loved that when she was asked how many books she read, her answer was met with astonishment and excitement.
Did I mention that when I was in school, I didn't like those over-achieving girls who read more books in a school year than I had interest in reading in my entire life?
I'm too much a slacker-mom to be one of those over-achieving people. I'll just have to live vicariously through my over-achieving clone.
Happy Birthday Clone.