It Worked!

I stopped eating dairy, and it seems that someone has replaced the crying, gassy kid with a happy, mostly-sleeping kid.

Milk

Today, B said, "Mom! Look at M! He is awake and he is not crying!"
So, that has been our life here. Crying baby.
All. The. Time.
Unless he is sleeping.
I am currently not eating dairy. Lots of websites say that milk products give breastfeeding babies tummy aches. We'll see how it works out for us.
I might go a little crazy.

Grandma

Today, I brought M to school with me. His first class! He was completely silent during the entire 2 1/2 hours, except one, tiny baby sneeze.
While I was waiting for class to start, a girl whom I would have assumed was close to my age, exclaimed (for at least three people to hear), "Oh, he is so cute! Is he your grand baby!?" I would insert a few colorful choice words right now, but I think that too many people from church read this, so I will just say that that question was REALLY upsetting for me. When people look at me, their first assumption is that I am the GRANDMA?! Did my few years of smoking and not-too-hard partying really age me that much? I am not even an obsessive tanner.

Sheesh.

So.

That's me today...constantly looking in the mirror to note the wrinkles around my eyes and my slightly sagging skin.

Crap.

One-Size-Fits-All

We spent more money than I wanted to on one-size diapers. I bit the bullet (is that the phrase?) and bought them anyway, because I figured, "They are one size, right?! The cost will even out in the end."

But then we received the "one-size" diapers in the mail, and I'm thinking that M isn't happy.

Technology

B: "Mom, how do your boobs work to give baby M milk? (pause, thinking) Do they have batteries?"

She Wanted a Little Sister, But She Seems Extremely Okay with a Baby Brother

Understanding Babies

Soren (who will soon be labeled M on this blog) is now 3 days old (and a few hours). He is currently sleeping on my chest, waiting for Papa to come get us and bring us home (or at least to Grandma and Grandpa's). It is delightful to have just one HEALTHY baby to dote on. Our kids are still trying to decide if they think he is delightful.

Z's 1st impression: "Where's the baby, mom? Hey mom, are we on the top floor? Can I have some of your juice? Do you want me to share my gum with you? How come there's just a bed in here?"
B's 1st impression: "Owwww (holding throat). I need a drink. (He is still recovering from having his adenoids/tonsil removed....I know! Bad timing!) Did the baby have a shirt and diaper on when he was inside you?" ("Nope, I wouldn't be able to reach him to get him dressed.") "Why didn't you get him dressed before he went inside you?" (What jerk parents to not get him dressed before we put him inside me! I mean, who wants to enter the world, in front of a roomful of people, naked!?)
S's 1st impression: "Can I feed him?" ("You can't, because I feed him with my boobs.") "Why!?" ("Because that's how moms feed babies. Boob milk is best for little babies, and it helps them to grow big and strong.") "You mean you're like a cow!?" ("Yup, exactly like a cow...")

Welcome Baby #5!

Before (at 5ish this morning):
















And After (at 8:05 am):

We are so, so, so happy to introduce you to Søren Micah, weighing in at 6 pounds, 7 ounces.

He is very healthy and most happy (except when he thinks it is time to eat).

Thanks for your well wishes and prayers.

Answers

How are you different from everyone else?
B: I have this shirt on and everyone else doesn't have this shirt.
Z: I am Z, and everyone else has their own name.
S: Because God made my hair and my face and my body, and it is different than everyone else.

What do you worry most about?
B: That monster book we have.
Z: That B isn't in his room when we are doing quiet time.
S: I worry about little animals (awww).

What would you like to change your name to if you could?
B: Captain Morgan (!?)
Z: Batman
S: Belle

What would you do for someone else if you could do anything you wanted?
B: Make the bed for them.
Z: Give them food if they were hungry.
S: Go to bed if they asked me to.

Baby Update

I am 34 weeks pregnant. At my last doctor's appointment, I was measuring correctly and I was right on for weight. The baby's heart beat was fine. His (I swear it is a boy) head was up, but the doctor is less concerned about that, because he is doing a c-section anyway.
It seems that all is going well. I have nothing to complain about. Except for the fact that the bulge in front of me keeps getting bigger (and bigger and bigger), I have no annoying pregnancy symptoms. No swelling. No insomnia. No headaches. No constipation (thank God!).
I have three more weeks until I deliver.
I am excited, but I might actually miss getting kicked in the ribs all the time!

Camping

I love camping. My kids spent most of the first day jumping in puddles (sewage dump from people's campers) and getting muddy from head to toe. They spent much time playing on the swan-poop-infested beach and swimming in the "non-tested or monitored" reservoir water. It was great.
Most of the time, we had friends with us, but there was a chunk of time in which I was alone on the campground with my kids.
I learned that I am an incompetent camper. I don't know how to start a fire. So our kids had to have plain, ol' PB & J for lunch (instead of the stir fry or hobo pie pizzas that happen when OTHER PEOPLE cook on these trips). And I panic when I see giant snakes like the one in that photo above. My desire to teach my kids to enjoy all sorts of nature always goes straight out the window when I actually encounter creepy crawly creatures like the Blue Racer we experienced yesterday. My kids noticed it first. It was gliding quickly across the grass towards our tent. I scared it away from the tent, (by screaming frantically) and it slithered away from our tent (yeah!) and into our tent bag (shoot!), peering out; ready to attack! I got a huge stick, told my kids to stay back, and....
No, I didn't kill it.
I slipped the stick through the handle of the bag, and carried it, as far away from my body as possible, across many campsites until I saw a guy who looked like he could handle a fierce, poisonous snake.
He was the perfect guy for the job. He said he picked up his first rattlesnake at 7 years of age or so. In seconds, he shook the snake out of my bag, (while I stood on the picnic table near him), wrapped it around his neck, (while I gagged), and called my kids over to touch its "smooth, beautiful skin". Ew. Our kids were in awe. Of the snake andthe brave snake handler.
I was glad when Keith and Diana came back.

Three

I just finished a baking extravaganza. I made 2 loaves of cinnamon bread, 2 loaves of banana bread, a ham and cheese pizza, a 9x13 pan of stuffed blueberry french toast, and chicken tortilla soup.

Do you know how or why I was able to do this?

Because I actually had some spare time!

S is with Grandma this weekend, and the boys have played beautifully together all day. I cannot believe what a difference one less kid makes. It doesn't matter what kid. It is just that two four-year olds play better together than three.

No competition for each other's attention.
No bargaining about what games to play.
No leaving one kid out.
No ganging up on each other.

And B was in his glory, because he could ask as many questions as he wanted, and I actually had the time to answer him. I'll give you a small sampling of some of his best:
How come my peeny (male anatomy) is squishy?
How come it's grandmas' jobs to give you treats ALL THE TIME and mama and papas' jobs to give you treats only after you do your star chart?
How come Z's jammies are not cool and mine ARE cool? What makes mine cool? Are mine cool , or no? They aren't cute are they, because I don't want cute jammies?!
Did you know that you can't do flips on the swing like I can? I think it's because the baby would get sick.
How come it hurts when someone hits you with a stick?
Is this exercise (standing on one leg, then kicking up in the air, then falling on the ground on his face) or is it a trick?
But WHY can't I eat my boogers?

Chicago

We have friends that live to Chicago. I like them. I like that they talk about sex. And butt cracks. And everything else. And I like that Colleen said, "Glen, we better get going, K and K are already FIVE babies ahead of us!" Who still remembers (or at least verbally acknowledges) that this kicking-my-ribs-as-I-type baby will be Baby #5? Thanks, Colleen. And I like that they came to visit us in our hotel at 11 o' clock at night, even though they'd both had long days. I like that Colleen made us get Garrett's Popcorn (cheese and caramel corn mixed). I like that Glen always calls Colleen "Beautiful" (I don't want you to do that for me, though, Keith), and that they carried our kids (on their backs, shoulders, legs, arms) for most of the time that we were in Chicago. I'm glad they did, because we wouldn't!

We stayed in a really nice ($189/room) hotel for $50. Although it was a beautiful hotel, I don't think that they should be able to take advantage of you, just because you (supposedly) have the money to afford a room like that. We couldn't do anything there that didn't cost A TON. The bar offered candy bars for $3.50 each. We had to pay for Internet access and PARKING! Um, I kind of expect that parking is going to be included in the price of the room! $20, even. Maybe I am cheap, but those costs sicked me out.

You would think our kids were from the back woods! (Oh, right...they are.) Everything was glass in the hotel, and our kids were amazed and perplexed:
"Hey! Wait! Come get me!", yelled S from the bottom of the entryway stairs. She refused to walk up the glass steps (you could see under to the next floor down) for fear of falling to her death.
"Wow, mama! Look at this!" Our boys spent many minutes staring at themselves in a mirrored glass table at the checkout waiting area.
"Wack! Thud!" Z actually ran so hard into a too-clean glass door that he flew back several feet, crying, his forehead already developing a big, blue bruise.

We spent the first day at the zoo. We stayed for three hours. When asked later what their favorite part of the zoo was, Z quickly answered, "The monkeys!"

Huh. That's weird, Z, because we left before we even GOT to the monkeys!

His answer, I supposed, was less surprising than S's, who told me that her "most best part was the men." I still have no idea what she is talking about. Is she a teenager already?!

The next day, we spent the day with Glen and Colleen, downtown. We played in the city water fountain, we played at a children's festival (crafts, activities, books), and we walked (alot). The thing is, it didn't matter what we did. We were just happy to hang out with our old friends again, and our kids enjoyed being carried and hugged and teased and spoiled by their new friends, "Glen and the Queen".

We ended our day at the aquarium, and while that was the main reason for our going to Chicago, we ended up getting lost on the way there, and having only an hour to rush through and see all there was to be seen. It was fine, and I think our kids had more fun with "Glen and the Queen" than they would have had seeing more fish.

We left (getting home at 1ish am), happy and content to sleep (and puke, as Z did, "from eating too much caramel corn") all the way to our little holler in the woods.

The Papa

Fifteen Things on the Fifteenth of June:




It's Father's Day, so here we go. Some stuff about Keith:
1. He makes breakfast for us almost every time he has a day off. Usually eggs and bacon.
2. When I tell him that B chose the "Spend Time with Papa (or Mama, but they always pick Papa) Alone" reward card, he responds, "NICE!" or "Cool!" I love that he genuinely likes spending time with our kids.
3. He empties the dishwasher, because it is the job I despise the most (he also cleans the tub/shower).
4. He read 15 of our kids' library books in a row yesterday. I love that he loves books. I hope our kids like reading as much as we do.
5. He gives away his personal spending money almost every week. He is way more generous than I will ever be. (I am trying hard to learn from him).
6. He hates pretending, and yet....he danced with Princess S the other day, (at the "Grand Ball"), twirling her and doing dips, oohing and aahing over her beautiful dress. He searched all over for her when she fled at midnight, leaving one of her glass slippers.
7. He wrestles with the boys almost every day. (I don't wrestle, even a tiny bit. Ever.)
8. He sword fights too,
9. which is why our kids think that the Papa is WAY more fun than me.
9. He lives out what he believes.
10. He doesn't get annoyed when I make him feel the baby kicking....AGAIN.
11. He never lets his work come before his family. Although he often puts his family (us) before himself.
13. He isn't picky. So, when I experiment by replacing whatever ingredient with the one I don't have, he doesn't complain when dinner sucks.
14. He loves me, even when I tell him that I just asked a high school a guy I used to know what his last name used to be. (I meant what IS his last name, because I think we used to know each other in high school). :) So, he loves me, despite my impulsive habit of not thinking before talking or acting.
15. He loves his family. He thinks his sister is one of the coolest people in the world (what guy admits that!?), and (despite the fact that he is a guy) he remembers to call his dad on Father's Day. (I haven't even called mine yet!)
While I am constantly thinking that I screwed up, again, in the position of being the Mama, I couldn't be happier knowing that our kids have been greatly blessed in having K be their dad.

The kids (and I) love you, K. Thanks for who you are.

I Got Nothin'

I have nothing to say.

Huh. Is that good? Our kids have been enjoyable, even.
And funny. I feel like I've been laughing alot, although I can't remember anything in particular that was said.

Besides the small breakdown (last post) last week, our lives have been pretty uneventful.

I can't force a post, so I will post some pictures.

Garbage

I just spent the last four days working on a table to put in my living room. I sanded it like crazy, then I had K primer it (because the can says it causes brain damage to babies), then I sprayed it.

And waited a day.

And sprayed it again.

Then, K turned it over, because he said there were parts that wouldn't get sprayed well unless it was upside down. The top of the table stuck to the towel and got all bumpy.

And we didn't have any more paint.

I sanded it again. And bought more paint. And sprayed it.

It was all bumpy anyway.

I sanded it again.

It was streaky after I painted it. I painted it again.

I sighed a proud breathe of fume-filled air, and began the clear coat enamel. I was on my way to the finish line!

The CLEAR coat enamel that I bought was actually white! WHAT THE HECK!?

Then I quick wiped it off and found some other clear coat enamel, but it was too old and it came out in chunks.

On my table.

So I quick tried to wipe THAT off, but it took the coats of paint off in places, right down the primer. So I sanded it like crazy and sanded it some more. Then Z was whining LIKE CRAZY about not being able to pedal his bike. And I yelled at him LOUDLY and told him to quit whining. And he cried and ran away. And I felt bad. And I sanded some more.

And decided it wasn't worth it. I threw the whole project in the dumpster.

Then I remembered how much work already went into the frickin' thing, and I fished it back out.

It was cracked already, from being thrown in the dumpster.

And the whole time I am all nervous and paranoid about painting anyway, because I am pregnant and paranoid about everything. What if I was causing brain damage to the baby with all those painting fumes?

So, now I finally just threw the whole table in the dumpster. Again. For good. (I actually stamped my feet. And whined.)

I also wondered why I spent $20 on paint for a crappy table anyway. And why I risked brain damage to our baby for a TABLE. And if it was worth yelling at Z for...

K's gonna have to paint the other table I have. I wonder why I didn't just let him the 1st time.

A Conversation

Me: "What are you guys doing out here (on the porch, squatting in a circle, chewing)?"
S: "We're eating snowflakes!"
Me: (Gagging some) "Um, actually, you are eating blobs of bird poop..."
Z: "I thought it tasted kinda gross!"
S: "How come bird poop doesn't taste like snow, mama?"

Huh. Good question, I guess.

Horror

We let our kids watch Silence of the Lambs with us.










Or that's what it appears like in that photo, doesn't it?

Really, I went through a car wash with them in the car. Oh, the horror!

Note to Self: Get car washed more often...

You Can Find a New Way

I love Cat Stevens. The lyrics to this song couldn't be better for what I want for our kids. At least, I hope that we can teach them to care less about what others think and more about what they want to do and who they want to be. I want them to be their own, unique, creative, individual selves. I want them to spend little time and effort on meeting others' expectations. I want them to spend more of their time loving who they are and being satisfied with what they offer.

They say, on the subject of teaching kids, that modeling is way more effective than talking.

Shoot.

Excitement

I think, out of all the things we miss about our former home, we miss the experiences that good ol' GR offered our kids. Here, there is no children's museum, or zoo, or butterfly garden, or playgroups, or nature center.
There is lots and lots (and lots) of nature. We can go on long walks, and we can play on the swing set that someone so graciously donated. But there isn't a ton of variety. We're trying to find some creative activities now that it is nicer out.
Here is what we came up with:
Ice cream at the local ice cream place (Homemade ice cream. Really GOOD ice cream!)
Blessing of the Bikes (I'm serious when I say there were HUNDREDS of bikes in our town this weekend, all waiting for Sunday, when they would get blessed by the local priest. Is this funny to you guys?)
The Local Fish Farm (You pay THEM to feed their fish. $1/cup)
and the School Playground (that sports dirty diapers and leftover fast food items, just in case you wanted either, I guess.)

The kids had a riot.
As for K and I, we are learning the art of creative entertainment. I guess that's not a bad thing, is it?

Pastors' Kids Say...

B: I wanna be your king, S!
Z: I wanna be your king too, S!
S: There can only be ONE king.
Z: Um, okay, then I wanna be the PASTOR of the king.

Mylora

S has an older friend, a sister-in-law of MY sister-in-law. She met her at some family gathering once, probably a birthday party for my nephews or something.

The woman grabbed up that "sweet little thang" the very first time she met her, and held her close. She hugged and rocked her the rest of the afternoon.

S had a hangnail that day. A hangnail!
And she showed Lora, and Lora fixed it with a sympathetic kiss, Neosporin, and a princess Band-aid.

S was in her glory.

Lora asked her to come back some day soon, and they would dress up all "beautiful-like", do their "hair up all pretty", and eat lots and lots of candy.

Ever since then, Lora has not been anyone else's friend.
S claimed her as her own.

In fact, now Lora is known as Mylora, because that is all we ever hear her called:

"My Lora" this, and "My Lora" that.

Recently, Mylora gave S "a special bag for a special girl". This special (plastic grocery) bag contained:
Pon poms, a princess/cheerleader dress, a wand, a bejeweled crown, elegant "glass" slippers, earrings, and a necklace.

Our girl is no longer a girl.

She is a princess. Do not call her by any other name. A princess. Or, if you prefer, a beautiful princess will do.

S has been donning this beautiful attire, gracefully (?) gliding (tripping and falling) about her castle (the living room), calling out orders (yup, orders) to her faithful (not very) subjects (her brothers).

She is more beautiful ("I am so pretty, mama!") and more confident ("Everyone likes me, don't they, mama?!") than I have seen her in her life.

Thank you, Mylora. You are nice.

Beads, Buttons....No Luck

I am constantly on the lookout for activities that will build Z's fine motor skills. The kids have squeezed colored water from one glass to another with eye droppers, they've dug through rice to find various shapes and sizes of buttons, and recently they've been doing Perler Beads.
I love that it keeps TWO of my kids distracted for hours. Today, B and S played for almost an hour, placing tiny beads onto the bases and making cool designs.
The problem: Z is not interested in any of these things. He humors me for about five minutes, and he is very officially done. He's off to play by himself until his brother and sister are less distracted by the ridiculously boring activities that mama bought for "them". I know that he doesn't like those types of things, because those types of activities are hard for him, but it seems like the boy could give me more than five minutes!
I guess I am still on the lookout for things that will build Z's fine motor skills.

Edited to add: Unfortunately for Z, he "accidentally" broke S's Perler Bead shape this afternoon, so he spent WAY longer than he would have liked making a new shape to replace the broken one, while S and B played outside. Sometimes his desire to tease comes in quite handy.

Then

The other night, I walked into the bedroom, and there was K.

Waiting.

No, just kidding. Actually, he was there, but he wasn't waiting for me. I've been sick, again, and he knows not to wait while I'm sick and (feeling-fat-and-dealing-with-blue-stretch-marks) pregnant.

So, he was reading a poetry book by e.e. cummings, and it reminded me of the time before he was even aware that I liked him.
I was all sorts of attracted to the fact that K wrote poetry, and he capitalized his letters similar to my favorite author, which means he capitalized almost no words at all.

Then, I liked that he would sing his own made-up songs to me, even though he didn't sing very good (at all). It was cute that he tried.

And I loved that he was not obnoxious. He didn't call me all the time. And he wasn't always asking me to do stuff. He let me bug him on my terms. I liked that.

And he was fun. I called him once, at 1130pm. I told him we should go to the pier some time. He said, "How 'bout now?" And we were off.
Spontaneous.
I liked that too.

I liked that he would humor me, and bring me to D&W after every one of our dates. I would run in, get a 10 cent chocolate-covered cinnamon roll, and then he would take me home. I was happy.

And I liked that he was really smart. And now he is smarter than that. I like that. Except, now, in comparison, I sometimes feel really dumb.

I liked that he dressed cute. And I didn't even help him pick out clothes back then. (How come he doesn't know how to match stuff now?)

I liked that we talked about everything. And I felt comfortable with him. Sometimes, he would wake me up from a nap, (I didn't get much sleep when we were dating, because I had to get up at 430 every day for work and we usually didn't get back from the bakery run until 12 or 1 am. Hence, the naps...) and I would have no makeup and and crap breath, and he still thought I was cute.

I liked that he waited until I told him I wanted to kiss him before I had even a clue that he would consider dating me.

I liked that he asked the director of the ministry we were involved with if it was okay to ask me on an a date, and I liked that he asked my dad if he could marry me before he surprised and asked me.

I liked that boy, that K. I still do.

Cleaning

It was 930am, and the kids had already had breakfast, and they were dressed and ready for the day. The kitchen was cleaned up.

S was swiffering the floor with that spray cleaner kind of thing. I was happily basking in the feeling of calm that occurs when everything is going as expected.

I hear, in my ear, but not yet necesarily in my brain, (you tend to tune out three preschool-aged kids at certain times of the day), a conversation that just doesn't seem to make sense. I thought I heard the words, "juice" and "good", and yet, I'm quite certain we have no such juice in the house.

I turn from the sink to witness S happily spraying "juice" into the boys' cups. One is taking a "sip"; one is saying, "Thanks, S. Mmmmm!"
"STOP!", I yell, "That is NOT juice. That is floor cleaner!*"
And although they tell me it was good, I just don't really believe them.

Neonates

Presently, I have a class to finish up. I should be doing that right now. I have a paper to finish by tomorrow. But...
I am sick of thinking academically...
I am being distracted by other kinds of thinking, like:
1. I just told K today that I was worried about not feeling the baby move, and now, at this very moment, the baby is kicking me right under the ribs. I am surprised s/he is already that high, but I don't care. I felt our baby move! For the first time, at 23 weeks!
2. I re-met a mom who was in neonatal with us. She had a little boy. I am 23 weeks right now, and I'm thinking N was born at around 25. (Is that right, mama?)
Neonatal babies are not cute. They look like plucked chickens, or aliens or baby hamsters. Maybe some of them look like wrinkly pug puppies. I remember thinking my kids were cute at the time.

I was wrong.

But N was seriously cute. He looked like a normal baby. Except you could almost fit him in your palm.

And his mom was funny. I needed her humor when I had to spend 8 hours a day hearing, "Your son may have brain damage. He probably won't be able to walk on his own." "Your daughter is on the highest oxygen we can give her. There is nothing else we can do." "Your son has sepsis, we think. We're going to have to do a spinal tap."

We needed laughter, and N's mom gave it to us often. She was serious too, which is what made us able to accept her humor so easily. That, and the fact that her own baby was going through issues similar to our own wee neonates.

We kept each other sane. If our kids weren't doing well, at least M's was doing ok that day. There was hope.

We kept in touch through Christmas cards. It took us a few years to recover from the hurricane of it all.

Then, in the last few months, we started talking about getting our kids together. We've both been talking to our kids about the miracles that occurred in each of their incubators, while they lay, unaware, hooked up to their many tubes and tanks.

We emailed. She emailed me a few times while her students were doing individual projects. (She is a teacher). She sent me pictures of her sons. I forwarded them to my sister, who regularly asks how her oldest, N, was doing.)

After receiving the forward, my sister read the name on the photos. M's first and LAST name, and suddenly she made a connection:

M is my niece's teacher. My sister and I laughed about the fact that M was emailing me while teaching my niece (because my sister and I would be doing the same thing), and then we decided to get together at her school. I finally got to see M again, and while it has been almost five years, it feels like I really know her.

Those times, in neonatal, change a person, and when you re-meet someone who went through that horrible roller coaster with you, there will always be a connection that you won't quite have anywhere else. An understanding.

A "Hey, you were there too."

It was good to see her.

B-R-A-T

Tonight, we attended a McDonald's birthday party for a daughter of a local pastor. All was well. Gift bags, happy meals, play land, cake and ice cream. Soon after the cake was devoured, the kids ventured into the play area. Five minutes later, B is sitting in a window, at the tippy-top of the rocket ship. Crying.

No, not crying. Screaming. He is yelling for me to come up there.

I shook my head, "no" and demanded he come down. He continued to scream.

And scream.

Every parent's eyes (that would be five sets of eyes) were on my kid now. Most of them were asking if he was ok. Was he scared? Hurt? Did he need help getting down? Some of the older kids tried to lead him to safety. Some tried to comfort him.

B wasn't having any of it. He screamed some more.

Louder now.

A few parents offered to go get him. "Maybe he is scared to go down the slide."

I knew better. I explained the situation as clearly as possible with a concise and very honest answer: "He is just being a jerk."

I attempted to move out of his view.

He continued to scream.

Finally, I dragged Z and S out to the van, drove up to the window facing the play area, and waved for him to come down.

He refused. I assumed, from his wide open mouth and red face, that he was still screaming.

One of the moms came out to the van to stay with S and Z while I went in to retrieve my "poor son". The local pastor, who is probably twice my size (or more) had already squeezed himself through the maze of steps and slides to the top, and had pushed my dear, (still screaming) son down the slide.

I thanked the dear man profusely, apologized even more profusely to everyone else, and left.

B got his prize bag taken away and he got a spanking. He was put directly in bed.

That was, I'm sure, the most embarrassed I have ever been of any one of my kids in my life. Ever.

One would have to ask here: How many parents does it take to parent B? Not one, apparently, because I had no clue what to do with him.

21 weeks

K and I hopped in the car, and I guzzled 34 ounces of water in a matter of minutes.
I forgot to pack underwear while staying with my parents, so I free-styled to the first store we could find. I ran in and purchased a gloriously-cheap, but terribly-fitting 6-pack of cotton bikini underwear. (I remembered, while I slid them over my hips on the way to our destination, why I have worn thongs for the last four years or so. Bikinis do not fit over my butt cheeks, nor do they cover my butt crack. Thongs are not supposed to do either. With thongs, your butt is supposed to hang out. Your crack is not supposed to be covered. I do not have to wonder if the exposure is because of my rapidly growing butt. Nope, the process of hanging-out can all be blamed on the thong.)
I was on the way to my 21 week ultrasound, which is why the underwear were a necessity.
I was nervous. Sweaty nervous. And shaky.
I laid down on the ultrasound table, and the woman began her small talk.
Part of ultrasound training should include the fact that expecting moms do NOT want to talk about the weather, about the drive there, or about your empty bladder, despite the massive amount of water you drank on the way there. (I guess I was supposed to drink the water an hour before the appointment; not minutes before. When have I ever followed any rule completely?)
While K was polite and attempted to make small talk (which he doesn't feel the need to do in most other social situations), I was completely quiet, except maybe to grunt in frustration at the fact that she wasn't telling me about....ahem, why were we there again....oh, right! THE BABY!
She must have caught the hint, (maybe it was my unwillingness to take my eyes of the screen) because she began, finally, with, "I am checking the heart, now the stomach, now the bladder...."
All the time she did the exam, she exclaimed, "Beautiful! Oh, just beautiful!"
Until she got to the brain:
"Now, I'm going to check the brain....." (Silence, silence, silence). "These are the two sides."
(Silence, silence, silence for eternity). She cleared her throat, and said, "Ok, now the arms and legs. Beautiful! Perfect!"
I interrupted her praise of the arms and legs to say, "Um, is the brain ok?"
Uh-huh....(pause, pause)...How old are you?"
"32."
"Ok."
So, it was over. I was freaked out. I was sweatier than ever. What was THAT?! Everything but the brain got close-to-a-standing-ovation? The brain got a throat-clearing and a hesitant "Uh-huh"?!
I knew it. There was something wrong with the baby.
We walked to the doctor's office next door for my monthly appointment. I waited for him to tell me the news.

He didn't.

He said everything looked good.

It took me about 10 minutes, approximately the whole time of the exam, to finally believe him.
I kept waiting for him to tell me the real news. I kept waiting for him to tell me we needed a follow-up appointment, just to "check on some possible issues".
Nothing. Just a question about getting my tubes tied, and a shoving of me out the door. Huh.
So, I guess, despite my brain's willingness to fully believe it, everything seems ok thus far. Woohoo! We are thankful. Really thankful.

And no, we didn't find out the gender. I tried to get her to whisper it to me on the sly, but K was too quick. He knows me too well. So, we will not know the gender until just a little bit sooner than all of you.
C-section scheduled for August 11. At 37 weeks. That is 16 weeks away, to be exact.

Manners

Let me take a moment to present you with three children, all beautifully trained in the very important area of social norms/manners:

Child #1: I was having a pleasant little conversation with dear little Z when he suddenly jabbed his finger into my left breast* and sputtered, "WHAT is THAT?"
"That is my boob, little punk."
His other finger was then stuck into my right breast, and Z shook his head some, and said, "What is THAT?"
"That is my other boob, son."
He nodded, as if he understood, and said, "Two boobs, mama? Two BIG boobs?"
I guess he hasn't had the pleasure of noticing my left OR right boob, because the things have been shrunk to almost nothingness for most of his lifetime; only to kindly return with this pregnancy; only to give my dear son something to rudely point out (and at) in mid-conversation.

*Do women actually have a left and right breast, or is that portion of the body always referred to in plural, as in "He poked at my breasts"? hahahaaha!

Child #2:
At church with a most proper man who prefers to be called Mr. Goldwell.*
B: (Pointing), "Who are YOU?" (What is it with the finger-poking and pointing?!)
MG: "You can call me Mr. Goldwell." (no smiles)
B: "How 'bout poop?"
MG: "You are B, aren't you?"
B: "Yes, and you are poop!"
Me: "B, we don't say that. That isn't nice to say to people."
B: "Why, mama?"
And I just had to pull him quickly away, because B knows very well that they say poop all the time, about everything at home. And we haven't seen it as a big deal. Poop head. Poop butt. Poop plate. Poop everything. It's a boy thing, right? Don't boys just love to talk about poop and farts? Or just my boys?
Talking about poop (or inserting the word poop into every unrelated conversation) is one of those things, like wrestling, that is fine at home....until it is carried outside of our front door. One should never call Mr. G "Poop", nor should one kick-box the floral-covered bottom of the elderly pianist while she is practicing for the Sunday morning service. (I guess I should be glad it wasn't during the Sunday morning service!)

Child #3:
This child is so obsessed with doing things as they are supposed to be done. She wants to be a good girl. She wants to follow the rules. She wants to make her bed, and she wants to pick up her toys before leaving her room.
So, what is S's ultimate insult? Apparently, it is this:
(Cough, cough.) "Z, I am MAD at you. I am mad! I coughed on you! And I didn't even cover my mouth!"
Oh! The outrage! A cough! With no cover! How will Z ever forgive you!? How could he ever feel good about himself agan!? A cough. With no cover! Oh my!

Easter Eve

I ruined SIX of K's favorite shirts. You know, the shirts he wears, unless they are dirty. His 2nd-choice shirts were all still in his closet. His favorite shirts were in the washer.
I took them out, and piled them on the floor (so I could take them upstairs to hang-dry them).
My next load of wash was a white wash. I poured the bleach into the washer, one of my kids bumped my arm, and the rest of the bleach spilled all over K's pile of favorite, clean (and now very bleached) clothes. When K and I worked at a group home together, K did the wash sometimes. It seemed every time he did the wash, something dark would get bleach on it. I don't know how. He didn't either, so we agreed that I would do the wash. Today, K said, "If I can't do the wash, and you can't do the wash, who does the wash now? B?" And I'm thinking that might be our best option.

We colored Easter eggs today. Before we colored them, B climbed on the table and spilled one of the bowls of paint. I had him go wash his hands. He went down to K's office to sulk, and stapled himself in the palm.
We were about to color the eggs, when Z knocked the entire dozen eggs to the floor and cracked every one of them.
We colored cracked Easter eggs. It didn't matter, in the end, because the shells only stayed on for less than an hour. Each of our kids ate all three of their eggs, and someone must've eaten mine. I couldn't find it later, when I finally had time to eat it.
After coloring eggs, B jumped down from his stool, and knocked my trash can over, spilling all of the egg shells (the ones I meticulously placed in bowls, so they wouldn't end up on the floor and table), coffee grounds, bits of stale biscuit from last night's dinner, and cold lumps of oatmeal. He slowly looked up to see my reaction. I laughed, because what could I say? How about, "B, I just ruined SIX of Papa's shirts. You got egg shells on my floor. I've got nothin'!"