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'!"

Heartbeat

I heard a heartbeat, and the doctor says I am measuring as expected.

Then, I returned home and got an electric shock. Anxiety all over again.
The on-call doctor says the baby should be fine.

Things I have asked my doctor about so far:
1. What if I drank wine before I knew I was pregnant?
2. What if I got kicked in the stomach by a four-year-old?
3. Can I take Airborne, because I don't want to get the fevery-headachey-cough-and-runny-nose symptoms that my kids and husband have?
4. I measured 11 cm when I went for my check-up. Aren't your measurement numbers supposed to match your gestational number? If I am 13 weeks, shouldn't I measure 13 cms?

Things I have CALLED the doctor about so far:
5. What if I got an electric shock? How will that effect the baby?

I might be a little obsessive. (?)

Swords

My son, Z. He is an odd one.
Whenever he has too pee, he stands. When he poops, he sits. Standard behavior, to be sure.
So, I hear him in the bathroom, peeing, and then, "Now I have to sit to poop..."
Don't guys just sit to pee, if they have to poop too? How will this work in a public restroom? Does one stand to use the urinal and then stuff "it" in only to walk two steps to the stall so one can finish the job?
Then, "Mah-om! Wipe my buh-utt!"
Finally, "Does my poop look like a big ol' sword? That is cool, isn't it?"

And I am ashamed to say that I looked, and I was slightly amused that it indeed did look like a sword.

Baby # Five

The story goes like this:
Mid-Novemberish: K and I tried TWO TIMES to get pregnant. Trying means we didn't try not to.

A couple weeks later: I got my period, and then I felt a great sense of relief, because "What WERE we doing? What if we have multiples again! (No, we weren't on Clomid this time, but still, anything is possible, right?) We can't afford multiples! We don't have room! We better not try anymore, until our kids are alot older, just in case."

Two MONTHS later: The Day after New Years, I started feeling sick. The kind of "this broccoli dip that I loved yesterday? I hate it today" kind of sick. I thought maybe I drank too much wine at my mom's on New Years day, even though it was only a glass and a half.
When I still felt sick the next day, I supposed I was getting the flu.
And then I was tired. So, yup, the flu was surely coming.
For two weeks, I wondered why I felt like crap. It really didn't register until EVERYTHING at the grocery store made me want to puke. Cheese, meat, jelly, milk, coffee...jelly beans, everything.

So I took a pregnancy test, fully expecting it to be negative. "Of course I wasn't pregnant. I had had my period the month after K and I tried our luck at baby-making."

It was positive.

So, baby # five is 12 weeks old, and on his/her happy way to....hmmm, I guess I'm not sure, growing fingernails, maybe?

K and I are exited, now that we know it is ONE baby, although my anxiety about all the things that could go wrong sometimes outweighs my excitement. I guess my last pregnancy taught me that baby-growing doesn't always go how you expect it to. I might be better at my 20 week ultrasound. But until then, you can all be excited FOR me!

Cups and Snow

Recently, our kids have noticed that their dishes come in a rainbow of colors.
They started asking for specific colors.
I was ok with that.
They began demanding specific colors, and I reminded them to ask nicely.
I was ok with that.
Lately, they have been fighting about a favorite color.
I wasn't ok with that. The new rule goes like this: "If you ask for a color, you WILL get a different color than the one you asked for."
Today, when I was scooping oatmeal, B said, "Mama, I want the.....oops. I won't ask you for a color."
I knew he wanted pink, so just to drive the point home, I gave him the pink bowl.
Z said, "Mama, I want green!"
I gave him the orange.
He smiled sweetly, and said, "I asked for the green bowl, because I wanted you to give me the orange."
----------------------------------
Today, we went outside to play.
You'd think, on a day like today, with 12 inches of snow, I would get a break from having to push kids on the swing, right?
Nope.
I shoveled a path to the swing set and then dug out another pile under each swing.
Who does that? I guess moms who are tired of dragging their kids (and sleds) up the extremely steep hill that the "Plow Guy" made just so they can take two seconds to slide back down again.

Our New Pet Dinosaur - The Boy Who Refuses to be a Boy

Poor, Poor Boy

Z is sick. He woke us this morning to say his tummy hurt. I dismissed it, and told him to go back to bed. It was 630 in the morning. I'm not the most empathetic at that time of day.
Thirty minutes later, he returned with puke in his hair.
Poor kid. He has been sleeping/puking/sleeping all day. Except when he is crying, and saying:
"Mommy, my tummy hurts!" or "Can you get that stomachache out of my tummy?" or "I don't wanna keep pukin' and pukin'!"
And he keeps trying to walk a wee ways, and then drops down suddenly on the floor and curls into a little ball, crying.
I will be blogging to say that I am sick next, I am sure. Either because I am puking or because I have a massive headache from the amount of disinfectant I am spraying.

Sisters

Our kids turned four last Saturday. Today is the anniversary of our fourth year without Adeline.
The day wasn't especially more difficult than any, because it seems that lately I am constantly reminded of our huge loss in her.
Before moving here, our kids were used to spending almost every day with other kids their age.
In moving here, they lost many great little friends.

Although I am glad that our kids have each other to make the transition to their new home an easier one, I think the move has been especially hard on S.

The kids are growing older, and as they grow, their interests have moved further apart. S wants to pretend. She wants to play with dolls. The boys want to play Spiderman and trucks and cars and monsters. S is lonely and needy. She is constantly asking me to play, and it seems that I can't ever satisfy her desire for companionship. She cries at night, because she "wants someone to sleep with like the boys get to do." And I am constantly imagining (and missing) the fun she would have with her sister, her twin.
I think, in some ways, that grieving the loss of being able to mother Adeline is really hard, but it is equally (or maybe more) difficult to grieve the fact that S missed out on a huge blessing in not having known her sister.

I Forgot

I forgot how thankful I need to be:
Z went to the eye doctor on Tuesday. He was asked to identify lots of colors and images. Doc then checked Z's eyes with his handy-dandy flashlight helmet-thing, and informed, "I see brain injury. (Did you know you can see brain injury through the eyeball?!) He must have had a hemorrhage."
"Grade three", the nurse answered him.
"I thought it must have been a large one."
And then to Z, "You are one smart cookie! Do you know that? You are one lucky little boy!"
And then to me, "I really don't know how his eye sight is as good as it is. I can see damage that should be affecting his vision. He is one lucky kid."
As all of those neonatal memories came rushing back, I got all teary-eyed, and smiled, "Yup, he is."

And I remembered that the small limp he received as a result of his hemorrhage is really not so bad.

Coffee and Blankies

My sister visited for a few days. I am having withdrawal. Withdrawal from sitting around drinking warm (not cold from me from forgetting it too many times) coffee and chatting while my niece and nephews entertained my kids. Withdrawal from talking to an adult. Withdrawal from having people (and noise and chaos) around.

Z slept in our room, on the floor, while my sister and her kids were here. He sat up early in the morning, while it was still dark, and lovingly rubbed his blankie across his face. He sniffed it, and held it close to his eyes. "Mama, there are no frogs on my blankie anymore!"
I opened the shade a little, and said, "Z, that is because you are holding my dirty sock!"
He was all embarrassed!

Broken

Remember how I wear thongs? Well, I was getting dressed the other day, and I noticed S staring curiously at my butt.
"Why are your underwear like that, mama?!"
So, I abandoned the goal of setting an honest example for our kids, and said, "Um, they are broken. I need new ones."
Who wants to tell their three-year-old that she likes to have her butt hang out?
No pictures today, appropriately! :)

Perfectionism, Papa, Cheesecake and Winter Fashion

S is starting to realize that I have a perfectionistic side.

She made her bed today.

I remade her bed.

Hands on her hips, she glared at me, and asked, "What are you doing? I made that bed already? It wasn't good?" And I tried to say something about how I was looking for something under her blankets, and then remembered that "How to Behave So Your Preschooler Will Too" says that we need to set an example of honesty for our kids, even in the little things, so I stopped mid-sentence, and just looked dead-guilty. She shook her head at me and walked out. (Side note: Why is she shaking her head at me?! She's THREE!)

Then, I asked her to pick out some clothes. She came out in this lovely attire, and when I laughed and asked her to change, she said, "How come I can't wear this?" (Geez mom, you are so picky!)
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I made cheesecake for tomorrow's Christmas get-together, and B set up "house" in the cupboard where my baking stuff usually resides. He was in there for most of the morning.
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Keith is home today. It may be the first Christmas Eve he's had off since we've been married.
Whenever K is home, I am totally off the hook. My kids want nothing to do with me. Who would want me when their Papa lets them hang all over him like monkeys all day? Even when asked, I just can't bring myself to wrestle...I can't. I'm not good at it. I don't like flinging my kids around and acting wounded and yelling, "Pow! Pow!" I leave that up to K. I would much rather read Christmas stories, play with playdough, set up their train track, or color. You know, quiet things. I'm glad they have their Papa.
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Also, Merry Christmas!

Santa and his Christmas Tree

Merry Christmas!

Love to all,

B

Christmas stuff, mostly

I just put up our SECOND tree last night.

With much effort, I tried not to complain about the fake Christmas tree that K hauled up from the basement. I couldn't involve myself in decorating the thing, because Christmas isn't Christmas (to me) without a real tree....
But I have to admit, K and the kids did a great job. It looked good, actually.

Then, a couple of mornings ago, before I was fully awake, I heard a CRASH....
and then an "Uh, oh."

Silence.

I dragged myself out of bed, practically crawling down the hall in my tired state, to see my darling boys standing before a prostrate Christmas tree.

"We tried to get the angel", they mumbled, staring at the needle-filled carpet.

I tried to resurrect the thing, but the stand cracked in two, and the top wouldn't stay on.

K picked up a real tree yesterday, and we put it up last night, with the Muppets Christmas Story playing in the background. Well, my background anyway....the kids were glued to the TV. They didn't want to decorate again, I guess.

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We received a big ol' box filled with chocolates and cookies from our dear Scottish friend, Gillian, who now lives in N. Ireland. I love her exponentially now. Does that word even make sense there? The box and card were addressed to the whole family, yet it took me at least two days to decide to share with K and the kids.
I have to say, I am not about saving these delicacies. When Beth, Diana and I received them, I quickly ate three candy bars (or if you are British, you can call them biscuits, which makes you feel less guilty about eating so much junk).
The box is nearly gone, and it isn't even Christmas yet. Where do you think it is going? I would blame my family, except I don't think K has eaten any, and I dole out only one per day to the kids. Poor, deprived kids.
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I haven't been blogging, because I really have little to say, but how about this for an ending:

B: Mama! Z and S are saying they are cats, and they aren't!
Me: B, it is ok. You are right. They aren't cats, but they are just pretending.
B: No, they aren't. They are "realing!" I don't like it! I don't want them to be cats.

Antibiotics

In Rhode Island, our kids were not on their best behavior. They whined. They fought with K and I and with each other. They cried because we looked at them funny. They fought some more. B slammed Z's finger in a door. S pulled Z's hair. Z spent lots of time screaming...the kind of scream that pierces your ears. We stayed with K's family, and I was a little embarrassed at our failure to raise good kids.

I spent much of the ride home being perplexed....wondering how we were going to raise one kid in particular (B) to an even kind of stable and contributing member of society.

We actually decided to look into different parenting techniques, because the one we were using was not working.

Their bad behavior only escalated when we got home.

Although B was the subject of my worries at night when I couldn't sleep (Would he always be this selfish? Will he grow up to be a jerk? Is he going to be verbally abusive to his wife?), Z and S weren't much better. S cried and whined for most of the day, and Z used what I have deemed his "fighting voice" whenever he got the chance.

I finally took them to the doctor. When she came in to check them, I told her she could either prescribe medicine for them or take them home with her. I was done with these kids.

She prescribed meds.

S had a "major sinus infection". B had a double ear infection, one of which their doctor was sure was pretty painful, and Z had an ear infection in one ear and a sinus infection as well.

I actually clapped.

I wasn't necessarily happy that my kids were sick, but I was SO happy that there was a reason behind the devil children I had been experiencing lately.

I will give a cheerful update in 24 hours, when their meds are kicking in and they are on the mend.