I am a mad mama. Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad!
For the past two weeks, I have heard nothing but complaints and laments over how terrible my kids think they have it. I've been wracking my brain, trying to figure out if they get this from me. I do not think of myself as a particularly whiney person. I try to be realistic. I know I'm not all rainbows and poseys everyday, but I do NOT complain about my lot in life! I am grateful beyond description for my husband, my home, the life I have been given. Even when it's less than perfect. And, let's face it, it's NEVER perfect. But my kids! Oh, my kids! Eva, especially, lately has taken to saying how whatever day she's had the misfortune of waking up in, is horrible. It's extremely discouraging and it's hard for me not to take it personally.
How does one NOT take that personally? I teach them. I feed them. I wash their clothing. I dress them. I try to keep them busy with fun things to do as best as I'm able, while tending to a ton of other house management chores. When I'm presented with a bunch of grumpy, unhappy, miserable wretches and I'm the one who watches them daily, the simple conclusion is I'M THE PROBLEM!
The day usually starts out well enough, but it quickly disintegrates into whining, complaining and out and out disobedience. By four in the afternoon, I'm so beaten down that when they ask me if they can watch TV, I don't even protest. In fact, I encourage it, because I'm terrified that if they speak to me in anything other than a dulcet tone, I will lock them in their rooms until they turn 18.
As I type this, all four are tucked away in a separate bedroom doing separate activities. The baby and Quinn, hopefully, are napping. Eva and Sully are working on Valentine's Day cards for their respective classes. I've already been interrupted twice since starting to type this and just before the dismissal to quiet time, I was told today was horrible for at least the third time today. I lost it. I went outside to get some fresh air and couldn't get back in. The front door jammed. As far as I can tell, it still is jammed. (Help! I can't get out!)
Thankfully, I could hop the fence to the backyard and get in the back door. When I got back in, Eva greeted me with a card with a heart on it and the words, "I love you, Mom!" Call me a hardened old hag, but I was unmoved. I would much rather see love shown to me in the form of obedience and a cheerful heart than a piece of paper that will be relegated to the trash in a week's time. (That might sound cold, but I get A LOT of drawings given to me. A LOT.) Not that I don't appreciate the thought. I love my kids, but I do not want to give the impression that me being upset with their ungrateful attitudes can be erased in a matter of seconds if they just give me a craft! We need to be reconciled to one another properly.
I'm really at war with myself. And maybe this is the lack of sunshine talking. Maybe it's another hormone shift that's caught me unaware, but I'm questioning my ability to be a good mother at all. Every day feels like a struggle. Some days I'm fitted better for it; I'm confident, at peace, and unflappable. Other days I feel like I'm one outburst away from full blown insanity. It's not a comforting sensation. Somebody hurry up and tell me I'm not alone!
At times like these, when I'm easily overwhelmed and trying not to see the piles of laundry; the dirt ground into the rug by three pairs of running feet and one set of chubby knees; the never ending supply of dishes to be put away, washed and/or dried; the prep work needing to be figured out for homeschooling; I remember that I am to be clinging to Jesus. I know that's the only way up and out or, rather, through another day.
I remember thinking when I was a working woman that being a stay-at-home mom would be so nice. I could work on my own- terms. I didn't have a dress code. It would be awesome! When Eva came, I found staying at home boring and agonizingly repetitive. I was a fool! I had no idea what a gift that was! I miss having time on my hands! I have NO time now. I commit to doing things with friends, only to be thwarted by a sick child, or extreme fatigue, or guilt over spending time with them and not the husband I should be tending to, also. I don't feel reliable in the slightest. I can't even keep up properly with this blog!
Spring is coming. That means warmer air, sunshine, kids in the backyard and not under foot, laundry on the line (Read: Five loads done in a fraction of the time it takes to do the same amount inside!) and soon, thereafter, a much needed reprieve from being a teacher. I can only hope that with the sunshine comes better attitudes for both me and the children.
[As I proof this entry and reflect on its genesis, I am struck by how the children often use superlatives very freely. I think it's indicative of their age, but everything is either awesome or so horrible they want to die. Maybe I should make a meter (fun craft project) and they can use it to guage how well or how awful the day is going. They wouldn't have to speak it out loud. They could just move the arrow on the dial and I would know. They could change it throughout the day. It wouldn't have to stay in one place, naturally. It would give them a safe way to share their feelings without pushing me over the edge. Now that I think about it, I think it's a good idea. I'll make one for Eva and one for Sully. If I only had one meter, they'd fight over it and I'd be right back at the keyboard complaining about it to all of you. ;)]
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Monday, October 1, 2012
Literacy, schmliteracy.
Being able to read isn't that big of a deal, right? I mean, how important is it that I teach my kids to do this? People make it to adulthood without being able to all the time. Sure, it makes driving a bit of a challenge when you don't know where you're going, but a talking GPS could help with that. There are symbols and pictures to help you get by in a pinch with most other things (bathroom doors, play buttons, hot, cold, etc.). There's enough take-out in the world that they would never really need to follow a recipe if they didn't want to.
What I'm getting at here is that although I truly enjoy homeschooling, teaching Eva and Sully to read has been like living a nightmare. I know I've lamented about teaching Eva before and she CAN read, but you can't stop at, "Pig Wig had a cap." You have to move past Pig Wig. I just wish we could blow past him with the fury of a tornado.
Part of the problem is attention. Neither child seems to be able to sit for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Today I got hoarse shouting at them to stay seated. We've tried the whole "classroom" scenario where I'm Mrs. Perez and they come in, fully dressed (There's always a good chance one of the Perezes is missing an article of clothing, so this is notable.), get seated and don't speak unless spoken to first and they have to raise their hand. That's old hat already. Sometimes I can eek a "Mrs. Perez" out of them and they still do alright with raising their hand, on occasion, but they are all over the first floor of the house, rather than sitting at the table in the designated "school" area and it makes getting any one subject done a challenge. These are the times I wish we had a school room. It would make this so much less stressful. If you're reading this and you homeschool and you have your own school room, I'm insanely jealous of you and I don't even know who you are.
I think that's why their lack of attention during reading is all that more offensive to my delicate nature. (Hahahahahahahaha!) I mean, I'm sitting there. Right NEXT to them. There is no space between us. Sometimes they're sitting on my lap. I have the text book open in front of them, and we're going over new word sounds together or reviewing old ones because practice makes permanent. It's the most intimate of learning situations. The ultimate in one-on-one time. Sully, to his credit, can actually move a bit faster through his stuff than Little Miss Distractable Pants.
With Eva, it goes something like this, "Okay, Ave. Start here and read the words across the page, please."
"Chop...chap...Do you know what I love about Rainbow? She's pink and purple and all sparkly and..."
"Eva!!!" I clap my hands to break the spell Rainbow the Evil Purple Unicorn has so sneakily placed on her. "Please pay attention. Try to say all the words on this line without talking about anything in between. Please." Do this for Mommy before her head explodes, I mentally add.
She then bites her lip, squirms uncontrollably, tries to shove both hands and then her arms, up to her elbows, into her mouth, and tries again.
"Chremupmph...chaphmphs..." (And, please, to get the fully effect, pause a good thirty seconds or more when you reach the ellipses in your reading.)
"Wait!!!! What?! Sit on your hands, please. I can't understand you with your hands in your mouth."
Then comes the most doleful expression and another exposition on how much she loves Rainbow or how one of her friends also loves pink or how the clouds in the sky the other day reminded her of cotton balls because they were so big and fluffy or how she really wishes that she had those Sketchers sneakers that all the girls are wearing these days and why do they have boy Sketchers? That's just weird. That's when I facepalm and stifle an insane giggle. A full thirty minutes has passed and we've reviewed exactly two words. Kind of.
You might be reading this thinking my child could very possibly be ADHD. I assure you, she is not. Her attention span during math, even review of CC material and her English grammar, are quite impressive. She's able to paint for an hour or more at a time with extreme focus. If asked to watch "My Little Pony" her attention is firmly fixed for as long I would allow her to watch that ridiculousness.
Hence my frustration.
The kids do have fun when we play sight reading games. I have flash cards with sight words on them and we play games one or two days a week, sometimes more if I can't bear the thought of going through what I just described. But one-on-one time is necessary at their separate levels if I want them to advance and so days like today happen.
The good news is I have them all to myself for nearly the ENTIRE day! Theron will be home briefly, to tease us with his presence for twenty minutes or so, until heading off to youth group and then I get to torture them into their beds a full half an hour early because I'm mean like that. Happy Monday to me!
I don't want to give the impression that I don't like my kids. Please don't be hearing that. I love them. It's just that this is the hardest job I've ever had. It's exhausting, repetitive, mentally tortuous, and stressful. The rewards are huge when they come, but some days those hugs and "I love yous" are few and far between, especially if I've had to raise my voice more often than not. And I really do like teaching them. There's this amazing sense of accomplishment that comes from knowing you, and not someone else, is revealing God's creation to them. We can pray openly, we can talk about things at our own pace, we can have class in our jammies right after eating Gorilla Munch. I guess I just need to work even more on making it fun and palatable for the young minds I'm molding. I'm getting there. And they will to. That's the good news.
I'll close by sharing my favorite Bible verse for the last month or so. "And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. Galations 6:9" I am doing good. And I'm gonna do my bestest not to grow weary. I've got God's promise that I will reap. And what I reap, hopefully, will be bright, literate, children who still love their mom even though I nearly put them in a timeout for 10, solid, years.
What I'm getting at here is that although I truly enjoy homeschooling, teaching Eva and Sully to read has been like living a nightmare. I know I've lamented about teaching Eva before and she CAN read, but you can't stop at, "Pig Wig had a cap." You have to move past Pig Wig. I just wish we could blow past him with the fury of a tornado.
Part of the problem is attention. Neither child seems to be able to sit for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Today I got hoarse shouting at them to stay seated. We've tried the whole "classroom" scenario where I'm Mrs. Perez and they come in, fully dressed (There's always a good chance one of the Perezes is missing an article of clothing, so this is notable.), get seated and don't speak unless spoken to first and they have to raise their hand. That's old hat already. Sometimes I can eek a "Mrs. Perez" out of them and they still do alright with raising their hand, on occasion, but they are all over the first floor of the house, rather than sitting at the table in the designated "school" area and it makes getting any one subject done a challenge. These are the times I wish we had a school room. It would make this so much less stressful. If you're reading this and you homeschool and you have your own school room, I'm insanely jealous of you and I don't even know who you are.
I think that's why their lack of attention during reading is all that more offensive to my delicate nature. (Hahahahahahahaha!) I mean, I'm sitting there. Right NEXT to them. There is no space between us. Sometimes they're sitting on my lap. I have the text book open in front of them, and we're going over new word sounds together or reviewing old ones because practice makes permanent. It's the most intimate of learning situations. The ultimate in one-on-one time. Sully, to his credit, can actually move a bit faster through his stuff than Little Miss Distractable Pants.
With Eva, it goes something like this, "Okay, Ave. Start here and read the words across the page, please."
"Chop...chap...Do you know what I love about Rainbow? She's pink and purple and all sparkly and..."
"Eva!!!" I clap my hands to break the spell Rainbow the Evil Purple Unicorn has so sneakily placed on her. "Please pay attention. Try to say all the words on this line without talking about anything in between. Please." Do this for Mommy before her head explodes, I mentally add.
She then bites her lip, squirms uncontrollably, tries to shove both hands and then her arms, up to her elbows, into her mouth, and tries again.
"Chremupmph...chaphmphs..." (And, please, to get the fully effect, pause a good thirty seconds or more when you reach the ellipses in your reading.)
"Wait!!!! What?! Sit on your hands, please. I can't understand you with your hands in your mouth."
Then comes the most doleful expression and another exposition on how much she loves Rainbow or how one of her friends also loves pink or how the clouds in the sky the other day reminded her of cotton balls because they were so big and fluffy or how she really wishes that she had those Sketchers sneakers that all the girls are wearing these days and why do they have boy Sketchers? That's just weird. That's when I facepalm and stifle an insane giggle. A full thirty minutes has passed and we've reviewed exactly two words. Kind of.
You might be reading this thinking my child could very possibly be ADHD. I assure you, she is not. Her attention span during math, even review of CC material and her English grammar, are quite impressive. She's able to paint for an hour or more at a time with extreme focus. If asked to watch "My Little Pony" her attention is firmly fixed for as long I would allow her to watch that ridiculousness.
Hence my frustration.
The kids do have fun when we play sight reading games. I have flash cards with sight words on them and we play games one or two days a week, sometimes more if I can't bear the thought of going through what I just described. But one-on-one time is necessary at their separate levels if I want them to advance and so days like today happen.
The good news is I have them all to myself for nearly the ENTIRE day! Theron will be home briefly, to tease us with his presence for twenty minutes or so, until heading off to youth group and then I get to torture them into their beds a full half an hour early because I'm mean like that. Happy Monday to me!
I don't want to give the impression that I don't like my kids. Please don't be hearing that. I love them. It's just that this is the hardest job I've ever had. It's exhausting, repetitive, mentally tortuous, and stressful. The rewards are huge when they come, but some days those hugs and "I love yous" are few and far between, especially if I've had to raise my voice more often than not. And I really do like teaching them. There's this amazing sense of accomplishment that comes from knowing you, and not someone else, is revealing God's creation to them. We can pray openly, we can talk about things at our own pace, we can have class in our jammies right after eating Gorilla Munch. I guess I just need to work even more on making it fun and palatable for the young minds I'm molding. I'm getting there. And they will to. That's the good news.
I'll close by sharing my favorite Bible verse for the last month or so. "And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. Galations 6:9" I am doing good. And I'm gonna do my bestest not to grow weary. I've got God's promise that I will reap. And what I reap, hopefully, will be bright, literate, children who still love their mom even though I nearly put them in a timeout for 10, solid, years.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Baby poo, cat pee and tampons. Not necessarily in that order.
I usually don't have enough creative juices to produce two entries this close together. My family has become a most enthusiastic muse.
Let's see, the hair cutting fiasco was Friday. You would think that God, in his infinite goodness, would have granted me (us) a bye for the weekend. I guess he really enjoys reading my blog and wanted to give me more fuel.
Saturday started the usual way. Theron and I woke with the baby around 7:30, laid in bed and talked about the day and how we should get up and be doing stuff already and then the kids all piled in with us, one by itty-bitty one, and soon we were a mass of writhing, tickling, wrestling, screaming, panting Perezes.
I eventually managed to untangle myself and headed to the kitchen to start some bacon, and make some warm, carmelized apples to go with our spelt buttermilk pancakes. (Yes, it was all super delicious. I miss that breakfast. I want to eat it again. Now.) Everyone ate heartily and then Eva and I vanished with Ty to go shopping and drop off some dry cleaning and Theron took the boys out to run a few errands.
Eva and I won because we arrived home first. Although, I'm not sure it's winning if you're the first to discover the wretched smell of cat urine in your family room as soon as you enter it.
Some of you know, and some of you don't, that previously our van had been ruthlessly urinated in several times by our furry home companion, Murray. Murray is our 9 year old, yellow tabby cat. He was lovely before we had kids and now he's a huge pain in my tush. I'm not an animal hater. I love them. But adding his maintenance to that of the children's, compounded by the fact that he's not all that nice to them and you've got a grumpy pet owner. But I digress...
Murray peed in our van on more than one occasion. How did this come to pass, you ask? We park the van in the garage and I used to be in the habit of leaving the side doors of the van open. (NOT ANYMORE!) Once, when I was taking groceries out of the van, the sly little kitty got into the garage AND into the van without my knowledge. I shut them both and promptly forgot about him until the next morning. He mercilessly peed on the carpet between the driver's and passenger's seats. That was an easier fix because we just took out the mat that was there and the problem was solved. But AFTER that, he got into the van again via his usual route of escape into the garage and since we didn't know he was in there, he was shut in there all night. Where else should little kitty relieve himself but in our family-mobile? It happened so many times, I felt like an idiot for repeatedly leaving the van open and our van was beyond embarrassingly smelly. Theron and my dad ended up replacing the carpet in the entire van one Saturday. (Yep. You can do that. It's not as easy job, FYI.)
So, lesson learned, we now keep the van doors sealed tightly against the infidel . You can imagine my horror at being confronted by that singular odor, but this time, in my home! The first phase was denial. I called Theron immediately and told him what I was smelling. I wandered around the play room, into the living room, into the dining room, wondering if it was my imagination.
I went outside and came back in. It was faint. But it was there. No mistake. Ugh.
Theron came home shortly after we spoke and he found the offensive patch right away. Here's the thing. Just a few days before, Sully had spilled a good bit of water on that very spot. The water must have activated a long dormant animal fluid from the previous owners and the cat took offense to it. (Ah, most vexing chain of events, how I loathe thee! More on that later...)
We talked it over for a full thirty-seconds before it was decided that instead of trying to steam, spray, baking soda, scrub, and/or sweat that smell out, that we would just rip up the carpet. We'd been down that road with the van, and it just wasn't worth it. Plus, we had been looking for an excuse to take up that carpet anyway. It was pretty darn gross.
Without further ado, Theron began ripping up the carpet. This was NOT on the to-do list for Saturday, or for the next six months. Such is a day in our lives.
I shut off the centrail air and opened the windows and sliding door. I knew this whole process was going to make at least one of us sneezy. Within minutes I was violently sneezing and my eyes were unbelievably itchy. I vascillated between fury (at the cat) and deep, dark despair (at our ruined day and our soon to be darker living space).
The floor underneath was what we knew it to be. Dark, ship plank-esque, wood flooring. It's real dark, it's real funky, it's worn out and I really don't like it. I like it better than carpet, I suppose, but I really don't care for it. The carpet was a light color. It brightened the room. One entire side of the room is brick fireplace and wretched paneling. Now over half of the room is brown. Much like the kitchen, which is probably 75% brown. And the rooms are adjacent to one another, and make up about half of the first floor of the house, which means 25% of my house is dark brown.
Hang on.
I think I might lose it.
Deep breaths.
The good news is that the carpet is gone and we're that much closer to our dream of a nicer downstairs, whenever that may be.
The bad news is that Theron has some projects that need to be completed before the brown goes bye-bye. We bought a camper in the spring that needs some work before we can take it out. With summer a little over half over, that's top priority. When that's done, he has to finish ripping out the shower in our bathroom and installing a new one to ensure no leaks happen in the room we just ripped the carpet out of. Then, he'll be able to rip out the brown paneling in the pee room, replace it with dry-wall, and then and only then, will he be able to replace the floor. You see. Chain of events. So, so, so, so, so much fun. So much fun, I wanna cry. Because we all know how much spare time my overworked husband already has for projects of this nature.
The good news is (Yes! There's more!) we'll get an area rug to cover most of the offensive brown and I won't give a rat's behind what happens to the ugly dark, faux ship planking in the meantime. (I'm clinging to this knowledge tenaciously.)
I also want to be clear that I'm not ungrateful for our home. I love where we live. It's a lovely neighborhood and a lovely location on the creek. I have running water and indoor plumbing. My home is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I am clothed. I am loved. I want for nothing.
But I am also an artistic person who deeply appreciates a certain asthetic in her surroundings and five years ago we left a townhome that was pretty close to exactly how I wanted it for a home that needed a lot of change. It still needs a lot of change. We've changed the things we could afford to and when I list them all, it really is a significant amount of improvement and that's encouraging. But my kitchen is as dark and brown as it was the day we moved in and I spend A LOT of time in that room! Changing the curtain above the window from time to time hasn't done much to improve it. I thought we were moving closer to painting it and getting new counters, but things like cat pee on a carpet we didn't intend to rip up for a little while, has set that goal back even further.
The day sucked it out of all of us, so Theron suggested we go out to dinner. (YAY!) We went to a buffet one of his coworkers had told him about. It was a large place with a large and eclectic selection. (Frog legs AND tacos.) I'm surprised we're not all sick with food poisoning yet, but there's still time.
When we were nearing the completion of ingesting all sorts of things that I don't normally let our family even smell, Theron commented that the baby, who was happily resting in his lap, was quite gassy. Uh-oh. He then picked him up to find that he had actually pooped up the entire back of his onesie and onto Theron's clothes. Time to go. I changed the baby in the bathroom, which smelled really odd, although I'm not surprised given the wide variety of food offered, and after we left smelled a smidge worse given the volume of said baby poop.
We got home and threw the kids in bed faster than you can say, "G'night."
On Sunday, the Lord was merciful. Nothing crazy happened. At least not that I can remember.
Today is Monday and it's become our grocery day. Grocery day, by it's very nature, is tiring. I hate grocery shopping, although I'm learning to like it more. I usually end up taking all of the kids, unless it's one of those random days Theron has off and then we ALL go. The little boys stay with me while I shop, and the older kids go to the Fun Center and are watched, for free, for an hour. Tis bliss.
My bliss was siderailed today in the middle of my list by the baby, who, again, needed to be changed. This meant going back to the front of the store, sloppily parking the gigantic cart, meant for women with annoying amounts of children, near the bathroom, unstrapping Quinn, unstrapping the baby and hoping the family bathroom inside was not occupied. It was.
Once inside, things got much, much, much worse.
I was nearly done changing Ty when I turned around to find that Quinn had opened the trash can for sanitary napkins and had pulled out a tampon applicator! There isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world, folks. I shrieked and told him to put it back and to never, ever, ever, ever touch one of those again! He looked bewildered. It's understandable. My reaction was pretty intense.
When I left, I called Mom to tell her because I pulled a similar stunt when I was a little bit older, but with one of her applicators and I was going to take it to show and tell. True story.
A mom with a sense of humor overheard me telling Mom the story and started laughing. She then apologized to me, but I told her it was fine. It you don't laugh you'll cry. I kept running into her after that and each time we'd share a knowing chuckle.
I honestly wonder what my life will be like when the kids are less crazy. When they're old enough to not do things that are intensely amusing, gross, and adorable without realizing it. I long for and hate the thought of that time coming, all at once.
If they keep up at this pace, I'll be blogging a lot more often and their stories will be immortalized on the internet. I can't wait.
Let's see, the hair cutting fiasco was Friday. You would think that God, in his infinite goodness, would have granted me (us) a bye for the weekend. I guess he really enjoys reading my blog and wanted to give me more fuel.
Saturday started the usual way. Theron and I woke with the baby around 7:30, laid in bed and talked about the day and how we should get up and be doing stuff already and then the kids all piled in with us, one by itty-bitty one, and soon we were a mass of writhing, tickling, wrestling, screaming, panting Perezes.
I eventually managed to untangle myself and headed to the kitchen to start some bacon, and make some warm, carmelized apples to go with our spelt buttermilk pancakes. (Yes, it was all super delicious. I miss that breakfast. I want to eat it again. Now.) Everyone ate heartily and then Eva and I vanished with Ty to go shopping and drop off some dry cleaning and Theron took the boys out to run a few errands.
Eva and I won because we arrived home first. Although, I'm not sure it's winning if you're the first to discover the wretched smell of cat urine in your family room as soon as you enter it.
Some of you know, and some of you don't, that previously our van had been ruthlessly urinated in several times by our furry home companion, Murray. Murray is our 9 year old, yellow tabby cat. He was lovely before we had kids and now he's a huge pain in my tush. I'm not an animal hater. I love them. But adding his maintenance to that of the children's, compounded by the fact that he's not all that nice to them and you've got a grumpy pet owner. But I digress...
Murray peed in our van on more than one occasion. How did this come to pass, you ask? We park the van in the garage and I used to be in the habit of leaving the side doors of the van open. (NOT ANYMORE!) Once, when I was taking groceries out of the van, the sly little kitty got into the garage AND into the van without my knowledge. I shut them both and promptly forgot about him until the next morning. He mercilessly peed on the carpet between the driver's and passenger's seats. That was an easier fix because we just took out the mat that was there and the problem was solved. But AFTER that, he got into the van again via his usual route of escape into the garage and since we didn't know he was in there, he was shut in there all night. Where else should little kitty relieve himself but in our family-mobile? It happened so many times, I felt like an idiot for repeatedly leaving the van open and our van was beyond embarrassingly smelly. Theron and my dad ended up replacing the carpet in the entire van one Saturday. (Yep. You can do that. It's not as easy job, FYI.)
So, lesson learned, we now keep the van doors sealed tightly against the infidel . You can imagine my horror at being confronted by that singular odor, but this time, in my home! The first phase was denial. I called Theron immediately and told him what I was smelling. I wandered around the play room, into the living room, into the dining room, wondering if it was my imagination.
I went outside and came back in. It was faint. But it was there. No mistake. Ugh.
Theron came home shortly after we spoke and he found the offensive patch right away. Here's the thing. Just a few days before, Sully had spilled a good bit of water on that very spot. The water must have activated a long dormant animal fluid from the previous owners and the cat took offense to it. (Ah, most vexing chain of events, how I loathe thee! More on that later...)
We talked it over for a full thirty-seconds before it was decided that instead of trying to steam, spray, baking soda, scrub, and/or sweat that smell out, that we would just rip up the carpet. We'd been down that road with the van, and it just wasn't worth it. Plus, we had been looking for an excuse to take up that carpet anyway. It was pretty darn gross.
Without further ado, Theron began ripping up the carpet. This was NOT on the to-do list for Saturday, or for the next six months. Such is a day in our lives.
I shut off the centrail air and opened the windows and sliding door. I knew this whole process was going to make at least one of us sneezy. Within minutes I was violently sneezing and my eyes were unbelievably itchy. I vascillated between fury (at the cat) and deep, dark despair (at our ruined day and our soon to be darker living space).
The floor underneath was what we knew it to be. Dark, ship plank-esque, wood flooring. It's real dark, it's real funky, it's worn out and I really don't like it. I like it better than carpet, I suppose, but I really don't care for it. The carpet was a light color. It brightened the room. One entire side of the room is brick fireplace and wretched paneling. Now over half of the room is brown. Much like the kitchen, which is probably 75% brown. And the rooms are adjacent to one another, and make up about half of the first floor of the house, which means 25% of my house is dark brown.
Hang on.
I think I might lose it.
Deep breaths.
The good news is that the carpet is gone and we're that much closer to our dream of a nicer downstairs, whenever that may be.
The bad news is that Theron has some projects that need to be completed before the brown goes bye-bye. We bought a camper in the spring that needs some work before we can take it out. With summer a little over half over, that's top priority. When that's done, he has to finish ripping out the shower in our bathroom and installing a new one to ensure no leaks happen in the room we just ripped the carpet out of. Then, he'll be able to rip out the brown paneling in the pee room, replace it with dry-wall, and then and only then, will he be able to replace the floor. You see. Chain of events. So, so, so, so, so much fun. So much fun, I wanna cry. Because we all know how much spare time my overworked husband already has for projects of this nature.
The good news is (Yes! There's more!) we'll get an area rug to cover most of the offensive brown and I won't give a rat's behind what happens to the ugly dark, faux ship planking in the meantime. (I'm clinging to this knowledge tenaciously.)
I also want to be clear that I'm not ungrateful for our home. I love where we live. It's a lovely neighborhood and a lovely location on the creek. I have running water and indoor plumbing. My home is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I am clothed. I am loved. I want for nothing.
But I am also an artistic person who deeply appreciates a certain asthetic in her surroundings and five years ago we left a townhome that was pretty close to exactly how I wanted it for a home that needed a lot of change. It still needs a lot of change. We've changed the things we could afford to and when I list them all, it really is a significant amount of improvement and that's encouraging. But my kitchen is as dark and brown as it was the day we moved in and I spend A LOT of time in that room! Changing the curtain above the window from time to time hasn't done much to improve it. I thought we were moving closer to painting it and getting new counters, but things like cat pee on a carpet we didn't intend to rip up for a little while, has set that goal back even further.
The day sucked it out of all of us, so Theron suggested we go out to dinner. (YAY!) We went to a buffet one of his coworkers had told him about. It was a large place with a large and eclectic selection. (Frog legs AND tacos.) I'm surprised we're not all sick with food poisoning yet, but there's still time.
When we were nearing the completion of ingesting all sorts of things that I don't normally let our family even smell, Theron commented that the baby, who was happily resting in his lap, was quite gassy. Uh-oh. He then picked him up to find that he had actually pooped up the entire back of his onesie and onto Theron's clothes. Time to go. I changed the baby in the bathroom, which smelled really odd, although I'm not surprised given the wide variety of food offered, and after we left smelled a smidge worse given the volume of said baby poop.
We got home and threw the kids in bed faster than you can say, "G'night."
On Sunday, the Lord was merciful. Nothing crazy happened. At least not that I can remember.
Today is Monday and it's become our grocery day. Grocery day, by it's very nature, is tiring. I hate grocery shopping, although I'm learning to like it more. I usually end up taking all of the kids, unless it's one of those random days Theron has off and then we ALL go. The little boys stay with me while I shop, and the older kids go to the Fun Center and are watched, for free, for an hour. Tis bliss.
My bliss was siderailed today in the middle of my list by the baby, who, again, needed to be changed. This meant going back to the front of the store, sloppily parking the gigantic cart, meant for women with annoying amounts of children, near the bathroom, unstrapping Quinn, unstrapping the baby and hoping the family bathroom inside was not occupied. It was.
Once inside, things got much, much, much worse.
I was nearly done changing Ty when I turned around to find that Quinn had opened the trash can for sanitary napkins and had pulled out a tampon applicator! There isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world, folks. I shrieked and told him to put it back and to never, ever, ever, ever touch one of those again! He looked bewildered. It's understandable. My reaction was pretty intense.
When I left, I called Mom to tell her because I pulled a similar stunt when I was a little bit older, but with one of her applicators and I was going to take it to show and tell. True story.
A mom with a sense of humor overheard me telling Mom the story and started laughing. She then apologized to me, but I told her it was fine. It you don't laugh you'll cry. I kept running into her after that and each time we'd share a knowing chuckle.
I honestly wonder what my life will be like when the kids are less crazy. When they're old enough to not do things that are intensely amusing, gross, and adorable without realizing it. I long for and hate the thought of that time coming, all at once.
If they keep up at this pace, I'll be blogging a lot more often and their stories will be immortalized on the internet. I can't wait.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Head Explosions
Today has been a mother of a Friday. Usually, I look forward to these days. It's the last, itty-bitty push before Daddy is home for two whole days in a row! Yay! But today. Oh, today. I feel like I should have woken up weeping. It's just been that awesome. I'll briefly digress to tell you that I may just be a tad hormonal. (I feel like a lot of my blog entries start this way. I'm detecting a pattern.) Things haven't returned completely to normal since the baby and I feel like my body is trying really hard to make me have my monthly, but it just can't quite get there, so I'm stuck in this nasty web of perpetual PMS. Ask my family about it. They think it's the bees knees.
I slept a thousand times better last night than I did the night before. Theron was in bed at least an hour and a half before me. Which is to say, he went to bed at 9:30. Poor guy needed his beauty sleep. I woke up from a blissfully, sound sleep to the baby squealing in delight at something Theron said around 7 a.m. I mention this only to let you know that the day started out on an positive note. It went downhill from there. I heard Quinn ("Is it mornin' time?"), then Sully. Eva usually outsleeps us all. Lucky little chit.
Theron finished getting ready for work, deposited the baby back in his bed, and left. The boys were playing downstairs. I picked up the baby and began to nurse him, knowing it would only take 10 minutes or so and then I'd go downstairs and get the boys their breakfast. I was five minutes into nursing when I heard Quinn say, rather sadly, "I want Mommy! I want Mommy!" I didn't think much of it. Thought maybe Sully was harrassing him a little bit. There was no screaming. No death-like silence. No questionable banging or thuds. I thought things were fine.
I was so wrong.
How do I put this? Alright. I'll just come out with it, since if you're on Facebook you already know the gory details. SULLY CUT QUINN'S HAIR!!!!
I had cut Theron's hair some time ago and left the scissors I use for such a task on the island. They were, I thought, buried sufficiently under some papers so far that none of the kids would ever really notice them. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong and wrong. This is, sadly, all my fault.
At first, I thought Quinn had done it to himself. I called my Mom, completely distraught. I know it's not fair to my other kids, but Quinn is the golden boy and she gets this. He's adorable and two and, quite literally, golden. His hair was honey blonde and shiny and fine and it had grown out into a halo around his chubby, fabulous face. It looked so fetching with his big brown eyes. What greeted me when I got downstairs was his fabulous face no longer framed by butterscotch bangs, but a scalp with tufts of hair sticking out of it. He looked like a chemo patient. I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but he really looked like he was in treatment. It was awful.
(Please pardon the awful placement of these pics. I'm a novice blogger at best.)
While speaking with Mom it became painfully clear that Quinn could not have done this himself. In the background I could hear my Dad pointing out that it took a good deal of coordination to cut one's hair and Quinn didn't have it. The damage was only on the top, it was very thorough and there is no way he had the arm length or skills to have pulled it off himself. I zeroed in on Sully.
"Did you cut your brother's hair?" I demanded, trying to dial down the fury in my voice.
"No." Ah. So innocence is going to be maintained is it?
"Are you telling me the truth?"
Quieter, "Yes."
I let it go for the moment. I'd ask again in a few minutes and see what happened then. He is the most quixotic of all of the kids and I knew as surely as the sun was shining he'd probably change his answer in a few minutes, or thirty seconds. Take your pick.
Sure enough, the truth came out. Sigh.
When I first got up this morning, my goal had been to put the dishes away and get the sink clean again. Now my goal was to buzz heads and try not to cry while doing it. I told myself it was just hair. I told myself I was too prideful over Quinn's beauty and this was God giving me the fall I desperately needed. I told myself it was better one of the boys than Eva. I still wanted to weep.
Because Sully did it to Quinn, I felt it only fair that they both get shorn. I couldn't bring myself to cut off all of Quinn's hair. He really should have had the Mr. Clean treatment because Sully had managed to cut chunks out all the way down to the skin, (Miraculously without cutting into his head!) but I couldn't bring myself to do that to him. It's still uneven on top, but I'm hoping it's not too noticeable since his hair is nearly the same color as his flesh. Poor kid.
Sully was not amenable to the trim. He cried. Later in the morning, he claimed that he liked it. Have I mentioned he's wishy-washy?
After shearing the sheep, I had to make a run to the local meat market. No, seriously. In keeping with the theme of the day (Wretchedness.), the store was packed. I have no idea why. I saw signs on the way in saying something about a Friday the 13th sale and I quickly stuffed any notion of believing in any superstitions waaaaaaay in the back of my already crowded mind.
Nothing overly bad or new happened while at the store, but an unusual number of folks openly gaped at the mother with four young children and there were a plethora of sympathetic glances and tut-tuts from the old women. Really?! Is a thirty-something woman and her four children such an oddity these days? I know so many others like me that I can't believe I draw this much attention when out anymore, but I guess I'm wrong. I feel like I bring the circus to the store. Maybe I should have one of the kids carry a hat for the gawkers to throw their coins into. I'll get Eva to chant in a phony, British accent, "Alms for the poor! Alms for the poor!"
While we were at the store, the kids, of course, asked for every horrid, naughty, disgusting sweet thing that I don't let them eat anymore and Eva got really belligerent. I was a bad mom, a nasty mom, a mean mom. I never let them have anything fun anymore. Oh, boy. This was doing wonders for my already fragile grip on mental stability. I could feel the scales tipping in favor of the loony bin.
We got home. I whipped up a quicky lunch of hot ham and cheese, open-faced sandwiches on organic, sprouted wheat bread. (Yes, I'm that mom now.) Quinn and Sully didn't want it warm. I didn't warm it for them. They ate it fine. I heard no dissent from Eva. She got hers warm and immediately whined, "I didn't want it this way!"
I lost it. And in losing it, I felt the pain of my mother all those years before me. "What do you mean, 'YOU DON'T WANT IT THIS WAY?'" I screeched. "Why can't you just be thankful I made you lunch?! Do you want to make you're own food from now on?! I can just let you fend for yourself! That would be more than fine by me!" My sails were losing wind by this point. The energy required to keep going wasn't worth it. She looked moderately bemused.
You see, this ENTIRE week, and, I am sad to add, I am NOT exaggerating, she has been ranting and raving about all of the stuff she doesn't have or can't do or can't eat. It has been discontentment city over here in our little corner of the world. I don't know how to root this out. One day this week, when she started going on and on about something she didn't have and wanted, I stopped her, made her sit on the piano bench and told her not to get off of it until she could come over to me and calmly tell me three things she was grateful for. She whined and moaned that she couldn't think of three things, so I told her that instead of three she better think of five. (The beatings will continue until morale improves...) I was in a good mood that day, so my rage monster stayed neatly tucked away. She finally came up with Quinn, Tyson, Rainbow (her purple, plush unicorn) and two other things I can't remember, but it was a long haul getting there.
Add this fun to the boys' hair debacle and the fact that the baby has taken to sleeping on his face, which makes me immeasurably nervous, and you've got yourself a trifecta of pure, unadulterated joy. And I mean that in the most sarcastic way possible.
Also, not to ruin the perfection of a trifecta, but I was recently reminded by a friend's blog that my lady parts are about to get uber saggy again once the baby is weaned. I have so much joy awaiting me. I can hardly stand it. Again, with the sarcasm.
I'd end on a heartwarming note about how I know God is with me and so all will be well, but I already know that, and I know that you know that I know that, so we'll just leave it at that. I'm off to pray my head won't explode.
I slept a thousand times better last night than I did the night before. Theron was in bed at least an hour and a half before me. Which is to say, he went to bed at 9:30. Poor guy needed his beauty sleep. I woke up from a blissfully, sound sleep to the baby squealing in delight at something Theron said around 7 a.m. I mention this only to let you know that the day started out on an positive note. It went downhill from there. I heard Quinn ("Is it mornin' time?"), then Sully. Eva usually outsleeps us all. Lucky little chit.
Theron finished getting ready for work, deposited the baby back in his bed, and left. The boys were playing downstairs. I picked up the baby and began to nurse him, knowing it would only take 10 minutes or so and then I'd go downstairs and get the boys their breakfast. I was five minutes into nursing when I heard Quinn say, rather sadly, "I want Mommy! I want Mommy!" I didn't think much of it. Thought maybe Sully was harrassing him a little bit. There was no screaming. No death-like silence. No questionable banging or thuds. I thought things were fine.
I was so wrong.
How do I put this? Alright. I'll just come out with it, since if you're on Facebook you already know the gory details. SULLY CUT QUINN'S HAIR!!!!
I had cut Theron's hair some time ago and left the scissors I use for such a task on the island. They were, I thought, buried sufficiently under some papers so far that none of the kids would ever really notice them. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong and wrong. This is, sadly, all my fault.
At first, I thought Quinn had done it to himself. I called my Mom, completely distraught. I know it's not fair to my other kids, but Quinn is the golden boy and she gets this. He's adorable and two and, quite literally, golden. His hair was honey blonde and shiny and fine and it had grown out into a halo around his chubby, fabulous face. It looked so fetching with his big brown eyes. What greeted me when I got downstairs was his fabulous face no longer framed by butterscotch bangs, but a scalp with tufts of hair sticking out of it. He looked like a chemo patient. I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but he really looked like he was in treatment. It was awful.
(Please pardon the awful placement of these pics. I'm a novice blogger at best.)
 |
| What the...?! |
 |
| See how pretty! And sweet. Sweet and pretty. |
 |
| Doleful. |
 |
| The finished buzz. You can still see the thinner patches. Ugh. |
 |
| "Please don't cut my hair!" Sorry, Charlie. |
 |
| "I'm less than happy about this." |
While speaking with Mom it became painfully clear that Quinn could not have done this himself. In the background I could hear my Dad pointing out that it took a good deal of coordination to cut one's hair and Quinn didn't have it. The damage was only on the top, it was very thorough and there is no way he had the arm length or skills to have pulled it off himself. I zeroed in on Sully.
"Did you cut your brother's hair?" I demanded, trying to dial down the fury in my voice.
"No." Ah. So innocence is going to be maintained is it?
"Are you telling me the truth?"
Quieter, "Yes."
I let it go for the moment. I'd ask again in a few minutes and see what happened then. He is the most quixotic of all of the kids and I knew as surely as the sun was shining he'd probably change his answer in a few minutes, or thirty seconds. Take your pick.
Sure enough, the truth came out. Sigh.
When I first got up this morning, my goal had been to put the dishes away and get the sink clean again. Now my goal was to buzz heads and try not to cry while doing it. I told myself it was just hair. I told myself I was too prideful over Quinn's beauty and this was God giving me the fall I desperately needed. I told myself it was better one of the boys than Eva. I still wanted to weep.
Because Sully did it to Quinn, I felt it only fair that they both get shorn. I couldn't bring myself to cut off all of Quinn's hair. He really should have had the Mr. Clean treatment because Sully had managed to cut chunks out all the way down to the skin, (Miraculously without cutting into his head!) but I couldn't bring myself to do that to him. It's still uneven on top, but I'm hoping it's not too noticeable since his hair is nearly the same color as his flesh. Poor kid.
Sully was not amenable to the trim. He cried. Later in the morning, he claimed that he liked it. Have I mentioned he's wishy-washy?
After shearing the sheep, I had to make a run to the local meat market. No, seriously. In keeping with the theme of the day (Wretchedness.), the store was packed. I have no idea why. I saw signs on the way in saying something about a Friday the 13th sale and I quickly stuffed any notion of believing in any superstitions waaaaaaay in the back of my already crowded mind.
Nothing overly bad or new happened while at the store, but an unusual number of folks openly gaped at the mother with four young children and there were a plethora of sympathetic glances and tut-tuts from the old women. Really?! Is a thirty-something woman and her four children such an oddity these days? I know so many others like me that I can't believe I draw this much attention when out anymore, but I guess I'm wrong. I feel like I bring the circus to the store. Maybe I should have one of the kids carry a hat for the gawkers to throw their coins into. I'll get Eva to chant in a phony, British accent, "Alms for the poor! Alms for the poor!"
While we were at the store, the kids, of course, asked for every horrid, naughty, disgusting sweet thing that I don't let them eat anymore and Eva got really belligerent. I was a bad mom, a nasty mom, a mean mom. I never let them have anything fun anymore. Oh, boy. This was doing wonders for my already fragile grip on mental stability. I could feel the scales tipping in favor of the loony bin.
We got home. I whipped up a quicky lunch of hot ham and cheese, open-faced sandwiches on organic, sprouted wheat bread. (Yes, I'm that mom now.) Quinn and Sully didn't want it warm. I didn't warm it for them. They ate it fine. I heard no dissent from Eva. She got hers warm and immediately whined, "I didn't want it this way!"
I lost it. And in losing it, I felt the pain of my mother all those years before me. "What do you mean, 'YOU DON'T WANT IT THIS WAY?'" I screeched. "Why can't you just be thankful I made you lunch?! Do you want to make you're own food from now on?! I can just let you fend for yourself! That would be more than fine by me!" My sails were losing wind by this point. The energy required to keep going wasn't worth it. She looked moderately bemused.
You see, this ENTIRE week, and, I am sad to add, I am NOT exaggerating, she has been ranting and raving about all of the stuff she doesn't have or can't do or can't eat. It has been discontentment city over here in our little corner of the world. I don't know how to root this out. One day this week, when she started going on and on about something she didn't have and wanted, I stopped her, made her sit on the piano bench and told her not to get off of it until she could come over to me and calmly tell me three things she was grateful for. She whined and moaned that she couldn't think of three things, so I told her that instead of three she better think of five. (The beatings will continue until morale improves...) I was in a good mood that day, so my rage monster stayed neatly tucked away. She finally came up with Quinn, Tyson, Rainbow (her purple, plush unicorn) and two other things I can't remember, but it was a long haul getting there.
Add this fun to the boys' hair debacle and the fact that the baby has taken to sleeping on his face, which makes me immeasurably nervous, and you've got yourself a trifecta of pure, unadulterated joy. And I mean that in the most sarcastic way possible.
Also, not to ruin the perfection of a trifecta, but I was recently reminded by a friend's blog that my lady parts are about to get uber saggy again once the baby is weaned. I have so much joy awaiting me. I can hardly stand it. Again, with the sarcasm.
I'd end on a heartwarming note about how I know God is with me and so all will be well, but I already know that, and I know that you know that I know that, so we'll just leave it at that. I'm off to pray my head won't explode.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Soak Up the Joy
I recently read a blog and this woman didn't like it when people told her to enjoy her children now. I could picture the quintessential older woman cooing over her kids and spouting this epitaph at her. I've had those moments myself. I get it. I'm in that phase of life now and when my kids are screaming and running around like annoying little banshees, you can believe that I'm not thinking about how much I'm enjoying them. I can also get on board with her point that she doesn't need more reasons to feel guilty. That if she's not enjoying them right now she must be doing something wrong. As a stay-at-home-mama, I work hard. Very hard. And sometimes there are days when even though I've worked myself into one enormous, tired, tizzy for my family, I didn't do much with my kids. Hearing, in the back of my mind, the voice of some woman, who isn't living my life at the moment, telling me to enjoy my kids, makes me feel guilty for not trying harder to enjoy them, when, bottom line, there just wasn't time today. I don't need help feeling guilty. I can do guilty just fine all by my lonesome. I get it. I get it all.
But I think that's why it's especially important to try to enjoy them now. And I have been. I have been equal measures of annoyed with them, too, but I've been very pointedly trying to slow down that part of my brain that pushes me to do more "work" and less "play." I've been trying to really listen when they're talking to me. When I'm asked to play a game, instead of instantly saying "no," I carefully weigh what needs to be done against what can wait and, more often than not, I play. I've also been purposely trying to spend time especially with Sully, who seems to get the short of the stick quite a bit. The result? A more joyful, loving, middle-child and a mama with more sympathy. If I can give that gift to all of them, why wouldn't I? My dirty floor isn't going to love me back. It's time to invest in the things, or rather, people, who are worthy of my precious time.
My amazing husband usually puts the kids to bed for me and on the off evening when the task falls to me, I'm usually greatly annoyed. I mean, I put in over 8 hours with them during the day! Mama needs a break! But, lately, this shift in feeling about the kids encroaching on time I consider "mine" has been happening. I'm going to attribute it to God because I'm not sure I'd be feeling like this any other way. I helped with bedtime last night and as Theron began the nightly prayer routine with them, I was moved and humbled by how much I was missing, even though I see them ALL DAY! Quinn starts first. He practically begs to start! He starts off, in his sweet and yet strangely deep, two year old voice, "Dear God..." and then he says something unintelligible and Theron starts listing things to be thankful for and Quinn repeats him, "Mama, Eva, Sully, Baby Ty, Grandma, Pop..." Then Sully or Eva prays, then Theron, and last night, because I was there, Quinn said, "Mama turn!" So I prayed and Eva said, when I was done, "Mama, that was a really beautiful prayer!" (I prayed that they would all believe in Jesus one day.)
My kids keep me hopping. No doubt about it. But I've never been one to enjoy sitting still for very long and they aren't going to be little for very long, so I'd say I'm right where I need to be and if I'm able to actually find joy in the tedium of toddlers and babies, I'm going to soak it up!
But I think that's why it's especially important to try to enjoy them now. And I have been. I have been equal measures of annoyed with them, too, but I've been very pointedly trying to slow down that part of my brain that pushes me to do more "work" and less "play." I've been trying to really listen when they're talking to me. When I'm asked to play a game, instead of instantly saying "no," I carefully weigh what needs to be done against what can wait and, more often than not, I play. I've also been purposely trying to spend time especially with Sully, who seems to get the short of the stick quite a bit. The result? A more joyful, loving, middle-child and a mama with more sympathy. If I can give that gift to all of them, why wouldn't I? My dirty floor isn't going to love me back. It's time to invest in the things, or rather, people, who are worthy of my precious time.
My amazing husband usually puts the kids to bed for me and on the off evening when the task falls to me, I'm usually greatly annoyed. I mean, I put in over 8 hours with them during the day! Mama needs a break! But, lately, this shift in feeling about the kids encroaching on time I consider "mine" has been happening. I'm going to attribute it to God because I'm not sure I'd be feeling like this any other way. I helped with bedtime last night and as Theron began the nightly prayer routine with them, I was moved and humbled by how much I was missing, even though I see them ALL DAY! Quinn starts first. He practically begs to start! He starts off, in his sweet and yet strangely deep, two year old voice, "Dear God..." and then he says something unintelligible and Theron starts listing things to be thankful for and Quinn repeats him, "Mama, Eva, Sully, Baby Ty, Grandma, Pop..." Then Sully or Eva prays, then Theron, and last night, because I was there, Quinn said, "Mama turn!" So I prayed and Eva said, when I was done, "Mama, that was a really beautiful prayer!" (I prayed that they would all believe in Jesus one day.)
My kids keep me hopping. No doubt about it. But I've never been one to enjoy sitting still for very long and they aren't going to be little for very long, so I'd say I'm right where I need to be and if I'm able to actually find joy in the tedium of toddlers and babies, I'm going to soak it up!
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Unto us a child is born.
A bit early, and, therefore, very unexpectedly, Tyson David Perez came into the world in the wee small hours of the morning on February 5th.
It all began with me dreaming I was in labor. That's right. I was contracting in my sleep. The contraction that woke me must have been strong enough to finally rouse me. My immediate thought was that it was false labor. I thought this for a number of reasons, the first of which being that I have had three children prior to Ty and all of them were either late or born on their due date, never before. The other main reason being that I hadn't felt any contractions of this type before with this pregnancy and it seemed reasonable to think it was just "practice."
I lay in bed for three or four more contractions and didn't bother to time their length or how far apart they were. Fortunately, I was so amused with the whole dream scenario, I had woken Theron up to tell him and he had started watching the clock from that moment on. He told me my contractions were only five minutes apart. (Say what?!) When you're half asleep, time has a mind of it's own. To me, it had felt like at least 15 to 20 minutes had passed between each contraction.
With the dawn of this revelation I decided to get out of bed and walk around. If history had taught me anything, it was that changing what I was doing usually put a quick end to false labor. If I was lying down, walking around stopped it. If walking around was causing it, promptly taking a load off made it stop. If it was the real deal, NOTHING stopped it and walking sometimes made it come on harder and faster. That's what happened.
Things progressed more quickly than my mind was willing to process for the second time in my child-bearing years. I think I was in a bit of denial over how this seemed to be happening to me AGAIN. Theron kept pushing for the all-important phone call to the poor sap who would get driven from their warm bed to come be at the house with the children. I kept saying, "No, no, no. Let's make sure, first. I mean, what are the odds this is really happening now?"
Finally, even I couldn't ignore the obvious. Theron called the sap (Actually, a dear friend who was really our only option because all closer friends were sick or had family in town and were out of the question.), then he called the doctor, then he called my Mom and then, when I started to really get panicky that we weren't going to get to the hospital in time, he called our elderly next-door neighbor to stay at the house until our sappy friend arrived.
I was pacing outside by the Suburban, waiting for our poor neighbor to finally stroll over to our house. The cold air felt AMAZING and the contractions felt like torture. The pressure was intense and I was greatly fearing a delivery in the car.
Theron got us on the road and every bump was anxiety inducing, as was every deceleration in our speed, no matter how necessary I knew it was. I remember praying on the exit ramp to the hospital, "Please God, just keep this baby in me till we get to the hospital. Please let the next contraction be mild. Please God, please." And He heard me. The next contraction was inexplicably mild. It was long, but it barely hurt and there was no pressure. I could have wept. Because by then we were wheeling into the parking lot of the ER and people were fleeing from the front of the vehicle. Theron missed the way in closest to the door and had to make a sharp turn that caused him to jump a sidewalk dangerously close to an old woman who looked VERY annoyed at us. I was motioning wildly for her to get out of the way and as she moved all too slowly, an ER security person started to make his way hastily over to us. It crossed my mind that he thought we were crazy, but then the car was stopped and I was flying towards him with all the inertia my body possessed. "I'm in labor!!!!" I squealed. His eyes opened wide, he put his arm around me and herded me into the ER. "Do you need a wheelchair?" he kindly asked. "YES, YES, YES!" I said through another gargantuan contraction. "I'm afraid I'm not going to make it!!! Please hurry!!" To me, the world around me was moving at a turtle-like pace. No one was moving fast enough. I had been through this and I knew, with now alarmling clarity, that I had very little time to get to Labor and Delivery.
I was perched on my right hip in the wheel chair as the nurse behind me sleepily wheeled me toward an elevator. The doors closed and we began our ascent as another contraction wracked my body, this time the pressure was too much. My water broke. "Oh, great," the nurse behind me muttered sarcastically. My relief was intense. I almost laughed at her and instead, opted to apologize profusely. Polite to the bitter end.
We made it to L and D and we were blessedly wheeled into the room of a nurse who didn't force me to lay down immediately. She assessed my position and said, "Oooo, you are ready to give birth! You're sitting' on one hip." She told me to get undressed and asked if I wanted her to check me squatting or in the bed. I was floored I even had a choice. My birth experience with Sully was spearheaded by a nurse who obviously did not believe I was having precipitous labor and was as enthusiastic about making me lay on the bed for monitoring purposes as Sully was about arriving with break-neck speed.
I'm always amazed at how modesty just leaves the building when I'm in the throws of labor. I was naked in seconds, mindful of how little time I had between contractions and how soggy my drawers currently were. Another contraction hit and when it passed, she checked me. "You're ready to push, honey. You just have a little lip there." Well, color me shocked. "You should probably get on the bed now." I practically hopped onto the bed, which got a laugh from all the nurses. I think they expected me to feebily extend my hand and crawl onto the bed with zero energy or enthusiasm. I knew getting on the bed meant the beginning of the end of my phsyical torment, so I was only too happy to do it.
The next contraction was pretty obviously push time. The nurses were bustling around and two doctors had come into the room, neither of whom I recognized. I didn't care. I was just glad to not be in the car. I did notice at one point in the process that they were very unfazed by everything that was happening. They took in my groaning and exclamations with all the excitement that comes with watching paint dry. I pushed. I felt the baby come down, but not enough. This I will maintain until my dying day, pushing contractions feel a thousand times better than the contractions that come prior. Physically, they aren't as painful and, mentally, you know the end is near. When I had Sully, I was in labor for a whopping 2 hours. He came out in one push. I barely felt the burn. Tyson took three pushes and he may have taken longer than three, but I was not in the mood to feel that particular kind of burn a moment longer. In the last contraction of his labor, I pushed for all I was worth and he finally came out. That burn at the end is just tremendous. I remember screeching, "It burns!!!!" And I remember mentally giving myself a pep talk. "Stephanie, you can do this. It hurts, but it's going to be over soon. Just push him out and the burn will be gone."
I also remember not being so polite when the resident lady doctor was examining me for tears and pushing on my belly to make the afterbirth came out. "I just had a baby! Could you be more gentle!" She shared a glance with her nameless cohort and proceeded maybe a tad more cautiously. I suppose my skin should have been a little thicker and I should've been less whiney. Hindsight is 20/20...blah, blah, blah. I only had 4 stitches. Not too shabby for an hour and 15 minutes of labor.
We're all doing great. Ty is a lovely, handsome, typical newborn. He's tiny. He weighed in at only 6 pounds and 2.5 ounces. He's 19 inches long. I guess that's par for the course, since he came 2 and 1/2 weeks before his due date of February 22. He's now dropped down to 5 pounds, 13 ounces. He's my smallest baby and when compared to Quinn, who was my largest, he seems like a real shrimp. Fortunately, he's a good eater and I have no doubt he'll plump up in no time.
We continue to praise God for giving us our amazing family and giving us healthy children and safe deliveries for each of them. We're humbled, as always, by His goodness to us.
It all began with me dreaming I was in labor. That's right. I was contracting in my sleep. The contraction that woke me must have been strong enough to finally rouse me. My immediate thought was that it was false labor. I thought this for a number of reasons, the first of which being that I have had three children prior to Ty and all of them were either late or born on their due date, never before. The other main reason being that I hadn't felt any contractions of this type before with this pregnancy and it seemed reasonable to think it was just "practice."
I lay in bed for three or four more contractions and didn't bother to time their length or how far apart they were. Fortunately, I was so amused with the whole dream scenario, I had woken Theron up to tell him and he had started watching the clock from that moment on. He told me my contractions were only five minutes apart. (Say what?!) When you're half asleep, time has a mind of it's own. To me, it had felt like at least 15 to 20 minutes had passed between each contraction.
With the dawn of this revelation I decided to get out of bed and walk around. If history had taught me anything, it was that changing what I was doing usually put a quick end to false labor. If I was lying down, walking around stopped it. If walking around was causing it, promptly taking a load off made it stop. If it was the real deal, NOTHING stopped it and walking sometimes made it come on harder and faster. That's what happened.
Things progressed more quickly than my mind was willing to process for the second time in my child-bearing years. I think I was in a bit of denial over how this seemed to be happening to me AGAIN. Theron kept pushing for the all-important phone call to the poor sap who would get driven from their warm bed to come be at the house with the children. I kept saying, "No, no, no. Let's make sure, first. I mean, what are the odds this is really happening now?"
Finally, even I couldn't ignore the obvious. Theron called the sap (Actually, a dear friend who was really our only option because all closer friends were sick or had family in town and were out of the question.), then he called the doctor, then he called my Mom and then, when I started to really get panicky that we weren't going to get to the hospital in time, he called our elderly next-door neighbor to stay at the house until our sappy friend arrived.
I was pacing outside by the Suburban, waiting for our poor neighbor to finally stroll over to our house. The cold air felt AMAZING and the contractions felt like torture. The pressure was intense and I was greatly fearing a delivery in the car.
Theron got us on the road and every bump was anxiety inducing, as was every deceleration in our speed, no matter how necessary I knew it was. I remember praying on the exit ramp to the hospital, "Please God, just keep this baby in me till we get to the hospital. Please let the next contraction be mild. Please God, please." And He heard me. The next contraction was inexplicably mild. It was long, but it barely hurt and there was no pressure. I could have wept. Because by then we were wheeling into the parking lot of the ER and people were fleeing from the front of the vehicle. Theron missed the way in closest to the door and had to make a sharp turn that caused him to jump a sidewalk dangerously close to an old woman who looked VERY annoyed at us. I was motioning wildly for her to get out of the way and as she moved all too slowly, an ER security person started to make his way hastily over to us. It crossed my mind that he thought we were crazy, but then the car was stopped and I was flying towards him with all the inertia my body possessed. "I'm in labor!!!!" I squealed. His eyes opened wide, he put his arm around me and herded me into the ER. "Do you need a wheelchair?" he kindly asked. "YES, YES, YES!" I said through another gargantuan contraction. "I'm afraid I'm not going to make it!!! Please hurry!!" To me, the world around me was moving at a turtle-like pace. No one was moving fast enough. I had been through this and I knew, with now alarmling clarity, that I had very little time to get to Labor and Delivery.
I was perched on my right hip in the wheel chair as the nurse behind me sleepily wheeled me toward an elevator. The doors closed and we began our ascent as another contraction wracked my body, this time the pressure was too much. My water broke. "Oh, great," the nurse behind me muttered sarcastically. My relief was intense. I almost laughed at her and instead, opted to apologize profusely. Polite to the bitter end.
We made it to L and D and we were blessedly wheeled into the room of a nurse who didn't force me to lay down immediately. She assessed my position and said, "Oooo, you are ready to give birth! You're sitting' on one hip." She told me to get undressed and asked if I wanted her to check me squatting or in the bed. I was floored I even had a choice. My birth experience with Sully was spearheaded by a nurse who obviously did not believe I was having precipitous labor and was as enthusiastic about making me lay on the bed for monitoring purposes as Sully was about arriving with break-neck speed.
I'm always amazed at how modesty just leaves the building when I'm in the throws of labor. I was naked in seconds, mindful of how little time I had between contractions and how soggy my drawers currently were. Another contraction hit and when it passed, she checked me. "You're ready to push, honey. You just have a little lip there." Well, color me shocked. "You should probably get on the bed now." I practically hopped onto the bed, which got a laugh from all the nurses. I think they expected me to feebily extend my hand and crawl onto the bed with zero energy or enthusiasm. I knew getting on the bed meant the beginning of the end of my phsyical torment, so I was only too happy to do it.
The next contraction was pretty obviously push time. The nurses were bustling around and two doctors had come into the room, neither of whom I recognized. I didn't care. I was just glad to not be in the car. I did notice at one point in the process that they were very unfazed by everything that was happening. They took in my groaning and exclamations with all the excitement that comes with watching paint dry. I pushed. I felt the baby come down, but not enough. This I will maintain until my dying day, pushing contractions feel a thousand times better than the contractions that come prior. Physically, they aren't as painful and, mentally, you know the end is near. When I had Sully, I was in labor for a whopping 2 hours. He came out in one push. I barely felt the burn. Tyson took three pushes and he may have taken longer than three, but I was not in the mood to feel that particular kind of burn a moment longer. In the last contraction of his labor, I pushed for all I was worth and he finally came out. That burn at the end is just tremendous. I remember screeching, "It burns!!!!" And I remember mentally giving myself a pep talk. "Stephanie, you can do this. It hurts, but it's going to be over soon. Just push him out and the burn will be gone."
I also remember not being so polite when the resident lady doctor was examining me for tears and pushing on my belly to make the afterbirth came out. "I just had a baby! Could you be more gentle!" She shared a glance with her nameless cohort and proceeded maybe a tad more cautiously. I suppose my skin should have been a little thicker and I should've been less whiney. Hindsight is 20/20...blah, blah, blah. I only had 4 stitches. Not too shabby for an hour and 15 minutes of labor.
We're all doing great. Ty is a lovely, handsome, typical newborn. He's tiny. He weighed in at only 6 pounds and 2.5 ounces. He's 19 inches long. I guess that's par for the course, since he came 2 and 1/2 weeks before his due date of February 22. He's now dropped down to 5 pounds, 13 ounces. He's my smallest baby and when compared to Quinn, who was my largest, he seems like a real shrimp. Fortunately, he's a good eater and I have no doubt he'll plump up in no time.
We continue to praise God for giving us our amazing family and giving us healthy children and safe deliveries for each of them. We're humbled, as always, by His goodness to us.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Utter Rubbish
Today has been rubbish. I know that sounds British, but I just finished watching some Masterpiece Classic on Netflix, so cut me some slack. Last week at CC a new friend highly recommended I read "Loving the Little Years" by Rachel Jankovich. (Not the first time this particular selection has been recommended to me, by the way.) It's a quick read and it's full of anecdotes and advice for mothers "in the trenches." Today, I'm not just in the trench, I'm about 10 feet below it.
I could blame today's utter failure on my hormones. I could blame it on Eva's five-ness. I could blame it on the heinous, albeit adorable, distractions that were incessantly coming from Quinn and Sully. But I think the real root of today's mucky-muck is sin. Plain and simple. Or not so simple.
I know that raising children is a perpetual lesson in humility. I know that I'm a stone being made smooth. But today, knowing that wasn't making things better. Rachel Jankovich's helpful tips on how not to blow my top weren't getting through and neither was what I was trying to teach Eva, apparently.
The morning started off with me having a mouth drier than the Sahara and a nose that was a close second. According to Theron, I was mouth-breathing so loudly I sounded like Darth Vader. At least my oral discomfort gave him the opportunity to compare me to one of his all-time favorite villains. How fun for him.
After all of the kids were dressed, we headed down for the usual routine of Quinn shouting, "Juuuuu, juuuuu!!!!! Seer, seeeer, seeer!" That translates to, "Juice! Cereal! Pronto, Mama!" I got them all fed, vitamined, and juiced. Then I braced myself for school with Eva. This week, as a whole, has been particularly trying. Ever since we've been back to the grind after Christmas, I've been especially diligent about making sure we have school EVERYDAY. Before the break I usually only pushed for three days of good study. The fourth day of the week I would lazily throw in some education while grocery shopping or I'd put on her memory work CD in the car, but I didn't stress about it. Sooo, now that I'm being an extra diligent educator, Eva has decided to be an extra diligent non-learner, and this week she put forth her most arduous effort yet at non-learning.
I understand that as a homeschooling mom I have some obvious advantages. I get to teach in my jammies, should I so desire. I get to spend quality one-on-one time with my children. I get to learn with them! I know there are more. I just can't think of any at the moment.
There are also some very distinct disadvantages. I do not have a teaching degree. I lack the training other people in the field of elementary education gained with regard to handling "difficult" students. While I can be surprisingly resourceful and creative in whipping up dinner on a dime and in a short period of time, my mind goes alarmingly blank when I need to make the content we're learning interesting and fun. I also don't get to give them away at 3 p.m. everyday. Drat.
When we reached the portion of today's lesson that had to do with the Northwest mountains and she pulled an, "I don't know," AFTER she had learned these four terms on Thursday and I had gone over them with her ad nauseum Friday, Monday AND Tuesday, I started to cry. It should be noted that this was also after a truncated reading lesson that I likened to swimming in quick sand - impossible and most likely ending in death.
Eva then started to cry. Probably because she's not used to seeing her mother model her behavior. I ran to my room, closed the door, threw myself on the bed and screamed into my pillow. Slice of the hugest humble pie you've ever seen, anyone? Anyone?!
I'm still reeling from this morning. My eyes hurt. My heart hurts. My butt hurts, but that has less to do with this morning and more to do with sciatic pain. I wish that I could explain this away by saying that I forgot to pray before we started. But we didn't. We prayed. We prayed real hard for patience and understanding. We prayed for open hearts and ears. And, still, to me, today was an epic fail. I was an epic fail. Sigh.
If my faith were weaker, I'd wonder if God were here at all. I'm grateful that, as small and weak as my faith is, I know God doesn't work that way. I believe there's a lesson for me in this. I believe I will be made stronger through this wretched experience. I also believe that while it was hard on the kids, they, too, will come through this none-the-worse for the wear. Especially after I apologize for acting like a jerk and ask for forgiveness. And I'm gonna keep on praying for patience, understanding, open ears and hearts and maybe, just maybe, in addition, an insatiable desire for learning! I'll let you know how it goes...
I could blame today's utter failure on my hormones. I could blame it on Eva's five-ness. I could blame it on the heinous, albeit adorable, distractions that were incessantly coming from Quinn and Sully. But I think the real root of today's mucky-muck is sin. Plain and simple. Or not so simple.
I know that raising children is a perpetual lesson in humility. I know that I'm a stone being made smooth. But today, knowing that wasn't making things better. Rachel Jankovich's helpful tips on how not to blow my top weren't getting through and neither was what I was trying to teach Eva, apparently.
The morning started off with me having a mouth drier than the Sahara and a nose that was a close second. According to Theron, I was mouth-breathing so loudly I sounded like Darth Vader. At least my oral discomfort gave him the opportunity to compare me to one of his all-time favorite villains. How fun for him.
After all of the kids were dressed, we headed down for the usual routine of Quinn shouting, "Juuuuu, juuuuu!!!!! Seer, seeeer, seeer!" That translates to, "Juice! Cereal! Pronto, Mama!" I got them all fed, vitamined, and juiced. Then I braced myself for school with Eva. This week, as a whole, has been particularly trying. Ever since we've been back to the grind after Christmas, I've been especially diligent about making sure we have school EVERYDAY. Before the break I usually only pushed for three days of good study. The fourth day of the week I would lazily throw in some education while grocery shopping or I'd put on her memory work CD in the car, but I didn't stress about it. Sooo, now that I'm being an extra diligent educator, Eva has decided to be an extra diligent non-learner, and this week she put forth her most arduous effort yet at non-learning.
I understand that as a homeschooling mom I have some obvious advantages. I get to teach in my jammies, should I so desire. I get to spend quality one-on-one time with my children. I get to learn with them! I know there are more. I just can't think of any at the moment.
There are also some very distinct disadvantages. I do not have a teaching degree. I lack the training other people in the field of elementary education gained with regard to handling "difficult" students. While I can be surprisingly resourceful and creative in whipping up dinner on a dime and in a short period of time, my mind goes alarmingly blank when I need to make the content we're learning interesting and fun. I also don't get to give them away at 3 p.m. everyday. Drat.
When we reached the portion of today's lesson that had to do with the Northwest mountains and she pulled an, "I don't know," AFTER she had learned these four terms on Thursday and I had gone over them with her ad nauseum Friday, Monday AND Tuesday, I started to cry. It should be noted that this was also after a truncated reading lesson that I likened to swimming in quick sand - impossible and most likely ending in death.
Eva then started to cry. Probably because she's not used to seeing her mother model her behavior. I ran to my room, closed the door, threw myself on the bed and screamed into my pillow. Slice of the hugest humble pie you've ever seen, anyone? Anyone?!
I'm still reeling from this morning. My eyes hurt. My heart hurts. My butt hurts, but that has less to do with this morning and more to do with sciatic pain. I wish that I could explain this away by saying that I forgot to pray before we started. But we didn't. We prayed. We prayed real hard for patience and understanding. We prayed for open hearts and ears. And, still, to me, today was an epic fail. I was an epic fail. Sigh.
If my faith were weaker, I'd wonder if God were here at all. I'm grateful that, as small and weak as my faith is, I know God doesn't work that way. I believe there's a lesson for me in this. I believe I will be made stronger through this wretched experience. I also believe that while it was hard on the kids, they, too, will come through this none-the-worse for the wear. Especially after I apologize for acting like a jerk and ask for forgiveness. And I'm gonna keep on praying for patience, understanding, open ears and hearts and maybe, just maybe, in addition, an insatiable desire for learning! I'll let you know how it goes...
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