On any given day, in any public situation, I am barraged with comments. Store clerks, patrons, people in parking lots, they all feel obliged to ask me "are they ALL YOURS?" I usually reply with a simple smile and a 'yes'. When caught off guard and in a bad mood, sometimes my sardonic answer is 'yes, but they all have different fathers.' Sometimes, it's not a question,it's a comment. "You have your hands full!" (Really? I hadn't noticed, I'd speak to you if my car keys weren't in my mouth) "God BLESS you! (As if to say He already hasn't with 6 healthy children!) or my all time favorite -"Are you done?" (With what? My lunch?) If I asked a complete stranger if they were on contraceptives, it would be considered rude and an invasion of their privacy. Yet many people feel entitled to ask me intimate questions about my family planning. I don't judge these people, but they feel compelled to tell me "why" they couldn't do it [have six children] Honestly, I did not ask to hear their stories, but they tell me about their tubal ligations and vasectomies anyway. "We're done!! They scoff. "There's no way!" I am convinced that it is to alleviate their own guilt. I don't judge anyone on their family size (though I admit I am partial to those who let God determine the number of offspring) I have known people who cannot conceive and are judged harshly for "only having one" but they long for a large family. I have known others who reject the gift of a child through the act of abortion. The point is, family planning is a deeply intimate spiritual practice for me. So if you see me in the grocery store with my caravan of kiddos, just smile and say hello - let's leave it at that.
Since this entry has a bit of an acidic flavor - I will add something I wrote 5 years ago when pregnant with my fourth - it was cathartic. I never said it was easy to accept each child, but grace is infinite.
WHAT MY CHILDREN HAVE LEARNED FROM HAVING A LARGE FAMILY:
To repair things, not replace them.
To say, "you're welcome" as much as they say "thank you"
That ALL breakfast cereal comes in a bag anyway.
That with a little stain remover, it can be as good as new.
That they call the carpenter, coach, and contractor by the same name; Daddy
They call the tutor, the tailor and the treasurer by the same name; Mommy
That Easter and Christmas are about Christ, not candy.
That Love is an action, not an emotion.
That people are much more important than possessions.
That star gazing and nature walks are more memorable than movies and arcade games.
That imagination costs nothing, but is priceless.
That sharing is not an option, but necessary.
That unless it's your birthday, the clothes are not brand new.
That cable is a luxury, not a staple.
That the TV has an "off" button.
THE THINGS I'VE LEARNED:
I'd rather have a dent in my minivan, than in my chastity.
My home is a reflection of my heart, not my bank account
God is never impressed by a financial portfolio.
Trials are temporary, souls are eternal
Grace is more powerful than the bottom line
People who criticize family size are often poor in virtue.
Money is a tool - our relationship with it is what shapes who we are.
I'd rather be showered with a dandelion bouquet than roses from a suitor.
The world is an exciting place through the eyes of each child.
Today may be the day that is etched in their memories forever.
"Please" and "thank you" are not reserved for company.
Saying "I'm sorry" shows a humility that cannot be taught.
Children do not judge beauty with worldly eyes.
Sleep is more precious than entertainment.
My womb is a gift from God
Saying "yes" to life could change the world.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Lonely
Last week I had a bit of a stomach virus that really wiped me. I was not feeling well at all and for some reason, I was wiped emotionally too. Trinity complained of a bellyache the same day so I thought she may have the same illness. She ate and played quite contentedly with Evie, so she wasn’t really sick. Later in the morning I went into the girls’ room to check on them and the door was shut tight and they gave me a look that said “why are you interrupting?” They were deep in imaginative play and I had disturbed their reverie. I felt badly about this, but I needed to get Trinity ready for school. My afternoon would be less work with one less child and I desperately needed the break.
“But I just want to play with Evie, Mum,” was Trinity’s plight.
The daily grind has been emotionally excruciating for me as of late. I spend days upon days not leaving the house, with no outside contact. I wait for 5:30 like a pre-millenialist waits for the second coming; with both fear and elation. I make desperate attempts at 4:30 to clean up the entire day’s mess and meals whilst trying to supervise homework and deal with the witching hour’s bickering. When he walks in that door it is both my judgment and salvation. Great foreplay, no?
Unable to pinpoint my malaise, I’ve been aimless, unmotivated. I can’t blame the weather – September has been gorgeous here in the ‘Burgh. Granted, I try to reduce my driving as much as possible with a 17 mpg bus, but is it worth my disposition to save a few bucks? I haven’t been to the gym in 2 weeks because either I or someone else has been sick.
Never one to deny a “mental health day”, the girls, I decided, needed time together. Evie had not complained once in three weeks about Trin going to school, and Trin had not once complained that she didn’t want to go. These two little ones often fight and love really hard being only 15 months apart. But it was Evie that convinced me that they needed each other. When I looked at Trinity with a “but you have school today” look, Evie objected on her own behalf. In her little, eloquent and oh-so-beyond-her-years vernacular, she said what was crying on my heart: “Mom? (pause) I just don’t want to be alone.” I know Evie, nobody does.
“But I just want to play with Evie, Mum,” was Trinity’s plight.
The daily grind has been emotionally excruciating for me as of late. I spend days upon days not leaving the house, with no outside contact. I wait for 5:30 like a pre-millenialist waits for the second coming; with both fear and elation. I make desperate attempts at 4:30 to clean up the entire day’s mess and meals whilst trying to supervise homework and deal with the witching hour’s bickering. When he walks in that door it is both my judgment and salvation. Great foreplay, no?
Unable to pinpoint my malaise, I’ve been aimless, unmotivated. I can’t blame the weather – September has been gorgeous here in the ‘Burgh. Granted, I try to reduce my driving as much as possible with a 17 mpg bus, but is it worth my disposition to save a few bucks? I haven’t been to the gym in 2 weeks because either I or someone else has been sick.
Never one to deny a “mental health day”, the girls, I decided, needed time together. Evie had not complained once in three weeks about Trin going to school, and Trin had not once complained that she didn’t want to go. These two little ones often fight and love really hard being only 15 months apart. But it was Evie that convinced me that they needed each other. When I looked at Trinity with a “but you have school today” look, Evie objected on her own behalf. In her little, eloquent and oh-so-beyond-her-years vernacular, she said what was crying on my heart: “Mom? (pause) I just don’t want to be alone.” I know Evie, nobody does.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Holistic Motherhood
Recently at my local library’s story time, I spoke with a woman who was literally days away from her due date. She had brought her 2 year old son and her mother to the weekly meeting, despite her obvious fetal girth. By the posture and flexibility of this mom-to-be, you could tell that she was uninhibited by the gestation. I overheard her saying she was using a midwife for the delivery and instantly I knew we were comrades in childbirth.
I approached her and confessed what I had overheard. “Did you say that you are using a midwife?” I inquired with the bated breath of a ‘here comes a birth story’ pause.
She replied with a simple nod and an arched eyebrow that was the universal mommyspeak for ‘go ahead, I’m listening.’
That was all I needed and the spiquot of my mouth was running freely.
We shared briefly our experiences with natural birth and I assured her that it was 90% mental and she added “and a bit of luck.” There is an instant maternal understanding and bond between women who have opted for natural childbirth. We “get” each other and more often than not, we are in cohesion with our parenting techniques and general care of our little ones. I’ve yet to meet a mom who forgoes the epidural that does not breastfeed. And most women who choose homebirth also co-sleep or practice some degree of attachment parenting. We are a sub culture of naturalists. We are tuned in to the rhythm of new life and do our best to respect the ebb and flow of nature’s tide.
There are some naysayers of course. A mom or two within earshot of our conversation shook their heads in disbelief and offered the “give me drugs!” slogan. As with any cultural shift from the norm, there is always someone willing to criticize your choices as being “crazy” or ironically termed “unnatural”. But I am beginning to witness a shift in the view of mainstream media and western culture. It’s a small shift, but it’s there.
The issue of breastfeeding has made such headway in the last 10-15 years that it is now considered the obvious choice for a new mother. The “expected” choice. As soon as one mentions co-sleeping or baby wearing though, you are in unchartered land, so to speak. Go a step further and mention that you don’t plan on vaccinating, and you open yourself up to a cacophony of criticism.
I am surprised though, at the subtle changes I see. Last week, my husband came home with a mainstream brand of iced tea from the local wholesale club and its label boasted of “No artificial colors or flavors added”. Sure enough, the list of ingredients was all natural and it still pleased my children. This was surprising to me, however, in some way I thought 'it’s about time someone start listening to us!' The 'us' being the moms who are sick and tired of our children being bombarded with high fructose corn syrup and Red #40. Not all of us have a Whole Foods within a 5 mile radius or a decent organic section in our local grocery. And even those of us who do are strapped to pick which produce we can afford this week with skyrocketing prices. We are no longer a silent minority. We need to speak as consumers who will no longer be force fed (pun intended) this barrage of garbage. Talk to your local school system about the lunch program. Make sure that heinously dyed drinks are not served at school, church gatherings and sport outings. There are alternatives and we must demand them. It starts with a small step. It starts with one conversation. We cannot continue to complain about childhood obesity, ADHD, the autism spectrum disorders and the alarming increase in Type 2 diabetes and not take action. Complain when something is being served that you feel is inappropriate for your child to consume. Mothers are the ones who always get things done anyway. If it has made a difference in your house, take the message beyond your four walls. Make your mark. The tides are turning and we need to be ready to ride the wave and witness well to the more wholesome choices we’ve made.
I have found it very helpful when advocating such a lifestyle to be able to pull valid statistics from my mothering hat: the current rate of diagnosis for ADHD, the growing number of children with Type 2 diabetes and so on. Whatever you are defending, be sure you have the facts to back it up. Keep in mind that your validity is only as strong as your child is well behaved. Start talking about too much processed food with your three year old running around and screaming like a banshee and out your opinion goes like yesterday’s compost.
What I’m trying to convey is that so many people who adopt a gentler lifestyle, tend to neglect boundaries and discipline. We all have a friend who lets her child do what he pleases so as to not upset his “emotional freedom”. You know the one I’m talking about. He has never had refined sugar (Heaven forbid!) but calls his mother “stupid” and demands her undivided attention at his whim. It’s that kid who makes us all look bad. This is not responsible parenting. We do not need to strike or abuse our children to be firm. If you are willing to say “no” to the sugar laced colorful cereals, then by all means, take it a step further. We cannot be a voice for natural parenting with a bunch of future sociopaths underfoot.
Yes, I exaggerate the situation, but not to undermine my own observations, there is a trend within those who practice attachment parenting to be overzealous about allowing their children to do as they please. I find these particular children to be demanding, self centered and lack empathy. As in nature, there is always a balance. One cannot lean toward one side completely, without tipping over.
In order to be a stronger voice for the lifestyle and empowerment that is full motherhood, you must be a strong witness to the success of your choices. If you are struggling with behavioral issues and you can rule out any dietary factors you need to look within at your parenting technique. Are you too lenient or are you too obsessive about poor diet choices? Children do need some autonomy and for sure they need boundaries for security. Part of mothering fully means being able to respect your intuition enough to know when you are making a decision for your own comfort despite the consequence to your child. For example, is it easier to let junior just dump out the entire laundry basket because that is what he wants to play with rather than to show him how we put clothes away first and then use the basket for fun? Or, if we are visiting a friend, to allow our four year old daughter to boss around all the preschoolers present because we don’t want to have to discipline in front of another person? There are ways to teach and direct without bruising the child’s ego or embarrassing ourselves.
Where is this fear (and that’s what it boils down to) of our children stemming from? Why are so many parents afraid to limit their childrens' behavior? Many people that I am acquainted with who lean toward what I coin 'holistic parenting' come from a home where their voice was not heard. They were told when to speak, when to listen and when to simply disappear. Many have come from borderline abusive homes where children were treated a step above cattle. These parents are adamant about breaking the generational chain of authoritarianism. I agree with them that there needs to be a change, but lean too far in the opposite direction and you’ll plant the family tree in the soil of discontent. There are others who had no boundaries whatsoever as children and they continue the lineage of permissiveness. Either side is bound to have difficulty arguing their case for natural parenting. Finding the middle ground, moderation, safe boundaries and autonomy are keys to unlocking your child’s full potential. Balancing these is an art form - it is your calling. Find your mother voice and use it as a tool to raise healthy, self reliant compassionate adults. To my comrades I say: Let us be a beacon of wisdom and not a sitting duck for critique!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Little Black Dress
When I was 18 years old I worked in downtown
We had an eclectic selection; pant suits, bohemian dresses, simpler sportswear, and even samples from the top
I even witnessed women assaulting one another over a particular gown!
Because our selections were so diverse and sales were never at a lull, the store had a unique way to move merchandise off the floor. Every piece of clothing was dated on the tag before it hit the rack. There was a six week “shelf life” on each item. For the first two weeks, it remained the original price (although it was usually lower than standard retail). On week three, it was marked down 25 per cent, on week four 50 per cent, on week five 75 per cent and then on week six, the item was donated to charity. So even if you knew that a piece of clothing was going to be marked down, you never knew if it would be there the next day.
Being in women’s clothing when I was single and living at home was like every girl’s dream. One of the perks of working at this particular store was that they gave their employees a generous 25 per cent discount. Another was that I was about a two minute walk from a Franciscan church that had masses every half hour. I could easily take a break and get to daily Mass and confessions were heard all day long. Recently having had a conversion experience, I spent my day deep in conversational prayer getting to know my Lord. My duty was recovery (replacing merchandise to its proper place). Recovery was constant in this store. You spent practically all day straightening out the racks and racks of clothing. It was the easiest way to shop or pray while working. You became so familiar with the merchandise that anything new stood out as obvious. Practically every one of my paychecks was spent building a fantastic wardrobe. I bought designer suits and sample dresses for pennies on the dollar. This came in very handy a couple of years later when I worked at an investment firm with a very strict dress code. Even then, God was planting seeds and I was unaware of His providence. Looking back, I see His hand weaving small threads in my life’s tapestry. On one particular occasion, I was very aware of His presence in my life.
It was a Wednesday afternoon in early fall. The exclusive dresses (which is what we called the higher end samples) usually came in from designer’s studios and there were only one or maybe two of a particular style. They were rare and they were usually only made in size four. Many moons ago and before six children, I was a size four. That’s when I saw it. Among the exclusive dresses was the perfect dress. I had to have this dress. It was just right, not too long, not too short, beautiful lines, wonderful fabric, dress it up or down – it was like the Holy Grail, a staple, a perfect foundation piece for any women’s wardrobe. I looked at the tag. The next day it was due for a 75 per cent markdown. With my employee discount on top of that, I could easily afford it. I would wait. That was a risk I was willing to take. Despite my recent conversion, I still had worldly vices. I took the dress and stashed it in a rack where it didn’t belong. I put it with the larger sizes in casual clothing. It would easily last a day there. It was safe from any other consumer.
The next day I went to retrieve my treasure. It was gone. I frantically searched the rack. Not in sight. I went back to the exclusive rack. It was nowhere to be found. Perhaps another employee moved it. I spent the better part of an afternoon, tirelessly hunting down that dress. I ignored my duties in search of vanity. Nothing. I knew that no other dress like that one was ever going to come along. Not one I could ever afford anyway. Besides, this was my dress, I had claimed it and I was angry. A gentle voice came to me and asked “Why do you hold a mere possession so dearly?” “Would you be as angry or hurt if you were in danger of losing me?” It was then I realized that I took my gift of faith for granted. I had been given a truly priceless, rare gift by God, but I did not fear anyone taking it from me or losing it. I responded in prayer “But Lord, you know how much I wanted that dress. It was perfect!” He softly said “Then how much more it would mean, if you could let it go as a gift to me.” My heart swelled and my anger melted as I released the dress as an offering to Him. I had been wrong to hide it, dishonest and disloyal to my employer. I went about my duties for the rest of the day and went home.
I rose at sunlight and reported to work before opening and starting pulling the dresses that needed to be marked down. The repetitive scrape of the hangers on poles made for a rhythmic morning. I was determined to work twice as hard today in reparation of wasting time the day before. On the casual rack I went about my business and literally exactly where I had put it two days prior, was the black dress! I had searched that rack a dozen times the day before and it was not there. How it ended up precisely where I had left it is beyond explanation. I was moved to tears as I considered what a surprise I was being given. It reminded me of the Gospel story of the rich man and Lazarus. Jesus tells us that a rich man and a poor man, Lazarus both die. While the poor man is sitting with Father Abraham, the rich man is in the unquenchable fire. He asks to go back to warn his brothers that they will share his fate if they do not change their way. He is denied the request because a warning would not change their hearts. Later in Luke’s gospel we are shown that our Lord did still grant the wish of raising someone from the dead and that man happens to be named Lazarus. We are given what we want even when we really don’t deserve it. That is how much God loves us.
With sheer joy I picked up the dress, felt its fabric against my skin, held it up to my figure in the full length mirror and admired its beauty. I imagined all the events I could wear it to and the compliments I would receive. Then I promptly hung it up on the exclusive rack where it belonged. Over the years I’ve gotten more wear from that lesson than the dress could have ever provided. No matter how perfect it was, it was not as perfect as His gift of love.
Candy
I’m not trying to be sarcastic or sardonic, but honestly - can a dog be retarded?
I have never seen a puppy so laid back as our newest addition, Candy. She is a border collie mix. A border collie - no doubt! - that is EXTREMELY subdued. My husband and I are thinking something is wrong with her.
She got a clean bill of health from our vet, and she actually does run occasionally in the yard when I throw a ball or frisbee, but other than that she does nothing. She allows all six children to poke, prod, push and pull her to no end without as much as batting one of her two toned eyes. I think she has some merle border collie in her, because one eye is icy blue and the other is dark brown.
If she is left alone, she cries. Wails actually. But, if I give her enough lap time in the evening, she happily trots off to her crate at the end of the night to sleep. If for some reason we put her to be a little earlier, she cries and cries until she gets enough time on the couch with someone. She totally thinks she’s a lap dog and she’s pushing 35 pounds now.
Last night, I put a platter of chicken and green beans on the table for dinner.
While I was preparing the rest of the meal and distracted by the evening news, she hopped up on a chair and ate our ENTIRE dinner. It was enough to feed seven people! (Gabby was not joining us last night.) Needless to say I was PO’d that I had to remake dinner. I think I forget that she is just a pup because in all other respects, she’s like an ole hounddog.
She’s learned a couple of commands and is doing well housebreaking - but I seriously don’t know if she’s "all there".
Maybe my last dog was just wicked smaht.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Big girls' undies
To any of you who have ever taken children shopping, you probably have a story in your repetoire that can stand up to this one. Or maybe your children are so well behaved and spotless in public that you would scoff at my “adventure” this afternoon with disgust. Either way, I hope it provides brief entertainment and a stiff warning:
Do not leave the house when you are potty training a child.
My youngest girl, Genevieve, is 2 ½ years old. She is very bright and verbal. Like most 2 ½ year olds, she is interested in learning the ways of the diaper-less world. So, I, being a very attentive and caring mother, decide that it is indeed time to potty train. Her older (by 15 months) sister, Trinity, has mastered the toilet, so to speak, and Genevieve is eager to follow in her footsteps. This means; no more diapers.
She refuses to wear them. This made my morning interesting, because I was taking her out to the store to buy some brand new “big girl panties.” She, however, refused to wear a diaper, so I gave her a pair of her older sister's panties and this satiated her. “What's the big deal?” I thought. “She's been using the potty and telling me when she has to go anyway.” I was wrong.
As we're standing in the aisle of the store, Genevieve announces that she has to go. “Great” I think. "Of course she needs to go as soon as we get into the store." Well, her timing was a little off, because as I reach to take her hand, I can see that her leg is wet and the inside of her sneaker is soaked. It figures I put a little tennis dress on her too. Why of all days didn't I pick out a pair of jeans?
We grab the package of new undies and go to leave the store when her older sister runs off down the aisle. She is throwing a tantrum about some Disney princess shampoo I refuse to buy and has dug in her heels in between the boys' pajamas and a display of winter coats.
I never do this, but I'm desperately trying to get OUT of that store so I can take Genevieve home and clean her up. I bribe Trinity.
Mom: “If you come now and don't fuss, I'll let you pick out something at the checkout.”
Trinity: 'nnnnnhhhhhhhhh'__________
Mom: “I mean it, Trin, if you come right now, you can pick something.”
Trinity, recognizing this as a once in millennium event, reluctantly follows our caravan while still dragging her heels.
As I catch back up to Genevieve, I see something NO mother wants to see. EVER.
Genevieve looks up at me and announces that she has pooped.
Some of you are thinking – 'so what? Kids poop in their pants all the time.'
Yes, this is true, but the operative words in that phrase would be 'their' and 'pants'.
Genevieve does not have any pants on, she has a little tennis dress that exposes her bottom when she lifts up her arms. Not only that, but the borrowed underwear she has on is now working its way down her thighs because of the recent “addition” to the contents. I'm sure it didn't help that she has taken off her shoes because “they all ret” and she doesn't like the sensation.
I feel stomach hit my throat and try some quick thinking. Wouldn't you expect that as a mother of six I would have a complete arsenal of bathroom products in my Mary Poppins-type purse or even a diaper bag? Oh no, I left the diaper bag in the van and my purse has two pair of toddler socks, some receipts, my keys, wallet and a few maxi pads.
With the ingenuity of MacGuyver, I open one of the maxi pads and tell Genevieve to slip out of her underwear which is almost to her knees at this point. I wrap up the entire contents, underwear and all and seal it in the wrapper. Quickly and nonchalantly, I head over to the restroom to clean up and pay for my daughter's new underwear whilst begging her to stop lifting her arms over her head so as to not expose her now bare bottom. Meanwhile, I am obligated to buy Trinity some candy and now of course Genevieve wants some too. I am willing to do anything to get out of that store as quickly as possible. Both the girls pick the most colorful, sugar-laced novelty they can find. I pay and exit the store with my half naked, barefoot toddler.
All I want to do is crawl into a cave and lock myself away for the rest of the month. Maybe when I emerge, Genevieve will have trained herself.
Do not leave the house when you are potty training a child.
My youngest girl, Genevieve, is 2 ½ years old. She is very bright and verbal. Like most 2 ½ year olds, she is interested in learning the ways of the diaper-less world. So, I, being a very attentive and caring mother, decide that it is indeed time to potty train. Her older (by 15 months) sister, Trinity, has mastered the toilet, so to speak, and Genevieve is eager to follow in her footsteps. This means; no more diapers.
She refuses to wear them. This made my morning interesting, because I was taking her out to the store to buy some brand new “big girl panties.” She, however, refused to wear a diaper, so I gave her a pair of her older sister's panties and this satiated her. “What's the big deal?” I thought. “She's been using the potty and telling me when she has to go anyway.” I was wrong.
As we're standing in the aisle of the store, Genevieve announces that she has to go. “Great” I think. "Of course she needs to go as soon as we get into the store." Well, her timing was a little off, because as I reach to take her hand, I can see that her leg is wet and the inside of her sneaker is soaked. It figures I put a little tennis dress on her too. Why of all days didn't I pick out a pair of jeans?
We grab the package of new undies and go to leave the store when her older sister runs off down the aisle. She is throwing a tantrum about some Disney princess shampoo I refuse to buy and has dug in her heels in between the boys' pajamas and a display of winter coats.
I never do this, but I'm desperately trying to get OUT of that store so I can take Genevieve home and clean her up. I bribe Trinity.
Mom: “If you come now and don't fuss, I'll let you pick out something at the checkout.”
Trinity: 'nnnnnhhhhhhhhh'__________
Mom: “I mean it, Trin, if you come right now, you can pick something.”
Trinity, recognizing this as a once in millennium event, reluctantly follows our caravan while still dragging her heels.
As I catch back up to Genevieve, I see something NO mother wants to see. EVER.
Genevieve looks up at me and announces that she has pooped.
Some of you are thinking – 'so what? Kids poop in their pants all the time.'
Yes, this is true, but the operative words in that phrase would be 'their' and 'pants'.
Genevieve does not have any pants on, she has a little tennis dress that exposes her bottom when she lifts up her arms. Not only that, but the borrowed underwear she has on is now working its way down her thighs because of the recent “addition” to the contents. I'm sure it didn't help that she has taken off her shoes because “they all ret” and she doesn't like the sensation.
I feel stomach hit my throat and try some quick thinking. Wouldn't you expect that as a mother of six I would have a complete arsenal of bathroom products in my Mary Poppins-type purse or even a diaper bag? Oh no, I left the diaper bag in the van and my purse has two pair of toddler socks, some receipts, my keys, wallet and a few maxi pads.
With the ingenuity of MacGuyver, I open one of the maxi pads and tell Genevieve to slip out of her underwear which is almost to her knees at this point. I wrap up the entire contents, underwear and all and seal it in the wrapper. Quickly and nonchalantly, I head over to the restroom to clean up and pay for my daughter's new underwear whilst begging her to stop lifting her arms over her head so as to not expose her now bare bottom. Meanwhile, I am obligated to buy Trinity some candy and now of course Genevieve wants some too. I am willing to do anything to get out of that store as quickly as possible. Both the girls pick the most colorful, sugar-laced novelty they can find. I pay and exit the store with my half naked, barefoot toddler.
All I want to do is crawl into a cave and lock myself away for the rest of the month. Maybe when I emerge, Genevieve will have trained herself.
Parker's Birth
Last year around this time, I was officially 9 months pregnant with our sixth child. It's not a typo. I wrote sixth. My husband and I are anticipating this birth with bated breath - me literally because I can no longer breathe deeply chasing 5 other children around whilst carrying a butterball in my uterus. I estimate that the birth will occur in September despite an early October due date simply because I am desperately trying to will the baby out of me. So the weeks pass and no baby.
Forrest, my husband, wants the baby to come in October. Why? "Because then we'd have consecutive months of birthdays." You see our other 5 children were born in November, December, January and two in February. I should have held the 5th one in until March - I'm sure my husband would've requested it -if it had been less than 48 hours away.
It is NEVER a good idea to request that a woman deliver later than she anticipates. There is never a reason to aggravate a woman who is heavy with child. Yet he thinks it is funny to do so.
At 11:50 pm on September 30th I looked over at my husband and sneered, "I guess you've got your wish. - Hope you're happy." Then with a grin on his face, replied - "Yeah, but he'll probably decide to come on Wednesday night at about 9 o'clock."
Wednesday, October 4th 2006 9pm - the US season premiere of LOST.
For those of you who have never seen "LOST", you will think I am certifiable. For my fellow "Losties", you will completely 'get it'.
"Sssshhhhhh___ he'll hear you!" I hissed at him while covering my fetal girth with my arms trying to shield where I think the baby's ears are.
"The baby needs to come well before Wednesday or labor can start at 10:01pm on Wednesday."
By sheer will, once again, I am determined to control Mother Nature.
Later that week on Wednesday Oct. 4th, at my midwife appointment, I decide to try
a few things to "get the ball rolling" so to speak. It usually takes a few days, so what's the harm? I head home about 5pm, sit in rush hour traffic and go home to have dinner.
My mother in law who was helping out, leaves at 7:30pm and says she'll be "on call" because I was having a few contractions. Anyone who has had children knows that you can contract for days or even weeks before "it's time". I have a history of labor starting and stopping for days on end. But when it's time – IT'S TIME and things go very quickly. There is a tell tale sign that the baby is coming. I throw up. Usually at 8-9 centimeters I get sick and then start to push. This happened in the car with our 4th child, so no one likes to take chances with me. I brush her comment off and settle down for some good TV.
An hour later, Forrest and I are gearing up for the premiere and this is how the conversation went.
Him: "You want a snack?"
Me: "No, I'm not that hungry"
Him: "Are you sure? not even popcorn?"(which is a staple in my diet)
Me: "No, I don't feel like eating anything right now."
Him: "Are you OK?" (obviously this is not normal behavior.)
Me: "I'm OK, just a little crampy."
Him: "Well let me know if you want me to start timing" (contractions)
Me: "It's alright, he can't come now." I look down at my belly, wag my finger at the neonate inside and tell him in my sternest 'mama' voice – "no coming out now!!"
And of course, we know how well that usually works.
So the "LOST" premiere starts and I am really distracted from the oncoming rhythmic cramps I'm having. So much so that I need to stand up to alleviate them. Then I move onto sideways lunges looking like a sumo wrestler ready to pounce on his adversary.
This starts to make my husband nervous.
Him: "How far apart are they coming?"
Me: "I don't know, 2-3 minutes?"
Him: "2-3 Minutes??! Maria, that's close!"
Me: "I know, but they're really not intense or anything, I can barely feel them."
Him: "I'm timing them" he says as he gets up during a commercial break.
Me: "Go ahead – maybe you should, but we can wait till 10pm."
Him: "You're crazy"
At about 9:25pm, Forrest starts to time the contractions himself. He asks me to let him know when one stops and another begins.
After being quiet for a minute, he asks – "is that one over?"
Me: "Yep"
Him: "Did another one start?"
Me: "Yep"
Him: "Maria! That was 90 seconds! We're leaving!!"
Me: "We can wait till 10 – I don't want to miss this!"
Him: "We...can...tape...it" He spoke so deliberately as if he were speaking to an uncooperative child. At the time, that's exactly how I was acting. You have to understand – I love "LOST" I didn't want to be out of the loop for even 24 hours. I knew I'd be home shortly after giving birth, but the demands of a newborn can really interrupt a good TV show.
My husband scrambles for the phone to call his mom who is only down the street and gets my bag.
I am making sure that the cereal is out and the kids lunches are ready for tomorrow morning. I start to whine.
Me: "He's [the baby] just getting back at me because I wanted to name him 'Sawyer' – he's got something against 'LOST'".
Him: "Yeah, hon, I'm sure that's it. Besides, I would not let you name him 'Sawyer'."
Me: "You'll let me do whatever I want after I push his body out of mine!!!
Him: "OK, let's just get in the car, alright?"
The trip to the birth center is at least 30 minutes with no traffic. It's now just about 10pm and we head into town. Thankfully there is no traffic (because everyone else is home watching LOST) and we arrive at 10:25pm. I did ask Forrest to run a few red lights because labor got intense on the car trip in.
I threw up at 10:27pm.
He was a tough one, and wasn't born for an hour later at 11:32pm. Forrest said to me right after he was born "And you wanted to wait till 10 to leave!"
"What? We would of made it...."
Forrest, my husband, wants the baby to come in October. Why? "Because then we'd have consecutive months of birthdays." You see our other 5 children were born in November, December, January and two in February. I should have held the 5th one in until March - I'm sure my husband would've requested it -if it had been less than 48 hours away.
It is NEVER a good idea to request that a woman deliver later than she anticipates. There is never a reason to aggravate a woman who is heavy with child. Yet he thinks it is funny to do so.
At 11:50 pm on September 30th I looked over at my husband and sneered, "I guess you've got your wish. - Hope you're happy." Then with a grin on his face, replied - "Yeah, but he'll probably decide to come on Wednesday night at about 9 o'clock."
Wednesday, October 4th 2006 9pm - the US season premiere of LOST.
For those of you who have never seen "LOST", you will think I am certifiable. For my fellow "Losties", you will completely 'get it'.
"Sssshhhhhh___ he'll hear you!" I hissed at him while covering my fetal girth with my arms trying to shield where I think the baby's ears are.
"The baby needs to come well before Wednesday or labor can start at 10:01pm on Wednesday."
By sheer will, once again, I am determined to control Mother Nature.
Later that week on Wednesday Oct. 4th, at my midwife appointment, I decide to try
a few things to "get the ball rolling" so to speak. It usually takes a few days, so what's the harm? I head home about 5pm, sit in rush hour traffic and go home to have dinner.
My mother in law who was helping out, leaves at 7:30pm and says she'll be "on call" because I was having a few contractions. Anyone who has had children knows that you can contract for days or even weeks before "it's time". I have a history of labor starting and stopping for days on end. But when it's time – IT'S TIME and things go very quickly. There is a tell tale sign that the baby is coming. I throw up. Usually at 8-9 centimeters I get sick and then start to push. This happened in the car with our 4th child, so no one likes to take chances with me. I brush her comment off and settle down for some good TV.
An hour later, Forrest and I are gearing up for the premiere and this is how the conversation went.
Him: "You want a snack?"
Me: "No, I'm not that hungry"
Him: "Are you sure? not even popcorn?"(which is a staple in my diet)
Me: "No, I don't feel like eating anything right now."
Him: "Are you OK?" (obviously this is not normal behavior.)
Me: "I'm OK, just a little crampy."
Him: "Well let me know if you want me to start timing" (contractions)
Me: "It's alright, he can't come now." I look down at my belly, wag my finger at the neonate inside and tell him in my sternest 'mama' voice – "no coming out now!!"
And of course, we know how well that usually works.
So the "LOST" premiere starts and I am really distracted from the oncoming rhythmic cramps I'm having. So much so that I need to stand up to alleviate them. Then I move onto sideways lunges looking like a sumo wrestler ready to pounce on his adversary.
This starts to make my husband nervous.
Him: "How far apart are they coming?"
Me: "I don't know, 2-3 minutes?"
Him: "2-3 Minutes??! Maria, that's close!"
Me: "I know, but they're really not intense or anything, I can barely feel them."
Him: "I'm timing them" he says as he gets up during a commercial break.
Me: "Go ahead – maybe you should, but we can wait till 10pm."
Him: "You're crazy"
At about 9:25pm, Forrest starts to time the contractions himself. He asks me to let him know when one stops and another begins.
After being quiet for a minute, he asks – "is that one over?"
Me: "Yep"
Him: "Did another one start?"
Me: "Yep"
Him: "Maria! That was 90 seconds! We're leaving!!"
Me: "We can wait till 10 – I don't want to miss this!"
Him: "We...can...tape...it" He spoke so deliberately as if he were speaking to an uncooperative child. At the time, that's exactly how I was acting. You have to understand – I love "LOST" I didn't want to be out of the loop for even 24 hours. I knew I'd be home shortly after giving birth, but the demands of a newborn can really interrupt a good TV show.
My husband scrambles for the phone to call his mom who is only down the street and gets my bag.
I am making sure that the cereal is out and the kids lunches are ready for tomorrow morning. I start to whine.
Me: "He's [the baby] just getting back at me because I wanted to name him 'Sawyer' – he's got something against 'LOST'".
Him: "Yeah, hon, I'm sure that's it. Besides, I would not let you name him 'Sawyer'."
Me: "You'll let me do whatever I want after I push his body out of mine!!!
Him: "OK, let's just get in the car, alright?"
The trip to the birth center is at least 30 minutes with no traffic. It's now just about 10pm and we head into town. Thankfully there is no traffic (because everyone else is home watching LOST) and we arrive at 10:25pm. I did ask Forrest to run a few red lights because labor got intense on the car trip in.
I threw up at 10:27pm.
He was a tough one, and wasn't born for an hour later at 11:32pm. Forrest said to me right after he was born "And you wanted to wait till 10 to leave!"
"What? We would of made it...."
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