On remembrance

My aunt's funeral was today. It wasn't a traumatic event for me or the kids; she'd been quite sick for a while so it wasn't a surprise; I hadn't seen her in years besides. She and my uncle, my dad's brother, lived 4-5 hours away--it wasn't any family issues, just modern life and distance.
Distance, and not just geographical, creates a different dynamic for the events at hand. As my daily life is going to be rather unchanged, my mind goes other places. Metaphorical distance allows for more introspection, more generalities. I think of other funerals, other cemeteries, other memorials.

I think of my father and siblings who some years, like this one, don't have grave blankets. Yes, I had a new baby, and we didn't have a car that would transport the whole family until he was over a month old, but we still could have traveled in two--it's not that far. It's 19 years that my dad's been gone, 44 for Mark, and 36 for Heidi. It's so very difficult for me to go to the cemetery. It's a mess of guilt that I have these six healthy children and others don't, it's the memory of guilt of not going more frequently. Denial is pretty strong--"It won't happen to me!"

It's also the very clear memory of the pain of loss. Among the shiny mylar balloons still lofting with the helium, the headstones with toys unfaded by the sun, are other headstones without. I'm sure there are some where nobody has trimmed with clippers or knelt to say a prayer in decades. The child was laid to rest and shortly afterward, a job transfer took the family out of state. Who knows if that child had siblings, or if their parents are still alive? Is there anyone to remember these little ones?
Then there are those who don't have headstones at all. I recall Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy and JFK Jr. were cremated and their ashes scattered at sea. Where does his sister go to mourn? Equally everywhere translates to my mind as nowhere, and that thought fills me with more horror than I can articulate. I can understand the practical sentiments toward dead celebrities, I suppose; how long to keep the flowers? What to do with all of them that fans bring? That is temporary, though. You can cite the visitors to Elvis' or Marilyn Monroe's gravesites, but I don't think Oscar Wilde's is as overrun as it may once have been.
So tomorrow I'll wake up and take the troops for the little guy's four-month well-child checkup. I'll give the spelling tests that should have happened today, they'll catch up on their math. Laundry and dishes and vacuuming and diapers. I think I'll dedicate tomorrow's work to those who have nobody who remembers them. Maybe one of them will become a saint. At least one person whose real name isn't recorded is; that's a whole 'nother post.

Is this thing still on?

I get posts wandering around in my head--really profound, thoughtful ones that I could expound on at my beloved husband/captive audience for an extended car ride, like my dad used to do to me--and then I hear screaming, splashing, or suspicious silence. None of those are good.
Then they evaporate and I can't even come up with a status update.
They're meaty ones, too. Like the trail of irresponsibility going back to the Lambeth Conference in 1930 to the Occupy movement of last fall, as exemplified in the mediocritization of our public schools, the decline in general morals and self-control, the creeping acceptance of abortion as the nadir of abdication of responsibility, the pinnacle of societal goals being to take it easy instead of betterment of self or society, the tragedy of the American divorce rate due to selfishness on the part of parents who then transfer that belief onto their children who end up eating vegan salads in tents and pooping on police cars...
Yeah. See?

So is it worth it?

Sometimes I'm really, really bad.

Not "eat a whole cake" bad. Bad-wife-and-mother bad.

I will throw my beloved husband's clean clothes--that *I* washed, dried, and carried up in the hamper--right on the floor. Why? To beat him to it. If I leave them on the bed, hoping he'll take the time and initiative to put them away, he will simply shift them from the bed to the floor. Why did I put them on the bed in the first place? Because I have at least three other people's laundry to put away--Elizabeth's, Tommy's, and my own. I still have to sort and fold Lou's, then hand him each pile with specific instructions: "Put this in your pants drawer." I assume my loving, otherwise-attentive, intelligent husband will respect my time and energy and put his own clothes away.

I will not clean up after my older kids. I will let their rooms get almost dangerously impassable in their floor clutter of laundry, books, toys, and various other items before I harangue them to clean it up. I will not remind them to bring down their laundry for weeks, until they run out of weather-appropriate clothes. Then I will leave them to stew in their frostbite or sunstroke, waiting for the realization of "Maybe if I put my clothes where Mom will wash them, I wouldn't suffer like this." It doesn't happen.

It's a good thing they obey the rule of "No food in the bedrooms" or we'd have more ants than an African tree up there.

Right now there is a shirt with pasta sauce on it on the floor of the girls' room, along with the past 3 days' worth of socks, underwear, and other apparel. The shirt went there at the end of lunch today. I'm debating letting it stay until one of the following: a) it starts to stink, b) she notices, c) it comes down on its own. It probably won't get that far but that's where I am today.

I leave their clothes on the floor of the bathroom until it has more than their closet. They will stay there even when the perpetrator has to dig through them to get the shoes on the bottom of the pile. Nowhere will it cross the child's mind to get rid of the pile, nor will the child who tidies the bathroom address it.

Why? This is the really hard part. They don't see it. Well, yes, their eyes take them in, but those things don't register. They really don't.

I remember the commercial where there was a laundry basket floating down a flight of stairs, a broom whisking across a floor by itself, that kind of thing. The idea was the person (mother) doing those tasks was invisible. Sometimes I feel silent too, for as often as my words are ignored. It doesn't matter if I'm answering a question, either. I may as well be just moving my lips.

I just had to get that rant out of my system. Thomas needs to be fed.

At least *he* appreciates what I do.

Been a while, I know.

But I have to get this out of my head.
She needs to be fed. He needs his diaper changed. The table needs clearing. She needs a bowl, then cereal, then milk poured. He needs reminding to come to the table. She needs reminding to get dressed, then her teeth brushed. She needs her hair braided. She needs feeding, then her diaper changed, then cuddling. He needs a sippy of milk. He needs reminding to get dressed. They all need reminding to brush their teeth. They all need hugs and blown kisses when Daddy leaves.
The dishes need washing, the laundry needs folding, the table needs clearing. She needs help with her math, he needs help with his spelling, she needs to know the weather before she can dress. He needs a diaper changed--"Boo den!" he says, turning around--because he "pooped again."
Lunch needs preparing, table needs clearing again, she needs feeding again. Lunch needs to be eaten. Diapers need to be changed again, they need refereeing over space, he needs a nap and she needs feeding again. Toys need to be put away, dishes need washing, they need help with geography or reading or science. Dinner needs planning, bills need paying, they need reminding to put on soccer uniforms and then a ride to their game. He needs his shoes tied. Diapers need changing, water bottles need filling, snacks need to be carried. She needs entertaining, eyedrops, and a sweater. He needs his harness and leash.
They need a ride home, and baths, and pajamas, and a story. He needs his medicine again. Then they need reminders to brush their teeth again and to go to bed.

And tomorrow, they'll need it all over again. I know someday they won't need me for all of this. They'll grow up and call weekly, and I'll miss these days of ever-present needs. Right now, though, it's exhausting to be so needed.

Here we go...again?

Tomorrow, Wednesday, is the Big Day. Elizabeth gets born one way or another. If she is head-down or willing to get that way, it'll be the same old, same old. I'll get 600mg ibuprofen and ice packs, home on Friday, Mass on Sunday, etc.

If she won't comply, she'll be surgically removed. [Yes, I'm trying to be lighthearted.] I'll get stitches and Vicodin, still home on Friday. After that I have no idea how I'll recover. I've been reassured that it's not the end of the world but I'm only human. I fear the unknown, same as I was afraid before Madeleine's delivery.

My biggest fear is, as with any mother, complications that could endanger my child. Regardless of how she exits the womb and enters the world, I would really appreciate the prayers.

Disappointed but hopeful

So I was supposed to have a baby yesterday. And didn't.

Tuesday we got word that I'm Group Beta Strep positive this time around; I was for Madeleine too, and my doc just treated me for Dale and Rachel. The consequences for that are two doses of IV antibiotics before my water is broken and staying 48 hours after birth to make sure the baby is okay.

Well, before they started the IV, a scan was done on Elizabeth where we got an unpleasant surprise. She'd flipped herself into a breech position, where two weeks before she'd been head-down. I managed not to burst into tears but everyone in the room could tell I was disappointed and upset. The only one who knew I was scared too was my beloved husband.
My OB called and we talked about it. I spent the night at the hospital, got the antibiotics, and we hoped she'd flip back. She didn't so I came back home. Doc would have given me a C if I'd insisted, she might have tried to flip her first, but her opinion was to give Elizabeth a week to turn back on her own. I don't have blood pressure or diabetes issues, Elizabeth has been small throughout, it's my fifth delivery so I have four other kids at home to take care of, I'm only 38 weeks and change. There really wasn't a medically necessitating reason for a Caesarean.
I so wanted to deliver yesterday. My husband in his wisdom pointed out, "We agreed to an induction today. We didn't agree to a c-section today, with all that entails."

So I'm back home, still pregnant. I'm a touch nervous about going into labor before next Wednesday, which is Delivery Day For Sure. If she's flipped, it will be a regular induction. If not, we'll try to flip her but I may well be looking at a c-section. While I admit, I find that scary, I know others who have had one, two, three... even five. At least this way I've got time to prepare myself for it, where Tuesday night is was a dismaying surprise.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Seasonal wardrobe changes are happening here, which is really the most laborious and least important task. Figuring out what might fit next summer, what should be packed away for the next child, what can be donated, what should be thrown away, for four different wardrobes.
Sometimes I question the practicality and ease of hand-me-downs, despite the financial savings.

Anyway, it has come to light that Rachel has at least a dozen different winter dresses for church. No exaggeration. That doesn't include sleeveless summer ones that she says she could layer; that bumps the number up to something like 18. Neither does that include play clothes--jeans and sweatshirts, etc. The good point is that leaves more room in Santa's sack for toys come Christmas.
Lou's wardrobe is the same way, though he doesn't have dresses. He wants for nothing clothing-wise except maybe socks or shoes. It's quite stunning, the embarrassment of abundance these kids deal with.

Madeleine and Dale, though, probably could use a few things--her more than him, too. He needs his drawers cleaned out more than to receive anything. That does need to happen first, as well. At least the girls are done, Lou's done.

I've got the kitchen table covered with pink baby stuff; Elizabeth should be equipped when she makes her debut. That's a post all its own.

On skinned knees and wing clipping

In a strange convergence of circumstances, we've had some pretty profound discussions. Maybe I'm the only one who sees the parallels. I've been brewing this post for a couple weeks now.

Last Tuesday we had our homeschooling Catholic moms' Bible study. The girls--there are three eight-year-olds--donned helmets and went riding bikes around the block. It's a small block, maybe four or five houses per side, and they've walked it before in a large group (six kids or so?). Nonetheless I was a touch nervous as Madeleine hasn't done much turning on her bike. Of course, she returned with a skinned knee.
I had thought of this before. Knees covered in Band-aids are a staple of childhood, like splinters and mosquito bites. To attempt to prevent them, protect them completely from those things.... Down that road lay madness.
She didn't cry as I washed it, dabbed it with ointment, and bandaged it though there were some deep shuddering sighs and pinkish around the eyes. She did inform me later that it hurt some as we knelt for bedtime prayers; I figured some bruising on impact made sense and gave her a pass for a few days. Life goes on.

I've since finished reading E. B. White's Trumpet of the Swan during quiet time (Lou's naptime) as well. There is a chapter entitled "Freedom" near the end, where Louis (the main swan) and his love are offered perfect--and permanent--safety at a zoo. They will always have enough to eat, no danger of otter, fox, or other predators. The cost is Serena is pinioned--she gets a wing clipped and can no longer fly. Louis chooses freedom, the ability to go from the pond in Canada to the lake in Montana as the seasons dictate. He recognizes and accepts the risk of being hunted or not having enough food. It seems a simple enough choice. I pointed that dilemma out to the kids; they seemed thoughtful.

Also a couple weeks ago, as some readers already know, Dale's and my 11-year-old nephew was set upon by a dozen thugs who did enough damage to send him to the hospital. This is not a boy who shoots his mouth off or goes looking for trouble; he wasn't out after dark or in what would be recognized as a troubled area. He was walking around his neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon with his 9-year-old sister.
I was asked, "Where were any adults?" My guess is at home though their father may have been at work; perhaps one was grocery shopping. I'm not sure exactly where they should have been; to me, it seems a bit extreme to escort an 11-year-old and a 9-year-old around their own neighborhood.

Or is it? Since her birthday, coincidentally the same day as the assault, Madeleine has been permitted to walk the quarter mile to the party store on the corner alone. She's gone twice to get a gallon of milk. Yes, both times I watched the clock for the 20 minutes she was gone, keeping an ear cocked for her return while getting Lou down for his nap.
Am I leaving her vulnerable to such an attack? Should I be accompanying her still, an 8-year-old and me at over 8 months pregnant? When does "protective" become "paranoid"? Where is the line between clipping her wings and responsible parenting, and how many skinned knees will we have before she can fly?