Poverty, chastity, and... what?

During one of those endless tedious chores that occupies a minimal part of the active brain, I found myself thinking about those three virtues espoused, to a greater or lesser degree, by vowed religious. I'm trying to work out a Rule of Life for myself; yeah, I know, there's the one by a more famous Catholic homeschooling moms but... I'm not there. I heard her speak at a conference and I don't recall her having much more advice for those with littles than "Try to teach while they're napping." The reviews for her book weren't inspiring enough for me to actually purchase it, so I'm working it out on my own.

Back when we started homeschooling, I went with "Reading, Writing, 'Rithmetic, and Religion." That was our framework as we tried it on. Pretty basic and it worked for kindergarten. It's expanded since then, but on a gradual basis that I could follow.

So, I'm going pretty basic on my Rule: Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience. Okay, then. That's the easy part. What do each of these mean in my vocation?

Poverty I think I get. For me, it doesn't mean starve yourself and let your clothes have holes until you may as well be wrapped in newspaper. I have children to consider, one of whom is an 11-year-old daughter who would be mortified if I wore ill-fitting or obviously well-worn items in public with her. So it means keep costs and value in perspective, and remember what's truly valuable. Don't purchase Every New Novel Item advertised for homeschooling; consider whether you'll actually use the item (do I really need more math manipulatives for the little ones to scatter on the floor and feel like LEGOs when stepped on? Can't I use the Little People animals in discussing classifying instead of ordering fancy-schmancy photo cards, guaranteed to get destroyed by the toddler before the second use?). I have tried to spend my life in that mindset, so it's not difficult.

Chastity. It's not the same thing as abstinence, people. I'm a happily married woman and I aim to stay that way. I did my share of romance-novel (and worse) reading long ago, and frankly, I'd rather live the tale than read it. That's all I'm going to discuss the topic outside of a Tim Horton's after 11 PM, and if you don't get that reference I'm not explaining it.

Obedience is the hardest one I've got. Whom do I obey? I'm the mother, the matriarch of my household, queen of the castle. I don't have a "mother superior" to obey; I didn't say "obey" in my wedding vows. If I start "obeying" my children, we'll eat nothing more than macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a table littered with Play-doh and paper towels, left behind after yet another milk spill with a medley of Spongebob, Phineas & Ferb, and Dora the Explorer blaring in the background. Down that road lay madness.

If I just follow chores and do what needs doing from minute to minute, I'll run from one metaphorical fire to the next, washing dishes minutes before I need to start dinner and hoping everyone will be able to find clean underwear in the morning. Exactly the opposite of what I'm hoping a Rule will bring about, which is order from chaos.

Not the kids and not the chores, then. My husband isn't one of those knuckle-dragging types I hear so much about; many's the time I bring an idea to him about the kids, the home, or the like and I get a "That sounds good. Okay, go for it." He'd probably say something about a dog needing to be obedient, not his wife. Not exactly a big help.

 If Poverty is a correct ordering of material goods, and Chastity is a correct ordering of *myself* (ahem), it follows that Obedience is a correct ordering of Time and Effort. More reflection on this next time I'm pairing socks, washing dishes, scrubbing floors...

Simplicity

The noise is sometimes unbearable. Not just the juggling of six children, their conversations and questions and requests and disputes and... The other noise. The one that never goes away and starts with, "I really should be doing..." or "After I'm done with this, what can I start next?"
Multitasking can be both a lifesaver and a route to insanity. The washer, dryer, and dishwasher running; the littles napping; the big 3 doing school or chores; folding laundry and mentally planning what to do next, or writing the shopping list or dinner that night. It's the standard of my life and it's become second nature. But where is my silence?
Yesterday, when Husband was home ill but not contagious, I went with just Thomas to pick the Big 3 up from art class. I arrived and luckily saw a familiar mom; she told my kids I was outside waiting. So there I was. Three kids safe and involved in an activity I'm not leading, two others home with their father, the youngest asleep in his car seat behind me. Instead of simply sitting still, contemplating the quiet, saying a prayer, what did I do?
I pulled out the girls' handbook and started looking over badges we could do. I could have prayed a decade (God gave us 10 fingers for a reason), I could have said something spontaneous, instead I started looking for more work to do.
It's a sickness.
Saturday, when getting Elizabeth down for her nap, I lost my temper. For some reason, yelling "Lie down!" is counterproductive when dealing with a 2-year-old. After she finally wound down, I went and got my Rosary. She was drifting off when I hugged her for a moment; she started to say she wanted to get up and I shushed her. "Mama's going to say her prayers. You go to sleep," I told her. Her eyes slid shut.
Despite my many distractions on what should be done to tidy their room, I managed all five decades. It was almost penitential which tells me more than anything it's been too long.

So now I have a patron saint?

     I've written about this before--the insignificance I feel sometimes when I compare myself to certain others. Those who get mentioned in my alumni bulletin, for example. There are kids younger than I gallivanting around the globe bringing potable water to obscure villages in developing nations, or making huge scientific breakthroughs related to various plagues. (I'm not exaggerating. One of my former students is currently in the Peace Corps working with his wife in South Africa.) Or they're making these thoughtful and generous philanthropic donations or improving literacy rates in Appalachia.
     Whatever. I'm just trying to keep my baby happy, my school-age trio on-task, and preschooler and toddler alive. Monumental global accomplishments and curing cancer will have to wait.
     Will the small acts of kindness I do ever amount to much? Will my kids even remember? Will she remember how I tried every week to make sure she had tights for ballet, or he how I made sure his uniform was clean? How I would try to serve one of her favorite dinners the same week I made her least favorite to please her brother?
     In the one episode of Leverage I've watched, one of the characters said something like, "One child is a human interest story; a thousand is a statistic." All of those tiny acts are statistics that get lost.
     I was thinking about this some weeks ago. We'd arrived early for Mass and the ambulatory kids were walking around looking at the church--something they still do even though we've been there many times now. I contemplated the painting above the altar of the church's patroness, St. Veronica. I think she's one of those early saints that got "grandfathered" in before the Church started getting official about who was or wasn't and thoroughly examining miracles, kind of like St. Philomena or St. Christopher. Did you know the saint referred to most certainly wasn't named "Veronica"? She's called that from the translation of true image--I'm not up on my Greek, but I think it's vera ikon. According to Catholic Tradition, she wiped the face of Jesus as He carried His cross. An image of His face remained on her veil. Her act of kindness isn't even mentioned in Scripture, but is part of the Stations of the Cross. What else she did in her lifetime, whether she had children, even her real name is lost.
    That kind of humility, to be remembered two millenia later for one simple act, is a saint that understands motherhood.

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.

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?

She's growing up, and it's official.

Madeleine's birthday was yesterday. She's now 8 years old.

She's tall for her age--in the 75th percentile, at last check with the doc. She changes diapers because sometimes, Lou wants her to do it and nobody else. She will make lunch for her siblings of peanut butter sandwiches, or breakfast of toast and fruit. She's getting too big to cuddle in my lap anymore, though Elizabeth is contributing to that too.

And today, she got her ears pierced.

She's wanted it for a while, but we said "Twelve." My sister had my niece's done when she was a baby; I don't know about her younger daughter. I dated a guy who said you get it done then because they don't feel it. (I think that's nonsense, myself.) I told him if we had daughters, he could do it in the garage with an ice pick but the girl had to be old enough to ask.

The cuddles at bedtime are getting harder and harder. I'm not getting any bigger (well, except the belly) and she's certainly not getting smaller. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to do it. With her growing, though, I didn't want "growing up" to be all about losing things. So, I brought it up to Daddy yesterday evening and he did a gut-check for the "ick" factor, then gave his approval.

I want to record the tiny details of the day--how the cashier at Sears directed us right to Claire's. How we sat on the bench outside the store because it hadn't opened for business yet. How the manager (I'll call her Claire, because I don't know her name) radiated patience and understanding, even through her lip piercing. How she actually looked at my photo ID before any paperwork, how she didn't even bother with the disposable gloves until I'd filled it out. How Maddie and I found a perfect compromise on starter earrings (she wanted the rainbow daisies, I leaned toward sapphire studs; the sapphire daisies made us both happy). How Claire checked and re-marked her lobes and got my approval. How Madeleine squeezed my hands as the girl counted, "One, two, three"--thunk, then opened her eyes and said, "That's it?" How her eyes dried up before her second ear was done. How her voice sounded on the phone to her daddy when she told him it was done. How many times she said, "I got my ears pierced" to nobody in particular today.

I knew it wouldn't mean she's completely grown up, a fact brought home by the rest of the day. Her enthusiasm for her Littlest Pet Shop themed plates, her delight in putting the sprinkles on her cake, her gratitude for the two American Girl outfits (soccer and gymnastics) she received, her joy at her friend coming over for an extended playdate/party. Those are things little girls still like. For now, those are enough.

The Birthday Girl, on her birthday, with our first harvested pumpkin. I'm so proud of you.

Dolls that walk, talk, cry, and run a temperature. Now this?

Oh no! They've invented a baby doll that encourages breastfeeding! What's next, one that poops?

I find the furor over this doll ridiculous, myself. Madeleine and Rachel both pretended to nurse various dolls; Maddie more so, but still. Both of 'em.
They didn't need a doll to encourage them, Maddie did it with her teddy bear or her stuffed giraffe as well as baby dolls. They learned it from their mother's example. They saw me feeding their younger sibling(s) and were simply imitating. They didn't need any special clothes for it, either; both girls would just hike up their shirt and settle the doll in the appropriate place.
Now, they didn't do it while out and about, at church or somewhere like that. It was pretty much at home. And no, even at home I'm not naked neck to navel to nurse, either.

Dumbest section of the whole article: "Dr. Manny Alvarez, managing health editor of FOXNews.com, said although he supports the idea of breast-feeding, he sees how his own daughter plays with dolls and wonders if Bebe Gloton might speed up maternal urges in the little girls who play it."
Exactly how would the doll do that any more than any other baby doll? Would it help if if it then wets or poops to give that less-pleasant aspect of motherhood too? Are they listening to themselves?

I could see getting upset over the concept of merchandising, but over the breastfeeding aspect? That I find risible.

Tired, but an accomplished tired.

This is going to be a long post with the infinitesimal details of my weekend. You're warned.

Thursday afternoon in a regular email to my beloved, I listed all kinds of things we wanted to accomplish in the next three days. Grocery shopping, a dinosaur field trip, a date, lawn mowing, a trip to DIA for him and a couple friends, a trip to a plant nursery to finish our garden, Mass, Costco, shopping for summer clothes for Madeleine, all on top of the usual daily chores of laundry, meals, and dishes. We also knew we would want to watch the hockey games too.

Can you already feel the fatigue? Well, when two people decide to work together and a little bit of neighborly intervention occurs, it can really work out. Spectacularly.

I realized coming home from our parish Moms' Club Thursday that I could, really, go grocery shopping on Friday morning rather than wait for the weekend. I've done it before with all the kids; weekdays aren't nearly as crowded, either. So, there I was at 10 AM at Meijer, list in hand and kids in tow. They wanted new toothbrushes--fine. Oh, Daddy's birthday is Monday, can we get him presents? Sure, as long as you agree on what. Oh, and cards too!
They also talked me into strawberries for shortcake, which I promised we'd get on the way out if they were good. They were, with the overlooked exception a truncated tantrum in the cereal aisle when one lost the coin flip and we got Cookie Crisp instead of Apple Jacks--along with Mini-Wheats, Raisin Bran, and Caramel Delight Fiber One.

Upon getting home, I discovered one of our neighbors in our backyard... with a lawnmower. Okay, when we first moved in almost eight years ago, I had no intention of socializing with any of our neighbors--this was the "bad part" of our town, too far in the south end. I've said before when God serves humble pie, He always remembers the sugar. Yet another occasion to add to that list.

The kids loved the dinosaur field trip. It involved digging in sand for dinosaur bone replicas, carrying them inside a building, and turning them in to an expert who did her presentation while putting them together. She was right at their level and they loved it.
Friday night was Date Night, where we went to see Star Trek while Grandma indulged the kids with too much TV. Ten kinds of awesome was the movie with clear nods to the original series (including Kirk trying to get it on with a green-skinned chick). I did expect Bones to grow out a beard and ride a horse, I admit: Rohirrim!

Saturday I managed to get away with just Rachel to the nursery. It took two stops, but we got both a lilac bush and tomato plants. (I had to order the roses I wanted online since I didn't feel like driving all over God's green earth looking.) I have wanted a lilac bush outside my kitchen window for years. I've put it off since this was to be our "starter house," but we've been in this house twice as long as we've planned already with no change really in sight. Bloom where we're planted, right?
Now, if the wind is right, I get a lilac-scented breeze all the way into our living room. It's only a dwarf plant and will top out at about four feet tall, but when the lady described the regular ones as "invasive," I thought dwarf would be better. As to tomatoes, we got two "early girl" and two "big boy," which made Rachel happy.
Daddy managed his trip to DIA without incident. A couple of his friends who had never been to DIA were interested in the Rockwell show, and since this was the closing weekend, they got it in. I managed to nap with Lou while the other three kids were driving the neighbor crazy (okay, maybe just playing there, but still...).
Pizza for dinner, a walk afterward, and the hockey game (yay, the good guys won!) rounded out the day. Dessert of strawberry shortcake, where we used up the can of whipped cream purchased on the walk by spraying it directly into our mouths, was wonderful. And easy.

Mass was first on the agenda today. We made it on time, which is kind of unusual. Lou was fascinated by the procession. Father had a really good homily, combining Pentecost with the graduates on how we are called to spread the love of Christ too. After the announcements, when the graduates had introduced themselves and told where they were going to school, he commented, "All these graduates and none going to seminary. Perhaps next year?"
We then went to Costco, where the samples were enough to serve for lunch. After that stuff was dropped off and Daddy at the helm with three, I went out with Madeleine for summer clothes. She likes the same kind of stuff I would, mostly; she did talk me into a shirt for Rachel (so they'll match!) and a bathing suit for Dale.
Daddy grilled burgers for dinner per Dale's request earlier in the week; sides were baby carrots and celery sticks. My kids aren't fussy.
They played in the yard after, did a "show" that was more performance art/Ninja Warrior episode than anything else. Talking to Neema and Papa was fulfilling and their motivation for pajamas was the hockey pre-game.

Now they're all in bed, probably asleep. I'm going to have some Nutella toast for my own dessert and revel in a weekend well-spent.

What Connor MacLeod said.

For the uninitiated: "There can be only one."

And so there is. That one is just fine, measuring at 10 weeks one day. We even saw the little legs move and all.

Now I'm going to resume my normal life of chores, meals, and teaching. Daddy may scan in the picture later, but for now you have to take my word for it.

As always, timing is everything.

My husband and I recently discussed the idea of having another child. Louie had turned a year old, if memory serves. It wasn't an "if," it was "when." That much helps when you can agree on that, let me tell you.
I had joked before that when we had a fourth, I'd want to have another rather quickly so that child would have someone to play with. I was half-kidding; I didn't know how I'd deal with four, so it was all theoretical.
Well, I opened the discussion. I didn't expect him to have immediate answers and he didn't. I basically wanted to make sure we had all of the pertinent information. Like that I'm 38 this year and he's 40. The clock is ticking and the risks go up perceptibly with each year. However, we live in an already crowded house and have extremely poor prospects for selling it. We have no control over the real estate market and less of an idea on when it might shift; under what circumstances did we just damn the torpedoes and go for it anyway?
He didn't have an answer. Neither did I, but I put it out there. "I just want the discussion to be open," I said.

We forgot something, though. We have a third Person in our marriage, a "silent Partner" as it were. He had an answer.

The answer is... October.

I have a new favorite actress.

Salma Hayek.

Here's why.

Where have I been?

In a word: Facebooking. I just started sometime the week before Christmas. When I have the chance to sit at the computer, that is.

Otherwise, I've resumed teaching my kids. And preparing their meals. I squeeze in laundry when they complain they're low on socks.

Another big drain on my time is twenty-one pounds of kamikaze toddler. Lou is determined to kill (or at least maim) himself in some creative way like one of the following.
1. Putting a blanket on his head and walking into walls until brain damage sets in
2. Trying to eat one of his older siblings' toys and choking on it (Lego and Littlest Pet Shops seem to be his favorite flavors)
3. Carrying around Gladys our Christmas Kitten, who still has all of her claws and thus might just disembowel him in an escape attempt
4. Climbing on the kitchen table, with that inherent risk of falling off, and trying to injure himself with something he finds there--like a knife or pencil, or choking on an eraser or some leftover bit of food
5. Contracting some bizarre species-jumping disease from the pets' water dish (yes, he has drunk from it), or the cats' litter box, or the human toilet (no drinking, just splashing and dropping)

I've actually gotten out the Pack-N-Play so I can wash dishes.

I hope to recommence regular posting when this phase is over, which may be just in time for potty training. Wish me luck.

Winter blues

I'm having a hard time realizing that Christmas, the day and the season, are over. It rushed by so quickly it seemed a dream. I'm still feeling the urge to shop for and wrap gifts, to plan the menu, to bake and decorate cookies.
Where was I when this all happened the first time? You mean it's done already? It's almost Epiphany. Where did it go?
I can say that during the sugar cookie baking, I was taking a nap with Louie. During the decorating, I washed dishes. I was in the same room, but we can only accomodate one guest before we run out of chairs and we had two. One was foretold, the other... If you think I'm I'm going to turn down a surprise visit from my mother on Christmas Eve, you must think I'm beyond heartless.
Daddy even baked a second batch of monster cookies this past Monday, and they were gone yesterday.

I think it's exacerbated by Louie's growth. A year ago he was a tiny nursling, a "baby puddle." Now he's a walking, wrestling, opinionated, exploring toddler. He's getting too big for me to nurse when I have no arms in my seat, and my arms are exhausted from holding him. It's getting on time to wean. And it's breaking my heart.

I just want to hold on to his babyness, this Christmas season, a little longer but it's like trying to catch a handful of falling snow. We don't know when we'll have another; we say when we're in a bigger house, but with the real estate market, only God knows when that will be. If it's too long, we'll miss our chance--I'm turning 38 this year and Beloved Husband will be 40.

I'm just feeling the winter blues and time going by so quickly. Christmas is gone, Louie's babyhood is slipping away, and all I can do is watch it all go.

I'm starting to feel left out.

Anyone else know what I mean?

And it can't be the water. The geographical diversity says so.

Been a busy week.

What with school, keeping Louie out of the litterbox, watching him weave like a drunken sailor from love seat to computer chair to kitchen, the excitement of the election (Daddy took the day off and forbade me to touch the computer so I wouldn't get all twisted on exit polls), daily Mass on Wednesday and today, half of the family dealing with intestinal trouble, blogging has taken a back seat.

But the kids keep growing up. This poignant moment happened Monday.
I had just tied Dale's tap shoes and was kneeling before his seated self. I made exaggerated kissy noises at him, expecting a "Thanks, Mom" and a kiss before he went in to class. What did I get?
An embarrassed and quiet, "Oh, Mom," and a hasty squirm past me.

That lump was tough to swallow.

Our sparkler

Not that long ago, on a Friday afternoon, I was nursing my young son to sleep. It was a cold January day; too cold for a walk with small children. I was thinking of my husband and the episode of ER that had aired the evening before.
From out of nowhere I felt a pinch in my abdomen, about midway between my navel and my hip. It was hard enough that I jumped. What was that? I wondered. Was that what I think it was? That wasn't what I think it was. No, I've never had mittelsmerch before. No, it wasn't... but I knew. It was.
And we got Rachel. Our headstrong, sparkly, loving, curly-haired, beautiful little girl. She's Daddy's Contessa, our pink-clad tornado of high-spirited girl power. She has a Princess Party last week for her fourth birthday, after which she was willing to start school. I just have her trace her letters on a wipe-off Dora placemat; she's already reading so I don't want to gild the lily.
She would wear pink dresses every day if I'd let her but I know it's just a ruse. Our younger daughter is as subtle, delicate and soft-spoken as a freight train (a trait she shares with her mother).

I know her birthday was already a week ago, but she doesn't read my blog yet. Happy birthday, Racheldoll.

Yeah, it's been quiet.

We've got Maddie's birthday party coming up and we're doing our darndest to flush the house. I've even incorporated the kids into the task force and I think they get it.

For a first, I'm actually looking forward to hosting this party. In the past I always got wound up hoping my siblings wouldn't cause a scene; this time, it's an all-girl event of friends so that issue isn't applicable. The Birthday Girl even chose a theme: the Wizard of Oz. She's read the Great Illustrated Classic, I'm going to work on her reading the original. She is only turning seven, after all.
Honestly, too, I was worried with homeschooling that my kids wouldn't have enough friends and birthday parties. I'd listened to the wrong sources, I realize now, but it was still there. So who is coming to this?
1. Her cousin Megan was the most important to her. This is the same cousin she spent lots of time with before her brother was born.
2. A friend T. from preschool, who came to her fifth birthday too. This girl was terribly shy and I prompted Madeleine to be nice to her, since her mother and I had been on the same commission at church and were both in the moms' club. Now, T. comes over to where we sit after Mass every Sunday to visit. I don't know how much Madeleine played with her at preschool, but apparently it had an effect.
3. A homeschooling friend, E., who might wear a Dorothy costume. I think that would be great, myself.

I was thinking that five little girls (Rachel's sticking around for this) would be enough--I can handle this. There was another we invited but I think they have a family commitment that day. This afternoon was Park Day and we got talked into going. A family we hadn't seen in a while was there--and there was much rejoicing. As we were packing to leave, though, Madeleine got me. "A. says that Wizard of Oz is one of her favorite movies, so can she come to my party too?"
I thought a moment, mentally calculating guests and plates. "Ellen, Madeleine's birthday is Saturday..."
And yes, that makes six little girls that are going to be over for an afternoon of cake, pizza, Shrinky-Dinks, and ruby slippers. I'm nuts enough to be looking forward to it.