The Price of Motherhood

Transcript of an actual conversation:

Me (while simultaneously reading a blog, writing out a list, and listening to Rob talk): Oh, hey, that reminds me. I was thinking.

(silence)

Rob: Um, okay. You were thinking. Is that just a declarative sentence or were you going to follow that up with the actual thought?

Me: Oh shoot, it completely went out of my head. I cannot remember what I wanted to tell you.

Rob: Was it about the camping trip? Trying to get to the movies? One of the kids?

Me: Wait, wait! You're confusing me, because now you're putting new thoughts in my head.

(a few minutes of silence)

Rob: Have you thought of it yet?

Me: No it's gone. Gone forever, I fear.

They Call Him The Streak

It's funny how well people can adapt to their environment. Living with a child with various apraxias, motor planning problems, and balance issues has shown me just how much a human can compensate for missing or limited skill sets. On the whole, it's pretty amazing.

And then there are the times when that compensation has got to be redirected. On the double.

Due to his vestibular dysfunctions and delayed motor skills, The Boy has a lot of trouble dressing himself. In other words, I still dress him. He manages to pull his pants up, but he has trouble getting them on his legs in the first place. And forget about the shirt. If he had to dress himself, he would look like Tarzan. We'll get there, but right now, I am his right and left hand woman. His valet, if you will.

Another side effect of his motor planning problems, is his tendency to repeat a successful pattern of behavior FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN. Once he accomplishes a task that seemed insurmountable, he will not forsake his method, despite evidence that another way might work just as well - or, gasp, even better. He clings to his method like a little life boat.

All of this is to say that his potty-time life boat has got to be set adrift if he ever hopes to thrive socially. I used to worry that he would not be able to get his pants off in enough time to use the toilet, but that's all small potatoes compared to the routine that he has embraced. The Strip and Whip, as I've come to think of it.

Here's an example of how it all goes down (ha!): Last night, The Boy was playing, annoying his sisters, and breaking stuff until he stopped, clutched his crotch, and announced, "I've got to use the potty." (All still fairly acceptable, although I could do without the royal pronouncements before assuming the throne. Double ha!) Apparently, he had more pressing matters to attend, because he did not make his pit stop at the time of the announcement. Instead, he settled down on the couch with a pilfered copy of his sister's Ranger Rick. Rob and I, still talking over our empty dinner plates, practically heard his bladder reach critical mass. He yelled, "Bathroom," one time and by the time we turned around, he was in full Strip and Whip mode. He rolled off of the sofa, wrenched his pants down to his ankles and began to pull a Charlie Chaplin all the way to the downstairs bathroom. He waddled through the dining room, to the kitchen and finally to the bathroom, all with his pants at his ankles, holding himself straight out like a compass needle pointing to the toilet.

Since he never closes the door, we could hear him aim with accuracy as he crowed, "I made it!" But he wasn't about to stop there, no sir. "I have to poop!" he cried as he ran from the downstairs bathroom to the hall bathroom upstairs. See, he doesn't poop downstairs. Ever. There is no difference between the upstairs toilet and the downstairs toilet, but he always poops upstairs. Period. So let it be written, so let it be done.

Meanwhile, Rob and I resumed our conversation while Baby Girl crawled into the dining room with the waistband of her brother's underwear between her teeth. We watched her scoot happily under the table, where she sat and tried to put his underwear on her head. He had left his pants and underwear at the downstairs bathroom door because he never poops with his pants around his ankles. Ever. He sits down and then shakes the pants from his legs, like the fetters to proper pooping that they are. Naked from the waist down is the only way to go.

The Strip and Whip has become so ingrained in The Boy, that we just absorbed the routine ourselves. We don't bat an eye when he makes his way to the bathroom with his pants already down, or when we have to flush multiple toilets. We've adapted to his compensations, and in the privacy of our home, we're still fine with his methods. But lately, I've been starting to contemplate the situations where his method may not be entirely appreciated. His teachers may have another idea about bathroom preparedness, as will his wife (unless she's into that kind of thing). I think the days of the Strip and Whip are numbered. Until then, we'll just carry on.

From the Forgotten Meme File

I was tagged for two memes about seventeen years ago, and I have yet to post them. Why? Because I forgot they were in my drafts folder. Oh, and they weren't finished. I always feel very responsible for memes sent my way, and I like to finish them and release them back into the wild. Apologies to Barb and Janeen for the delayed answers, but thanks for tagging me! (I always feel so validated. It must be a complex from all the years of rejection in gym!)


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Meme #1: The Moaning Meme, sent my way by Janeen at Our Story, via Freelance Cynic



Name 4 things that should go into Room 101 and be removed from the face of the Earth:

• That nasty syrup you have to drink during a pregnancy glucose test. I was just talking to my sister-in-law, who threw up in the middle of hers, and I relived all three of those tests. There has got to be a better way. What about a Twix bar and a Coke? Or a whole bag of Skittles? Now that would be a test for the old pancreas.


• All baby toys that do not come with a volume control.



• Ultra low rise jeans - and not just because they would give me an unsightly muffin-top.


• Commercials at the movies. Hello, I just took out a small loan to purchase tickets and popcorn, not to mention the babysitter, I do not want to sit and watch commercials that I can't fast forward!

Name 3 things that people do that make you want to shake them violently:

• When they drive with their toddlers bouncing around in the car instead of a car seat! When I can look through your window and see your child, who is much smaller than my four year old, climbing back and forth between the front seat and the back, I want to smack your face off. Buckle your kids!


• When telemarketers call and they are eating. Not just chewing gum, which is also annoying, but tucking into a nice full meal while they are mispronouncing your name and taking you away from your own dinner.


• When people park in the spaces reserved for pregnant women/parents with children. I realize this is a courtesy space, but when you park there with your teenager just because it says "Parents with children" - come on, now, my friends. I think we all know this is for people with babies in infant carriers, or at least non-ambulatory children.

Name 2 things you find yourself moaning about:

• The fact that we have been without a dishwasher for a long time, and that we keep getting jerked around by the crappy installation guys.


• That our lovely new dishwasher is sitting in a warehouse, while our old, broken, fire-hazard of a dishwasher sits here taunting me every time I fill the sink to do the dishes. (see a theme here?)

Name 1 thing that all of the above says about you as a person: I should probably just become a hermit. Then I won't have to worry about fashion, dishes, or stupid drivers because I'll be in a cave eating locusts and honey with my hands.

Oh, shoot, I was supposed to do this first: Name 5 people who would be annoyed that I've tagged them for a silly meme. Hmm, I never was very good at completely reading instructions. I always just stop somewhere in the middle. Oh, well - I'm tagging . . .

Kim, Meg, T, Amy, and Sara. (and I hope you're not really annoyed because you can always blow it off!)

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Meme #2: 5 Things I Love About Jesus, sent my way by Barb

Confession the First: I thought I'd end my Meme Round-Up with something uplifting since I just spent the past meme realizing how whiny I am. Especially after Rob said he would play along with The Moaning Meme, and his number one answer to "What would you remove from the face of the Earth" was famine. Famine! I told him that the meme was more selfish than that, and then I got on my Huffy bike and went off to self-centeredly brood about how selfish I am.

Confession the Second: Am I the only one to have found this meme to be difficult? I had trouble coming up with five things that sounded like they didn't come out of a Vacation Bible School lesson. It's not that I can't think of enough, it's just that I can't articulate the things I want to say. You'll probably read these and wish that I took my answers from Vacation bible School.

1. I love that Jesus said Suffer the little children unto me. I know that the translation we hear now is Let the little children come to me, but I learned it as Suffer the little children. I never understood it as a child, but I surely get it now and I want to shout it out to all those who feel that children do not belong at a liturgy. I know kids can be disruptive and noisy, and I have been at my fair share of Masses where parents have let their children do some shockingly awful things. However, the vast majority of parents I know will take their children out to the vestibule before they become a true distraction (our church does not have a cry room). I also know that many of my friends of different denominations cannot believe that my children do not have a Sunday school program to attend while I go to Mass. That's not an option for me, but I take comfort in the fact that Jesus knew it made others- His own disciples, as a matter of fact - uncomfortable to let the children crowd around. And He told them to suffer it.

2. I love that Jesus loved His Mother so openly and deeply. Here's the thing: Jesus is God, and He could have chosen any way He wanted to come to Earth. The path He chose was through a woman; a woman he respected, obeyed, and cherished. When Mary went to him at the wedding feast at Cana, He wasn't ready to start His work. He wasn't ready to start the miracles, and the publicity of it all. But His Mother asked Him to help this newly married couple, and He did it because she asked. I really love that.

3. I love that Jesus picked the outcasts as His closest friends. He picked the tax collector, the guy He knew would deny Him at a critical moment, the rabble-rousers, "Sons of Thunder" (Mark 3:17) - even the man who would betray him. He lived with them, traveled with them, ate with them, and loved them all deeply.

4. I love that Jesus forgives everything, no matter how awful, if you are truly sorry. I think I love this so much because I have such trouble with forgiveness; I am a great torch-bearer for past wrongs. I love that St. Dismus repented as his last act, and Jesus told him that on that very day he would be with Him in Paradise. Boom, right there, no grudges, no nothing. This day you will be with Me in Paradise (Luke 23:40).

5. I love that Jesus came back to comfort His disciples after His Resurrection. Think about it: this was a pretty dangerous time for the disciples, and they were hiding out in the Upper Room, and wondering what to do next. They had given up everything to follow a man who had just been killed for what He taught. Who do you think was next on the list? Jesus came back to them because He loved them, He didn't want them to be afraid, and He wanted them to remain strong.

I think I'm supposed to tag some people now, so I'm going to get crazy and tag some people I've never tagged before! (Don't feel obligated, especially if you've been tagged with this already :)

Angie at Many Little Blessings

Nutmeg at Life in a Nutshell

Muddy Mama

4andcounting (I've tagged her before, but not for a long time!)

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Whew! Feeling much better now that my Meme slate is clean and they have been duly foisted off on sent to their new Blogville homes.

Recipes NOT Intended for General Consumption

I've mentioned my long standing affair with Weight Watchers in previous posts. Our first fling was very successful, but subsequent rendezvous did not turn out as expected. Mostly due to my complete failure to, you know, show up for dates and count out my points in a loving way. We parted ways between my pregnancies with The Boy and Baby Girl, but I am hoping for a reconciliation, if they'll have me back. (Which I am sure they will, since they make a pretty penny off of slow losers like me).


I've had friends who have joined me in Weight Watchers, and one of them brought these unflaggingly wretched recipes to my attention. Apparently, the author of this site found these recipes from Weight Watchers (circa 1974) while helping their parents clean out the basement.


Appalling is too mild a word to convey the atrocity of the food combinations in these recipes. I am even inclined to think that these are fabrications due to the fact that I can think of NO ONE that would eat these unless they are contestants on some kind of reality show. Yet, sadly, I think they may be the real deal, due to some of the recipes I've read from my parents' collection of '70's cookbooks.



One of the books was from the Welcome Wagon Society, and it was meant to welcome people to the area with tasty snack recipes, hints about stain removal, a perpetual calendar, and all kinds of other tidbits that no housewife could live without. I remember seeing notes in my mother's hand next to the stain removal section, and some of these techniques really do work very well. If the Welcome Wagon had stopped there, all would have been well, but they pressed on to the Favorite Recipes section. That was when I felt distinctly more nauseated than welcomed.



They had recipes for sandwiches called "Lunchbox Treats," and all of the recipes started with a base of bread spread thickly with butter. Not a bad thing in itself, but when you add minced beef tongue, cream cheese, pimientos, and crushed pineapples and call it "Hawaiian Delight," well that's where I've got to draw the line. I don't personally know many people in Hawaii, but I am betting dollars to donuts that they are not delighted by these sandwiches.



After reading the rest of the Lunchbox Treats section, I came to the conclusion that people in the '70's enjoyed organ meats much more than we do now, which is funny, because I don't remember eating an overabundance of liver or tongue dishes during my childhood. But my mom is clever, so who knows?



My theory on these recipe cards is that they are just so repulsive that people would rather not eat, thereby causing the weight loss. At least that's the route I would have gone. Some are scarier than others, and I'll admit that I've had variations of these recipes that are not bad, but I won't be trying these out in my kitchen any time soon.



As an added bonus, the cards feature some totally trippy set dressing and food arrangement, all of which are commented upon in hilarious detail. A warning though: there are bad words embedded in the aforementioned hilarious commentary, much worse than even pain or breast, so don't say my PG rating didn't tip you off. Go ahead, read these after lunch - I dare you!

Risque?

I've seen these ratings floating around the blogosphere, and I thought I'd give it a whirl. I'll be honest - I was expecting a "G" rating because nobody gets as plain vanilla as yours truly. So imagine my surprise when I saw that parental guidance is recommended for this blog. Rock on! I'm living on the edge! Good thing most of you are parents, or at least adults - you may read on with impunity! (and kids, if you are reading this, make sure you're folding laundry while you're reading. Love, Mom)

Then I saw the words that got me a PG rating: Pain (2x) and Breast (1X). What the *&^&$$#?

Anyone with a blog about kids ought to have the word pain in there somewhere; isn't that in the Mom-blog by-laws or something? And breast? Really? It's not like I called anyone a pain in the breast or anything. Maybe that would have netted me a PG-13. And what about all those times I used the word heck or jerkface or crap? Come on, crap has got to count for more than pain!

So much for my edginess.

Fantasy Island

One of my favorite things to do with my paternal grandmother was to watch television shows that were outlawed in my own house. I know it wasn't really the verboten programming that made my sleepovers with her special, that was all Grandmom, but I did love watching a good episode of The Love Boat. Especially when we watched it on her little television in her beautiful purple bedroom.

It's not that my parents disapproved of The Love Boat, they just thought it was, how do you say?, cheestastic. Which it was, and it was the main reason I enjoyed it so much. Being five and totally cheestastic myself. I loved to watch the passenger list at the beginning of the show while my grandmother told me about all the real acting work they had done before their voyage on The Pacific Princess. It seemed funny to me that people could have done something better than The Love Boat. Better than The Love Boat? Not possible.

Fantasy Island aired on the same night as The Love Boat, but I never watched that. I didn't really get the premise, and it sort of creeped me out that people would pay an exorbitant fee to be whisked to some Pacific island with a smooth-talking stranger who could fulfill their kooky fantasies.

Time changes everything, though, because now I wonder how I sat through The Love Boat, while the premise of Fantasy Island sounds completely lovely to me. Except all my fantasies can be carried out right here in my home. I wonder if Ricardo Montalban would give me a discount for that?

My favorite fantasy starts with Rob taking the day off from work. Then he and the children disappear while I am left alone to complete every household task, in the exact order that I want, from start to finish without being interrupted by fighting or crying or pooping or vomiting or cooking food or serving food or yelling about the ungrateful people who won't eat the food that they asked for nine hundred times in a row.

I would wash the kitchen floor without ever once having to say: The floor is wet. Please don't step on it. I said the floor is wet. Wet!! I just washed it! Get off of it! Yes, you! Backtrack in the footprints that you've already made and GET.OFF.THE.WET.FLOOR!

I would clean the bathroom and leave the door open for ventilation, instead of closing myself up in the Vapor Box of Nerve Damage in an effort to keep the baby out of the toilet water while I'm scrubbing an entire week's worth of toothpaste blobs and spit out the sink bowl. And this is after a conversation like this: Please keep your sister occupied for ten minutes while I wipe down the bathroom. Your little sister - I'm pretty sure your older sister can occupy herself. Well, look at a book with her. Or play trains. I know she puts trains in her mouth, but I think they can take it for a few minutes. I know you don't want her to, but babies do that sometimes. OK, stop crying. I said stop crying. Oh, for Pete's sake.

I could wash windows and not be trailed by a pre-schooler licking the windows behind me. I could fold laundry, leave it on the couch to answer the phone, and come back to find it still folded, instead of clutched in the chubby fist of a toddler who has a serious laundry fetish. I could vacuum and not find a cracker ground into the carpet thirty seconds later.

Whew, fantasy indeed! I'm getting a little hot just thinking about it all. I think I might just pay a pretty penny for all that . . . Tattoo? Is that you calling me?

On A Break

We've had a busy week here at The HomeFront, and I'm wiped out. Baby Girl fought a nice case of roseola, but the roseola won in the end. This morning she finally seems to be rash-free, so the kids can stop pointing at her and saying "Unclean! Unclean!"

We also had The Boy's swallowing study and MRI of the brain, and although both came back with pretty good results (or at least not anything we didn't already know), it has been exhausting for all of us. I think it's safe to say that we are happy to be done with the hospital for a little while, although I'm sure you'll end up hearing more about our adventures in later posts.

And so all of this babbling is just my long-winded way of saying we are hitting the road. Only for the weekend, but that is just about long enough for us. We're heading out to Hershey where Rob and I will see The Police in concert tonight, and then we will take the kids to the Hershey Chocolate Factory tomorrow. The kids chose the chocolate factory over the amusement park, and we are delighted to indulge them - and not just because the chocolate factory is cheaper, air-conditioned, and laden with flowing rivers of molten chocolate. Oh, wait. I think I'm having one of those Gene Wilder/Willy Wonka flashbacks again. At any rate, it's off to Chocolate Town we go.

Have a great weekend everyone, and I wonder if you could do me a little favor and wish my parents a happy anniversary. Thirty three years ago today - Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Everybody's A Critic

I will admit that I am not the best cake decorator out there, not even close, but I put my heart into it, and the kids always ask me for a homemade birthday cake. That's part of the allure of a birthday here at The HomeFront Corp: the birthday employee gets to pick the special meal, and gets a homemade cake decorated to their specifications (as much as humanly possible). We even have a kids' cake book to give them ideas for inspiration - and to give me a rough template.

This year, Older Girl picked out the Panda Head cake, which, to my delight, looked much easier than the Pony Head cake she picked last year. A simple round cake, cupcakes for the ears, white and chocolate frosting, candy for embellishment and I'm home free.

I finished decorating the cake, and I sat it on the counter next to the cookbook to make sure I had hit all the decorating highlights. The Boy wandered in and looked at the cake, and then at the picture of the (allegedly) same cake in the book. I made the mistake of asking what he thought:

Hmm . . . he said thoughtfully, What is this book for?

Well, that's a picture for Mommy to follow when I'm decorating the cake.

Oh, that's the picture of your cake? How come it doesn't look the same? Yours looks . . . sad.

Thanks, kid, I can always count on you to keep me humble.

And he's right, mine did look sad.

(I don't have a scanner, so there is no picture from the cookbook for comparison. Yup, no scanner. I'm broken up about that)

Because I Know You Are Dying to Hear About the Fruits of My Whining

This is a little story about what happens when you talk to the right people about a problem with certain other people:

Yesterday, while trying get some cleaning done, I found I could only focus on one thing: the parade of dump trucks that were continuing to dump dirt on the empty lot next door.

This was a new day with more than ten dump trucks full of dirt going down the back of the lot, and I was fed up. When added to the previous day, this latest round made more than twenty dump trucks full of dirt sitting next to my house.

I called the heretofore unhelpful township office and talked to the Zoning and Permit King (yes, I believe that is his official title). While he can apparently do nothing about yard waste and branches, he got real fired up about a bajillion tons of dumped dirt. He said, "I'm coming out there. Now."

There are still trucks next to my house, but today there is a new addition: a backhoe. A shiny yellow backhoe that is digging up all the dumped dirt and putting it back into the dump trucks from whence it came. All under the watchful eye of the Zoning and Permit King.

The First Mate (or: How I Became A Mom)

In honor of Older Girl's 8th birthday, here's the story of how we met her. (But without pictures, since Older Girl's birth was before the advent of our digital camera. You know, back when the dinosaurs roamed the Earth. At least we had fire - and epidurals.)


It was hot, as only July in Florida can be, the baby was late, and I was not having much fun anymore. I had even ceased my daily swims because I was too large and swollen to haul myself into the car, let alone wedge myself into the hammock-sized lycra tube I called a maternity bathing suit. I spent my days sitting in the air conditioned house, eating chocolate ice cream, and watching TLC's A Baby Story. Overall, a bad combination at 41 weeks pregnant.

I was worried about many things; having no family in town to visit me in the hospital, our upcoming move in two weeks, whether my doctor would be in town, pooping during labor, all the important little things like that. Everything sat around me in boxes, except for the bassinet and a little dresser with the baby's clothes, and I was sick to death of everything. Especially the people who saw me and said, "Oh, are you still here? I thought you would have had that baby by now." Well, me too, but since I am here and roughly two times your width, the answer is yes, I am still here. Now stand still while I ram you with my huge belly.

A friend had jokingly told us that she went into labor with both of her children after eating a cheeseburger from Mc*Donald's. For her second child, her water broke right after she had gone to the drive-thru, so there was some kind of powerful labor mojo happening at the local fast food place. On the afternoon of the 15th, now a full week late and miserable, I told Rob to bring me a cheeseburger for lunch. We laughed about going into labor, but I was half hoping there was something to my friend's theory. We ate, I made Rob suffer through A Baby Story, and then I felt it. It! The first contraction I had ever had, and I was so excited that I proclaimed, "They don't really hurt too much!" Oh, so young and foolish, so oblivious of what was to come.

The contractions starting coming regularly at 2 pm, and many of our friends seasoned with parenthood told us to stay at home as long as possible before heading in to the hospital. Pre-labor, I had decided that that is exactly what I would do. Stay home and then just pop around the corner to the hospital in time for the baby to effortlessly glide into the world. The heat had obviously rendered me delusional. By 2:15, I was ready to go in just from the sheer excitement that the show was finally on the road. Rob managed to talk me down, and so I paced around the house, stopping to breath every few minutes. I showered, I shaved, I made sure my toe-nail polish was in prime condition. By the time I finished all of my ablutions, it was 3:15. I had had my bag packed for four weeks, so there was officially nothing left to do but wait. I'm not so great at the waiting.

By 9 pm, I was a different person. A person who was being split in half by contractions that were coming one on top of the other. Forget the staying-home-til-the-baby's-crowning-plan; I told Rob to head it up and move it out because I was going to the hospital where they had drugs for this kind of thing.

We hauled ourselves up to labor and delivery, where they checked me and proceeded to kick me in the teeth by telling me that I was only three centimeters dilated and they wouldn't admit me until I was at least four centimeters. Just heartless, I'm telling you. I told them that I was a week overdue and I was not leaving the hospital without a baby - whether or not it was the one inside me remained to be seen. They suggested I walk around for an hour, because there is nothing more thrilling than seeing every single hallway of the Naval Hospital after nine. Plus, if I managed to make it just one more centimeter, they couldn't kick me out.

Rob and I walked up and down every flight of stairs in the hospital for an hour, because I wasn't taking any chances with insufficient dilation. I thought about doing some lunges or deep knee bends, but I figured I wanted to give birth in an actual bed and not in the hospital stairwell, so I stuck to the original routine. I waddled back to L&D exactly one hour later and practically threw myself at the first person wearing a pair of latex gloves. The hospital walking tour had done its job, because the doctor on call announced that I had just squeaked up to four centimeters and that I could stay. Just to be sure, I lashed myself to the monitors next to the bed and settled in for the duration.

The contractions kept up the relentless pace, and I continued the breathing that was doing absolutely nothing but making my mouth dry. I did all of this with the conviction that I was at least halfway down the path to delivery, so you can imagine my reaction when, after three hours of breathing and expectation, my cervix had not changed. No more dilation, no effacement, nothing. Disappointed does not begin to cover how I felt, because when the nurse came in to find me huddled up on the bed, crying and mumbling something about all this freaking pain for nothing!, she asked if I might be interested in some medication.

I had not committed myself to a natural labor; I had not even drawn up a birth plan. It's not because I was unprepared, but more because I didn't want to pin all my hopes on having a birth precisely the way I planned it, only to be crushed to have it all be thrown aside for an emergency c-section or something. Little Miss Optimism, that's me, all right. I had heard enough labor stories to know that things rarely went exactly the way you expected, so I purposely kept my expectations pretty low. Rob and I had decided that as long as we ended up with a healthy baby at the end, we weren't going to be as concerned about the method of arrival. I thought that I would go without drugs as long as I felt I could, but if I chose to get on board the Anesthesia Train, then so be it. It looked like the train was about to pull into the station, and I went directly to the epidural car.

Once the contractions were numbed, I managed to rest fitfully through the night. The room was small and Rob, who managed to curl himself onto a fold-out chair, alternated between sleeping and sneaking out into the hallway to drink chocolate milk from the nurses refrigerator. I contented myself with ice chips, if by contented you mean imagining the ice chips were a big plate of fettucine alfredo. Other than that, there was mostly a lot of waiting, and, as you may recall, I'm not so great at the waiting.

By 7:45 the next morning, it seemed like the waiting was over. I was "complete, complete" and scared out of my mind, because the pushing is what puts the labor into Labor. I thought that pushing was a pretty straightforward concept, but I quickly found out that you can do it improperly. Or, at the very least, ineffectively. I think I managed to do both for about an hour, until the epidural wore off enough that I could feel what I was doing. Then I had two more hours of pushing to look forward to, only I didn't know that. I think the exhaustion must have dulled my natural inclinations toward pessimism, because it took me two and a half hours of pushing before thinking that the baby might never come out. It might just decide to sit forever wedged against my pelvic bones, flouting gravity and natural law. At that point, I was almost all right with that, as long as someone would get me a chocolate milkshake and a short stack.

But a dangling baby was not in my future after all. Right before eleven in the morning, she made her move towards the light and never looked back. After three hours of pushing, Older Girl burst onto the scene, pink and crying. She was crying as she was coming out, and that should have tipped us off to the histrionics in our future. She was a noisy baby, intense and alert, but not unpleasant or overly fussy. She was the most familiar stranger I had ever known; I'd had nine months to prepare for her and I had never felt more ill-prepared for anything.

Eight years have passed, and sometimes I still feel like I hardly know her. She's imaginative and playful; immensely talented and easily frustrated. She's solicitous, bossy, dynamic, charismatic, tender-hearted, and she's my first baby. She was the first one to ever call me Mom, the first to ever seek comfort in my embrace, and I'll always look back on that with love.

Happy Birthday, Older Girl. We love you!

Getting Dumped

I just have to vent a little or I may explode, and what else is a blog for but to keep a finger on the pulse of my emotions?

A little background information:

We have been blessed enough to live in a nice neighborhood; well-kept homes, quiet streets, close to church and school, no homeowners association. All very important qualities. The neighborhood is divided into two parts by a main road, and we live on the smaller side, which is basically just a large horseshoe. Our home is bordered on one side by very quiet neighbors and on the other by the last vacant lot in the neighborhood. It is technically for sale, but it hasn't been sold due to its odd shape and small size, as well some problems with variances and easements and all that other real estate/construction mumbo jumbo that makes my eyes glaze over. Plus, they are charging about 87 trillion dollars just for the lot, so there's that obstacle, as well. We've lived here for four years and only one person has ever looked at the property. Rob and I would love to annex it to The HomeFront Corp headquarters, but did I mention the 87 trillion dollars? So there it sits.

We also live in a neighborhood that has apparently decided that 2007 is the Year of the Inground Pool. We missed that memo, as we are not getting a pool any time time soon, much to the chagrin of my children (and my brother). There are no less than four new pools going in around the corner from us, and I have noticed a disturbing trend. I don't pretend to know what getting a pool entails, but I am assuming that you are responsible for the disposal of the approximately forty tons of earth that are removed when they start the digging. I'm assuming this, because my neighbors have been dumping about 65% of their backyards in the lot next to my house.

There is a very steep drop-off at the rear of the empty lot (we fondly call it the Plummet of Death), and my neighbors like to throw all their extra dirt back there. The only problem is that forty tons of dirt times four houses equals LOTS of dirt. It is just piling up over there, taunting me.

I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised that all the dirt in the neighborhood would end up next to my house, since my neighbors have been dumping their yard waste there for years. In our township, our garbage company does not accept yard debris, leaves, or branches. You are responsible for taking your yard waste to the township building so that they can turn it into free mulch for anyone who lives here. A great idea in theory, but I can see where it can get pretty inconvenient. The solution? The empty lot! It will all turn into compost eventually, and there is no pesky drive over to the township building. A win-win situation, except for the people who get to stare at your grass and leaves and branches and old sand from your sandboxes and big rocks from your gardens and the forty tons of dirt from your pool. Hmph.

There is nothing stopping them from dumping since the lot is owned by the land company who started this development, and they don't live here, so they don't care. The township has no responsibilities over the land, so they can't help either. It's not even that people are dumping trash, which would definitely be worse, but it is an eyesore and it makes me sad to think that my neighbors don't think that the people who live over here get sick of looking at the stuff they don't want on their manicured properties. I know this is trivial on so many levels, but sometimes an annoyance disappears as soon as you name it and let it go. At least that's what I'm hoping.

I can usually just complain to Rob, and let it blow over me, but all morning I have been watching dump truck after dump truck drive onto the empty lot. I can feel my blood pressure rise with each load of dirt. I'm thinking that I should be considered part owner of at least four homes in this neighborhood since more than half of their land is sitting right next to my house. That should at least get me pool privileges, right?!

We're up to ten truckloads so far, with no end in sight, because our neighbors have apparently decided to dig a moat as well as a pool. Probably to stop people like me from storming their yards with torches, pitchforks, buckets of dirt.

High School Spirit

I saw this meme over at Bub and Pie and then again at Serving the Queens, and I was powerless to resist. Something about re-hashing what are arguably my most embarrassing formative years called to me. I am the person who relives conversations years later, when I have finally figured out how to come away from a confrontation sounding devastatingly brilliant, so I think this meme must have been designed for people like me. Here goes:

1. Who was your best friend?

It's interesting that the people I was with the most in high school are the people I met in grade school, and they are the ones I still talk to today. Meg, Kim, and T. There were other members of our group in high school, but I haven't kept in contact with them.

2. Did you play any sports?

You may be shocked to learn that I did not play any sports, other than those that were forced upon us during gym. I was, however, an athletic supporter.

3. What kind of car did you drive?

I was that friend. You know the one - the one who doesn't drive during high school and needed her licensed friends to drag her all over for play practice and yearbook. Thanks Kim. Thanks T.

4. It's Friday night. Where were you?

I was at home. Or, just for kicks and book money, I was babysitting. And I was the dream babysitter who would have all the kids in bed, the house straightened up, and the dishes done, and then, when asked what I wanted to be paid, was so uncomfortable dealing with adults and money that I would just mumble something like "oh, whatever" and smile and take the ten dollars for watching four children into the wee sma's.

5. Were you a party animal?

What? People had parties in high school? Oh.

6. Were you considered a flirt?

That would be a definitive no.

7. Were you in the band, orchestra or choir?

Choir, baby! As a matter of fact, I earned my school letter for being in choir all four years. It was a big red "C" with a music note embroidered on it, and it entitled me to wear the white letterman's sweater, instead of the uniform maroon cardigan. I never did get a white sweater, though, because I was too embarrassed to wear a letter for singing while some of my others friends got letters for, you know, activities where you actually had to move around and sweat and such.

8. Were you a nerd?

I don't think I was a nerd in the Revenge of the Nerds kind of way, but I was pretty well charted on the Honors Class Geek-O-Meter.

9. Were you ever suspended or expelled?

No. Not even close. Our discipline system was based on demerits, and you had to collect at least three demerits to warrant detention. I had detention once, and I earned all three demerits for purposely forgetting my gym clothes. That's how much I loathed gym and the gym teacher.

10. Can you sing the fight song?

We called it the Alma Mater, and it has been indelibly ingrained upon my memory thanks to a little something called Freshman Day, which was basically school-sanctioned, mild hazing of the freshman by the seniors. For example, the seniors could "make" a freshman get up on the cafeteria table and sing the Alma Mater to all assembled, therefore it paid to know the words.

We love thee, Alma Mater, dear old Central High. Within your walls, may it be said, that hidden treasures lie. So we will keep on seeking them, til strength we have no more, but we will keep you on the top: Excelsior! Oh Alma Mater, we will fight, through thick and thin, for the red and the white! Because on you we can rely, all hail to Central Catholic High!

(And at my youngest brother's recent high school graduation, I discovered that I know all the words to the second verse as well.)

11. Who was your favorite teacher?

Well, Mrs. O'Leary, the chemistry teacher, was always very patient and kind with me. She told us to think of Chemistry as "Hangin' with Mrs. O'Leary" Corny, but nice. Sister Jonathan was a kick-A English teacher. She never let us use the words "like" or "umm" while we were answering in class, which nearly broke some people.

12. What was your school mascot?

The mighty Cardinal.

13. Did you go to the Prom?

Yes. See #22 for all the gory details.

14. If you could go back, would you?

No.

15. What do you remember most about graduation?

I remember that it was one of the few times I didn't feel inferior to so many of my classmates. I was emboldened by my imminent release. Oh, and my hair rocked at graduation.

16. Where were you on Senior Skip Day?

We didn't do Senior Skip Day.

17. Did you have a job your senior year?

Yes, at a river tubing/canoe rental place across the street from my house. Perfect for a non-driver like myself.

18. Where did you go most often for lunch?

I went to the caf every day. There was no other choice for us. We were not allowed to leave school before dismissal, and we were not allowed to eat in any other part of the school building.

19. Have you gained weight since then?

Too much to even talk about.

20. What did you do after graduation?

Worked in the summer and then went to college.

21. What year did you graduate?

1993

22. Who was your Senior Prom Date?

My senior prom was pretty dreadful in many ways. My date was M.M., a guy from my Law class who asked me because he couldn't find anyone else to go with him. I was such a geek that I jumped at my only chance to go. My parents, God bless their hearts, went completely out of their way to make it a special event for me. Money was tight, but they bought me an expensive new dress and shoes; they were gracious and friendly with my date; and, since we all went to an all night after-prom party at a sports club, they invited me, my date, Meg, and her boyfriend back to the house for a big breakfast buffet. Too bad the evening was a total bust, complete with almost every prom night cliche out there. My date was pissed that I wasn't more grateful to him in a physical way, if you catch the drift, so he spent the evening on the other side of the room with his friends and ignored me. We didn't dance once. We drove to the after-party in near silence, and he promptly left me again once we were there. We drove to my parents house in silence, he ate breakfast with us, and then went home. That was the last time he ever spoke to me in his life, and we even went to the same college. (My college formals were much better - thank you, Rob)

23. Are you going/did you go to your 10 year reunion?

I went to the 10 year, and got to catch up with good people, although it would have been more fun with Meg. But now she's back in PA, so we'll do reunions on our own.

24. Who was your homeroom teacher?

We had different homeroom teachers for each year of high school, so I'll just go with senior year, and that was Mrs. Winter - a woman who could be as chilly as her name implies.

25. Who will repost this after you?

T and Meg, I'm callin' you out, ladies! Let's hear your memories of dear old Central high.

Portraits of a Family Vacation

Vignette I - Good Night, Sleep Tight

Me: Goodnight, [Boy], I love you.

The Boy: Goodnight Mom. Don't worry about the noise, that's just me farting.


Vignette II - Fire and Ice
(overheard in the back of the van, one hour into the trip)

Older Girl: I am the good land of Scotland and you are the attacking land of Iceland, and I have a wall up so that you cannot come over here.

The Boy (hand outstretched): Pssht - FIRE!

Older Girl: No, I have a wall up, but you can't see it.

The Boy: Pssht - FIRE!

Older Girl: It's invisible, but there is a WALL there so you can't DO that!

The Boy: Pssht - FIRE!

Older Girl: NO, [BOY]!! I have a WALL UP . . .

The Boy: Pssht - FIRE!

Older Girl (increasingly distraught): I SAID I HAVE A WALL UP!

The Boy: Pssht - FIRE!

Older Girl: This WALL is made of thick ICE so your fire can't get through it.

The Boy: Pssht - FIRE!

Older Girl: Your fire can't melt my . . .

The Boy: Pssht - FIRE!

Older Girl: NO MORE FIRE PSSHT-ING! JUST FORGET IT! I AM LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW!

The Boy (whispering): pssht - FIRE!


Vignette III - Discriminating Taste
(while dining in the very fancy, expensive hotel restaurant)

Older Girl (to the waitress): Your service here is par excellence.

Waitress (surprised): Thank you, Miss. We aim to please.

Older Girl: Well, you hit the mark at this place.

Vignette IV - How You Doin'?
(after a nice woman held the hotel door for us)

The Boy: Thank you, Ma'am.

Woman: Oh, you're welcome.

The Boy (looking her up and down slowly): Hmm. You look good.

Woman (flustered): Um . . . thank you very much.

Vignette V - So Many Choices, So Little Time
(while traveling out in the boonies)

Me: We need to find a place to eat, the kids are hungry.

Rob: Okay, let's drive around town and see what we can find.

Me: I don't think we should do fast food again. Let's try to find something halfway decent.

(we keep driving, driving, and driving, until we end up back where we started)

Rob: Well, where does this leave us - besides in Shanty Town?

Me: As far as I can see, we can pick the Whippy-Dip or we can go with Mr. Chicken or we can try something different and go for Kool's Carry-Out, Car Wash, and Dog Wash, although I'm not exactly sure what we'd be carrying out of there.

Rob: M*cDonald's it is.

Vignette VI - There's No Place Like Home
(upon arriving at the hotel)

Me: Wow, isn't this a nice place to stay?

The Boy: Yep! Can we go home now?

Join the Team

Many times, when I am complaining too much about trivial things, God will send me a reminder that I should shut my mouth. This is one of those times. While listening to the kids cry waiting for the kids to fall asleep in the hotel, I was checking up on all my favorite blogs and I found this little post on T With Honey. There is a fellow blogger out there, and a fellow Mom, who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, and while she's just one of many blogging mothers who are facing cancer or some other kind of life-altering illness, WhyMommy, of Toddler Planet has asked for our help in the form of positive, supportive comments, thoughts, and prayers. To that end, Team Whymommy has been formed as a wall of support for her and I'm joining. The only thing you have to do is send WhyMommy a supportive comment or fifty while she prepares to undergo her treatments. So easy, but so important. Let's show WhyMommy that we are rooting for her, and encourage her in her fight. Won't you join with me?

On The Road **Updated

I'm sad to say that traveling rarely brings out the best in me. I like to travel, but I think I would like it even more if I had people; a staff to get things ready for me. Someone to pack the clothes and the car, carry everything into to hotel room, and then perform the Dog and Pony Show that comprises the Vacation Bedtime Routine for my children. Here's the thing: by the time 9:00 pm rolls around, I want to be relaxing with Rob, enjoying the luxury that is free HBO. I don't want to be refereeing a bedtime kick-a-thon in a queen size bed, while Rob tries to wrestle the baby into a portable crib that looks about as comfortable as a plastic covered foam mattress settled on a metal frame can be.

But worse than these inconveniences, I have realized that traveling - the actual time spent in transit - makes me grumpy at best, and mean, petty, and spiteful at worst. We sat in traffic on the highway for what felt like an eternity, and I could feel the irritation settle on my skin like a film. My jaw clenched tighter with each inch we rolled forward, staring at the back of the same tractor trailer, offering me $18.50 an hour if I joined their team. After listening to The Boy ask his litany of questions regarding snarled traffic, loud noises, our reasons for staying in a hotel, why Baltimore is in Maryland as opposed to Pennsylvania, why we leave our house for vacation, and on and on, I was thinking that $18.50 an hour for sitting in a silent, air-conditioned cab sounded like a pretty good deal.

By the time we made it to the hotel, I was beyond irritated, and had tipped over the edge into insufferable. I was short with Rob and the kids, ordering them around like their feelings didn't matter. However, after check-in, I was placated by the amenities of the hotel. We don't stay in fancy places, but with three kids, we like to have a little kitchen area and a separate bedroom. Homewood Suites fill the bill perfectly, and even though they are a member of the Hilton family of hotels and our money is probably going to pay all of Paris' lawyers, I have to admit that I am loving this hotel just a little bit. The wireless internet alone would have won me over, but they have complimentary breakfast and dinner, as well. I'm thinking about moving in.

Now we just have to work on convincing Baby Girl that vacation is not synonymous with all night crib party. The child will not give up the ship at bed time, and we have been letting her stay awake so that the other children will have a fighting chance to fall asleep. Plus, she is seriously cutting in to our free satellite television time. As I sit here, Older Girl and The Boy have fallen asleep at the ridiculously delightful hour of 6:30 pm (thank you, Baltimore Inner Harbor), while Baby Girl has held on until 8:30 with no signs of slowing. She is reveling in her solo time with us, and I think she's as smitten with the laptop as I am. We are hoping to lull her into a deep sleep by watching the History Channel's Revolutionary War lineup, but that only seems to be working for the adults.

Happy Independence Day, my friends, and may you be enjoying yourselves as much as we are, and may your children fall asleep before "the dawn's early light."

"Where liberty dwells, there is my country."
-Benjamin Franklin

**UPDATE: It is now 9 pm, Rob has moved on to Mythbusters, and Baby Girl is dropping the family's shoes in all of the empty drawers of the television cabinet. She is a machine, people.