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Rejoice Religious

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Kids Say the Darndest Things

Lucy
While getting the kids ready for bed one night last week I realized for the thousandth time since the birth of my youngest daughter that having a child who looks so much like you is a mixed blessing. Having a 24/7 reminder of how cute you used to be isn't always easy on the ego. Luckily, she is developing a healthy appreciation of her own charms, as well.
"Mommy," she said. "Why am I so cute?"

Grace
Grace spent the night at a friend's house (yet again) last weekend. As always, our house is different when she isn't with us. It's not necessarily quieter, just lacking in a certain harmony. We are just a bit off without our Grace. Chad told her as much when she returned.
"It sure will be different when you go off to college and leave us," he said, a bit wistfully, for him.
Grace, big blue eyes wide and innocent, responded, "But can I come back and visit?"

Sam
On the way home from school this week: "Mommy, which one do you want to buy me. A big swimming pool in the backyard or a monkey?"

Claire, in that remarkable preschool way of participating in a conversation not quite aligned with the conversation at large, replied, "I don't want a puppy or a cow. I want a monkey."

Indeed.

Perspective

I have mastitis again.

I sensed the beginning of another infection on Sunday, and by Monday it was unmistakeable. I started antibiotics (again) at noon yesterday. Last night I suffered through my all too familiar cycles of sweating and shivering while my right breast turned bright red and so tender to the touch that I couldn't sleep on that side.

When Clayton woke up to eat, I tried and tried and tried to put him to the breast. Up until last night, he would still nurse in the middle of the night, but insisted on the bottle at all other times. I knew this night was coming--when he would outright refuse to nurse and I would be forced to give him the bottle and then pump to replace what he had taken. I wake up praying every night that he will nurse, as much for the convenience as for the sweet bonding of breastfeeding. His high pitched shrieks at my tortuous insistence that he nurse and not take a bottle eventually woke both my husband and the queen and I finally surrendered and gave him a bottle. Actually, Chad gave him a bottle and I pumped. I guess for the first time in a thousand baby nights in our house, Chad will get to share in the wee hour bonding. And I will be bonding with my pump at the same time.

So, I've been struggling not to descend into a self pity party all day. I want to nurse this baby, just like I did all my others. I love nursing, the elegant simplicity of it, the precious connectedness of it. I hate pumping, heating bottles, cleaning bottles, monitoring Clay's intake and my output. Nursing is so much easier and sweeter.

I came down to check my email this morning and came across a blog posting from a woman we know through school. Her daughter was in Claire's class (just 4 years old) and was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive bone cancer. She was given a 30% chance of survival. The mother started her post with an apology for her "whining" and then proceeded to describe a conversation with her daughter where they had to discuss why she was different than everyone else and why she had to hurt so much.

It kind of puts my struggles in perspective, right? Clayton is a big, healthy, active, happy baby boy. Would that all the trials mothers face were solved as easily as mine--with a bottle, a pump, and a get-over-yourself kick in the pants.

Of Chaos and Balance

Call it a sense of balance. Tell me I thrive on chaos.

Whatever it is, tonight when Grace was invited to (yes, another) sleepover, I let her go like I usually do, with the tiniest tug at my heart to see how grown up and confident she is becoming. How very easy it is for her to fly away from my nest these days!

At supper, which always seems so quiet when one child, even one as mild mannered as Gracie, is missing, Chad suggested that we have an outside movie. Don't ask me what comes over me in these moments, but I suddenly heard myself saying, "Sammy, maybe you can invite A. over."

An hour later, my home is back to 5 children full. Sam and A. are happily tormenting the little sisters with a remote controlled dinosaur (Lucy keeps calling it the "scare-wy lion") and Chad is setting up the projector outside. I've been telling people all day how tired I am and seriously, I could happily have been snuggled off to dreamland right now.

Oh well. The little girls play beautifully together and A. is an easy-going, lively little boy who will keep Sam from going into a Disney Channel coma for the rest of the night. And, after all, what's one more?

Garage Sale

In a few minutes, Chad will walk in the door and ask me how I'm coming on the garage sale.

He has been after me for months to have a garage sale and I have really struggled to muster any enthusiasm for the idea. It is not that we don't have an excess of junk that may or may not be perceived as treasure for the hordes of garage sale enthusiasts that comb our street and every other one every Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. It's just I can't get into it this year.

I will admit that we have been kicking around the idea of moving since we found out Clayton was on his way. It is slightly embarassing to me that we can't make a house with 3 finished levels, 4 bathrooms, and 3 healthy sized bedrooms accomodate all of us. It really is fine for the people that live here. We could all have 2-3 rooms completely to ourselves if we wanted. It is all of our stuff. Really, by global standards we have a vast abundance of space. It is only by American standards that we are cramped (and I'd be willing to bet there are thousands of New York City dwellers that would take our floorspace in a heartbeat).

We also have about 12 years left on our mortgage. That means we could be mortgage free before we send our second child to college. We love our location, the kids love the neighborhood, and neither Chad nor I is really excited about the prospect of trying to keep a new house nice with our flock of messy little birds constantly into everything.

So we need to declutter. And Chad likes the idea of getting some cash for it. I'm okay with the cash part, but it seems like an inefficient way of making it. The last time we had a garage sale it was so massive that we had an entire truckful of leftover junk. And over the course of a week's worth of hauling stuff, setting up, and pricing and a weekend's worth of sitting at a table while attempting to herd little ducks we made a measly $100. I don't think I have an overinflated sense of my own worth, but I am absolutely certain that 40 hours of my time is worth more than $100.

I have tentatively made arrangements with my sister in law to host a garage sale this weekend. And so far, I have done absolutely nothing for it. So I am tempted to just say forget it. I am not interested in surrendering an entire weekend to it. I know we have plenty of crap to get rid of, but my youngest daughter is 2 and my youngest son is just 4 months. I can't give up much of my baby stuff yet. My standards for my kids' clothes at daycare and at home on weekends is extremely low. Any clothes I am ready to get rid of are not likely to garner much money. And I wear an extremely uncommon size. Everything I own must be purchased at a specialty store for the excessively tall, and is generally fairly expensive. Consequently, I don't give it up until far past its fashion expiration and shabbiness dates. Again--it would be an extremely niche garage saler interested in my cast offs. So, I'll be left with McDonalds happy meal toy my kids are sure to fall madly in love with as soon as I dust them off and put a price tag on them and the handful of stuffed animals my kids can live without (many of which we got out of the "free for the taking" bin at our neighbor's garage sales).

Ugh. Just writing out my reasons makes me even less enthusiastic about this whole endeavor. I believe I shall open the negotiations with my husband with an agreement to work on it with him if he agrees not to go to work after 3p on Friday and all day on Saturday. I believe I will also go open a bottle of wine.

The triatholon and the hot moms: a story of hope

This past weekend, Grace and Sam competed in the Hy Vee Iron Kids triatholon. Grace was originally signed up and Sam begged to be included after she came home with her booty bag. The race started with a trip down the water slide at Sutton Pool. What a cool way to start a triatholon, don't you think?

Then they both swam, biked, and ran (Sam did 50 yards swimming, 2 miles biking, and 500 yards running; Grace did 150 yards, 4 miles, and 1 mile).

I was so proud of my little athletes. Both were heavily encouraged by their dad, who has competed in marathons and 5ks for years. I've always been more of an organized sport kind of girl--and running was usually just a means to an end. Still, I love that my kids are interested in this sort of activity. I'm a huge proponent of sports and physical activity for kids. Even when I'm not the world's biggest fan of the sport (guess what I'm referring to here), I still think anything that gets kids away from the tv and the computer and out moving their bodies is a good thing (though perhaps the intrinsic value is a bit muted by the treat factor--but I digress). And this triatholon was certainly not for the faint of heart.

More, with all that you hear these days about body image and anorexia (even in boys!) I love that they are learning the value of a healthy, strong body and how good it can make them feel at a young age. I believe sports had a major impact in my own lack of real body image issues over the years. Don't get me wrong, I am very realistic about the aesthetic and proportional challenges of my own hulking 6 foot frame, but growing up, I was much more wont to mourn my lack of quickness in the 50 yard dash and the lack of height in my vertical jump than the width of my hips or the unfortunate physical similarities between my giant feet and a pair of thick cut pork chops. There is nothing more bittersweet than looking at the perfect,beloved bodies of your babies as they grow, and recognizing that, in spite of all your prayers, they just may have inherited some of your less desireable physical characteristics. But I am grateful that they are showing some aptitude for physical activities (as yet no one seems interested in learning my turn around jump shot, but I haven't given up yet). Not that I have ever run a triatholon--which brings me to the second part of my story.

Shortly after we arrived at the event, I soon started running into people I knew--a former high school basketball teammate, our old daycare provider, and 2 moms of kids in Sammy's class. They are both about my height, but both blonde and about 50 pounds lighter than me. From here on out, they shall be referred to as "the hot moms." I really like the hot moms. They are always doing cool things and they are always saying they are going to invite me along, though, of course, I've been holed up at home gestating, nursing and pumping for the last year or so and they have never actually invited me. 2 weeks ago they did Ragbrai. The month before that they went camping--just the moms and kids. See? Cool. One of them--Hot Mom S., has 4 kids. Her second oldest is a girl in Sam's class. Hot Mom H. has just one kid--a boy in Sammy's class.

Anyway, I got to talking to hot mom S. and she told me that they are doing a mini-triatholon in Galena in May. She said I should join them and I am so, so tempted. I really did used to be pretty fit. I considered missing a work out akin to skipping brushing your teeth. Today, I tried to do yoga after work. I got, literally, 3 minutes into the DVD when my foot cramped unbearably (it just hasn't been the same since I sprained my ankle getting out of my rocking chair on maternity leave. That is a true story). Then the baby started crying, I remembered that Gracie had soccer practice in about 10 minutes (blasted soccer), and Lucy invited me to come see her poopy. The DVD is still on pause in the living room. As if I'll go back to it.

So, now I'm dreaming of becoming a triathlete in my spare time. I have time to think about it, right? May is eons away. Hot mom S also invited us to a pool party at her house that afternoon.

Unfortunately, my bikini was in the wash so we didn't make it. There's always next time.

Good Clean Fun

Today, the kids and I buckled down and decided to clean out the van. Any mother of more than 1 child (and maybe even just one child) over the age of 3 knows that "mini-van" is only a code word for trash/soccer crap/stroller-diaperbag-cheerio-lego carrying device. Oh. And in the summertime--shoes. In the school year, the floor of the mini-van is the favorite hiding place for permission slips, report cards, and critical homework instructions.

The flotsam and jetsam of modern motherhood was getting pretty thick in the old red Chrysler, so the kids and I promised Chad that we would wade in.

"Cleaning the car" to the gradeschool set, of course, involves the hose and lots and lots of messy, soapy fun. "Cleaning the car" to the Playboy set involves skimpy bikini tops, daisy dukes and lots of ample cleavage. Thanks to the milk fairy, I've got the cleavage part covered. I haven't, however, worn a bikini in about 3 and a half decades.

In a slightly pathetic attempt at flirting with my husband, I batted my eyelashes at him and asked if he wanted me to clean the car in my (make believe) bikini. My husband, like most men in their mid to late thirties, is so incredibly grateful for the sacrifice my body has made over the past 10 years in delivering him several healthy, beautiful children that he barely notices and certainly doesn't mind the stretchmarks and saddlebags. (Uh-huh).

"Sure," he snorted. "It is okay if I move the van to the backyard first so the neighbors don't see you?"

Humph.

A picture is worth a thousand words

Lessons from my daughters

Lesson number one: be careful what you say around them (or at least how often you say it).

Me, sighing, dressing her for the 3rd time today: Oh, Lucy.

Lucy (age 2): What? I drive-oo nuts? What heck?

Lesson number two: self confidence is a good thing

Me, wistfully (packing Claire--age 5--off to her first sleepover): Are you going to miss me?

Claire, confusedly: No.

Me: Are you going to be scared?

Claire, tilting her head and wrinkling her brow and her nose, more confused than ever: No.

Lesson number three: don't feel guilty about leaving them with a sitter

Me: I don't think daddy and I are going to go out tonight after all

Grace: What?! Why?

Me: Daddy has to work late

Grace: But Mo-om. Abby (sitter) and I have PLANS.

Me (brightly): I'm sorry, honey. Maybe we can do something fun together.

Grace (hopefully): Maybe you could call one of your friends.

Queen mother

If the queen ever has a baby, these are the things someone must remind me to do:
1. Become obsessed with the baby's binkie and stick it in my every available bodily orifice (ears, nose, my own mouth, down my pants) immediately before "helping" by putting it in the baby's mouth.
2. Race into the quiet place she has designed for nursing (this will be especially relevant if the baby is a distractible or otherwise poor nurser) and then loudly describing my every move while simultaneously shoving the baby out of the way and trying to climb on her lap.
3. Climb into the crib with the sleeping baby and then proclaim joyfully, "Baby's awake! He opens eyes!"
4. Insist upon walking right in that mama blindspot in front of her knees and under the baby so mother and child are at constant risk of tumbling ass over applecarts.
5. Lick the baby, usually on the head or feet.
6. Refuse to allow a single bath or diaper change to occur without my "help".
7. Go to the bathroom and ask sweetly, "you wanna see my poopy?" just when she sits down to pump.
9. Insist that she hold and rock me when she has finally managed to extract herself from baby contact for the first time in 8-12 hours. Then proceed to bounce around madly, bopping a big hard head against her poor beleagured boobies.
10. Never, never, never go to sleep quietly or easily, instead wandering the house wailing while baby bedtime rituals are being conducted.
11. Gaze with awe and wonder at the sight of her precious baby, kiss and cuddle him with all the sweetness in the world and pour all of the love of my wild, distractible little self into her tiny beloved child.

I hate soccer night

I know it isn't very PC of me to say, but its true. I dread Wednesdays with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. (to put it lightly).

I was complaining about soccer night to Chad this morning, and he said, "I don't know what you are complaining about. It's not that bad." In the interest of marital harmony, I just made a small, non-commital noise and headed off to work. Instead I will vent here. (And, might I just say, I probably wouldn't hate soccer night either if all I had to do was walk in 10 minutes before it was time to leave, eat a hot meal someone else planned for and prepared and then stand by the door bellowing that we were going to be late. Ok, in his defense, he really has shouldered a large portion of the burden of soccer night. He's taken the kids when I was home nursing my cantankerous little boy and fighting the booby flu. He stood in the line in the freezing January snow to sign them up and has sat in the blazing heat for every single practice for both Grace & Sam this entire season. He has done more than his share and he doesn't hate it. I still do).

What soccer night entails for me is a tedious search for not one, not two, but three sets of uniforms, socks, shin guards, soccer balls and shoes (do the math--the probability of all those things not turning up in bizarre places like downstairs on the treadmill or in the backyard treehouse are practically non-existent). It involves at least 10 pleading reminders to fill water bottles and two wrestling matches over sitting still for ponytails. It also includes a desperate attempt to feed 5 little ducks (one of which requires 10 minutes alone with my pump), and at least put away the perishables before we leave. It means packing the diaper bag for all weather conditions (it is invariably 10 degrees different at the soccer complex--sometimes hotter directly under the summer sun, oftentimes colder and more windy) and many hours of outdoor exposure with only limited accessibility of either running water or flushing toilets (great fun with my just trained 2 year old). It also requires blankets and chairs for sitting on and diversions for the littlest ducks. All of this must be packed in such a manner as to allow for transportability as we hike (I swear) mile after mile to and among fields for the 3 games we need to watch. That doesn't even cover treat night. Of which, of course, I get 3 turns at.

So, let's talk for a minute about treats. The games last 1 hour, and each team has enough players for 2 full teams, meaning the kids all play half the game. The treat mom (it's always the mom) provides snacks for BOTH halftime AND the end of the game. Its usually fruit at halftime and some sort of prepackaged treat or candy and a juice box afterwards. Now, I played sports for the vast majority of my childhood and even all through college. I don't ever remember getting any sort of refreshment EVER beyond cold water. (I take that back--I think once in awhile in COLLEGE we got gatorade--just the plain lemon/lime kind mind you. Not mountain berry blast plus vitamins or any such nonsense). So, my kids play 1/2 of 1/2 of a game and they require nourishment. Then they play another 1/2 of 1/2 of a game and they get another snack and a drink. What? When I was in college i had friends who played soccer. Their WARM UP usually entailed a 5 mile run. The royal treatment required by these little "athletes" is light years away from that kind of stamina and effort. And don't even get me started on the impact these treats have on the younger siblings.

Now, imagine for a moment my delight at providing said snacks for a pack of 5 (Claire), 7 (Sam) or 9 (Grace) year old children. Picture me with a cooler, a blanket, and 2 adult lawn chairs and 1 child's chair dangling from the stroller, my diaper bag slung across my shoulder and a bag of treats in my other hand, the baby in the front pack, the queen clinging to my legs as I trudge across three full size soccer fields to reach my child's team. I could load up and walk beside a full size camel and look less conspicuous.

All three kids play on the same night, which is probably a blessing as I'm not sure I could survive 2 soccer nights in a week. But it does mean that my little caravan has to up and move at least once and often twice during the course of the evening. The soccer complex is roughly the size of your average small town, so the trek can be quite extensive. Don't even get me started on the parking at this place. Suffice it to say, driving from field to field is not a viable option. Of course Chad is with me and of course he helps, though we often do have to divide and conquer in order to watch our kids play. We generally give the little ones and whoever isn't playing at the time the option of where they want to go. Guess which parent they usually choose to accompany?

I have honestly considered filling a water bottle with beer or some sort of cocktail in order to take the edge off this despised night. But I usually have to drive (either because it is all I can handle to get the first child out the door with her dad while I follow with the little ones, and the later gamers, or because Chad often takes pity on me and lets me leave once the last game has begun).

Once I finally collapse in my lawn chair at the first game, I could care less about soccer. To be honest, I don't know that much about the game, so I could care less about soccer if they played these games in my backyard. My kids are not destined for greatness on the soccer field, if these early attempts are any indication. Between the 3 over the course of a season that began in May, I believe a Lueken has been responsible for the scoring of 1 goal. (Update: Claire scored a goal tonight--2 goals scored by Luekens this season).

I am usually so grumpy by the end of soccer night that I could spit. But 3/4 of the town is crawling all over the complex on soccer night, so I am invariably required to play nice and make small talk with acquaintance after acquaintance. I try to smile. I try not to curse. I try not to give away that I can't remember anyone's name (in spite of the fact that I am always completely sober). I am usually so sweaty and disheveled by this point I'm sure these former classmates and co-workers walk away shaking their heads and thinking how much I have let myself go since this last baby.

Tonight, a former lunch lady from good old St. Joes recognized me from church and insisted on walking me to my car. I think she really feared I would lose one of the ducks in the crush of (other) crazed soccer moms and mini vans.

See why I hate soccer night. But, just look at them. Aren't they cute?

Ants in my pants

Many people at my work opt to walk for exercise during their half hour lunch period. In spite of the heat, I have been trying to join them as often as I can since I've been back to work.

I relish that 3o minutes away from the artificially lit, climate controlled atmosphere of cubicle city. I drink in the sunshine and fresh air (even when it has more in common with warm water than one might desire) and, more often than not, head towards one end of the factory where there is a narrow gravel path near a small, wooded area. The trees do my soul good.

Yesterday, I could tell it was late summer by the mad dance of the grasshoppers and other bugs in the tall grass. Little buzzing things, disturbed by my footsteps, whirred madly out of my path as I walked. Bugs have never bothered me too much. My husband has me kill the scarier ones that find their way in our house (don't tell him I said that).

When I finished my walk, I ran into a friend of mine I haven't seen since I left work to have Clayton. Before I left, she had just announced her first pregnancy and now she is adorably, gloriously round, 4 weeks from her due date. We all know my great enthusiasm for all things gestational and baby related, so we conversed happily for several minutes.

At one point, I became aware of a strange buzzing near my hip. I casually pulled my blackberry from my pocket and checked my status. No new calls, texts, voice mails, or facebook updates. Strange. The buzz returned, slightly more to the side. Then again, near my behind. And again closer to my hip again.

I was growing distracted and my grip on the conversation lessened. My body has been through a lot in the last decade or so, and strange twinges and pains are not exactly uncommon. But this was just weird. I excused myself and stuck my hand in my pocket. I felt a tiny, fuzzy lump about the size of a marble through the fabric of my trousers. I felt a slight pinch, and then I squeezed the squashy ball shaped thing mercilessly. I looked down to see the body of one of those round bumblebees near the toe of my left shoe. At which point I had to wonder: Did that THING just fall out of my PANT LEG?

I raced inside the office to the nearest bathroom, trying to keep from screaming, running, or wriggling my hips too furiously (and most unprofessionally) at the creepy, crawly sensations now engulfing me. I slammed into a bathroom stall and stripped to my skin, wiggling everything below my elbows as madly as I possibly could. I found nothing, though the skin on my left hip was discolored, slightly swollen, and now starting to swell slightly. Bee sting?

So, I'm pretty sure a bumble bee flew up my pant leg (because even the most madly suicidal bug couldn't have worked his way between my waistband and my still squashy belly skin), and buzzed merrily about inside them until I realized his existence and smooshed him to his death.

Seriously. Does this kind of thing happen to anyone else?

Days of Grace

My dearest Grace,

How to begin?

In the minutes after your birth (can it really be 9 years ago?), I lay in the recovery room with your dad by my side deciding on your name. We had 2 on our list: Lucy and Grace.

"I think she's a Grace," your dad said firmly.

"Really?" I replied. "I was thinking Grace until I saw her, but now I'm thinking Lucy."

"Her name is Grace," your dad replied. I acquiesced. Never have I been so grateful for not getting my own way.

You are a grace, a blessing, to all who know you--but most of all to me. A few minutes later, when I finally, finally, got to hold you in my arms and study your perfection from the top of your little round head, faintly dusted with a shimmer of gold, to the tips of your chubby feet complete with that weird, crooked second toe you share with your daddy and all of your brothers and sisters, I knew you were my Grace. My amazing Grace.

You are an incredible person--one I am so, so grateful to have in my life. You are the child I'm sure I don't deserve. Your kindness, sensitivity, and sweetness surpass everyone's expectaions of a child your age. And we've said that every year. I truly don't know how 2 people like your dad and I had anything do do with creating you. I tell you kids that babies are made when God takes a little bit of mommy, a little bit of daddy, and a little bit of magic. With you, God went heavy on the magic.

These are the words of one of your classmate's moms in an email to me recently. "E. loves your Grace. She speaks of her as being truly genuine, sweet, and unaffected by much of the girl drama that ensues (so unfortunate!) among the girls in that grade." You'll remember that after Clayton's baptism, a fellow parishioner approached us and said that your dad and I must be so proud of you for being such a selfless and sweet big sister to all the little ducks. The school's principal recently told us that the entire school looks to you as a role model of kindness, respect, and true Christianity. Wow. You aren't supposed to use generalities in either writing or arguments, but in this case a little generalization is warranted. I hear things like that about you all the time. (I tell people you came that way, because no parenting technique in the world could create such a character and temperament as yours).

I couldn't be prouder, happier, or more humbled to call you my daughter. You make me better for knowing you. You fill me to the core with the joy and awe of motherhood. I am so proud of the person you are, the lovely lady you are becoming. I say it all the time, and I'll end with it today--every mom should have a Grace.

I love you, sweetie.

Mom

Birthday Madness

Question for you.

How many birthday cakes and parties should a child have? Assume that this child is well loved and not filthy rich, but comfortable enough.

If you answered 1, you are sadly, sadly mistaken.

Here is what I can't figure out. I have 5 children. You would think that would translate into 5 birthday parties, right? Wrong.

You have one for each child's friends (at least once they hit school age). And even if you don't invite a dozen or so kids, most of my ducks at least want to invite a friend or two for a sleepover or outing. They need to be entertained and, of course, fed cake.

Then you have one for the extended family (grandmas, cousins, aunts/uncles). Believe me, you will rue the day if you skip this one. And depending on availability, this may turn into 2 events, one for Chad's side, one for my side.

Then you need to do something on the actual day of the birthday since the other events are usually on the nearest available weekend and sometimes shared with siblings/cousins who share your same astrological sign. So, even if it is just with your own little (relatively speaking) family, you still need to plan a special menu, and, of course, cake.

That equals about 15 birthday cakes per year for this family. Just for little people. If you add in Chad and I (and we do usually stick to the more rational 1 celebration per birthday). That is somewhere between 17 and 23 birthday celebrations/cakes per year. Well over one per month.

And I wonder why I never lose the last 10 (okay 20) pounds of baby fat.

Of babies and boobies

I know I owe you a post (or 10) about baby Clayton--his dramatic arrival into the world, his delightful (most of the time) impact on the flock, his many and marvelous baby charms. But it has been a tumultuous 4 months since his arrival, rife with the kind of breastfeeding difficulties I've only read about. I have been really busy. I have been, well, pumping.

Let me first say: I am a committed breastfeeder. Before Clayton, none of my ducks ever had a single ounce of formula in spite of my returning to work full time within three months of every hatching. (I am also a prolific milk producer). A combination of my voracious reading on the subject and a fortunate family history and culture of breastfeeding (my mom and all my aunts, my sister, my cousin, my sister in law all nursed) combined to result in a joyful nursing of all 4 little ducks for a year or more (nearly 2 for Sam & Claire). I love nursing. I love connecting with my babies in a way no one else can. I love making a choice for them that everyone from the AMA to the Catholic Church, from my mom to my doctor to the checker at the grocery store agree is absolutely the very best choice for my child (would that there was even one other mother choice out there with that sort of clarity).

Every time anyone asked, I assured them I would nurse this last baby. Beyond the usual and very occasional run ins with mastitis or sore nipples, I have had a long and happy history of relatively problem free breastfeeding. Cut to Clayton.

It started with severe nipple pain. I never bothered to visit with the lactation consultant in the hospital. Everyone (the baby's doctor, the nurses, my midwife) assured me that if anyone knew what she was doing, I did. But it hurt. Clay nursed like an indecisive baby warthog--snuffling and snorting, rearing his head and sucking furiously in between. Both nipples cracked and I grew to dread every feeding. I tried praying and singing, dancing and meditating. But the pain was nearly unbearable. I remembered some discomfort in the early weeks from my other babies. My mom, sister, and sister in law all assured me that feeding a newborn was painful so I soldiered on, never nursing in anyone else's presence because I didn't want anyone to see my grimacing and tears. But this seemed severe. I wish I had listened to myself, not tried to talk myself into believing I was just being a wimp.

Then Clayton stopped gaining weight and the mastitis started. 4 times in 12 weeks. I started having to take him in to be weighed twice a week and put the lactation consultant on speed dial. I still resisted bottles as I firmly believe that breastfeeding difficulties are solved with babies and boobs, not bottles. But still we struggled. Clayton grew bucky at the breast--unwilling to stay latched for more than a few minutes and fussy and fretful in between feedings. Turns out he was hungry and my supply was waning due to the illnesses, Clay's poor latching, and my stubborn resistance to turning to my pump to alleviate some of the difficulties.

The whole sad story culminated in the most severe case of mastitis I'd ever experienced. It started the night before Clayton's baptism with yet another night alternating between shivering and burning with fever, and lying sweating and sleepless in my bed, doggedly rising every few hours to try and feed my son. In the morning, Clay began refusing the right breast--the side swollen and fire engine red with infection. I've had mastitis at least once with all my children, and all the books say the best treatment (besides antibiotics) is nursing the baby frequently on the sore side. I've never known a baby to refuse one side altogether. But Clayton was adamant and by afternoon, we ended up dipping into my supply of stored breast milk to feed my cranky boy.

Cut to a week later, after 5 days on the antibiotic and no noticeable improvement in my health (mastitis makes you feel flu-y and awful). I pumped and discovered the milk to be grainy and off colored on the right side. My rock hard breast softened slightly after each pumping, but an egg sized lump remained, hard and painful near my right armpit. My mom, sister and I started googling and started fearing an abscess. I went to the emergency room and ended up being admitted for a 48 hour course of IV antibiotics. The surgeon (they called in a surgeon instead of an OB because they feared the lump would need to be lanced and drained) kindly made arrangements for Clayton to stay with me, though I was given strict orders not to nurse him on the right side. Over the course of the next 2 days, I burned quickly through my meager stores of frozen breast milk, and started for the first time in 5 children, turning to formula to nourish my child. I was devastated. Not because I think formula is so bad, but because this wasn't how I mothered my children. I make gazillions of mistakes and crappy choices for my babies every day but the one thing I always offered them was my milk. I cried a lot in those 2 days. I missed my other ducks. I was afraid the lump was truly an abscess which would have meant I had to stop nursing altogether. I felt sick and lonesome, although thank heavens I had my baby boy with me. He was my little life raft of cooing, smiling warmth in the cool, dim, bustling ocean of sterile hospital life. I was lucky my sister was home visiting during this stay. Between her, my mom, and my husband,I knew the other ducks were in good hands.

So, long story short, the lump was not an abcess, but just infected tissue and after 2 nights it was clear that the antibiotic was working. I still wasn't allowed to nurse on the bad side (the milk culture revealed both strep and staph in the milk), and my left side just wasn't producing enough to satisfy my growing boy. So I would nurse him as long as he was willing for each feeding, then follow up with a bottle--pumped breast milk if available, formula if not. I gave more bottles in that first week than I have ever given to all the other 4 children combined.

This all happened about 3 weeks ago. Since that time, I have been doggedly determined to get this baby back on the boob. I am pumping ever 2-3 hours and putting him to breast as often as he will. Unfortunately, I went back to work last week, so bottles are inevitable during that time. I'm providing about 90% of his needs with breast milk (although the day he took 36 ounces set me back again. Seriously--that is a moose cup of breast milk! My other kids usually took 2-3 bottles of about 4-6 ounces during my work day. This child is a whole different story!) I'm pumping 25-30 ounces a day.

All the emotional considerations aside, what I didn't realize I loved about breastfeeding was the convenience! The dishes alone are about to sink me, not to mention the hassle of figuring out how long we will be gone for every outing so I can be sure I have enough to feed Clayton, then figuring out how to keep bottles of milk the right temperature (cold until he's hungry, warm when he's ready to eat), how to keep them clean and sterile before, during and after a feeding etc. I have 5 active children--the last thing I need is a couple more things to do and try to keep clean. I have my doubts about the sterility and cleanliness of my kitchen sink and my dishes. I have much higher confidence in the cleanliness of my chest. And there is nothing more frustrating than warming up a bottle I have had to clean and keep track of, feeding my child said bottle, then heading to my pump and pumping the exact amount at the precisely perfect temperature when he is finished. Only to then wash all the attachments, the bottles, the nipples, and pack away the tubing, the electrical cord. It is so darn inefficient! It's frustrating, and I still feel this tug of sorrow knowing this baby doesn't need me quite as urgently in quite the same way as my others did. I know I am probably making more of this than I need to, but this is my last shot at this whole baby thing, and it has been a beautiful, life changing journey. I loved nursing my babies and there is a corner of sorrow in my heart that I can't rationalize away no matter how many times I tell myself to be grateful for my wonderful boy's health and good spirits, or my practical consideration that as a full time working mom, a baby who likes the bottle is a blessing. (By contrast, my other son nearly insisted on starving for 8 hours a day as he so profoundly preferred nursing). Clayton insists on bottles all day long, up to and including my beloved after work and bedtime feedings.

So I pump. I pump before I go to work and before I go to bed. I pump at work while I check my email. I pump after I put supper in the oven. I pump in the night if I awaken shortly after Clayton's last feeding. I pump when I'm reading to my other children. I pump and read book after book after book (Chad is starting to question the wisdom of buying me that Kindle). I pump in my car and in my living room and in my bedroom. I pump at my mom's house and the mother's room at work.

But here is the good news--Clayton still nurses in the night. His crib is in our room and I think we still have that sleeping connection I've read about whereby nursing mothers and their infants progress through the REM cycles at the same time--so that when Clay is most likely to wake and feed, I am also the nearest to a waking state. So as soon as I hear the telltale rustlings, I dash out of bed and sweep my baby in my arms. As we settle in my rocker and I smell the milky, sleeping scent of that fuzzy blonde head, I feel the urgent, stinging sweetness of a child seeking comfort and nourishment in the night. I crave and relish these moments, when my baby is mine, only mine, connected to me in the most intimate mother moment possible outside of the womb. It is almost like, in the dark and the night, Clayton can forget our months of struggle and just nurse, filling his belly with my abundant milk and (I sincerely hope) his heart with my abundant love for him.

A few nights ago I awoke with a prayer that these fleeting moments remain mine awhile longer. Clay had acted funny at our midnight feeding, resisting the breast like he does so determinedly during the daytime hours. I feared that he would soon abandon even these brief connections and instead demand the bottle at night as well (a nightmare of inconvenience aside fom my more sentimental concerns). But at last he latched and we settled together, eventually both dozing off in the comfort of each other's presence while the midnight hours and his fleeting, baby days ticked quietly by.

How very Freudian--aka "Adventures in Diapering"

This is the conversation the queen and I had while changing Clayton's diaper last night.

Queen Lucy, enchanted. "Mommy, look!"

Me: "I see, honey."

Queen: "I want one of those!"

Me, "'Well, Lucy, I'm sorry. God gave you the other kind. I can't give you one of those."

"Please, Mommy."

"No. I'm sorry, Lulee."

"JohnPaul has one!" (JP is her cousin).

Me, laughing. "I know honey."

Lucy: "Nico has one. Sammy has one." (Another cousin and her big brother, both of whom, apparently, she has been observing fairly closely).

"I know. I'm sorry."

At this point, Lucy leaves the room shaking her head and looking terribly sad. Perhaps a bit more discretion at diaper and bath time may be in order.

Of cable & cliffs

Last night I think I caught a glimpse of how a pregnant man might act. At least, it is how I imagine a pregnant man might act. I was in a foul mood. I could feel it in myself; I knew I was just spitting mean. And all I wanted was to sit in a chair, unmolested, and watch TV. My TV. Not Ben 10. Not Tom & Jerry. Not Barbie in Mermaidia. Not Shark Tank or the news. Just mindless, mama TV, preferably something I've been loading up on the DVR in anticipation of many long hours of night nursing. I did not want to compromise. I did not want to share the clicker or have a kid or three crawling all over me. This may not sound like the most ambitious of dreams, but, believe me, for a mama of 4 and even a wife of 1, it isn't as easy as it sounds. So I ungraciously kicked out the cartooners and collapsed in the recliner. I got my show on, and in less than 30 seconds had 2 little girls on my lap--not just cuddling calmly (of course) but literally physically fighting on top of me and around my enormous belly. Then I had one child decide it made more sense just to perch near my shoulder on the recliner, like a cat. Or a parrot. Then Chad came in and started complaining about the show I had chosen. (He loves this "Shark Tank" show about business people and inventors trying to cut a deal with investors. In better moods, I can tolerate it, but as a liberal arts girl at heart stuck in the deepest bowels of corporate America for 45+ hours a week, I lose interest in topics of commerce and money by some Friday nights. Especially this Friday night). We do have other TVs in the house. But one is in the kitchen, which is not conducive to lounging, and one is in the basement and hooked up to the satellite receiver in the living room (which means you can only watch the same show -aka Shark Tank). In addition, since our basement flooded, there is no carpet and limited furniture down there (mostly stacked against one wall), so it isn't exactly pleasant. So, I made a decision. "That's it," I declared, lumbering to my feet and looking for my shoes. "I'm going to buy my own TV." Everyone looked up in surprise, both because I'm not much of a TV girl and because I'm not given to such spontaneous and expensive demands. I almost always prefer reading to channel surfing, and have been very noisy about my insistence that shrines not be built in our home to the almighty tube. But ever since we got back from visiting my sister over Thanksgiving, I've been taken with the idea of a small TV in my bedroom. Carrie has a little nook in her bedroom with her baby rocker, the DVR, and a DVD player where she can sit and nurse her baby away from the noise of the main house, or nestle her big boys in for a movie while she naps or reads on her bed. It seemed like a nice little arrangement. I have a rocker, and a bedroom, and even an extra DVD player somewhere. All I needed was a TV. I asked for one for Christmas, and it didn't happen (I did get my Kindle, which was higher on my list). And I've been halfheartedly wishing for one ever since, though I never put any action into it. So this wasn't altogether an unheard of demand. But at 8pm on a random Friday, it was a bit surprising. It occurred to me then, that this is the kind of thing a pregnant man would demand--and then go do. I, however, have made it through 4 pregnancies without insisting upon my own TV. So my family was a bit taken aback. Undeterred, I loaded up. Here is what a pregnant man would NOT do. Agree to take his 2 youngest daughters along on the errand (their request—not their dad’s). Grab the list of other WalMart necessities on the way out the door. Write down the spouse's instructions about price, brand, pixels, and also take his order for cold medicine. But, whatever. I was on a mission. I got to WalMart, got to the TVs and proceeded to look for the size and brand I had been encouraged to buy. Here's where it gets annoying. My phone rang. Claire climbed up on a shelf next to the teetering TVs. I answered the phone and Chad started telling me about the deals he was finding online, and babbling about resolutions and LCDs vs. LEDs. Claire fell face first off the shelf and Lucy started rummaging through my make up bag and pulled out a dark red lipstick delightedly. The WalMart guy came over to "help." Can you guess how this story ends? With a purchase of cold medicine and sippy cups, an aggravated stomp across a crowded parking lot with a screaming two year old under my arm (she did not take kindly to not being allowed to wear lipstick), and a fast, pissed off drive home. This is what I wanted to happen. I wanted to march into WalMart, gloriously, hormonally annoyed, and pick the first TV I saw off the shelf. I wanted to whip out my credit card and stomp back home, where Chad would meekly be waiting with his drill and cables in hand to hang it and hook it up for me. Then I wanted to crawl in my bed and watch some movie I’ve seen a thousand times but is NOT designed for children and just veg out, uninterrupted. I am a buyer. A decider. Chad is a noodler and a debater. We are good for each other (of course I realize this is one of those things that makes us make sense together). I’m a cliff jumper. Chad is a cliff ponderer. I see a cliff, decide to jump, climb up, and jump. Chad will sit looking at the cliff, measuring the height of the peak and the depth of the water below, gauging the weather and the wind, talking to others who have jumped and others who have not for months before actually, tentatively, approaching the cliff in consideration of a jump sometime in the future. His job is to stop me from jumping off cliffs into boulder strewn, shark infested waters. And my job is to keep him from staring too long at sunsets into which we could soar. I used to make purchases (even big ones) this way all the time. Emotionally. Quickly. I’ve never been rich, but I’ve never worried much about money. In all my hours of pondering my next meal, it has never been due to concern about how it would be paid for. And I’ve never enjoyed the process of shopping and comparing features and benefits and prices. If I want something, I want to go out and get it. End of story. This is endlessly frustrating to my penny pinching and detail obsessed husband. So I’ve acquiesced, in most cases, and, again, in this one. I’m not that into stuff, so I’m generally fine going without, or waiting for him to decide. But last night, I wanted my OWN DAMN TV. But, reason prevailed, of course. I’m still not convinced it would have hurt anything to spend a few hundred bucks on my own little TV. The other thing about me is I’m not one to grieve over missed opportunities in purchasing actions. If I saw the same TV for $50 less a week from now, it probably wouldn’t even register with me. If some fabulous new feature came out in TVs next week, I wouldn’t mourn its lack in my own set. But Chad would. And apparently I wasn’t quite irrational enough to decide it was worth 6 months worth of “should haves” from my beloved over a TV I would certainly be too tired to watch by the time I got it home and hooked up anyway. So this is what did happen. I came home and put 3 children to bed—one a weeping toddler who just couldn’t get over the lipstick incident. I brushed my teeth, prayed with my son, kissed my tween (who wasn’t a bit tired, of course), and collapsed, exhausted, in my own bed, to dream of the day when I could reign over my own clicker, completely supreme.

i-groceries

I just scored two bags of free groceries. Unfortunately, it is crap I almost never buy, for the most part. But the kids will be thrilled--sugar cereal, bologna, hot dogs, ramen noodles, 2 economy size bags of chips. It's the kind of junk the daughter of a one time nutritionist just can't bring herself to purchase much of anymore (I'm not so good on the sweet stuff, but the kind of junk windfall we just enjoyed is a lot of products I can avoid pretty easily). Today started out like any other day, dragging my enormous behind out of bed and into work before the birds were up, packing lunches, sipping coffee. I had placed my weekly online grocery order last night because I've been too busy to get it done at work, and too tired to get in before my shift to do it in the relative calm of the office before 6a. For some reason, the grocery website is set up to remember me at both home and office based on my email and name/address, so I rarely have to log in. For some reason, however, my home computer thinks I want to pick up my groceries at one location, and my work computer thinks it is another (work is right). You'd think that somehow with the shared password, first and last names, email account, and street address the website would somehow link home me with work me and at least call the ordering error to my attention. But you would think wrong. Anyway, this morning was Sammy's class Mass, so I had to be out of the office for about an hour, which meant I couldn't spend any time dinking around with the order and it's location. I sent an email to the "contact us" address, hoping they could straighten it out, and went about my business. See, the whole point of online grocery shopping is to save me time. Not to explain to every shop clerk and shelf stocker the intricacies of e-commerce. During my work day. Or, worse, AFTER my work day when there are innumerable children, chaos, and noise swirling around me like dust around that old Peanuts character "Pigpen" (apt metaphor, that!) So, in fairness to the grocery store, they straightened out the location for me and were completely polite, friendly, and professional in the process. But that was only the beginning. When I showed up to pick up the groceries, I called, as I always do, when I was about 5 minutes out to tell them to meet me in the checkout line. On good days, they are there waiting for me when I arrive. I hand them my check, they load up my groceries, and I'm on my way. Easy peasy. I don't ever get off my big behind. Today was not one of those days. Eventually they found my order, which seemed a bit extensive, though I'm far too exhausted these days to actually get out and inspect the bags before we get home. I handed them my scrip gift card and the check to cover the difference, and away we zoomed. I noticed some errors as soon as we got home. The first bag I picked up was the one full of chips, hot dogs, and ramen noodles. Not mine. There was a gallon of 2% milk. Also not mine. Long story short, they got MOST of the order right, and apparently threw in the cart full of stuff from the poor schmuck who was about to pull in behind me. But here's the thing. I hadn't come straight home. Lucy was at Grandma's house for the day, and I hadn't picked her up yet. So we stopped there and stayed to visit for awhile, finally loading up a leisurely hour after picking up the groceries. So that's when I discovered the error. I called immediately, but I'm guessing they had already had an earful from the other customer. They told me to just keep the extra stuff. They were replacing the other person's order as we spoke. So it's chips, hot dogs and ramen noodles for the Luekens for a few weeks, I guess. They also graciously agreed to bring out the few items they had missed (5 lb. of clementines, a bottle of pesto sauce). So here's the thing. Online shopping isn't exactly cutting edge. I realize that online grocery shopping may still be a bit unconventional, but I have been doing it weekly for about 3 months now, and am absolutely hooked. I have always hated spending time I don't need to away from my little ducks, but it is completely impractical to bring all of them along anymore, at least when I want to retain what little sanity I have left and make the most of my precious non-working (these days non-sleeping) hours. Chad also works a lot and gets a little overwhelmed by the whole flock, so the last thing I want to waste my precious "daddy duty" hours on is grocery shopping. Especially every week. The charge for pick up is only $5, and from what I'm seeing, I am far more vigilant about sticking to my list when I'm not actually in the store so I'm guessing I am actually saving more than $5 each week by not shopping in person. The arguments for this arrangement are endless. Our local store has offered online grocery shopping for at least 2 years now, but as far as I can tell, I may be the only regular customer. So they remain fairly confused by it. Every. Single. Week. Every time I call to tell them I'm on the way, even though it is almost always "Ellie" or "Mercedes" that answer, they mutter a hesitant, "Oooooo--kayy, um, hold on," and then put me on hold while they figure out what tomfoolery I may be up to with my "online" nonsense. The guys (it's usually guys) who bring out the groceries to load them up always have their brows knit confusedly, and generally at least one person comes out to ask me what I'm waiting for before they arrive with my groceries. They nearly always seem surprised that I want to pay them (and, in their defense, I could pay via credit card online, but I like to use the church scrip program to help offset the kids' tuition as well as stick to our budget, and that whole complicated gift card transaction can't be completed online). The website clearly states that costs may be slightly different than indicated based on necessary substitutions or in store outages, so I usually ask for a receipt which usually results in even more confusion. Once, they handed me a $5 bill and some change and when I said it had to be a mistake they said, "just...Can you just take it? They said it was for you." I did, because clearly they just wanted me out of there with my complicated expectations and enormous order. It's actually kind of funny, in a way. The kids hate waiting in the car--they, of course, would much prefer to run willy nilly throughout the store begging for candy and sugary fruit things and pulling items off shelves and disappearing behind soup can and cereal box displays--but I put on a movie for them and happily browse facebook or twitter on my phone while we wait for the confusion to subside so I can head home with my weekly booty. And then some, judging by this week. There are all sorts of little inconsistencies and issues that drive me a little batty beyond just the constant aura of confusion that hovers over everyone at the store when I make my weekly purchase. There are some items I can't get, and I inevitably click something wrong (like the time I ended up with 10 of the giant yogurt containers because I didn't pay attention to ounces per carton). Sometimes the shoppers make mistakes--but, hey, sometimes I do too! I'm sure I could take things back and straighten it all out, but usually it isn't worth the hassle (we can get by with one loaf of bread instead of two for 7 days, and for every time they forget something, they throw in something extra--this week in addition to the extra 2 bags, I got that extra gallon of milk and 2 extra tomatoes). I'm a little worried about how they calculate the savings when I use their store coupons--it seems very much based on the honor system and while I do my utmost to be honest and make the prices online match the prices I key in the coupon codes, I'd much prefer it if they could match their weekly ad prices to the online costs. They never ask. They never check to make sure I include my coupons with my check and gift card. So who knows. For now, I plan to keep shopping online. Cutting edge mama that I am. Seriously, though--I wish more of you would try it. Maybe together we could cut through the confusion and start an online grocery shopping revolution. It will be like i-tunes. Only for cheerios and ramen noodles. Imagine the possibilities.

what he should have said

My apologies, again, as usual, for my long absences. I'm trying not to abuse this blog as an outlet for all my whining in the dwindling weeks of this pregnancy, but really, it is all consuming. So I'm sparing you my complaining--be glad you're not hearing much from me. Not to mention that if I have 5 minutes to myself these days, I try to spend them sleeping.

But today I have a quick story to tell that I couldn't summarize pithily enough for a facebook status, though it is almost brief enough.

Last night, I fell down the steps.

Sort of. Almost. Now before you become all shocked and horrified with visions of Scarlet O'Hara tumbling gracefully down a grand, red carpeted staircase complete with southern belle shrieks and dramatic music let me tell you that it was just like most of my adventures, basically just clumsy and stupid. And I really didn't even fall. Just sort of stumbled with my left foot down three steps while my right foot remained securely planted on a higher step and I clung precariously to the banister and yelped.

Chad was sitting at his desk and looked up in irritation in plain view of my near-tumble. "What are you doing?" he snapped. And then (afterthought) "Are you okay?"

Tears sprang to my eyes, more in annoyance than actual pain, and I snapped something back (can't remember what--it was just so pointed and witty) and resumed my lumbering way back upstairs to my beloved bed, no real harm done. My right ankle (the one I broke in high school) has complained a bit more noisily than usual in the last day, so I probably wrenched or twisted something a bit, but in the general scheme of things my little stair adventure was a non-event. I spent the rest of the evening imagining what my beloved husband might have, should have said.

It goes something like this. "Oh my heavens, my dearest darling, what happened?" as he dashes to my side, knocking his chair over in his haste and worry. "Are you alright? Oh my goodness, what might have been!" (pause here for horrified brooding). "You sit down here on the couch while I get everyone to bed. Then I'm bringing you a big bowl of ice cream and that bottle of peppermint foot lotion I bought to surprise you with when the baby comes. We're starting my nightly foot rubs right now."

But if he had said something like that he would:
1. Not have been the slightly tongue tied man I married and adore (you know that song--"you say it best when you say nothing at all"? My darling's theme song).
2. Probably have a girlfriend with huge boobs (unaccompanied by the huge belly) waiting somewhere in the wings.
and, 3. been some kind of metro-sexual freak that would irritate the living snot out of me 90% of the time.

But, a girl can dream, right?

Bored

I'm not sure I ever really envisioned myself as the mama of many. To be honest, other than knowing I've always wanted to be a mom (which only requires 1/5 of my current load), I never really gave my ultimate family size that much thought. If pressed, I imagine I would have said 4--2 girls and 2 boys--just because I was pretty sure I wanted more than 2 and I liked the idea of having both genders and of my girls having a sister and my boys having a brother.

So now, on the cusp of becoming the mother of a brood of five, the most frequent response I receive to the most frequent question from strangers ("is this your first?" and my response "no, fifth"), right after "you must be crazy/a saint/very busy" is "how do you DO it?" And I find this a little annoying, to be honest. I've tried out some cutesy phrases "willpower and caffeine", "a healthy dose of insanity and very little sleep" and some sweet ones "my husband helps a ton" (true story--the man is brilliant at housework--much better than me to be honest) or "my family is the best part of my life--why would I want to limit that?". But the honest to God truth is I just do what I have to do. Is it overwhelming, at times? Of course. Is it beyond busy some days? Absolutely. Is it exhausting? No question. But you just do it. If you sit back and mourn the dozens of loads of laundry and the hundreds of meals and chores of course it seems impossible. But we muddle through. And I have to say that I am as happy as I can remember being. I never go a day without at minimum 10 hugs and kisses. I never go to sleep without hearing "I love you" at least a half dozen times. I never fold a shirt or pick up another stuffed animal without realizing how much the owners are growing and filling the world and my heart to the brim with crazy, noisy joy.

And today it is very easy to wax poetic and grateful because I am experiencing something I thought had altogether vanished from my existence--boredom. Seriously. I am bored. Grace is at a friend's (yes, again. I swear I'm really only raising 3 children because she is always out in the world somewhere doing something). And Claire is with her beloved cousin Bridget (my brother Brad having realized, as I have, that an extra kid in the house actually reduces your workload). We let Sam invite his buddy over due to the extreme unfairness of his sisters having somewhere to go and his not and they are upstairs playing quietly in his room (read: playing video games). And Lucy is happily playing alone (I swear that girl would have made an ideal first child--I think the chaos of all of us gets to her sometimes). Chad is watching TV and getting ready to start on yet another house project. Darlene (the miracle house cleaning fairy who continues to come back willingly every week) was just here yesterday and it is hours before I need to start supper. I've begun buying my groceries online, so thanks to our weekly stop at the HyVee drive through, our cupboards are full. I'm even current on laundry. So I am unaccountably unencumbered. I'm not free to dart out into the world, of course, but I've never been much of a shopper and I get tired just going up stairs these days, so I can't really think of anywhere I would even go.

So I'm bored. I know this is fleeting (I may not even have time to finish this post before someone needs something), but it is just so "durned unexpected". I truly can't imagine just having a kid or two. I guess I like the bustle and chaos and noise. I hate the mess (I think that is a variation on the mother's curse, you know the one--"I hope someday you get a kid just LIKE YOU (aka sloppy, messy, dirty)" and it's inverse "I hope my pet peeves (i.e. aversion to messes) become your pet peeves when you're grown"). But I like being needed. I like having lots of people around. And on days like today I feel like I'm on top of my game (ask me next week when someone gets sick on the same day as the rescheduled school talent show on the same day as my major presentation at work and Chad's only business trip of the year). But every now and then it happens. And I'm going to revel in it for the next, oh, 10 seconds or so. I can't imagine there is much more of this left.

Terrible Twos

In the second year of the reign of Queen Lucy the terrible, there was great trial in the land. At least for Mama Duck.

I am not a novice to the era of the terrible. I've safely ushered 3 little ducks through the traumatic second year of toddlerhood with only a minimum of drama and bloodshed. It has come to pass, however, that I may have met my match in the queen. She is quickly pushing me to that indecipherable, "you'll know it when you see it" state known as "my wit's end."

I can't manage this child. She is exhausting me, and please remember that every two year old I've ever mothered reached the peak of terribleness more or less during the third trimester of pregnancy. Like I said; we've all been here before.

But was there ever a toddler so stubborn, so willful, so demanding? What Grace made up for with her generally calm demeanor and exceptional verbal skills, and Sam made up for with his utter susceptibility to mama magic (and sugar bribes) and Claire made up for with her general sweetness and distractibility, Lucy brings full force with her terrible twoness.

She is capable only of hurricane force emotions and literally refuses to answer any question (seriously, even questions like, "do you want candy?") with anything but a belligerant "NO," (you have to listen to the tone to know if it is no-no, or yes-no; or, better, just listen to the question and assume whatever answer--affirmative or negative--that you desire, is the one the queen is sure not to provide). She is becoming increasingly verbal, but her frustration when we can't understand her is simply epic. A typical conversation goes like this, "Mama?"
"Yes?"
"Ah-paco."
"What, darling?"
"Ah-paco. Peeees."
"You want popcorn?"
"NO! Ah baco. Bee bee"
"You want your baby?"
"NO!!!" (commence screaming and thrashing.)
"You want a banana?" growing more desperate, "You want a cookie? You want your binky? You want a diamond ring?"
"No," sadly, pitifully. (This is almost worse).
"Ah baco, Sammy-Gace moka bee bee. Ok?" (add gestures and pointing)
"You want to go for a walk?"
"NO!!"
"You want lamby?"
"NO!"
and so it goes.
It's exhausting.

And the thing is, she is such a charming, adorable little thing. She has this wrinkle nosed smile that makes you just melt, and she can work the room like nobody I've seen since her uncle Craig and her cousin Nico. But she is wearing me out.

I keep having this vision of some boy trying to take advantage of her some day. All I can say is I am already terrified for this unsuspecting teenage bundle of hormones. He'll end up with a black eye, an ice pack between his legs, and a tongue lashing so severe it leaves him seriously evaluating the priesthood. Come to think of it, maybe all this willfulness isn't such a bad thing. If I can just survive until her third birthday. Oy.

A quick tribute to sugar man and the queen

Dear Sam & Lucy,

I owe you both a long, lingering, loving post on the momentous occassions of your 7th and 2nd birthdays respectively. But it just isn't going to happen this year. Not because I don't adore you. Not because I can imagine life without my little February miracles. But for the sheer fact of logistics--to wit, not only am I 8 months pregnant (read: exhausted) and trying to manage an overwhelming new full time job, 4 kids, and a crazy, bustling household. But this week, in addition to your two separate birthdays (for which you each got a cake) and 2 different birthday parties (one family, one friend--for which we also had 2 separate cakes; I never thought I'd say this, but I'm a little sick of cake), but we also had a round of the flu smash through the house with all its incumbent drama and mess (yours truly having the messiest reaction--lovely) and then yesterday we discovered that our basement had flooded in the spring thaw. I adore you both with every fiber of my being. Unfortunately, every ounce of energy and attention I have right now must go to the necessities (please don't ask me when the last time was that you all had proper baths)--like nutrition, permission slips, and rescuing as many possible stuffed animals and Barbie dresses from the damps below.

So, in one quick paragraph each, here is what I love about you. Sam, I love that you are a boy who maintains his essential boyness in the midst of princess central. I love your perfect, curly hair--the stuff of legend for grandmas and little girl classmates. I love that your skin is like cream when I press my own, dry, wrinkling cheek to yours. I love that you never go to sleep without insisting that I pray your three prayers with you and that every night you pray "For everybody on the whole planet and that the baby is a boy". I love that when you are tired, you go to bed. No fuss. No whining. No incessant demands. You ask for your kiss and your prayers, and you're off to dreamland. I love that the toughest part about getting you out the door for any event is helping you tie your shoes (and not even that so much anymore). I love that you will wear clothes long after they fit you just because they are comfortable and familiar and you never seem to notice how you look. I love that you have the only sweet tooth I've ever encountered that makes mine look like a mere preference. I love your bull-headed tenacity, even though it drives me crazy. I hope you hold on with that kind of unquenchable determination to everything you want in life. You will be utterly unstoppable if you someday pursue your professional goals with the same persistence you display in demanding one more serving of dessert. I love that you still climb unselfconsciously onto my lap, on the rare opportunity that you find it open, and nestle your curly little head into my shoulder. You remind me of the cuddly little boy baby whose whole body would relax against mine with a shudder of sheer relief at our closeness. I used to say you melted into me like butter. I love you little man. You fill me right up.

Your highness, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love that you are the tiniest of my babies in size and in age, and you are the boss of us all. I love that you are a bully because I will never be afraid to send you into the world. I know well how utterly capable of taking care of yourself you are. I love that you adore books and babies because those are two of my very favorite things as well. I love that you are the first of my little ducks to carry the Giese brown hair and eyes into the next generation. You recently saw a picture of me at about your age with Grandma Sue Sue and insisted that it was "Lulee." I love that you call yourself "Lulee" and always with a wrinkle nosed smile. I love that you are a daddy's girl and think your Papa hung the moon. I am and think those things, too. After 3 straight "only Mama" siblings, you are a welcome relief for your tired mama and a heart-melting little charmer for your crusty dad. I love that you are always in the middle of everything, that you never slow down, that you are as much a "Taz" as your big sister Claire, but that your big bossy personality makes us forget just how busy you really are. I love seeing you sign and snuggle your big sisters. It is a singular joy to see you melt into Gracie's arms when I am at my wit's end with you. I love that you, too, are the first of my babies to really warrant the description "a good sleeper." Having a child sleep so soundly through the night all alone in the royal crib was quite a change for me--and welcome after nearly 7 years of interrupted nights. I love that you are powering through big sister boot camp with all your typical sass and spunk. You don't go easily, but we get there--binky free, big girl bed and all. Lucy-girl, you'll always be queen of my heart.

But now, my beloved, I must go finish the dishes. You little ducks swear the work is finished and I hear the Wii chirping and chiming in the background, though I can hardly believe the kitchen work is complete. Daddy is downstairs pulling up carpet, so it falls to me to finish the clean up and herd you all off to baths and bed.

I love you, little February ducks. This month used to be so dreary and dull--full of dirty, melting snow and slushy, fickle weather. Now, instead of just longing for sunshine and summer, we have reason to pause and celebrate YOU. And we get to eat cake all month long. What could be better than that?

Forces of Nature

Before I tell this story, I have to add this disclaimer. After 5 pregnancies, a woman's attitude towards everything gestationally related changes. At least mine has. I'm less hyper about every little thing, and, more than anything, far less full of "shoulds" for myself, my body, and, most importantly, my husband. I didn't marry him for his golden tongued compliments or smooth ability to find just the right thing to say in any given moment. And, as my past 4 babies have taught me--he is never less inclined to find the right thing to say than when I am pregnant--especially third trimester, lumbering, crabby, exhausted giantess pregnant. (Sounds lovely, doesn't it?) So onto my story....

Lately, I have noticed Chad becoming awfully cuddly at night. I'm not talking anything but plain, old fashioned snuggling, here (really), but night after night I find him spooned up against me warmly, his arm flung over my growing bulk, his breath in my ear. Its about 50/50 whether I find this contact sweet and welcome, or annoying and clingy. Regardless, it's just not like him.

My beloved is not a cold man--to the contrary, he can be incredibly playful and affectionate with me and the kids. But he's not exactly what you would call a hugger. So this surprised me.

Perhaps, I mused, he is finally recognizing the awesome miracle that is taking place inside my body. Perhaps he finds himself drawn, when not fully conscious, to the sheer, feminine, life-giving power of my expanding womb (and, you know, everything). Perhaps he is attempting to bond with his unborn child through close contact with her mother. It was a lovely little explanation I wove for myself.

So I asked him.

"You seem awfully cuddly lately; what's going on? You are, like, right next to me all night long, anymore," I teased him.

"Dawn," he said, tilting his head at that 'gimme a break' angle. "Do you know what happens when you climb into bed these days?"

"What?" I asked, still blissfully oblivious, still grinning.

"It's just gravity."

Humph.

Right on both counts

Conversation between Grace, her swim team buddy and me:

"Mommy, what does XL mean?"

"Like, what do you mean?"

"Like, Nintendo XL?"

"Oh, I don't know that much about Nintendo and all their different names."

"Oh, but, like, don't all your clothes say that, too?"

Thanks for noticing. "Oh. Yes. It means 'extra large'"

"And you need that right now because of the baby, right?"

"Yep--I need extra large" (because of the baby--very generous of you). Turning to her friend, "She needs extra room for the baby. It's called 'Maternity'" clothes."

"What's 'eternity' clothes?" asked the friend.

"It means, 'really fat', right mom?"

Girls, you both got it right.

Locker Room Incident

Tonight was Sammy's basketball game. With much planning, we managed to arrive about 25 minutes early (straight from school and work) and proceeded in our usual chaotic, meandering way to descend upon the locker room to change into our athletic clothes from our school and work uniforms. We were our usual noisy, messy selves, bickering and bossing, making our gradual way towards our goal--Sam and I in athletic attire, 5 coats hung in the lockers, quick snack consumed on the fly. There was another mom in the locker room with us--a couple of cute 5 or 6 year old girls and a diapered toddler boy in tow, changing dutifully into swimsuits. To be honest, I took little notice of her, only meeting her eyes once. I sensed a sort of weird vibe from her, sort of irritated or pointed or something, but I was far too exhausted and consumed with herding my ducks to pay much attention.

Fifteen minutes later I was busy settling my girls on the sidelines and getting Sammy onto the court in his yellow jersey when I was tapped on the shoulder. This cute little gal started telling me about the "family locker room" and how I could access it whenever I needed to. "We really recommend it for families with little boys," she persisted chippily. Wait a minute. What? Are you serious? My 6 year old son was being reprimanded for coming into the girls' locker room with his mother?

"We've had a complaint," the woman said sheepishly. My temper flared around my obvious confusion.

"She had a son, too," I snapped, unnecessarily, I know. "He was younger than mine, but she had a boy in the locker room, too," I repeated.

The girl was instantly abashed, and I retreated immediately. "It's okay," I told her. "Really, I know you have to say something. We'll use the other locker room from now on. I'm just saying," I muttered, as I walked away. But I have grown increasingly annoyed as the night has worn on.

I don't know for sure, but I am pretty certain that the "family locker room" is a converted handicap bathroom. There is one in the entire facility. I have no problem using it, really. As long as it is available when I need it, (though visions of stressed out mothers of sons over a certain dangerous age--I don't know--5? standing in an endless line waiting desperately to take their little perverts to the bathroom or to change into their gym shorts can't help but fill my mind).

I am just annoyed by the sheer audacity and insanity of it all. It's not that I haven't thought about this before (remember the Garden of Eden post a year or so ago?), it's just that I don't see any feasible alternative. Beyond the implications of safety involved with sending a 1st grade boy into a boys or men's locker room alone, there are the simple practical considerations. Is there a 6 year old on the PLANET (male or female) capable of changing his clothes, keeping track of every item he removes, and not succumbing to the siren song of an infinite array of unsupervised mischief (unattended toilet paper! 6 showers all in a row! Lockers I can fit inside!)? I'm sure they exist, but like most families, we were on a schedule, and even if I could keep him from messing around and somehow keeping track of his crap completely unattended, there is no way he could do it in any reasonable amount of time. Even assuming he could defend himself from any potential real threats to his innocence, should the unlikely and unthinkable occur.

I am also the mother of many daughters, please remember. I am every bit as concerned about their modesty as I am their brother. But he is 6--HE IS 6!! Not to mention the fact that he has taken about 3 baths his entire life unaccompanied by a female. And that he was infinitely more concerned during our brief locker room time with the distribution of fruit snacks and pretzels and whether he had to tie his own shoes than he was in noticing any little half dressed vixens that might have shared his space.

Mothers of daughters, please give those of us with little boys a break. We already have to deal with getting peed on during every diaper change, potty training months later than your girls, learning about such weird toys as bakugan and beyblades (trust me--learning the names of the half dozen or so Disney princesses is cake compared to remembering ben's 10 alien forces) and dealing with the noise, the mess, the sheer masculine energy of these little men. Don't also make us worry about offending or threatening your little princesses. Trust me--the risks inherent in their catching a glimpse of a little extra skin are far less pervasive than the risk to your precious daughters should they lay a finger on his fruit snacks!!

I'm not one to complain, but...

So I readily admit that this pregnancy has been remarkably easy. No (and I mean not a single twinge of) morning sickness which for me is nothing short of miraculous. Much more reasonable weight gain than prior pregnancies (still on the high end, but at least within spitting distance of normal, even considering my starting point was a titch higher than it might have been in the first few).

But I'm going to vent for the next 3 minutes (until the kids finish their bedtime snack and start circling and demanding lap space). I HATE third trimester. And I'm barely even in it. At least I think I am. Actually, the thing that is most noticeable about later pregnancies is just how unmonitored they are, at least by this mama. With Grace, I thoroughly noticed and analyzed every tiny twinge and hiccup. I read dozens of books (really--this is no exaggeration as my recent attempt at halving my books, a sad and disheartening prospect--has shown me. And my mom informed me that medically speaking I am now what is known as "a grand mul-tip" or something like that. Sounds sort of regal, doesn't it?) I also knew almost to the second how much time remained until my due date. Now, if it weren't for the babycenter.com emails I receive each week (and when the heck did I manage to sign up for that? I ask you), I couldn't even tell you what month I am in. With Grace, and less so with each subsequent baby, I felt personally responsible for ensuring the continuation of my pregnancy through sheer force of will, focus, and devotion to prenatal vitamins and a religious avoidance of tuna fish, soft cheeses, deli meat, and, of course all alcohol. With this one, I could nearly (nearly) forget for weeks that I was pregnant at all. Until now.

So I am due April 15. What does that make me? 26 weeks and something, I think? Anyway, trimesters are 13 weeks a piece, so that puts me just in the very foothills of the mountains of trimester 3. And I'm already dragging.

I hate this part. Other than the delightful popcorn bouncing of this little baby bug (which is decidedly less delightful in the middle of the night), there is not much joy in these dragging last 3 months.

I hate my clothes. I hate my feet. I have completely stopped speaking to my legs (seriously--you do not have to gain and metamorphisize into something so horrid at such a disgusting rate. Your job is so peripheral to this whole effort, really). My smile is beginning to retreat entirely into the folds of my fat face. My hemorrhoids are acting up. I breathe like Darth Vadar with a head cold and have to lie down every time I take a load of laundry up the steps just in order to catch my breath. I am hot all the time (which makes me grateful this last trip down this long, long road will complete before any real prospect of hot weather sets in). And I just have no energy. My life requires a lot of energy. The others are minor annoyances, but the exhaustion can be nearly insurmountable.

Case in point, the queen is on my lap, Claire is insisting on helping me "on the 'puter" and Grace is performing girl scout camp songs and demanding a better audience than I am currently providing. Sam is MIA, but I'm guessing his silence involves contraband chocolate chips. Oops, no--he needs someone (guess who?) to bring him toilet paper.

So, perhaps the beauty of this last pregnancy is the complete lack of attention and time I have to pay to its inevitable march towards April, even now in these exhausting last weeks. Remarkably, in spite of my utter inability to give it any more than a passing thought here and there and a grudging avoidance of wine and diet pop (most of the time), things are progressing just fine.

It's 8pm. I have about 30 minutes before I will be drooling into my pillow, regardless of whether the little ducks are settled or not. I best be off...

Good night bug. Glad you can get what you need from this big old body of mine whether I pay you any attention or not. Good thing my love doesn't falter even when my attention does.

Mark me down for the assist

In ten minutes, we are leaving for Sammy's weekly basketball practice/game. For the second year in a row, I volunteered to coach the team. For the second year in a row, I have been assigned as the "assistant coach."

Now, I'm not complaining, exactly. Chad thinks I'm crazy to even try and coach at all--what with 4 kids and one on the way, a full time job, and about a bajillion other commitments and daily activities to keep track of.

But I love basketball. I devoted years of my life to it, spent countless hours perfecting my hook shot and my free throw, spent even more hours thinking and dreaming about the sport. I was kind of a freak about it.

I started playing when I was 8 on the exact same courts my little boy now takes his first tentative shots on. I played every Saturday until I was 12, then joined the junior high and high school teams and played every day for 6-7 months the next 6 years. Then I chose my college, in part, based on where I could keep playing the game I loved and played another 4 years. Then I joined the men's after work leagues for the next 2 years, even though I was the only woman on any team and struggled to play the power forward/center position which was the only job I'd ever had at my lifelong gigantor height (6 feet is not a center in most men's leagues).

And now they assign me to the assistant job. The guy I'm assisting wore cowboy boots to the last practice.

So games start at 5 and that's an awfully early time for my darling morning duty hubby to get home by. Which means I have to rely on my 8 year old to watch her 2 sisters. Which means I'm distracted during games, to say the least. And I am 6 months pregnant so my attempts at demonstrating certain moves are, hmmm, how to say it, somewhat comical and unwieldy (though these kids--99% 5 and 6 year old boys--are most certainly getting the gist). And, in fairness, I also end up holding a cranky queen on my hip half the time as well. So, from a broader perspective, I really am much better suited to the assistant role.

But still. If I can ever get any of my girls to play, I won't take such an assignment quite so lightly. For now, I'll bide my time. Mark me down for the assist.