Birdie's Early Christmasssssss

Last night was a banner night for the Eldest Chaos Girl, a.k.a. Birdie. At nine-thirty PM, she properly formed the sound of the letter "s" and used it while saying several words. She is six and a half, and until now the letters "s" and "z" have completely eluded her, to her deep frustration. She has done it, she has made that breakthrough.

And that breakthrough kept her up until well past eleven last night, practicing her "S's", the same breakthrough woke her up this morning with a hissy sissy snake sound coming out of her mouth!

On this blog, I have only ever mentioned this speech pathology of hers once. In my book, while it is a problem that has stumped her, it does not define her. Up until a few months ago she was dead set against Speech Therapy, and any conversation I had with her regarding her "s's" would leave her panicked and near tears... enter the beloved and wondrous Mrs W, the Kindergarten teacher with the magic touch. She casually mentioned to Birdie during a Parent/Teacher/Student meeting with the two of us that classmate so-and-so in Birdie's class goes to Speech and loves it. Good enough for the B girl, and so with her blessing I started the wheels in motion and got her in to meet with the school Speech Therapist. From that point on, there was no question that she would qualify, it was all formalities. The Therapist had never actually encountered the particular speech eccentricity that Birdie has. I know this is true, because she told me so, AND because she persisted in referring to the sound that she makes as a sound on the inhale. It isn't. Trust me, I have listened to it for five years. It is an exhaled nasal.

Details. Whatever.

In the end, the T's never got all the way crossed, nor the I's entirely dotted until just before the end of the school year, so Birdie never actually got any therapy. They figured that a week and a half (three appointments) would have confused her more than helped, so they just sent home a packet of summer Speech Therapy homework. Which I thought was pretty great until I looked through it, and realised that it was full of endless ways to encourage her to practice making the sounds correctly, and cute little charts to put nifty stars on for the days that she completes her assignments.

GAGHK! She has never been able to make an "s" sound! What do you mean practice? I was back to square one. Only now I was annoyed!

Birdie is a highly motivated little girl who loves to learn. She also has a little friend who's older brother is homeschooled, and thusly the little girl insists on some schoolin' herself. Plus several of the Chaos's cousins are homeschooled. She and LaLa had begun to pester me for some homeschool this summer.

Sigh.

I have NEVER thought of Homeschool as anything I was interested in doing. At best I had planned on supplementing their plain-old public education with art and a few science projects. Only now the pressure is on. Great. So this week we started with "Plants and Seeds." It was gonna be "Wildflowers" but there wasn't even enough literature in the kids section of the local library to even do a full week on "Flowers," so "P & S" it is. Frankly I think it's pretty funny to hear my kids talking about Monocotyledons, Dicotyledons and Disseminules, so we aren't dumbing down the vocabulary for them... but we generally lose Pearl within her first three thwarted attempts to engage us in a good wrastle while we are hitting the books. We lose LaLa about five minutes later as she hits the pantry for a good snack scrounge (although she can still hear every word, and I think she IS still listening). So last night I didn't feel at all badly about continuing our study of how seeds travel even after the younger two had gone to bed. But after a half an hour of study, plus an expedition outside to see if we could spot any winged disseminules (helicopter seeds) in the local maple trees, I started to cast about for something to distract Birdie from the all-seeds-all-the-time focus she has going. So I brought up the "Speech Therapy Homework Packet" that was awaiting her. I figure that it has "Homework" in the title, so it must have a bit of appeal for the Birdster in her current must-learn-everything mode that she is in.

Ayuh. Sure did.

For a thing that has brought her to tears so many times and completely stumped her, last night it was easy. It was effortless. It was immediate and it felt like a miracle. It is the very first step, and today she mastered the "Z" sound.

Had I mentioned that Birdie is a highly motivated little girl? She is motivated. Talking with her today has been like speaking to a stranger. She doesn't sound like her old self. She is going full bore into the land of "correctly pronouncssssed sssspeech." She is sibilance itsssself. She is thinking, and practicing and I swear it's like Christmas around here for her. I am constantly reminding her that this is a process and she will have to practice long and hard before she gets it right every single time. She is undaunted, and digs away at the practice like her life depended on it.

I am so PROUD of my little Bird

Power Puff Chaos

My girls are on a Power Puff Girls kick.... and it fits in kinda scary cute. There is Blossom, the red head who is the leader and kinda bossy, Bubbles the blond with two pony tails is the cute one, Buttercup has short dark hair and is hotheaded and tough.

Except for a little bit of transposing the personality of Bubbles and Buttercup... we have a perfect match-up for my sweet Chaos.

Birdie- Blossom
LaLa- Bubbles
Pearl- Buttercup (she pronounces it Buh-durrr-cup)

I sort of hope they are still into this come October... I'll totally make them some Power Puff dresses and send them Trick-or-Treating! But what really gets me, is that Birdie draws these pictures of PPGs that are dead on. Then they color them in, cut them out and play PPG with them until they are shredded into bits. They are averaging two dolls a day right now. I am too lazy to set up the scanner... but here is a photo of some of the latest incarnations of the dolls before they get colored or cut, along with two of the older, more scotch-taped-together versions.

Poisoning

What is the cosmic logic of this? I get pregnant, and I do this with great faith and high hopes; I also have a pretty good idea what I am getting into, both in terms of what happens to me pregnancy-wise, and what life with a newborn is like. I know that these times and sensations too, will pass. I know also, beyond any question, that this is my last baby... so I might as well find any enjoyment and just roll with it.

And yet...

The fatigue and general malaise of pregnancy combine against me and my ever more pathetic attempts to keep this house and family in working order. The forgetfulness of my overloaded brain drags us further into chaos. The hormones push me closer to the edge in terms of sanity, already an unsteady balance as the mother of three young girls. Everything combines to inform my super-sensitive and increasingly EPIC self, that I am a crappy mother and wife (indeed, human being) who has no business having another child. WHY IS THIS!?

And I know from experience that this is just part of the territory for me. I know that literally one half of an hour after giving birth that the hormones poisoning my blood and body will recede, and I will be astounded at how AWESOME I feel. I will raise my hands above my head and not feel as though I am lifting an extra twenty pounds per arm. I will stand up and hobble my stretched, stitched, bleeding and ice packed posterior over to use the bathroom, tears of joy streaming down my face because this is the BEST that I have felt in nine months. And even as I am slogging through those first sleep-deprived months of ups and downs.... Dude. I am not pregnant anymore!

But here I am. Carrying a basket load of clothes upstairs leaves me breathless and a little faint. The disobedience (a.k.a. normal behavior) of my two year old renders me tearfully frustrated. One single comment from Dadguy breaks my heart, and leaves me sobbing even though I KNOW that he did not mean it THAT way. I cannot seem to force myself to get the dishes washed in any sort of timely fashion, the whole while berating myself for my sloth. They have to get washed, I will wash them, but why or why do I have to turn it into torture?

Again. The world's worst mother, wife and person is busy building a human body here! Aren't you glad I am procreating? Isn't it thrilling?

... and I know better than ALL of this, but it doesn't make it go away.

Blogstipation

For a blogger, too much self editing is like not enough fiber in your diet. Causes an unpleasant back up of things that really ought to be moving on out, as it were.

Unpleasant. That about sums up my attitude, and really? I'm a-gonna just lay my blogstipation at the feet of my messed up, and preggo body. Because, same as my ACTUAL and equally unpleasant digestive constipation? it is caused by hormonal surges and imbalances. And I am not happy about it. Like the kind of "not happy" that would end up with someone getting kneecapped, except that I am PREGNANT, didn't I tell you? I feel so much like crap that I just couldn't be bothered to take that tire iron and actually chase that special someone down to do the deed.

But they upped my meds the day before yesterday, so in a week, you might want to watch yourself. I'm not joking.

Random Thinka-roos

* Hoping for an early and extended nesting experience this time around. This place needs a serious deep cleaning.

* Gagh! What was I thinking? Four kids? I'm gonna die.

* Dadguy is going out of town for four days next week, I'm gonna die sooner than I thought. I wonder if it's too late to reinstate mandatory naptimes?

* Of course it's too late. I'm gonna die.

* This is the best weather we are gonna have all year.... what the heck am I doing inside blogging?

* The smell of the churchhouse hallways makes me nauseous. Not sure if it's a cause and effect, or if it's more of a Pavlov effect. I'm in the cultural hall working out, and I start to feel sick, and run out into the hall so I don't puke in front of everyone. The smell of the hallway drives me right over the edge into yakksville, so I run into the bathroom. Or perhaps I am so used to being ready to puke by the time I'm IN the hallway, that now just the act of walking into the hallway makes me sick. I DON'T KNOW. But it sux.

* I come from a long line of genetic food intolerances and love of fresh fruit. Constipation in not a thing commonly found in my family tree or in my own, personal intestinal workings. Not even much of a problem during pregnancy until nearer the end. Enter this pregnancy. I think I really AM dying. When I run, or jump, or skip rope? I KNOW I am dying.

* Yesterday was my nephew's birthday party, it had a general pirate-like theme. The cake was a super CUTE 3-D bust of a pirate, and the cupcakes were frosted, with a red bit of fruit roll-up across the top for a piratical bandanna. We showed up a bit early for the party, so the girls and I got to help add the M&M eyes, nose and red licorice grins to finish out the smaller pirates. At the end there were still seven or eight frosted cup cakes with no bandannas, and my sister suggested that we go ahead and decorate them as well. Birdie contemplated them for a moment, and announced that these cupcakes could be the "guys who have to walk the plank." We had a good laugh, and proceeded to give the GWHTWTP sad faces, grimaces, and Mr. Bill "O's" of distress.

* It's three in the afternoon and I am ready for another nap.

The joys of 39

Feeling odd, a little contemplative... tomorrow is my thirty-ninth birthday and I just cannot get excited about it. Probly 'cause I'm getting so *OLD. It's hard to get excited when you are so dadgum OLD! Come to think of it... old and pregnant. Where are my Depends?

heh. I amuse myself.

Tonite is Dadguy's church night, which usually means he takes off around 8:30 PM and gets back around 11:00. More often that not the girls go down easily these nights. I simply explain that there can be no messing around, and for some reason they listen. Not so much with Birdie tonight.

She has been up and down innumerable times to go pee one last time, ask for a snack, look for a snuggly, go pee one last time, get a drink of water, go pee one last time. This last trip I was laying on the bed reading a book when she snuck up on me and started picking at my toes. I thought I was gonna have an aneurysm, scared me so bad!

Now, I usually will only tuck her in two or three times a night before I am done, at which time I will simply point in the general direction of her room and say something maternal and loving like, "ENOUGH. Good NIGHT."

Tonight I ask her what is up, and she tells me that she has figured out what she will give me for my birthday.

"What is it?" I ask.
"It's something special that I can give you any time, but I'm going to give it to you for your birthday." She has that secretive little six year old smile going, and I'm a sucker, so I ask again what it is.
"It's what I know you really want."
"Is it a hug?" I'm sure I have got her.
"No, it's more special that just a hug," she is gleeful that I am playing along after hours.
"It's a kiss then?"
"No," she smiles, and I see tears in her eyes as her voice deepens with emotion, "it's the love and the joy in my heart that goes to your heart. It's that special joy that makes us a family."

aaaand now Mama is crying. And Birdie gets herself tucked in just one last time (again) tonight.

Ain't life grand? Almost makes it worth it to be getting so flippin' OLD.

* this is a joke people. Ha ha?

Sunday Pic: Work

So... we're finally getting a little bit o' use out of the kiddos.


The fruits of the first art class with the cousins.


**********
Went to Home Despot and dropped a grundle of cash for most of the stuff we'll need to finish the basement. I say "most" but this is with the glaring exception of the carpeting. We will likely have to put in the carpet next year. Dude. We are going broke.

**********


The tile for the bathroom floor, plus the big white box in the tub is the fiberglass tub surround.




Ten doors, miles of casing and baseboard, and the fixin's for a half banister.



Caulking, sundries, and the primer for the walls. The painting will be perpetrated by my nephew "B" and a sprayer borrowed from my cousin. Let's see how long all of this really and for actually takes. I'm betting our carpenter/tile guy will be done by the end of the week. I'm thinking that the painting may take two weekends (or B's equivalent of a weekend, not sure of the schedule of B's day job) to do. Hmm... it may be time to call Dadguy's cousin (our plumber) to finish off the bathroom early next month! Wheee!

The Behbeh

So I went and did the test thingy... took two and a half flippin' hours what with the screening being a four part process, and then the waits in between each leg of the journey. Thank heavens I had dropped the girls off at my sister's or it would have turned ugly fast. To say nothing of the awkwardness of the fact that The Behbeh wouldn't cooperate, and so they had to scrap the regular ultrasound method and use the "trans vaginal" ultrasound, a.k.a. the wand or the cootchie-cam. Good times.

I am doing the "integrated screen" which means that I will not get the results until a week after a second blood draw at the end of June. But after talking at length with the Geneticist (leggo numero uno of el Journey), the fact that the main thing they were trying to measure via ultrasound, a pocket of fluid at the base of the neck, which in The Behbeh's case was so thin (thin good, thick bad) that they really had to work hard to get a measurement... well, I just ain't a-gonna sweat it. Mind you, I'll go back in for the blood draw, but my initial nervousness is gone. If the screen DOES show anything funky, and I doubt it will... then I will consider an Amnio. Again... I doubt it. Everything's just fine.

And not twins! Just one heck of an active kid! Holy SMOKES! Behbeh was spinning and twisting and flailing about... hiccups and kicks and a few goofy, twitchy karate-like moves. And not one clear shot of it's cootchie or otherwise! Stinker.

I WILL go on record here and say that in my heart, I am convinced that it is a boy. Will not be even slightly sad if we get el girlo quatro, but I really do think we have a boy. Either way... we are covered; I have a slew of both girl and boy names that make Dadguy insane!

I think we are a little overdue for some pictures. Especially after yesterday, when I Yapyapyapped my poor sister's ear off, with practically nothing nice to say about anyone or anything; I am muzzling my crabby-apple self.

Pretty flowers and the lawn's looking considerably better.

Iris and Pansy's making everything smell better and look brighter.

Cutest tushie evah!

I am having a bit of pregnancy fun this go-'round... a few days after seeing those two pink lines, I gave my doctor a call to set up my first pre-natal. Turns out he doesn't deliver babies anymore. Some crap about letting his obstetrics insurance go. This REALLY griped my soul, as this doctor's office is far and gone from where I live... I was only continuing to go to his practice because I wanted him to deliver my last kiddo. Highly inconsiderate of him if ya ask me! So his nurse gave me a few names of some other doctors, and I settled on the one woman doc on the list.

She turned out to be just fine, although her practices' waiting room is about the size of my bathroom, and even though her office is technically in the town two towns up... it might as well be in Siberia, as it takes over 25 minutes to get there. Those of y'all who live in big cities are now rolling your eyes, I'm sure... but hello? Gas? One income family? About to add to that family? YIKES!

Still, I was gonna just suck it up. Then they hit me with the bill, and they wanted it paid in full by the end of the seventh month. The huh? Now, it's not the matter of the money. We pay. But before the services are even rendered? What sort of business does that?

Perhaps I have been soured by the fun we have been having in terms of dealing with contractors, but in my book... you NEVER pay for a service in full, until after the deal is done. Half maybe, but not the whole shebang. You do, and they have no reason to finish the job nearly as well, or in as timely a fashion. Dude, they already HAVE your $$.

Plus you always hear about so and so who's doc doesn't even manage to make it there to catch the baby... and it's some random nurse or intern who takes care of business. Or you have that kid on the front lawn of the hospital, and it's your dear horrified husband does the honors. You get a refund? I doubt it!

Naw... so all that, plus the fact that a week after my first visit with the doc, I realised that if I wanted to get a Nuchal Translucency Screening done, the time window to do it would be closed if I waited until my next appointment to get it set up. So I called the office and talked to the doctor's PA who had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. A PA to a doc who delivers babies. I had to spell it for her.

Granted, this is a relatively new test on the scene... but it is covered by my insurance, and seems like a pretty good idea for a 39 year old pregnant lady to consider. It's essentially an early ultrasound that measures ( I think) a pocket of fluid at the base of a fetus' neck, and can offer a good heads up on things like Down's syndrome, Trisomy 18 and a few others.

Sigh... yeah I know, I will not be handling anything differently if there is a genetic defect in my baby, but this test can also pick up on heart defects... and there are some things that CAN be done in the womb if necessary. Plus, I just want to know. I just want a heads up. And I sure am going on and on for a woman with a muzzle on.

The upshot of all this? I switched doctor's to one who has a practice in this town. An office that HAS heard of the NT test. Yay! And tomorrow is my screening, the very last possible day that the test can be done and be considered viable. I'll let ya know if it's twins.

Today

Why couldn't I stage a blog comeback when I have something coherent to say? Or something better than "blah blah blah, I feel sick," or "wah wah wah, I feel like crap." Gotta wonder about this kinda stuff.



Today

Supple as a reed I will bend
un-offended,
the brittle disappointments
of day washed away.

May I gird myself up with
Thy kindness, and softness;
May I find no defenses
before Thy love and Thy Way.

Knee bent and willing
heart broken and whispered
"God grant me serenity,
courage and wisdom today."

'Tato Bug

I have a lovely window treatment on my front room window, used to be nicer than it is now. We got it the second year we were in this house, and I had schemed, planned and scoured the fabric and discount stores for just the right thing. But five years or so of kids, wear and and such has taken it's toll, and done a job on the smaller cafe style rod that the sheers had hung from. The third rod they have hung from.

This time when Pearl ripped the sheers down, I gave up. The wall has holes in it where the hardware was yanked, the sheers had snags and small snips taken out of them from plastic handles scissors, plus various stains and fingerprints that no longer wash out. I threw out the bent rod, mangled hardware and small bits of wall that had crumbled out. I gave the girls the partially shredded sheers to use for dress-ups. But the rest of the curtains and the scarf that drapes over them still hang relatively nicely... for now.

Yesterday LaLa and Birdie were flitting about the house flapping and trailing the sheers behind them, proclaiming themselves "butterflies." And then there was Pearl who came up to me in the kitchen with a blanket over her head, laughing and saying, "Mama, I a 'tato bug, a 'tato bug!"

Yes, baby... you are a cute little rolly poly bug-a-boo.

Gestating

I had thought that being in pretty good shape and losing some weight would really count for something pregnancy-wise this time around, maybe help with the fatigue, maybe help me feel a little less like crap.

La tee da! Not so.

In fact, I have never felt so heinous in my life. Is by far and away my sickest and tiredest pregnancy to date, and I keep waiting for a change in the weather.

La tee da! Twelve weeks. Still sick. Still tired.

Before this pregnancy, I had kept some idea that there could be the outside-iest, outside chance of just one more after this. The answer is No. Nope. Nada. No way in H-E double toothpicks. This body cannot, not and keep up with the continuing demands of the previously born offspring.

When this is done, it is done.

I will go crawl back in bed now, or wish I was as I prepare for the tea-party gala being held here in two hours. Shoot me in the head.

Sunday Pic: Plus

1) I tried to get the girls signed up for some art classes that the city is hosting for kids; it was pretty good deal, just thirty to forty dollars a kid for an hour long class a day, for two weeks. Go figure, it'd fill up within the first two days of registration, and I was nowhere near the first two days. Instead, I decided that I will be doing one class a week for the girls all summer. We have invited three cousins who live a half hour north of us to join in. That way we get to see them once a week, and they can justify the trip. Seriously, with gas prices what they are nowadays, it's hard to just hop in the van and go a-visiting for visitings sake. I think that for the first two weeks we will be making paper mache masks and then decorate them. I haven't thought further than that, and am open to suggestions. The ages of the kids range from seven to four, Pearl will probably just be-bop around, and maybe help me slap a few hunks of slop on a mask, or whatever project we end up doing. I'm thinking about keeping it to a budget of no more than $20 a kid. I'm thinking we will have approximately ten classes.

2) It rained like a beast earlier this week, for two days in a row. On Thursday morning (the second day) we awoke to WATER IN THE BASEMENT!! I found it first as I went down before anyone else was up to turn the laundry over. I freaked out a little, cried a little and then went upstairs to tell Dadguy who literally leaped from bed saying "Oh S*T!" And if you know Dadguy.... he never, as in never-ever swears. I asked him about it later, and he replied that it was the only applicable thing to be said at a time like that. Can't argue with that.

2a) Long story short, the follow-up to this occurrence has reminded me that there are good companies that hire intelligent, competent people and like to do good business and keep customers by treating them right. Short story long, because of the appearance of the leak, we thought that we had a foundation leak behind the sheet rock and called Intermountain Foundation Repair. I use the name of the company because they are one of the companies I'd like to give props to. The repair guy the showed up just four hours after I called and looked at the basement, what was left of the puddle (we had shop-vac'ed it up), inspected the window well, and then explained to me why he was pretty sure that we did NOT have a foundation leak. He then took about twenty minutes explaining to me how to keep water from ever coming in the window well again, how to then test to make absolutely sure that he was right about the foundation, and then he took me outside to make some other recommendations as to how to keep the water away from the house altogether. He then left me his card and did not charge me a dime for the visit and the advice. When was the last time that happened to YOU!?

2b) Next company is Woodstuff, a rock, mulch and bark supply company. I called them Saturday morning to see when they could deliver a yard or so of one inch rock. Dadguy had just dug out a huge amount of muck, silt and peagravel from the window well, and after I dumped it against the side of our house in bucket after sodden bucket, we realized that our plan "A" of picking up a few bags of rock from Home Despot was just not gonna cut it. The guy I talked to said that they did indeed have one delivery spot open that day. I told him I would be right there, and when I showed up to pick out and pay for the rock, I discovered that he had actually held the delivery place for me. Pretty sure he had picked up on the desperation in my voice. A simple thing perhaps, but a very powerful message to me as a customer.

2c) Next stop: Jones Paint and Glass. I needed to purchase a couple of five dollar tubes of exterior caulking. Hardly a big ticket sale, but I didn't have to break my back to find an employee who was willing to listen to me describe what it was that I needed, and then direct me to the right thing. Seriously. Nowadays that's a pretty big deal. Listening, thinking, assisting; I was in and out within five minutes.

2d) I had to get some groceries afterwards, and Wa!-m@rt was on the way home, but I was fairly sure that the shock of going from customer service to dis-service would kill me, so I opted for Macey's instead. I like Macey's, it's clean, there are always carts, the employees know where things are, and when they don't they will drop what they are doing and go look. This was Memorial Day weekend, so the shoppers were out in force baby... this store's answer? All the checkout stands were open and I didn't even wait for thirty seconds. As a matter of fact, in all the times that I have gone to Macey's, there was only once that I had to actually wait for any significant amount of time in a check out line. It was Christmastime, and while every single register was open, they were each at least four overburdened, groaning carts deep. The management sent two employees around with boxes of full sized candybars, offering them to the folks who were waiting, and their kids. Add on top of this the fact that they close for Sunday, and I am a lock as a customer except for when I am forced into a pilgrimage to the land Hell-Mart.

3) Pearl calls Mickey Mouse and all of his friends "Munk-a-saurs." Near as I can tell this is a cross between the Disney Playhouse's "Mouse-kateer" and the Mickey/Goofy/Donald version of the "Three Muskateers."

4) I had to go back and change the actual name of my old city to "Albooboo, Noo Moo" in an older post, as my Christmas Stories got picked up by a roboblogger for a news site. Seriously, my rather horrific and personal tale up there with all the other real-news stories from Albooboo. So much for sliding under the radar! They kindly took it down when I asked pretty please, but YIKES!

5) It is past time for me to quit piffling around and go finish preparing to teach my RS lesson in church today. SSSsssssslacker!

Movie Review: Juno

I don't get it.... I kept hearing how sweet and great the movie Juno was, but then I also kept hearing, and from multiple sources, how it glorified unwed pregnancy and made it seem all nicey-nicey-happy-ending-la-la. So a while back Mama D mentioned somewhere how much she loved the movie, and that was the kicker for me. I just couldn't see Mama D glossing over a big glamorization of teen pregnancy, so I put it in my Netflix queue. A solid month later I finally watched it... having a hard time staying up after the kids go down lately, but Dadguy was out for the evening with the guys and their Magic cards, and even when I am bone tired fatigued I have a hard time sleeping when he's not home.

I was floored by this movie, it was so touching and honest and beautiful. Glorifying? If it glorified anything, it was touting teens giving up their babies for adoption. I believe the step mom character put it best when she said something along the lines of Juno putting her baby up for adoption was akin to making a miracle out of a garbage dump of a situation. Very inaccurate quote, but you get the picture. And the job that Jennifer Garner, as the adoptive mom to be, was genius. You think you are getting one kind of character, a super-controlling and tightly wound perfectionist... that you end up loving and rooting for. My sister put it best when she pointed out that this was a woman who felt that motherhood was her calling, and was physically denied her dream; she was just trying to stay afloat. Sometimes we, as women, think that if we could just be perfect enough, just keep everything just freaking perfectly right, that your dream of motherhood will come true. Sometimes when one of the most important thing in our lives is out of our control, we clamp down with a vengeance on what we can control. Knowing what I went through for the fifteen months or so that our fourth pregnancy was denied me? Well, I can only imagine what five years and a definite "never," would do to me.

Yeah. I think the problem that this movies detractors had, was that the main character, Juno, was unapologetic, relatively unashamed, and pulled the whole thing off with a good deal of personal style. She paid a steep price, but her life did go on. And I think that may have offended the snot out of some folks. Of course, some folks are looking to be offended, and would be unsatisfied with anything less than a groveling, shamefaced Juno whining and crying through the whole show. Plus, it was funny. How dare anyone find humor in this sort of a situation?

Personally, I would rather a girl watch a movie like this than listen to her fabulously idiotic girlfriends rave about how wonderful it is to be a cute little mommy of a cute little baby who loves them SO MUCH!

There is a bit of language, crude humor and such... but I give it solids all the way around!

Summer Grump: Now With more Booby Rant!

It's the end of the school year, and while I am scurrying around getting all the last minute things taken care of, and attending the end-of-the-year programs for pre-school and kindergarten, there is an as yet unspoken "OH CRAP!" in the back of my mind. The "OH CRAP, I have to figure out what three little girls and I are going to do over this long hot summer." Because, oh CRAP! One of the three is a solidly contrary, and tantrum-ing two year old. Plus the next door neighbor girl thinks she is an honorary Chaos Girl, to the point of her asking me when are we going to invite some other friends over, and what are we having for snack? We may have to sell off one of the kids to be able to afford driving any place this summer, and besides which, the AC in the van is busted, so who would survive the trip anyway? And? I am still feeling pretty lousy.

Could I have the self-pity chorus girls give me a round? Doot da doot da dooty doot dooooooo. If you were wondering what the self-pity Chorus girls look like, why that's easy... they look like my breasts. Because they ARE my breasts! Seriously, they have returned after a brief reduction brought on by work-outs and running... and they are back with a vengeance. Like an additional, vengeful two pounds per girl, and it HURTS. You know those dreams that you have, that you have to pee really bad? And you get to a bathroom and pee, only you don't get any relief, and you still have to pee? So you find another dream-bathroom etc... then you finally wake up and realize that, for reals, you really need to pee! Well I am having dreams that I really need to breast feed, only when I wake up still feeling like I really need to breast feed... I still cannot do anything about it. Still not quite in the second trimester yet either.

And I want to know... does the grabbing and usage of my breasts to leverage up or steady her balance by the two year old get exponentially worse when tender and pregnant... or has this been going on all this time and I JUST DID NOT NOTICE!? Because, YEOWCH! How have I NOT noticed?

Cristmas Eve part 2

Hey, sorry. This took longer to write than I thought it would, plus it was not nearly as fun as I thought it would be. But trust me... you'll be glad you have this story as reference when I tell the story of Dom and Thatguy on the fourth of July two years later. No one was hurt in the making of that one. Except for the richly deserved goat heads in Thatguys naked bum.


So after re-reading the first part of this story, I realized that I left out one last major player in the festivities of the evening. So ubiquitous to the ex, the crowd we hung out with, and every single blessed day and night of my existence at that time; I completely forgot to mention the pot. It was always there, in the before, the during and the after of everything.

Can I just say right now that I hate marijuana? I hate the smell of it, I hate what it does, I hate smoking it, and I reeeeeee-hee-hee-heeeely hate eating it (way bad hash brownie experiment), and I for sure can NEVER mix it with booze; I get the spins. I can say with certainty that I was not smoking that night, because all my memories of it include a relatively stable videography, if slightly suspect in the exact order of how it all went down...

On closer inspection I also suspect that only the guys were smoking. Dom's wife, G had a baby to go home to at the end of the evening and Dave's girlfriend, who's name I cannot remember, was a fairly prissy club-girl and also had a kid to face at the end of the evening. But all the guys were doing bong hits and drinking, and since they had the run of the house, they had set up the kit, amps, and mics in the front room. In Dave's room there was a little more room to maneuver, and that's where Dom was seeding his pot for the next round of bong hits. He was using a magazine, slightly tilted and curled to let the seeds, which are heavier than the leaves and stems, funnel down into an ashtray, and then he was starting in on removing the stems. There was some sort of distraction and he got up and left the magazine sitting on the bed with a palm-full of stemmy pot sitting on top. I don't even recall who knocked the magazine off, but Dom just lost his business altogether. He started in shrieking swear words and flailing his arms; a potentially humorous situation with a not so humorous big guy with a long record of violence. Dwight just cut his losses and staggered out right then, his coke bottle thick glasses flashing in the light as he headed out the front door. He was perhaps the one who tipped over the magazine in the first place. One way or the other, he was the smartest one of the bunch when it came to one drunk pissed-off Mexican. It also means that he missed Dom kicking in the heads of his bass drum, and some fairly standard, if slurred obscenities.

Dave's girlfriend lost her patience with this crap as soon as Dom started in kicking over all the amps. She was also either the bravest or the dumbest of us all.... because she started to get into Doms face; she was screaming something about getting his sh!t together, and setting down before she called the cops. It was a scene from off the stages of any fine Jerry Springer show, and it did not help. All the guys hated Dave's girlfriend. She was very pretty and very uptown, and they figured if Dave wanted to sleep with her, then fine, so long as she keeps her perfectly orthodontia-ed mouth shut. As in, shut it NOW!

The screaming was going on in the short hallway that led to Dave's room, but I guess he figured he'd had enough, because he let out a strange honking sound and then he charged her like a bull, head down and broad shoulders coming at her. She easily side-stepped his charge by backing up into the open doorway into the bathroom, and holy crap! This sounds a little funny the way I am telling it, and in truth I haven't even gotten to the part that was lifted straight from a Keystone Kops gag... but at the time there was nothing funny about it at all. This guy had lost his mind. He was big, drunk, and had already given himself permission to do something to prove how pissed-off a pissed-off Mexican could be.

Dave quickly hustled his girlfriend out the door, and that seemed to ease Dom back a little. At first it seemed like the show was over, and G had talked him down, and back into the kitchen for a beer. But it wasn't long before he howled that same odd, honking bray and charged Dave, Thatguy and myself. Again, he couldn't quite grasp the maneuver of a target simply stepping out of the way, or else I wasn't the target, because as I stepped to the side he plowed right into Dave and Thatguy, shoving them back until the back of Thatguy's thighs hit the edge of a large, lidless metal trashcan... and then alley-oops! He was dumped right in, arms and legs sticking straight up in the air, Dave shoved in side ways on top . Thankfully this move took more grace than a profoundly drunk man possesses, and Dom ricocheted hard off the wall the trash was standing next to, and landed hard, face first in the kitchen floor. I think he may have knocked himself breathless; one way or another he lay there long enough for us to scramble Dave and Thatguy out of the trash, grab our jackets and bolt for the door. It was as we were running that we saw what initially looked like a golden frisbee go sailing past us, missing Dave's calf by about a foot. It wasn't until it hit the wall and embedded itself six inches into the solid adobe exterior wall that I realized that Dom had just chucked an 18" Zildjian crash cymbal at us as a parting gift. There was still the high hat left in the kit; we ran faster.

Once outside, it dawned on Dave that he was standing, freezing and terrified in his own front yard while a destruct-o boy was loose in his brother's house. He had just determined there was no help for it, he'd have to go over to our house and call the cops when we all heard a crash and the tinkling of broken glass and watched a shadow stagger out of the front of the house, across the rocks and down the street. The rest of the night was spent cleaning up Dave's house, and then driving up and down every street until we found a cold, and pathetically penitent Dominic zigzagging down a side street holding a badly cut and bleeding hand. There was a lot of back thumping Abrazos, slurred "I love you maaaan's" and a renewing of high testasterone buddy-buddy crap that I didn't understand at the time. Still don't. Thatguy was thrilled with the evening, and seemed to think that it was some sort of right of passage, going so far as to say something along the lines of "you know you are friends when you can beat on each other a little and still be bro's."

Dom got twelve stitches in his hand, Dave's brother pooped a brick when he saw the lousy patch job Dave did on the wall, and we all paid much closer attention to what flavor of booze Dom was drink after that. Merry Christmas, and I believe this tale lands squarely in the "this is stupid, don't do this" category. Fa la-freaking -LA-la-la-la-la.

The End

Cristmas Eve part 1

It wasn't that last Christmas Eve in '95. That year was it's own unlovely tale of violence and loss, and a game my ex used to like to play called "Read My Mind You Fat, Nasty, Whore." It wasn't the Christmas Eve of '94; that was the Christmas Eve that the ex spent in a Crown Royal haze, trying to hook up with a girl wearing a short skirt and a vest while I left the party and went home to finish his Christmas gift of artwork for his next tattoo. It still makes me feel a little odd that Mr. Thatguy is running around with my artwork on his shoulder. The artwork that I completed that night, with my teeth clenched and tears burning hot tracks down my cheeks. Humorously enough, I suspect that the man rarely, if ever managed to cheat on me. Not enough social skills and too many drugs will kill that sort of philandering like a ... I dunno, but it makes it hard to imagine he'd managed it it much.

Pretty sure that it was the Christmas Eve of '93 that my story takes place. We were living in the house in the student ghetto of UNM in Albooboo Noo Moo, the house that his parents had purchased thinking that they were helping him get his college education by letting him live there for free. Across the street from us lived a very nice man, his young wife and his younger brother whom we were acquainted with in a druggy culture sort of a way. The brothers name was Dave, and he worked at the pet store where we got the feeder rabbits for the Burmese Python, and sundry other animals and pet food to feed everybody else in the menagerie. He was also the guitarist for a punk band that went by the same name as a book by Charles Bukowski, and for the purpose of anonymity, that's all you need to know. Except, perhaps for the purposes of giving you a better idea of the guys we were dealing with, that I'm pretty sure they did NOT get their name from a Charles Bukowski novel, but rather they pulled a fairly obscure name for an employee or servant out of the dictionary, and named their band that, because the word sounded kinda cool.

The band usually used Dave's room to practice, and that was a pretty tight fit even though at the time this story takes place they didn't actually have a vocalist. The roster included Dave the guitarist, Dwight the drummer, and Dominic the bassist. Huh, and until I just typed in their names I never realized that they all had names that started with "D".

But a drum kit takes up a lot of room, and so does a bassist like Dom. He was a very large, and very mean former skinhead who had literary pretensions; he's the reason that I cannot say that I am POSITIVE that the name of the band isn't from a novel. He's also a key player in this story, so I'll give you a bit more back story. In Albooboo NM, being a skinhead is way more about the music, the fashion of Doc Martin steel toe boots, flight jackets, shaven heads, intimidation and violence than about race. As a matter of fact, I was aware of only three racist skins who even tried to make their home in Albq, sadly one who was a quarter American Indian and tried to hide the fact. Near as I can tell these three white power boys spent much of their time in NM hiding and/or getting the crap kicked out of them by the rest of the skins. Most of whom were all or part Hispanic. There was even a black skinhead named Tommy, and that was something see! Dom was one of those full Hispanic skins, and additionally was part of a fairly exclusive crowd with a clever name and and a tattoo on his forearm. These boys were the uberviolent of the scene, but he had since then grown his hair and married the girl he'd gotten pregnant at age sixteen. I think he may have been a whopping nineteen at the time himself, but they were Catholic, and he was not stupid... the girl he got knocked up was beautiful and smart, and better than he deserved.

This was Christmas Eve though, and the nice couple across the road had gone out of town to spend the holiday with her family, leaving a gleeful Dave the run of the house, and he decided that a band practice-party was in order. Thatguy and I were invited, as we were friends with Dom and Dave, and I suppose... by a long stretch of imagination and by default we were "friends" with Dwight too. Dwight was one of those unpeggable floaters in the punk scene. He was a decent drummer, but a raging and unapologetic drunk. The kind of guy you never let crash on your couch to sleep it off, because he would often as not soil the couch. The man was full blood Navajo, and a fairly OK person when he was sober, but the sober times were so rare and his drunks were so vile that it's hard to hard to think of him as anything other than a guy who kept a beat.

So far as I can remember, the guest list that night was Dave and his girlfriend, Dom and his wife, Thatguy and myself, Dwight, and an amazing array of alcohol; most notably a bottle of Jose Cuervo that Dom claimed as his own. A large bottle. THE bottle.

Dom used to say, "if you ever want to see one pissed off drunk Mexican, juts watch me drink tequila." And he would always pronounce "tequila" with an impeccable accent, and I always got the feeling that he felt being pissed off whilst drinking it was his birthright when he said it. This night, I guess, he felt like screwing "peace on earth and goodwill toward men," and he'd just get himself tossed and terrorize everyone awhile.


...to be continued.

Stories to Tell

Last weekend we went up north to enjoy an extended family picnic at Dadguy's grandparents house. It was an especially good time, what with the home cooked food that was not cooked by me, the huge open field behind the house and a couple of dogs to play with, a stream running through and variety of creepy crawly bugs for the kids to collect in old margarine tubs. Plus Dadguy's cousin had a fourwheeler that she brought out and gave rides to all the little kids. All the kids got a huge kick out of that, but the funniest was Pearl who, when it was her turn just hopped aboard and yelled "WHEEEEE" and cackled in glee the entire four times around the field.

It was really good for me to be able to have some adult conversation with all the various relatives, but I do have one regret. One of Dadguy's cousins is a Deputy Sheriff in that county, a hard won position that she has fought and pushed through endless amount of good old boy red tape and bullcrap for. She's one of those amazing women that I admire. Strong- tough even- yet seeming to effortlessly hold on to her essential femininity, and she can tell a great story. Being a cop, she has some real doozies, stories that civilians just don't have, of dealing with violence and some pretty mindbogglingly nasty folks. She was telling a few of these tales, and they got me to mind of some things that I have seen and done. So I told my stories too. But now I'm kind of wishing that I hadn't. I'm thinking that it might have seemed like I was competing with her for telling stories, and that was not my intention. At least I HOPE that was not my intention. One never can know for sure without some heavy introspection that I simply don't feel up to right now.. I just wish that I had been more of an audience, because hey! I love a good story, and if I'd-a kept it shut, I could have heard more of hers.

I'll remember for next time.

These stories that I have... stories of some pretty amazing specimens of humanity and the bizzarro thing some of them do, stories that I don't really think about very much anymore; I don't know if I really want to let them just slip away into the ether of non-telling. But I also don't really have a forum to tell them in the oral tradition. It's not like they are even vaguely inspirational, not uplifting, or even having a moral to the story other than "this stuff will hurt you, don't be stupid," and they often involve pain and stupidity on my part, sometimes illegal activity. But I think I want them told anyway. They are still there, waiting to be told, even begging to be told; trying to slip through my conversations of permission slips, playdates and the dinner menu.

Stay tuned for the first tale: One Nutso Christmas Eve.

La la la la LAAAAA!

Said after finding a bit of untrimmed fat in the beef stew: "Do you know theh ahh globbuth in hee-ah? I hate globbuth!"

In response to having to ride next to a very gooey "Bacterial Rhinitis" suffering Pearl on the way to the doctor's office: " I am thitting nextht to dah buhh-guhh guhl! EW!"

On the way home from church sung loudly and defiantly, and yeah... she really means this: "NO, no-no-no-no-nooooo! NO ith a bettah way of thaying YETH!"

I swear, it's like I have given birth to a lisping New Englander, with an attitude. And if you know many New Englanders, you know that's saying a LOT!

Day o' The Mama

First off.... Happy Mothers Day! Most especially to my own mother.

Today I have been reminiscing about Mother's Days of my past. Two of them really stand out for me. The first was seven years ago, and Dadguy and I had been trying for about six months to get pregnant. I was actually pregnant, but I didn't know it and I was pissed off in the way that a brand new pregnant woman gets pissed off. Most particularly if she doesn't know she is pregnant, but feels crampy and bloaty and her stupid period is LATE and will it just hurry up and get here already so we can try for a baby on this next cycle. Please. Gahh.

I remember crying that day. Several times. Tearing up when the Elder's Quorum handed out the obligatory flower that they hand out to all married women after sacrament on Mothers Day. Crying when I got home. Then a week later I got sick of waiting for my stupid period and got a pee stick. Duh.

The next year on Mother's Day I was still pretty well in sleep deprivation mode, but I am sure it was nice.

Last year was the other Mother's Day that also really stands out in my memory. And I thought that I was going to write some of my memories from then, but I guess that I am either too pregnant and weepy, or it is still too close of a trial for me to address that time of my life. I am glad it is over.

I am so grateful for this Mother's Day. I gotta say, something has clicked for the girls, Birdie taking the lead. I could hear them whispering and giggling this morning, Birdie repeatedly shushing LaLa, as they collected the sweet little gifts and cards they had made for me in school and at home; leaving them arranged pleasingly on my bedstand. When I was sure they had done their bit I made a show of yawning and waking up. Then I got my real shock.. DUDE! It was 8:00 in the morning! Sweeeeeet!

Our whole family rolled around and piffled most of the next hour away, talking and laughing in our king sized bed. It was an amazing morning, one of those times that are like a big mallet banging away at the gong of my heart. Every time the last set of sound waves would start to fade, wham! Again with the sweet feelings of peace and joy, ringing out. I am glad to be here.

Brrrrr!

Holy crap, I'm cold. Seems like nowadays I am always freezing, experiencing chills, looking for a sweater to put on and wearing a jacket when everyone else is stripping down. I'm cold.

Except for when I am not, and that is usually around three o'clock in the morning when I wake up drenched in sweat. This is a big change for me since every minute of all three other pregnancies were spent in sweat-bath like conditions of overheated discomfort. I imagine I'll spent the entire summer in hell, but for now... would you mind heating me up a bed-buddy, and turn on the heater while you're up?

I'm cold.

...and speaking of dead o'clock in the morning, Pearl has this thing that she does, and it's making me CRAZY. About once a week (but up to three times a week) she wakes up at 4:30 in the morning and stays up for over an hour, but under two hours. If she wakes up at this time, and it really is a narrow window of time from 4:20 to 4:35... there is no easy back to sleep solution that I have found. She is just up, and she wants to play. Seriously, I've tried rocking her back to sleep, and she literally twitches and bounces the entire time. And it doesn't seem to make any difference in how much sleep she has recently had or not had. Sick or not sick. What she has or has not eaten. Active or sedentary day. She is just UP, and by extension so am I. She used to do this when she was in a crib, and I kept expecting her to grow out of it. She keeps just... not. I am baffled.

....and cold, did you turn up the heat yet?

Spring

In the spirit of my old Sunday pic.... but with a sense of urgency.

A desire to make up for lost time.

Things are really popping around these parts! The bleeding heart, sweet vetch and iris are all poised to make an appearance.

A new experience, my first tulips ever. An old standby in the background: the flox.

Year For It

We have been getting more serious about finishing the basement.... this is the Year For It.

Unlike 2007 that we thought was the Year For It, but turned into the Year of Medical Expenses instead. So last month Dadguy finished off the electrical, and we paid a friend a few $$ to insulate, and we were ready for sheet rock.

We hired that out.

Yes, yes... I know. Hanging sheet rock is SO EASY, so SIMPLE, it's a total DIY! Yup. Not in Chaos. We never even once considered it. We got hold a company that comes highly recommended, and is quite cheap, and invited them into our home to make some money. They are not completely done, just a few details to hit before I write out the check... but here are some snaps. The texture we chose is what is being called "holey/smooth" around here, and some companies charge extra for it, because it is the look that many of the high-end homes are sporting nowadays. But the fact is, it's easier to do than the standard "orange peel" look. I like it, and since it costs the same, I opted for it even though the basement will not match the upstairs of our little rambler.

I think from these pictures you can tell that we are especially proud of that archway in the main room. Too bad it's unfinished state is one of the "details" that need finishing. We also need to rehang the lights before I can snap anything of the bathroom or laundry room. Need to hook back up the washer and dryer too, for that matter. The pile of dirties is, as LaLa says, "HUMONGOUS!" Also not shown, are the two bedrooms. They are rooms. Not nearly as fun as this room. And the cold storage room... we didn't bother to rock that. Is storage, and with no windows, that is all it will ever be.

Right now I am operating under the "don't ask, don't tell" policy, it never once having occurred to me to find out up front, if this company only hires legal workers. But the first day that the rockers showed up after the delivery of sheet rock was made, it belatedly dawned on me that perhaps the reason why the estimate was so low, was that maybe, everything was not entirely above board. Of the different crews that have been here over the past week and some, each batch of gentlemen has had a total of one worker that speaks English, and most of the conversations I have had with that one speaker seem to involve lots of nods, what pittance of Spanish I recall, and vague hand waving.

What can I say. Questionable ethics aside, they are doing a bang-up job. Sigh.

Also, belatedly, it has occurred to me that I have lost some prime blogging time where Birdie is concerned. At six years old she seems to have entered into that age of self-awareness... and exceptional reading ability, that requires me to think hard about whether she would be embarrassed if I happened to blog about this, that, or the other thing that she does or says.

The following may be redacted:

The first crew was a two man crew who sheet rocked our entire basement in less than nine hours. They wore tool belts with various sharp instruments on them, and handled their tools with the panache of a Japanese performing chef... everything but the volcano made of onion rings, I swear! For a while as they worked in the main room off the stairs, I let the girls sit on the stairs to watch as they did their magic. The guy who spoke no English started in singing a soulful tune that stopped just short of the "Ayyyye yiiiiie yi yiiiiiiE" that my Pa (grandfather) used to sing, that will always remind me of the Rio Grande for some unknowable reason.

Birdie watched and listened for a few minutes with the rest of us, then leaned forward to whisper to me, "Mama! I think that I am falling in love! With him!"

Shocked. My six year old girl with her first crush??!! GAGHK! I could only smile and nod and say something profound like "oh."

A minute later she leaned forward again, glowing and said "I am! I am in love with him!"

Thinking about it for a moment, I guess I would rather she have a first crush on a tune singing, competent, hard working man.. better than imagining up feelings for some effete and questionable rock star to my thinking. Still. Six. Years. Old.

Thinking over, I decided it was time for everyone to go back upstairs for drawing time.

Busy

A few days after I found out I was pregs, I realized that for now, I was as small as I was gonna get. So I grabbed the camera and had Dadguy take a few snaps of me. This is not dressed up, not a glamour shot, although some of you may be thinking to yourself "look at that artfully coiled garden hose... she TOTALLY airbrushed this sucker!"



No, this is just the mama after she drops 50 odd pounds. As much as a part of me wants to say something critical about how much farther I have to go, how old and dumpy I look; the stronger part of me is quite pleased with how I look here. More than how I "look" I know that that body of mine could run for five miles with no problem, could endure some serious strength training and sweat, and keep up with the girls in a good game of tag. Dude, I can hold "plank" and do real push-ups. Boy push-ups.

That's a strong mama. She is OK by me.

As far as "before" pictures of me? Hmmm... not so much. The only digitals I can find are older shots or head shots. I was hiding. And can you blame me? I didn't recognize me in the pictures that I saw. In truth... I felt like how I look in these pictures; overweight, but not ghastly. And I still feel the same way I did then... except for better friends with myself.

If you like, you can compare some head shots...

Hullo There...

It's been a while, yeah? I think it's been about seven months; and there has been a change or two around Chaos. Mostly the kinds of changes that come with the girls getting older, but one or two changes in me.

First: through Weight Watchers, serious workouts and running I lost 52 pounds since last September. This is great, and probably helped me achieve the second change, which is....

Second: I am pregnant. Solidly in the first trimester, and baby, much as I wanted this, being pregnant sucks every bit as much as remember it sucking. ie: lots and sucking buckets of suckitude.

Third: We are actively finishing the basement now. Seriously... we have been pecking away at this project for over two years now, and we are finally prepared to go for broke (literally) and DO THIS THING! So for all you who are interested in this sort of thing... there will be pix.

And of course pictures of Chaos.

So... much as I wanted to write up a great and comprehensive post as my Grande Bloggy Re-opening, this'n will have to do the jobby.

It's good to be back.

I Don't Quite Know How To Say This...

...but I think that I am done. Done, but what a good time I had!

Not really sure what the future holds for me, but I am grateful for the friends I have made, the conversations we have had, and the things that I have learned on this adventure. But my life has shifted a bit, and blogging isn't fitting in as well as it used to, and I don't think I should try and make it fit. There may be a time in the future when I have an internet presence again, and if I do you will surely know, but for now...

toodles!

Lessons

I have been a Relief Society teacher for about a year and a half now. I do the Teaching For Our Times bit, which suits me just fine. I am assigned a conference talk or three to pull my material from and I teach on the fourth Sunday of the month. It's been pretty great... last month was Elder Faust's talk, and the way it was scheduled, I taught it shortly after his death; it was like a tribute. This month the talks were Elder Uchtdorf's and Elder Nelson's talks, both of which were about repentance, and Saturday before was Yom Kippur.... how cool is THAT!?

On the off weeks I find myself substitute teaching in the Primary, as often as not. So much so, that we actually have a place to put the various lesson manuals to be returned, so if the teacher of whatever class comes for it and I'm not here, Dadguy knows where it is. Or vice versa, he subs a lot too.

I love this calling. I love the Relief Society, heck... the women teach most of the lessons for me; all I have to do is come up with the right questions to ask 'em, and off they go. The only problem is this "fourth Sunday" bit. The fourth Sunday has been, with one solitary exception, the day that I'd like to take off from church, and stay home to quietly bleed to death. That one exception was last month, and I exulted in the freedom of over-emotional teaching! I hollered "hosanna!" and figured that my body was resetting itself, and that there will BE no more standing in front of a roomful of women when I'd rather be hanging out at home with a hot pad. YAY!

Naw, I was back to my usual situation this month... and it just isn't fair.

I think it's part of the way the Lord keeps me humble. Or perhaps, my body is a traitor. On the lighter side... it sure does explain me getting all het up and pissy last week. On the darker side... it's official; even if I get pregnant this cycle, I will be 39 when I give birth. I really had wanted to be done before that.

... and maybe that is the real lesson here: patience.

Fiddle Dee Dee!

I said I wasn't gonna let this place become a "weight-loss" blog.

I said it, and I lied.

Because the act of figuring the points and chronicling every bite that goes in to my mouth is consuming (heh...consuming) , and I didn't have a super long attention span to begin with.

As of my weigh-in last night, I am down 5.8 pounds. While this is great and all, I don't quite know what to do with my excitement. I'm not sure how I want to go about celebrating my losses, because.... on the one hand, I'm working hard for it. On the other hand, I don't want the Chaos Girls to get some skewed picture in their minds about how "yukky" fat is and all the blahblahblah that comes with body image.

I intend to lose every ounce that I can before I get pregnant. How do I talk this up? What do I say in front of the girls that will convey to a one/three/five year old that mama is working hard and achieving goals (because I am proud of myself)... without planting seeds of pain for later in life? Without adding to the stigma and body-shame that our culture and media so gleefully heaps upon girls?

So far I have kept it on the down-low (not that hard... it's been two whole weeks, whoopee), but if it takes me a while longer to get pregs, and it could easily take months, I could be at this for a while. Months of Weight Watchers will mean going down a size or two... noticeably smaller. Smaller enough that a kid might eventually notice. There will also be after the future, theoretical pregnancy. There will also be my whole freaking life... The body, she will not let her layers of comfort and insulation go quietly into the night, this will be a fight that will become noticeable in many ways.

Why am I stressing about something that has not even happened? Well, it's what I do. It's what I do best! I am the mama.

So. My best idea is to find an athletic goal to work toward. Something to point all my excitement and sense of pride at. Something that I can do, or do quantifiably better when I am shrunken down. A thing that I can say that I am working toward, rather than a certain size of pants... it's what I would want for my girls. It should be what I want for me.

I admire but do not envy marathoners, triathletes, and endurance sport folks. Is cool what they do, but I don't really think it's the bag for me. What I admire and envy are the women who can fight. No small surprize that two of my biggest bloggirl crushes are MamaD and Elizasmom, I don't just love them and their brains... I love what they can do. They are queens of Tae Kwon Do and Karate respectively and I thinks that's the bomb-diggity, yo!

"Oooooo-oo, I wanna be like You-oooo!
I wanna WALK like you TALK like you, tooo-ooo!
You see it's TRUE-oooo
A mom like ME-eeee
Can learn BE
Baaa-aaad A@@ TOOO-oooo!"
(sung to the tune Human Too, from the Jungle Book)

But then, everything gets oogied up with this last kid that I am trying for; the whole unknowable factor of the timing combined with the known factor of just how truly vile pregnancy makes me feel. Wuff! Plus the obvious: no weightloss during pregnancy, ya twidjit! But there is no question of postponing this pregnancy. Not for me, and I'll tell you why.

Only not today. Tomorrow.

I gotta get on the laundry. Poor Dadguy lodged a formal complaint last night, as he scraped the two baskets worth of clean, unfolded clothing off the bed for the ten ka-spillionth time, just so's he could sleep. Gotta take some pity on the man, although, truth be known... it's been weeks since he has run out of clean underpants. Huzzah to me!

Retreat and Surrender

This weekend past was a Women's Retreat for our congregation. This meant that we would be gone on an overnight trip up past Heber, at a fairly posh campground owned by the LDS church. Did this same thing last year. Enjoyed it thoroughly. Last year.

Last year, however, I opted out of the ropes challenge course that was scheduled for the Saturday morning part of the retreat, and went on a leisurely hike with a friend. We were hardly the only ones who chose not to go, and I didn't feel badly about my decision. There was not a ton of pressure to do the challenge course; it was just one of several activities scheduled for the day. Cut to this year, and we got booted from the campground early, as they were opening the grounds for an open house... something they had failed to mention to the women in our congregation who had booked the camp. The ropes course turned out to be the only activity, and everyone was expected to go, and at least hang out.

Until ya got there, and then the course instructors took over, and the option to not participate became practically a doctrinal issue.

I jest, but only a little.

I was so not up for what followed, but then, I had not been up for what preceded either. That morning before breakfast, there was a bit of a stir, because one of the women in the cabin I was staying in(there were about fifteen per cabin), had gotten up and moved out of the cabin around four in the morning, declaring to her friend that a few hours of sleep would be better than none and she just couldn't take all the snoring anymore. I didn't think too much of it, even though I know that I do snore, as I was clear across the rather large room from her, and every time I had awoken that night, I could hear one or two other women snoring softly. Sister Gottagetsomesleep made sure to announce, to the entire seated breakfasting group, that I was the one who's snoring had caused her to move to another cabin. When other cabin mates objected and qualified, she took particular care to point out that it absolutely was me. I was mortified, but I tossed my head and let it slide on by.

I know her. She is a deeply unhappy and bitter woman, but I don't think she meant to hurt me in any particular way. Perhaps I am too good at my joking and capable woman facade, and she felt like I could take a few hard digs. Maybe some days I could just shrug this kind of thing off, but that day, it hurt.

Cut to the ropes course:
The first thing to happen when we get there is a brief speech in front of what was known as the High Course. This included explaining about the belaying ropes, carribiners, harness rigs and other devices that would keep us safe; so long as we were a particular weight or under. And I am not. But it was OK, they explained... us fatties would still be able to do most of the other activities. That's not what they said, but please understand, that's how my sore heart translated the rest of what was said. Not that I was much interested in the humiliation of dragging myself up the small rocks pegged into the side of one huge tree trunk, sliding across a high wire, or rappelling down another equally intimidating tree. But to know that I would not be allowed even if I desired. Hurt.

The fun did not stop there, but my facade of spunky fat girl did not slip once, not even when I forced myself to do the "trust fall" thing, so as to not be the only one who didn't, and to set a good example for the nervous sixteen year old girl who was with us.

"See? Even the fat old lady can do it... they didn't drop her, they won't drop you!"

I made it till I got home and got in the shower; the heat and the water dissolving my will, and my resolve, and my defences. Poor Dadguy could only sit and hold the mewling wife that he had so bravely sent off the night before, in hopes of getting a refreshed and uplifted spouse back. Even still, to my horror, I cannot see the monitor to read my words as I type this. Each new activity that day was shame upon humiliation. The activity of writing it all down is almost as brutal. Why I am posting this is entirely beyond my ken, except I don't feel like keeping this garbage to myself anymore. Y'all, I am doing Weight Watchers, but this is the story that is shared when the teller is millions of sizes smaller than when these kinds of things happened. I am maybe five pounds down from two week ago, and staring at the very real possibility that I don't have what it takes to get it off or keep it off.

But I am also angry at the thoughtlessness that went in to this activity. There is one overnight retreat a year, and we are gone from our homes and responsibilities for less than 24 hours... this is the best thing they could come up with? I was definitely NOT the only woman who opted out of doing the High Course (or were opted out because of weight... I didn't ask), and not the only one who struggled with some of the other physical challenges posed by the "Group Activities."

I will not be doing this again next year even if I am the fitness freaking queen of the world. I think I will be kinder to myself, and just hang out with people who will be kinder to me, and do things that are actually uplifting and that I enjoy. Although I will be sorry to miss the fellowship and the getting to know you portions of the retreat, I just don't have the heart for this anymore.

Sunday Pic: Ick!

Note to girls: Please store your pieces of weather beaten brown sidewalk chalk elsewhere.

Thanks
-the mama

Lifting of the Siege

Still trying to work out the tempo of my life right now. There is a theme of restraint and control overlaying most of it. Trying to fit it all in, in the proper way.

I started Weight Watchers last week, and this first weeks weight-in went better than I had hoped. I was careful, don't get me wrong, but with the hospital visits shoved in there, which included a visit to the lovely cafeteria and the bakery products; I was afraid I was too distracted to stick with it. Not gonna drag y'all through a weight loss bloggery... but when I hit twenty pounds down... I'm throwin' myself a party and ya'll are invited. I figure an Internet party is the best way to go, no one will be tempted to bring dip or chocolate cake. Is safer.

Before anyone gets too excited, twenty pounds is just the leftovers plus, from pregnancy number Pearl. I will then still have fifteen each from Birdy and LaLa to answer for once those are gone. Plus the initial ten or so that I picked up in my first year of marriage, and is never gonna be documented how far I am from my goals even then.

heh.... yeah.

And then there is the revamping of the budget. Or perhaps it would be better described as the introduction of a budget for our finances. That should be a right fun party right there! Whee!

You know, I feel like we are digging out from under. Emotionally, physically, financially recovering from the long siege of stress from the uncertainty and fear surrounding Pearl's sickness, capped off with a month long pitched battle at PCMC. Stress that caused Dadguy and I to start picking at each other for the first time in our marriage, the house to crumble into epic levels of slime-ary, and an overabundance of tv watching for the kids.

I just hope that we can stay here for a while. I like it here, feels comfortable. And even though I don't adore structure and discipline so very, it is nice to have that illusion of control.

The End

Y'all, we have reached the end of Pearl's saga. Clean bill of health, and if she has any scrub-o-phobia left, any lab-coat-freakout? You cannot tell by watching her. She was a happy little trooper during todays tests, and we are done.

Done.

Time and Stuff

I have the same number of hours in a day that everyone else does. That's what they tell me, and yet I cannot seem to accomplish a crappin' thing except the basics, and Dadguy may question whether the basics are being met. You would question too, if I let you see the state of my house. But I won't, so keep your nosey little nosey-ness out.

And I know better than this. I served a mission for my church (LDS) back before I got married, and the Mission President was a big time-management guy. He was, in fact a time management pioneer, and a honcho lecturer guy for the Daytimer folks. He trained every one of his missionaries in the proper use of Daytimers, and I was a time management freak.

You would never know this to see me in action today.

Then again, perhaps the list of stuff that I want to accomplish is probably too long. Some stuff that I want to do.

• Write a novel
• write poetry again
  
• write lyrics for hymns
• write lyrics for songs
  
• paint
• learn to belt like Aretha
  
• learn Karate
• learn Kick Boxing
• learn Gracie Jiu-jitsu
• lose weight
• lose enough weight to run a credible mile or so
  
• learn french
• quilt
• travel to Europe and do a big old Art tour

hey, it's MY dream.

Angels to Comfort Her

First round of tests are complete, and there was none of the anticipated and promised sedation, anesthesia, or fear. A few tears were shed over the IV insertion, but she was happy to be distracted by The Tooth Book. We even had a couple of good laughs over making toothy faces at each other.

When we got to the CT room, the nurse let her roam and check stuff out while we put on a Barney video and discussed what would work best. It was decided that we would go with the minimum of restraints; little more than a lap belt, and a foam wedge on either side of her head. I lightly held her hands and she lay there, still and serene. They spent less than ten minutes getting their images, a few minutes to make sure they were viable, thirty seconds to slip the IV out of her hand and she was off the table. She walked out the door without a tear in her eye, as a stunned technician gave her some stickers and a toy dog as a prize for being so brave and still. He kept raving about how he had never seen anything like it.

I have. But I've seen a number of miracles.

Blacker or Slogger?

Am just not feeling it lately. I think I mighta been thrown off my stride with the false start for school. Or maybe the feeling that everything is "on hold" till I get that final bill of health for the Pearl-girl. Or the fact that I am "trying " for that last baby, and I am late again this month- yet pretty DARN sure that I am not in a "family way." Grrrrrr!

Now I must waste perfectly good money on a pee-stick to tell me something I already know (not pregs), so I can go do something I really don't want to do (Pearl's CT scans). Again... am helpless to not do it. Must.

And I have to do it before tomorrow night (first Weight Watchers meeting).

The good news? My mama rocks!

Seriously, you all had good advise and lovely comments for me, but my mom sent me an e-mail that fixed everything, or rather, brought me peace. The most pertinent section....

"That she will have angels to hold her hand....maybe even my mama who underwent months and months of very bad tests (although she was an adult who could be explained to). I know she would be there anyway. and granny great and all the rest from both sides of the family whom we have not met in mortality. Their hearts are turned toward you. Plus the comforter will be there . for Pearl and you. Be sure to get a blessing from Dadguy for both of you. and in your case, the sooner the better. You might get guidance about whether or not to proceed or forget about it. Our hearts are turned toward you and your precious family.
Love, Mom"

A timely reminder.

Peace.

Anyway... it may be a Happy Labor Day and all that in the US of the A, but my slacking off has extended to my housekeeping, and I gots to get up and rock the house. Or clean. Or something!