A Shoddy Birth Story

In June of 2003 I wrote my first birth story. At the time I didn’t realize birth stories were a thing. I also didn’t realize that having written one for my first child, I’d be compelled to write one for my second, third and fourth children as well. What a pain in the ass.

My first child’s birth story was all but written by the time I left the hospital. I had it drafted in my head, focusing on every detail and committing them to memory. Her birth story is also ten pages long. I was nervous that I’d forget something about that day, and was also paranoid that I was going to drop dead from some mysterious post-partum ailment (besides sleep deprivation). My fear was that there would be no one to explain to her how magical that day had been. Yes, her Dad could try…but when I made him write his version of her birth story (cause I’m cruel like that), I realized he got it almost all wrong. Especially when it came to documenting how much it frigging h-u-r-t.

In August of 2005 I gave birth to my second child, and while I jumped on his birth story pretty quickly, it took me some time to get it together.  I was more sleep deprived than ever. His birth story is lengthy simply because I repeat myself over and over again. I think I wrote his story with my eyes half closed. To this day I do not remember most of his first few months home.

When my third arrived on a beautiful stormy day in July 2009, I was over birth story writing. Sadly I saw it as something I had to do; more of a chore than an opportunity to record (what I thought would be) my last baby’s grueling entrance into this maddening and glorious world. 

Plus, she was my favorite and I savored every single moment with her. I held her while she napped. I held her at night. I picked her up just to smell her. I picked her up just to run my cheek over her amazing head of hair. I held her all the time; my third baby…the peace keeper, my mood stabilizer, the bringer of pure joy. I had long since become the queen of multi-tasking, but I hadn’t quite mastered typing one handed, and her birth story took months to compile and complete.

Now it is seven-plus months since the birth of my fourth child. And I can come up with very little for his birth story, one tiny little stack of post-it notes on a shelf in my closet. But never fear, my dear baby. You are now my favorite, because there is no way a four year old, an eight year old, or a ten year old could ever endear themselves to me as much as you do, with all of your baby giggles, squish, folds, rolls and snuggles.

I loved you from the moment I knew you were. But you terrified the hell out of me. I was silly to be scared of you. Because…well…I have a four, eight and ten year old, and they are far more menacing. Right now they are yelling at each other. Arguing over you. So please know that even though your birth story in no way compares to theirs, it is not for lack of love. It is from lack of energy, time, and brain cells. I am done, sweetie. I love you, but my birth story writing days are over. I will do your birth the honor of this though, the best I can do right now:

I walked around for many weeks feeling like you were clawing your way out. Then you were due and you didn’t want to come out. I really, REALLY wanted you to come out. My doctor was a turd and refused to take you out. I waited three extra days, and finally it was time to encourage you to come out with Pitocin.

I was 3cm on Monday night, without a contraction in sight, and so relieved when I was admitted to the hospital. There was a playoff hockey game on. The doctor sat on my bed and watched the game with your Dad. I sat on the edge of the birth tub, looking out the window, too lazy to suggest we fill the tub with water and use it. So I walked. The Bruins won. I walked. Finally I asked for drugs. Finally they whipped out the water-breaking-crochet-hooky-type thing. 29 minutes later you were born and I barked “get the camera and take a damn picture” to your Dad. True love right there. No drugs; things moved so incredibly quickly that the anesthesiologist could do nothing but fidget in a corner.

You were out. Your Dad and I ate lots of take-out from downtown restaurants we haven’t frequented in years. We drank lots of coffee and sent lots of texts. And we savored every last second in that tiny hospital room. We took the long way home. We were wise to the chaos that awaited us at home.

We love you baby boy. You are amazing, and we couldn’t imagine life without you. Sorry about the sloppy story…I’ll make it up to you by loving you forever. And always. And forever more.

 

Breakfast Magic

I try to make life magical for my kids. I do an average job. There are parents out there who are far more creative and far more dedicated to bringing magic to their kids’ lives than I. I give myself credit for trying because I have a nasty habit of starting a project and not finishing it. And because I am a procrastinator. And because I tend to be lazy. And because I’m also a pro at finding excuses.

So a few weeks ago, right around Thanksgiving, and after I had made the kids a winter themed breakfast, my husband challenged me to make one winter/holiday breakfast through Christmas. Two thoughts immediately ran through my head. Firstly…bring it hubs. Don’t challenge me, in front of the kids, and expect me to go down without a fight. Secondly…crap! I’m never going to follow through with this.

Then I started calculating excuses: basketball games, a Baptism, a sleepover for one of the kids, volleyball, I am not good at Pinterest. The list goes on. Yet, I still managed to produce a few cool eats for the kids. Because they loved the breakfasts. They looked forward to them. And I got to practice (and ultimately realize I still suck at) Pinterest.  

Yes, I missed a few weekends. But I did okay too. Your welcome kids.

 

Week One:

(Thank you Pinterest)

(Its Rudolph. Not a monkey or a moose or a baby like my kids thought)

 

Week Two:

(Thanks again Pinterest)

(Frisky Donut Snowmen & Reindeer)

 

Week Three:

(Thanks, middle of the night wakefulness)

(Waffle Iron Snowflakes)

 



Week Four:

(Thanks again, middle of the night wakefulness)

 (This is supposed to be a Cinnamon Bun Christmas Tree Tower)

(Not everything is perfect!)

Week Five:

(The upside to having an infant who is up at all hours of the night...I come up with these!)

(Santa's Toy Sack, Crepes filled with homemade whipped cream, sliced strawberries and bananas)





On the Road Again

I’m a road trip girl. Always have been. My mother is terrified of flying, so every vacation consisted of piling into a car that was inevitably too small and driving hundreds of miles to mediocre destinations. But I loved it. Even the 24 hour we’re-not-stoppin’-unless-you’re-dyin’ drive home lent its own kind of life altering excitement.

Now, as a parent myself, I still love road trips. Well, really, I love the idea of road trips.  Road tripping in the midst of this borderline hellish endeavor called parenting that I’ve gotten myself into, is a lot different than sitting in the back seat of my parents car, wind in my hair, sun on my face, ginormous headphones plugged into my Walkman. SO. FREAKING. DIFFERENT.

But I’m a sucker. One trying road trip after another and I keep suggesting them. Insisting even.  And my husband. He obliges, and then waits for it all to fall apart. He never says “I told you so.” But I swear I feel him thinking it. A lot.

For my daughter’s tenth birthday we bought her tickets to a concert in Boston. Because the concert fell on Columbus Day weekend, I naturally wanted to make a weekend out of it. A road trip if you will. I was determined to make our 24-ish hours away from home a memory. One that I was willing to photograph and revisit.

Yet I should have known. My husband knew. I think the baby knew too. A drive that should have taken a little over two hours took nearly four. We stopped four times. FOUR TIMES.  A rest stop. A liquor store. And the breakdown lane of a major highway, twice. Nothing says adventure like running circles around your van rearranging car seats and changing poopy diapers while cars zip by at 75 miles per hour. Really gets the blood pumping.

Once we got into the city I was positive that things would run more smoothly. I’m pretty sure that it was as I unclenched my fists and started breathing regularly that we hit bumper to bumper traffic. In. The. Tunnel. And then our oldest boy announced that he had to pee. Like really bad. I let my mind wander back 13 or so years to my bachelorette party; stuck in traffic and intoxicated. And my sister had to pee. So she jumped out of the limo and peed behind a dumpster in a parking lot. Cause we’re classy like that. But then she had to run alongside the limo because traffic had started moving. I wasn’t about to tell my kid to hop out of the van, pee against the tunnel wall (hello backsplash) and then hope he could catch us as we motored away.

So we did the next best thing. He peed in my empty Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. Like a professional. Part of me feels like my parenting leans heavily towards the “enabling my kids to act like high school idiots” style. Still, part of me was quite proud of myself. I was able to contort my post pregnancy body into the back seat of the van. I was able to hold the cup and not gag. To replace the cap without spilling a drop. To growl at his sisters to stop frigging laughing, and peeking, and screaming “he’s peeing in Mom’s coffee!” I hope we’re not faced with the urgency of that situation again, but if we are, next time I swear I’ll remember to throw the cup away. Not leave it sloshing around in the van for two days. Potholes take on a whole new level of hell when there’s 16ozs of pee in the car.

Dunkin Donuts styrofoam. Not just for coffee anymore.

The rest of the afternoon went relatively well. Aside from the fact that we walked two blocks in the wrong direction looking for my daughter’s favorite restaurant. Then asked directions, and continued to walk another two blocks…still in the wrong direction. Cause we’re geographically gifted like that. Nothing says “this is awesome” quite like your GPS barking at you that you’ve reached your destination, but when you look around all you see are alleyways and a parking garage. Eff you GPS. You failed us. Again.

Upon checking in to our hotel I was reminded just how out of place my family can be sometimes. The hotel was pretty swanky. We had to smuggle a couple of kids in, because technically we exceeded the maximum room occupancy. Also, six people in a room with two double beds leads to renting a rollaway bed. So there was kinda the time I was sitting on the toilet talking to my mother on the phone, when I heard a knock on the door. I assumed it was my husband coming back for his forgotten wallet, or better yet a forgotten child. Nope. A porter.  With the rollaway bed. We were both stunned.

 

Outside the Garden

And then my heart broke for my little girl. As the big kids left with dad she once again left out. And she was sad. But she kept saying “thank you Mom. Thank you for letting me come to this hotel.” To make it up to her she had McDonald’s for dinner and a pre-bed dip in the oddly small rooftop pool. Except she nearly drown. She wanted to see if she could touch bottom without her Puddle Jumper on. The pool was 3 ½ feet deep. I told her to walk down the steps and quickly touch the bottom. She did just that. And she could touch, and with her head thrown back and her little nose in the air so she could breathe. And I told her to come back. But she decided to bob and tiptoe away from the edge of the pool. And then she panicked. And started flailing. And kinda drowning I think. And as I was kneeling at the edge of the pool, arm outstretched as far as it could go, pleading with her to kick her little feet I realized one thing. I’d forgotten to snap my nursing tank back together again. And then I realized I was wearing a painfully stretched-out-to-East-Gish scoop neck t-shirt on top of my nursing tank. And saving Gillian quickly became more about saving my ladies from completely falling out of my shirt. In front of the freakishly hairy Dad, who waded to our side of the pool to see what all the commotion was. It was a spectacle. I saved Gillian. But not my pride.

Wanting to play it cool I let Gillian swim around with her floaties on for a while after. The other family left. And their kid took our room key with them. So there was also the time my sopping wet four year old, shivering in just a bathing suit and wet towel, my four month old, overtired and cranky, and I, fresh off yet another boob baring experience, had to make our way down nine floors, across the very full lobby and up to the front desk. I hadn’t gotten the entire story out before the woman kindly held up her hand, asked for our room number and issued a new key.

Ultimately the big kids had a great time at the concert with their Dad. And ultimately I held down the fort in a mostly respectable fashion. It wasn’t even that annoying that our hotel was nestled up next to a major medical center in the middle of Boston. We hardly noticed the constant sirens at all.

In the morning we faced the thought of our return trip with great dignity. Unlike the way we faced the free breakfast. Four times. And maybe once more for the road. Heading down to eat our weight in free food my family looked like a pack of drunks. No, worse. We looked like a pack of worn out drunks. Not drunks that have had a good time. Just the opposite.  Drunks with mostly mismatched jammies and inappropriate footwear. The hotel manager gave a visible shiver when he realized we were there for breakfast. Again. He was a tiny little man.

But the kids ate. A bagel caught on fire in the toaster (so not our fault)! Then they swam. Someone smacked someone else in the face “accidentally” and there was a bloody nose. So then we left. Could not get out of there fast enough. And we hadn't made it one block and they were asking when we'd be home. But the baby slept. And the big kids reminisced. And it only took two hours.

 

 

 

 

Baby Loves TV

It never dawned on me that I wasn’t a good enough mother, until I started reading parenting books.

But as I become more weathered by this thing called parenting, I have learned to cut myself a little slack. I have learned to trust my gut and my instinct, and in turn live happier as a Mom.

I have discovered that each child brings a new set of firsts that need wrangling and understanding; each bringing a unique parenting challenge to the table. Thankfully as more kids have come along, I have learned to worry about doing it right less, and doing what I know is best, more.

My first baby couldn’t latch on to nurse properly. Turns out she was tongue-tied, and our pediatrician refused to do anything about it. For weeks she and I cried through every feeding. I hated nursing, and began to hate being my baby’s mother. Eventually I pumped and bottle fed her, and though there were far fewer tears and significantly less pain, I hated pumping too. Against expert advice, I eventually formula fed my baby, and as soon as I did, I loved her in a way I hadn’t before. As soon as I did, I wish I had listened to my mother and my gut sooner. She was happier and I was happier.

My second baby liked to wake in the middle of the night and behave like a belligerent drunk. He would stay awake for several hours at a time, often thrashing or crying. I do not remember half of 2005 and most of 2006 due to sleep deprivation. Against expert advice we began co-sleeping in order to survive. This bugger still likes to be in my room when he sleeps…but I’m pretty sure he’s not going to want me rooming with him in college. Instincts (and common sense) say it’s okay to let him ride out his nighttime issues on his own time.

 

With my third we thought we’d hit the baby jackpot. Until around 6 months when she decided to start screaming in restaurants. Blood curdling, mind bending screams. For fun. Except it was only fun for her. It was startling and deafening for the rest of us. I have never had so many nasty comments from strangers as I did in the three or four months she practiced her freedom of speech when out to eat. So I started drinking a lot when we’d go out to dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.  Against expert advice of course.

Our fourth baby was pure joy for the first two weeks of his life. Then we discovered rather abruptly that he hates the car. He too possesses the ear piercing screaming gene. Yay for us. There is not much worse than needing to run three kids in multiple directions five, six or sometimes seven days a week with a shrieking newborn in the car. Even though he is now better at controlling his emotions, I still break into a cold sweat every time I buckle him into his car seat. Of course, against expert advice, around this time I rekindled my romance with speeding. And listening to the car radio a leeeetle too loudly. It was kinda like being in high school again. ‘Cept for that screaming newborn in the backseat.

 

With baby number one I was doing everything by the book, and my baby and I were pretty miserable. I thought my baby had to sleep in her own bed. And therefore no one slept. I thought my baby had to be breastfed. And therefore she was starving for the first four months of her life. I thought my baby had to learn to fall asleep on her own and self-soothe. And therefore I drink drank a lot of wine at bedtime. And she cried a lot of tears. And it sucked. And I swore I would never put myself or one of my children through that hell again.

By baby number four, I refuse to read a parenting magazine or book. I figure thanks to my intuition I’ve got this good-enough parenting thing figured out. It helps that I now realize there’s no way I’ll ever get it all right, and frankly I’ve quit trying.

 

So the baby watches TV while I make dinner and the big kids do homework. Hell yes he does. He takes one for the team so I don’t stab someone with a fork or cry over my inability to understand third or fifth grade math. It also means I don’t have to wear him steam pressed to my saggy chest…again! And I’m a good-enough mother because of it.

So my preschooler spends time playing on my phone. Will she get kicked out of preschool? Will she feel neglected and unloved? Will she drop out of high school?  I think not. When she is engrossed in a good game of Pocket Edition (read free!) Minecraft, I get a reprieve from her complete inability to sit-freaking-still. I don’t have to answer the same damn question five thousand, three hundred and six times. In five minutes. And I’m a more focused mother because of it.

So summer vacation, winter vacation, spring vacation, half days, sick days, snow days, any day that ends in day may involve a movie. Usually my only stipulation is that it is longer than 90 minutes. Movie days don’t mean my kids will end up dull minded. It simply means that I’m not constantly looking at this: (and I’m a better mother because of it).

Yeah, my baby watches TV. But I think he’ll be okay.

I screw up a lot as a mother and I love my kids more than anything. I know that someday my kids will be parents, and they’ll be screwing up too. And that will make me love them even more.



Night Life

During nights like last night, when I'm up every 20 minutes soothing, bouncing, burping, or nursing a very uncomfortable baby, I like to catch up on my laundry.

Usually I am at peace with the fact that I am up. This middle of the night work, these measuring doses of gas drops and Tylenol, this running to the garage to retrieve medicine from the diaper bag, stopping only to sop up water from a leaky dishwasher, is part of the job. And of course, between longing glances at the clock, diapers and pajamas are changed, and there is hope that at some point during the night the baby’s whimpering will cease, and even he and I will settle into a deep and comfortable sleep.

I’m so groovy with these nights that at first, when I quietly walk up to my husband’s side of the bed I only gently nudge him in the gut with my knee, just briefly interrupting his sleep. At first, I just want the snoring (think herd of large animals engaging in group flatulation) to stop so that I can think.  Or hear the TV. Or concentrate on Instagram. And in the beginning, say the first hour or so, I truly appreciate my husband groggily picking his head up off the pillow, as if to ask if I need his help or a break, and then laying it gently back down again without saying a word. I think he thinks I don’t see him. Initially I really don’t mind when he scowls at me through sleepy eyes, disgruntled because the hallway light is on, or, heaven forbid, I flushed the toilet. But in the spirit of honesty folks, it gets old. After three or four hours, it gets really old.

Thankfully great clarity comes to me during nights like last night. When I am up. And exhausted. And my husband is, well….not up or exhausted. I am able to plan my day; get a jump start on my list of things to do. I make a mental checklist and settle on laundry. Laundry is perfect.

Since the baby and I are in this together, we pad down the dark and quiet hallway. I survey the laundry room, assessing each pile and settle on towels. Filling the washer I make sure to use the hottest of the hot water settings. And I smile as I set the delay start, knowing that this is where the magic happens. Because the one thing that sleeping through the night will allow my husband to do, is roll out of bed when his alarm chimes, and go about his very predictable weekday routine.  Alarm. Pee. Shower. 5:30, 5:31, and 5:32. Monday through Friday.

Coincidentally I am loading my washer at 2:30 in the morning. And not coincidentally I am setting the washing machine to start in three beautiful hours. Thinking of our inadequate well filling the machine with lots of hot, hot water at just about the time my husband attempts to take a hot, hot shower will undoubtedly bring me a deep sense of peace. And make my four hours of sleep some of the best four hours of sleep I’ve had in a long time.

There wasn’t a whole lotta this going on last night…



Opening Day

Game one for the Cubs is in the books…

 

As Opening Day commenced, I had every intention of capturing just one snapshot of father and son together on the field, as this is the first time my husband has coached one of our kids. I dutifully clutched my phone for the first ten minutes of warm ups. Well, no, that is a lie. For the first ten minutes of warm ups I spread blankets, positioned a stroller, a chair and a shade umbrella. I readied toys, rattled off available snacks and started to sweat. Like a lot. Looking back I realize I should have called it a day when my shins started sweating. Damn capris.

 

So, let’s say that for the next 10 minutes after the first ten minutes, I diligently clutched my phone waiting for the perfect shot: Dad and son side by side. One learning from the other; each searing these moments into their infinitely inadequate man-child memory. But in those first few minutes, as shin sweat puddled at my feet and back sweat zinged down my spine, their smiling faces, pats on the back, and all that camaraderie crap blurred.

It coulda been the sweat dripping into my eyes. Or it coulda been that I began bouncing a fussy baby. And then attempted to discreetly nurse a screaming baby.  Surely the realization that I had to put my phone down had nothing to do with an awkward mixture of exposed breast, squawking baby and uncontrolled milk spillage.

The game hadn’t even started and I had already changed two poopy diapers, sopped gobs of spit up out of my tank top, bought a stroller full of snacks and water for the girls (even though I brought from home a van full of snacks and waters for the girls), made at least one pilgrimage to the van to feed a baby, and changed said baby’s outfit cause he peed on himself.

To be fair to the baby, the part where he peed on himself was totally my fault.  I had been hot-shotting the diaper change and momentarily forgot that the baby was in fact a boy with a pretty solid track record of peeing or pooping all over the van, not to mention his impressive range-of-stream. Temporarily forgetting that I was not in fact at the game to say...enjoy myself...I took my eyes off the diaper region to chat, and was swiftly put back in my place by my three month old.

New outfit for baby, myself soiled from boobs to ankles; I mustered all my strength and dragged my soggy self, the girls and the baby back to the field. And I left my phone alone, giving up hope of making any moment a Kodak/Facebook/Instagram one. But I watched (and doled out quarters for sugar, and bounced a baby, and chatted a little with myself). I focused on my boy and my husband and the fun they were having.  And I will remember. Their smiles. The pats on the back. And all that camaraderie crap.

And if I worried about missing a moment of the game, I shouldn’t have. Because in the cool tranquility of the van on the ride home…I got the play by play. In great detail. Twice.

I volunteered my husband as a Coach this season. And even though I had clearly been drinking heavily when that idea seeped into my pickled brain, I am happy for them. They will remember. 

The First Ten Weeks

The First Ten Weeks: #newbornproblems

I have written the ever popular birth story for each of my children. This is not one of them. Having given birth to my fourth almost twelve weeks ago, it is clear that a birth story is not happening. I have come up with this instead.

 

Week One: #feedingdiaperingburpingbutitsallgood

This could possibly be the most sparkly, dreamy week you’ll experience postpartum. Partly because that load you’ve been toting around on the inside has finally made his or her, (or holy hell their,) appearance. Labor sucks. Delivery hurts like a Mutha. But Sweet Jesus the last few days of pregnancy feel like a living hell.  

This first week also rocks because for part of it you and your little nugget will likely be in the hospital. Unless you’re a special kind of brave and delivered at home. Either way, those first few days are magical. You are treated like the Queen you know you are. People bring you food. You have a chaperone when walking to the potty, or anywhere really. Friends, family and even the occasional rock star nurse, will jump at the chance to change diapers, refill water, sweep floors, empty trash, fluff pillows and just generally pay you more attention than you can expect to see for the next several years. Or at least until you give birth again.

During week one even the middle of the night feeding/diapering/burping/feeding/burping/diapering dance seems euphoric, cause holy crap you just had a baby! Sadly during week one you may be fooled into thinking, “yeah I got this. I just might not lose my ever loving postpartum mind this time.”

 

Week Two: #fatbabyproblems

This week may be the week the onslaught of meals brought to your home drops off dramatically. This is unfortunate, given the fact that you’ll be ravenous. So much so that the cliché “he is so adorable I could eat him up” becomes horrifyingly possible. Fat babies are especially at risk during week two.

 

Week Three: #thereaintnovillageat2AM

Your baby is gorgeous and adorable. And people love him. And they will tell you every chance they get how gorgeous and adorable he is. And you will agree. Although, you will also know baby’s dirty little secret. This baby becomes a little less gorgeous and adorable at 2AM. So you say to the people…”isn’t he gorgeous and adorable? You should see him at 2AM.” And the people will chuckle and nod. And you’ll say…”no, seriously. Come over, I’ll be up. Bring coffee and donuts and bacon. And a roast chicken… you can hold the baby.” But no one will come. Long about week three your husband will likely tire of getting up and helping with feeding/burping/changing. You’re on your own at 2AM sister.

 

Week Four: #holyshititseverywhere

By this week you may be hitting your groove. Your baby is a miracle. Surviving thus far as a parent is a miracle. But this week baby may shake things up a bit. This week could be a game changer. Perhaps you’ve dropped a kid at summer camp, and promised the other kids you’d visit the library. And getting screaming baby out of car seat (see week six) you realize he’s pooped. A lot. No problem for this veteran Momma.

 

You rearrange bags and flip seats down. With a flick of your wrist the changing pad is laying on the front seat of the car and you get after that poopy diaper. Somehow all of your car doors end up open, and children numbers two and three are all up in your face, which is dangerously close to baby’s ass. And you hear it coming.

This will be the week; baby’s legs held high in the air, he produces a poop of astronomical proportions. Yes, you jump mostly out of the way, but you are startled. And your big kids are startled. And so you all scream. Like a lot. And the poop…holy lord the poop. It grazes your thigh, dribbling down your shorts and onto your leg. And because you were bent in half, your face all up in some cute baby ass, parts of it land on the inside of your rain coat, penetrating the mesh and gathering in an inside pocket. Which has your phone in it.

But it doesn’t stop there. This poop keeps going. It hits the open car door. And trickles into the speaker. And it keeps going. Onto the running boards; and you’d swear it could have shot clear across the parking lot had the air not been so freakishly thick and humid.

 It is an unbelievable spectacle. And there’s the screaming. And now the baby is crying because his astronomical poop scared the shit out of him. As did your screaming. And you are hotly reminded that this is a busy parking lot. And you’re attracting attention. And you all are still screaming. And doing a funny little dance.

Finally getting things in order you begin to feel as though this nightmare is over. Then you go into the library and your three year old recounts the drama in vivid detail. To Every. Single. Person.

Week Five: #bladdercontrolfail

Around week five you may be done with the physical recovery from giving birth. You may think you have regained control over your bladder this week. You may be nursing your baby at 3AM and have to sneeze. And you try to do so quietly and without jostling baby off the boob, but it’s convoluted. And you full on pee your pants. And you just don’t care, cause it’s 3AM.

 

Week Six: #jesustakethewheelforreal

This will be the week that you curse enrolling your older kids in any sort of Summer Camp/after school activity/sports-type program. You realize this because your baby hates to ride in the car and has the most horrifyingly hysterical shriek that he saves only for car rides. Shrieking baby helps you realize you never should have anticipated leaving the house ever again. Baby’s shrieks sound disturbingly like “you should have avoided Summer Camps and bought each of the kids $500 worth of iTunes gift cards and told them you’d see them after Labor Day”.

 

Week Seven: #nuffsaid

Two words: Boob Sweat

 

Week Eight: #wardrobemalfunction

Yup. You will forget to refasten your nursing tank. Many times. You may also hear the doorbell ring, and forget you’re not wearing pants. And even though it’s just a quick peek to see who dares ring the doorbell when there’s a goddamned newborn sleeping in the house, the neighborhood boys will see. And their eyes will burn.

 

Week Nine: #milkflowproblems

Family day trip week. And you’re going to make the most of it damnit. Bags are packed. And no lie, so are the ear plugs. Cause baby still hates the car. You head north and baby screams. You make pit stop after pit stop. Changing diapers, switching seats, and trying to nurse. Finally baby sleeps for the best 20 minutes of the day, but it’s a long ride. Nothing is going right, but you’re almost there. One last stop cause Momma’s gotsta pee and you’ve decided baby needs Tylenol. Customer heavy gas station-slash-sandwich shop-slash-convenience store score.

You can duck into the restroom unnoticed but when you bend over to sit on the potty it’s like the Hoover Dam lets go on your chest. In two places. And you stumble out of the gas station-slash-sandwich shop-slash-convenience store (cause remember slinking is for pumas, and you’re not that,) in horror. You spend the next two hours arms crossed tightly across your chest. You have another shirt to put on, but that gets wet too. So when you reach your destination you are thankful for your Ergo, and hastily put it on and shove baby into it and finally relax. Except baby only likes the carrier for 20 minutes. So then you walk around like an ass with an empty Ergo.

Week Ten: #itsallgood

His cheeks. His eyes. His thighs and toes. His breath. His perfectly round head, and extraordinarily small feet. His coos and smile. His giggle. Oh my, his giggle. His sad lip. His fat rolls…all of them.

 

The way he looks at you. The way his head smells. The way his brother and sisters love him more than anything. The way he feels when he sleeps on your shoulder, or curled into your arm at night.

He holds your finger. He grabs your hair. He buries his face in your neck.

He stares into your eyes and opens your heart every minute of every day. He was meant to be with you. He is perfect. This is all so perfect.



Baby Time

Since Labor Day I've felt as though I am living under a rock.

(Madison Boulder, Madison, New Hampshire)

Each time I start to creep out, I don't make it very far before scurrying back under. Since early September we've gone back to school, managed the holidays, and endured what seems like countless school vacations, snow days (and more snow days), half days and sick days.

Blizzard of February 2013

None of which would normally feel insurmountable. The difference is that I'm slogging through it all while pregnant with our fourth child. And yes, I’m thrilled…but I’m also exhausted.

 

Couple the exhaustion with the normal “help me through the day” things I’ve been forced to willingly given up: a full night’s sleep, several cups of coffee a day, a cold beer or glass of wine before heading to the (afternoon) bus stop, I can barely make it until the first kid's head hits the pillow. 

 Consequently, with this pregnancy, there are other things that have taken a back seat to simply getting through the day. This pregnancy has not involved day dreaming about my baby, or making lists or repeatedly washing and folding baby clothes. This pregnancy has been solely about putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward. I also no longer give a crap or feel guilty about my lack of exercise. The word cleaning isn’t in my vocabulary. Okay, the word cleaning has never been in my vocabulary. I no longer worry about how much screen time the kids get in a day. Laundry is not even on my radar screen. Recently Gills took her favorite shirt out of the dirty laundry pile and wore it for the second day in a row. I didn’t even attempt to reason with her or talk her out of it. I kinda sprayed her with perfume and sent her on her way.

Having three kids during this pregnancy has drained the life out of me, but also managed to sustain my excitement about our new addition. Their eyes grow wide when they feel him move, or listen to me tell them about how he has the hiccups. They imagine what he’s doing “in there” and love to hear the stories I tell them from when they were “in there” too. They cannot wait for the birth of their baby brother, and while I love experiencing this pregnancy alongside them, they have sensed my many weaknesses along the way.

My three year old understands with complete certainty that I cannot and will not chase after her. If she starts running, I’m all like “you’re on your own kid.” I have agreed to things like getting a lizard, just because I was too breathless to explain how if said lizard appeared in our house, I would have to bludgeon it to death with a meat tenderizer while they were at school. I’ve made promises about Disney vacations and above ground pools, just to expedite their departure from my bedside so I could resume napping. They’re listening to upbeat but inappropriate songs in the van so I don’t fall asleep at the wheel. And more than once in the past few weeks, dessert not only before dinner, but FOR dinner has become the norm.

I am counting down the days until I no longer pee, walk out of the bathroom, and have to go back in to pee again. I dream about cold, crisp adult beverages. Baby gear is beginning to be unpacked. The kids are ready and slowly I am coming to the realization that there will soon be another little person in our family. Yes, I am excited. Yes, I am in love. Yes, I am exhausted.