The Sassy Uterus

The curse of the angry parent

Nearly every child has heard it uttered (or screamed) from their parent's mouth, "I hope you someday have a child just like you so you will know what it is like!"  Well, thanks Mom and Dad.  You could have given me a trust fund, yet I seem to have inherited something much more priceless-five mini-mes.  Or five mini-Phils as the case may be. 

Listen, everyone, I am not happy about this situation.  Everyday I am faced with one of them displaying an unsavory trait from mine or Phil's childhood.  On the really bad days, segments are taken from both of our youth years. 

Now, I remember myself as being a shy child.  A kiddo not prone to talking to strangers or even returning their glances.  Nope.  Me in my little world was a happy thing.  Still is, except now I have children that rip me out of it.  Most days I am left feeling like a newborn, just having been taken from the soft, warm womb of Mommy and into a cold, bright, loud room with lots of people talking.  Well, lots of children talking anyway. 

So yes, I was shy.  But apparently my ability to be abrupt and tactless left my parents a bit exaspperated.  Man, if I had a dollar for each time I heard, "Jennnniiiifffeeerrr, you really need to learn to think before you speak," well, I'd have that absentee trust fund I bemoan.  In this case, I feel that my parents should feel relieved, if not grateful, that I was so shy because that kept me from speaking (sans thinking) on a more often occassion.  Because to have someone who is tactless and outspoken is to have....well, my OLDEST SONS.

Tonight I ran to the store because Phil had Isaac asleep on his lap.  You do not do anything to wake up Isaac.  It's a general rule and it relates to his rapid acceleration from totally OK to totally 'effing pissed off in about 0.03 seconds (which, I might add, he gets from Phil's childhood.  Phil could be an angry child.).

The oldest two boys, Sky and Dylan wanted to go with me.  I said, OK because they had money and they wanted to buy their own junk food for a change.  As it turned out, our local Safeway had a long line at every checkout stand.  That was fine, I just chose the line that shot up the magazine aisle so I could peruse headlines and browse magazines as I waited.  But Sky and Dylan had a better idea.  They decided this was the peerrrfect place to wrestle.  I stopped them before they dropped to the floor with a loud hiss, "If you two don't get the hell up off the floor and act right, I'm going to put all your junk food back!"  Yeah...right.  I was too into figuring out what Boho magazine was all about (borrrriiinnggg, unless you are organic-minded, green-living, yada, yada). 

They stood up and decided to start trading barbs.  Dylan went to look at something on the ground, bumped his head on the cart, Sky (and maybe me too) started laughing, Dylan started to laugh, then got mad and grabbed for Sky over the cart (I had seperated them) and Sky says, "Oh my God Dylan!  You are an ass!"  "Skyler, I am warning you..."  To which Skyler says, "What I meant to say is that Dylan is a donkey."  Right.  Still name-calling, still punishable by junk food deprivation.  When Dylan started horsing around, Skyler says, "Ugh...white people."  (Note to self: No more Comedy Central or Dane Cook for him).

I would have paid serious cash to have this line move faster but that couldn't be, because I had to suffer the ill effects of a delinquent childhood (although I suspect I was suffering some of Phil's comeuppance tonight as well).  This situation went back and forth a few times, with me threatening to bite them if they didn't shape up (not my proudest moment) and came to an absolute tip-top pinnacle when Dylan decided to start talking in different accents.  Cute...all kids do it.  They mean no harm.  Right?  Well, if the accent he chooses happens to be the race of the person behind you in line who has nothing better to do than watch your family's circus act, it is really, really bad.

I wanted to die of embarrasment, just curl up on the bottom rack of the magazine stand, right next to Tiger Beat and Highlights and just die.  But then the line moved.  Finally.

If you think my boys need a good ass-kicking, I wouldn't argue with you.  And don't think that they don't know better because they do.  But this is how it is.  They have a misfire in their brain.  I'm sure I read about it in my Scientific American Mind magazine (although I did not find that little gem anywhere on the rack in my moment of crisis).  See, they want soooo bad to be soooo funny that they say the stupidest crap at the wrongest of times.  I have tried to tell them about time and place.  I have impressed on them that if a joke makes fun of a person or groups of people, it is wrong.  And they agree.  And then comes a trip to the grocery store and they misfire.  It's gotta be the testosterone. 

Anyway, I've made a conscious effort not to curse my kids in such a manner as most parents do.  See, Phil got cursed by it a few times over by his parents, and I don't think they ever took his prospective wife into consideration.  I am doing just that.  Future daughter-in-laws and son-in-law, you can thank me later.  Plus, if I end up watching my grandkids like my parents watch mine (awww...the irony, can you taste it?), I don't want to end up having to deal with it a second time.

So, thanks Mom and Dad, I really love having my mini-me's and Phil's mini-mes throwing every bad trait of ours up in our faces.  But a trust fund would have been easier to manage. 

Just beautiful....

My mother's side of the family tree has been shaken quite a bit lately with the illness of my uncle and a rather serious health incident with my grandmother, all within two weeks time.  Quite frankly, trips to the ICU at Stanford and later to the ER at the local hospital have have me feeling like the shit has been kicked out of me.

I am trying to pace myself.  Take it one day at a time.  One hospital at a time.  And most of all, I'm trying to make sure I get enough sleep.  And as far as sleep is concerned, I'm doing good.  It's the waking-up that is a bit more trying.

This morning I had all five of my kids in my face, albeit at seperate times, thank God.  First it started with one boy-child who shall remain nameless for the sake of his pride.  He didn't even wait for my eyes to open before launching into his monologue, "So, uh, mom.  Are you awake?  Listen, I think I slept kinda deep last night.  You know how I was sleeping on the couch?  Yeah, well, I must have slept deep because I think I pee'd on the couch."  NOW, my eyes are open as well as my mouth, "You better clean it up and clean it up the right way."  Sad, but all children in my household, over the age of 4 know how to clean up their nighttime wees.  I am only one woman and I have to contend with five children who all at some time in their life, past or present, has experienced night-time incontinence.  For one particular child, that lasted for eight years.  So yeah, they had to learn how to clean up after themselves.

So as that name-withheld child goes to work cleaning up what may have been his wee-wee from the night before, the next boy child comes in and does this to my face (My eyes are closed again):

"Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Hey.  Mom.  Hey mom.  Can I have a chocolate-chip muffin mom?  Mom?  Mom?  MOM?!"

The response is a lot more white-trash that I intended but I think I answered him with, "Fine, shit, please get out of my face.  I'm exhausted."  But wait, there's more.  As that child runs out of the room, the baby who WAS sleeping next to me starts to wake up.  Beautiful.

Next is Cassidy, who is telling me she is giving me a pet.  And for some reason, in order for her to give me that pet, she has to clear off the top of a chest by the doorway and set up her castle, little doll people, little car for little doll people, and in so doing, take everything that was up there (clean clothes, etc) and throw them on the floor.  The baby is entirely awake now.

But I'm an optimist.  A really, really tired optimist so I close my eyes again, hoping for just five more minutes.  Just five.  It's a Saturday, so I can get five right?

Wrrrroooonnnnggg!  Skyler, who I am convinced must have been waiting outside my doorway, waiting for the exact moment my eyes closed, enters and starts his barrage, "Mom, listen, I'm really sorry about yesterday.  I know I acted like an ass."  He likes to slip in PG-13 swear words now, I can't imagine why.  "And I know I should have been more sensitive about your Grandma having what may have been a stroke.  And I know it was rough on you to see her in the ER like that.  So I feel really bad.  Can you plug me back in now?" 

He's speaking of his internet cord, which got yanked from the modem last night after I lost it over his sheer selfishness and teenage boy attitude.  Listen, I'd love to have a better way to say this, but he did act like a complete ass and he did so, of course, at a time when I was most vulnerable and open for pain. Sooooo, "No, I"m not plugging you back in."  And he gets all exasperated on me, "Mom, why?  Why?  I told you I feel bad.  Why?"  And I just repeat, "I'm not plugging your internet in."  "God Mom why?  Please, c'mon, I promise I'll be better."  "Still no Skyler," I respond.  And him, being the wheeler and dealer that he is, decides it is time for a counter-offer, "Well, can I play WOW on Dad's computer then?"  Yeah, sure, I'm going to deny you internet access and ground you from YOUR computer so I can undermine my OWNSELF and let you play on your father's computer.  I may be asleep but I'm not drunk, at least not yet.  Only kidding....  So he gets denied once again and he exits my room in true pissed off-teenage boy fashion.  Whatever, don't let the door hit you in the ass.

I gave up after that and decided it was time to just face the chaos.  We worked our way through the day, he earned himself two hours of internet by being compliant and helpful.  But I still do worry about him.

Tonight, as I was giving Isaac his bath I smelled a pretty smell.  I do a sensory check...is it the Baby Shampoo?  Nope.  Is it Dr. Bronner's Mild Baby Soap?  Nope, although it does smell good.  Was it the Salonpas wintergreen-y smelling patches I had on my lower back earlier?  Definitely not.  And I knew it couldn't be the clorox wipes Phil had just used on the bathroom floor prior to Isaac's bath.  I write it up to just a combination of smells.

But then when I was dressing Isaac after his bath, I smelled it again.  It smelled like my perfume.  And I love that smell.  But why was I smelling it?  Cassidy was already in bed asleep and she is usually the culprit for all make-up and perfume-related misdemeanors in this house.

Skyler walks up to me and it is strong.  S-T-R-O-N-G.  So I have to ask, "Why am I smelling my perfume?"

He answers, "Oh, 'cause I was wondering what it smelled like so I sprayed it on my arm."  Okaayyyy.  Then he says, "Now I'm kinda mad because I really smell like it and now I know it isn't cologne."  Well, duh.  I asked him, "How could you think it was cologne?"  He said, "It looked like cologne." 

"Skylerrrr," I say, "It says Beautiful on the bottle."  "Oh, " he says, "I did not see that."  Beautiful.

Piper and the Tree

As far as Sunday evenings are concerned, tonight has been fairly peaceful and even joyful.  Phil assembled the Christmas tree.  Yes, we went fake this year due to last year's massive tree dry out days before Christmas arrived.  Apparently, my inattentiveness to anything that doesn't whine is the cause behind this fiasco.  I didn't remember to water the tree.  More accurately, I didn't remember to *nag* someone over the age of 10 to water the tree. 

So when my sister, her husband and their four beautiful offspring came to visit over the holidays and sleep in the living room with our crispy tree, they were constantly getting harpooned by the pine needles which were as sharp as tacks if not as strong.  "Merry Christmas, lemme pull that pine needle out of your back, hope you slept well."  Errr.

The tree situation took a turn towards dysfunctional when Piper (our cat, Piper Martin if you like to address pets like the vet offices do) found, much to his catty delight, that he could...wait for it...drink out of the tree stand.  Holy shit...who'd been keeping this from him all these Christmases prior?!  And he definitely enjoyed the pine flavor, almost a minty undertone that the water had. 

I think he grew dependant.  'Tis alright Piper, we all have vices.  Some days, the ones that were especially trying (say he had a mix-up with Boogie, our dachshund, or he got in a fight with his neighbor/brother cat Zac) he would be hitting that treewater like every other hour. 

I guess I shouldn't have written it off to kitty cotton mouth (he hangs out with Phil alot) and recognized it for what it was...kitty emotional distress, but I was pregnant (like always) and tired (like always) and really didn't give a shit (like always). 

As a consequence, Piper developed a real bad habit that he struggles with daily.  When he's aching for a fix, toilet water just doesn't cut it.

Remembering this story makes me feel really bad that we put up the fake tree.  He's gonna be so pissed when he sees we tricked him.  That'll be a picture for the family scrapbook.

Shhh...the baby is asleep

This baby child has us all messed up, clenched up, and shutted up.  He's asleep right now and I'm quite anxious about the clicking of my keyboard as I type this post.  I'm really, really afraid he's going to wake up.  It's 5:30 p.m. and this is his second nap. The first one happened around noon and lasted, oh, all of about 15 minutes. 

I held him during this nap, knowing that it would be a typically short nap.  My plan was to have him sleep as long as he could so that he woke up refreshed.  In a good mood, hopefully, and ready to play in one of his baby-toy appartuses.  So I didn't put him down.  I sacrificed that time that could have been used to defrag my mind in a totally unprecedented bet that he might give me more time upon waking.

Wrong!

So he's asleep now and I said to myself, "Blog.  Blog now.  Don't hesitate.  Don't try to finish the game of Bricks Breaking that you started on Yahoo while you were holding him. Don't go for a bigger score.  Open a new tab in IE and get thyself to blogdom." 

And here I am.  Doing so. 

Now, if you read this blog (and I thank the five of you that do), you might have noticed I've been AWOL.  In surrendering all my hours to either work, commute, kids and sleeping I've become completely creatively-constipated.  Add to this muscle pains and fatigue that doesn't let up, and you get a very, very grumpy me.  Waaah. 

I haven't had time to write, can't focus on reading, can't go be all crafty or embellish items (I've threatened to start decorating the baby with glitter and beads), and am unable to doodle little happy swirls and make crazy signs.  I knew this was becoming a problem when, on my way to my local Starbucks-mothership drive thru this a.m., I passed over the highway and noticed with entirely too much delight that the local gangsters had tagged the highway brick walls again.  It was very circular and bubbly...much like the design of cars manufactured in the late nineties.  Biters.

Anyway...I was delighted and then I was jealous.  Effing men, OF COURSE, they have time to be creative.  Envy was followed by what I thought was a profound idea, "Shit, I'll just go join a gang.  Then I'll get some creative time."  Um, yeah.  Well, luckily, my gatekeeper of sanity is barely operational but did manage to catch this stellar idea and veto it before I started an all out Google search and Craigslist scour down of any local gang that might be in need of a 30-year-old, white, mother of five to round out their posse.  You know, in the name of being an equal-opportunity group. 

Hey, that leads me to wonder, why don't gangs get sued for not allowing other races in?  Other clubs would. 

Although, even if they did let me in, I couldn't join.  Because I find gangs hilarious.  Now, before you get in a tizzy, let me qualify that statement.  I find gangs that operate in the suburbs hilarious.

We were coming home from Oakland (where I work, where I was born, where things are a bit more rough in the 'hood) and were arriving into our little piece of suburbia when I passed a silver sedan with a driver who had a red bandana pulled up over his nose and tied around the back of his head.  He was leaving a (gasp) strip mall and was rebellious enough not too signal his turn out into traffic.

And in full view of him (who was looking at me, wondering why I wasn't quaking in his presence and giving him the right of way) and his homie riding shotgun, I burst out laughing.  I couldn't help it.  I just couldn't.  It was too funny.  And before you say, "Don't worry, they probably didn't know you were laughing at them," let me stop you---they did know, because as my head flew back in guffaws, my right arm extended forward and my index finger popped out and pointed directly at their financed vehicle and their "rebel" driver.  Oh God...just remembering the whole thing brings a smile to my face.

You can't be hard in suburbia. Skyler's seventh-grade math teacher told his students, "You can't be a gangbanger if your mom still drops you off at school, " and I would concur. 

Now, though, I've pulled the tail of the tiger enough to know that they may have gotten offended.  They may have followed me home.  So I kept an eye on my rearview mirror the rest of the way home.  But like Skyler related when I told him the story, I shouldn't worry about a drive-by pillow fight.

True that.

At any rate, today I have blogged and I feel a bit more of me returning.  It's like a homecoming.  I'm almost teary-eyed.  Which reminds me....time for my anti-depressants and birth control. 

Love to all my homies...I'm gettin' up out of this bitch.

I don't mean to brag...

about how funny my oldest son is (Skyler, otherwise known as b1, aged 12 1/2) but you may want to put your drink down before you read much further. 

Just yesterday we are sitting around my parent's picnic bench and my father is talking about how his father has stopped appearing to him in dreams since he (my father) has returned to the Catholic Church and I murmur, "I don't blame him."  And my father, used to my snideness sarcasm continues, "No, I think that was his message to me."  And the subject of God comes up.  And something about my Dad needing to be closer to God, or something like that and this conversation occurs between him and Skyler:

Skyler: So..umm...you're close to God huh?

Grandpa: Yes, I think we are.

Skyler:  So are you, like, friends?

Grandpa: Sure.

Skyler:  So is He, like, in your Fave Fives?

I was in the worst mood yesterday when he said this I busted up.  And then I got mad at him for making me laugh.  Happy times.  Here is a pic of the young lad.  In a few short weeks he'll be at the (:::shiver:::) Junior High.

And because I told him he had to be serious and cute, this is what I got:

'Tisn't he cute?

On to the baby girl-child.  She's four-years-old now and I thought adjusted quite nicely to their birth of her younger brother.  Some of you may, or may not, know that she is the only girl child in the group of five kids.  She was also the baby of the family pre-baby Isaac.  She mommies him.  Loves him.  Is great with him.  But something tells me that she may have some issues she might like help with:

This is Phil's computer desk.  That is a binder on top of his desk which, apparently, makes a quite nice hanger holder.  On the right is her blue purse.  On the left, is her stuffed cat...hanging by it's COLLAR.

Think I'm lying to you?  Here's a close up:

That little pink band you see threaded through the hanger is the cat's collar.  And she did this herself.  And then walked away.  Simply skipped down the hallway, carefree, or perhaps carefree in a manical type of way.

Yup....just another day in our zoo.  But God...how we laugh.

Put me on top of the fridge

Lately I've been organizing when I can, what I can.  And I find little treasures and I think to myself, "Where can I put this so it can remain safe?"   That is, out of my childrens' destructive paws. And the answer to that question is always, "On top of the fridge." 

It seems sort of a crazy response when the subject of the question is a laptop, or a picture, or say, art supplies.  In fact, it might make some sense.  However, we already have the obligatory family medicines and parent alcohol up there.  Not to be combined, of course, unless it has been a really stressful day for Mommy. 

But these objects take up much space, everything from Children's Benadryl to my sister's Wild Turkey Whiskey she left here over the holidays.  Thanks for that, by the way. I was only on mandatory sober duty being pregnant and all.  Merry Christmas...yeah, sure.  Christmas I got, Merry....not-so-much.

So you get the picture...there isn't room enough on top the fridge for everything I'd like to keep safe from the little maniacal people I'm raising.  And there aren't nearly enough high shelves in our furniture arrangements being that Phil and I are pretty short ourselves and would like to be able to reach things without calling in back-up. 

This goes back to my ADD-tendency that if it is out of sight, it's out of mind.  I could store precious objects in a chest or filing cabinet that locks, but I'll lose the key, or a kid will eat it, and I will never open it again.  Or I'll simply forget to open it.  Thus, effectively keeping said "treasured" objects safe from myself.

But then I got to thinking....what, if anything, should I really put on top of that fridge, to keep out of the reach of kids?  Well...duh, that's a no-brainer. 

Forget the expensive electronics or even the adored photos.  Find another place for sentimental notes and family heirlooms.  I'm placing my ownself up on that fridge. 

Finally...my very own space in this house and I have to say, the neighbors up here are quite nice. 

To sum up, let me end with a quote that tickled me to no end when I first read it a year or so ago:

"ADVICE FOR THE DAY: If you have a headache, do what is says on the bottle: Take two and KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN."

How I do it? Somehow, someway, and with caffeine.

People, upon finding out that I have five children often ask how I do it.  I just stare at them blankly.  I have no response.  I simply don't know, nor am I sure that I even do "it."  I remember running through my days, frazzled, trying so hard not to forget something that will have dire consequences.  I am fatigued.  I show up, I do what I've got to do, I go to bed.  If I'm lucky, I find time to eat.  I try to be everything to everybody while caring for a 2-month-old fussy baby when I'm not at work.

I hate putting something up on this blog that could be a rant.  But in the interest of being real and truthful, I am going to do it.  It is now 12:47 a.m. my time and I just finished this journal entry:

"It's a crappy way to start the day...since it is 12:12 a.m. but I feel so bewildered, fatigued, resentful and mentally worn out.  I am positively overloaded.  I am trying so hard to be Supermom.  My lack of attention to any of them seems to affect them so profoundly.  But I am running myself thin.  Literally.

Take the day before what is now yesterday (6/10).  I started the morning early by attending the appt. for one of my children's psychologist.   That took for nearly ever.  The I came home in enough time to grab my bags and head to work.  While I had been at the appt. my parents began to give the baby one of the two 8 oz. bags of frozen milk I had for him.  I asked that before they go into the second 8 oz. bag that they consider giving him a small amount of formula as the last 8 oz. bag is all we had left.  Then I rushed off to get fast food and head to work.

While at work, my left breast became engorged.  I pumped both breasts for a grand total of 7 oz.  Usually I get four ounces from each side but the left side, despite it's engorgement only gave out 2 oz.  So, when the workday was over I pumped before I left work, on the left side, and I got another 3.5 oz. and the engorgment subsided.  This all gave me a grand total of 10.5 oz. 

During the workday I received a call from the husband who was testing the waters about possibly going out that night to his friend's house to help him build his new bed.  Erg.  The resentment was building.

My own night agenda, on the other hand, was to come home, take care of kids and baby, churn out a paper for school and somehow pump whatever milk I could. 

Upon coming home I found out that both of the 8 oz. bags of milk had been used and I felt a dread that is fast becoming familiar--that my baby's demand is exceeding my supply.

My husband didn't end up going out due to his profoundly bitchy wife.  Later in the evening I was able to pump another four oz or whatever.

Yesterday, which I still want to refer to as "today" I went to work and my parents gave my baby the 7 oz. I had pumped the day before.  Big sigh of relief, as he didn't polish off the whole milk supply storage.  While at work, I pumped another 5 oz. which gives us a grand total of 12.5 oz for him when I go to work later today. 

In the evening time, the husband was irritable.  I can't say that I blame him.  I also can't seem to comfort him either.

And..now...going into today, B3 has his kindergarten graduation at 10 a.m. that I need to get to before I head to work.  B1's sixth-grade graduation is at 6 p.m. and I am going to try to get there in time coming home from work. 

Meanwhile the pet dog's neuter voucher came in the mail today and I need to find time to call and make his appt. as the voucher expires 8/15/08. 

Luckily I got my school paper written and turned in earlier in the night. 

As for eating, the only true meal I got was dinner.  Earlier I subsisted on coffee, more coffee and a few bites of yogurt and a couple hunks of banana chocolate chip bread that a co-worker gave me that she didn't want to eat.

The house, of course, looks like shit and smells like piss.  The husband is stressed because the baby doesn't give him a break in the hours between the time he comes home and the time I come home.  And family members are getting their feelings hurt because the baby cries relentlessly while in their care. 

No pressure little guy.  He is only 2-months-old and dealing with the fact that his main source of comfort leaves him for 7 to 8 hours a day.

All of this...all of it, is on my shoulders.  My husband helps with the manual stuff, like making dinner and doing laundry.  He also shares in the baby-holding duties.  On top of working full-time.

But the mental, "Remember this, call this person, make this appointment, don't fail school, nurse baby, pump food for baby, keep on everyone's asses to do their job"--yeah, that's all mine.

And because I don't want the baby to feel everyone's pissy vibes, I feel like I have to protect him when I am with him.  I choose to hold him so Daddy can get a break and he (the baby) can get some time in with me.

Meanwhile, no one is doing what I would otherwise be doing, namely, cleaning nor are they, in the case of my children, doing their part, that is, clearing the table, cleaning their rooms, getting rid of linens they may have wet on the night before.

I am alternately forgetting things and obsessively remembering to other things---Pay this bill, check the checking accoutn, buy this.  But I forget what and when at the time when I am finally where I need to do it.

It's all too much and I can't keep up.  Me, who loves to be busy, is overloaded and ready to break.  I find myself impatient, frustrated, irritable and finally, depressed. 

So...people ask how I do it.  Do what?  Run around, frazzled, ready to have a nervous breakdown?  Well I guess that just takes talent and a lot of stress.  The other stuff is managed with a lot of caffeine.  Honestly...I don't know how I do it.  That's why I have no answer.   

What part of "Gaaa!" don't you understand?

Well I'm wide awake and baby manchild is snoozing in his swing.  Yesterday was horrendous with him crying nearly relentlessly.  He would wake after five minutes of sleep, leaving the Daddy-man and me ready to rip our ears off.  There is a certain insanity that occurs when an adult has been harrassed by a small child for 10 consecutive hours.  You begin the process of personification of the child, that is, endow him with characteristics that aren't his own by nature.  Of course, maybe that is only true with animals...that definition of personification...but I digress, as usual.

So we began asking this 7-week-child, feeling that he'd be able to answer in full and complete sentences, "What is wrong?  Tell me what's wrong."  And he'd say, "Gaa!" to which we'd say, "Is it your tummy?"  And he'd respond, "Gaaaaa!" and we'd say, "Are you sleepy?"  And he'd scream, "GAAAHHH!"  So clearly, we need to find out what "Gaah" means.  He did finally give up on us and our ignorance around midnight.  Poor tike probably thought he was getting a sweet deal with already broken-in parents.  Now he probably thinks he was given the stupid ones by accident.

After yesterday's high stress, I've been running on high.  Not wanting to rest, for fear it will be ripped away from me without any notice.  Not dare trying to do anything even remotely elaborate, knowing how I get so involved, I will be devastated when pried from my task at hand.  We used to have to give B1 a five-minute warning when it was time to leave a place (Grandma's house, the store's toy aisle, etc.) or he'd have a fit worthy of an anorexic supermodel whose been told to lay off the cocaine.  I now realize that he probably got that from me...and that I, if given a choice, would like a warning to prep my brain for the transition. 

Today, having been shell-shocked by yesterday, I've barely touched down in reality.  I float through the day, waiting to be rang harshly by my mini-master.  I try not to think too much.  I've nearly forgotten what it's like to be able to decide what I would like to do on a weekend.  That's a welcome relief, as the memory only tormented me.

Yup, this is definitely baby bootcamp all over again.  But this time I prep myself with mass doses of caffeine.  I have an equation that goes something like: For each child one raises, one should get a corresponding espresso shot.  For larger families, I'd suggest spacing the espresso dosages out rather than doing them in one latte.  'Cause I'd have to believe, from personal experience, that doing so would only land you on the toilet for the lion's share of the day.  And although that would give one moderate peace and quiet (see post about G4 serenading moi with Feliz Navidad while I was heeding nature's call), I still don't think it would be the restful weekend a body needs.

It's been suggested that my coffee-drinking might, perhaps, maybe, could be the result of baby manchild's restlessness and irritability.  I think not.  See, this is a case of which came first-the chicken or the egg?  And I'll tell you I have the answer to this question, at last.  The irritable, colicky egg came first and the chicken, at her wit's end and fatigued beyond desperation followed a week or two after with her trusty cup of caffeine.  But he's a cute, adorable, colicky irritable egg and I love him so.  Clearly I'm demonstrating signs of Stockholm syndrome.

Now that I've blogged some, that gives me some measure of personal satisfaction and I can go to sleep with a smirk on my face that for one moment this weekend, I got away with a purely selfish treat.   

Postpartum Sucks

I think it's time someone was clear on the first six weeks after labor and delivery-it sucks.  Hard.  The physical contractions may have abated, but the life contractions are just starting.  The contractions are adjustments to living a new life with a new child.

The baby, a blessing, is sweet but still adjusting to life outside the womb.  If it is *my* baby, he/she is also really pissed that they have been evicted from the womb and now must accommodate the human body they have been given.  Pooping especially pisses them off.  Farting is pretty bad too.  They don't mind nursing to feed their hunger or to receive comfort and will spend most days attached if allowed to.  They are often frustrated that they can't do more--grab what catches their eye, understand what you are saying, communicate their needs, fart better, etc.  Mommy (me) wishes she could do more as well.  This is especially trying if Mommy happens to be a go-getter, project-oriented and always popping up with new ideas that she wants to implement right away.  The combination of thwarted wants for both Mommy and Baby will lead to occasions where both can be found crying on the couch.

In addition, Mommy goes through metamorphic physical and emotional changes.  As Mommy, you don't catch nearly enough breaks or naps.  Because trying to is like trying to water desert plants.  It all gets sucked up to fill the deficit which is vast.

If one didn't know better, one *might* become excruciatingly depressed thinking that this will last forever.  That the current conditions are the forecast for the rest of her life. 

Sleep deprivation + physical and emotional exhaustion = faulty thinking. 

But one thing I know for sure (in fact, the only thing I know for sure) after giving birth to five babies and being a veteran to the fifth power of postpartum is that I can not trust my own thoughts to be true to reality--in life, and most definitely in postpartum.

So during those difficult times, you have to take it one moment at a time, knowing that each moment brings you closer to an easier time.  Sure, it sometimes doesn't come fast enough.  Which means you have to visualize it.  Sitting on the couch, nursing a baby who screams if you take your breast away (even though he's been nursing for 45 minutes on one side already), you have to close your eyes and visualize him at 3 months--smiling and grabbing at toys, at 6 months--maybe he has teeth now and he can certainly smile bigger, at 9 months--he's trying to crawl, at 12 months--could he already be trying to walk?  And in the background, you see yourself happy, smiling, feeling more freedom than you do now, enjoying motherhood more than you could expect and loving this child more than you thought your heart could hold.

One moment at a time, one vision at a time.  Those are the lifelines to sanity, and possibly thriving, in postpartum.  Coffee helps too. 

I need a break...

B5 (Boy/Baby #5) is not so good in the sleep category.  Or nap category either.  If it requires him to be detached from me, he's not interested.  I'm fatigued, not because I don't sleep at night, because *we* do, but because this baby is in my arms all day unless I get a breather in the form of Grandma or Daddy.

I've noticed that I'm not thinking right either.  Like I am inexplicably slow at putting two and two together.  Thoughts such as, "We need milk" take a few hours to join up with their sister thought of, "We need to go to the grocery store." 

But eventhough this thinking is disjointed, it doesn't keep me from coming up with new ideas.  Ones that come from outer space and have no linkage, rhyme, nor reason.  Earlier this week I decided that if it was an object and it had to be stored on a counter, desk, etc. it belonged in a basket.  And this has taken off quite well and definitely looks better but I keep running through three places to get such baskets in my head: Freecycle, Michael's, Thrift Stores.  But if you ask me what I plan to get at the thrift store, I'll draw a blank.  It's crazy. 

You'd be more prone to think I've had a brain injury instead of a baby.