[Conversation from this afternoon.]

“What did you do?!!”

“Huh?”

“The toilet.”

“It’s white.”

“I know!  How did you do that?”

“I read a blogger’s adventure on how she cleaned her toilets.  She lives in New Mexico and has all this hard water build up and *nothing* would remove it, so she resorted to using a pumice stone.  And I thought, ‘Ah ha!  Good idea!  I should do that!’  And never got around to it.  Until just now.”

“So it doesn’t damage the toilet?”

“But I don’t *care.*   ….  What are you doing?  Are you googling if it hurts the toilet?”

“I’m looking up porceline toilet pumice stone.  Oh, it’s spelled porcel*ain* – interesting.”

“And?”

“And it looks like it’s okay.  You’re supposed to wet the stone.”

“Yep.”

“Don gloves.”

“Meh.”

“Scrub gently to remove stains, not to hard as to scratch.”

“Sure.”

“Flush to admire your work.”

“Multiple times.”

“And touch up any places you missed.”

“Check.  By the way, why does one care if a thing that deposits (we’ll use the word ‘excrement’ rather than the more graphic descriptors spoken – my parents do read this blog) is ‘damaged’?”

“Uh, well, it could get scratched, and then residue buildup occurs, and …”

Blank stare.

“Right.  Well, it sure is white!  Nice work!”

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It’s hard to be obsessive-compulsive and a perfectionist, especially during the holiday season.  In some ways it’d be easier to be a bear and hibernate rather than see all the possibilities of being in the celebratory season and not know which thing to do, which songs to sing, which traditions to pull off, which decorations to use, which foods to make, which clothes to wear, which tv specials to watch, which way to make everything so wonderful and magical and beautiful while feeling so not that way inside.

I know I don’t have to do that:  it’s self-made pressure.  And after reading this post, I’m following suit:  “I’m not getting organized for Christmas this year.  I think I’m just going to show up for it.”  Actually, realistically, I’ll take steps towards this, because being an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist means that I would throw out all the decorations, eliminate all holiday festivities, and lay like a sloth on the couch being thoroughly uncelebratory until the New Year; and somehow I think the kids already have enough fodder in their few years to support a future psychiatrist for quite a while.

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It’s nice to know that I’m not the only person who can’t control my children.

Case in point:  today while sitting in the sanctuary during Bible Study worship time, a friend came up and whispered in my ear:  “Guess who I found downstairs looking for a snack?”  Honestly, my first thought was one of the grounds caretakers that we both know:  I mean, who wouldn’t want to raid all the yummy treats that inhabit the Fellowship Hall on Thursday mornings?  Yes, we come to worship, but we also come for the food … and the drinks … and the adult time (ah, adult time, where there should always be food and drink).

I laughed at my friend and turned around.  Then she whispered, “I asked him if he was supposed to be down there and what he was doing.  He looked at me and yelled, ‘NO!’”  This behavior didn’t seem typical of an adult, and it sounded familiar, so I started to wonder …

She continued, “I asked him if I could take him back to his room.  He took off running, in the right direction like he knew exactly where he was and how he wasn’t supposed to be there.  The childcare workers were looking for him and said they had even checked the doors because he’d been trying out the locks earlier.”

Yes, yes, that would be my second born son.  And those locks on the doors that he got around?  They were installed because of his older brother, who busted out of two nurseries three times in two weeks.  Awesome:  totally the legacy I dreamed my family being known for.

So when I feel like I’m a bad mom because my oldest seems to think of the boundaries of the front porch (as in, you can wait on the front porch for your father to come home) to include any cement coming in contact with our front porch so he’s running up and down the street yelling at every car going by like he’s a bizerko puppy; because I’m helping the eldest upstairs and come down the first flight of stairs to find the littlest person laying right there on the floor when I had left her in on a playmat in the room at the bottom of the next flight of stairs; when the middle child won’t choose to wear either his Bob the Builder or dinosaur pajamas so he spends most of the night without any pants;  when the husband has no socks because the load of whites has been sitting the dryer since we don’t know when; when I spend twenty minutes looking for the library Elmo DVD the boys were *just* watching, thinking I’ve lost my mind, finally finding it shoved underneath the 1/8th inch space between the entertainment center and the pedestal holding up the tv (along with a Tiger Woods Wii game which I’d given up being bothered to find) …

I can say, at least I’m not the only one who can’t keep track of it all. 

Boo’s new happy place

An Abe boy in Dad’s shoes

Oh, he looks like his dad.

Ready for the holidays … or college.

Happy times on the couch (although someone seems to be keeping her eyes on the heavens – either out of praise, or petitions for safety ).

Hope this satisfies the picture requests. 

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Most of the comments I hear throughout my day:

• “When are you due?”
• “Wow:  you still haven’t had that kid?”
• “Any day now, right?”
• “Geez:  you sure are stickin’ out there.”
• “You must be *so* ready to be done with this.”
• “Wow:  she’s about to pop!”
• “And you really don’t have a name picked out yet?”
• “Mon-kee!  Mon-kee!” – which is actually Abe asking me to read a Cookie Monster book to him.  For the fifth time in a row.

So yes:  I’m still waddling in my neck of the woods, and I’m actually quite fine with that.  At night, when I’m having contractions (both wimpy preppers and the real take-my-breath-away-aw-crap-this-is-gonna-hurt ones), I may think, “Hmm:  tomorrow would be a nice day to have a baby.  Then I won’t have to …” [insert:  do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, clean up the ever-present crumbs, deal with preschool orientation, take one more deep breath while dealing with my toddler].

And every morning I wake up and realize:  “Hmm, it’s not today.  That’s okay, now I can …” [take the boys to the Coffee Cottage for a play date, get dressed up for Bible study, clean and organize and clean some more, enjoy more hours of consistent sleep than I will for a while, not have an excruciatingly sore bum].

I’m not surprised that she’s not here, honestly.  True, the due date’s September 19th/20th:  a week + to go.  If she followed the ways of her brothers, she would’ve come today, though:  Abe – 11, JJ – 12, Hubby – 13.  Makes it easier for me to remember birthdays, although months and years get tricky.    No, see, Hubby and I know this one is our free spirit:  she’s a girl, she’s the youngest, and she’s going to do just whatever she wants (methinks the bossing will come from the youngest up).  The boys felt ready to come:  pushing and stretching and making me really uncomfortable.  So far Boo and I have worked out a mostly-agreeable symbiosis (minus the sciatic pain:  nothing like the feel of randomly touching an electric fence shoot from your bum to your toes):  I have occasional bouts of insomnia, I have only recently had to pee every hour, I’ve been able to sit without feeling like I needed a lift to get my stomach out of my lap.

I haven’t hit the miserable point yet, and until I reach that, I don’t think she’ll come.  I remember sitting in Abe’s room, in the rocker, looking over at the stocked closet and the cradle all ready to go, praying, pleading, “Pleeeease come!  Please!  There’s no reason to stay in there!  Outside has so much more room!  And look:  you have presents!  To use!  And play with!  Come play with them already!”  Part of me would like to hit the miserable point so she will maybe recognize, “Uh oh:  pushing the host a little to far.  Vacate before she gets drastic!”  But then a real contraction hits, and putting off labor another day doesn’t sound so bad.

This tune may change as I see the forecast for this weekend, and if she doesn’t want to comply, then maybe we’ll just try a “practice run” of labor.  I’m sure the Birthing Center wouldn’t mind. 

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

Yep, still pregnant.

Nope, I’m not that miserable, unless it’s 2am, and I have to physically flop from one side to the other before rolling out of bed and hobbling to the bathroom to pee and then realizing I’ll be awake at this time, but for longer periods of time, for many months.  And then despair does sink in.  But not for long:  my bladder holds not-a-lot, then it’s waddling and flopping back to sleep.

It’s not your job to tell me what Abe is doing.

Abe, knock it off.

Boo is due September 19th-ish.  The boys were due around the same day-date, and they came a week-ish early, but she’s a girl, so she’ll do whatever she wants.

Yes, she may come early.  But I’m mentally preparing myself for an October due date.  Stop rolling your eyes at me, Dr.  Tami.

Use.Your.Words.  Howling is not considered a word.

Ow.  Fake contraction, but still:  ow.

No, we don’t have a name.  Yes, that suggestion is great:  I’ll run it by the fam when I get a chance …

No more Elmo At the Orchestra:  Elmo needs a break.  Or Mama’ll need a drink, and she can’t have one of those for a while.

[Shaking belly]:  WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!!!?

Ow:  real contraction.  Sorry.

It’s only 7:30am.  I’m not talking about Screen Time Plans for the day right now.

Please stop smashing the cherry tomatoes into your shirt:  no, it’s not a tie-dye method.

You just ate an hour ago:  I’m not prepared to talk about snack time right now.

Way to poop in the toilet!

Shhhhhh.

You just ate a half hour ago.  I’m not ready to talk about lunch yet.

No, I’m not opposed to pink:  I just think there should be an appreciation of colors *beyond* pink for girls – girls can wear blue, too.

You can tell me I don’t have cankles, but you can’t tell me I don’t have *self-perceived* cankles:  don’t take that away from me.

It was a day.

I’m glad you have room for one more foods in your tummy:  we’ll get that in tomorrow morning.  For now:  go.to.bed.

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If you ask my Hubby what’s going on, he’ll often shrug his shoulders and say, “Enh, not much”.  Even if the servers at his work have all crashed and the organization has completely restructured and his coworker is moving to Yemen and the Red Sox decided to relocate to Fargo.  I’ve learned to ask more “specific” questions if my need for information is to be satisfied.

But I realize I’m not doing that in return.  If you asked me right now, I’d say the same:  it’s so much to say.  Snippets are all you’re going to get.

– We celebrated Abe’s 2nd birthday.  A couple of times.  And he’s OH so two – complete with tantrums, bright smiles, hitting, and bi-polar moods.  Right on target.

– One afternoon while we were fixing JJ’s bleeding toes, Abe slit his head open outside on the bbq.  Nothing like coming outside to see your shirtless child gushing blood from the head.  If I didn’t go into labor then, I’m good until September.   Eight staples later, and we’re back in business.  (Staples removed by Granddaddy because my doctor, who apparently LOVES removing staples, was going to be out of town, and she didn’t want to give anyone else in her practice the pleasure of taking them out, so she sent us home with the removal device.  Good times).

– We crashed at the Grand’rents new digs:  highly approve.  Busted out Unca Matt’s old school legos:  the Black Monarch’s Castle will live again!

– Hubby’s folks came to town:  lots of food and conversation and water tables and sprinklers and baths.

– It got hot:  bloody hot.  But the heat and a local conference coincided.  Correction:  the heat and a local conference with childcare and air conditioning coincided.  Nuff’ said.

– Went to the beach:  cold.  Came back:  hot.  Not good for the preggo mama to try to acclimate that quickly.  Managed fine when living in the heat, but my body moved into autumn mode and is none too happy to be back in sticky summer.  We’re working through it with lots of pudding and crystal light (not-so-much a toxin-free pregnancy for this girl).

– I have no more space in my body for this child.  But her lease isn’t up for another seven-ish weeks.  I feel like the room Alice was stuck in after drinking the bottle and swelling up to be ginormous:  poor room.

– Next week:  VBS for one tyke.

– Following week:  shipping the kids off, going to camp.  High school camp.  That I’m leading some kids through.  And hanging out with.   Until mandatory lights out at 1am.  Then meeting with leaders in the morning.  7ish.  For like 8 days.  No Memory Foam Mattress Topper in sight, but we will have easy access to an abundance of squeaky cheese.  Yeah, we’ll see how that goes.

The other week I told someone that I just have to get through camp, then I can breathe.  They looked at me.  “Okay, fine, so it will be more labor breathing, but whatever.”

For Abe’s birthday Unca Matt got him the latest cool thing/monstrosity on the market:  Broby from Yo Gabba Gabba.  I just checked out the video from the library:  it’s like preschool crack – my children talk about it non-stop.  And they dance.  You’d think I’d relate and enjoy more, what with being the embodiment of a Party in the Tummy, but somehow it’s not connecting while they blast that and I try to drown it out with my current read: “The Hole in our Gospel” by the president of World Vision … I’m sure there’s parallels between the two somewhere ….

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Pardon my twitching lower abdomen:  *someone* is practicing the lovely art of having the hiccups.  *All**the**time*.

It’s funny how I don’t remember things from pregnancy to pregnancy.  I’ve heard countless mothers say the same thing, but I always thought, “How could you forget such an amazing, precious, life-transforming thing?”  And then I tell Hubby:  “This kid has so many more hiccups than the boys!” to which he responds, ‘Uh uh, Abe had a lot of them, too.”

Really?  Honestly, I don’t believe him, but my shrinking pregnant brain is in no shape to argue.  Although I did manage to find some small bit of lucidity to defend my position that “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty is *not* alternative radio material, even though I heard it on our local alternative station.  Don’t question my understanding of the Tom Petty cultural phenomenon or my ability to quote “Grosse Pointe Blank”:  you’ll get a beat-down.

I used to be floored that my mom couldn’t remember what year my brother was born, or would flip our birth dates (24, 26).  And now people, like the children’s pastor at a church we were visiting a few months ago, ask, “How old is JJ?”  To which I respond, “Oh, 5.”  “Um, then he needs to be in the 5′s class.”  “Oh, I’m sorry.  He’s really 4.5, but both my kids like to act at least six months older than their age.”  Yeah, step away from the crazy pregnant lady.

The only thing I can remember about the in utero boys is that JJ wedged his boot in my right rib cage – a LOT – , and Abe stuck his butt out, stretching my stomach to the point that I thought it would rip and reenact one of my mama’s most favoritist scenes from a movie (she was a lot more selective about what movies she would see with my father after that one ).  And the boys both moved:  a LOT.

So far this little one doesn’t have any trademark moves except for the regular hic.hic.hic.hic and the nightly Zoomba sessions.  That, and seemingly not liking to be touched or talked to:  more than once she’s jumped when people touch my stomach, and Hubby’s gotten a few pops to the nose when asking her what’s going on.

But she does seem to like to listen to Tom Petty.  How do I know?  Because I’ve dreamed about Tom Petty.  Twice.  And he’s on the radio a lot lately.  And I really like it.

And while I could leave you with a link to a Tom Petty song, I’m not going to.  Because while searching for the above youtube clip, I came across this.  And it makes me happy (and will be today’s homage to Mikey J:  gotta be culturally relevant).

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Yesterday a friend asked me how I picked 11lbs of raspberries in an hour and a half:  the title was my answer.  Well, that coupled with rows that boys could run up and down, snacks that take a looooong time to eat (granola without a spoon anyone?), and setting aside my desire for my children not to be the walking essences of the raspberry fields (let’s just say that Abe’s yellow Mythbusters shirt may never recover).

This is my summer of craziness:  two tykes under five, one Buddha belly, and this insane determination to explore the local/sustainable/harvesting lifestyle.  Our CSA delivers a bounty of lettuce and other greens that must be worked through in seven days; I’ve hit the strawberry fields twice; our cherry tree gave buckets of fruit that have been cut, pitted, and frozen; I want to go back to the strawberries, but my Mama kindly reminds me, “Sweetie, other types of fruit are ripening.”  “Yes, Mama, but so am I.”

So then I bat my big eyelashes at Hubby as I say, “Boy, I’d really like to get blackberries, blueberries, peaches, and apples this year …”  My hubby who has the same childhood phobias of berry fields as he does of the fabric store (which I have NOT taken him to:  isn’t he glad I get my stash of yarn from Freddies?).

Each “harvesting” experience is interesting in itself, so different.  Raspberries are much kinder to my belly, getting to move up and down rather than squat and wonder if my doctor would just meet me out in the strawberry fields in September because it’s an awfully conducive place for contractions.  But I picked half as many raspberries than strawberries in the same amount of time (which is dictated by small tykes’ abilities to cope and patience for eating granola oat by oat).  But then I just washed the berries, threw them on a tray, froze them, and they’re ready to go:  no pitting, hulling, slicing, etc. (my fingers are still recouping from/protesting being make-shift cherry pitters).

So far the most consistent thing I’ve found:  once I’ve harvested, I’m ready for a break.  I don’t want to eat any strawberries or cherries:  the craving has been quenched (for the moment).  I’m still okay with raspberries, but am so ready to move on to the next thing.  Perhaps that’s what keeps the harvester going back to the fields rather than saying, “Ugh, I’m done!”  That, and true harvesters kinda hafta sorta harvest or starve.  However, I know that my teriyaki tree blooms year round, and that’s a hard one not to want to go back to over and over and over again (oh, my tree of the knowledge of good and House of Teriyaki:  how you tempt me).

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A while ago, when my idealistic side got access to the Dreaming parts of my brain (meaning the Realistic side had worn out of making lists and lists and more lists), I wondered about the sleeping situations at Chez Dren.  We have three bedrooms, all occupied.  What could we change?  What if the little bros. shared a sleeping room?  And we could turn the other room into a playroom/office?  In college many folks lived in the suites and had a Sleeping Room and a Working Room.

I broached the idea with Hubby who immediately said, “Why?  I always had my own room.  Who would want to share?”  I, too, had my own room and *loved* it.  But our eldest’s need for alone time seems to be done within thirty minutes of falling asleep, and then he’s ready to put on his party shoes again.

Then a little Boo decided to make her presence known, and room reorgs had to happen.  I already have two scruffy roommates (at least one of them shaves on a regular/semi-regular basis depending if it’s No Shave November or not; the other one just sheds on my side of the bed) plus now a short-term renter whose 40-week lease will not be up for renewal.

We got bunks.  Yes, we are suburban IKEA web2.0ers with young boys in bunk beds.  Who woulda thunk it?  The beds were purchased and set up a while ago, and in typical fashion, we’ve been doing things in “stages”:  let JJ get used to them, move Abe to a regular bed in his room, move Abe to the bunk bed while JJ was up at the Grand’rents, and then the final installment which began on Saturday:  the boys share a room.

We had a brief bout of sharing rooms when visiting Hubby’s folks, and they did …. okay.  They fell asleep LATE, but that might have happened anyway.  The immediate benefit I noticed:  entertainment without the presence of adults.  Talking to each other.  Sharing toys.  Bossing each other around.  Trying to get the other one to do something they weren’t supposed to:  you know, all the stuff that siblinghood is about.

So Saturday night we loaded them in the room.  Abe:  delighted, jumped in the bed, pulled the sheets up, “ByEEEE”.  JJ:  “But I want to sleep on the bottom!”  Sigh.  However, they managed to entertain each other.  Until 10:15 pm.  JJ only came out of the room a few time with reports:  “I bonked my knee and it hurts.”  “Abe wanted this toy and I gave it to him.”  “We want the windows open and lights on.”  “I didn’t open the blinds, but *someone* did.”  Tears exploded only a few times.  When Hubby went to tuck the boys in after the final passout, they were continuing to share … the bottom bunk.  My response:  “I don’t care what they do, as long as I don’t have to get involved after they go in that room.”

That’s honestly my feeling.  I. Don’t. Care.  JJ gave us quite the workout training him to stay in his room and fall asleep.  Seriously.  It was training:  for us all (although Hubby did most the heavy lifting, or containing).  Every few moments, the door would creak open, or “tip toes” would be hurting running across the hall.  It was exhausting.  Abe, however, doesn’t seem to know that’s an option, and even when JJ leaves on Reporting Duty, he mostly stays in the room.  Progress!

Until 5:30am the next morning, that is, when I heard “tip toes” running through the hall and blinds being opened.  “Hubby:  Boys.Up.”  He immediately shuttled them back to bed:  Abe conked out, JJ bided his time for an hour until he could stand it no longer.  His morning report:  “Mama, I let Abe share the bottom bed with me.  And then I woke up and said, ‘Rise and shine!’  But Dad made us come back to bed:  why?”

They’re still adjusting.  JJ’s new favorite “mean thing” to say:  “I don’t want ANYONE to share MY room!”  Abe doesn’t like having quiet time in his old room, because then he might actually fall asleep, and might be a bit more pleasant (not necessarily, though).  Hubby’s dealing with the boys being loud, even if contained, for a longer period of the day.

Last night I was putting the boys to bed solo, which honestly I was dreading to a degree:  I was Reported Out.  But they fell asleep.  Both.  In a few minutes.  In their own beds.  It was so … idealistic.  It may not happen again anytime soon, but it *did* happen, and I will savor that for at least a few sleeping times to come.

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So, you know how you’re at home, trying to take the obligatory belly shot to appease the masses (or at least the one or two gals who you pestered, and turnabout’s fair play), and your husband comes home with the preschooler.  And sits on the couch.  And pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been getting these 800 number calls.  I finally answered:  it was Capital One, and they want to talk to you.”
“Did they say why?”
“No.   They wouldn’t, or they couldn’t.  But they want you to call them back.”

And you get that feeling like your dad or your teacher or some authority-figure in your life has busted you for something, but you have to play the guessing game as to what exactly it could be? ….

…………………

And you know how you call the number, and are instructed to enter your credit card number, but you can’t, cause you don’t have one, and you never did?

And how if you keep saying, “I.Don’t.Have.A.Credit.Card” you finally get a menu option where you can push buttons to finally get to a person?

And how that person has an Indian accent, and you have flashbacks of Slumdog and wonder truly where your call is routed to and if they’re sitting in a spot with “Red Hills” and “Cannon Beach” and “Lumpy’s” signs on the walls so they could “be” in my vicinity?

And how when you say you can’t give a credit card number to them because you’re never had a credit card with them, and your husband has never had a credit card with them, and no, you don’t have a credit card with them, and your husband *still* doesn’t have a credit card with them, and you’ve never had a credit card with them and … ?

And then when they say you need to give your social security number instead, that you can’t continue with nice Librarian Dren but have to drag out the I Learned From A Roommate Who Put Many a Person In Their Place When Asking for Ridiculous Requests Dren, and you say that you’re not comfortable with that and don’t think you should *have* to be?

And you run downstairs to google the number, because now you’ve decided that you’re part of some Dateline “Can you believe they fell for this?” rip-off story?  But google says it’s Capital One.  But you’re still not gonna give up the SS?

So they say they can’t help you and let you know how unreasonable you are in subtle inflections.  But they’ll call back again if need be.  Which you’ll never get the call, because it’s going to your husband.  And they won’t talk to him.  And that menu option of “report credit card loss or fraud press 3″ lingers in your head?

…………

And you bank on talking to another person when you call back.  And you do:  a guy who sounds all-American down to the, ‘Uh, yeah, uh, can I get your name?  Is that Z like zoo?”  Because he asks for your name, not your non-existent credit card number, nor your your social security number?

And it takes him ten minutes to spell your name, and then says, “Oh” and then “Uh” and then “I need to talk to someone else”?

So you sit in silence, with your belly solid as if you ate stone soup for lunch, and wait, and wait, and wait?

Until he comes back on and says, “Oh, the reason we called is we’d *like* to offer you an account with Capital One:  would you be interested?”

And you have two options on how to react, and choose simply to laugh at the utter rediculousness of it all rather than let the Hormonal One be unleashed, because you have enough battles in your life, and this poor guy can’t possibly get many people laughing somewhat hysterically at him over the phone, and maybe that would make his day a bit nicer?

And you say, “No, thank you.” and thank him for his “help” and hang up and think that this could be an excellent means of inducing labor when the time comes, but dang it, it’s not going to help you calm down for quiet time while the boys are down?

……………….

Yeah, me, neither.

Seriously:  belly.hurts.  But my stress level is waaaay down.

And here it is:  in all it’s glory.

Picture one:  Good Posture.  Also, how I walked around in public for many weeks while ignoring the fact that there was a Miss Boo bouncing around in my belly.

Picture Two:  Bad Posture.  Also known as, tired of sucking it in, and it’s nighttime, and seriously:  how do I look like my friends who are 37 weeks pregnant already?

Many women note that the popping out of the belly button is their indicator that “We’re ready to go!”  So, does that mean I get a “get out of the third trimester free?” card? The button’s not totally obvious in this picture, but I really don’t want to repulse folks:  stretched out three times is a bit much, apparently.

And no, (Heidi), I’m not wearing maternity pants yet:  denial can be a blissful place to be, although I do find myself getting into pajama pants at night ealier and earlier.

And yes, that is a pedometer:  we’re back on the 10,000 steps program.  Because we don’t have enough going on in our lives right now ….

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel | 3 Comments »