JJ enters room, wearing a green long-sleeved shirt from the morning and shorts just a few shades bluer than the green shirt, close enough that the eyes naturally squint.  He’s holding a kleenex to his chin.

Mama:  “JJ, you’re wearing shorts.”

JJ:  “Yep.”

Mama:  “Why?”

JJ:  “Cause it was quiet time.”

Abe comes trundling in the room, wearing his swimming trunks and lacking a shirt, carrying a kleenex.

Mama:  “Abe, you’re wearing your swimming trunks.”

Abe:  “Mama, owie!  I gotta scratchie!”

Mama:  “You have a little scratch?”

Abe, trying to stand on one foot while holding the other up to show it off:  “SCRATCHIE!”

JJ:  “No, Mama, it’s a BIG scratch!”

Abe, smiling:  “I BLEEDING!!!”

JJ:  “He’s bleeding a lot!”

Abe:  “Yep!”  Puts both feet firmly on the floor and trundles off.

JJ’s kleenex was never explained.

How

Are these kids

Related?

Seriously.

“Feliz Navidad” is simply “I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas” – he sung that phrase for 20 minutes straight.

“Santa Claus is coming to Town” is “You better watch out … you better watch out … you better watch out.”  It’s like a skipping record, or perhaps he’s grasping the most important part of the song. 

Abe simply sings the last words of songs.  He even anticipates his father’s prayers, thanking God for ‘foo’ (food).  And even when Hubby changed up the words, Abe continued to pray for ‘pay’ (patience  ).

Boo just coos and coos.

The Jackson 5, we are not:  but they certainly like “singing” along to it.  Just wait til they figure out how to sing along to Manheim Steamroller (my brother does a mean beat box to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’:  it just embodies the Christmas spirit).

“Muk!  Meema, Muk!”  (aka “Milk, mama, milk”)

Then,

“Cookies!  Cookies!” (a word he has NO problem pronouncing – not so shocking)

Then, my oh so efficient boy,

“Mookies!”

Why say them separately when they’re meant to be together?

I think he’s on to something. 

“Mama, we played upstairs today!  Teacher L did ‘eeny meeny miny mo …. and …. you get to go!’  So M, she was my puzzle partner, I picked her to go because my row got to go, and M and K and I went upstairs!  And we played mommy and daddy and I was the daddy and M was the mommy and K was the doggy and A was the cat.  And I was driving really fast in a truck and I went ‘wrhhhrhr CRASH!’ and banged myself and had to go in the ambulance to the doctor!  And the doctor gave me a bangaid and I felt better, and M drew me a picture and so did K, and A brought me a blanket and M brought me stickers and A turned on a movie and they took care of me and made me feel better because I was the daddy.”

I swear it’s genetic.

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. 

Look!  I forgot to write to you on the completion of your second month into your first trip around the sun.  I would apologize, offer excuses, but babe:  this is just the way it is.  Today at the doctor’s office, I noticed a little skid mark in your diaper while she was examining you.  I almost went to change it, but the doctor said, “You’re not really going to do that, are you?  I  mean, she *is* your third one:  it’s gonna take a lot more than that to necessitate a change.”

Which, apparently, you were either offended by, or realized the lengths it took to get you out of that diaper, because a few moments later you unloaded into that size one huggies in a way that makes your brothers and three generations of Gerick men that I’ve been blessed to know proud.  God bless “flex with you” tabs.

Dear little one, I’m sorry that you’re the third one, and I’m not.  I’m sorry that you may sit in your diaper longer; I’m not sorry that we’re the fastest and most efficient in changing yours having changed two previous bums in the years beforehand.  I’m sorry that the more mobile and louder children take away from our potential alone time; I’m not sorry that you have two older brothers who adore you and ask to talk to you very first thing in the morning, saving their smiles for you and their grumpies for the old people stumbling around the house.  I’m sorry that you’ve got a mama who is quite ready to be done sharing body parts with little people; I’m not sorry that you will get to taste delicious home cooking as the Mama has had more years under her belt to figure out the answer to the eternal question:  “What’s to eat?”  I’m sorry that not all your clothes/toys/books/parents will be new; I’m not sorry that your hand-me-downs have been worn by people who like you, your toys tested and broken in and found pleasing, your books to be so ingrained into you because you’ve heard them before you were born, and your parents (hopefully) to be a little more mellow and a lot more loving.

To quote “A Knight’s Tale” (again, that movie Mama was going to watch before having you, except you had a more pressing schedule in mind):  “You have been weighed, you have been measured …”, but you have not “been found wanting.”  I thought for *certain* you were around the 12lb mark:  I mean, look at those cheeks!  Apparently they are hollow cheeks, to go along with your hollow legs, and your hollow arms, and your hollow bum (which you did *after* your measurements:  goober).   You have one head that is 15 inches; one body that is 21.5 inches, and one weight that is … 9.7lb.  You seem to take your nickname of “Little Miss” very seriously.  Percentile ranges:  25th/10th/10th.  Beloved Dr. Tami’s comment:  “Well, she’s certainly well-proportioned.”  I had the same feeling when boys would say I was “so funny” or “a great listener” or “someone they could really talk to” – generally about the girl they were pining after.

I have a friend who births children who haven’t regularly registered on the percentile scales.  The doctors have sent my friend’s kids through countless tests, worried that something is wrong with them, rather than recognizing their true nature:  that of Pocket People.  So, worried that our doctor would start using phrases like “supplement” and “sweat test” and “feeding tubes are just like the latest rage in body adornment”, I got *that* *look* on my face:  that “I have two boys I chase around all day, I haven’t slept in months, and if you tell me I have to drive up to Portland to have people poke and prod at my precious little bundle just because she’s precious and little and a bundle, well let me tell you:  NO.”

Dr. Tami is perceptive, because instead of mentioning those phrases and endangering her pleasantly impending lunch hour, she spent the time reassuring me that everything is fine, that you are on the scale, that you’re just a precious little bundle, and the next step if there’s concern is to see a lactation consultant (I’m “sure” she wasn’t trying to dump the crazy sleep-deprived mother-of-two-boys-one-of-which-was-madly-twirling-on-a-chair-while-the-other-consumed-3/4s-of-a-bag-0f-veggie-booty-by-himself-during-the-waiting-time off on the lactation consultants, right? ….).

And darling, I’m sorry that I don’t have time to sit with you and make you the roly poly baby of my dreams.  But honestly, in the long run, being little and quick will probably get you farther … hiding from brothers, sneaking around unnoticed, stealing your dad’s clothes (not that daughters ever like to “borrow” their dad’s big shirts … or sweatshirts … or super warm and fuzzy hiking socks …), sitting with your bros in the back seat, sitting on dad’s lap, getting up on the counter to help me bake cookies, getting thrown in the air long after your brothers have heard, “You’re too big!”

Be who you were created to be, Little One, and I’ll try to do the same.

Love, Ma

When I had one baby, people would ask me, “How’s it going?”  “Isn’t it a change?”  “Don’t you just love being a mother?”

When I had another baby, people would question, “How’s it going?” – a bit more concern – “It’s different with two kids, huh?”  “How do you get anything done?”

And now that I have yet another baby, I get about one question.  “How are you doing?”  Mostly said with a great deal of concern coming from the furrowed brows of the asker.  It’s like there’s a secret club for people who have more kids than there are adults in the household, but they don’t tell you what it’s really like until you’re initiated, and then there’s no going back.

I have two responses:  “It’s okay – crazy, but good, you know … ” for the folks who don’t really want to know.

The others get the more honest:  “Three kids is a lot of kids.”

The nice thing is that it comes in degrees (for me, at least:  no multiple births around here).  When I had the first baby, I heard the typical:

– sleep when the baby sleeps (uh: we have no sleeping babies in this house.  Still)

– don’t try to get things done

– just be happy being in bed with the baby

– rest and take care of yourself

Yeah.  Whatever.  I could still get things done:  that was the problem.  When he slept, I could bustle about and be productive — just like I used to be.  When the second little man came, I could still pretend to get things done, but the list had slowly started to change.  Working from home?  Tried that:  no go.  Planning meetings in the evening?  Why do that when I could meet with a book in bed?

And now my list of Things I’d Like To Do has been so whittled down that a productive day looks like:

• wake before children or at least try to keep them from waking each other up (I’m looking at you, Mr. 5am riser Abe)
• figure out something to throw into the mouths of the baby birds (which are WIDE open – minemineminemine)
• corral people into clothes that they won’t throw tantrums over
• change diapers
• replace diapers and wipes (which disappear faster than candy around here.  Really:  we still have candy from a parade in July – ugh)
• figure out some activity that we can all do when one wants to play slap jack, the other is very obviously placing a book in my lap, and the third wants to eat/cuddle/sleep in my arms/be anywhere except the bouncy seat/high chair/rocking chair/cradle/any sort of contraption meant to entertain her so a human doesn’t have to
• lather.rinse.repeat.  Throw in a quiet time that no one takes, and that’s the day’s activities.

Wow.  Very different from the single life, or the dating life, or the young married life, or even the mother of one life.

I told the Hubby tonight, “I’m not intending to complain.  Really.  I know this is just a phase of life.  But man:  I’m tired, and I haven’t done anything.”

It’s 8:52.  And quiet.  Three hair cuts have been given in the last hour, four people have been bathed, and I’m feeling like I actually got something done.  But the boys would say we got lots done:  we read Truckery Rhymes and Millie’s Magnificent Hat  and the Magic School Bus Blows Its Top multiple times, we listened to a Dan Zane’s cd over and over, we ate pear chips and homemade granola bars, we examined the latest Lego Club magazine, and we spent time sitting with Boo trying to make her smile.  In the Type A world, it’s hard to put those things on the Productive List, but fortunately I’m too tired and floopy to be Type A … much.

TEN

• fingers and toes that the boys adore on a certain Little Miss
• times we remind people about “PERSONAL SPACE!  GIVE SOME PERSONAL SPACE!”  and “GENTLE!!!!” as they try to embark in Community Bouncy Seat Time
• minutes:  time it took for the Mama to fall asleep watching NCIS, even though she’d been waiting to watch it All.Day.Long. and was giggling during those few minutes, but the pull of sleep was too strong

NINE

• pounds – our next goal for weight (some to get to, some to lose+)
• o’clock:  time it feels acceptable to head to bed – any earlier just feels socially wrong, like drinking before noon

EIGHT

• average loads of laundry per week

SEVEN

• ty times seven – number of times Abe says “NO!”, stomps his foot, and engages in his Rights as a Toddler and the Mama engages in her Rights to Enforce Time Out (which isn’t so effective while stuck in the nursing chair)

SIX

• average hour everyone, and I mean *everyone*, is awake … and being fed … and dressed … with beds made (sigh)

FIVE

• different places people find a place to slumber in our rotating bed situation (Mama moves into Boo’s room to help her sleep, Abe moves into Mama’s room cause he can, Mama moves out of Boo’s room into Abe’s room to get some space, JJ and Hubby snore on)
• days between library visits induced by the guilt of knowing we’re taking up *that* much space on the shelf as the holds keep pouring in

FOUR

• times we’ve been to church, i.e. “Pass the Baby while Mama drinks coffee and gets to speak in complete sentences and use higher levels of thinking” time
• o’clock:  the hour in which the Mama is so grateful for friends bringing hot dinner and freezer meals – who knew a loaf of freshly baked bread could make a person weepy?

THREE

• fingers that bled when the Mama got tired of being clawed while nursing and clipped Little Miss’s fingernails
• hundred million pounds of guilt the Mama feels at the scabs on the fingers
• carseats to deal with:  that’s a lot of clipping and buckling

TWO

• big brothers who can’t get enough of their darling little sister (although they’re kinda done with each other)
• hours on average of consecutive sleep I get a night
• small people who are not having their needs met at any given time
• diaper-wearers, although we’re going to whittle that number down quickly (if possible)
• arms the Mama no longer has much time to use for things other than holding small people

ONE

• purple pacifier spit out in our general direction
• show on hulu watched per night:  working through Glee, Defying Gravity, Stargate Universe, Dollhouse, and planning a Battlestar Galactica binge someday soon
• month down with five members of the house
• chest that is the favorite place for a Little Miss to slumber
• tired, contented-in-a-weird-way Mama who knows wants to enjoy what she can, because this, too, shall pass

Did you know that I never thought I’d use those words together:  ”Darling” and “Daughter”?  Not that I didn’t think that you’d be darling, although we were a bit worried when you wouldn’t show us your profile during your last ultrasound, but instead smashed your face as far away from Dr. Tami’s picturewand as possible.  No, I never thought that I’d be a mama, much less a mama to someone who had the same bits’n'pieces as me:  yes, they’re complicated, and no, I still don’t know how or why everything works.  As evidenced by yesterday.

Because yesterday I gave birth to you.  Naturally.  And by naturally, I mean without the use of the Happy Machine, aka epideral.  First, on purpose, thinking, “Hmm, let’s see what this whole non-medicated birth experience is like”.  Then, once the “holy crap, this really hurts, I don’t wanna do this any more pleaseandthankyou” set in, on accident, because, see, you wanted to come into the world.  Right.  Then.

It all started Sunday night.  Well, it started a while ago, but I don’t think you want to hear the “When a man and a woman love each other” talk that a friend of mine loved to give.  But on Sunday night I had this strange urge to clean and tidy:  strange because it was my list of things to do on Monday, but this sudden desire of “I need to get these things done NOW” set in, so I bustled around doing laundry and paying bills and wiping down the kitchen and all other manner of Type A Dren activities.  Then when I went to lay down for bed, the contractions set in.  Not abnormal:  nightly fakers have been happening for a while now.  But these felt … different.

So we had a talk.  ”Boo, this is not a good time.  Your dad has work to get done tomorrow, and he also has a horrible case of The Oak and is going to be treated in the morning.  Your brother starts school on Wednesday, Grandmom had things going on Tuesday, and I’d like to go to Bible Study on Thursday.  You know what?  My schedule is clear on Friday.  I know I’ve prayed for you to come, but really:  I can wait until Friday.  So let’s wait, okay?”  And in response there was a very tight, uncomfortable “sqeeeeze”.  Here we go.

I got up and started cleaning more:  unloading the dishwasher, taking care of emails, making more lists of Things For Grandmom to Know While Watching Da Boys Even Though She Already Knows Everything But It Makes Me Feel Better, etc.  Your father woke up to take his four-hour dose of Benadryl (as requested by me because he’s so much more pleasant when not constantly scratching) and asked what I was doing.  ”I think I’m in labor.  Contractions have been every ten minutes for the past few hours.  So I futzing around and reading up on “When You Need to Go to the Hospital”.  I refuse to go into major labor now:  this can wait until the morning, so you can go back to sleep.  I didn’t want to wake you so you can get some rest.  Can you rest?”  ”Yep.”  And back he trundled to bed.  He did sleep.  I wore myself out by two, or at least enough to sleep through the gut squeezes, and woke up three hours later when your father was re-Benadryling and Calamine Lotioning (it’s been a fun few days around our house, let me tell you).

“Should I call your Mom?”

“Yep.”

Pushes buttons.  ”Good morning.  Yes, she’s in labor.  Okay, see you in a bit.”

And we were off and running.  I took That Last Shower, cleaned up, bustled around more – lists, packing, etc.  Because I’m a Melancholy personality type, and we plan for EVERYTHING.  You’ll find out.  Hope it doesn’t smoosh your free-wheeling style:  I think I can factor that into my plannings.  :)

So the contractions were coming fast, but I was determined to a) wait for Grandmom and 2) have a normal morning with your brothers, minus the very concentrated moaning I would emit every few minutes.  Your father was a bit concerned, but I wanted.my.oatmeal.  So Grandmom came, we headed off, listening to a podcast of the Splendid Table that your father tried to talk to me about later that evening and I commented that for some reason, I didn’t really hear what Lynn Rosetto Casper had said:  I was a bit distracted.

We got to the hospital, wheeled upstairs, and got settled in the exact same room I had been in last at the Birth Center (your oldest brother was born at the “Old” hospital where I got to watch Fox students walk from their dorms to class and was really hopeful that the windows were tinted or if they heard my labor yowlings, would use that as a really effective message of Why To Have Safe Sex).  I had planned on doing my usual “Hospital Gown Modeling” photo, but somehow that didn’t happen.  Because I couldn’t stop contracting.  And that’s not a picture you can go back and recreate later.  Oh well.

The rest is kind of a haze, which is a good thing, because I do remember thinking, “I don’t know why women give birth naturally more than once:  what crazy pills are they on, and I don’t know that I want any.”  Things I remember:

Being poked six times before getting an IV hook-up to work – apparently my veins roll and/or collapse.  Kinda like my resolve about that point.  The nurse apologized over and over.  Your dad almost passed out:  something he’s never experienced.  Something about taking Benadryl for four days, not sleeping much for six days, and only eating cereal for breakfast caught up with him.  That’s why I wanted my oatmeal:  much more of a stick-with-ya factor.

Praying to God, “Pleasepleaseplease”.  When you’re in a bad place, Anne Lamott says that’s the best prayer.

Getting an IV in and being able to get off of my back (ugh) and up into a squatting position, the only thing that’s felt comfortable with you.  I had bad sciatic pain in labor with your brothers, hence the drugs.  But this time I had a talk with God about how I’d really like to know that my body can do this, that I have this image of being a physical wimp and would love a redeeming experience.  So apparently He went above and beyond granting my desire cause I couldn’t have gotten drugs even if I wanted to:  there was no time.

Thinking (and apparently verbalizing out loud, oops) that if your dad was going to pass/crap out on me that I was having drugs.  See, I couldn’t do it on my own:  we wanted to do this as a team.  So often I do things on my own:  ”It’s fine, I’ll take care of it” will probably be on my gravestone (as opposed to your Granddaddy, which Grandmom says will say, “I didn’t do it/It’s not my fault”.  We’re very gracious in our family, as you’ll find out ).  But nothing would de-tense me except the calm, verbal reminders of your Dad:  ”Breathe.  Take it down.  Unclench your face/jaw/hands/toes.”  And I would.  As much as I could.

In the words of A Knight’s Tale (which was going to be the movie I wanted to watch while killing time waiting for contractions to pick up:  HA!):  ”Pain.  Lots of pain.”  Ugh.  Labor.  Hurts.  Which I knew, but I didn’t know.  The nurses told me to let them know when I was going to push, because while they could deliver a baby on their own, they liked to have Dr. Tami around to catch her.  I remember a nurse saying that to me, word for word, three times.  And each time I was pushing, thinking, “Um, I can’t tell you that I’m pushing because I’m busy PUSHING.”  And they aren’t kidding when it’s TheIntenseDesireToPush.  Because logically I did not want to:  it hurt.  But nothing was going to stop that bearing down instinct.  Ugh.

That I don’t like pushing.

Dr. Tami wearing a really nice dress and having a new haircut, and wanting to tell her, but I couldn’t make any of the words coming out of my mouth sound nice or conversational, but mostly desperate please, groans, or fairly instructional directions.  She tried to joke with me, and I was glad that she knew the difference between Dren-at-an-Appointment and Crazy-Dren-in-Labor.

Grabbing the bar, feeling your head come out, hearing words of praise, thinking, “But her shoulders still have to come out, and they’re wider than her head, and I’M DONE.”  I pleaded to be done; your dad got teary.  I heard the nurses and Tami joking:  apparently your head poked out, you opened your head, and started looking around like, “What’s going on?”  No cries or alarm:  cause you’ve heard me yell a plenty, just usually preceded with a “JJ!” or “ABE!”  And a few of the longest.moments.ever. you came out.  They were so happy; I was simply done.

Not getting to be done.  Because while you came out really quickly (well, quickly according to the people who did not give birth to you), the bits and pieces that were supposed to come out afterwards did not.  And it hurt more than labor.  Which was saying something.  I reached my limit:  I simply wanted to hug you and cuddle you and call you George like the WB Abominable Snowman, but they wanted to push and pull and do horribly painful things to me.  I admit that I cried:  I felt like a toddler pleading with adults that I couldn’t do anymore but being treated like, “Oh, you’re just tired.”  I almost kicked Dr. Tami out of sheer reaction of “Leave me alone”:  instincts are crazy things.  After getting an OB in the room, having some pitocin (ugh), and hearing a nurse say “Let’s just pray that this just comes right out”, I thought, “Hmm, this is a bigger deal than I realize” and “Oh.  Right.  God.  Prayer”.

Again, with the “pleasepleaseplease” and “thankyouthankyouthankyou” when it all finally came out, people stopped poking and prodding so much, and we got to snuggle.

You are lovely, little girl.  Ten fingers – long fingernails.  Ten toes – none webbed (sorry, Unca Matt).  LOTS of black hair.  I remember someone commenting on that, and when seeing it the first time, me saying, “Oh, Gran’s gonna cry.”  Cause you looked like I did:  eskimo baby – all black hair and red red skin.  You and me and Abe will be hiding out in the shade while Dad and JJ run around in the beach without sunscreen, getting all tan and skin-cancery.

You nurse like a champ:  1hr. 15min. with the first go.  You love to snuggle.  Your cry hasn’t warmed up to full potential yet, methinks.  You like to use me as a human pacifier, which is okay while we’re on “vacation”, but honey, we got boys to take care of when we get home, so this eating thing will be more functional than luxury – for both of us.  Nights and days are mixed up, but hey:  who doesn’t love the night life? (love to boogie?).  Fluids and solids go in and come out in all the right ways.

People have come to visit, love, adore, and bless you.  No matter what you may ever think, know that you are a prayed for, wanted, planned, loved blessing from above, and we are so happy that you came to join us in these crazy trips around the sun.  I love you, Darling Daughter.

Love, Ma