Coffee Junkie

Seriously.

My muscles are sore, like I've been moving furniture. It's 2:30 and I still haven't woken up. I had planned on using this day to do things, but right now I can't even think what needs doing.

We need bread. There. I'll go buy bread. That needs doing.

Shit, man, fuck. 'Cause you know what I'm doing right now, right?

Going to get another cuppa,
ephelba

The difference between the first and the third child.

With the first child you pack your bag for the hospital months in advance, using the list provided in "What to Expect When You're Expecting". You may go so far as to buy lotion to pack, even though you hate lotion, you never use lotion, and it costs money you could use on other things. The book says to bring it, and it knows things you don't. You pack an outfit to come home in, baby clothes, clothes to labor in. You pack a tennis ball and music. Diapers. A burp cloth. A baby blanket.
By the time you get to number three you're nine months pregnant and still haven't packed. When you do get around to it, you pack snack bars because you know the nurses won't feed you, and socks because you hate those booty things they give you. You don't pack any clothes other than a baby outfit and some clothes to come home in, because you figure if you don't pack anything else you won't have a lot of laundry to do when you get home. You do not pack lotion. Or tennis balls. Or music. Or diapers. You may not even pack a toothbrush, because you know they have a stash there. You fully intend to steal at least a baby blanket, and you're hoping to score one of those hideously pink basins. Technically this means you intend to return with more shit than you went in with.


With the first child you buy a ton of shit. Everyone gives you all kinds of advice on the best strollers-baby baths-cribs-walkers-toys to buy. You work and you scrimp and you buy one of each.
By the time you get to number three you have, like, four or five baby tools you use, and those are hand-me-downs from the other two. You feel sad you can't get the money back from the crap you bought for the first one.
ASIDE:
For me, those tools are a sling, a bouncy seat, and a bumbo. If I must travel, I am glad I have a pack and play and an umbrella stroller. Seriously, the rest of babies-r-us is a racket designed to empty your pocket.
GETTING OFF MY HIGH HORSE:


With the first child you show up for every appointment on time. You follow all the advice your OB gives. You read like a fiend. You worry.
With the third you find ways to miss an appointment here or there, because it eats half your damn day packing the famdamnily up to get there and back, whilst only managing to last for five minutes. You don't panic over most things your body does, even if they involve blood. You still read and worry though, because (in this case) you are me, but no more than usual.


With the first child you take a Lamaze class. You kegel. You squat. You practice your lamaze. You do the perineal massage.
By number three you figure everything's got to be stretched out already. If it's not supposed to be stretched out, you figure it's made it this far and seems to be holding up just fine.


With number one you worry about labor and whether you're strong enough for it.
With number three you know what to expect, you just wonder if you have enough energy.



Haiku for the day:

During labor you
focus. Breathe. Relax. Pulse.
You're busy. Consumed.

Afterwards you hold
your baby and pictures and
wish you'd done your hair.



Having discovered iced coffee and how much more you can consume when the lovely brown stuff isn't hot, for once she isn't feeling the least bit sleepy and is going to go get some more shit done before the caffeine wears off,

ephelba

All the latest Peanut news...

* She doesn't have velofacial syndrome. This is good.
* She has a duplicate of something on Chromosome 4. This could be good, bad, or indifferent (we think).
* She can hear. Technically, this is good, but it would be nice to have an issue that could be fixed easily with hardware, as opposed to something that could take years of speech therapy to work out.

Today Early Intervention came out and finally admitted that the girl is fine in most regards, but Damn-Why-She-Don't-Talk-Yet. She scored great in fine motor, adaptive, social/emotional, even receptive communication(Surprise!) but she sucked at expressive communication (No Surprise).

They'll be sending a nice lady out twice a week to help catch Peanut up. Which is great. It's nice to have somebody listen to you saying "Something isn't right here. No, really, it isn't right. Yeah, your second cousin/neighbor/son/dog didn't speak till they were three, but there's not talking and then there's NOT TALKING" Peanut DOESN'T TALK. She doesn't have a name for me, she doesn't have a name for milk. She doesn't have a name for her beloved Poppy. She does say "Woof" when she sees a dog. Or a cat. Or a sheep. I'm not sure if that even counts for a first word. She has just this week decided to say "Bubba" for Boy, which is definitely something, but damn Skippy! She's 20 months old!

So there you have it. People in positions of power have agreed that Something Is Not Right and are going to help us. I just wish we knew what it was that wasn't right. Makes me itchy not knowing...

I gave her bangs today. She's got such wispy baby hair- I thought it might help her look a little older. Honestly, you can't even tell I did anything. I suppose that's good, because it means I didn't fuck up her Do.

Am tired. Will post picture of my ludicrous belly soon, I promise,
ephelba

On a roll...

The belly is huge.
Who needs to see their own knees,
much less their own crotch?

Not I,
ephelba

How frigging cool is this?

Someday I will have free time, and I will riff on this idea.

Because I love the idea of light being a thing you can hold,
ephelba

A Very Small Freak Out.

Oh my freakin God -
Six weeks left till the due date!
Too much left to do....

Haiku dropped by ephelba

The Tether's End

That's where you'll find me these days. I think I'm actually doing better lately, but if you need a frazzled women to raise her voice to near supersonic levels and go off at the drop of a hat, I'm your girl.

For one thing, there's this belly I've grown. It's truly ludicrous. Absolutely silly. The floor keeps getting farther away, and I have to bend at the waist to reach Simon for a kiss.

Then there's The Thing, formerly known as Peanut. I can't stand holding the girl, who loves to stand or sit on the belly. She's had a cold (yet another!) and has required much holding by me, but there's no good way to get her up to the shoulder for a snuggle without squishing the belly and making me wince. And she's growing, too, so I find myself putting her heavy thing down when I really shouldn't, like, in the middle of stores full of shelves of things she can get into.

Then there's the Boy, who is almost as psycho as I. I can't describe the torment that I go through in a day with Him Who Means Well But Takes Four Hours To Do A Twenty Minute Task Then Does It Wrong Because He Didn't Listen Or Thought He Had A Better Idea And That's If He Remembered To Do It At All.

We started school today, and I've just now gone apeshit on his ass because when I told him he'd forgotten units and he could go fix that real quick, he threw his notebook in the room and said "That's bullshit."

Oh yeah, there's a good idea, Boy, that'll go over real well.

I think I've now made it very clear that that was egregious, it's behavior befitting a toddler, and IT WILL NOT BE FUCKING TOLERATED.

K?

Alrighty then.

My throat's scratchy now.

So.

It would seem I'm not the only one at the end of my tether. All my local girly friends have their plates so full stuff is falling off the edges. We're all feeling pulled many directions. None of us have enough time. etc etc etc

At least there's the comfort of knowing I'm not alone. Sometimes I'd look at what these amazing women had taken on, and I'd feel soooo, well, underaccomplished. I couldn't get my dishes done over the head over my toddler, but two of my friends were running farms whilst raising three kids. It's not schadenfreude- I wish things were easier for all of us - it's just comfort at the thought that I'm not defective because my kids make it hard to do a damn task from start to the fucking finish, thank you very much.

One of my friends went to visit family, and I helped her out by collecting and washing eggs from her chickens. Boy watched The Thing sleep so I could go by myself. As I sat there in front of the sink washing the eggs I just felt so damn happy. Each egg was unique and pretty- reminded me of rocks, really, and I realized that even more than the eggs I was enjoying doing something without someone needing anything from me. I was doing uni-tasking, for once, and it was wonderful. I hadn't realized until then just how badly I needed a break from the children now and then.

Because you know what- you don't get a break from Momming very often. Simon sends me off for Girls Night now and then- I shudder to think what would have happened by now if he didn't. He's so wise. But other than that you don't get a break when you pee (the Thing screams if I go in the bathroom and she doesn't, because, don't you know, the bathroom is super-happy-magical-fun-land), you don't get a break when you shower (She usually showers with me, unless I swing a shower at naptime or Simon watches her), you don't get a break at night (She still wakes up a couple of times a night, although she doesn't always need me for anything...). You don't get a break when you eat or when you're trying to clean the house or when you'd really just like to sit still for a minute. I know Simon doesn't want to get stuck with The Thing and The Boy right when he walks through the door, but some days I'm just sooooo through.

I suppose that just about sums up what's going on with me these days. In other news:
* Poor Simon has to get a ton of dental work done. With much poking of sharp things in his mouth and whatnot. The special insult to this injury is that we have to pay someone for the pleasure:)

* Still no news about the Peanut. We've reached the point that we don't care what the news is. She's got a speech delay, for whatever reason, and we're just going to have to work on that. So we will. We're starting with a hearing test, and early intervention is coming back out this month. We haven't done the full, all out Google fest that we should, but I figure there's no real rush.

* Simon and I are going to attempt VBAC. Doctor says I'm a good candidate. Feel like a better candidate than a mother because I haven't been squatting or practicing my lamaze or calling the Doula back....

* Simon is pretty sick of his work place. He'd like another, if you've got a spare with benefits that doesn't involve us moving.


Going to be the Bad Witch,
ephelba