What the Heck

Motherhood is a little bit like a terrifying tightrope act: one inch too far this way, and you are a helicopter parent who insists that her child, who shows no musical inclination, practices the piano four hours a day. An inch too far that way, and you are the crazy lady who never knows that her toddler is roaming the neighborhood in a messy diaper. Nuances, what are you gonna do?

Veevs is extraordinarily obsessed with the Warriors series right now (feral cats, oy vey!), so much so that when I went to tuck her in last night, she had all her bedding curled around her like a cat nest. Also, she is decorating her room with pictures of cats from the internet that she has colored herself, and also with the manuscript of her own feral cat novel. I have determined not to interfere until she starts licking herself.

The other day I couldn't find Spe (7 years old, lest you think this is the toddler mentioned above) anywhere in the neighborhood. I noticed that his scooter was parked in front of one of our neighbor's house, but they weren't answering (mostly because they weren't home). After checking all his regular haunts, I returned to their house to discover that when they hadn't answered, he had checked to see if the door was unlocked (it was), walked in, settled down to play the Wii, and refused to answer the door when I came knocking. I quickly escorted him off the premise with a rather scathing lecture on breaking and entering.

Jakers' goal in life is to spend as much time out of doors as is humanly possible. I don't know exactly where he is pretty much 95% of the time. Also, on being told that it is called POTTY TALK, because it is only acceptable to say IN THE POTTY, he has taken to running to the bathroom to shout things like POO! PEE! BUTT! DIAPER FACE! It's like a weird form of Tourette Syndrome. I just roll my eyes, because really, what else was I expecting?

Logan's cuteness absolutely overpowers my need to discipline. He can get away with ALMOST anything, as witnessed by the fact that he recently emptied all of his drawers over the balcony, and I just half-smiled at his wicked grin, and then vaguely said, "Oh, no, honey, don't do that." He went back for more and more loads and I started laughing each time they hit the ground. I was already going to have to clean it up, after all. Also, he has just started to say, "What the heck?" with the most delicious upturn of phrasing on 'heck'. It slays me. Seriously.

And of course, there's Caleb, who just laughs at everyone. He is perfectly content as long as he is fed and freshly diapered. A delight! A darling! And yes, a December-born tax deduction. He gets more perfect all the time, no?

Discography

I know I'm getting my life back together again after the birth of a baby when I have a desire to clean while listening to disco. Most people hate disco, but give me a little "Shake, Shake, Shake (Shake Your Booty)" and I'm happy.

So the other day the kids and I were doing our Saturday jobs (my main one is to STAY ON THEIR CASES so that they finish theirs--it works beautifully, because it can be done while feeding the baby too--MULTITASKING!). We were dancing and cleaning and shaking, and I was attempting to explain the 70s to them. Well, this was more difficult than I'd bargained for because my American History classes never actually covered modern history. We always ran out of time and stopped like in the 1920s. So while I was racking my brain for all the things I know about the 70s (I was born in 1976, but I was hardly taking in the political landscape at the time), I was silently cursing my American History teacher. How often am I going to be called upon to discuss the intricacies of the Teapot Dome scandal? Never. The 70s? Just missed a golden opportunity. Anyhow, I was all like, "Yeah, there were like some oil problems, and Jimmy Carter, and Gerald Ford, and . . ."

And then.

Seriously out of nowhere, Rhett came running through the front room fully naked, and yelled, "STREAKER!"

So, at least they know that about the 70s. The important stuff has been covered. (Not in Rhett's case, but you know, history-wise).

What else could I add after that?

A Not So Miraculous Christmas

If you have been reading long enough (congratulations for sticking through the last two years--lean times!) you will remember that several Christmases ago, I lived through a miracle of the toenail kind. Ever since I have felt a sort of benevolence toward that toenail, although it turned out not to be perfectly formed, nor particularly miraculous since it stopped growing immediately after I posted about it. So again, to recap: one of my big toenails has not grown since Christmas 1999, the other has not grown since I posted about it at Christmas in 2007. They are gross, sure, but they are are all I've got. And I never have to repaint them unless I want to.

Except this Christmas, my Christmas miracle (circa 2007) turned into Christmas tragedy. I went outside to feed our dog, and on my way back in the dog tried to force an entry, at the same time that Logan tried to force an exit, and in the chaos of dog, door, child, yelling, etc., somehow I lost the Christmas miracle toenail. And this time, it's just skin underneath. (Is this too much information? Remember, I don't even mind having my buttocks massaged, so it's hard for me to judge.) And there was a tiny dot of blood. BLOOD! From my miracle toe! I felt so . . . well, forsaken.

Fortunately my father, the foot doctor, was here to lend his support (although his original intention was visiting Alabama to support me after my C-section, this turned out much, much better). I didn't cry, because please. I am not a crier. But I did scream, complain, and to hear Rhett tell it, fixate dramatically on my pain. Also, I might have made my dad wrap it up in gauze although he assured me several times that a simple band-aid would suffice. Better safe than sorry, I always say.

I am dealing with the disappointment of losing my miraculous toenail by ignoring it completely. Rhett keeps trying to secretly stroke the newly exposed skin (maybe he has graduated beyond simply quirky, no?) and I keep kicking him in the face. Not really. But almost.

Dear ones, how will I ever have faith in Christmas miracles again?

Aaaand . . . Scene

So. I had this baby, and let me tell you he is delicious. Also a fabulous sleeper, eater and every other desirable quality in a six-day old. We named him Caleb. Boys names are getting harder and harder for us to find, not only because we have so many boys ourselves, but also because I have dozens of nephews. Every time we would go through the baby name book, invariably I would say, "Oh, I love that name." And Rhett would say, "Yeah, and so does your sister because, remember, you have a nephew named that?" Oh, right.

Anyway. Caleb is a doll. I don't want to brag or anything, but some of y'all have awesome cooking skills, or amazing decorating skills, or whatever. I used to think I didn't really have any skills that were useful in the homemaking arena, but people--I have a gift with babies. Here are some of my secrets:

1. If you and that baby are sleeping at the same time, baby will sleep better on your chest. You might not be able to sleep very well, in which case I have to mention that you can sleep really well in uncomfortable positions if you add a Percocet or two to the mix. Some people (ahem, lady in my ward who scolded me for extended period of time on this topic) say that this is dangerous, but if you've had a C-section, you can't really even scratch your nose without deliberate movement planning, so it's not like you're going to roll over your baby. At least not without thinking about it first.

2. Burping. Don't underestimate the importance of good burp performance. If you're having problems getting a burp, try lifting your baby up (under the armpits) and slowly raising them up and down three times. Then burp again. This always works for me, so if it doesn't work for you, you're probably defective. Kidding! Sort of.

3. Breastfeeding/bottlefeeding/pumping. I have a lot of experience in almost all of these categories due to wacky genetic conditions. Anyway. Do what you have to in order for your baby to eat. If that means pumping, great. If that means bottlefeeding, okay. If your baby is getting fatter, you are doing it right. I've personally kept lactation specialists in business in an attempt to get the latch right when it turned out it wasn't the latch at all. So then I end up pumping, which is inconvenient but works. Also, a little Percocet taken before breastfeeding? Totally helps you push through the initial latch pain. I'm just saying.

4. Have awesome babies. My mom swears that some of why my babies are paragons is because I hold them almost constantly, sleep with them on my chest, and spoil them miserably (I don't believe you can spoil a baby, by the way). But to be honest, I think it's more genetic. I don't have babies with tummy problems, which makes a big difference. But if you have to listen to your baby cry all night long because of colic? You know the answer here--Percocet.

In review, the secret to post-partum joy and happiness is clearly Percocet. And that darling baby, of course.

What You Will Miss

I won't be telling this baby's birth story here, mostly because I'm lazy, but also because I have C-sections and so the story is quite short: and then I got sliced open and the doctor pulled the baby out and set him on my chest with a warning not to touch him until . . .

But also, birth stories are slightly disturbing to me. I'm not opposed to other people sharing their birth stories, they are often touching, and lovely, and precious. But I do worry that all this introspection and fascination with how we give birth maybe overshadows the simple miracle of the fact that we do.

Ivy's was a normal birth (do you want to hear the story?), but Spencer's descended so quickly into chaos and birthing anarchy that ever after, I don't really mind that my birthing stories are short: the stitching up took longer than the birth. Because in my head, I'm just so grateful that this baby isn't dangerously quiet or blue in the face, or rushed immediately to NICU with talk of Flight for Life coming in to move him to a more advanced facility. I'm just so glad that Rhett is peering over the surgical drape saying inane things like, "Heids, your guts are all pushed up on to your belly right now!" or "This is awesome. I can totally see your fibroid cyst!" instead of being too late (I had sent him to dinner when I was in labor because there was plenty of time still, plenty!) to be there at all. I'm just so grateful that when they wheel me out of surgery, it's not into an empty recovery room with no husband and no baby.

I'm just so grateful to have a baby who breathes and eats and cries, that I can't be bothered to think to myself, this would have been much more poignant in a birthing tub. Maybe it would, I don't know.

I have a friend who also has C-sections for medical reasons, but every birth is like a big tragedy--like her body has failed her and she mourns the loss of the midwife and doula who could have attended her birth and hypnotized her into only half-feeling the pain. She feels cheated by her own body, like she's lost the opportunity to truly be a mother because the baby doesn't travel the birthing canal in the prescribed, traditional fashion. I don't have this kind of introspection in me--to worry about whether this is the right way to give birth--I'm just so damn grateful to have a baby. Because if there is one thing that Spencer's birth story taught me, it was that none of that is guaranteed. No one guarantees you that when you get to the end of the ten month pregnancy, there will be a cozy, bubbling birthing tub, a brush with the kind of pain that makes you more self-reflective and less selfish for the next three months, a final gasp and push and flash of joy. No one guarantees that there will even be a baby there to hold.

So, my point here, is that you won't get all the details of the slice and dice that is my birth story. (Do you really want those details? Because I fear I'm often too drugged up to actually get them right anyway.) I'll be too busy (hopefully! God willing!) being grateful for the miracle of birth. Even when it happens the wrong way.

In Two Weeks There Will Be So Many Children Here They Will Surely Be Neglected

I am not a good blogger. Let us establish that immediately, and then please feel free to leave comments to the effect of how much you've missed me. Those kind of things do wonders for my sense of self-importance. (Rhett will wonder how much more self-importance I could possibly acquire, but I think we have also established that Rhett is not a reliable source for insight into my character. Except one time he did say to me that even though we have always maintained that we could split amicably for the children's sake if the need ever arose, he personally believed I would maliciously key his car and destroy his reputation, which quite frankly, was very astute of him. Because in the recesses of my soul, I think I might be pretty vindictive. Especially if our split were due to cheating on his part. I'm just saying.)

Anyway. I am having this fifth baby in two weeks. Did I mention it is a boy? Another boy? Like, my fourth boy? At first this was a source of bitterness for me, but then I remembered how I did this to myself by claiming repeatedly during childhood that I wanted to open a school for boys just like Jo March in Little Women (and sequels, of course). And so, here I am--living my childhood dreams. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

But honestly, I just found out that my insurance here gives me FIVE days in the hospital for a C-section instead of the standard four I usually get. Quite frankly, I'd give birth to an elephant calf for that extra day.

Also on the bright side, (I'm trying to avoid complaining, as Rhett prefers me to save all my complaints for his ears only) the kids and I saved the life of a loon the other day, that had become entangled in mesh landscaping netting. Actually, I'm not sure if we saved it or not, since we free released it into the pond behind our house and hoped for the best, but I did cut off all the mesh stuff before we did that. I was going to take it to the Alabama Bird Sanctuary (or something like that) but that was an hour and a half drive away, and I'm not that committed to loon preservation. I'm not even sure they are endangered, actually. Probably they are super common.

If there were a topic to this post, this paragraph would be off-topic, but it's been making me smile for weeks now, and should really be documented somewhere. Spencer has been receiving love letters from a girl we know through school and church. He told me he wanted to write her one back. I glanced at it after he was finished and it read like this: "Audre--please don't try to ciss me. Also you should know that my name is spelled SPENCER--not SPINSER!" He looked at me knowingly and explained, "I think she spells it Southern." If you have ever heard his very Alabamian teacher say his name, I think you would have to agree.

I have so many more BRIGHT SPOTS in this pregnancy to document for you, but alas, it is time for school pick up. Just living my childhood dreams over here. You understand.

The List

A few items you should know about:

1. I have fallen in love with our John Deere lawn tractor/mower/whatever-thing. To be honest, I could count on one hand (maybe even one finger) the times that I have previously mowed a lawn, but now, Rhett can't get on that John Deere lawn tractor/mower/whatever-thing except to retrieve Jakers from the neighborhood. I think I present a pretty awesome picture of life in the South when I'm out on that thing, more than six months pregnant and also toting a less than two-year-old child on my knee, all while bouncing happily along and cutting the grass, too. Y'all. I am awesome. (Sometimes I wear my denim skirt because modesty? What?)

2. I am getting a new couch. It will almost be sad to say good-bye to the old one (if you consider good-bye moving it to a different room), but then I remind myself of the numerous pen marks, marker marks, frequent urinations, etc. that make up my old couch, and hmmm . . . not so sad at all.

3. Our dog. She is darling, and I love her, and if it were she and I living alone in a house, we would, of course, be in paradise. However. She jumps on the children (but only when I'm not present). So I keep hauling the kids out there to do "training sessions" with me and the dog. It is family fun for all, as you can only imagine. The dog, by the way, loves me with the kind of devotion that all the world should learn from. My devotion to her comes nowhere close.

4. Rhett announced tonight that he is sick. I am half-annoyed, because I announced this morning that I was getting sick. Now he has preempted me and I'm going to have to take care of him and pretend to be super sympathetic instead of the other way around. I have not much of the nurturer in me for adult illness.

5. Veevs has called home four times this school year with fake illnesses (shortness of breath! which magically disappears as soon as an interesting book is being read! and stomach pains! which also disappear as soon as we get home!). I have not much of the nurturer in me for fake childhood illness, either, because I told her the school was much better equipped to deal with any fainting spells or asthma attacks than I was. So tough it out, sister. There is an irony in this situation because I spent probably twenty percent of every school year faking sick.

6. I'm pretty sure four kids was the limit for what I could handle without falling into a malaise of Mrs. Bennett proportions. I will now, with the impending addition of number five, be spending the rest of my life uttering fluttering statements like, "Oh, my nerves!" and "How can you have so little compassion for your mother?" It shall be epic.