Two Years Later...

And now there are six! A fourth child, second girl, Punkie, was born at home, peacefully in water in October of 2010.

Now that i have found my way back, I wonder if I can keep posting this time...

Good News!!!

Moon is on her off the juice (living without insulin) trial! Today is day 6, so there are only eight left!

She dropped very low on .1 unit of insulin a few days ago after only 2 days on such a tiny drop. And that was that (antijinx).

The kids are on fall break right now, so yesterday and today is the first chance I've had to take full advantage of not having an injection schedule. I'm still testing her twice a day, and I'm still carefully controlling what kind of food she has to eat, and I will continue to test her every month for the rest of her life. Once a diabetic cat, always a diabetic cat. But being diet controlled is SO HUGE!

I still can't believe we've gotten to this point. It's incredible to look over at my sweet furbaby sleeping on my bag on the floor, all poofy and sweet. And alive...

One If down, only a couple more to go! :)

If all goes well...

Madame McFluff only has 6 days (13 doses) of insulin left!!!!

If all goes well, I should be able to get my online store up and running by Thanksgiving!

If all goes well, I will have another story finished by Christmas!

If all goes well, I will actually manage to handcraft nearly all of my Christmas presents!

If all goes well, I'll be in bed by midnight.

If all goes well, I'll stop typing this ridiculous post before long ;)

Oh look, things are going well.

HOLY CAT!

It's been entirely too long since I last posted here.

Quick update:

Got ready to start the etsy store, and it got derailed by life for a bit.

Tried writing for a contest, but it got derailed by life until after the deadline.

Kids are in school. It's been a weird year for them. Van is doing really well this year, which is a change for him, and one I'm DELIGHTED with. DC is, well, she's being a Demon Child. *sigh* There was some kerfluffle at the beginning of the year in her class, and it's taking her a bit to catch back up, I think. She's doing a bit better now, but her grades were NOT good at the first 5 weeks. *sigh* I say again...

And then there's Madame McFluff. One morning in early August, I came out to find an incredibly sick kitty. It gets a little graphic here. Stop now if you're squeamish.

Did you stop? No? Okay. You were warned. There was blood in the floor of the kitchen, and on the carpet in the living room, and also in the laundry room. I finally saw what was happening. Madame was walking around, squatting, and peeing blood. She was obviously in pain. I offered water, and she took a few laps. Then she would go repeat her rounds (thankfully, she left the carpet alone after the first bit). I was pacing behind her, cleaning up after her, desperately waiting for the slowest two hours of my life to pass so I could get her to the vet. I would have taken her, right that moment, to the emergency vet, but the kids were still sleeping, and needed to sleep.

Finally, she passed a stone, large enough to see when I went to clean up a puddle. After that, the blood faded and faded and faded a little more. Then she ate some and drank some and curled up to rest. I started breathing again.

If you don't know, Madame McFluff was around with my Meezer boys, Piddles the Cat and Lumpy. They're both gone ahead now, and sometimes, when Madame is strutting through the house, I see the little tricks they taught her in the early years. Lumpy taught her to fetch. And to break up fights between other cats. Piddles the Cat taught her the best place to sleep on the bed (I used to find them curled together, close enough to warm my feet, far enough to keep from getting thrown from the bed when I rolled over). He also taught her how to soak up tears in her fur. And she saved his life after Lumpy left us so suddenly. Without Madame, Piddles the Cat would have followed his brother, his best friend, his constant companion.

Madame carries a lot of weight for so tiny a cat.

At the vet, she was taken back to have a large series of tests run. When they carried her out of the room, Tyrannosaurus began to cry and wail: Madame! Bring back Madame! Want my Madame!

I laughed, because it was funny, and I cried, because I felt the same way. Please bring back Madame. I can't lose her yet! She's only 8 years old, and she's my baby, too!

She was so dehydrated, and so very, very sick, I had to leave her in hospital. It lasted a week.

The final verdict was that she had a nasty cystitis flare up, and that aggravated what was hiding beneath: Feline Diabetes Mellitus. She was on the border of diabetic ketone acidosis, and her prognosis was unknown.

She survived. And the vet and I had a bit of an argument about what type of insulin to start her on, and how to best treat her. Because, of course, the first thing I did on diagnosis was hit the 'net.

I am so, so lucky I did, too. I found this site and its message boards, with wonderful, kind, sympathetic people, willing to bend over backwards to help me, to help Madame. They saved her life. Literally.

Today, she's poofy, sassy, sweet and high energy. It's like she's three again! What's even more exciting, she's down to incredibly small doses of insulin, and I have high hopes she'll be weaned all the way off of it very soon (antijinx).

It's like some kind of giant miracle that I've done nothing to deserve, making up for all the horrors Madame has survived which she has done less than nothing to deserve. I have my furbaby. And I'll have her for a long time to come :)

And now for the downer news: Less than a week after Madame had come home, just as her treatment was getting under way, the Kitchen Cat took a major turn for the worse. She couldn't walk well one evening after I had made a trip to the store. She had gone blind. She just seemed so very, very tired.

The next morning, she could barely walk at all. She would take a few steps, then sit down to rest. She didn't want to eat. She took a small tonguefull of water. And then she laid back down under her chair and let each of us humans, including Tyrannosaurus, pet her. She purred for all of us. She nosed our hands gently, purring and nuzzling.

And that, more than her condition, told me it was the end. She has never, never willingly let the kids pet her. She would occasionally accept a small pat from pesimst, and she would often get in my lap when we were up alone in the wee hours. But this time, she accepted all the love we were offering, and then asked for more. We spent a long time telling her goodbye that morning.

After the big kids left for school (Van called across his shoulder as he ran out the door "Tell KC I love her"), I made the call to the vet and prepared to take her in.

Kitchen Cat didn't freak out in the car. She didn't say much to the vet. At the end, she leaned her head against my hand, let me stroke her soft belly that I had never before touched. She kept her nose against my skin, since she couldn't see me, and I whispered in her ear all the messages I wished I could send to those who have gone before. It seemed she left before they gave the injections. One minute she was in my arms, letting me comfort and love her the way I had always wanted to. The next moment, she was in the arms of her beloved first mother, who had been taken away from her so cruelly by Alzheimer's.

I can bear it. I am, of course, very sad. I miss her. I miss having the table and kitchen chairs growl at me. I miss making her growl while she was drinking, so she made that sound like a waterlogged motorboat. I miss our quiet moments when her unbelievably loud purr was the only sound in the house.

But I can bear it. Because she's back with her person now. They're together, and neither one is old, or sick, or tired, anymore.

It's been a long three months. I'm sorry I haven't kept up posting. I did well for awhile, and then it got overwhelmed by other things.

I'll try to be better. I'll try to have more laughs and fewer tears next time I post. But for now, not all tears are evil things, and some are from triumphs worth sharing.

Hurt

I found out tonight that someone that was once one of my very, very closest friends has died.

He died two years ago, and I never knew.

I cannot process this. It's too big to sink in.

I'm sorry, L. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry that you were so sick, and I knew that you were, but I couldn't do anything to help you. I'm sorry that this illness, this monster in your head, kept us apart, kept me in hiding, so I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry it won. I'm sorry I wasn't there for your family, who, in spite of your fears about them "turning people against you," I always liked, and know they loved you so much. I'm sure they still do love you. I wish you could have seen that as clearly as I did.

And B, I owe you such a big apology, too. I should have called you. I should have explained what had happened between L and I, and why I had to back so far away from him. I should have trusted you enough to give you a chance to understand. But I was afraid you wouldn't, and I was afraid that, if you did, it'd change your perception of him, and you'd pull away from him. I didn't want that for either of you. He needed you.

I'm also sorry I wasn't there for you when we lost him. I should have been there for you! You are the only person in the world who could possibly have felt a similar grief. I don't mean the depth of pain or any other comparison like that. I can't imagine what his family must have felt and what his other friends felt. But you and L and I, we were a we, and you knew that, even if no one else ever got it. I'm sorry that hiding from his disease meant I ended up hiding from you, too. Please forgive me?

L was a wonderful person. He was funny and smart, a fantastic writer, and passionate about his favorite music and movies. He had a classic movie quote for all occasions, and he was one of the best listeners I ever knew. He was always too hard on himself, never giving himself credit for the talents he had. He was often stubborn, but that kept him going through lots of nearly-impossible tasks, as well as making him butt his head against the walls of the truly impossible. He made the best brownies, and I can't ever taste any without comparing them to his.

I missed him all along, and I miss him most of all now. I wish I had gotten to say good-bye. I wish I had gotten to tell him just how much I loved him. I wish I could tell him I'm sorry.

I wish I could tell him I understand.

Weariness and other excuses

Why is it that writing takes so very much out of me? I got sleep last night, but, while I'm engaged in a frantic bout of creativity, "enough" sleep just isn't.

I wish more people understood that, when I'm writing, I can't really do much of anything else. My mind is not here in the everyday world. I'm gone. I'm away. I'm busy.

And I'm very, very tired!

Tyrannosaurus and The Blue Train

Tyranno-Manz is extremely fond of a certain bright blue train and his associates. He has quite a few of the wooden variety, plus a length of track. And he loves them. He talks about them all the time. He details tiny plot points of episodes as only a two-year-old can. He lines other toys up to pretend they are trains and spends quite a lot of time smacking one toy with another and shouting "Biff!"

He loves trains.

So yesterday morning, I woke to find Tyrannosaurus lying behind me on the bed, his head rammed against my backside. He was saying something, but I couldn't quite understand him, because of that whole being asleep thing. So I shifted away from him, and settled back down. Only to find his forehead pressed, once again, against my rear. I finally woke up enough to hear what he was saying.

As he rammed his head into me, he was muttering to himself, saying "Shunt, shunt, shunt."

I think I'm really back!

I am flying so high right now. I just finished my first complete short story in over three years. Now, I grant that it is an extremely SHORT short story. One page, in fact. But it is a complete work, and I am humbled, grateful, and SOOOOOOOO energized. Which kinda bites, since it's 11:05 pm, and I am exhausted.

That door to the place where ideas, inspiration, creativity, spring from has been shoved wide open. I feel like I am greedily sucking down the flow of that blessing, but I am somewhat worried. I know that, if I don't act on these ideas, I will lose them. They're so fragile, and they melt so quickly in the heat of "don't have time right now" and "must get the practical work done first."

So, for the time being, forget the practical. Or at least push it aside. If I don't sleep in order to write, then I'll get by on less sleep. When I'm graced with an idea, instead of fantasizing for a moment and letting it go, I'll write it in the notebook, with as much detail as I can hold onto, so that I can come back and make the idea reality. I'll sketch and doodle, plan and organize, all that I can, to try to keep this space in my head open. I will keep playing my flute to clear out the clutter in my mind and heart. I will keep trying to include the children in as many acts of creation as I can, so that I never neglect my greatest loves for my greatest passions. I will make the tools and materials for my own creations a priority, with the same weight as I give to everyone else's needs and desires. I will accept my limitations, but will try to expand my skills, so that I can better serve and translate the inspirations, both artistic and literary.

I will continue to dream big dreams, work toward small dreams, and I will live every moment of the journey.

I've changed my mind

I have often said that all babies should come with an 8 year old brother. Van has been such a huge help with Tyrannosaurus. He loves to play with his baby brother, and he's old enough (and tall enough) to run and fetch everything from a drink to a diaper to the baby!

Now, however, I've changed my mind.

You see, if you have a newborn and an 8 year old, they turn 2 and 10 in the same year.

And that is just Not Cool.

Surely It's Hard to Be a pesimst...

When I Lavf!

Happy Anniversary, my dearest, my beloved, my best friend, my lover, and my husband. You are my pesimst, and I am your Pixie.

I take you.
I honor you.
I cherish you.
I love you.

Always.

Wrath of the Plumbing Gods

And other adventures...

Last week didn't begin well. I had a sore tooth that gradually became worse, until Monday found me very, very ill and hoping for a speedy death. Obviously, that didn't happen. Rather, my wondeful Uncle Dentist called in an antibiotic for me, and my recovery was somewhat faster than my downward slide. Here in about seven hours, I'm going to go in to get the problem behind the pain solved. I am dreading this appointment, and wish it were over and I were drugged and asleep in my bed already. This dread would be the reason I am NOT asleep, even though it's four in the morning, and I'm very tired.

There is another reason, the reason I woke up, in fact, which is not yet my news to tell, so I will wait until it is, and then I'll shout from the rooftops.

So. Last week.

Tuesday I had a dentist appointment to see what needed to be done. Wednesday, I prepared to go shopping for DC's birthday, which had been delayed by a sick DC and then a sick me. I was on my way to the store when her school called to tell me she was sick (again) and to please pick her up. So, obviously, no shopping.

Thursday, I HAD to get to the grocery store, but the sick DC and a growth-spurty Tyrannosaurus made that difficult. I finally determined that I could go after they had each had a post-lunch nap, and began to prepare. It was all going smoothly until I walked through the playroom and splashed in a LARGE puddle of water.

Okay, fine. Call a plumber and just prepare for a fast-food supper.

The hot water heater was shot. Of course. Because, the way the week was going, why wouldn't it be!

The plumber was fab. He gave me the estimate on replacing it and then told me to do it myself, and even gave me careful directions on how to do so! And then he didn't charge for coming out in the first place!

Okay. So, new water heater purchased. I removed the old one. Yes, pesimst helped. But, basically *I* did it. I was SO proud! And, heck, if I can take one out, surely I can put one in, right?!

So, after the second trip to the home store, which had to wait until Friday morning, I had all the water hooked back up and was ready to fill the new tank. Turned the household water back on, and the whole-house wayer filter began spraying water all over the plumbing closet. And pesimst. He was SOAKED.

Third trip to the home store involved getting a new gasket for the filter. Which did not help a bit, I might add. So the FOURTH trip was to pick up an entirely new filter system.

Which would have been great, except the old one was put in by morons. They had GLUED THE PIPE FITTING TO THE OLD FILTER HOUSING. Mind you, this is a part that needs to be changed every 8 to 10 years. Glued. Seriously.

I gave up and called the plumbing company back. Did I mention this was ON DC'S BIRTHDAY??? They said someone would be out in two hours or so.

Three hours later, they called to say someone was finally coming. I started to get giddy. He'd fix it, I could do dishes. I could then make DC's birthday spaghetti, and everything would be great. Well, if pesimst, who was only 5 hours late to work because of the mess, could get home. But I'd worry about him later.

About 10 minutes after the plumber called, Van's school called. He was sitting in the office, but not in trouble. He had rounded a corner just as a teacher opened a door, smacking him in the face and busting his eyebrow open, and could I please come get him, because he needed stitches.

*WHINE*

Okay. I HAD to wait for the plumber. We had no water. Van was being cared for at that moment. So I called pesimst and told him to go fetch Van.

Meanwhile, the plumber had arrived. He poked around for a time. He actually asked me how long we could go without water. Seriously??? About one day less than I have gone without water already, bucko!

Obviously, he couldn't do anything. But he made a list and promised to send someone with the right tools the next day! And didn't charge for the call. Which is good, since I'd have probably kicked him in the shins...

So I was left with a very depressed DC, a bored baby (who'd had to amuse himself most of the day as sister was sick and mama was plumbing the depths of plumbing, Van and pesimst were in an urgent care clinic, waiting to see the ONLY doctor on duty (and it was her first day there), AND NO WATER.

So a friend, upon hearing of the chaos said to me "So here's what you do: pack up the kids and the cake and come over. I'll order pizza, and we'll have a party for DC. And I just did laundry and have enough towels to go around."

To this friend: I can NEVER thank you enough!!! DC has now said three times that she had a great birthday. And, lemme tell ya, it wasn't because of the plumbing problems!!!

We went, we had cake, we got clean.

pesimst and I had an argument over showering arrangements. He wanted to shower together, and I didn't want to be rude. His point on water-savings won the day, though. He pointed out that the less of her hot water we used, the less we raised her heat-the-water bill. And she was being SO GOOD to us. We were in such a hurry to get through, and we both felt weird about seeming "kinky" in someone else's house, that I have never had a LESS erotic two-person shower. Unless you count the fact that we were both lusting after the water...

Saturday morning, things started to get better.

First, Van, on being told that his black eye was developing nicely, ran to look in a mirror and said "Cool!"

Second, the THIRD plumber came out. He looked at the problem, fixed the problem, complimented my hot water heater changing abilities, waited to make sure it filled, chatted and was friendly and kind, and left. The bill was steep, being a Saturday, but worth every penny!!!

I got the water heater wired up, flipped the power on, nearly swooned when the power light came on and waited.

HOT WATER!!!

Then, the big, exciting present for DC arrived. I had ordered it at 11:58 on the 5th. I went with the free shipping option, since it was such a pricey present. And it arrived on the 7th. A blessing and minor miracle for which I am grateful.

All she has asked for since before Christmas is a horse. DC LOVES horses as much as I do. But I cannot get her (or myself) a horse right now. I simply cannot afford the upkeep.

So, for her 7th birthday that was shaping up to be a real downer, I decided to get DC a pony. The FurReal Friends pony Butterscotch. Thankfully, marked down from obscenely expensive to merely really expensive.

She is OVER THE MOON!!! She has named it Bluebell, and she has spent nearly every spare moment grooming, riding or hugging that pony. And it got here so fast, that she never really had to wait for it (I told her what was coming when it looked like her birthday was going to be a washout). She remains enchanted, and, since it seems quite sentient, I suspect the adoration won't pale too quickly.

I'm so glad it's a new week. I hope the appointment today goes better than I'm imagining. And Tyrannosaurus has a dentist visit tomorrow, which won't be fun, as he's terrified of the dentist now. But I'm hoping for no bad news on that visit, as I'm not ready to make the decisions on his teeth yet.

But I got good news this morning. So, hopefully, the worst is behind us, for a little while, at least...

to do tomorrow (or, by the time I finish typing, today)

1. Order horse (of the fake variety)

2. Install new hot water heater (provided we get the right part)

3. Dishes, dishes and yet still MORE dishes

4. Finish decorating cake

5. Go BACK to store for bread and card

6. And gift bags...

7. Pick up and vacuum livingroom

8. Laundry

9. Change beds

10. Lots more boring stuff

11. Have birthday party for a very, very special 7 year old girl

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DC!!!
Thank you for making me a mama

An Open Letter to the Rest of You

Dear Sir or Madam (and one Madam in particular),

I am doing my best. I am expected to be available to my children and husband, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. I rarely get a break from parenting/wife-ing/ housekeeping/life, and so I sometimes get overwhelmed and make mistakes. So here are a few guidelines to making any interaction between you and me (or any other SAH-parent) easier.

1) Do not, under any circumstances, speak derisively about my job. It's hard work! I have made a lot of sacrifices to make this my "career," and, while circumstances have been good to me, I do not appreciate being told "not all of us are lucky enough to be stay at home moms!" in nasty tones of voice by people who have said they go crazy being "stuck home with the kids." Your lack of appreciation for what I do for my own kids (and possibly yours, as I make time to volunteer for school and sports) makes me MUCH less likely to ever make time in my life to help you out.

2) Assume my good-intent in everything that pertains to the children. Even my Feminism takes a backseat to my advocacy for children and children's rights. Children have no legal rights, but they do have needs. One of those needs is having care, love and positive attention from the adults in their life. That attitude leaves me very little space to waste time or effort just to make things difficult for you. What I do, I do for children, and if it seems like it was against you, step back and look again. It was probably just a split-second decision to meet a need for a child. If my motivation seems unclear, just ask what happened. If you attack before getting an explanation, you will probably never get that explanation!

3) Don't use me as your personal secretarial service. I have a hard enough time keeping up with the schedules for the five members of my family. If you have questions about time or place, please look elsewhere first. You have internet access. Use it.

4) Even though I'd love to be Superwoman, I'm not. I'm human. I will make mistakes, have bad days, and sometimes I would love to chuck the whole thing, hire a daycare and go to work where I could at least get actual money for my time and energy, not to mention real meal breaks and the company of adults. When I'm overwhelmed, be patient. Don't expect me to do even one more thing and don't make me feel any guiltier about saying "no." If I said yes to everything I was asked to do, I would have no time left for the things I need to do, let alone the things I WANT to do. "Stay at Home Parent" is not synonymous with "not working." I have lots of work, and you almost never see it. You'll see the results in children wearing clean clothes, getting good grades, being well-fed and well-behaved, though. Compliment me on those outcomes, and I'm yours forever.

Parenting is hard work, whether you work outside the home or not. Work with me on raising children, yours, mine, ours, someone else's, and it'll run so much more smoothly for everyone. Kids deserve our time, our attention and our love. Since that's my primary goal and the point of my job, help me out. Respect my family, my time, my intentions and me. When you do, I will respect you, too, for providing for yourself and your kids financially and for finding ways to keep yourself feeling fulfilled.

Staying home with the kids isn't for everyone, but it was the right move for me. You may need to work for the money or the personal satisfaction, and that makes it the right thing for you. I don't have time to make you defend your choices, so please don't make me defend mine.

Sincerely,

pixie larouge

and almost still alive...

I'm still here. More or less. We have had every illness known to man through our house since my last post, or so it feels. We've had colds and fevers, stomach bugs, random infections. The latest? Foot, hand and mouth disease. And guess who has it right now! ME!!!

Seriously?! Those of you who remember mt chickenpox escapade will know I seem to only be able to contract "childhood illnesses." But this is ridiculous!

DC had it first, but we didn't realy realize it was such. Then Tyrannosaurus got it, but he wasn't very sick. And then I got a couple of odd little blisters in my mouth. And then a couple of little marks on a couple of fingertips. And, oh dear, fever, can't eat, the generilzed icks. I have it, sure enough.

So I'm moping right now. I suspect we'll all survive. But my pride has certainly been knocked around a bit LOL

Let's Read!

DC appears to be dyslexic. No great surprise, given that I am (and, of course, the spell checker doesn't work on this site on this device). It's no big deal to me: dyslexia comes with a host of advantages to offset the disadvantages, so where's the harm? However, DC's difficulty with letter recognition landed her in reading lab. Again, fine with me, especially as both her teacher and the reading lab teacher are willing to change how they teach to fit each child. So DC is learning a bit of phonics and a LOT of word recognition. It's how I learned to read before anyone realized I had a problem.

As I see it, we have just one wee problem left: her gift of language and memorization has quickly pushed her PAST first grade level, and she's starting to get bored. I challenge her with everything I can, but when she's reading "Will We Win?" at school, there's not much help I can offer. She read one of her cheesy little books the other day, frowned in her oh-so-eloquent way and announced "There was no STORY to that story!"

Why do I sometimes feel like I'm raising myself?

One Down, One to Go

Big, end of year holidays, that is. There was some chaos with sorting out where one of the kids was supposed to be this year, but we made it. I am exhausted with all the nonsense, though.

Now we're dealing with a situation that I suppose isn't really so strange: how do we celebrate holidays when we don't always have all the children? Does Santa make a stop early (and ohhhhh how I hate "doing" Santa! But that's a whole 'nother blog post)? Do we have our family celebration early and then let the fat man make an appearance on the day, current child population of the house be hanged?

I don't know. I wish... Well, I wish a lot of things. But mainly I wish Tyrannosaurus weren't the only child of "ours" here. I find that I already miss the twins most with the thought of Christmas. I wish they would be here for Tyranno-Manz to share those every-other holidays with. And I wish them for me, too.

Everyone from Mumbai, everyone in Mumbai, everyone with friends or family there now, facing the fear and confusion, everyone with a heart: I am so sad for you. My own city was hit (but only once, I grant) by a terrorist. I was several hundred miles away then, and it was the most frightening day of my life. I cannot fathom what has happened, and is happening, there right now. The use of destruction and fear, death and pain as a weapon on the human spirit is beyond my comprehension.

I can't politicize this. I can't make some grand moral statement. All I can do is watch the coverage, read the articles and weep. I am so very, very sad for you. And so very, very sad for us all.

on being a bad mother... **Updated**

Question: was Bob the Builder created by someone on acid?

Observation: when making up one's own lyrics to the Thomas the Tank Engine theme, "masturbate" rhymes much too easily with "eight." And, no, *I* have not been the one singing that...

While I agree in theory with all concepts of no television for the mini set, I also don't believe in punting them like footballs. So, tonight, when I am so tired from cooking and cleaning, and so frazzled from the kids and husband and animals all going bonkers over tasty food or smells (we celebrated Thanksgiving today, since pesimst has to work tomorrow), I have switched on children's programming for a bit. Bob the Builder, which Tyrannosaurus doesn't particularly like and Thomas the Tank Engine, which he LOVES! Thank goodness for commercial-free television that airs 15 minute segments, rather than 30 minutes...

*update*
So, after two poopy diapers (and one bad dirty baby event that reslted in a bath), snack time all around, tooth brushings and pj time, and, of course, the aforementioned tv time, I think we're all going to make it. The big kids were sent off to bed with hugs and kisses, the baby is settling in for sleep, and pesimst, well he's been crashed on the couch since the whole mess began. I'm already in MY pajamas, and have decided to put off the last load of dishes until tomorrow.

Ah. Domestic bliss!

belated, but beautiful

It's been nearly nineteen months since the event that permanently sealed the raging individuals in this house into a solid family unit. In a moment, we went from being a group that was learning to love and live together to a family, bonded by blood and a mutual goal and concern. That moment was the (beautiful, perfect, magical) birth of the Tyrannosaurus.

I have put off writing his birth story for several reasons. One is a lack of time. Two is not wanting to be "that woman," who seems to be saying something about doctors and hospitals and women who use them. In spite of being some loony, hippy nut-job, I'm not really :)

When I found out I was pregnant, I was a bit shocked. The timing was... awkward at best. But it was okay and the problems could be worked around. I hoped.

As I saw it, there was one problem: I did not want to go back to a hospital unless there was a real need. But I didn't know how pesimst would feel about that. We had never discussed birthing options, as we each had had one child and figured our family was complete. So I was hesitant about bringing up a homebirth. I decided to ease him into it. First I said "midwife," which, since he's not big on doctors, he was cool with. Then I said "not at a hospital." And he was fine. But then he asked me where.

"Wait, WHAT?!" he said. "Like in this house?"

Yeah. That part didn't go too well. But he listened. He did his own reading. It was at our first midwife appointment that he first told me he was not just okay with the idea, but quite in favor of it. Whew. One obstacle down.

The second battle came over hypnobirthing classes. He was fine with them, until he found out he had to go, too. And then our first real fight ensued. He considered it "hippy bullshit." I was so mad, I threw the only thing close at hand: I was sitting in the bathtub, so I flung a handful of water. Yeah. It was that bad.

I screamed at him, finally admitting that I was afraid of labor. Homebirth was not my first perfect option, but there are no birth centers nearby, so it was hospital or home. I wasn't afraid of some catastrophic emergency, as my midwives are all very skilled and there's a hospital minutes away. I was afraid of not being able to handle labor and birth with no out. This was the straw I was grasping to try to avoid the fear and the pain and the fear of the pain that could land me in the hospital. And he was angry at getting wet and at my shouting, but he listened, and he began to understand how important it was. And he agreed to go.

By the end of the first class, he began to see the point. He found that it wasn't not quite as "loopy" as he had feared, and I was very soothed.

Flash forward a few months to April, a week or so before my due date. I was in labor. The surges were coming steadily, about 12 minutes apart. Getting a bit stronger. There was some last-minute catbox scooping by pesimst and some dishwasher filling by me. I picked up the phone and carried it with me to the bathroom, where I curled on the fluffy bathmat and waited to time a few surges.

And they stopped. Completely. Not faded. Just stopped. Drat.

It happened a few days later, with only four or five STRONG surges. And then it stopped.

My edd crawled around. I labored that day, too! For about three hours. And it stopped. Again.

That week, pesimst and I had our last "new baby battle." He called home while driving to work to say he had just thought to ask, if this was a boy, who was going to circumcize him. To which I replied with a snap:

My son? No one.

He had just heard that bunk study saying that circumcision prevented AIDS. So I went online and researched and sent him links and an email stating my opinions and a few more links. He sort of agreed, but mostly he just dropped it.

My 41 week appointment rolled around. I was starting to get nervous. Would they keep me past 42 weeks? My first pregnancy went to nearly 44 weeks. Would I end up in the hospital for having a slow-cooker instead of an oven?

My heart sang when I found out that all my midwives needed was a post-date ultrasound and a non-stress test. It was also suggested that I start pumping. So I bought a new hand pump on the way home and used it that afternoon.

I had twitchy little surges all evening, but nothing "real." My sister called to see if I'd be at a meeting the next morning, and I told her "sure, unless I'm in active labor" hahaha

At 4 the next morning, I woke up in labor. Remember, I'd been there before. Three times. So I didn't get my hopes up. I sent pesimst on to work and rested until the big kids got up. I got Van off to school and settled in to wait. I called my sister, finally, and told her I wouldn't be coming, but not to get her hopes up. She squealed :)

About 10 am, they surges died down a bit, and I curled in the recliner to take a nap. At 11, I woke up, got lunch for DC and myself, and then, minutes after I finished eating, it started up again!

I called the school to tell them DC wouldn't be there, as I couldn't drive, owing to being in labor. Then I called Van's school to have him put on the bus in the afternoon.

pesimst got home a bit before Van, and my surges tapered off again, so I went back to bed to nap. When I woke up, I fixed supper for the others, but didn't feel much like eating. When the kids came to kiss me goodnight (pesimst had kept them out of my hair all evening), I told them they'd probably have a new baby brother or sister before long, and I promised we'd let them know, quickly, which it was. They both actually went to bed and went right to sleep.

Which was good, because things got a bit more intense after that. The baby's head was so low, I couldn't empty my bladder. Not a drop. And I HAD TO GO!!!

I called my midwife to let her know it was getting close, but not there yet. I managed to lift the baby's head enough to "go." And then I tried to get the bed ready.

Moments later, I was curled on the floor, crying, because I could not do this. It hurt, and I was scared, and I COULD NOT DO THIS THING!!!

I called my wonderful CM back and told her to send her assistant, and perhaps to hurry.

The asst, Y, arrived, got me off the toilet and onto a comfortable nest she had made on the bed to check me. Her phone rang, and it was G, the midwife. Y advised her to hurry a bit more...

Y and pesimst got the birthpool filled with Y stopping to soothe me through each surge. I relaxed and calmed, and it didn't hurt. pesimst put in my thunderstorm cd, and I went to sleep, only vaguely aware of waking enough to relax further through each surge.

My labor slowed, but kept moving forward. Before G arrived, I started to feel "pushy," but I kept relaxing, waiting. pesimst curled onto the bed behind me, holding one hand above my head and resting his other hand on my shoulder. We both dozed, although I squeezed his hand after each surge and received his squeeze back to tell me he was there with me. G noticed and commented on how we were truly laboring together.

I dreamed while I was in labor. I dreampt I was in the swamps of Florida, riding a fan-driven swampboat, looking for a flower. Moments before each surge, I would stop the boat to examine a flicker of color, and, when the surge was over, I would sadly conclude that was not my rare flower. But I knew I would find it.

Then, in one moment, I woke up and was ready. Pushing felt GOOD! I breathed down the baby, literally feeling it slide lower, deeper. The surges were powerful. They no longer caused pain, because they were working for me, and I wasn't working against them at all.

I roared. I growled. I shouted down the baby. There was a moment, and only a moment that lasted an eternity and was still gone before I knew it that burned and ripped a scream from my throat. And I knew. I knew it was over, and I knew I HAD made it. The pain disappeared, but, instead of numbness, I felt energy. I reached down to pat the small, damp head. That moment, feeling the scalp and the delicate skull is carved in the nerves of my palm. I will feel the sweetness of that head for the rest of my life.

There was no pain as the baby turned and slipped out.

My arms were already reaching, clutching, desperate to hold this one who had been held so close for so long. I hugged the wet little form to my stomach (very short cord) and turned to scream over my shoulder to pesimst, who was grinning and weeping and reaching to stroke the baby and me, "I DID IT!!!"

Then, when asked what the baby was (by G who could see quite well), I clapped my glasses on my face... and went even more blind: my lenses had fogged from the heat of my face! LOL

So my first discovery of gender happened as a grabbed handful of boy bits. A son! I had another son, this time a baby, and this time, mine all mine.

By the time the kids came in to see the baby, I had been to the bathroom, Y had made the bed, Tyrannosaurus had nursed to full and happy, and I was starting to get sleepy.

Van and DC crawled up with me to touch nose and toes. They each hd their pictures taken with the wee one, and they both had the stuffing hugged out of them by me. DC got past her disappointment of not having a girl as soon as she kissed his peach-fuzzed head. Van was in heaven! And I? I was thrilled. My children were all connected by blood and love, and they were all mine all mine.

What Joy! What Bliss!

Tonight, Van, who is in the fourth grade and had a "rough" first semester, brought home his five week grades. I had my hands in soapy water, and, as he held it in front of me, I closed my eyes and held my breath. When I opened my eyes, I nearly cried. The boy who cam thisclose to failing social studies and science had an A in one, and a B in the other. The rest of his grades were pretty fab, too. Four As and 4 Bs. I was so proud! I know he's really buckled down to work and study. I have always known he was capable. BEYOND capable. He's quite smart.

But...

He has some very serious hyperactivity going on. When things are settled in his life, he is pretty good at controlling it. Things have been so haywire for him lately, though, and his head is twisted up so tightly in worrying about things much too big for a 9 year old to worry about, he has had changes happening all around him that are beyond his control, some of his core beliefs and foundations have been shaken. And he's been WILD! I've tried to offer shelter and security. I've tried to offer firm boundaries and unwavering love. His dad tries to offer the same. But there's only so much life we can protect our children from.

But his grades weren't the happiest part of the day:

Tonight, as we worked on his math homework, something magical happened!

When he's working on something that is difficult for him, I get out paper and work beside him, so we can "learn it together" and "check each other's answers." The first problem was division. He is still struggling with multiplication, so I knew we'd have a time with it. I had him work it as a picture problem, and he finally found the answer. And, all of a sudden, he GOT IT. I watched the light come up in his eyes. His shoulders lifted, and his chin came up proudly. He KNEW THE ANSWER.

He understood division, and multiplication became easier. He really, really saw the reason behind the facts. That moment, the strength and confidence I saw in him, the glow to his gorgeous, exotic dark-hazel eyes, the triumph that hovered around his lips like a victorious war cry - it's all stuck in the photo album of my heart and mind.

How I love that boy! He has added so much to my world, broadened and deepened every experience in so many way in the (almost) three years he has been "mine."

Sure, there were some rough spots at the beginning. He was such a shock after quiet, self-sufficient DC! We had some mutual suspicion and hesitation, of course. But, when I opened my heart to him as a part of his father (to whom my whole heart belonged), he responded to it with a welcoming friendship. And, as I got to know him and love him for being his own unique (soooooo very unique!) person, he came to love me for loving him and for showing him love and caring.

And now he is mine. He is my child as certainly as DC and Tyrannosaurus. His father has never been stingy with sharing Van's early years, until I know his stories nearly as well as DC's. I am always thrilled when he refers to me as "my mom" at school, and I'm also glad that he willingly makes the distinction between his mother and me at school.

But, today, I am happiest that I got to be there, to see his eyes light up, to watch his face transform, as he developed a love and excitement for my own favorite part (and, in fact, the only part I like at all!) of math.

Congratulations, Van. I am SO PROUD OF YOU!!!