My Life Is Complete

I may never blog again.

Not really.

But until I have complete thoughts, I'll let you in on a little conversation I had last night at 4am.

Me:

Getting back to bed after another baby feeding - astounded at how much milk I'd LEAKED ALL OVER THE PLACE in the short window of sleep I'd gotten. So, I said to a sleeping Brent, not even sure I was being heard - mostly just thinking out loud - "Man! I'm going to have to wash all of our bedding tomorrow!"

Brent:

in a sleep-drunk stupor - "Why?"

Me:

"Because I've leaked a gallon of milk all over my side of the bed! And it smells faintly of popcorn jelly bellies!"

Brent:

"Too bad it doesn't smell like popcorn shrimp."

The Inevitable

As awesome and exciting as it may seem to wait with baited breath, on pins and needles and white knuckles for the arrival of a baby… wait – I want to know who on earth thinks it seems awesome or exciting. And then I want to tell you your seemer is broken. What I seem to do best is handle things really well when they’ve been sprung upon me. Whatever the case may be, you most probably want me at your wedding. I don't know what it is with me and weddings, but I typically deal with something or someone I hadn't counted on remarkably well without much of a ruffled feather by the bride most importantly.

But I’ve also had several instances – at least three now – where the idea of having another child was sprung upon me. I can’t say we’ve ever flat-out TRIED to have these people. I mean, sure – we know what causes them and the risks involved when regular doses of hormones aren’t popped every day at the same exact time in hopes of preventing their conception. I’m just not willing to get on board with the idea of having any strand of pasta snipped and tied shut, not even now! And, um... I didn’t think I’d ever say this [so don’t quote me] but there’s something about being shoved off the edge of the cozy two-kid-ratio cliff to MIGHT-AS-WELL-HAVE-HALF-A-DOZEN that doesn’t freak me out. Shoot, you just find a way and you do it and most things after a newborn are springy and upony and if you can’t be flexible, you just end up bald for having torn your own hair out by the fist-full. So, anyway.

I really thought this baby was on her way last Saturday and in to Sunday. I really did. I was in lots of labor-ish pain – all the textbook signs and symptoms – the kind of pain, the location, the way it radiates, the inability to sleep thru it… but no. The only “not labor” sign was its irregularity. Well, that and my water hadn't broken or anything, but that only happens to 1/10 women anyway. And well, I went Monday and was told all was the very same as it was the previous week. So, boo. And now that it looks like she’ll be staying put until her actual, scheduled date, I will probably need to call and get some heavy-duty Valume. Like I said, I deal best when things are sprung upon me. Having to wait, seeing the bus headed at full-speed my way? Yeah. No. I don’t do that well. I was made to be completely thrown.

"That" Kid

This school-year is now the fourth to have one or both boys in school. And while it may be shocking, I’ve never had a single incident with either of them needing any major discipline… while at school [let me be clear]. Their teachers have always reported what kind people they are, what great help, good friends to their classmates, and well-behaved. And I can’t say it’s a big stunner with my oldest. But the Kindergartner has issues. So, hearing great things about him, in particular, is a bit of a nice feeling. It’s official, he does have a soul.

But then. I get a call from the elementary principal Monday. She has my youngest in her office, prepares me to listen to his side of what went down, and hands over the phone. His upset, hiccupy voice tells me his little friend told him he didn’t want to sit by him – and so… he “accidentally” BIT HIM. Now, I’m one who tries to give my children the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he lost his balance and fell teeth-first into this kid’s back. Maybe he was trying to quietly enjoy his lunch and the kid’s back got in the way of the ferocious PBJ-bite my son was taking. But my intuition told me this was rather on purpose… or as we like to say at our house… “On PERBISS”.

I spoke for a second little while with the principal and we came up with what I would imagine would be incredibly nerve-racking and mortifying for a kid… we had him apologize to this child’s father – who happens to be the high-school assistant principal. Yeah. Great. We know how to pick'em. But I was on board with however appropriately we could DRIVE THE ISSUE HOME… We are almost 6. We do not bite people. We say, “You’re being rude. I’m going over here now.” or even, “Weirdo!” is better than Hmm… what can I do to make this kid regret not wanting to sit by me? I know! I’ll bite him. THEN he’ll be sorry and want to sit by me every time.

Anyway, I talked to Brent and another mom about how to further handle it… and decided to let the resolution remain at school this time. I didn’t want to lambaste him, or even have him feel that I couldn’t understand how his feelings might have been hurt by his friend. But in talking to him about it later, I made PERFECTLY CLEAR that we do not handle our issues with friends this way, asked how he can better handle it in the future – and told him if ever ever ever it happens again, we’ll be in MAJOR trouble at home too.

But this isn’t really what this post is about. It’s about this incident striking a worried nerve about the fact that I WAS NOT A NICE KID every time I could have been… and now my son has done a compulsive, reactive thing when he otherwise isn’t sure how to find a healthy outlet for how he feels. I mean, I had friends. I was invited to slumber parties – this didn’t become the case of the outcast who couldn’t be befriended. I just did some mean things I’m sad to admit - one of which might involve jabbing a classmate with a pencil. That favor was returned. Believe me; the lead mark is still under my skin.

So, what is a mom to do? [That’s rhetorical]… I think these things follow people. I became a bunch nicer by the time I was in Jr High; but still, my brother came home one day - several years after the fact - and asked me why I’d bent Jeff Mold’s fingers back when I was 10 – because Jeff apparently remembered and struck up the conversation with my brother at their high school track practice about what a mean person I’d been to him. What do you say for yourself? I don’t know why I did it. I still don’t. I mean… I know why… he wouldn’t get his clompy feet off the back of my desk. But I don’t know why I handled it with the hyperextension of his index and middle fingers… on PERBISS.

A Yabba Dabba Doo Time

And well… I feel about a day or two older than I was yesterday and the day before. Birthday madness is a thing of the past after 25, I think. Typically I’ll have a little fun something with just my immediate family or just Brent, then my whole family: parents, brother’s family, etc, and then a girl’s night – and typically spread over a birthday week. Birthdays have always been a big deal. I have a mom who is super glad about celebrating birthdays. Admittedly it gets old hearing the story of my birth every single year. I was rear-first breach. I was huge. I was ultimately a c-section and that meant for one gorgeous, perfectly round noggin. The nurses called me “Pebbles” in the hospital because I guess I looked like a Flintstone and “Pebbles” is nicer than “Barney Rubble” for a new baby girl. Who knows.

Last year’s big 30th was to be a great-big deal with a bowling party including a bunch of friends at Red Pin – a little trendy bowling alley downtown. That was a bust all together having my oldest in the hospital with pneumonia. So, 30 floated right past without as much as a blink. That’s no complaint. I didn’t really have to feel the weight of a new decade having never celebrated. But this year, even being asked what I might like to do, what I might want, or what sounded like fun – I was all “Uhhh… duhh… uhh...” – because I’m either one-big-thing-at-a-time or I’m a million-miles-a-minute unable to really get a grip.

So, with the latest upcoming events, I’ve been preparing all baby things, not birthday things and have gotten myself on a Christmas kick. It dawned on me – I like to put Christmas up the day after Thanksgiving. That’s 10 days post-giant-abdominal surgery!! Maybe I’ll just be directing from the couch this year. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want each of my children to have a new stocking with their name monogrammed to be a keep-sake… or that I don’t want to be making paper-mâché giant pieces of candy… or knitting hats… or putting together advent calendar items. I ordered these. They're not in yet. But having a baby who'll have her first Christmas at 6-weeks-old, her stocking sort of dictated the need for the others to match.

And so, this birthday was nice and simple. I was blasted awake with three dudes singing “Happy Birthday” (each in their own key, at their own pace and volume). Brent set fire to several cupcakes and had gotten a pretty funny card with some earrings. And then I was vacuuming crumbs off the kitchen floor by 7:30am. Nice. We thought we might have dinner together Tuesday night and I went to hug my littlest dude and he was BOILING with 102 fever. Clearly we went nowhere. And now it’s just any other day. I think this means I’m a real grown-up. I’ll always like to jump on the bed though… not eight-and-a-half months pregnant, people chill out. Wait… that might not be a bad idea.