Blogging and My Life

Let's face it: I've been largely absent from the blogging world for quite some time.  (I know - you're all in rehab and going through therapy because you miss me so much; I'm sorry!) 

I'd love to be able to tell you that it's because I'm just too cool for school or that I'm working on something really, really big.  I'd love to be able to keep up with this and balance everything perfectly...

BUT the truth of the matter is this: Folks, I'm getting my ass kicked. 

Dudes, it's a struggle.  It's a beautiful, exciting, rewarding struggle, but there is no way I'd be doing anyone any good if I pretended it wasn't a battle.  When we found out we were expecting a fourth kiddo last year, I shrugged and said, "Meh... what's another babe? I'm already out-numbered!"  But now, a year after that announcement, I'm facing the reality that it isn't just the 4 kids... It's life.  It is simply life as an adult with mind-boggling mounds of responsibility that sometimes makes me feel like I'm trying to run in quicksand. 

Ya know?  It's the living-within-a-Nazi-budget thing because we're carrying two mortgages right now... it's the four-kids-who-deserve-my-best thing... the having-a-small-business-to-run-and-grow thing... the being-a-good-wife-and-household-manager thing... All of those.  And more.  Let me back up and explain a little bit - not because I want sympathy or am trying to bitch, but because maybe it'll comfort some of you to know that no, not everyone's life is smooth-as-silk all the time:

We just got full-use of our basement back.  After 20 weeks of dealing with the mold/water intrusion, we finally got it back.  We lost easily a couple thousand dollars worth of stuff to mold, not to mention the lost time, wasted opportunities, etc.  But that's better - finally!  However, we found out in August that the gentlemen who were renting our other house (which we were unable to sell in 2008 - thank you, economy) were leaving.  So we had to instantly pare down our budget and, while we've always lived well within our means, it has meant attempting to feed our family on $100 a week.  That has translated to added hours of pouring through grocery-store circulars, writing menus, compiling lists and coupons and trying to weigh cost-savings against healthy eating choices.  It literally sucks up hours of my week... However, that also means that I buy whole chickens instead of boneless-skinless breasts and nearly double my prep work for one dinner.  Lunches include apple slices that I have to peel, slice and soak in lime-juice instead of purchasing ready-made bags of them.  And that's fine!  I'm doing what I have to for us!  But that certainly doesn't leave any time for blogging... especially when that budget excludes disposable diapers and you consider the amount of laundry that goes into have 3 kids in cloth diapers full-time... And, let's be serious: we all know how I feel about laundry.

Jack, Jordan and Addie are in preschool this year so twice a week I am committed to getting them there and home.  And I have MOPS, a moms group at my church and also Jack's baseball practices and games to travel to and from, but beyond that, I have to have snacks prepared and packed, cups ready, diaper changes to consider, etc.  It's just a lot.  I'm keeping my photography business at a comfortable level, but as we head into the fall, it will pick up quite a bit (which is good! I love my craft!) and it will constitute even less free time.  Additionally, I have a few things on the horizon that are community-service related that include using my business to generate some income for some charity work.  Again, all of this is stuff that I dearly love and am happy and excited to do, but it takes time.

Oh, and we're raising four young kids.  Jack and Jordan are super active.  Addie has a speech-delay we are getting a treatment plan worked out for, and Peyton is exclusively breastfed with the appetite of a college football running back.   It is, at times, overwhelming.

Clearly this is just our normal.  It is not anything lamentable or regrettable, nor would I, for one hot second, assert that I have a difficult or bad life... Quite the opposite, in fact; I am happy and content and proud of where we are and I couldn't be more comfortable doing what we're doing with one another.

But it is because I love my life and am so happy with the decisions we've made and the paths we've walked that I find it impossible to put off any of my responsibilities in order to spend more time blogging.  Don't get me wrong - although I am content and blissful, I do spend some time every day struggling with frustration, stress, fear, uncertainty, doubt and anger.  (It would be entirely and freakishly unnatural if I did.)  And that fact is what this blog post is really about for me, and hopefully for you as well: it is for me to tell you that it's okay to feel the full spectrum of emotions - good as well as bad.  I just set about each day with the hope that if this is my last day on Earth, I may look back on it with no regrets.  That I might stand before the Lord proud of myself as a wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend and child of the God... that I might only need to pray for thanksgiving and ask only for the strength to live the next day as the one before it, should I be given the gift of tomorrow.  More often than not, there is at least one role in which I do not perform the way I'd have wanted to.  More often than not, I find myself praying also for forgiveness for my shortcomings in at least one area of my life and begging for just one more chance to do better. 

Either way, the result is always me waking up resolved to glorify God and serve my family, friends and brothers and sisters to the best of my mortal ability.  Rarely does that include blogging, but as it does mean I need some time to myself - to vent, to connect, to reach out, I'm not giving up on blogging because I do love it so much.  It's just that I'm asking your forgiveness for not having a post up every couple of days so that I can focus on being the person I know I am and making myself better each day.  I guess it also means I'm asking for your support and maybe a prayer or two to help me in that journey.

Thanks for reading and for sticking with us through everything!  I promise I'll be my witty, funny self next time!

On Spanxing

There are several truths looming over me right now:

1) My baby weight is not BUDGING.  At all.  Despite PB nursing like a fiend and packing the weight on, the numbers on the scale fluctuate maybe 1/2 a pound at most no matter what I do.  Annoying to say the least.

2) There is a very important wedding coming up in about 6 weeks.

3) I have to don something other than maternity clothes.

*gulp*

I ordered a dress that looked lovely online - the right color, appropriate cut, good price, etc.  It showed up, and I tried it on as soon as it arrived.... *double gulp* I looked awful - like some oddly misshapen caricature of my former self.  I hollered that I was not going to be stepping out of my closet in the dress and everyone scoffed at me until my husband came in and winced and said, "Yeah... maybe we should find you a different style."

Ladies, from a man that has to vie for attention with 4 kids, a house full of mold, a sink full of dishes, a laundry room full of pure hell, and a computer full of Facebook?  That's bad.  (I can't tell you how much I appreciate his honesty here - I think it'd be worse if he told me how sexy I looked.  Then I'd have to punch him and I don't know if I'd have been able to handle guilt on top of self-disgust.)

Cue my mother-in-law: "Have you tried Spanx?"

Whomp.

(That was the sound of my self-esteem hitting rock-bottom.)


"Um, no... Spanx are for faaaaaaa............"  (Pause mid-sentence as I realize that she's holding up a pair of her own... and when it dawns on me that I'm actually there.)  "Um, no I haven't.  It hasn't been something I've thought about before." (Tactful enough?)

"You should try my Spanx.  Seriously.  Try them.  If they work, you can keep the dress - if not, we'll go shopping."

Sigh.  I had heretofore done nothing but scoff at the Spanx-wearing population and assumed that all ills can be cured with proper diet and exercise.  (Yes, my foot does taste delicious, thanks.  So glad I'm eating it now.)  Dejectedly, I took from her this thing that looked like I'd have struggle to get onto my twins' baby dolls, let alone on my foot (and for-freaking-get actually smushing my ass into it).  Seriously, this thing could have fit into a powder compact.  Easily.  So I start stretching it out to fit it over my foot and come to my first observation: In addition to working my thighs, butt, and abs, I need to work my arms.  Then I get it halfway up my thighs and look down and realize I've effectively rubber banded my legs together and am turning purple from mid-thigh downward.  "Ma!  Seriously?  This thing is gonna make me lose weight by forcing the doctors to amputate my legs to remove it!"  "Shut up and put your big girl panties on, Melis!"  "I am putting my big-girl panties on, MIL!  That's the problem!"  (She hurls a dish rag at me...) "Quit bitching and hike 'em up."  "[insert explitives here]"

Nearly an hour later (no more than ten minutes, but it felt like an hour and I was sweating like a sinner in church by the time it was done) I had managed to squeeze a pregnancy's worth of me into an elastic tube (and had a new-found sympathy for the ground pork that gets stuffed into casings to make sausages) that began just beneath my bra and ended just north of my knees. 

Grudgingly, I had to admit... the thing worked.  I don't know where it put the lumps and  bumps, but somehow the Spanx had smoothed my... er... issues.  I mean, we're far from perfect, but I can for sure wear the dress I purchased with some decorum of pride and class - okay, well, at least without feeling like a side-show. 

Really?  Spanx?  I'm wearing Spanx?

But... my butt... it did look much better.

And my hips were only the bottom of the hour-glass, not the bottom of one hour glass AND the top of another one.

Sweeeeeeeeeet.

And then, I had to pee.  Damnit.  Well, I figure I'll have to modify my own (soon-to-be-purchased [in two colors]) Spanx to include a pee-hatch.  I'm thinking something with snaps.  I dunno.  But either I am going to have to figure something out or I'm not going to drink anything before this wedding and risk dying of dehydration because the thought of wrestling those things down and then back up in a restroom stall with a baby strapped to my chest and twins clumped around my knees gives me nightmares.

Whatever - the things we do to not look like we've given birth to 4 kids in 4 years, right?  I'm totally fine with spending a mortgage payment on medieval torture devices that squish my fat from one part of my anatomy to another.  Just so long as I can wear my damned dress.

Spanx.  I'm there.

Sigh.

The Sounds of Summer

MOM!  Maaaaaaaaaaaaawmmeeeeeee!   Muh-ooooom!  Mom?  MOM!  Momma? Moooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!  Mom-mom-mom-mom-mom-mom!  Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?  MAMMA! Muh-om-meeeeeee!  Mommeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey? Mommmmmmmmmmmma!  Mom-UH!  Momma-momma-momma-momma-momma-momma-momma? Mom.  Momma.  MAMMA! 
Mom.
Mom.
Mom.
Mom.
Mom.
MOM!
MOM!!

Ugh.  I'm going to go soothe my nerves by listening to nails on a chalkboard. 

Where I've Been (alternate title: Ugh)

Wow, that's quite a gap - like, a month... and a half.  Fail.

I'm super duper annoyed with myself for being a slacker.  It's totally fair for you all to be annoyed with me too.  I can't really explain why I haven't been blogging much without sounding like Whiney Whinerson, so I'll try to keep it brief since I don't love crying into my blog like it's a hankie:

Some dudes royally screwed the pooch with our house (Remember? The gorgeous, monster house I love so dearly and posted about before?  That house.  Yup.) and we ended up with a basement (which is where the kids' rooms are) full of mold.  And, as it turns out, basement walls full of water.  And a bunch of douchey contractors that refused to acknowledge the scope of the problem until I took it upon myself to start ripping baseboards off the walls.  It's awesome.  No, like truly AWESOME.  That nonsense isn't fit for human habitation so I have all 4 kids sleeping in my bedroom.  Yup - all 4.  (On the plus side, hooray for a master bedroom big enough for 1 queen bed, 1 crib, 1 Pack 'n Play and 1 twin-sized bed!)  And remember my struggles with Chronic Laundry Buildup?  Imagine what CLB symptoms look like when I no longer have THREE closets in which to hang 4 children's worth of clothing and when I cannot fold the 894 onesies Peyton has into dressers or the 9,476 socks Jack possesses or the 88 pairs of pants I have for the twins are homeless due to dressers being in mold-infested places.  So I've brought the dresser drawers upstairs and they ALSO number among the orphaned furniture items now cluttering up my bedroom.  And I have essentially no time to do anything because I spend about 75% of my life on the phone trying to get someone to do something beyond painting Killz on some baseboards and expecting me to be happy with that. 

Dudes, it sucks.  Look:

 Nursing chair, Pack 'n Play next to my side of the bed (the night stand is full of baby PJ'S)...

 There's Jack's bed - the mattress covered in junk on the floor in the corner next to Justin's side in front of a door.

 There's the crib... and no, I don't think it's a good idea for 60 lbs of terrible two's to still be occupying a crib, but I have no idea what else to do with them.

 

 

There's the stacks of drawers... the brown ones are Jack's, the long white ones are Peyton's and the short stack of many drawers belongs to the twins.  It's super annoying. 

And this is what I found when I pulled the baseboards off the wall in Peyton's room.  Grody, no? 

So I've been a super delightful person lately and haven't really wanted to burden anyone with my anger and frustration - my poor kiddos get enough of it as it is.  (I think we're all just getting tired of me being on the phone and us being reduced to 900 square feet of living space and constantly sushing because someone is always sleeping nearby - usually Peyton or Justin if he's on night shift) and no one having their own space to go to get away from the others...

Blech.  Be glad you're not me.  Actually, be glad you're not the contractors working with me because I reduced 3 grown men to near tears yesterday. 

Or be glad you're not a baseboard in my basement because that would mean I had abused you with a crow bar. 

Deep Conversations in the Grocery Store

I hate - hate - checking out at the grocery store with kids in tow.  The narrowness of the lane, the brightly-colored candy displays, the smutty Cosmopolitan magazine covers raising questions I don't really want to answer ("Mom, what does 's-e-x' spell?"), etc.

This weekend, my un-doing was the Time magazine with Osama Bin Laden's face on the cover with a big, red "X" across it.

Jack asked, "Mom, why does that guy's face have an X on it?" 

"Because he's gone."

"Where did he go?"

"Uuuuuh... well, he's not alive anymore."

"So he went with Jesus Christ?"

"Um, no."

"Where did he go then?  Why did he die?"

At this point, Justin was looking at me with that annoying "better you than me" face he gets when I am forced to navigate the murky waters of moral education of our children as he stacked box after box of Rice-a-Roni on the conveyor belt and played peek-a-boo with the girls.  I mouthed "douche" at him and turned back to my questioning son.

"Jack, honey, that man was very bad.  He was a bad guy.  He hurt lots and lots of people so our good Army guys had to go and kill him.  He's not in Heaven because he sinned too much."

"But we shouldn't kill!  He did sins?  We don't shoot people.  We don't kill people!"

Sigh.  Great.  So now I'm forced to try to explain a dichotomy that I don't quite understand myself to a 4-year-old and hope that he doesn't apply the same logic to issues at home - I can hear it now: "I hit Jordan because she was hitting Addie and Addie needed me to protect her and hitting was the only thing I could do."

So I did what any self-respecting, loving parent would do...

"Look at all the candy, Jack!"

"Wow! Can I have some Skittles?!"

Phew.  Crisis averted.

I Did It!

I have always believed in working hard and following my heart. 

And I've always believed in giving everything I can for my family.

So, when I felt the pull to turn my photography passion into a business, I did.  With the support of my family, I began putting together a business plan, researching tax laws and local photography rates.  I prayed and pondered and stayed up late night after night building a website and planning marketing strategy - hoping against hope that I have the talent and gumption to make it work.

Wish me luck as I don yet another hat...

(And while you're at it, please visit my website, my blog, and my Facebook page - thanks!)

Making Mommyhood Sexy...

...is totally not what this post is about.  At all.

I am not a sexy beast right now.  Unless "sexy" equals weird-smelling, rumpled, spit-up crusted, messy-bunned zombie.

Obviously, then, I'm right up your alley.

I'm pretty sure I've been wearing the same cami/shirt combo for about 4 days.  Maybe 5.  I can't tell.  I could probably do carbon-dating on the various spit-stains on the shoulders and figure it out if I cared to.  Occasionally I swap out the pants - PJ's for most of the time, maternity jeans for those occasions that require a public appearance - but truthfully, even that is only because they get wet from bathwater and I can't stand the feeling of cold, soggy pants any longer. 

(I'm almost afraid to change clothes in case Peyton no longer recognizes me as her mother.)

It's not that I look hideous... it's just that I've got about 4 shirts that look good and are comfortable and give quick access to boobs.  And once I find something that works, why change?  Right?  Right.  That's what I'll tell myself. 

Because yesterday, I rolled out of bed in my jeans.  Yep.  Jeans.  I wore jeans to bed and didn't even realize it.  I shrugged and just kept going. 

It's all about convenience.

The best part of all this?  Less.  Laundry. 

I hate laundry, so this is flipping fantastic.  So much so that I don't bat an eyelash when I use my shirt hem for a burp rag.  (Don't worry, I draw the line at using it as a baby wipe during a diaper change.  Barely.)  Even LESS laundry.  Bonus!

This is not sexy or cool or fashionable, and I'm totally aware of this.  But by the time I stuff 16 wiggling limbs through 16 cruelly-small holes and cover 8 adorable little butt cheeks with undies or diapers and find 8 socks and 6 shoes and create 4 pig tails, figuring out how to make my squishy butt fit in anything designer or making a cute shirt nursing-friendly isn't high on my priority list. 

Besides, honestly, it doesn't matter how hawt I may or may not look... when I'm out in public with my zoo, people are going to look at me like I'm crazy.  (And I've gotten both the "Wow, good thing you neglect your kids to put on makeup" comments and the "wow, good thing you don't care about your appearance" comments so someone will always be unhappy.)

So you won't find me looking like Grace Kelly any time soon... but you won't find me losing any sleep over it either.  Friends, yes, I might lose friends over it.  But then again, I'm always nice to have around so I can be that girl that everyone keeps around to make themselves feel better.  I'm sweet like that.

Baby Grins and Momma's Tears

Peyton just rewarded me with a giant-cheeked, crescent-eyed toothless grin. 

I thought my heart would burst.  So I bawled my eyes out instead, soaking her chubby cheeks as I kissed her over and over again.

How in the world is it possible to love so much?

And how in the world is is possible that I will wake up tomorrow and find my love for my family even stronger? 

I am so blessed.

They Grow So Fast

I can't believe Squirt is 16 days old.  I can't believe that's 2 weeks.  I can't believe I only have 50 more weeks with her as a "baby".  I can't tear myself away from her - I hold her when I don't have to and I stare at her when I should be watching a movie.  I ignore my blog and my laundry so I can try to stuff as much of this into my memory as possible.

It's like I'm re-living each older kiddo's infancy through her... I look down at her nursing and see Jack and Addie.  When she smiles, I see Jordan.  (And yes, I'm considering it a smile - even if it's caused by gas, it's still a smile.)  When Jack was 16 days old, I had no idea what I was doing.  Nursing was challenging and I didn't know how to burp him properly and we were facing a deployment and each day, though wonderful, was also riddled with mini-crises and a sprinkling of panic.  With the twins, at this point, Jordan had only been home from the NICU for a short while and we were just realizing that she had problems with reflux.  I spent far less time than I wanted to snuggling each girl and relishing her presence because I was juggling a much younger, much less independent Jack plus the demands of caring for two newborns and coping with Justin's high-demand job.  I felt guilty when I lingered too long with one twin or the other and I rarely wore them because wearing two was such a task and I felt like I was robbing one of them of time if I wore her sister.  From the outset with them, they were more content to snuggle with one another than with me and in general, I bonded with them in brief spurts over a longer period of time and as a result, much of their early days is a complete blur.

But Peyton?  Peyton is all of them.  She is at once just like Jack and like her sisters.  I am an experienced mom who fluently speaks "crying" and interprets her needs with ease and confidence.  I can sling her in as much time as I can ask, "can you pick her up?" and I can cook a 3-course meal 1-handed while singing "Old MacDonald" to the older kids and playing a game of kick-and-catch with our mini soccer ball.  I can function on 2.5 hours of sleep a night for a week, as long as I get a few 4-hour chunks every now and then.  I am busy but not overwhelmed (thanks, truthfully, in large part to amazing friends who have helped with meals... I can't take ALL the credit!) and I realize more than with the other 3 kids that these days are fleeting.  Laundry will always pile up, but she won't always fit in Justin's hand like a handful of candy.  The counters will always have mysterious sticky stuff on them, but she won't always murmur contentedly at my breast when she's full of milk.  I can always shower and do my hair, but she won't always smell that that ubiquitous combination of powder, rubbing alcohol and love. 

I love that I can lift her to my face and put a kiss on her rosebud lips and watch her purse them and then realize it's me and turn her cheek into my hand with her mouth open ready to nurse.  I love that we can offer her a finger and she grasps it automatically and unquestioningly the way we love her automatically and unquestioningly.  I love that her eyes study us with the innocent fascination of an infant, but there is also a sense of familiarity in her gaze as if she's know us for far longer than 16 days.  I love that she's here and I cannot fathom how I'll get through the bittersweet thrill of each milestone over the next 50 weeks.  (And, to be sure, every year after that as well...)  I love that she makes me love my other 3 even more deeply.  And I love that I feel like God placed her within me because He knew that Peyton would bring me closer to Him and intensify my love for our family as well as for Him and make me a better mother, daughter, sister, wife and friend. 

I love.

And while she will grow quickly, I hope that I do too.  I hope I don't miss anything.  I hope I can remember to remember.

Because they grow so fast...

Black and White Wednesday hosted by Lisa!

Introducing....

...Peyton Bailey, newest exhibit in our zoo!

She was welcomed into our arms at 6:54 pm on Monday the 13th of March.

It was amazing.  She amazes me.  God amazes me.  It's good.

My doctor decided that, since I was dilated to 4 cm and not contracting that we should have me go in and break my water so we wouldn't have the gamble of it happening spontaneously and me not being able to get my husband home and me to the hospital in time.  So on Monday morning we went in and got the ball rolling.

I would rather have just let my body do its own thing, but to eliminate the frantic rush of trying to find someone to watch the kids on a whim and dealing with a minimum of an hour and 45 minutes of commuting if anything happened during the work day meant it was safer for the baby and for me and was a better option for the big 3.  So, Pitocin it was for me.

 In the hospital, I settled in and got started on my IV and donned my monitors and sent the anesthesiologist packing, despite his dubious looks of "are you sure?" and "do you know what you're getting yourself into?".  At noon, they ruptured my membranes and the contractions started to feel a little stronger, though they weren't registering on the TOCO at all, so they kept cranking the Pitocin and I kept pulling into myself to find strength and peace through the waves.  Eventually, they switched to an internal monitor and realized that I was, in fact, contracting quite well and things progressed steadily and normally. I was in pain, but it's a good, productive pain, so I was happy enough and content to keep breathing and centering myself.  Around 5:30, I started feeling more pressure and my doctor told me he had to run out, but that he would be back around 6:45.  I promised him I'd wait and he dashed out.

Shortly thereafter, I was finally having to moan through the contractions to bleed off some of the pressure and relieve my body's stress. Justin took up his post next to my head and offered his hand to bolster my strength.  Soon, I felt the urge to push clearly and nearly begged to do so.  With just enough time to spare, my doctor sprinted in the door and, after a good push or two, I felt the unmistakable relief of her head emerging, and then the satisfying, fulfilling release of her little body joining the world.

But when they placed her on my belly, her beautiful face was purple and she was silent.  Dimly, I remember Justin cutting the cord and some white towels rubbing her skin... but what I recall most was that she was silent.  And so, so purple.  Nearly gray.

My doctor and a couple of nurses begged my pardon and lifted her away to get a better look at the situation and I was flooded by words at random: "fluid", "breath", "lungs", "bag", "NICU".  I tried to see through the commotion and think through the rush of fear and adrenaline, and I don't think I allowed myself to exhale until I heard her first feeble cry.  She was alive.

Clutching Justin's hand in mine, I waited.  We waited.  Amidst the bustle, we were able to see her limbs taking on a healthier pink hue and between the wooshing sounds of the bag they had to use to help her breathe and the suctioning, she would occasionally cry out, each time bringing tears to my eyes and grounding me - reminding me that God is good and she would be alright.

They took her to the special care nursery (NICU) and reported back that her chest x-ray showed that her lungs were completely full of fluid and that she was stable but still needed care.  They assured me that as soon as they could get her breathing on her own, she'd join us.  Then, and only then, did Justin and I let go of one another.  Later, they reported back to me that they were anxious to get her out of the nursery because she was crying and flailing her fists at the nurses and agitating the more sensitive babies in the nursery.  She was hungry, they said with a smile, and she wanted her Mommy.  My heart grew heavy with love and I felt like I couldn't love any more than that, ever.  (But, of course, I do.)

At about 9 that night, I held my newest daughter in my arms and stared into her face and thanked God for all His gifts... Peyton looks like a perfect blend of all of the older kids and it was as if I was being given another chance at experiencing their births and I knew that watching Peyton grow is going to be like an opportunity to relish all of their childhoods again.  She is a gift.  She is a beautiful gift.  A reminder to live every moment for that moment and take each breath as if it were the most important of my life.

And be grateful for the next one.

And the one after that.

So, little Peyton Bailey, who was born at 6:54 pm on March 14th, weighed 8lbs 1oz and measured 20 inches in length.

It was an easy labor and delivery; I was up after 30 minutes using the restroom.  I needed no repairs and I felt refreshed and happy afterward.  I enjoyed my time with my husband (even if I didn't spend much time in conversation with him) and I enjoyed feeling my body work.  I savored each minute - even the painful ones - and I will forever hold in highest respect the ability of the human body to ferry life into this world.

 

Welcome, Squirt, to our family!

And thank you, Lord, for choosing us as her family.

16 Days Away

My due date.

It's 16 days away.

Doubt I'll go that far, but still... 16 days.  Wow.  Sounds like an eternity to me when you figure that also equals 16 sleepless nights of contractions.

But when I look at my older three and realize I've only got 16 days of "exclusive" snuggling with them, it seems like an absurdly scant amount of time.

And when I think that I have only 16 days of pregnancy left in my whole life... when my whole life HAS been reproduction for the last 5 years, it seems like a blink.  More bittersweet...ness.

I want to see my baby girl.  I want to feel her weight on my chest (instead of my crotch, thanks) and inhale her sweet smell and learn about who she is (you know, besides someone who gets massively irritated by hiccups and curls up against her daddy's hand when she feels him) and introduce her to three very excited siblings.  I want to go into labor and enjoy the feeling of my body doing it's amazing job of bringing a life into this world.  I want to sigh that satisfied, contented sigh of peace and thanksgiving when I hear her cry and know that I have done what nature set me out to do 40 weeks ago.

But I'm going to miss it.

I'm going to miss feeling the beautiful roundness of my belly.  I'm going to miss her kicks and wiggles and knowing that she's mine to enjoy and that I'm keeping her safe and secure and she wants for nothing right now.  I can't let her down or not fulfill her needs right now.

At 36 weeks, my sonogram showed that she was 6lbs 7oz.  Last week, at 37 weeks, I was 70%, 3 and -2.  I have another appointment on Thursday... We'll see how that one goes... I've had so many contractions that I can't imagine I'll have to wait 16 days to say, "Honey, it's time."

This pregnancy has been rough in terms of it running concurrent with the raising of 3 kids 3 and under, building a house, and being my 4th baby in as many years.  But it's also been a beautiful experience - one for which many women pray and for which I am extraordinarily grateful... It has felt right from the beginning and it has given me a glorious, comfortable "full" feeling in my heart... one that assures me that we are complete with this baby and that I can tell my body "thank you" and release it from its duty of bearing children - proud and satisfied that each one of my "bumps" has yielded a perfect pregnancy.

So, for now, I wait.  I lay at night with my hands resting atop my belly or against Justin's back with our baby nestled between us, snug and secure, anxious, but at peace.  I hold my big kiddos on my lap and listen to them giggle when New Baby greets them with kicks and punches.  And I trust that things will happen on their own time since, from the outset of this, none of it has been in my control anyway.

My Baby Turns 4

My February was a total and complete fail in terms of keeping up with blogging.  I had to move our family, get ready for Jack's birthday, and get ready for a new baby PLUS take care of all of us and our assorted illnesses - ranging from strep to pink eye to colds and sinus infections.  Anyway, the bright spot to all of that was, in fact, Jack's birthday.

See, I'm not a girly-girl in most regards, but when it comes to my babies' birthdays I'm a total sap.

Like, for weeks ahead of time, the mention of their impending age makes me weepy.  I can't handle looking at baby photos and I put a disgusting amount of time into planning and executing their cakes and gifts and, for Jack, his party.  This year he was super excited to have all his friends come see his "big gray house" so I acquiesced to having his party in our home a scant week and a half after we moved.  It motivated me to get the place in order and put a massive crunch on my sanity, but it turned out really well and we had a great time with his buddies and their families!

Here are some photos (they're not super artistic and I haven't edited them at all, so don't call the photog police on me here, folks!):

I still can't get over that he's 4.  Sometimes I think, "He's ONLY 4???? How is that possible?" and other times I think, "How did he go from being a newborn to a 4 year old in like, a week?"  I mean, how does he say things like, "I'm a firefighter who uses the ladder.  You can tell by my designation." and then the next second curl up in my lap (what's left of it) and fall asleep cradled in my arms because he doesn't feel good?  How does my heart swell with pride at the bright little kid that's developing in front of me and ache with loss of the "baby" that turned my world upside down and changed the entire trajectory of my life? How is each birthday such a dichotomy of triumph and sadness?  Am I the only one who feels such mixed emotions on kiddos' birthdays?  Sigh. 

Anyway, more to come... I'm trying to get caught up before this baby (and no, I'm not withholding anything; she still doesn't have a name) arrives!