Knights Becoming and a Lady in Waiting

Happy Birthday, Prince Berryboy

Seven years ago today, I was feeling pretty good (better than today, in fact).  True, I was two weeks overdue with my first child and 32 pounds heavier than a year previous, but I was blessed enough to have one of those pregnancies that looks just like I stuffed a basketball under my shirt-- all straight forward.  Hard to tie my shoes, but that's what slip-ons are for.

We had moved just a few months before from our nice (expensive) one-bedroom apartment in the nicer part of the LA. Valley to a two-bedroom (less expensive) apartment in... well, not-so-nice a part of L.A.  We were both determined that I would stay home with our kids and the only way to do that in California is to make a sacrifice in housing.

That morning, I got up, showered, and went to my doctor's appointment.  Almost no dilation.  He patted me on the shoulder and told me to make an appointment for Monday.  If nothing happened by then, perhaps we'd have to induce.

In spite of the looming deadline, I went home, tidied up the already spotless house (imagine me home all day for two weeks with no kids), and generally fussed a bit.  Then it started.  Gas pains.

I've always had issues with gas pains.  Sometimes, it's been bad enough to make me pass out.  This felt like, well, gas pains.  The only thing that relieves that pain is to walk it out, so I started pacing.

Ten minutes later, I was a little perturbed.  It didn't feel like anything was moving, but that same pain was still there.  So I called my mom.  She pronounced that I was probably in labor and should call DH.  I called him and cheerfully informed him that we might be having a baby.  He asked if he should come home.  "Oh, no," I assured him.  "They say first babies take a while."

I went ahead and ate half a peanut butter sandwich with a glass of milk, then started pacing again.  Since I never made it to a La Maze class, how was I to know that helped speed up labor?

I called my mom a little later, out of breath and just a tiny bit worried.  "I think they're coming faster now."  She asked how fast and I said, "Five minutes?"

Okay, okay.  I called DH and told him to come home NOW.  The only problem is that, well, at 4:30pm on a Friday afternoon in L.A., there isn't such a thing as coming home NOW.  I got a little worried and called my mom again.  "Maybe you should call an ambulance."

Here's a bit of advice for all of you: don't call an ambulance for a pregnancy.  Have the baby on your kitchen floor if you have to, but don't call an ambulance.

The paramedics were nice, but there were rules they had to follow.  Stretcher.  IV.  Lying down.  Ohhh, that lying down was a BAD thing.  Back labor started up hard.  Worse yet, they panicked at me having contractions every five minutes and refused to take me to my own hospital.  Instead, they took me to the closest one.  HUGE mistake.  I should've made hubby drive me out of there as soon as he arrived (just behind the ambulance).  Inexperienced and in pain, I didn't care.  Yet.

For a while, I had a really good nurse who was patient and was trying to coach me in breathing.  I was determined not to have an epidural.  When that nurse went off-shift, though, the next one was impatient with me.  "You should've taken the La Maze," she said bluntly.  "Do you want the epidural?"  I didn't, but she was advising it...

The anestheologist took one look at me and informed me I couldn't have an epidural.  "Too late."  Okay, fine.  I can't have one.  "But do you want one?"  I decided this was some sort of sadistic game they played with new mothers.  "I want it not to hurt!" I sobbed.  Famous last words.

I don't know what that woman put in my IV, but I never want to have it again.  I fell asleep between contractions, only to wake up with each contraction-- feeling them just as intently.  I don't think there's anything worse than to wake up, disoriented, in intense pain.  As soon as the contraction ended, I'd doze off again.  Also, they had me in this chair thing where I couldn't even lie on my side comfortably, so the back labor was intense.

Almost six hours passed this way.  Finally, a doctor declared I was close enough and I could push.  Hey, if pushing was going to get this over with, I was going to PUSH.

Two pushes, no problem.  Then there was a sharp pain.  I later found out I'd been given an episotomy (without asking, of course).  I didn't even have to push the third time.  Prince Berryboy slid into the world, hairy and beautiful.  He had hair from the back of his neck all the way over his head to his eyebrows.  He was also somewhat quiet (probably from the drug they gave me).  At 11:24 (or 23:24 military time), on my 28th birthday, my little boy came into my life.

I would do it all over again, too.  Happy Birthday, Prince Berryboy.

Save the Date

This year my family started a new tradition.  With four kids (yes, yes, I know some of you think that's a very small number.  Hush, now.  I'm trying to make a point) and only two parents, we don't feel we're getting much one-on-one time with the littles.  This last Christmas, I made up date coupons for each kid.

Basically, they work like this.  In January, Berryboy had a date with me and Dannyboy had a date with DH.  In February, Derryboy had a date with me and Princess Moo had a date with DH.  For their dates, they get $10 to use in any way they want (plus access to the entertainment book of coupons we purchased) and two hours to spend ALONE with a parent.  No chores, errands, griping, whining, lecturing, etc. are allowed on dates (although we do sometimes run a few errands before we start the date).

Today was my second date of the year with Prince Berryboy (1DS6).  Being his mother's clone in all but gender, he immediately wrote out a list of everything he wanted to do.  After consulting with his date (moi), he edited said list down to something doable.  We then ran by the post office (my errand) and then on to our date.  He took me out to lunch at Rally's (the parent rule is that we order exactly what the kids order).  We had Big Buford burgers, shared a large fry, and each had a shake and an apple pie for dessert.

Thoroughly stuffed, we went to the park and climbed rocks (ack! that's high!), swung on the swings (once I got my hips into kid-sized swings), and played tag.  It's only going to be another year or two before he catches me easily, but this time around I managed to stay out of reach.

After the park, we went to the bookstore (droooool) and looked at books.  And that was it.  Great fun, great bonding, and all for $10.

Date with Berryboy: $10

A day to remember: Priceless 

Painting Myself Into a Corner

Yesterday, Prince Beryboy, my 1DS6 was the first one up, which always surprises me.  He's more of a last to bed, last up kind of kid, even at the ripe old age of six.

Because I was not yet awake, even though I was, technically, up, I gave him a vague nod and didn't really look at him.  A few minutes later, something tickled at the edge of my brain.  I should look at him.  Something was wrong.

No blood.  No tears.  No black marker.  Okay, we're doing well this morning.  Wait.  Why are his pajamas streaked with white?

On closer look, I realized that his pajamas are liberally painted white. 

After a few moments of motherly ranting and raving, I eventually calmed down enough to ask where he got the paint, why he got the paint, and what else had fallen prey to his artistic endeavors.

The paint was from the stash we keep in the basement storage area.  The storage area was what else he had painted.  Why?  Because it was too plain.

I would like to note for anyone who is in a law enforcement position that I did not commit murder.  Instead, I sat him down in a corner and walked away.  Fast.

I went and took a look at my lovely storage area, complete with plain cedar panels all around, and found the paint.  My son had pretty much covered one of the smaller walls.

I may have cried.  I may have gone into shock.  It's really a bit of a blur.

My husband later assured me that with a lot of hard work we might be able to salvage the cedar panels.  However, he did agree with me on one thing: my oldest son could no longer have his own room down in the basement where he could make trouble.

I don't know.  Somehow we thought he'd be okay down there, but he hasn't been.  He stays up too late (although that's not necessarily a bad thing in our household) and he gets into everything down there.  Games in the middle of the night, painting my storage room before he goes to bed... the list goes on, really.

So last night we moved him into the big bedroom with his two younger brothers.  These are the two brothers that rarely cause problems when they go to bed.  These are the two brothers who are usually asleep in 20 minutes or less.  These are the two brothers who think the oldest brother is cool and will do just about anything to make him laugh.  I know these things, so I thought I prepared.

"Okay, I'm coming up to check on you in thirty minutes.  Anyone who is asleep gets to stay up 15 minutes later tomorrow night.  Anyone who is awake gets to go to bed 15 minutes later tomorrow night.  Any questions?"

They all, even the two-year-old, assured me there were no questions.  They went to bed.  The evening of torture started.

I'm not going to detail the whole evening.  I think it's sufficient to say that all of my sons are going to bed early tonight, Prince Berryboy slept in MY spot, and I didn't get to sleep until well after midnight.

So we've painted ourselves into a corner.  We can't give Prince Berryboy back the basement room and we don't have any other spare rooms at the moment.  I can't clean up the whole basement by tonight.  I can't even clean out one file drawer (my goal for the morning) by tonight.

Yet we also can't keep moving him to our room or staying up all night.  So we're stuck.  Do we take the chance on more paint everywhere or just hope the boys will eventually learn the value of sleep?

I couldn't find a verse in the Bible to help on this one, so I'm asking all you mentors out there to help me out.  Please?  I'm really grouchy without sleep. :)

Tiggers Bounce Up, But They Don't Come Down

I love the story of Tigger when he bounces himself up high into a tree and then is too afraid to come down.  As someone who's afraid of heights (but still climbs mountains and rappels anyway), I can sympathize.

Today at a playtime after music lessons, one of the boys came running up to me and informed me that Prince Berryboy (1DS6) was stuck in a tree.  Visions of the truly terrible went through my head, including the requisite first visit to the emergency room for a broken arm/ leg/ head.  I jogged on over, ignoring protesting muscles, and peered up into the tree.  Slightly up.  My son was stuck just about a foot over the top of my head.  I could touch him.  Whew.  If he fell and broke something, there was a good chance of it not being fatal.

Conversationally, I asked how he was doing.  He informed me that he couldn't get down and I would have to come up and get him.  Ha!  I don't climb trees-- but I could probably jury-rig a jacket that he could jump down into (with less amusing results than those generated in the Tigger story). 

"How about you just put your foot on that branch, then that one, then that one, and come down yourself?"

He doubted me for a while (if I don't climb trees, who am I to tell him how to do it?), but several of the boys backed me up, so he finally took that first step.  Then the next, and the next.  And he was down.  Safely on the ground with no breaks, bruises, or even scrapes.

Later, one of the moms kindly informed me that she had retrieved my two younger sons from "over the ditch and halfway across the field".  (Did I mention these lessons are out in the countryside?)  I thanked her, reprimanded the boys, and went on chatting.  It wasn't long, however, before another mom came to inform me that Prince Dannyboy (3DS2) had locked himself in another woman's car.

We had been sitting in a van for a while chatting and Prince Dannyboy had been sitting in my lap.  He apparently thought that this green van was the same green van he had been sitting in before (it wasn't).  He made himself quite at home, sitting in the driver's seat and locking the door.

Fortunately, the mom was a good sport AND had her keys on her.  She lifted the giggling prince out of her car.  He promptly gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek, along with the most beatific smile.  Had she been stone, she'd still have had to smile back.  She wasn't... and she did.

My oldest is six.  My youngest (son) is two.  I think I just might survive all of them making it to manhood, but I don't need to do cardio when I exercise.  My heart gets enough of a workout as it is.