You’re boring, boring into my heart. (name that song)

Yesterday morning was wildly productive. Dovie cooed herself to sleep and napped away. Duke enjoyed some quality time with Steve and Blue and
I busted out Enzo’s 11th doctor tweed.
This morning I thought I’d have similar luck with the remaining costumes but Dovie didn’t nap so deeply and Duke was only interested in one episode of Blues clues. I needed to have Zizza here for reference in order to do much costuming for her and I spent all my free minutes looking in the same places over and over for the missing Batman cape (Duke and Roxie are pumped to repeat this. dream come true) and any likely components I could morph into a costume for Dove. She’s going to be a super hero like those other 2 but we’re making up a character for her based on what I can put together from things i already have on hand.
I exhautsted mt self with my efforts at productivity this morning so once Duke and I finished our lunch I sat down with my computer to chillax. It’s a technique I’ve been using for his nap time called “bore you to sleep” sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.
He joined me on the sofa after not too long and asked “Mom, how come I’m so big to not have any sleep?” I countered him with “Do you think you need some sleep?” He assured me that he did not and then snuggled into me in such a way that I was sure I had him this time and I was right.

So I’m typing one handed while my left arm snuggles that sleeper. I’m going to break my rules and post now, proof later because maybe I didn’t get many costumes sewn or find any missing Batman components but I bored my 3 year old into napping and now I’ve written a blog post as well. I can’t stop myself feeling accomplished under these circumstances.

Let me tell you about my baby

Considering she’s 3 months old I guess it’s getting to be time I introduced my little love bucket.

Once upon a time I was six or seven months pregnant and thinking bloggy thoughts. “What will the baby’s blog name be?” I wondered. I only wondered for a few minutes before I had an answer.

I needed something with both one and two syllable options, something that would jive with the other names I’ve got going on here and something that would fit the child in question. That seems like tough criteria to meet, especially the “child in question” bit, considering I hadn’t actually met the said child at that point but, as I said, it only took a few minutes thought before I settled on Dovie.

I liked the alliteration with Duke, I liked the way it reminded me of Anne Shirley (though I hope my girl will have a bit more backbone than Dovie Westcott of Anne’s acquaintance) and I immediately pictured a sweet and vocal babe who would coo herself to sleep. It was thus settled in my mind, barring any protest by the expected herself, the baby’s uniquety name would be Dovie.

Now, when my sweet darling lay, hours old, in her bassinet and began to coo in her sleep do you think I was surprised? Certainly I was pleased, certainly I marveled, but I can’t say I was surprised really.

She continued as a noisy sleeper for the first few weeks of her life. I have to admit, she sounded rather more like a duck than a dove. I suppose I could have switched the name to Duckie but as redheads go, I prefer Anne Shirley to Molly Ringwald (no offense to Molly herself, I’m sure she’s lovely) so I’m sticking With Dovie.

Now, the first thing you should know about Dovie, she is a smiler. The morning after she was born she looked at me and smiled. This was not the sweet but vacant gassy smile of your average wee infant. This was a really truly look me in the face smile. Her eye’s squinched into sweet little half moons and she beamed.

I continued to luck out and receive these glorious expressions every few days at first and even more frequently as she’s grown. I’ve tried and tried to catch the full effect of it on camera but it hasn’t quite happened yet. Full twinkling smiles are things she gives to people. People who’s full attention she possesses. Bringing a camera into the equation does not allow for that.

“Enough!” I hear you saying, “Words are all well and good but for a baby we need pictures! Show us the pictures for heaven’s sake!” and so, here are a few of those.

Day one


Practice

Don’t mind me, I’m just puttering around dusting off the skills I need to add photos to posts so I can properly introduce my baby already.

I’ve made quite a bit of progress actually. Tally Ho!

How sweet it is

My girls were home sick from school today.  Enzo cut a lonely figure walking to the car at pick-up time.  As he was climbing in I recognized the truth about the colorful oversize truck parked behind me.  It was a snow cone truck, and it was open for business.

Maybe it was because he didn’t beg (or even ask) Maybe it was because I had just been doing Halloween research and so his pledge to go as The Doctor was fresh in my mind (He’s not a particularly devoted Doctor fan, but he is particularly devoted to choosing things that make other’s happy. In this instance, me) Maybe it was that lonely figure from before.  Whatever the reason, I knew one thing; I wanted my boy to have a snow cone.

It is a rare occasion that I have cash on my person.  It was a stroke of luck that a craigslist transaction from the previous weekend left me with a spare fiver.

I watched him in my side mirror.  The smile I felt on my face he danced in line grew to double when his turn came and I saw him stretch to reach the window.

As he returned to the car my change flopped half-in half-out of the pocket of his red denim shorts. Maybe that’s why I wanted to buy him a snow cone.  Those are my favorite shorts.  They look straight out of a 60″s beach movie with their straight silhouette and frayed hem. Every time he wears them I count my lucky stars he’s willing to wear what I chose for him.

When he got to the car he announced “I got Tiger’s Blood!”

That’s my boy, choosing the best flavor like a champ.  Then he said “Ahhh, there’s nothing better than a cold treat on a hot day,”  and later; “Don’t worry mom, I won’t brag to the other kids about this.”

Every word out of his red stained mouth affirmed to me that I had made the right decision.  An over priced snow cone has never made me so happy.

I’m gonna beat this thing

I miss blogging so much. SO. MUCH. But dag yo, it’s hard!

Why is it so hard?

One Sunday (at church) we talked about not comparing ourselves to others and how when you do it you’re generally comparing your weakness to another’s strength and that’s a bad recipe.  Then again, maybe your comparing your strength to another’s weakness that’s another bad recipe. (no one mentioned this in the discussion. Admitting you think you’re better than other people is aparently taboo?)  Anyway what I was thinking was this; What about comparing yourself to yourself? Strengths and weaknesses have peaks and valleys.  Things that were my strengths 4 years ago are weaknesses right now and that SUX MAN! (strong language)

You know what’s cool about having babies?  The healing process.  Not just the obvious physical part, though that’s pretty awesome too, but the emotional part.

Roxy had been gone for three-ish months when I got started making Duke. I was given a miraculous easing of pain when she left. It lasted through the first month of her absence and then pulled back little by little. After you’ve been carried, God sets you back on your feet gentle and slow while you get used to walking again.  As I was finding my stride and stumbling a bit, having Duke in my belly pulled me through.  That joyous reason to feel horrible helped me come to grips with the grievous. You see, I could easily forgive my lack of productivity on the grounds of pregnancy whereas grief didn’t garner any such lenience.  Self forgiveness makes a big difference and pregnancy granted me that.

During the three years that have followed Duke’s arrival Roxy and I (and the rest of the family) have been working through the break in attachment that was the result of her seven month absence from our family. This has not been easy. Reforming and repairing attachment is hard work.  Trying to get by without making the repairs is even harder.  There have been casualties along the way.  Blogging is one. Sewing is another. Basically, all my productive hobbies fell to shambles during this period.

We finally reached a turning point a few months ago. I was relieved to see the improvement in our relationships but pregnancy was so cumbersome mildly pleased was the best I could muster. Joyful was out of the question. Then the baby came and the weight (both figurative and literal) lifted  and all of that progress caught up with me.

My midwife checked with me faithfully for signs of postpartum depression, but there was none of that for me this time. Unexplained sadness? No way! I felt (feel) so good.  Suddenly I can access the whole of my brain when for so long swaths of it have been partitioned off, unreachable behind velvet ropes of stress and hormones.

One of the mental processes wasting beyond the barrier was my inner monologue.  Giving Rox the attention she needed to keep her from flying off the handle and then dealing with the fallout when she flew off the handle anyway was so utterly exhausting there weren’t any resources left to tell myself stories with. If I’m not telling stories to myself, then I ask you, how can I expect myself to write them down and share them? It’s not really reasonable but I tried to do it for quite a while.

It was such a relief when I gave up trying to post regularly.  I think I’m ready to come back though. Proof? I’m at 573 words right now and didn’t even have a plan when I started to type.  I’ve just been letting my mind wander onto the page. To be honest, I’ve written and lost 2 conclusions to this post already (frustrating) The result of this is; between the lack of planning and starting over halfway through x3 I don’t have any idea whether this post makes any sense or not and I’m so mixed up in it re-reading doesn’t lend any clarity.

I’m forging ahead though because for one thing, the fact that I can continue to spew words onto the page is really encouraging and for another, I’ll never get back in the habit of posting if I don’t start somewhere.  So I’ll start here, with this piecey, wandering blather of a post. You’re welcome (sarcasm)

Unbelieveable

A few of unbelievable things going on right now.  First of all.  I feel better at 36 weeks than I did at 30.  A few stretches for sciatica plus a magnesium supplement for heartburn equals; I had no idea 36 weeks (and four days)  could exist at this level of comfort…not that I’d call it comfortable.

Unbelievable number 2; It’s only 83 degrees out.  It’s May 9th.  This is the Valley of the Sun.  Yesterday the high was 77.  I don’t know how this is possible but I am grateful. Also, I don’t even feel bad for anyone living in a more northerly climate bemoaning the slow onset of spring.  Not even a little bit bad.  In fact, if you guys got another little bit of snow I’d be cool with it.  (selfish)

This brings us to unbelievable number three.

On Fridays the kids are allowed to watch tv.  limiting it to one day a week is how we keep it from overrunning our lives.  It also gives me an easy answer to stop begging in it’s tracks ie. “Moooom, can we watch somethiiing?” “Is it Friday?”  and that’s the end. Conversation over.

Today happens to be Friday.  We went to a midwife appointment first thing this morning.  On the way home Roxy asked the question, “Can we watch our shows when we get home?” I said “Yep,” but I also remembered the mess in the tv room. The mess that belongs solely to Rox and Duke, the other kids having not even set foot in that room since it was cleaned up last Friday.  So when we got home I told them they could have tv time as soon as they picked up the toys.

Wailing ensued.  Roxy started it “WE NEED HELP!” echoed By Duke “We need help!” “WHAT ABOUT ZIZZA AND ENZO!?” “what about Zizza and Enzo?” Followed by my answers;  ”You didn’t have help getting the toys out so I know you’ll be able to put them back on your own,” and “Ziz and Enz haven’t even been in the room so It’s not their job.”  ”BUT WE JUST WANNA WATCH SOMETHING,” “we just wanna watch something,” The wailing was followed by whimpering “mama, mama” and clutching at my arm.

I can’t abide arm clutching. It does things to my brain.  Hostile things.

Long story short.  Roxy was unwilling to put books on the shelf or toys in the bin and Duke was in a following mood so he couldn’t do those things either.  Rox also couldn’t content herself with the idea of not watching a show on Friday, which was the alternative to not cleaning, so she moaned and wined and clutched.

Meanwhile all that clutching meant I had to keep a firm hand on those hostile things in my brain.

This whole cleaning up story is really just a lead in.  Here is the unbelievable. Currently both of those children are napping.

I fed them lunch, then I tucked Roxy into bed.  She was indignant about it.  The two of them share a room see, and as the bigger kid she is the one who rests elsewhere during quiet time.  But elsewhere wasn’t going to work today.  Not with me holding the hostile back with a piece of scotch tape and her in full tilt moaning and clutching.  So I tucked her into her bed and then I laid down with Duke on my bed.

She protested by taking Dukes toy dragon ( the noisiest toy in the room ) to bed with her.  The dragon was roaring and doing it’s best to devour her bedding. The only way I knew to keep her from a full scale jailbreak was to be as boring as possible so I lay there, watching Duke practice increasingly dramatic face palms every time he heard her make a noise.

Eventually, the weight of drama in his palm as it met his face forced him back into the pillows. He was done in and failed to sit up to meet the next dragon’s breath.  His eyes closed, and soon in spite of the fact that the dragon roars had ceased and been replaced by the monotone-monosyllabic yelling of my own Roxanne my eyes began to close as well.

It was the silence that woke me.  She stopped!  I felt triumphant and groggy thinking smug thoughts to myself about how she’d yelled herself to sleep.  That’s when I heard her in the hallway. I’d been had.

I ended up hauling the piano bench down the hall and sitting out side her door until she gave up trying to come out.  Even then it was touch and go. Things could easily have gone the other way.  They have done in the past, but I had a steel determination today.  I knew how exhausting the fit throwing, moaning, clutching, and monotone yelling must have been, and I knew how miserable we’d both be if the hostile things beat their way out of my brain so I held fast.

Still it’s unbelievable.

Roxy is napping.

Difficulty

I met with my midwife today.

She told me I need to eat more snacks.

Protein rich snacks specifically but more snacks.

You wouldn’t think this would be difficult.  Have a cheese stick,  a handful of almonds.  Would spoonfuls of peanut butter and chocolate chips count do you think?

The problem is I don’t really like to eat.

Is that crazy?

I feel like that’s crazy.

I remember liking to eat.  I remember loving it.  My general state of being includes a love of food…and a love of shoving it in my mouth. In the past pregnancy has heightened that love.

Last time, even when I was mountainous and in a constant state of acute discomfort/pain, I still cooked things just so I could eat them.  I don’t remember ever being more in love with food.

Particularly butter.

I remember working through experiments in my kitchen on a regular basis and thinking to my self “know what would make this even better? Butter. Next thing I’mma do to this deliciousness is add a few tablespoons of the good stuff.”

I usually talked myself out of that.  Not always. Sometimes more butter really was a good idea and in those cases I followed through joyfully but I learned to recognize the butter hunger and curb it when it wasn’t helpful.  There was an instance with curry for example.  The curry didn’t need added butter.  Another time it was hot fudge sauce.

Anyway the point is.  I don’t currently like to eat and it really weirds me out. Who am I? What’s happened to me? Why do I always have to find space inside my body for things like cheese sticks and almonds?

In conclusion; bleh

 

The rooster cries at dawn

7;15 AM Human Rights Day and I was exercising my right to lie in my cozy bed rather than face the cold floor and bustle children off to school.  What’s better than a warm cocoon of sweet smelling flannel sheets?

That’s when it started.

The rooster next door let out a good long crow.   And then another. The crowing was relentless. I don’t normally mind the rooster. I can easily sleep through his best efforts at ruckus and he does me a service most nights. See, when I wake up to go potty I like to know whether I’m in the uphill or down hill half of the night, but my bedroom does not currently have an actual clock in it. If I go the trouble of checking my phone then I’m that much closer awake than I’d like to be during what is hopefully the middle of the night.

The rooster makes it easy.  If he’s making himself known then daylight must be within a few hours distance of arrival.  If he’s quiet, then maybe I had a big glass of water before bed. Or maybe I’m just pregnant.

This morning he was really enjoying the sound of his own voice.  I started counting crows (heh heh) and gave up around 200. “What is going on out there?” I wondered.  It was much too late in the morning for coyotes.  Besides, by this time any coyote worth his salt should either have A) been home free with his feathery breakfast or B) realized the futility of the attempt and run away.  But on crew (crew?) the rooster.

Honestly how was that bird still alive?  He wasn’t even stopping for breath.  Realistically, he should have dropped dead minutes earlier.

At this point the dog was awake so I faced the cold world to let him out.

The strangest thing though, as I moved to a different part of the room it seemed that the rooster’s cries were actually coming from inside my own house. (have you checked the children?) More specifically, from Zizza’s room.

Girlfriend, it seemed, didn’t want to miss out on a chance to watch a little early morning T.V. so she set her alarm lest she inadvertently choose this morning to sleep in for the first time in her life.  However, a few minutes before it went off my alarm (read; Roxy and Duke) woke her and the three of them were off to exercise the right (granted them by their sleepy mother) to equal opportunity viewing of Ninjago and My Little Ponie.

The moral of the story, I suppose, is that if your child is in possession of a device with a rooster alarm try to be aware of the fact. Either that or “Be sure to acquaint yourself with the timbre of the voices of any and all neighborhood roosters such that impostors will not have the chance to play you for a fool when you’d rather be sleeping.”

I think I’ll needle point that last one on a pillow.

Be the chair

A mother has many roles. We all know this, I won’t bore you with the list.

Currently my most important role in Duke’s mind is that of furniture.

He cannot reasonably be expected to sit on a surface that is not me. He insists this is true.  He wants me, or at least some physical portion of me, available for his sitting needs in every circumstance.

Meal times he considers to be lap times, play time also falls under the lap time category, as do reading time, coloring time…and dancing time.

“The ground is cold and hard mother,” he seems to say,

“Come here and place yourself beneath me that I may have something warm and soft on which to deposit my adorable person.”

He still prefers his cozy bed for nap times so that’s something. Though yesterday he did try using my face as a pillow.

This situation will become more difficult as weeks pass and my lap gradually vanishes from existence.

He was suffering from a miserable cold last weekend and spent the bulk of his time cradled by one parent or the other. I could blame it on that but I’m not convinced it started there.  No, I’m pretty sure the previous week’s abundance of snuggle time merely fanned an already burning flame.

I’m writing to report not to complain. This furniture job, though difficult at times is not all bad.  Yesterday as I knelt next to his bed, one cheek resting on his pillow, the other smooshed beneath his, I found myself wondering; “Is this sublime or just sublimely uncomfortable?”

Friend, I didn’t have an answer

What?

Yes, it’s true I’m posting.

Hello?

Anyone there?

Yeah I thought not.  I’l go ahead with it anyway.

It turns out that being pregnant is like to becoming a zombie only without the appetite.  Though to be fair I’ll bet brains taste about the same coming up as they do going down. So I dunno, maybe it’s worth a try?

Think about it though; Death pallor? Check!

Shuffling steps? Yes.

Indecipherable moaning? We’ve got that too!

See? practically the same.

So what’s new with you?