X-Man has been very sweet to Gestated Cinco. He may resent me for uprooting his life, but he bears no ill will to his baby sister. In fact, as I was changing her diaper, X-Man was leaning in, cooing “ni ni” or “nice nice” which is my constant refrain when he is in her presence. Moved by the moment, I reached over to stroke his fat cheek, and left a streak of baby poop on his face.

That perfectly summarizes my life at the moment.

Gestated Cinco is crying and X-Man is yelling at Baby “Mine mine mee” because he thinks he should be the one to put the binky in her mouth.  And I am forced to admit that I believe the highlight of this week, the week Gestated is a full month old, will be my successful teaching of X-Man to do the Night at the Roxbury dance whenever the new ringtone for his dad goes off. I got tired of White and Nerdy.  It was actually quite the accomplishment in my mind.

Hey, I own my mediocrity. 

They tell you to not cry over spilled milk, but when you’re two year old dumps your fresh hot latte all over the car while you’re nursing another child, well it’s hard not to. Especially when said latte was supposed to be your breakfast and lunch.

Then there’s after a long, late night nursing session, when your baby decides to thank you by vomiting up all of her dinner.  That’s a horrific case of spilled milk, because it requires clean up and changing and, worst of all, more late night feeding and less late night sleeping. It’s almost as painful as the time I dumped a bottle full of hand expressed milk. I still cry thinking about it.

I ran everyone to bed early tonight, because I’m feeling so very tired. It’s like the last three weeks have finally caught up with me. Of course the father figure has been snoring for the last three hours. Because he’s tired. I wanted to hit him, but that involved putting Gestated Cinco down, and that’s just not an option right now and it also required more effort than I can muster.  So I’ll mutter things sarcastically to him while he’s sleeping, in the hopes of permeating his dreams.

The problem with having a relaxing, calm Mother’s Day is that it just helps reinforce how very, very tired you really are. Gestated Cinco was born almost four weeks ago and I have yet to have a day off. Well, there was the day after she was born, but even then, I didn’t get to sleep until 4am. We left the hospital and ran errands, I kid you not. The next day I was at Baby’s soccer game, doughnuts in hand for her birthday, while listening to mandatory job training. It’s been nonstop. Partly because of how the father figure’s job situation played out, partly because our living situation doesn’t allow me to relax ever, and gas prices require me to consolidate trips. I’ve laughed about being a failure as at the whole stay at home aspect of motherhood, but I’m not laughing anymore. I’m just eating copious amounts of m&ms. 

Which might not be what Gestated is looking  for in her diet. Which than might explain why she is so not 

interested in anything but being held by me. But she’s perfectly cute so I’m down with that.

But it makes typing hard. And I gots my priorities. Not to mention that if she happens to drift off, I have a better chance of drifting off myself. And as it stands now, she's fascinated by the big, bright computer screen. 

I think that 2013 is trying to kill me. I don’t know why, despite what I write here, I really am a nice person. At least I intend to be. And I don’t get what this particular year has against me, but there’s some serious hating going on.

Not everybody is as aware of everything that Starbucks does. I am. So I have been taking advantage of the half price Frappuccino’s this week. And sharing the wealth with my progeny. It’s been fun. So yesterday, I took Sir Cranky-Pants, and by that I mean X-Man, to get a strawberry one. X-Man is my eater, and he had to sit in a hot car for an hour and a half waiting on Mac, Baba and Baby, and he’s been sick. So what better for a mother to do than load him up with sugar.

X-Man enjoyed his first few gulps and then he wanted me to taste. So I did. But apparently I did it wrong, because he kept thrusting the cup in my face, with the straw up my nose. Which might have been the intention. I finally took the cup from him, because my nose needed a break, but no melt down occurred. Rather he turned all his attention on my cup of water. And polished that off without a second thought to the treat. I’m an awesome mom. I buy my kids sugary treats and they choose water. I should win on like ten different levels.

X-Man’s been sick since Cinco stopped gestating. So it’s been hard for him to adjust to mommy not always able to hold him immediately. He still is running fevers and breaking out in rashes, and three trips in one week to the doctor haven’t helped resolve anything. He’s angry and opinionated. He’s taken to hitting and biting me. Mostly when I tell him no, or put him down to pick up his younger sister.  He bit my leg in retaliation and was shocked, shocked I tell you, be find himself reprimanded. He collapsed in a heap of wailing, leaving me to wonder why  even thought I was the one who hadn’t bitten anyone and I was the one feeling guilty. And overwhelmed with the desire to pick up my little X-Man and soothe him, which outraged Gestated Cinco who would have bitten me if the thought has occurred to her.

X-Man has been a terror and I am about ready to ship him off to reform school. But then, as I was sitting in the doctor’s office for the fourth time in a week, I watched him scratch his sister’s head, as she slept her baby carrier. Not a “you told me no” type of scratch, but the gentle stroking that I often do to his own head. I started to scratch his head, which cause him to snuggle closer to me while doing on Gestated.

It was a beautiful moment. One that ended when I told X-Man that he couldn’t stick his finger up my nose while scratching his sister’s head. If I had thought about it, I would have just left it at “don’t stick your fingers up my nose”, but I was distracted by the head butt and collapsing onto the floor in a heap to wail away. Which might explain why he can’t get healthy?

If I had let him actually empty out the contents of the garbage can, all would have been well. But as the crazy lady with five kids who seems to live at the doctor’s office, I figure keeping up appearances was more important. That would be the appearance of not being moved by the immense tragedies in my son’s life. 

When it comes to parenting, I’m losing. X-Man is completely whooping me. Well, his antibiotic resistant double ear infection is certainly helping. It’s made for some super-duper fun times as he rails against life and the world. There’s been lots of angry screaming, throwing things and biting. And that’s just me. I kid…..mostly.

Baby had a soccer game Friday evening. I required the father figure to come, as I wrestled X-Man while he threw things and screeched at the little girls who wouldn’t let him run off with their soccer ball. He resorted to trying to bite me when I put the kibosh on his entering the field of play. Gestated Cinco heard the racket and realized that she was missing out on some sort of party. So there I was, wrestling a toddler, trying to get a newborn to stop crying and being very annoyed at Mac, who had traces of blood on his hand and therefore completely incapacitated.

 I have never been happier to see the father figure. He swooped in and took over X-Man and his rages.  Which quickly dissipated.  I was focused on the girls, Baba was off at tryouts, and the boys gravitated towards the father figure. After a little bit I heard the father figure say “Well, he did ask him to chase him.” And my ears perked up.

Apparently, a younger boy wanted to Mac to chase him. Well actually, four kids walked over to where Mac was sitting, contemplating the blood on his hand, and urged him to chase them. So Mac obliged. And then the boy ran to his mom. Mom, being the officious woman she is, turned to Mac and said “Don’t chase him.” Father figure to the rescue. The mom didn’t apologize for jumping on Mac without actually having a clue, but that would have been too much to wish for.

I was seriously irritated. A large part was due, I’m certain, to X-Man’s antics, that had started during an even that morning, followed into a trip to the doctor, my second in three day with all five kids, and had deteriorated. I wanted to snark about the boy who couldn’t handle being chased by a five year old and had to run to mommy, but then again my son had been wailing about a minor scrape on his hand so yeah, shouldn’t really go there.

But I did want to say, and most certainly thought, “Helicopter parenting….you’re doing it wrong!” Now, I’m not a helicopter parent, despite what the father figure might say. And I’m not one to jump on other people’s children. Sure there are cases where something needs to be said, usually when physical harm is imminent. But I dislike the hovering moms who are certain that their little angles are all perfect and victims. Maybe it’s just my own personality, but I’m always concerned that it’s my kid who’s responsible for any and all chaos. I’m good with that assumption, maybe because it rarely born out and I’m really not ok with other moms assuming anything about my kids.

It’s all ok for you to hover over your own children, but don’t go extending their magic boundaries to my kids. And that is all. Because apparently although I have spent the last three hours feeding Gestated Cinco, it’s just. not. enough.

                                                                                                                                                                         

It’s hard to blog and nurse. And I’m all about the nursing because Gestated Cinco loves to eat all evening and sleep all night. Yeah, not going to rock that boat.  

Some things I’ve learned over the last couple of days……

X-Man’s doing all he can to make sure that his shirts do not suffer the same fate as his ears. He does this by liberally sharing his antibiotics with his clothing.

There are several suicidal deer in the area. I am not an enabler, although I  have been sorely tempted.

Mac’s shoulders are perpetually dirty because they’re where he wipes his face. For whatever reason. Also, the father figure has been caught wiping X-Man’s nose with his (X-Man’s) shirt.

Mac’s has been very politely sneezing in everyone’s faces, to avoid Gestating Cinco’s face.

Mac’s told me that he likes to hold doors open for me “to be nice.” He also likes to make mad dashes for the automatic doors and stand in the middle of the doorway “to open it for you.”

X-Man has taken to referring to himself as “baby.” And he’s still feeling under the weather, so occasionally 

I’ll find him sitting alone, pitifully whimpering about “baby mama baby na na.” It’s enough to make me give him all the cookies I can find. I own my pushoverness.

Taking five children to get your tires aligned is not as horrible as you might think. I still never want to do it again.

I admitted to another mom yesterday that at the moment I will settle for just being “not evil mom.” That seems impossibly out of reach these days.

I should apologize to the older lady at the doctor’s yesterday. But when you come stick your “real life” fake baby doll in my face because she looks so much like my real life real baby, I might exclaim “ew.” But it’s not actually passing judgment on your odd habit, and the fact that you have a stroller for your doll, at the doctor’s, but that I was a little taken aback. Maybe a bit more personal space next time.  Maybe don’t say “this is my baby” because I will actually think you are talking about a baby. Like real. Without weirdly painted on eyebrows, because honestly that’s all I really noticed. Well that, and you were carrying a doll, and showing everyone. It’s weird I tell you. 

Who has two thumbs and just now realized that X-Man has a double ear infection. Well, not so much realized, but figured something was wrong enough to warren a trip to Urgent Care. Side note, Tuesday evening is an excellent time to visit Urgent Care, if you don’t want to spend five hours waiting.

X-Man has definitely been off his feed. Rather literally, which is always a sign that something is wrong with the boy. He’s been whiney and cranky, which I was thinking might be related to Gestated Cinco.  Just yesterday, instead of his typical MAMAMAMAMAMA in my general direction, he walked up with his arms out and yelled “Mama, mine.”

But when he spent the hour at the playground sitting in my lap, I figured something was wrong. Poor little kid. He’s not unhappy about his sister, he’s unhappy with his mother. Whoops. Should have known my sweet easy going little boy needed antibiotics, on top of the extra attention I thought he was craving.

So that’s my motherhood fail for today. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to figure out how Mac got jelly smeared all over his pants while trying to eat his sandwich. It truly looks like he took the sandwich apart and face planted the bread on his lap. Which is actually a possibility with him.

Tomorrow I take all five in to get the alignment of the car fixed. Oh the story is writing itself. 

Mac’s antics are well documented here. So I suppose that it is right and just to document his successes. Last Saturday was a day of triumphs for the Macster. He had a soccer game, which his mother had to miss. Again. Such is the life of a third child, who’s two other sisters are also soccer players.

He scored the first goal at his game. This is exciting in and of itself because Mac’s scored two goals this season, compared to no goals last season. He also kept his, sort of, cool. He was controlled, for Mac, and remarkably focused. He proudly gave me a report on his performance, admitting that he did flap his hands a little bit, but stopped when he remembered to. There was also no taunting of the opposing team, which was a brief issue last week. The father figure loudly corrected “Don’t call names Mac!” To which Mac replied “Oh, Ok.” And ceased. It was as if he hadn’t ever been told not to call names. And as I considered things, I don’t think that was a lesson we had addressed yet. So chalk it up to another parenting failure.

So after a soccer game where Mac could hold his head high, we moved on to the dance recital. Now dance has been a bone of contention for Mac and me. He likes it, sort of. But he’s also the only little boy in a class full of girls. One of the girls has seven brothers, and so she knows all the buttons to push for Mac. And Mac is more than happy to be the class clown. Fortunately his teacher is unflappable and no nonsense and keeps him on a short leash. In general, dance wouldn’t be something I would pick for Mac, but his sisters were in an hour and a half class and this gave him something to do for half of that time. And it was all part of the master plan to wear the boy out.

So for the ballet recital, Mac was given the role of the black sheep.  When the teacher told me her plans, I said “oh, type casting.” And Mac lived up to his role.

He was subdued heading in. He saw the empty chairs and said “oh, scary.” See, he’s all about acting out, but it mostly for his own entertainment, he’s good not being observed. He got ready, costumed up and then waited next to me.  He was content to sit and hold Gestated Cinco. For half an hour. And then it was show time.

As they danced out onto the stage, Mac’s nerves disappeared. He caught sight of me and waved. The he wink and flashed a thumbs up. And he was off. I think it is fair to say, he stole the show.

Mac’s responsible for many of the grey hairs on my head. Mostly because he’s a boy version of me. And I can mostly get what he’s doing, but not always and the lack of impulse control is directly responsible for my high blood pressure. Well that and gestating Cinco, but that’s a different story.

So it didn’t really faze me when I caught sight of Mac in church, hands raised in the air. It was as if he wanted to ask the priest a question. Or he thought we were in a Baptist church. But he said that he was thanking God, and that if God liked his thank you, he would send him a toy.

I don’t care what his motivations were, celestial toys or no, he done me proud this weekend.