I wrote this a long time ago....but someone just mentioned it changed their whole Christmas outlook, so I thought I would reshare. Hopefully you find it positive. Also, don't make a drinking game out of finding typos, that will get dangerous. Somethings never change. 

Accepting Pink Aluminum Christmas Trees. 

Get the biggest aluminum tree you can find Charlie Brown, maybe painted pink! 

I was recently asked to give a brief reflection on the topic Making Christmas Lasting with the focus on celebrating Christmas throughout the year. I admit that when I was first presented with this topic I had to pause and think. Christmas through the year. My first thought was to encourage more viewings of Die Hard. While sipping Baileys. That seems pretty festive to me. Of course this got me thinking about Christmas. About Christmas in today’s society. It’s a crazy time. Hustle and bustle. And it seems to start earlier and earlier. It’s gotten the point I start looking for Christmas trees on the fifth of July. Many of my friends' Thanksgiving photos included pictures of their freshly decorated Christmas trees. Before they had digested their turkey. How they were able to plow through the tryptophan has that knocks me down for several days, I'll never know. And then they embark on massive shopping trips. I envy their energy.

Many people decry this commercialization of Christmas. They see it as loss of the truth behind Christmas.  A focus on the wrong thing, taking our minds away from God. I don’t see it that way. The stores, the shopping, the décor, it doesn’t bother me. I enjoy it. You can feel the excitement and anticipation in the air.  This makes me happy.

It makes me happy because in the history of the world, there is just one person who has ever been able to produce this kind of excitement and anticipation. This amount of joy and generosity. One birth alone could every produce this kind of reaction two thousand years later.

One man.

And world still stops and celebrates because He was born. So the world rushes and shops and parties. They light up their homes. They feast. They gather with family and friends. But the world also reaches out. There are toy drives, book drives, coat drives. Your grocery store has food drives, red kettles are everywhere. It’s not enough just to celebrate with loved ones, to generously celebrate family and friends. The world reaches out to strangers and those in need. The desire to spread the joy, the hope, the excitement of the season, it extends past those we know, to strangers. Everyone needs to feel Christmas joy. And the community comes together to make sure that all do enjoy it. Not just comes together, but excitedly help one another in secret, a distinct part of the joy coming from knowing others are celebrating, happy, distracted from the daily grind, if just for a moment.

And if we step back and remember what it is we are celebrating, it's that incredible moment of generosity. A generous God giving Himself. What further need of proof as to God’s lavishness upon His children? He gave us the world. Quite literally. All good things come from Him. He gave without concern as to worthiness or appreciation. He just gave. Completely. In that context, the outpouring of gifts and festivities at Christmas doesn’t seem as outlandish. It’s simply imitating what the world experienced that very first Christmas.

So what does that mean for us? Not just the next four weeks but for the next eleven months. How can we celebrate Christmas throughout the year? I think we need to step back to look at the world’s reaction to Christmas.  Reaction to the fact that Christ was born. We need to look past what might appear to be crude materialism and see the longing and joy and the desire that is present. What is truly being expressed by the immense reaction to the season.  The world still delights at the fact that God was made man. The world still joyfully celebrates His birth. Even though it is harder and harder to see Him through the tinsel and the parties and the brightly colored lights. We all know, something, something is different. This celebration is unlike any other. And that’s where we come in. It’s our job to clear that haze, to nurture that joy and that hope and whisper “yes, yes He is real. He is here.”

The world that delights in the season of Christmas, so much so that they share that joy with strangers, is a world that desires the Christ of Christmas. To feel that loved all the year round.  That thrill of hope? It’s our job to nurture it. To feed it with truth and witness. Because if anything is clear from society’s reaction to Christmas, it is that we all crave the comfort and joy that comes from knowing truth. We are so greatly loved. So generously blessed. And we crave the presence of God; we want to feel that He is with us.

Leave it to C.S. Lewis to say it better than I. “They say Aslan is on the move… And now a very curious thing happened. None of the children knew who Aslan was any more than you do; but the moment the Beaver had spoken these words everyone felt quite different.... At the name of Aslan each one of the children felt something jump in its inside.” Christmas is that time when the world feels the jump inside. And it falls to us to nurture than, so that their hearts don’t just jump, but soar. Soar to their creator. The weary world wants to rejoice. It's our job to spread those glad tidings. He came upon a midnight clear. He is here. And He will come again.

I had a baby. So now we're moving. This is a pattern for us. Have baby, embark on switching homes, from settled home to a new place, one that always seems to need work. In this case it's primarily paint, but several hundred square feet worth of paint. While "learning" remotely. D'Garebear is on track to start walking right about the time we open the first box. Preparing to move means purging. Getting rid of things is one of the most enjoyable things I know to do. I spent the first few weeks of quarantine cleaning out everything. Only to realize all my work would have to stay bagged up waiting for donation centers to reopen. No good deed and all that jazz. Despite the angst that seeing bags of donations waiting to go cause me, it was worth the work. The purging is a necessity in a small house in particular, since the Father Figure tends to be a collector. Collector of things, computer parts,comic books, games, tools, cars, children....and everything takes up space. 

Space is a valuable commodity so naturally we have very little of it. It's a constant source of stress for me and even with a larger house on the horizon, with plenty of storage it's something I'm worried about. So much so, as I laid on the beach, dozing in the sun, I mentally arranged my future laundry room. The Father Figure side-eyed me hard after hearing that, but it's the mom brain, it just doesn't turn off.

 And that was part of the emotional challenge of welcoming D'Garebear. It probably sounds silly, but I was overwhelmed at the thought of acquiring baby things again, even though we kept things down to a minimum. I felt a door that I had closed reopen, with diapers and baby toys to try to edge out the soccer cleats and book bags that were already cluttering up my life. Closing that door, getting rid of all the baby things after X-Man and Cinco was a very emotional time. I cried, much more than I probably should have. I sent cute clothes off to gestating nieces and nephews but it was very bittersweet. 

Getting rid of D'Garebear's things, which are mostly getting donated until some new baby boy appears on the horizon, isn't emotional at all. I enjoy it. There's a great sense of satisfaction and relief. And this bothered me. Was I really this heartless and frustrated by D'Garebear's disruption of our lives? I don't think that's it. Sure I'm writing this and watching D'Garebear systematically empty the laundry basket, babbling away to me. Discovering that if he pushes it, he can throw clothes all over the living room. I think I'm not sad to see him outgrow his clothes because each size he goes up is a little victory. He started out as a micro-preemie, so outgrowing clothing for six month olds by his first birthday is a happy accomplishment. Every bag of giveaway is another step in the right direction. And they have been some massive steps. D'Garebear rests comfortably in the 50th percentile for his birth age, which is quite the accomplishment. Preemies are typically measured according to their "adjusted age" as if they had been born on their due date. But D'Garebear found that too easy for his Italian tummy and he went to town on all food. He's constantly worried that someone somewhere is eating and he's not in on the action. I supposed that's why he's the size he is, all his energy has gone to eating, so much so he forgot to grow hair.

 So now, I'm not sad to see him outgrow clothing. Everyday we get with him is a surprise. I had shut this door, and was at peace with it being closed. So I'm at peace with D'Garebear growing up. He's a fun surprise and there's something extra comforting about being able to really enjoy every step he takes growing bigger and stronger. That's not to say that every preemie outfit he has isn't tucked away safely in a keepsake box. I'm not completely heartless. Although I stare at them and wonder how this lug of a baby ever was that small. Those NICU weeks seem a blur these days. I think the quarantine and all those extra hours home, with nowhere to go have become my chief memories of Baby D'Garebear. I just really remember Baby D'Garebear as a healthy infant. And I look forward to seeing him as a healthy toddler.

And I look forward passing along his outgrown clothes. 

 X-Man dotes on D'Garebear. D'Garebear idolizes X-Man. He follows him around and laughs anytime they make eye contact. X-Man enjoys the power that comes with being the adored older brother. He also uses D'Garebear as his excuse to do absurd things for a laugh. 

It got to the point that simply walking across the room elicited a laugh from D'Garebear. X-man decided to exaggerate his actions even more reveling in his power, and the envy of his siblings as D'Garebear ate up everything he did. X-Man broke into a dance, wiggling around, getting uncomfortably close to me as I held the joyous D'Garebear. X-Man shook his rear in my face. 

"Stop please X-Man." 

"But he thinks it's funny."

"Honey, he's a baby. He doesn't know butts are funny."

"Everyone knows butts are funny."

To compliment this argument, D'Garebear squealed with laughter and began to smack his brother's hiney. I fear the next eighteen years. 

X-Man is dedicated to caring for D'Garebear. He had blossomed into a loving big brother, with a great deal of patience.  

"Mom, when I grow up I want to be a babysitter." 

"I'm sure you'll be a very good one" 

X-Man lifts D'Garebear, who is now a fully quarter of X-Man's body weight and loves to go limp as he's lugged around. Huffing he adds "I'm going to be a single dad when I grow up." 

Of all the things to hear from your nine year old, especially as their mother, this was not expected. He catches my perplexed look. 

"I don't want to get married. That's gross." 

So, in the course of thirty seconds, I went from mentally patting myself on the back watching my sons interact with each other to wondering how I had so completely turned my son off the idea of a wife and mother in his future. I mean, maybe I do make it seem gross. If by gross one means organized and clean. His future wife would most likely expect him to brush his teeth and shower occasionally. And wear clean underwear if she's super demanding. 

"and I'm going to live in a 'repartment'." Well, as long as you've thought this through. 

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"Well how are you going to have a baby without a wife?" I mean, there's going to have to be a gross girl involved in this process at least somewhat. I get we haven't completely walked through the realities of reproduction in toto, but we have discussed how one needs the male and female parts to make a whole. Then again, I've seen how he listens to me so I don't know why I'm surprised. 

"Oh, I'm going to go to the orphanage." 

Well, then. This is a foolproof plan. 

"But, don't you think it would be better to have a mom and a dad? I mean moms and dads are both important for kids right?" 

Rule one of lawyering, and of parenting too, is don't ask a question you don't know the answer to. Or better yet, don't ask a question you don't want to hear the answer to. 

X-Man was tiring of the conversation and walked D'Garebear over to the window. He let out a long sigh. 

"Fine, I'll get him a stepmother." 

Well then. I guess that's that. 

 

One might ask how it is that I spent the entire quarantine not blogging. As there should be a plethora of material. My official line is "well behaved children rarely make for interesting blogging" and I'm sticking with it. 

In truth, it's been pleasant and fun to have so much downtime. By the end of April the novelty had worn off. But the end of May, both Baby and Baba were demanding to return to soccer. Because I controlled that. X-Man has been fretting about trick or treating already. 

The quarantine had clarified how absolutely necessary a larger house is for the sanity of us all. Our pre-quarantine lives were extremely busy. At least twice a month there was a three hour, one way, commute for soccer. Even the "local" games would be an hour away. For the young kids, their activities were much more local, but every weekend had activities. So the father figure and I were gone for the majority of every weekend. During the school day, there would be a good chunk of the day when just Mac and Cinco were home with me. But come shut down, during the rainy spring, we realized we really were living on top of each other. 

So of course, the reasonable approach, just months from taking on college tuition payments, is to increase our mortgage payments significantly. Oh and Mac went ahead and jumped on the braces train because.....why not? 

So that's quarantine life. Boring and crowded. And spendy.

D'Garebear thrived during quarantine. The lack of activities meant an increase of attention on him. And that suited him just fine. He repaid his fans by increasing his talents and mobility. Cinco turned seven during the lock down, so the experience of watching a newborn grow and mature was a fairly unfamiliar experience for the siblings as a whole. Even Baba and Baby were surprised to see how young D'Garebear was when he figured out how to garner attention, whether it was fake crying or squawking. X-Man and Cinco had precious little baby experience and found each new development fascinating. And also necessary to fight over who saw what first, for whom D'Garebear was performing and who D'Garebear likes more. (hint, it's whoever is giving D'Garebear whatever he wants in the moment.)

D'Garebear has started to object loudly when ever I leave the house. At first I thought it was a long delayed separation anxiety, as I hadn't actually left him much in the previous months. Any sort of jingle of keys and he'd start bellowing, and chasing me down as quickly as one can on all fours. I tried to distract him by taking him upstairs, but he was wise to my ways. He'd stand at the large living room window crying as I left. But, then he started reacting this way when anyone left, not just mom. Even if they were just getting something from the car, or getting the mail. It seemed that D'Garebear had rejected the quarantine that had been imposed on him since birth and become quite the social butterfly. 

Indeed, today I finally made the connection. D'Garebear does love the leave the house. Because he misses woman in masks fawning all over him. He had nine weeks of personalized attention and was loath to give it up. When he discovered that leaving the house opens up all sorts of mostly older women, wearing masks, to tell him how cute, smart and wonderful he is....well he's not one to turn adulation down. And he's back to his happy place. 

He makes it worth their while. He's friendly until they look, and then he bats his large eyes at them presenting an image of innocent wonder. He's still bald as Buddha which makes him appear to be younger than he is. So then he seems amazingly advanced and that warrants even more cooing and ahhing. 

Meanwhile I'm telling him to stop trying to eat the shopping cart, now flavored with bleach. So of course this is soul crushing for the boy, and his large eyes and protruding lower lip is basically a bat signal to the grandmas out there. He rewards their attention by offering them items from our cart. Often while I am desperately searching for various necessities like Clorox wipes. And ignoring him, which he is not pleased with. 

And when I turn to check on him, D'Garebear breaks into his favorite game, and a new one to me. It's called "Pull mom's mask off and shove it in your mouth. Or at least lick as much of it as possible first. And bonus points if you then drop it on the floor." This is a great crowd pleaser. Again, mom is not amused. But I'm not bored that's for sure. 

I'm six children in. And still having new experiences. Well done D'Garebear, well done.

The father figure had surgery and was off for eight weeks. During that time, the dog had surgery as well, just to remain in good standing with the family. She had a tumor on her ear, and a large portion of her ear, removed. The father figure handled all the prep work, and actual surgery but returned to work before her post operative visit. Which left me responsible for getting the doggie stitches out. The dog was ready to exit the cone of shame with which she was wreaking havoc on the Christmas tree ornaments. And I was ready to stop seeing my ornaments break. D'Garebear is still an infant, this is my one bye year when it comes to ornament destruction. Or so I has assumed. Never assume.

Of course the father figure made the appointment for late in the afternoon, when Baby and Baba were off at martial arts, something the father figure has insisted his little girls learn, insisted from the moment of their births. My point being, this is all the father figure's fault.

Mac is a responsible young man who is comfortable watching X-Man and Cinco for limited amounts of time. Part of his responsibility is his recognition of his limitations. He has said he doesn't feel ready to watch D'Garebear and I'm quite comfortable with his assessment his abilities. X-Man and Cinco happily sit on the couch and watch movies or play video games while I'm gone, D'Garebear, awesome as he is, is not yet that sort of team player. The point here is that I ended up heading off to the vet with an eighty pound golden retriever and an infant.

The dog was excited to go, but also perplexed that I was driving her somewhere that didn't involve the other small persons. I couldn't put her in the back of the SUV as I typically do as the father figure decided to stash Christmas presents there. I didn't want her in a confined space with D'Garebear, so I helped her lumber in the passenger seat. I walked around to the driver's side, opened the door and discovered the dog sitting in my seat. She had crawled over the center console, smeared her wet muddy feet all over everything in the front of the car and plopped herself in my seat. So I had to push her back her side, spreading the mud even more.  

She was clearly aware something was up and wasn't about to endure it alone. So she finagled her head so she could lay on my lap. Which is exactly what you want when it's dark and rainy. But, having endured surgery just a few months earlier, I indulged her. Also, the dog is really good at not understanding English when she chooses not to. So, like another kid. So there I was, parking in the vet parking lot when I realized I had a dog and a baby to wrestle in. The dog was not interested in going anywhere as she realized we weren't at a park or the river. Not sure how she knew we were at the vet, but the dog who didn't understand English could now read the sign. 

I had to make a decision, perhaps not based on the best metrics but based on what I needed to survive. I took D'Garebear, sleeping peacefully in his car seat, out first. covered him and put his on the ground in the parking lot. I then dragged the unwilling literate dog out of the car. And lifted the baby's seat. 

The dog sat. And refused to move. I don't know if you've ever tried to drag a limp eighty pound dog with a heavy car seat hanging in the crook of your arm. I don't recommend it. It's hard and annoying. Especially when it's man's best friend refusing to cooperate. I'll spare you the details but Santa wasn't happy with my language. 

We reached the door which presented it's own problems. I had to hold the leash with two hands as the dog was still desperately holding to the Newtonian concept that an object at rest remains at rest. With a large unwieldy car seat swinging back and forth, well it was about comical. Although I wasn't laughing. If you thought someone inside would assist, well you would think. I managed to get my foot in the door, quite literally, my knee played a role as well and pushed my way in. The dog continued to sit, knowing she simply had to out wait the closing door. She didn't think I would sacrifice the child carrier in my battle of wills with her. But I was past caring what anyone else thought. Most especially the dog. 

Finally entering the clinic, another customer observed "You have your hands full." I gave him my best "nice to meet you Sherlock" look and sat down. The dog followed me sheepishly and laid down. She was freshly wet and muddy due to her antics in the parking lot. The result was a trail of muddy water leading to my chair but I was past caring. We sat catching our breath, well except for D'Garebear who was still sleeping. I had his carrier on the floor so I could rock it with my foot while still grasping the dog's leash with both hands. The dog seemed resigned to her fate. 

When they called her name, she perked up and decided she still had some fight in her. Or flight. She opted for hide. Behind the baby carrier. She nosed my foot away and firmly believed she was out of sight hiding behind the car seat. I moved the car seat, she moved. She attempted to push herself behind my legs to add a cloak of invisibility to her attempts. At this point, the tech took her leash.  The dog gave me a pathetic look realizing the jig was up and shuffled off. 

She pranced out five minutes later, stitch free and greatly relieved. Leaving was quite uneventful, as we all were happy to get ourselves out of there. 

So, the dog used a baby as a shield. Because that's our fierce dog. Her bark could shake the walls, but she didn't even have a bite. 

Oh yes, Thanksgiving. Oh 2019, my annus horribilis. The year has been so overwhelming and difficult. Thankfulness seems distant right now.

And yet, there is nothing quite like a difficult year to show you how blessed you are. How many wonderful people are in your life, and part of what makes them so wonderful is the quiet nature of their kindness. It's just a reminder that we're surrounded by wonderful people. From every aspect of our lives.

My baby sister was diagnosed with Dramatic Miley Cyrus, otherwise known as dermatomysitis- hence the nickname-last year. It took a heavy toll on her, and her family. So the rest of us jumped in to help her little family. Some, not surprised to find themselves twelve weeks pregnant, were in better moods while assisting. But leaving your family to help another usually comes with burdens others have to carry. So while I was helping my sister, a fellow soccer mom drove Baby the six hours to Spokane for a game, put her up in a hotel and fed her, so the father figure could maintain the weekend schedule for the other kids. The few friends I mentioned my pregnancy to, in text form "The father figure knocked a woman up, and to make it worse, it's me" were supportive and sympathetic and understood and respected the myriad of feelings I was working through.

During a particularly dark period of my pregnancy, I opened up to a evidence based, faithful science group on Facebook, comprised of women across the globe. The result....my first online shower. The father figure's face as he stumbled over nearly thirty boxes from Amazon was one of panic, until I reassured him I hadn't been engaging in retail therapy. I have a diaper fund on Amazon, waiting for the panicked late night "we're out of diapers" terror. Of course, I haven't had to use it yet, due to the boxes of diapers they sent me. Clothing, blankets, gift cards came pouring in from people I only knew online. In a group I hadn't participated in all that much, as my life was too busy. Ladies saw someone in need a happily jumped in to help. It didn't matter they didn't know me in "real life." The moment my life got very real, they were there, with real help.

And then D'Garebear arrived. Once people realized that indeed I had partially gestated a child, the help came from everywhere. Friends helped finish the kitchen remodel that had sent me over the edge into lethal blood pressure levels. Friends started meal trains and fed my family for weeks. People I babysat decades ago, gave me baby gear and clothing. Neighbors came and did yard work.

I grew up in a lovely little neighborhood. The type of neighborhood that leaves happy memories of adventures with neighborhood kids and failure to remember how small the houses were. But the growing and maturing families required most of us to move away. We were able to keep in touch with a couple of families, social media helped us connect with another. And those families who were invited to our birthday parties and we trick-or-treated with, they all brought food. Multiple times. They brought clothes and diapers and baby carriers. They brought gourmet meals. Meals my children wolfed down.

We're a soccer family. And when I say family, I really do mean it. When I announced D'Garebear's birth on social media, my phone blew up with messages from various soccer teammates. Most of whom had me listed as "Baby's Mom" in their contact lists. This included former teammates as well. They drove meals to our house, met us at various games and practises with food, visited us in the NICU, sent baby gifts and joyfully welcomed D'Garebear to the pitch. There's a reason why current and former teammate families comprise such a significant portion of my Christmas card list.

People from church, who I barely know, brought meals and gifts. Someone who only knew me from this blog brought dinner, and her own story of struggling with preeclampsia. A priest friend flew up to visit, just to make sure I was really OK and being honest about how serious the situation was. Others sent notes, one writing the kids encouraging them to care for their new brother and me.  Clever folks sent grubhub gift cards, to make meals easy for Baba as she held down the fort while the father figure worked and kept the magnificent health insurance which provided excellent care to D'Garebear and peace of mind for me. Family members kept up the encouraging comments on pictures shared, boosting my spirits and helping me to focus on the positive throughout the long haul.

The Pater Familias, my father, found himself in an interesting position this summer. The Mater Familias was several states away, caring for Grandma the Great. So he was on the parental duty and the Gruber-grandpa uber-position. He made nearly daily visits to the NICU to see his namesake and kept the family updated with multiple pictures.  Modern technology made facetiming the Mater Familias and Grandma the Great possible. Baba showed that she is quite the young lady, griping to me that no one cleans the house except her when I'm not home, but she assumed the burden of responsibility for both her siblings and the upkeep of the house. And she did it all while winning a summer soccer tournament, remaining on the varsity soccer team and keeping her 4.0. D'Garebear has no shortage of role models in his home.

I come from a long line of remarkable and strong women. Women who broke barriers. I am proud to follow in their footsteps. I like to think of myself as competent and capable. I have a crazy life but I like to think I can juggle it all. But I can't. And I shouldn't. It's not that anyone else is responsible for my life or the lives I have welcomed in it. It's just that I shouldn't be afraid to let my facade down, to let people help when the need is there. There's the saying "It takes a village to raise a child." I see the truth in that, every child needs a loving and supportive home. And that home can only be built with a community that supports the family throughout the difficult times. I admit I felt sheepish accepting meals and help from others. It felt like admitting I was weak or I had failed. But I realize now, it takes a certain strength, or at least honesty, to admit you can't do it all. And there might just be times in your life where you shouldn't do it. But only the kindness and compassion of others will allow you to let your guard down. To be surrounded by people who care enough to help you when in your moments of weakness, without needing you to ask, well that's an incredible gift. And a gift no words can properly describe nor justly thank.

The father figure's Italian grandma used to say "beer makes milk" but she would also say "every baby brings a loaf of bread." And as with most things she said, she wasn't wrong. D'Garebear's birth literally brought loaves of bread to our door, but it also brought the greater gift, the recognition of how rich our lives are. How wonderful the world he was born into is.

Thankful isn't strong enough a word.

D'Garebear came home at nine weeks of age. He's been home for nearly two months now, which explains the lack of blogging on my part.

It's an interesting experience. D'Garebear was due on October 27th, so he's not quite a month old. And yet he's been home for six weekish. We're told to treat him as if he was born on his due date, so to expect him to act as a newborn although he is nearly four months old. That's all well and good, but I'm ready for a four month old sleeper. This extended new born thing is for the birds. Young birds at that.

Molly, our Golden Retriever, has adjusted to the change in the family quite well. Ever the team player, she too had surgery, just last week. As D'Garebear, Father Figure and I managed to max out our family deductible for the year, she kindly went ahead and added vet bills to the mix. Goldens are especially prone to cancer, so we had a mass removed from her. She's recovering well, perhaps regretting her desire for more attention from us.

I hadn't even lacked for thing for my kids to fight over. They are nothing if not creative when it comes to this. Cinco and X-Man fight over who gets to look at D'Garebear. Baby and Baba fight over who gets to hold D'Garebear. And Mac simply is trying to stay out of the way.

Baba stated very clearly, before D'Garebear arrived, that she was uninterested in holding him, or having much to do with him. Her indifference stemmed mostly, I assumed at the time, from her irritation at her parents for creating him in the first place. I told her that was fine, Baby could hold him and she could clear the house while I ran other kids to various activities. Basically the routine we had before. She gladly agreed, we share the same personality trait that clutter causes anxiety. Cleaning is therapeutic.  If I was the kind of person who likes to make others eat their words, I'd enjoy pointing out that I do all the cleaning these days as Baba lays on the couch with D'Garebear. If I leave him in his swing, I'm liable to reenter the room to a missing baby, up sleeping on Baba as she does homework. Baby, who was excited for D'Garebear's arrival is slightly irked by this change in plans. I'm mostly amused, but somehow it seems to take both of them to care for D'Garebear. And an amazing amount of cleaning is not getting done.

I have been in hospital every day for the last 50 days. The father figure decided to shake things up and go ahead and have his surgery in a different hospital than D'Garebear. In a different state. Well, it wasn't really the father figure's decision but I'm holding him responsible anyway. I'm also not really winning any awards for my sympathetic care giving abilities. The father figure was anxious about getting a spinal as a aide to pain relief after surgery. I rolled my eyes at his nerves, having received three myself, while bringing his children into the world. The last one was just weeks ago. Not to mention, his as administered after he received a sedative, not something they give laboring women. Nor did he have to endure contractions while being jabbed in his spine.I don't really score keep, but I forgot my breast pump at home so my discomfort level will rival his before the day is done.

Two different hospitals in two different states. If that doesn't sum up 2019 for me, I'm not sure what would.

D'Garebear is continuing to grow and is remarkably healthy. He's also mastered the all important skill, guilting mom. I visit him consistently, every day. Well except for the days that his father has surgery in another hospital. I keep myself on a very consistent schedule, for his sake. And D'Garebear is putting that consistency to his use. He is awake when I arrive most days, staring pitifully at the open door, waiting for me to arrive. And it does pang my mother's heart to see him waiting. Of course he promptly falls asleep for the next three hours while I am there. He consistently wakes up right as I am getting ready to leave, again staring at me with wide open eyes. To top it off, he decided to forget how to breathe as I was trying to leave the other day. All sorts of alarms and monitors went off and he stayed looking serene and slightly judgmental. When I explained to him that I still had to pick up X-Man from school, oxygen or no, he decided to resume breathing. But he got me to apologize several times.

D'Garebear seems ready for the real world.

Cinco was uninterested in losing her position as youngest and tyrant of the family. It's pretty clear that she won't be surrendering the tyrant position to D'Garebear, but she has reconciled herself to his existence. She's moved past resenting him to assuming she knows how best to care for him. She corrects me as I hold him, pushes my hands away because "I know what he wants" and critiques my diaper changing techniques. She's also appointed herself his personal shopper/stylist. I'm enjoying watching her come into her own as older sister, but I do have to admit that I worry for D'Garebear. He's in for a micromanaged life. Cinco is nothing if not imperious when it comes to what she thinks she knows.

Cinco was convinced she not only knew how to change diapers, she could do it better than I did. This was before D'Garebear gave a master class in how to void your entire body weight worth of poop while your mother changes your diaper. Or diapers as it were. She decided quickly there were somethings she was meant to supervise rather than do.


So life continues. I'll shuttle between hospitals while hissing threats at the other children to refrain from getting any fancy ideas for attention themselves. Although, once you've knocked the deductible out of the park for the year, is there any reason to just not throw anything else in the mix?

Geeze, I'm really tempting fate with that one.

"Mom? Can I have the honor of feeding D'Garebear?"

I admit, wasn't ready for X-Man's question.

"Uh, yeah, eventually sure I think you could help him eat."

"But I wanted the honor of feeding D'Garebear!!! Why can't I feed him?"

I should have seen Cinco's outburst coming.

"I asked first! It's my honor!" X-Man was irritated.

"But I want to too! It's no fair!!" Cinco was outraged. A fairly common state of being for her.

I attempted to play mediator.

"Well D'Garebear will eat often there will be plenty of opportunities for you both to feed him."

"NO! I ASKED FIRST!!!"

Cinco just started to look amazingly forlorn.

"You're good giving D'Garebear his binky, maybe you can have the honor of giving him his binky."

Why won't anyone ask for the honor of changing his diaper? Or the honor of getting up with him at two am? Or the honor of making him clean his room....well I can see them jumping on that bandwagon down the road.

Quivering sigh "But WHY can't I have the honor of feeding him?"

Where do they get this stuff?

"D'Garebear isn't even home yet, we'll worry about who feeds him when later. Maybe when we need to feed him."

X-Man had still been paying attention, despite my hopes "And then I'LL have the honor of feeding him!"

"BUT MOM!!!!"

And clearly Cinco and X-Man have adjusted to the newest member of our family.

D'Garebear is establishing rolls on his arms. We are swimming along.

Cinco is partaking in NICUschooling. It's like homeschooling, only it's done in the NICU. For those people who just aren't challenged enough by homeschooling. Or, for the parent who feels the need to school in semi-public in order to prevent meltdowns. And by prevent meltdowns, of course that only applies to the mother.

Cinco has mastered the art of looking forlorn and miserable with a single tear sneaking out of her large brown eyes. I have mastered the art of rolling my eyes at her and saying "suck it up buttercup." Mostly when it comes to reading. Because I make her read and she thinks that's a cruel punishment more befitting a totalitarian regime. Then again, I've read the BOB books, more than once. They are fairly tedious.

Cinco also doesn't cry, she squeaks. And the weight of the entire world rests on her shoulders as she is forced to read "bat, cat, fog, log." Ok, she might have a point, it is painfully uninteresting. (side note, I just spent 45 seconds trying to delete an errant period, turns out it was a random speck on the screen, no wonder the child doesn't trust me to educate her.) Well it's uninteresting except for seeing how cruelly oppressed Cinco is by the English language.

X-Man really wants to be homeschooled. I told him once he stops having meltdowns at school, he can be homeschooled. Cinco really wants to go to school. I told her once she stops having meltdowns during homeschooling, we'll talk. I see it as a win-win.

Baba is awash in English lit books. Right now she's reading The Scarlet Letter. Shockingly, I had extremely strong opinions on just about everything I read, especially in high school. And my opinions were so forceful, they alarmed my mother. Well probably more the fact that I was, and still am, incapable of any sort of nuance view. But I never let that stop my rantings about various characters. And one in particular I remember Arthur Dimmesdale, from the Scarlet Letter. First off, his name is Dimmesdale, and boy is he dim. And worthless. I never bought the whole, Hester Prynne, strong independent woman, fell for wimp-head Dimmesdale. The willing suspension of disbelief that required was a bridge too far for me. He was nothing except annoying. Which explains Pearl, who herself was bizarrely irritating too. Hester should have sent her to live with Dimmesdale. Now that would have been a book I enjoyed reading. Since Hester had the time to bedazzle a scarlet A, one does wonder why she never made a pair of man pants for Dimmesdale. Yes yes, he was probably too weak to put them on, but it was worth an effort.

And why didn't a branch just fall on Chillingsworth's head during one of his walks through the woods? Also, why not Dimmesdale? Seriously, how did those two not set off every hinkey gut feeling of the neighbors? Speaking of the neighbors, they did give me my favorite line every from anything I read in highschool “Behold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter; and, of a truth, moreover, there is the likeness of the scarlet letter running along by her side! Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!” WHO TALKS LIKE THAT??? My mother tolerated a larger amount of mockery of that line than she typically did. Which just goes to show you, the whole situation was absurd. 

The hard part now, is that in theory, I'm grown up and mature and am supposed to be helping to educate Baba. I've bitten my tongue more than once while going over her study questions with her. But last night I lost all control and blurted out "How much do you hate that pansy Dimmesdale?" She responded "Who?" Apparently her response to fictional characters she doesn't like is to not think about them. A novel approach. 

Life's happenings.

X-Man has a "special rock." He keeps it in the freezer. Somehow this makes sense to him, which is all that matters. He recently acquired another "special rock." Which he introduced to his "special rock" and its sister rock. Again, this all seems to make sense to him. In case you were wondering, they are both actually rocks.

I did find him laying on the kitchen floor one summer day with his "special rock" resting on his forehead. After a long satisfied sigh, he returned the rock to the freezer and ran back outside.

X-Man is nothing if not his own person. In Kindergarten his class wrote a book about their favorite animals. X-Man selected the vampire squid to write about. His teacher had to google if it was a real animal or not, no judgment from me, I had to do the same thing. The book is rather amusing, pages of  elephants, horses, dogs and a vampire squid. His teacher said in the twenty years she had been doing that particular project, this was indeed the first appearance of the vampire squid.

X-Man continued his unique streak through to first grade. This time he was working on his own book, in the style of Eric Carle. All the students were supposed to pick an insect or arachnid to write about. X-Man picked......a cockroach. He explained to his teacher that he liked cockroaches because they could eat a lot and sleep during the day. Pretty much his ideal life. And again, his teacher said that in the eighteen years she had been doing this project, this was the first appearance of a cockroach.

So it really should not have come as a surprise that X-Man had an opinion as to what D'Garebear should be named. He immediately declared that if he was having a little brother he would name him "Robin." Robin because, of course, X-Man would henceforth be referred to as "Batman." He's stayed wedded to this idea as the weeks roll on, correcting himself when he uses his brother's given name. Given the tenacity D'Garebear has already exhibited, I'm not sure how long he'll tolerate being X-Man's sidekick.

In case you were wondering, X-Man has shown no interest in ever being seen as Mac's sidekick. Both boys kowtow to Cinco's every whim. Which I'm sure led to her sincere opposition to the dynamic being disrupted by one D'Garebear.

I tried to be the Perfect Mother. I Almost Died. Part C

So, my attempts to be all things and all places for my children really just resulted in high blood pressure. Really high blood pressure. In all honesty, there really should be a "has children syndrome" to go hand in hand with the "white coat syndrome." That just seems responsible.

So, I had an appointment for a geriatric ultrasound. You know, the kind they do when you are old and still having babies. To make sure that as your mind fails you still can grow responsibilities. I was tempted to postpone it, I had a good reason. It was the best day to take the kids to the fair, like I had told them I would. My ultrasound was right at noon, which was a highly inconvenient. The father figure said it was absurd to postpone it. This is important for later. 

Mac, X-Man and Cinco were up at their grandparent's house. Because we had destroyed our kitchen. Our home is nice, but small. It was small before D'Garebear showed up. After he showed up, well it became absurdly small. Even without him being present in the home. So, we decided the best thing to do as I entered my third trimester was to redo the kitchen. We redid the bathroom during my first trimester. Looking back, I think it would have been more bizarre if I hadn't developed blood pressure issues. But anyway, in our attempts to prepare the house for sale or rental, we decided to destroy it, while inviting more children in to live. We thought it through. 

So, three kids were away at grandma's. Baba was off to take care of the house she was house sitting. That left Baby. So I invited her to come see her little brother at my AARPsound. And so we set off.

The geezersound went well, I thought. D'Garebear mooned us and refused to show his face, but nothing seemed amiss. Then the doctor came in. She said there were some things that she didn't like about me, well get in line lady, and she wanted me to go hang out at the hospital for a little to make sure that all was well. She admitted that she was the "Princess of Darkness" always seeing the worst possible scenario and that she was probably overreacted. I tried to reassure her and she told me everything I was telling her made her even more concerned. Well, I tried.

So we all headed over, across the street to the hospital. I encouraged the father figure to walk with me in order to lower my blood pressure. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible because I hadn't eaten yet that day. I had visions of the pleasant lunch after all the excitement. By the time I got to triage, I was rocking triple digit blood pressure readings, both systolic and diastolic. After a few of those readings, things got a bit more serious. Blood tests were started, magnesium sulfate was started and they gave me a steroid shot for D'Garebear's lungs.

When I'm uncomfortable, I resort to humor. The father figure was getting more and more anxious, and visibly so. While I was supposed to be relaxing and thinking low blood pressure thoughts. So I reminded him that there was no way I would die. God wouldn't allow it. Not because I was a wonderful person or anything. But because I would enjoy watching the father figure try to wrangle six children and trying to juggle their schedules. There's no way God would drop that much suffering in the father figure's lap while I enjoyed the spectacle. The theology is solid.

Furthermore, I comforted the father figure by telling him is odds of finding everlasting love on a Christian dating site as a widowed father of six. He was basically a walking twenty first century Von Trapp family. He'd been inundated by starry eyed twenty somethings with visions of matching outfits and melodies. Baby understood the hilarity of the situation as well, and joined in. The father figure got so agitated he actually started pacing. Threatening to haunt the father figure and his new and improved bride, if she was more attractive than me, did not help lower my blood pressure.

Instead, they announced I was being admitted.

So the father figure took Baby home and I thought about how I was missing lunch. Those thought morphed into how I was also missing dinner. The father figure returned, with a cell phone charger for me and I expected my blood pressure to immediately lower. It did not. Even with drugs, it did not.

The "Princess of Darkness" Doctor entered the room around 6:30pm. This is important because my ultrasound was at noon. And I was hungry then. Now, I was hangry.

She told us in her blunt and straightforward way that I was very sick. Surprisingly sick, for how I looked and how active I was. My kidneys were quitting, my liver was quitting and my blood pressure was begging for a stroke. So, she said, I had an over 50% chance of having an emergency c-section that night. All depended on how my numbers reacted to the medication. And, if I didn't have the baby that night, I would be remaining in the hospital until I did, which best case scenario was at 34 weeks gestation.

I was at 28 weeks.

The father figure looked rather ill and I promptly thought, this is my kid. He'll respond well to the treatments and I'm going to end up in hospital arrest for the next six weeks. Crawling the walls. Seriously, I wasn't allowed to walk anywhere, I had the option, if my blood pressure lowered to be pushed places in a wheelchair. More importantly because they didn't know if I would have surgery, I couldn't eat. Pretty much everything was horrible.

D'Garebear cooperated and there was no c-section that night. The following morning I tried to negotiate a release, I didn't feel all that sick, what's the worst that could happen? Apparently a stroke and/or placental abruption. I was told I'd only be allowed to leave if I signed a form acknowledging I was leaving against medical advice. And I called an Uber because there was no way the father figure was going to bring me home. Meanwhile, the father figure had decided that by shooting down my plan to skip the ultrasound and taking everyone to the fair, he has saved my life. And he became just a wee bit insufferable because of this.

I stayed for two days, doing better, getting very antsy. But I also managed to get two doses of steroids in me, which caused what they call a "steroid honeymoon." I felt better, my numbers were slightly better and D'Garebear continued on swimmingly. They hoped they could get me twenty four hours past the last steroid dosage. And so, 28 hours after the last round of steroids, things started deteriorating. I got physically very ill, and developed nose bleeds. The OB on duty came in an said if things didn't improve I was most likely going to have a c-section. I was annoyed because it was almost ten pm and I just wanted to go to sleep. I felt like I had every night at home, puking before bed was just  a "normal" pregnancy ritual. And then, something happened.

D'Garebear disappeared from the monitors. They had put them on an hour earlier just to check how he was doing. He had been fine. And now he was gone. Not a slow heart rate, no heart rate. Something was wildly different because three nurses burst into the room joining the OB and nurse who had been hanging out with me. I had just tried to text the father figure, but there were so many people doing things, I couldn't get my hands to work. So I called him. I wasn't sure what was happening but the business indicated something seriously amiss. The father figure answered and I told him "Things are getting interesting, you should come up." And then a nurse put an oxygen mask on me and the conversation was over.

They had me try differing positions, quickly and yet there seemed no sign of D'Garebear. Honestly, I don't know if his heart rate returned and was just slow, or what. But within three minutes, we were running down the hall. Ok, I wasn't running, I was on the bed and they were running me down. Putting a hair net on me and commenting on how calm I was.

I was calm because there was nothing else to do. This was happening. I just hoped the father figure would make it up in time because it sounded like I was going to be knocked out. Approaching the OR, D'Garebear's heart rate returned, strong and healthy. This bought time. I got a spinal instead of general. It also bought me time to think. I'd love to say I had beautiful thoughts about my son, determined to make sure he was brought into the world surrounded by peace and love. But no, that's not really what I was  thinking. I was thinking "It's cold in here. I'm not wearing much in the way of clothing and there are a lot of people here." Also "this is all surreal."

The anesthesiologist  was wearing a scrub cap with stormtroopers on it. I asked him if I should really accept drugs from someone from the dark side. Apparently this had never been asked of him and he found it hilarious. He repeated it for the father figure when he appeared. And then the c-section began.

It was unpleasant, but birth isn't ever particularly fun. At 11:30pm D' Garebear was brought into the world. They pulled down the sheet and I laid eyes on my son for the first time, behind a plastic screen. And I thought my little man looked rather simian. And his squeaks added to the monkey resemblance.

D'Garebear was termed "floppy" when he first arrived, but the nurses said the benefits of the steroids were clear. He was two and a half pounds, micropreemie size, but solid and big for how very young he was. He was fifteen and three quarter inches long. He came ready to fight and he has been. His disapearing heart rate was due to a partial placental abruption, just what the Princess of Darkness had warned us would happen.


D'Garebear has passed the baby monkey phase and now look more like an old man. As he chubs up, his baby features become more obvious.He's not a fan of the cpap and has pulled it off a couple of times. He needs time, but he's remarkably healthy and strong.


And I just love him to pieces. 

I Tried to be the Perfect Mom. And I Almost Died. Part Deux

If you are reading this to get tips on how to be a perfect mom......well I got you to click so there's that. But don't hold your breath, you'll pass out before you learn any impressive tips.

So, the thing about being pregnant is eventually you need to admit it to some people. The first people we told were the three older kids. It want something like this.....

Baba: Unimpressed and slightly annoyed. She had said last year she didn't ever want more siblings because she wouldn't really get to know them before leaving for college. It's a reasonable position. And well, she was less annoyed than me so I didn't really worry.

Baby: Super excited. Promptly volunteered to babysit "ALL THE TIME." Considering how that worked when it came to the dog, I will taking care of D'Garebear full time within a week.

Mac: As excited as Baby with less impulse control. We asked them all to not tell anyone else, so he didn't actually tell X-Man and Cinco, he just told them I might be pregnant.

X-Man: Nearly had a stroke with excitement. Promptly assumed that the whole nine month waiting period was created by me just to annoy him. Announced that he wanted a little brother, who would be named Robin. To complement his Batman-ness, of course.

Cinco: Wildly annoyed. She was perfectly comfortable in her role of youngest and queen and tyrant. Very aware the strength of the challenge coming at her and put off that she would have to take it on. Furthermore, she was insulted that while she didn't want a younger sibling X-Man wanted a baby brother and was getting what he wanted. Somehow that made everything worse.

So, there we were. X-Man actually counting down the minutes to the birth, Baba serving as Vice-President to Club Denial.

Early on I knew I had blood pressure issues. I had them with every pregnancy and they were the leading reason why we had decided that Cinco would be our family's final act. And I made the assumption that being active was the best thing to do for my rising blood pressure. If I wasn't pregnant, that actually would have been true. But apparently, that's the exact opposite approach pregnant women should take. Taking the exact wrong approach to parenting has been my modus operandi so far, so at least D'Garebear can rest easy knowing that I cared for him as I had all my other kids. In the worst possible way. I'm consistent.

So, I just kept life as "normal." Which meant insanity. Sixteen years into parenthood and I'm still trying to figure out how to get the "home" into "stay at home mom." All five kids were in martial arts, which meant six classes a week. We originally enrolled just X-Man and Mac as they both could benefit from the slower moving exercises. But the studio's policy is once you've paid for two students, the rest of the family can attend for free. Well not free, there's a lot of stuff you have to buy, but classes are free. As Baba is driving herself now, I wanted her to be able to beat people up so off they all went. Then all three girls are in soccer, X-Man swims and has his therapies. So, even if I had thought to take it easy, it would have been impossible. I was determined to not drop activities because I didn't want D'Garebear to be blamed for that.

On top of life, I was trying to make the most of the summer. Our last summer without a baby or toddler crimping our plans. X-Man's birthday is at the end of July, so I decided we should all visit a water park. Because those are good for the blood pressure. Especially if it takes two hours to drive the to the water park. Not to say the drive wasn't fun. I got to introduce the father figure to the classic Paul Anka hit "Having My Baby." I'm not sure which was more enjoyable for me, watching the father figure fight off an asthma attack while laughing or Baby and Baba's faces while the dulcet sounds of "I love love love what it's doing to me" filled the car. Just in case they weren't disturbed enough by the whole situation. About fifteen minutes from the park, X-Man started wailing that he was missing his entire birthday and we needed to go home.

Eventually X-Man laid eyes on the water park, realized we weren't just driving for the sake of driving. His tears stopped and the long list of all the slides and rides he had to ride on immediately began. And with his excitement, my plans to spend the day floating along the "lazy river" on an inner tube were shelved. The father figure took Cinco, who viewed all rides involving water with great skepticism. I took X-Man and spent the rest of the day climbing stairs to ridiculously tall slides. Apparently my blood pressure was not impressed.

The next day I was at a soccer tournament with Cinco. It was her very first and at the end of July so of course it poured rain in the morning and was 87 degrees. It was simple enough, until I had to yell at two other coaches reminding them that they were about to come to blows over a game being played by six year olds and that their use of f-bombs was absurd. I scared them both. Cranky pregnant women serve an important role in society.

I returned home without my ankles. It took three days for them to find me. Probably because the father figure decided to help me relax at home. It went something like this:

"Lay down. Why haven't you laid down yet? Lay down. Lay down. Lay down!" 

Super relaxing.

"Why aren't you feet up. They need to be above your head. Here have more pillows. Keep your feet above your head. Are you eating? Why are you talking? You need to be resting!"

I think he enjoyed this a little too much.

Of course wherever I decided to rest, I was found. Inevitably I was tasked with solving a significant issue, such as getting a straw in a juice box, or gluing Mario's arm back on. And of course the father figure would get involved.

"Why are you talking to your mother? Shes resting. Come here. I can do it. Leave your mom alone."

"SHE'S FIXING MY TOY! IT'S MY FAVORITE AND CINCO RUINED IT!!!" 
"I DID NOT! IT'S X-MAN'S FAULT. I NEVER BREAK TOYS!"

In case it's not clear, they were in separate rooms, yelling.

When you think about it, it's really amazing my blood pressure held it together as long as it did.

I tried to be the perfect mom. I almost died. Part the first.

It's been exactly two years and one day since I last blogged. A few things have changed. For one, I'm writing this while sitting in a NICU room.

A quick update on our lives in the last two years to set the stage.

Baba and Baby are both in high school now. Baba made the varsity soccer team as a freshman, which then justified the previous ten years of sportsing in my mind. (this matters for explaining my mentality later). Baba is known as "Beast Mode" on the soccer pitch herself and has hopes of making the varsity squad as a freshman herself. Although she likes the option of booku playing time should she make the JV squad.

Mac is the most sensitive of all my children. He is the most aware of others needs and really is the peacemaker in the family. He's not as aggressive on the sports field, he clearly thinks his moves out and often ends up about half a second behind the action as a result. Which frustrates him, but I kinda enjoy because I can see his mind working away.  He's found that martial arts is the best speed for him and he's very invested in it.

X-Man. X-Man is my little hero who drives me bat guano crazy. X-Man has some sensory challenges which we have been working through in multiple therapies. His schedule is rough and busy as a result of these, but he makes the most of his opportunities. These take up a lot of our time and are the main reason I stopped blogging. His working through his various challenges is his story, not mine and he doesn't need me sharing it all over the internet. But I will say, the boy can swim something fierce.

Gestated Cinco is seis now. She is basically an anime character in the flesh. She mostly uses the power of her massive brown eyes for good. Mostly. She runs the house. When she grows up, she told me she wants to be a soccer player or a nail person. Not construction, but beautification. She's very girly girl, including when she plays soccer on a boys soccer team. Efficient and to the point. She got tired of having to out run and out muscle six year old boys who REALLY didn't want a girl to out score them. So she perfected her chip shot and just took to shooting it over their heads.

Oh and we added a dog the the mix. We adopted a golden retriever, who was four years old at the time. She's ideal, except the the shedding. The shedding is......insane. And I say this as mom to Baby who has ten pounds of hair on her head.

And now there's D'Garebear. Who is kangarooing away as I write. Snuggled up next to my heart. Where he belongs, but where he wasn't always welcomed.

The Father Figure and I have been married 18 years. We began the year with five children. We have a pretty good idea how all these tax credits ended up in our lives. I'm not the best at biology, but I do know we don't typically reproduce by spores. I say typically because well, I don't know how D'Garebear got here. Medically speaking....he couldn't have. Yet, I'm pretty sure he's real. His dirty diapers are real. I know age can do some interesting things to both the male and female reproductive systems, but spontaneously reproducing shouldn't be one of them. But whatever, the boy is here, warm and snuggly and the spitting image of the Father Figure so we all know who to blame.

I wish I had a better story to tell, one that involved surprise babies and happy cuddly feelings. There's a surprise baby for sure, but lots of tears and despair. Truly despair. My plate was super full, too full and I still don't know how on earth I am going to do this. Love is infinite, but time, energy and life is very finite. And my children need me. X-Man in particular needs me. But they all do. And it's hard with a big family.

I wanted to be a "different" large family. I did not want my kids to "pay the price" for being one of many. As parents we all want to give our kids the world, and to make the most out of every opportunity, and just because the father figure and I chose multiply the heck out of our fertility, I didn't want our children to pay the price. I wanted them to be able to do the activities they wanted, have the freedom to explore things and in general enjoy growing up. I was determined to not make my girls substitute moms and exploit them for free labor. Considering how they do their chores around the house, this was NEVER going to actually be an issue. I didn't want them to resent or regret anything growing up. I was raised in a large family and I have great memories. I wanted them to have the same and maybe even be open to having a bigger family of their own because it was a positive in their mind.

But, I have a good grasp of my limitations and I knew five children was stretching my abilities. I wasn't homeschooling all five, X-Man might be the only child in the world who actually does attend public school for the socialization. Which, well....the benefits for him still outweigh the rather alarming things he hears on the playground. But he also returns with such gems as --post a MLK lesson---"I have peach skin. Because my skin is furry like a peach." Baby and Baba take some courses at the local high school too. Because I know my limits. I write this sitting in a NICU with a sixth child. I know my limits and I abide by my limits are two different things.

So, in a nutshell, I wanted my children's lives to be perfect because they deserved nothing less. Which is an entirely reasonable life goal.

So D'Garebear shows up. And I was not just unhappy, I was truly miserable. The father figure, who is not one for exaggeration, told me it was a scary dark place. Now, I realize a large part of this was due to a placenta that was actively poisoning me. Which is a relief in way. But I did not want another child in my life. Because I KNEW I could not give him what I wanted to. And I KNEW I could not give my others what they deserved.

I've thought a bit about putting these thoughts to "paper" where any of my kiddos, but especially D'Garebear could find them. I've decided I should. Because some day, each and every one of them will hit a crisis in their lives. Something will go wrong. Their plans will be upended. And they will have to make a choice.

I hope they choose to embrace the unknown, plow through the doubt, ignore the fear. Even if that means refusing to tell anyone they're pregnant because denial keeps the worry at bay. Even if that means forcing themselves to wear non maternity clothes, augmented with rubber bands at the waist, because if you're not in maternity clothes, you're not really pregnant. I hope they do what they need to do to keep putting a foot forward and staying in the moment. Fixing the immediate problem and believing and trusting that those greater looming issues will crest before crushing them.

I hope they choose to live and love not because some kitchy barn house chic sign says so, but because there really is no other way. Nothing else matters if you can chose to will good for others in your life.

And D'Garbear, you are not in this family because we needed you or we wanted you. You are in this family because Someone, before the dawn of time, saw you. He saw you, little tiny you struggling to learn to breathe on your own. He saw your frightened and worried mom, holding you in awe. He saw you, big strong man who gives X-Man a run for his money. He saw you and He called you good. And He willed the good that is you into existence. And that, my boy, is why you are here.

It's not an accident that your name means "full of goodness" even though we didn't know it when we picked it.

And it's not an accident that we see your presence in our lives as a gift. Not something we needed, not something we thought we were missing. But something good given to us despite our shortcomings.

You're part of our family because before time, Someone saw all of us together and called it good. What more could anyone want?

You might have noticed that I don’t really blog anymore. It’s mostly due to the lack of toddler escapades and constant going. X-Man has a full schedule of things that are strengthening him and really helping him. Unfortunately, he can’t yet drive himself. Nor can any of the children drive themselves anywhere. So that’s why I spent the weekend out of town at another soccer tournament. I believe it was called the “Out of Our League” games. I can home in time to be able to drive Baba to 8am conditioning for her future high school team. So while I was sitting in the car, not exercising like I was supposed to be, trying to figure out how to get three children to four places at the same time, I got an email.

I have done this to myself. I know. 

It wasn’t the email I was hoping for. I’ve gone and created at “storyline” for myself I suppose. I have five children enrolled in fall soccer. I have all the regrets. There was that fleeting moment where it seemed like a good idea….I LOVE fall soccer. The weather hovers around 70 degrees, but there’s a light breeze with just a touch of crispness in it. And who doesn’t want to watch four year olds chase a ball around? It’s fun and cute….until the older kids have games an hour away. And practices.  Practices are the true challenges because somehow everyone seems to practice at the exact same time in very different locations. I have almost everything planned out….but I’m stuck waiting for an email from X-Man’s team letting me know how big a monkey wrench they’re gonna throw into this mess. 

So now I hover on edge, figuring my life is about to become vastly more complicated but not knowing how. It’s frustrating.

But that was NOT the email I received. At all. Instead it was a request from a radio station to do an interview about an article I wrote. At 4:30am my time tomorrow morning. And I can’t remember this article, which may or may not be an issue. But I’m assuming if they want to talk to me about “The Vocation of Motherhood” I should remember what I said. Then again, maybe they too misread the title and saw it as “The Vacation of Motherhood” which I did at first and then cried.

I’m also guessing they are unaware of the fact that my blog title is “Moments in Mediocre Motherhood.”  I mean, I wouldn’t really take advice from me. But that’s worthwhile advice I suppose.

So I still don’t have a clue what next week’s schedule is, but I have plans for 4am tomorrow. Provided I can find whatever it is that inspired them to contact me. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. 

Well, it appears that the thing de jour is to rant about something current. Bonus points seem to be awarded if it pertains to things feminine. Well, I've never been one to turn down the opportunity to rant so, here's something that's been eating at me for a while.

Motherhood is hard. This really is unnecessary to say. Heck, it's the reason why this blog exists. So yes, we do seem to understand that motherhood is hard. 

And nowhere is this better understood than in online groups of women, well mothers anyway. There's plenty of commiseration, venting and reassurance seeki


ng. Post after post begins "tell me if I'm a bad mom if I......" which of course, being a civilized (mostly) society, results in the mother be reassured that no she's not a bad mom if she feeds her kids cereal for dinner three times in one week. 

I admit I've been comforted by knowing that mothers I respect have hit up the drive thru on the way home. That they've allowed their kids to wear shoes with no socks occasionally. I'm reassured knowing that all moms struggle. Because, I hope, it means I'm not doing to so very badly.

But there's a danger in wanting to constantly be reassured that we're not "bad moms." Maybe, sometimes, out consciences are pricking us for all the right reasons. If we have to seek out comfort, repeatedly, to be reassured that we are indeed doing it right.....maybe we aren't.

I don't know what it is that makes a good mom. Because I know so many of them. And they are all so different. But there are similarities that unite them all. Giving. Extreme giving. Not slash your wrists and bleed all over the floor or the cross or whatever, but genuine giving spurred on by love. Giving your all. And that looks different family to family. But it's there, always. Parents, not just mom but dad too, giving it all to their family. And not even realizing it.

When we love, when we invest fully, we don't realize how much we've given. We just give. So the night of cereal dinners in front of the tv doesn't matter. If that's all we have to give. We give it and we keep on. But if we can give more, we ought to. Because we've brought these little people into our lives. They didn't ask for our drama and our insecurities. They ask for unconditional, constant love. They ask that we love them with our love languages, which is why our families look different.

I know that I am not a "good mom" because I have my son enrolled in speech therapy. I know I'm not a "good mom" because I drive my kids to sports practices. I know I'm not a good mom because I've read my son's IEP. I know I'm not a good mom because I read to my kids.

I'm just a mom.

There are responsibilities we take on when we embrace motherhood. There are obligations we assume. That we raise our children in a balanced, secure and consistent environment.

So sometimes that means we wear yoga pants all week and our kids are three weeks behind in their haircuts. It means that I don't keep up the blog that I loved doing. Because I've given everything I could to my little army of crazy people who are destroying my home as I type.

It's not about what we do, it's about the love with which we do it.