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. 

There’s little more endearing than listening to Mac’s delicate, gentle voice bellowing “Did I do a good job?” at his soccer coach. He came running up to me with his earnest eyes to reassure me that he indeed do a good job. His coach said so.

We’ve been working with Mac on impulse control, among other things. He is sensitive to some noises and stimulation, and he has the mannerisms that indicate his brain is trying to process everything effectively. Unfortunately, these mannerisms are weird. He’s working hard to control them, and I’m touched by his efforts.

As we work on self-control, I find myself thinking about discipline. Or, as some forbearers have said, my lack of discipline for my children. It’s a moving target, that’s for certain.

I decided, before having children that I didn’t want to spank my children. It wasn’t for any strongly held feelings on the issue, I was spanked as a child, and while that might lead you to draw your own conclusions, I don’t feel burdened or abused or traumatized by my childhood. However, I didn’t want to use that method of discipline. I held to this resolve until Baba, not yet a year old, was emphatically determined to stick a fork in an electrical outlet.

Still it remained the mostest severest punishment in the family bag of consequences. I spent a year threatening Mac with it, counting down from five. He continuously hopped to, so I never really had to decide what followed “one.”

I realized the full extent that the few spankings I dealt out when I overheard a conversation Baby and Mac had with a student of mine.

Baby “Our mom spanks us SO hard.”

Mac “Yeah and it doesn’t even hurt.”

Baby “It’s not supposed to hurt Mac!” Judging by her tone, there was some eye rolling involved.

Mac “I know that!”

I’m not sure if this indicates failure on my part, or just how my heart was not into this aspect of child rearing. On the occasional times that spanking seemed to be the only solution to aspects of Mac’s behavior, he would reassure me “That didn’t hurt.” My response has been, “It’s not supposed to hurt, it’s supposed to help you focus.” His response “Yeah, that’s right.”

So pretty much, that disciplinary tactic has been shelved. I’ll occasionally ask Mac “Do you need a spanking to help you focus?” To which he will inevitably respond “No thanks.” So we keep rolling. And my children aren’t horrifically embarrassing hooligans. At least I can cope with their shenanigans. And they don’t seem traumatized. At least by how I discipline. Other aspects…..not so certain.

It’s been a week since I gave birth. It was a week of insanity, very busy, but with father figure around to help. This week there has been no father figure and even more insanity. As people told me I looked great, I kept saying that I felt great and I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other shoe has dropped.

I’m not sure if it’s X-Man’s decision to yell everything that occurs to him, or if it’s Mac’s belief that the odder he acts—Moose horns for the entire trip home, really?—the more awesome or if it was Baby’s vomiting all over the pharmacy that sealed the deal for me. Maybe it was the extra hour and a half spent wandering around Costco waiting for them to get to my tires. Which is exactly what every gal wants to spend her Costco rebates on. X-Man kept me on my toes with not one, but two, poopy diapers.  Gestated Cinco kept up with him, and why not? Why not fully celebrate having two children in diapers?

Over all, the adaptation had gone smoothly. I was most concerned about X-Man’s response to the usurpation of his role of baby. He’s plowing along as if little has changed. He didn’t even seem to notice Gestated Cinco’s existence, nor did he seem to wonder why he was visiting me in the hospital. Clearly we had brought him to a room where there were 357 different drawers and doors to open. Why wouldn’t we do that for our little guy? As he was slamming away, Gestated Cinco expressed her opinion about life ex-utero, he paused, removed the binky from his mouth and said “Baby” and headed back to slamming.  He enjoys snuggling, perhaps a bit more than normal, but he’s a cuddly guy to begin with.

Mac is highly aware of how much everyone else has held Gestated Cinco compare to him. The numbers never work in his favor and he’s not reticent to share this knowledge. Baby and Baba just think that it’s odd that I am not in favor of them carrying her up and down the stairs or outside. It’s because I’m mean, I own that. Just as I enforced early bedtimes tonight in light of state required school testing tomorrow. It’s because I relish their tears of outrage.

Gestated Cinco is certainly keeping up her end of the whole team player aspect. She’s eating well and sleeping well. Which is exhausting. Because everyone thinks that they should check in on her always. And are certain that they heard her cry and will pick her up just in case. One squawk and she’s up. Lifted out of the bed. There’s no hope of her falling back to sleep, because well….someone wants to hold her. For two minutes. I’ve never locked a child in their room, but I’m close to locking children out of their sibling’s room. 

Now, if I can just keep up with their enthusiasm for waking their sister up and holding her and not doing chores or anything else around the house. 

I haven’t written for a while now. It’s not for lack of thoughts to say, but rather being held hostage to Gestating Cinco’s whims. Which included flying the coop earlier than I intended. But that’s kids for you. I didn’t even get to write my birth plan out, which included a request for the incredible hulk vaccine. Yes that’s real thing.

It’s not that she didn’t pick a good time. Well, at least as far as the father figure’s work schedule was concerned. And in all fairness to my youngest daughter, there’s no good time according to my schedule. As I realized when I double booked Mac’s swimming lessons and Baba’s soccer practice.

Gestated Cinco was polite enough to wait until after my two showers. Yes, I had two showers. Very different events, which were fun and useful. Especially as I received a car seat at the second one. So at least Gestated Cinco waited until it was legal to bring her home.

It all started with a trip to labor and delivery. Well actually it started with a detour through the back country roads to avoid miles long congestion on the freeway. This was a rather fitting metaphor for the rest of the day. I went in with the intention of being told to go home it’s called getting ready for a baby. So when time kept ticking by, I began to get anxious. Not because it meant baby was coming, but rather, because I had a two thirty dentist appointment for Baby. Well that didn’t happen. At least I am assuming that the father figure called and cancelled.

I was so not ready for Gestated Cinco, I went so far as to forget to bring the book I was eighty pages away from finishing. I could have polished off that sucker during the preliminary testing. But no. I had a sneaking suspicion that something might be up that morning. I downloaded a contraction timer for my phone, and gave the father figure a heads up as he left for work. I didn’t ever use my new contraction app as I decided in the early morning hours to sleep instead, figuring I would have other opportunities. Then there were multitudinous opportunities for distraction, including getting out the door only an hour later than I intended.  This was a mixed blessing, as I was unaware of the rate of contractions, but apparently plowed into labor blissfully unaware.

I alerted Grandma, who was wrangling the herd, through text message. This made it easier to pass off childcare arrangements to the father figure, who was granted the courtesy of a phone call. It’s hard, when you’ve just been admitted to labor and delivery, to properly convey the need to come soon, because things are moving along, but not to panic and come with the impression that Gestating Cinco was actually Delivering Cinco. Whatever I said worked, because he arrived just as I was getting concerned, waltzing in wearing his UPS uniform, which of course prompted plenty of delivery jokes.

And then we waited. I’m sure it was partly because I had an epidural and couldn’t stand to get her to position properly, at least quickly. But I didn’t care. It was honestly the most relaxed I had been in probably a year. I was answering phone calls from friends trying to arrange carpools, texting other friends and harassing the father figure. I was also slightly embarrassed because it certainly seemed to me that everything had stopped. I love drugs.

Not that everything went perfectly smoothly. Apparently my blood pressure dropped, or plummeted as it were. I don’t really remember, I just felt not awesome and then someone was giving me epinephrine. And by someone, I mean one of the nine people in the room. Father figure has related his perception of events, but all I heard is that a nurse was rubbing his shoulders. He says to reassure him, but what else could he really say?

Gestating Cinco became very demure and took her time arriving. This gave me time to see that there was a massive explosion in Texas near Waco, which prompted texting to a brother who is physically incapable of replying to texts. So after a whole five minutes of silence I dropped the “I’m in labor so you’d better respond now.” Thus began the geography lesson as to the relative proximity of West, Texas to Waco, Texas. Twenty miles, in case you were wondering.

So she came. And shared her impressions of the world. Loudly. It didn’t help that my first reaction to my little girl was “you are fat!” Which is true, she has cheeks like no newborn’s business. She said her piece and promptly scored a ten on her Apgar test. Which is a first in this family.

We’re slowly adjusting. She’s required feeding three times during the writing of this blog. But she’s Italian, so that’s to be expected. I mentioned to father figure that I spent nine months dreading having a fifth child. This wasn’t in my game plan and I really wasn’t on board with the whole shaking it up aspect. But I knew rationally that a few days into it and I would be baffled that I ever thought our family complete before she arrived. I was off in my timing. She felt absolutely right immediately. As I reminisced with the father figure, he slyly said “we’ll see how you feel after the tenth one.” The boy will do anything to get himself a fifteen seater van. I’ve told him it will cost him one wife, but that doesn’t seem to be a deterrent.