Mama Mia

There are a lot of things you can say about me: I procrastinate to a point of pain, I'm chronically disorganized, I waste hours of time on the, ahem, computer, I'm hopelessly addicted to my best friend Coffee, I can nap like nobody else...except maybe Leah(; I eat cookie dough like it's a common snack food. I can go on and on. The one thing you cannot say about me is that I don't enjoy being a mother, which is exactly what I heard some unknown foolish woman mutter under her breath when she looked at me yesterday. I was so shocked that I stood up and held my baby close to me and looked her straight in the eye as I gathered my things. But here is what she didn't know...I had been sitting there in the surgeon's office for a solid hour cajoling my baby while being forced to listen to Fox news. After 30 minutes of Glen Beck, I was just trying to get to my happy place until it was over, and that is when she looked at me and made a searing judgement of my character. The takeaway? I probably make harsh judgements of people, if only in my tiny head, based on what I've viewed for only a minute. In fact, I probably did it to the other mom there with her kids just 20 minutes before, I just have my filter intact and mean lady didn't. "The LORD does not look at the same things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart." (1 Sam 16:7) Thank you , God, for looking at my heart and knowing that even though I'm not a perfect mom, I love being one.

Sea of Kayos

The day started out innocently enough. Isabelle created this poignant depiction of our home life and gave it to me while I slurped my coffee at the computer...She is flying overhead (bouncing off the walls), Zoe is on her "keister" reading, Camille is to my right stealing chocolate out of the pantry, Jude is screaming his head off, and Simon is in the lower left hand corner putting a potato in the toilet. The picture reads, "It's like I'm in a Sea of Kayas (chaos)...thank God for the drainer." Not too far from reality, and we all enjoyed laughing at ourselves as we ate our multi-colored (food coloring) oatmeal. Within hours, however, it had all gone terribly wrong.
It's a funny story, really....picture here Cheri Oteri with wild hair and smeared lipstick. I'm finally getting my shower in this morning--late--Jude is in Zoe's arms, Isabelle and Camille are doing something crafty, and Simon, well. Apparently while I was showering, Simon climbed up on the counter and decided to deficate. The little girls come running in screaming that they can't go in the kitchen now that there is poop on the counter. I'm sort of in panic mode, because the hair is full of shampoo, and you know I have a lot of it. I problem solve and ask Zoe to go in the kitchen just to make sure Simon doesn't smear the poop everywhere in an effort to "clean up." Thankfully, when I make my wet slippery way out to the kitchen he is frozen in time by his turd. I ask him, "do we go poo poo on the counter, Simon?" What a stupid question.
"Yes," he replies, very accurately.
"No, Simon, we poop in the bathroom, and it's right there," I say pointing emphatically toward the door.
"I pooped that, right there," he states, in the cutest little voice ever.
So, the moral of this story is, it's too early to go off the Lexapro.
I have to share the craziness of my life, because the laughter gleaned from it redeems it for me. I'm not saying I had five children to create blog fodder or have good stories at parties, but whatever works. Stay tuned for when I decide to home school...

Shenanigans

I haven't posted in months and months...had a lot to say and didn't know if I should say it or if anyone would want to read it. I'm inspired this morning, however, as I upload pictures my oldest took of her 3 year-old brother in full adjusting-to-big-brotherhood shenanigans. One is of him standing on the kitchen table drinking from the milk jug---naked. The other is straight out of Abu Grab, laying on the living room floor with a small garbage pail on his head---naked. The only one I can post and not get arrested is of him dressed in his sister's soccer socks, plaid shorts, blue animal print leo and a Bob the Builder potty seat on his head. Oh, and shaving cream on his face. All of these activities were wholesome entertainment while I was nursing Kabob or changing his diaper or (gasp) on the computer.
It's funny that it took arriving at utter chaos for me to finally feel "settled" about the number of children I have. But I'm there, Baby. Yesterday while nursing Kabob in a parking lot after attempting a run at Ulta with all five kids, said 3 year-old hucked a yogurt at his sister and there began a cascade of events that have me questioning my sanity. First, the rushing around the van, all doors open, trying to access the child and the yogurt---I'm still not totally tucked back into my nursing bra, so someone probably got a free show, and still gouging his eyes out somewhere in South Reno. I'm armed with only a container of wipies and I'm piping mad. Where do you begin with leather seats, carpet and yogurt? I just started wiping, and yelling, and wiping some more until it seemed we could head toward home--instead of to Bath and Body Works, aka "Mecca" for my 3 little girls. Did I mention the yelling? Holy Cow, I read that little stinker the riot act.
As we got back on the road, I started asking, "What happened that made him huck his yogurt?" The oldest whispers, "I think she stuck her finger in it and he thought she was going to take it from him." Aaaahhh. So then I'm lecturing us all on everything from packing yogurts, to opening them, handing them to a 3 year-old, and then trying to take them away.
All is well that ends well. We made our way to eat lunch with Papa, then dropped of our van at the local car wash to be cleaned, something it has needed for a long time. Then we shuffled home, Baby Kabob in his sling, 3 year-old prince in his stroller, and 3 grumbling girls. Life is good.

Needle out Needle In

I'm typing with both hands! Tuesday I enjoyed the long-awaited removal of the pin in the end of my finger from my disastrous can opening incident in early December. Who knew that one split second could create such a series of events and utterly alter one's holidays, but it did. I had a severed tendon, surgery, and a series of hideous casts and hand braces to hold the repair. They assured me that when they took the pin out at 6 weeks that it would not hurt, I would only feel "gentle tugging". They lied.

Dr. G pulled out the pliers and swiftly removed my stainless steel friend--which went up to my 2nd knuckle, thank you very much--and it did not feel pleasant. I think I cried out. Afterward I was given a modest finger brace, exactly like the one I left the ER with on the night of the incident. All was well until later that day it caught on my pants as I was pulling them up and I screamed so loud that all the kids came running. Yes, into the bathroom. I was sure I'd completely ruined everything the surgeon had done, but after a few days now, I'm in fact typing again and it only hurts a little. It still looks like my finger was severed and reattached, but it doesn't look like a witch finger as it did on Wednesday.

Later on Tuesday, the second needle entered the scene. I had to have my "goiter nodule" biopsied for a 3rd time...let yourself go briefly to the Seinfeld episode for a chuckle. Well, I have one, and because of Kabob, it is growing again. To be safe, they wanted to stick a needle in my neck, wiggle it around a little, and aspirate some cells to make sure I don't have cancer. This was not my first BBQ so I wasn't very nervous. It is, however, uncomfortable, and now I know I'll have to do it again this Summer so I'm not thrilled. I raced home from Reno Tuesday feeling slightly violated, however relieved to be done with it.

Fluffy Mail

It's what those of us in the cloth diapering world call our mail that is neither paper nor cardboard, but cotton, hemp or bamboo. Yes, they even make cloth diapers out of bamboo these days. One of the diapers I received in this last package (the Bum Genius bamboo fitted) was so soft and buttery, I wanted to put it on my behind. Sorry for the visual. But I digress...

When I first got excited about cloth diapering my fourth child, I never knew it would be such a pleasurable part of caring for him, nor did I have any idea about the cloth diapering underground that exists not only in our country, but worldwide. Check out Diaperswappers.com if you don't believe me...it's my little pseudo community of friends I don't know in real life, but have bonded with through the love of cloth, crunchy living and desiring unconventional amounts of babies.

I started slowly, researching what types of diapers would be easiest, even comparing the prices of new versus used on ebay. When Mel realized I was contemplating putting used cloth on his son, he drew the line, and I happily complied. By the time he was born, I had a nice little starter stash (we're not talking about the stash in a baggy, it's just what they call it). I enjoyed it so much that aside from the disposables they had at the hospital, I didn't buy any "sposies" until he was old enough to go into the childcare at church. I even took my dipes on vacation that first summer and washed for him wherever I was. It was bliss.

Things are a little different now that he's 2.5 and making adult loads in his diapers, but I muscle through it. I've been trying to ease him toward potty training, but like any child created between my gene pool and Mel's, he'll have none of it as long as it's somebody else's idea. So I broke down this week and got him some new fluff, and I swear he was as excited as I was. For what it's worth, also in the order were some Dream EZE all-in-ones, which fit him like a glove and are very absorbant, as well as some Wonderwraps, which are covers designed to fit any size baby. They have gotten some bad reviews on The Pin, but I think they are great so far.

The Name

It's a touchy thing really. The name for your offspring that makes your heart soar, will often be met with stifled looks of disgust when you divulge it to the curious. And sometimes they don't bother to stifle it. For me, the names I give my children are something sacred, a part of their destiny, of who they are and will become. And unfortunately, Mel and I never agree on names, at least for the greater part of any of my pregnancies. With Zoe, my struggle had been so long and grueling to bring life into the world, that naming her "Life" was a statement of triumph. No one liked that name before she was born, but I talked Mel into it around month 5. Then there was Isabelle, whose name I woke up in the night declaring. Who could argue with a name as gorgeous as Isabelle? When we had little Camille, we were so undecided that we put the names up on a whiteboard in my hospital room and debated them for 2 days. Mel was really pushing for "Lily", and I'm so glad I didn't cave because there were a ton of Lilys that year, at least here in Hicktown. Simon was maybe the hardest because Mel had very strong feelings about a name I really didn't want and he was our first boy. We ended up with a name that although Biblical, we loved from our favorite SNL skit when we were dating in college--you remember the one with Mike Meyers in the bathtub.

I've been contemplating the name for this current bean since I developed my list of names for Simon and found "Quentin", which is a popular French name and means "the fifth". It seemed so perfect. However, Mel has put the kybosh (is there a proper way to spell that?) on this, and hopefully I have put to rest that other name he keeps bringing up. I've given him a couple of other ideas, but we have vowel issues with one of them. We're only at 20 weeks and I've been angsting over this name, until today.

That's right, folks, I think we've found something that will work for both of us. This morning, as Mel and I enjoyed our morning coffee in bed, catching up after him being in Vegas for a few days, I told him, "Kabob has been moving a ton this week."
"Is that what we're going to name him? Kabob?"
We both started giggling madly, which is always a good sign. "Kabob," he reasoned," Khalil Robert. Kabob for short." Khalil has been on the list since Camille, but all my whitebread family feels it's to "ethnic", especially when teamed with our Lebanese last name.

So at least for the duration of the pregnancy, we'll be calling him Kabob, but you'll have to wait 20 more weeks to find out if we're serious.

Procrastination's Fool

A solid year has passed since I resolved to begin my blog, being held up only by choosing "the perfect name". I'd try to describe what I'd write about to help others name my blog, but honestly, it will be about everything that interests me, and maybe nothing at all. So I stole/captured this idea off a very old post on someone else's blog, intruiged by the realization that like clay in the hands of a sculptor, it will take on a shape of it's own. Of course, I'm pretty sure he was mocking this in a long list of others, but Jimmy Crack Corn.
I'm not really one for New Year's Resolutions. They conjure up deeply repressed feelings of guilt and failure, like giving up chocolate for Lent (which never lasted more than a couple of days) and pages upon pages of my current weight and measurements in all of my adolescent journals. Those were the good ol' days when I thought I was fat but was rockin' that bikini. Sigh.
Here's to a 2009 filled to the brim with inspiration and bold adventures.