I wish I had some pics to get my blogging mojo going tonight, but the only things I got the camera out for today were:
1) To show Judah how ridiculous he looked when he throws a temper tantrum like he's a two-year-old.
"Noooooooooooooo! Don't show that to ANYONE!!!!!!!! NO ONE!! Except Daddy. Because he's my family. "
So. Obviously. Not going to post that.
2) To prove to Sofi that she was not, in fact, doing a push-up
"exactly like they're doing on the dvd!!"
-- she insisted, with her hiney waving in the air...
Again. Not going to post that.
I also really should not talk about:
3) The fact that J is working laaaaate tonight and rather than plan something fun and memorable with my progeny, I turned on Shaun the Sheep and poured myself a glass of wine. The last glass. Which means J is drinking water tonight. Yep. Wife of the year, for sure.
4) My run on Moday was a PR, but sooooo sloooooow compared to all my running friends on FB that I'm totally NOT going to talk about it.
I found an apple in my washer this morning. A whole apple. Or rather, the remains of a whole apple. It was rather... beat up. I took out all the clean, wet laundry and there was this apple rolling around in the bottom of the empty washer. As I wondered at it, I suddenly remembered an incident several days ago...
A clatter of the hamper lid, a thud, a wail from Jamie, "Aaaaapppuh!!"
At the time I'd simply stored it in the back of my mind as more pressing things claimed my attention, but now I stared at the ball of mush at the bottom of the washer and remembered.
The big kids wanted to play without Jamie this morning, so I brought him into the kitchen with me to make muffins. James is a very...er...enthusiastic Kitchen Helper. Afterwards I had to mop batter off the floor, counter, walls...etc....
We're swimming. Every time Jamie launches himself from the side, straight into the deep end, and swims to the steps (arms pressed back against his side, legs propeller-ing-- merman-like), head breaching the surface riiight before I jump in to rescue him, chest heaving, lungs sucking for air, grinning cheekily at worried mama and then racing off to the other side to do it again... it takes ten years off my life.
Jamie peed on me this morning and I haven't changed my pants yet, because it seems to be shaping up to be the kind of day where I probably will get peed on again before lunch.
They tell me that some day I will miss all this...
Thursday, June 23, 2011
I am thirty-two years old. Thirty- two. But apparently my SKIN hasn't gotten this memo. Despite my advanced age maturity, my skin insists on reacting to every. single. skincare regime change like a sixteen year old girl...
"What? What? Whathe..? CLEARASIL?? WHY are you ruining my LIFE??!! Arrrggglllluggllgg!! Noooooo! I hate you!!! preciousssssssssssssssss....*croak*"
And then I have to endure the next five days of, "Mama, why do you have so many boo-boos on your face??" and "Wow, honey, that's a really big one..." It's enough to ruin even the most secure self-image, which I frankly don't have.
Honestly, if I have to endure this all the way through MENOPAUSE, I'm just going to throw a serious temper tantrum. Do you people even KNOW how bad an acne cyst riiiight in the crease of your nose HURTS???
That's it. I'm calling it. I am in labor. Starting now. Or rather, 6:30 pm, August 25th. God only knows when he'll actually be born, but by golly, I'm going to get full credit for all the *muttercusscussmutter* I have to put up with in the last month of pregnancy. EVERY SINGLE EVENING, I will probably have at least an hour of regular, strong, timeable contractions. Contractions intense enough to have me pacing the floors and snapping at all and sunder. For at least the next four weeks. One day my children will appreciate what I went through for them!!
I hope.
In the meantime, I'm at least going to get the credit for my four-week-long labors. And when y'all hear rumors of three or four "false alarms" that bring J rushing home from work in the middle of the day, only to have things peter out in a few hours, I want you to realize the extent of the confusion caused by my BLASTED uterus. Seriously. With Judah, I wasn't convinced it was reallyforreal until my water broke, 45 minutes before he was born. Everyone else knew what was going on, but I still had this nagging feeling that I was going to have to shame-faced-ly send everyone home any minute right up till that moment.
I'm normally a pretty upbeat person. There have been few times in my life that I haven't bounced back fairly quickly from whatever's gotten me down. I tend to complain loudly and frequently and then get over it. But it's not going so well right now. And I haven't been blogging as much because seriously, how many times can you post about how bored/lonely/pregnant/tired/sick/frustrated/homesick/fat/sore you are? And Facebook statuses too, although I think I may be approaching the record there.
It's really hitting home to me what's coming up in a matter of weeks here. I am going to give birth to my third child in this color-less, impersonal apartment, with no private place to be as noisy as I want to be. No hidden yard to pace during contractions. No friends to run over to see him when he's just a few hours old. No grandmas around to take care of Sofi and Judah. No pregnant friends to compare notes with.
I know people from Geneva and St Paul's will come and visit and probably graciously bring us meals and help with whatever I have the nerve to ask for. But most of them will have a hard time remembering my kids' names and none of them remember when Judah was born, or Sofi. None of them will be able to join in and oooo and aaah over how much Jamie looks like Judah, or doesn't. None of them know what a crazy miracle this pregnancy and birth is to us. None of them know my story.
No one will be able to understand why my eyes will fill with tears on occasion when I look at my son, as I remember a daughter-- not my own, although I loved her dearly-- that I held so recently and then helped her mother to lay at the feet of Jesus so unexpectedly. And I will not be able to join the circle of women around that mother, supporting her, and show her my new son, the Peace that God has sent our family, and encourage her that yes, God is faithful, and life still holds beautiful things and precious new babies.
There's no one here to go shopping for tiny things with me. No one to come with me to my "today-is-my-due-date-and-there's-NOTHING-going-on" pedicure appointment. My sewing machine and my yarn is in storage and the truck is still in the shop, so I can't buy my rocker yet.
Sofi has made a few friends, but Judah has no one but me to play with. And it's getting harder and harder for me to get down on the floor and wrestle with him. He asks if he can go to Lillian's house, or Gabe's, or Noah's. He asks to go to the mall and get pretzels and ride the carousel. There probably is one here somewhere, but I don't know where and the last time I tried to find a store I'd not been to before, we spent an HOUR driving up and down Semoran Blvd trying to find it-- despite our GPS.
Last night my crockpot cut off halfway through the afternoon, surprising me with a pot full of raw potatoes to feed my hungry family. My vision of a healthy, on-time dinner followed by a quiet evening of reading to the kids and an early bedtime was replaced by a frantic dash out for take-out pizza, grouchy/hungry children and a 9 o'clock bedtime (for the kids).
This morning Judah got into my body lotion and smeared it ALL. OVER. his arms, face and pjs. And I got up too late to fix J's breakfast, so I had to send him out the door with an apple and a fruit smoothie. No coffee.
Tonight the school is giving a dinner to meet the new teachers. I will be the only largely pregnant woman there. I have nothing to wear and I can't even have my usual pregnancy half-glass of wine, because I don't know these people well enough to risk the censure. At five o'clock the heartburn will strike and I'll spend the rest of the evening trying to smother the fiery burps in a napkin and still carry on intelligent conversation, while hiding the fact that I can barely remember my own name, let alone literary and philosophical minutiae I haven't studied in ten years. If ever.
And now, having gotten that off my chest, I will return to blog silence until I get my attitude straightened out and can "have a cheerful heart" (as we tell our kids).
This morning, before even breakfast, the kids were already squabbling. They've been consistently getting on each other's nerves since about half-way through North Carolina.
I was feeling a little down. It's our first Sunday here and I miss my church family. We're going to visit a PCA church here, and I know there will be some familiar things-- communion, the creeds, the hymns (thank the Lord for universal symbols of the Faith). But in large part, it will be strange and new.
So I decided to make myself some grits. You know, comfort food. 'Cause everyone knows that there's nothing like grits and eggs to heal pretty much any existential angst. (Can I get an amen??)
But then I spilled the grits all over the kitchen floor. I went to vacuum it up. And let me tell you, this is a small kitchen. There simply isn't room for me, baby and a vacuum. I knocked the crisp, perfectly browned bacon on the floor. I vacuumed that up, made more grits, kept my chin up. And then I realized that we were out of butter.
At that point I had two options; a good hard cry, or a blog post. I chose the blog post, because, you know, mascara... and a new church... gotta make an impression...
Do not throw an "accident" outfit into a plastic bag and toss it in the trunk of the car, assuming you'll launder it at the first stop on the trip. You will not. You will forget it's there, uncovering it four days later, now morphed into an ammonia-reeking ball of molding fabric. The smell will nearly take your life, leaving your children mother-less and your husband a widower. It's totally not worth it.
Do not assume that just because your husband's car broke down this morning, your car is safe for at least a couple days. Apparently 20 minutes is sufficient for Karma to re-set. Also do not assume that, just because you had it in to the dealership two days ago, that same car can't possibly have actually just died on you in the middle of in-town traffic.
Don't assume that since your car broke down once already, and the mechanics assured you that it was merely a "sensor problem", it won't happen again. And again. And again. And then once more.
Out of town car repairs are expensive.
Trading in a busted Honda Civic for a larger vehicle is expensive.
New timing chains for Toyota pick-ups are expensive, despite the slightly trailer-trash ambiance.
Do not expect toddlers to sleep on the road.
Ever.
Not even after midnight.
Be thankful he's in the other vehicle.
Never underestimate the gastrointestinal effect of irregular meals and too much fast food on said toddler. Underestimate, as in "not put on a diaper at naptime". Even if he never wears a diaper at naptime any more.
Never, ever say "well, shucks, I was kinda hoping some of this stuff would actually break in the move so I would have an excuse to throw it out and replace it with something nice". The very next box will contain a treasured wedding present, shattered to bits. Take my word for it.
40 boxes of books is insane. Impressive, and a good conversation starter, and even possibly helpful in labeling yourself part of the "In Crowd" in a roomful of academics...yes. Sane? No.
Next time, buy matching book cases.
If your husband agrees to sell the old couch, which isn't worth the price of the space in the U-Haul truck, and replace it when you get there with something nicer; don't assume he actually heard the second part of that sentence.
We interrupt the previously scheduled programming of emotional spillage to share with you the saga of Our Stray Puppy.
Yep. It's happened. In classic "Leave It To Beaver" style, my children have fallen in love with a stray puppy that happened upon us as we were innocently wending our way to the park yesterday. They have named it "Oh Shucks". Why, you ask, gentle reader? Because that was my initial reaction to it's presence. Trust me when I say that was the censored version of what was actually going through my head.
The puppy followed us home and was waiting eagerly in the yard this morning when the children went out to play.
It's rather disconcerting to hear one's children yelling "Shuuu-uucks, Oh Shuuuu-uuuucks" all morning. You can probably hear it all over the neighborhood. Vocal stamina and volume run strong within us.
This is bad. Very Bad.
I am not a pet person. I discovered this when we had our dog, Lucky. Most of you have already heard all about Lucky. I will not bore you with repetitions of his many sins. Let's just say we discovered that I prefer intact flower beds, dry couches and a flea-less existence to the companionship and entertainment supposedly provided by the canine species. No offense, Laurie and Matt.
So now what do I do? I am loathe to call the SPCA. Ours is not a no-kill shelter. As far as I know we don't even have one in this county. Any other, humane suggestions? Anybody want a puppy?
1) A dear friend found out at her 20-week ultrasound that her unborn daughter has some severe and as yet not completely diagnosed heart malformations. My heart is heavy for her on a daily basis.
2) We are not going to China after all, due to some unforeseen issues with the agency with whom we were applying, that arose right before the holidays.
3) J is sending his CV out to half a dozen other places all around the world. Literally. Needless to say, this puts a bit of a kink in the works of any long-term planning for house/school/jobs/extra-curricular activities/etc.
4) I should have know that a post about all my great friendships would come back to bite me in the butt. The less faithless side of me would say that the Lord is testing me in the area of friendships right now-- and pointing out some inconsistencies in my previous theories regarding my role in said relationships.
5) I have once again over-committed myself beyond all reasonableness and am stressed out to the point where I truly believe an ulcer is the inevitable result of my current emotional state.
6) I've developed a senseless addiction to two mindless computer games and spend my days like an addict going from uppers (my commitments and other stresses) to downers (these mindless games) and back again.
8) J will be working two extra jobs this semester. I will be whining a lot on this blog about how hard he's working and I don't ever get to see him and life is not fair. But you should be used to that by now.
9) The economy sucks. This sucky economy means that people no longer find room in their budgets for music lessons for their darling children. This means my studio tightens it's belt another notch every semester. It's not even really a studio any more-- more like a stdo.
(did you see that? did you see how I did that right there? turning "studio" into "stdo" as though the tightening belt squeezed out the 'u' and the 'i'?? see? I haven't comPLETEly lost my sense of humor. there's hope for me yet!)
10) When I don't blog for a long time, Stuff gets a little backed up. I need this space to let my thoughts flow, my emotions get sorted out and my creativity have an outlet. I have missed you, blog. It's good to be back. I promise not to stay so depressed.
And because you are all nice people, I hope to goodness you never have to experience this first hand. But, I tell you what, nothing, NOTHING can drive a mother to the brink of sanity faster than a seven-year-old who spends so many long and devoted hours to perfecting her Bug Bunny imitation that she becomes incapable of speaking in any other tone of voice.
"Bdehbdehbdehbut, Maaaama, I don wanna gota beyed!"
*stabs self repeatedly in the eye with nearest fork*
Laundry (fifty-million loads) Ironing (nine-foot pile) School (hopefully more than just math this time) Violin practice (haha, who am I kidding??) Trim the roses (Susi says we're getting a "Briar Rose look") Paint the studio floor (and keep the kids from spreading all over the house) Make bread Write some blog posts Take kids to the library for the sake of my sanity and theirs Make pot roast Wrap a Wedding Present Unearth my house from all the clutter and chaos Shower (maybe)
...need I say any more? You all know how I feel about rain.
This is my last week of teaching before break. Hopefully I will now be able to finish weeding my poor neglected vegetable garden. The lettuces don't seem to be holding it against me, however. They've been just exploding all over the bed and we have enough for at least three families right at the moment.
Hopefully I will also now be able to finish the chair railing and wallpaper project. That picture was somewhat deceiving, as it only showed the one fully completed wall. I actually have to confess that I ran out of paper halfway round the next wall and had to go find a place online that still had some left (it's been discontinued).
Maybe now I can also do the rest of the mulching in the back and put in a new load of woodchips in the kid's play space. And I still have several bushes to plant. And then there's this weird fungus on my roses. And my annual pics of the house to take and publish...
Oh yeah, and L's birthday gift is still unfinished. And Father's Day is coming up, and so is our anniversary. And I've got to make Judah's hat, too, since the pool opens up next weekend.
And of course, there's always laundry and ironing, and for some reason the kids and J still seem to insist on meals at regular intervals.
*sigh*
If it would just quit raining so I can get back to work!
I'm writing a little sick at heart. It's a feeling I recognize. A little bit of subdued rage towards God and lot of frustration that no one (read:God) seems to understand that MY way is the better way here. It's a feeling I carried around in my heart for many long months as I realized that my dream of four or five stairstep children running around my feet, toddlers babbling to me as a breastfed the baby, three high chairs around the table, was not going to happen. Realized that God's plans for our family were very different than the ones I had cherished for us myself.
This time the dreams I see fading are ones of cousins racing around the backyard while sisters chat on the porch over iced tea or lemonade, sleepovers under the Christmas tree at Grammy's, halcyon summers full of daily visits to the pool and shared vacations to the beach, easily available babysitting (I confess), retail therapy with the only other person who appreciates a bargain the way I do, a confidant next door or down the street, shared pregnancies, filling an entire row at church, an accompanist, loving accountability and admonition a five minutes drive away, knowledgeable guidance at the Starbucks counter, watergun fights on the sidewalks full of chalk artwork.
But again, it seems that the Lord's plans for our lives are not the same as mine. And again, I will have to learn to let my "small" good give way to the (what I must trust is) greater good. And over time I know that I will begin to see the larger picture and I'll look back on this Extended Army Re-enlistment Time, as I do on our two years of Infertility, as a time of growth and good in our lives and the lives of our loved ones.
I've been posting pics and video to avoid talking about some depressing stuff going on right now that I can't talk about here. We're all fine, and fairly healthy and I promise to tell you all about it when things are resolved. Hopefully that will be soon. I'll see if I can rouse myself out of this funk in the next few days...
For a little while at least. We still have several weddings, but they much smaller and easier than this past weekend's wedding was. This one was a biggie. We were really pleased with the way it turned out and had a lot of fun with the bride's theme of pink roses/peonies and pineapples! First time we've ever used mini pineapples. Very classy. You can go here to see the wonderful photographs by Tim and Sasha Rothwell. They referred us to this bride (thanks guys!) and it's the first time we've seen them in action. They are great and I highly recommend them!
For now I am laying low and trying to catch up on housework. Judah is almost well--just a little snuffles-- thanks to the garlic oil/probiotics/colloidal silver/kefir/olive leaf/echinacea. Poor kid's been on quite a regime of meds... But at least he's finally well. This winter is going down in history as the The Year of the Great Forshey Sickness
In a side note, there are times when it's great to be in business for yourself; the freedom! the hours! the control! However, there's also a sucky side to it. There's no one else to refer to when things get sticky. The buck stops here, baby. blech. I think I might retire really, really early. Like, maybe tomorrow.
Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.
No way did I take (only slightly) wet pants out of the hamper to put on a toddler who'd pooped out his last clean pair of pjs at 3 am. Not me. And it certainly wasn't me who'd looked at the pile of dirty laundry at 11:00 the evening before and decided that it could wait till tomorrow. Decided that sleep was more important than clean clothes. As were the hours of blog-surfing that led to this 11th hour realization. Huh-uh. That was not me.
I totally did not feed my children fish sticks one day and hotdogs the next because I was too sick and tired to cook. And no way, No Way, did I tell my daughter that yes, pickles and saurkraut count as vegetables. I would NEVER. Especially not me, because they were sick too, and really needed good nutrition and my mama taught me better than that. Uh-HUH.
I absolutely washed my dishes more than twice in the last three days. Absolutely.
There is not a small spot of blueberry-colored poop on my couch that I am ignoring because it basically the same color as the couch and who can tell? It's not blueberry-colored because that's the only thing poor leaky-hiney over here will eat right now. Nope. Not my couch.
I am totally not typing this while wearing the clothes I wore yesterday. And slept in. Maybe even two nights. I wear sexy-mama pjs to bed every night. Because I am just that kind of woman. The kind of woman who can changes blueberry diarrhea diapers at 3 am in sexy-mama pjs.
I could go on. But I imagine you'd rather I didn't.
This refrain has been ringing in my ear all day. That's right, folks, the F. family is on the mat again and the fourth round goes to... the Flu again!
*ding, ding, ding*
Judah is out cold with diarrhea, ear infection, coughing up bloody mucus, fever. Jeremiah is just coming around after two days of coughing, fever and congestion. Sofi is bloodied but unbowed with merely a runny nose. I am down for the count with mild fever, chills, congestion, wracking cough (wracking, people, I feel like my chest is in a vise grip held by a giant who occasionally gives me a good hard shake, just for kicks) and sore back due to propping myself up every night so I can breathe.
I know, I know. Enough with the corny and ridiculously incorrect sports metaphors. Sorry. Gotta get my laughs anywhere I can these days. Seriously though, can you believe this? In nearly eight years of marriage we have NEVER, I repeat, NEVER been this sick. Not even the time J almost died while I was busy giving birth to Sofi. (ah yes, there's a story there I may tell one day...)
This time I'm trying out Rachel's Olive Leaf treatments. I'll let you know how it goes and I'll link to her post about it if she let's me know that's ok. (*hint, hint* Rachel?) Sue said it worked wonders for Violet last time, so we're gonna give it a whirl.
For now I leave you with this thousand-word representation of what we all feel like today:
