Red-faced 2.0

The doctor said ‘It’s Scarlet Fever’ with such nonchalance that I just nodded my head and tried to be casual, too. But in my head I was shouting:

‘Isn’t that what made Mary Ingalls go blind?!!!’
‘Isn’t that what killed Beth in Little Women?!!!’
‘This boy was born in 2006, not 1906. How can he have Scarlet Fever?!!!’

He wasn’t even that sick. He had been all feverish and lethargic the two days before, but had started to perk up and was in 3 year old quiz master mode the whole time we were in the doctor’s office. Who is he mommy. What’s wrong with her leg. Why’s he got no hair. Why do we have to wait. Where is the doctor. What color is the doctor’s shirt. What color is the doctor’s house. Does the doctor have a dog…

I had only brought him in because it was Friday afternoon and he had developed a strange symptom – a bright red tongue with bumps on it. The doctor took a look at the tongue, checked the swollen glands, asked if there was a rash (there isn’t, even though that is the main symptom of scarlet fever) and made her diagnosis.

She explained to me that it’s pretty much like strep throat, will go away with antibiotics, and not too uncommon. How come I only know fictional characters from the last century who have had it then?

Once I was reassured he was going to be okay, my next thought was:

‘This is going to make a great Facebook status!’

Laura Ingalls is churning butter.
Laura Ingalls is waiting for Pa to come home in his wagon.
Laura Ingalls is eating salt pork, yum!
Laura Ingalls is so mad at Nelly for pushing her in the creek.
Laura Ingalls has a crush on a certain ‘manly’ someone with shaggy hair.

Moments of mom-ness

There are some moments that I find myself looking at myself and thinking 'that's such a mom thing.' Brief flashes of a gesture, a movement, a phrase that reminds me of my mother, of other people's mothers, of mothers on TV.

Not the big things, like holding a brand-new still hot and slimy newborn to your chest, or waving your child off to school, cleaning up after an early-morning puke session or having a 'serious chat' about some big issue. Just tiny moments of momness. Here's a few I can think of:

Standing at the kitchen counter making peanut butter sandwiches.

Feeding a baby in a highchair and using the spoon to wipe up that bit around the mouth (and shove it back in).

Unzipping a school bag and pulling out artwork/school notices.

Turning the wriggled-out-of pair of jeans right side out.

Looking at the back seat occupants in the rear-view mirror to answer a question.

Tidying up the living room with a book under my arm, toys in my hand, and sweat shirt slung over my shoulder.

Pushing a (very full) grocery cart.

Handing the baby my car keys to play with.

Producing a tissue from my bag...especially if it's not for one of my children.


I have been out of high school for 17 years, married for nearly 10 and a mother for nearly 5, and still these moments can catch me off guard. I am a MOM, just like my mom, just like other moms, I do mom-like things. How weird is that?

Patriotism

So usually hardly anyone blogs on Saturdays, then my friend Jo hooks me with this ‘Stories in My Pocket’ Saturdays, which I really love. Then even she says she can’t manage it this week, because who’s going to blog on a Saturday that’s the Fourth of July?

An ex-pat American, that’s who. No family to visit, no fireworks, no Fourth of July celebration to go to. I made iron-on t-shirts for the kids, we had a barbecue, and I was not allowed to sing patriotic songs (my husband does not like My Country tis of Thee, seeing as the tune is his actual national anthem, and America is not the only country where ‘at least I know I’m free’).

And I did some reminiscing. Here’s my best Independence Day story:

I grew up in a small Midwestern town that every year has a parade for the Fourth of July. It’s mainly fire trucks followed by pick-up trucks with various community groups in the back – the girl scouts, the Kiwanis, city council, that sort of thing. They throw candy to the children in the crowd. Who run out into the street, fight each other for it, and knock some smaller kid to the asphalt who looks up wailing just as another fire truck comes down the road, blaring its siren as loud as possible. Fun times!

There’s also the bike parade. Local kids decorate their bikes, ride along with the parade, and get judged at the end for the most patriotic bike.

My mom wasn’t going to shell out for crepe paper and streamers and ribbons and the like, so I set about finding my own (free) way to creatively decorate my wheels. So I could WIN that $5 McDonald’s gift certificate.

We were out for ice cream at our local Baskins and Robbins and I noticed they had the empty ice cream drums, washed out and sitting by the side. I asked if I could have one. To picture it, the ice-cream drum was about the size of a wastepaper basket, with white plastic on the inside and brown paper on the outside.

I decided I could be a ‘bike-astronaut’. I painted my ice cream-drum white, added a few blobs I hoped would look like flags, donned a grey sweatsuit (on a 90 degree July day!) and headed up for the parade.

Hoping my homespun, cheap ingenuity would beat out the bikes with ruffles and bows and pom-poms and actual flags (all probably decorated by the parents) I popped on my helmet and waited for the parade.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, little girl, you can’t be in the parade like that.’
Faux-indignant, because I had a feeling this might happen, ‘Why not?’
‘You have to be able to see where you’re going.’

I hadn’t cut a hole in my astronaut helmet. I had just planned to peek out the bottom and follow the wheels of the person in front. But apparently, that was a safety hazard (unlike teaching children to run into the street to look for candy).

They let me ride in the parade anyway, with no helmet and no decoration, just a grey sweatsuit and a red face. I didn’t win.

Surprised by the beat

This time of year makes me think about the years I worked at summer camp (and I’m grateful I’m not working there any more!) One summer my sister and I went to California to work at Camp Mt. Crags/Camp Gilmore.

A lot of the staff had grown up spending summers as campers there, and now were back as camp staff, so they all knew each other really well. So my sister and I mostly hung out with the foreign staff. As orientation week went on, our group sort of loosely formed into a pack of six – Jon, Marcus, and Ed, Melissa, Helen (my sister) and me.

It was a Christian camp, and our evening sessions often involved some singing. One night the camp cook ( who was the drummer in the worship band) cut his finger preparing dinner so he couldn’t play.

Marcus offers (in that understated British way) ‘I can play the drums a bit if you’re stuck’ and sits down at the drum set.

Well. Now.

1. Good looking
2. Funny
3. English accent
4. Plays drums

I hadn’t realized until that point in my life that the ability to play drums was a desirable quality. I think it was the icing on a particularly fanciable cake.

That was 15 years ago this week! He doesn’t get to play the drums that much any more, but he did make me a delicious cappuccino this morning AND change a ferocious nappy.

This story is part of my friend at Mylestones' Stories in My Pocket series. I'm not sure how to do the pretty link thing, but go to her site and read her great stories!

A cow, a car, and a fairy

These are the three respective images on three respective nursery walls I have stared at as I fed my babies. Mostly I would let my mind wander, sometimes close my eyes, but I would again and again notice the quizzical look in the cow’s eyes, the way the car sticker wasn’t on straight, the fairy who was bigger than her castle.

I’m soppily reminiscing (about wall stickers! That are still on the walls!) because I have given my last breastfeed.

I have found breastfeeding a mixed experience. With my first baby it was sooooo hard and painful and worrying (she didn’t gain weight well) and if somebody KIND had suggested I switch to bottles, I would have. But our public health nurse was bossy and dismissive which just made me stubborn. And the lady from La Leche came to my house, told me I was a good mom, offered loads of advice and kept calling for the next few weeks to see how I was getting on. So I did what she suggested, because she was nice.

The second time around, I knew what I was doing, I had a bigger, hungrier baby (he fed more, gained weight quicker, everyone was happy) and all was great. Until he cut 4 teeth at 5 months, and practiced them on me every chance he got. He would chomp, I would yelp, he would cry and refuse to feed for a day, until I was begging him, for both our sakes.

Then this third baby, who is good as gold in every way (so far) and feeding was no exception. This time round, I’m working more – specifically, leading a toddler group and a Baby Song group. The baby came with me, I would have to sit down to feed her, and often someone would sit down beside me to have a little chat. Maybe it’s because we were sitting side by side instead of face to face (or maybe it’s because I was vulnerable, with my shirt hoiked up) but those would always be the most meaningful, pastoral and spiritual chats, as I sat feeding the baby.

The only thing is I would get very dizzy the first couple minutes of each feed. So dizzy I had to shut my eyes and couldn’t talk. At home, I would just do it, even if I was in mid-sentence. Marcus said it was like a robot shutting down. But I couldn’t do that if someone was wanting to talk to me, so I had to fight to keep my eyes open.

I never covered my baby up with a blanket. I never fed a baby in the bathroom. I wouldn’t ask people if they minded or drew attention to it. I just discretely fed.

And now...sniff…it’s time to move on. I handed her little pajama-ed self to Daddy who was waiting with a cup of warmed milk. I’m a ticking time bomb of hormones now, the next couple weeks or so they will be building up (I plan to go see My Sister’s Keeper this weekend, just to have a good cry) then we’ll all be okay.

Sniff.

Viral

A recent rather nasty flu virus has just been chased off our property, with a few lingering shouts of 'I'll get you next time!' We sigh and put down our weapons -- calpol and nurofen, damp cloths and sick bowls -- and turn to survey the destruction left behind. While the details may change, this enemy has a plan of attack we're familiar with:

1. The virus hops aboard a double agent -- a child from toddler group/baby song/pre school. That child sneezes or dribbles or coughs in the face of one of our own. Thumb in the mouth, virus comes to our home.

2. Infected child does not show signs of illness, except being slightly over-sensitive and refusing to eat dinner. Not realizing the fugitive being harbored in that little body, I blame stubborness on bad behaviour and lack of appetite. Naughty steps are sat on. Dessert is witheld. Tears are shed. Guilt is imminent.

3. Sometime in the middle of the night (this enemy loves the cover of darkness) the child who was forced to eat dinner wakes up crying, usually with said dinner all over the bed. Late-night sheet changing, temperature taking, medicine administering. And planning for how to handle the next day -- the doctor's office will inevitably be closed, the day will inevitably be very busy, any potential child care will inevitably be unavailable. Schedules will need to be re-adjusted.

4. The first day of illness, I can be sympathetic soothing mom. As the injured foot soldier lies listlessly on the couch, I bring pillows and coax drinks and allow TV, saying 'Oh poor you'.

5. The ill child has a need to be close to me. As close as possible. On my lap, arms around my neck. Closer-- as if trying to get under my skin, to swim through my veins. The virus loves this -- it makes the next stage, infecting me, that much easier.

6. The details of step 6 are changeable -- how many children will be ill, the height of the fever, extra fun symptoms like a rash or gooey ear or eyes crusted together. What is definite is sleep will be interrupted (further to the plan of infecting mom).

7. Here we go. I start to feel achy or nauseous or sore throaty, and wonder how well I washed my hands the past few days and how many snotty noses have been wiped on me in their desperate hugs. The transfer has been made. The virus attacks the mother ship.

8. So, I am ill. But it is guaranteed that :a) For some reason, Marcus will be unavailable to help(out of town, or an important meeting, or something un-cancellable) and b) the children will be well enough to be bouncing off the walls, but still residuedly ill so they cry at the drop of a hat, scream at the changing of a channel, and demand the treatment they received back at step 4.

9. I fight through it. I drag my poor, poor sick self out of bed, and do the bare minimum of food and basic hygiene for the family. There usually is something that we really need from the store, but the thought of dragging my feverish bones (and three still slightly ill children) out is too much. We eat cracker sandwiches. I take children's fever medicine myself (the orange flavor is not bad, the starwberry, yuck). I am a grizzly bear, growling and swiping at the kids, shuffling grumpily through the house, until we finally make it to bedtime.

10. The pressure eases, a bit. The children are well enough to go back to nursery. Marcus is home and can help. I feel slightly better, but would still love that day in a sick bed that I missed when he was away. The laundry and housework had piled up when I was in grumpy bear mode, so I prepare to ask him to throw in a couple loads while I take a nap. And then what happens? THEN WHAT?!

11. He gets sick. I don't get my sick day. He gets it. And with half-strength, the last few skirmishes of the war still being fought behind my eyes and in my joints, I try to take care of him. I can't manage sympathetic and soothing, and feel like a cold-hearted wife to my feverish husband.

12. Why is that child asleep at 5 pm? Is that the tail end of this virus we've just fought off, or is it a new one...

Beauty

Last week we were in Belfast for a Salvation Army Congress -- a series of large gatherings for all those who are part of The Salvation army in Ireland (both the Republic and Northern Ireland). Since it was held over two days, and we live about 2 ½ hours away, we decided to stay overnight in a hotel in the city centre of Belfast.

Saturday evening we went to the celebration meeting – singing, bands, preaching, praying, testimonies, even flags and timbrels. Plenty to explain to the kids in the car to the hotel – very different from our small, local, un-churched way of worship. They were still pretty dazzled (and worn out) as we parked the car and walked in to the hotel lobby.

There was a wedding reception being held in the hotel, and Alannah especially was very taken with all the dressed-up people. Then I spotted the bride, so I led my girl by the hand to go look at her (from about 10 feet away). Look at her pretty dress. Oooh, she has a crown in her hair. And lovely jewels in her necklace. The bride was in conversation but she noticed us and smiled. I think she liked an unknown little girl oohing at ahhing at her beautiful dress on her special day.

As we went to the lift, we spotted some other young women. Now, the way they had dressed wasn’t entirely to my taste. The skirts were just on the short side of modest, the tan on the orange side of fake, the make-up on the caked side of thickness. But my girl said, loud enough for them to hear ‘Oooh, SHE looks pretty!’ and the hearer giggled and beamed, less demure than the bride but just as happy that someone liked the way she looked.

In the lift, I told Alannah and Charlie (and Marcus too, because men need reminding, don’t they) that if you think someone looks nice, you should say so, because everyone likes to hear that they look nice.

Up we went to our room and began to get changed for bed. I took off my Salvation Army skirt, which is unforgiving to say the least, and I had been wearing it all afternoon and evening. Alannah looked at me and the mark the slightly too-tight waistband had left on my skin.
‘Mommy! Your tummy looks like bacon!’

Some things, my darling girl, do NOT need to be said.

Radiation

I can vividly recall some scorching sunburns of my youth.

The kind where you are so hot it hurts to wear clothes. You try to lie down but your skin heats up your sheets and pillow. Your head pounds, your skin tightens and you just emit heat like a blinking neon sign. Then, a few days later, you can peel great sheets of skin, like a molting snake, off your back and arms and nose. And years later, you are still paying the price of that sun damage...

My mother tried. We would put sunscreen on when we were on vacation to the beach . But a woefully inadequate amount, and probably just once, and it was probably only SPF 15, and was probably left over from two summers before.

I did get a very very bad sunburn that was entirely my own fault, as an adult, when I fell asleep on a beach in Australia. Marcus and I frantically searched through all our toiletires to see if any contained aloe. The only one that did was his travel-size can of shaving foam, so I smeared that all over my legs. I was 10 weeks pregnant at the time and the smell of the shaving cream made me throw up, but jumping up to go to the bathroom made me scream because of my sore legs. They swelled up the next day and I could hardly walk for a week.

So, I determined that as long as my children's skin was my responsibility, I would make sure they didn't get sunburnt. When I just had the one PFB (Precious First Born) I was vigilant. This child is particularly fair, to the point you can see the veins in her face. Suncream, hats, buggy shade everytime we walked into town, much less played in the garden, went to the park, or went to the beach -- all factor 50, which is so thick it doesn't rub in, so we called her the ghost baby.

Along came child 2. His first summer we obviously kept him out of the sun, and the second was pretty miserable with hardly any sun the whole summer. So the suncream wasn't an issue.

Then last summer, a sunny weekend comes along, we put some sunscreen on them both and the next day, child 2 comes out with a rash. Now, that day happened to be 1) a bank holiday -- no doctor's office open and 2) the day before I was to be induced with child 3, so i didn't really fancy lugging the boy to an out-of-hours clinic. (he didn't have any other sympotms, just a rash, so it's not like I was being that negligent).

The summer was again grey and rainy, but I didn't notice because I had a 3 year old, a 2 year old, and a newborn. We mainly watched TV and breastfed our respective baby/dolly/bin lorry.

Another sunny day came in September (you may think I'm exaggerating the greyness of a Dublin summer, but I'm not) so as an 'experiment' I put sunscreen on the boy again. otherwise known as I forgot that the last time he had it on he got a rash. So he got another rash.
Hypothesis: My 2 year old is allergic to sunscreen.
Method: 1. Put sunscreen on 2 year-old.
2. See if he gets a rash
Result: Allergic to sunscreen.

With all this in mind, I had meant to go to the chemist (pharmacy) and ask them what sunscreen I should get for him. But I didn't get around to it before this weekend, since it's been grey and rainy here. But then we went away to a Belfast this weekend and....

The sun shone! (I honestly never would have predicted that)
A lovely day with the lovely Ali and her lovely family included lots of playing in the lovely sunshine.

But that afternoon, on my child 1 (the PFB)...pink cheeks. Pink arms. And the mommy guilt. (The sunscreen-allergic boy, by the way, didn't get burnt at all). Would she have an awful, burning, tossing and turning night, with a headache and peeling and agony?

Well, no, becuase it was Belfast, after all, not Hilton Head or Australia. She was fine the next day.

But...

now...

Freckles!

(and they are so absolutely adorable, I'm tempted to let her run around without sunscreen more often so she gets even more!)

Domestic goddess

One Saturday morning when I was 8 1/2 months pregnant our ironing board broke. Beset with pregnancy insanity:
(if I don't iron these clothes today and the baby comes tonight I will never iron them and the whole family will always have to wear creased clothes and be the scourge of society and my children will never have any friends and then they will never get married and they will always live at home with me with their wrinkled clothes and dirty dishes and toys scattered all over the house that no one but ME ever picks up!)
...I decided we should go buy an ironing board. Even crazier, it was suggested that the whole family walk down to the homeware shop in town to get one. A walk that takes a normal, non-gestating adult 10 minutes, but there was only one of those people in our party so this was going to be quite an excursion.

We got the ironing board and started trudging back up the hill to get home. And got lots of strange looks from people on the way. Looks that said:
'Is that an ironing board?'
'Why would you buy an ironing board if you're walking?'
'Is that a very pregnant woman carrying the ironing board?'
'Is that the very pregnant woman's husband walking with her?'
'Why isn't he carrying the ironing board?'

And the answer, of course, is that in the choice between getting the ironing board home and wrangling two children home (the two-year-old who didn't want to be in the buggy, and the three-year-old who did), my husband made the sacrificial and loving choice.

We got home, made a cup of tea, and sat down, too exhausted to do any ironing after all that.

More stories here!

Red-faced

I have rosacea, a skin condition that makes my nose and cheeks red. All the time. On a good day, they are just red, on a bad day, I am very broken out. Most of the time my skin is somewhere in between. I wear make-up to cover it, but it doesn’t cover it up completely, and anyway, too much will just make me break out more.

So, it’s just one of those things. I still have to go out and talk to people, and try not to be too self-conscious and not think ‘Is this person noticing my red face? Is she having trouble concentrating on what I’m saying because of my skin?’ Like my complexion, some days are better than others, but usually I manage to go out and face the world, in spite of my face. :)

But THREE times I have been to the doctor about unrelated issues – once when I had a chest infection, once for my six-week check-up after childbirth, and once when Alannah had an ear infection—and heard:
‘Let’s talk about what’s going on with your face’ or
‘Would you like to do something about your face’ or
‘What’s wrong with your face?’

(umm, I may be mis-quoting here, but I’ll take poetic license that even if the question was phrased more gently, it still felt as bad as someone saying what’s wrong with your face?)

And for all the embarassment of having been asked the question, there's not much they can do anyway. So why not just politlely ignore it, like most people do?

What's this strange feeling in my brain?

Okay, so one way to inspire me to blog more frequently is to join in with a theme for every day. Like Stories in my Pocket on Saturdays. Or Tuesdays unwrapped, which encourage us to look at the gifts a normal Tuesday can bring.

So here's mine today: I am actually not tired. Really! I don't think I have felt that way for the past...hmm...12 plus 9...21 months!

I remember one of the first thoughts I had when I discovered I was pregnant with Caitlyn was 'I was just starting to not feel tired!' So here I am again, for today at least, feeling pretty good.

Which helps of course with the brooooodiness I'm having lately. I don't want another baby, I could tell you ten or twenty (or even just three) reasons why not, but that whisper is in my ear. It's biological, it's hormonal (I'm weaning Caitlyn), it's irrational, it's not what I want! But sheesh . Babies.

When I mentioned it to Marcus today he said 'I don't want to be the kind of family that has 7 or 8 children.' Because obviously he thinks we'll jump from 3 to 7. I didn't know quadruplets ran in his family.

I am NOT tired today And it is a good feeling!.

And we didn't wear helmets back then

My friend Jo has started this Stories in My Pocket series, and invited me to join more than once. Of course I will! I love telling my stories. I often have to stop myself from that social faux pas – jumping in on someone else’s tale to tell one of my own. In fact Jo’s story of moving to Texas reminded me of my own trip with a fresh husband to a fresh start in life, only ours was to London (but it’s not as poetic as hers, so I’ll leave that one –for now). And what is a blog, after all, but telling stories and hoping someone will listen/read?

I have been thinking all week about which story I will write – I just wrote about Caitlyn’s birth, but I have two other birth stories to tell. Second to people wanting to share their birth stories seems to be sharing puke stories, and 3 lots of morning sickness means I have plenty of those as well (including 4 times in airplanes, and two separate occasions in my father-in-law’s car).

Embarrassing stories are just that, so maybe I’ll steer clear of those. Love? How I met my husband, getting engaged at 30,000 feet, our soggy wedding, standing on a chair for God, or setting wooden airplanes on fire? Cute kids stories? Far, far too many to tell, including this morning’s declaration from Alannah that she wanted to marry Mommy so we could have a date night on Fridays.

Too many to tell! And there are those you don’t remember until something reminds you of that time when you cut your own hair, or ran across campus in bare feet at midnight, or sang a solo at some poor woman’s funeral (and no, I can’t sing, and no, I didn’t even know her). But the good thing is now I have a reason, once a week, to write a story (and there’s a list for me to choose from, in case I’m stuck next Saturday).

But for starters, I’m actually going to share THREE! A trilogy of bicycle accidents…
1. My need to do 2 or more things at once started young in life, and I used to read while I was riding my bicycle. We lived in a quiet town, and on a sunny summer morning there weren’t many cars. I was re-reading a book I liked whilst on my way to the library to return it. I didn’t even stop reading when I went over the railroad tracks…my wheels wobbled and got stuck in the groove of the track, I fell off and dropped the book (ripping the page), and completely panicked that my shoelace would get stuck in the track and a train would come and run over me. But I wasn’t stuck, and no train was coming anyway. I got up, got back on my bike, and continued reading!

2. I borrowed my sister’s bike without asking to go to the shop. Crossing at a traffic light (did I have the right of way? Probably not) a car pulled out and hit me. I fell off, but wasn’t hurt. The lady driving was so, so upset and wanted to take me home, but of course I refused because then my sister would see I had borrowed her bike. And she really would hurt me!


3. I was happily cycling home from softball practice singing a little song to myself. There was a set of hills on my way home, where you had to pedal really fast to build up speed down the first hill in order to have enough momentum to get up the second. I was pedalling away, fast fast fast, when suddenly …pop! My handlebars pulled right out. I was just holding them, and they were no longer attatched to the bicycle, and I was flying down a hill with no means to steer or stop. Except for a parked car. Then I had to get up and with my scraped up knees and nose, I had to walk my broken bike home while carrying the handlebars and my softball mitt. And crying. And thinking, maybe I’ll get a new bike. But I didn’t – I got my sister’s old one, the one that had been hit by a car but I had never told anyone.

6 May 2008

When I was taking a pastoral counselling class at The Salvation Army training college, the lecturer once said ‘Every mother wants to tell her birth story, but is almost always interrupted by someone else who wants to tell her birth story.’

Giving birth is such a significant event – the anticipation weeks before, the mystery, the PAIN, and the life-altering after effect – that it’s no wonder moms want to talk about it! As part of our ministry for the past 4 years, I have run mother and baby groups, and I purposely try to give women a chance to share their birth stories. And I try really really hard (and don’t always succeed) to hold my tongue and not start telling my own story!

But this is my blog, and my baby’s first birthday is today, so I’m going to tell it. So all..oh, maybe three? readers of this blog will be subjected to it. (And after my last post was all about how besotted I am with my little boy!) I will try to condense it to the more interesting aspects.

I was 11 days overdue (and none too happy about it) so I was induced. It’s a bit odd to just get up, and drive off to the hospital with no labor pains or anything, and know that the baby will be coming that day. Sitting in the waiting room and hearing other women in labor is like being in line for a roller coaster – you can hear the screams and know it will be your turn soon!

For the first time, I had a male midwife (mid-husband?) If it had been my first baby I might have been a bit upset by that, but as a pro, I just thought ‘Hmm, different. Fun!’ And his name was Jose and he was from Spain, so he had a great accent. I tried out some of my (Dora the Explorer) Spanish on him. He said I needed to be 4 centimetres dilated to get an epidural, and when he examined me I said ‘Quatro! Abre! Vamonos!’ I hope he thought it was the pain that was making me so goofy.

I was quarto abre, so we got the anesthetist in there straight away. Hurray!!!!!!!!!!! My first baby I was really overcome with the pain before I got the epidural and was really upset by it all. My second the epidural only worked on one side. So I was happy to get it early on, and told the doctor (Phyllis was her name, and I did promise to name the baby after her but re-neged) I loved her. And another anesthetist who came around the ward the next day , I told him I loved him too.

A couple of things about Marcus: they put an IV in my wrist for the drip and the nurse did it wrong and it bled a bit (I ended up with a bad bruise on my arm for a few weeks). Marcus went all pale and had to sit down quickly. Which is funny because he never got faint before, even during the incident after Charlie’s birth which we refer to as ‘the Red Sea’, that caused a nurse to require new footwear. TMI? Sorry. Also, Marcus was eating a peanut butter sandwich and gave me some, and when Jose came back he said ‘I smell peanuts’ (imagine Spanish accent), which we still love to say to each other.

Back to business. When the epidural kicked in I got really sleepy. Jose was on his break and the midwife who was covering him just said to me ‘Maybe you’re tired? Did you get much sleep last night?’ Um, I’m nine months pregnant with my third child. I never get much sleep. D’ya think maybe I’m in the transition phase…

Soon (it felt like 30 seconds later, but time gets all skewed) I suddenly said to Marcus ‘I feel like pushing.’ And he started to wave over the midwife, but she was talking to another woman (oh, did I mention the labor ward had 4 other women and their birth partners in there too?) and he, being English, did not want to interrupt. So I had to hiss at him very urgently. ‘Now. NOW! Pushing now!’

My friend Jose appeared, wheeled me into the delivery room (that is private, at least) and with a bit of this and that, there was our girl! This and that, of course, being an extremely uncomfortable sensation that is still vivid in my mind, and I am trying to remind myself of when I’m all broody and sad and about The Last Baby.

Three hours from the start of the induction until delivery. My easiest birth, and easiest baby. We’ll see how long that lasts.

So, there is my birth story. Thanks for not interrupting! But if you want to tell me yours, I’m willing to listen/read it, because I’m sure it’s a great tale…

Happy Birthday Charlie!

Charlie’s birthday was on Friday, and now my little man is three!

He has been a wonderful 2 year old, but as I recall from Alannah, three was when the naughty step really came into use quite frequently. I think a two year old boy is one of the loveliest creatures in the world. Especially my one!

We’ve been practicing using scissors, but every time we do he picks them up and says ‘I’m going to cut your beautiful hair Mummy.’ I tell him no, he must never cut anyone’s hair, and he just grins. When I did get my hair cut earlier this week, he looked at me in shock. ‘Mummy! Your beautiful hair!’ Was he upset that it was shorter or that I hadn’t let him do it?

He likes to watch me get ready in the morning. When he hears the hair-dryer he runs into my room, climbs onto the bed and under the covers. He tells me what to do next – ‘now dry it with the hairbrush. Now do make-up. Now squish-squish (perfume). Now me.’ I have an empty perfume bottle filled with water that Alannah and I used to play princesses, but it’s Charlie that wants a spritz now.

He received a bicycle for his birthday. Alannah was four when she got hers and it was a struggle for her to get co-ordinated enough to pedal and move forward. He jumped on and took off, a year younger than she was. He’s the same at the playground, fearless and capable of scaling the biggest climbing frames. Of course, at 9 months he was climbing the stairs when my back was turned…

He loves the garbage truck (called the bin lorry in Ireland) and runs to the window every Tuesday to watch. The bin men are his friends and wave to him each week. Since he got a playmobil bin lorry for Christmas, he takes it to the window each Tuesday to show them.

I run a mother and baby singing group, and Marcus comes along to make the tea and coffee and help with buggies, etc. Charlie comes too. During the singing they play in another room, then come in to do drinks. Charlie goes up to each mother and asks if they want a piece of cake. If I don’t stop him, he would grab the pieces of cake and distribute them into each woman’s lap.

He loves Caitlyn, and often says to me ‘She’s so cute! What a sweet baby!’ His older sister is his arch-nemesis though, and the only recipient of a Charlie’s teeth-shaped bruise. It recently dawned on him that he’s in the middle between two sisters. I wonder what that will mean to him in the future. He has such a strong personality, I don’t think he will get lost in the family.

I have read that boys are closest to their mothers for the first seven years, then they shift to being closer to their fathers until they are 13 or 14, when they start to look for mentors outside of the family. So I only have a few more years of his mostly undivided devotion – he loves his dad, and the Car movie, and bin lorries, but I get the kisses and the snuggles and the sleepy ‘I love you Mommy’ when he climbs into my bed in the night.
I love you too, my Charlie. Happy birthday.

Sorry blogosphere for subjecting you to this gush of maternal devotion to my little boy!

Here are some other things I've written about him, in my now-defunct Xanga blog:

Christmas poem

Mommy's Boy

First Birthday

Second Birthday

And some pictures from his last birthday on our family blog, where you can see a very pregnant me (one week overdue and VERY grumpy) in the video. Which means in a few days I will bore the WWW with stories about my sweet little baby!

There's six packs of butter in my fridge

Tonight begins the baking frenzy…

Friday is Charlie’s 3rd birthday, and Caitlyn’s birthday is next week, so we are having a joint party for them this Saturday. A birthday boy and a birthday girl means two cakes (well, an airplane cake and strawberry cupcakes to be exact) plus cookies shaped like ‘1’s and ‘3’s. And a dark dark chocolate cakes for the grown-ups.

But there’s other baking to be done around here – a strategy meeting with my boss tomorrow will be accompanied by brownies. Another batch of brownies for the hotel room of the Territorial Commander who is in Dublin this weekend. Cookies for the coffee time after the Sunday service the TC is leading. Another cake for next Tuesday’s mother and baby group (that’s a weekly bake I do). Probably cupcakes again for Caitlyn’s actual birthday next Wednesday. And then Brunch Church muffins next week…

I like baking. It’s my spiritual gift.

I used to think spiritual gifts were only things like evangelism or teaching or wisdom. I used to think the ministry God was calling me to involved preaching and teaching and saving poor sinners. But now I reach out to the world around me with a baby on my hip and a plate of cake in my hand.

‘I was thinking about you last night, knowing we were going to meet. I stirred with you in mind, hoping to bring a smile to your face. Here is a little treat for you, and tell me, how are you doing?’

Babies

'It's Caitlyn's birthday soon' I said at dinner tonight, and made a sad face.

'What's wrong Mommy? Why do you look like that?'

'Well, Caitlyn is getting bigger. And although I like it when you guys get bigger, I'm sad that she won't be a baby anymore. Because I like babies.'

'Don't worry Mommy,' says my four-year-old. 'I'll have a baby. Then I can be a Mommy too!'

That will be nice sweetheart. I'm already looking forward to it.

Farewell, faithful companion. You will be sorely missed.

After weeks (maybe even months) of denying it, I must face facts.

(no, I'm no pregnant)

The afternoon nap is no more. Moment of silence please.

No really, could I get at least a MOMENT of even near-silence in a day?

Caitlyn still naps, of course. And Alannah hasn't for a while now, but she can easily be pawned off with 10 minutes of Mommy time followed by time on her own to make up stories with her ponies or something.

But now Charlie, who is nearly 3, has definitely stopped needing an afternoon sleep. And with 2 kids up, there is just no way around it. Entertaining must occur. And I really don't know what to do. I can think of activities, but everything just feels like a big effort. Just don't feel like dragging out craft supplies or the sandbox or the playdough or whatever. Mostly because then I would have to clean it up, and I already feel annoyed by all the cleaning I have to do (and while I'm cleaning something up, they are dumping the car box or dressing up chest or books all over the floor in another room).

I'm feeling rotten about not wanting to do anything with them. Bleh.

In other news, I fed Charlie tons of apple juice, dried apricots, grapes, and pears over the weekend to get past his refusal to poo on the toilet (he hadn't been for a few days and I was worried). It backfired. Or, fired out the back. A new rug is necessary.

Charlie just came in and told me I smell nice. He is a sweetheart, in spite of everything.

Sleeeeeeeeeeeeep.................

So Caitlyn and I seemed to have made an uneasy truce…after a week of controlled crying (Marcus calls it ‘controlled cruelty’) we have agreed on 6 am as a wake-up time. She has been requesting a 3am transfer to our bed, and til now it has been granted. But it was time to put my foot down. And it has been a nightmare. Except you have to be asleep to have a nightmare.

At first, when the cry came at 3 am, I would go in and hold her until she fell asleep. Gently, slowly I would lower her back into the cot – as soon as her back touched the mattress, she would scream.

I switched to stroking her head – she played with my hand. I tried stroking her head, then doing ‘gradual withdrawal’. A minute by the side of the cot. Step towards the door. A minute later, another step towards the door. Another minute, another step. But as soon as the door creaked on its hinges to announce my departure, she was wailing again.

I had to do it, the full-on unpleasant way. She cried – I went in, patted her tummy and whispered ‘Mommy loves you but it’s time to sleep now’ (who do you think that little mantra was meant to soothe?) then I left the room. She cried. I went in a minute later, and patted her again, and left. This time I waited 2 minutes. The next time, 3 minutes. And so on.

The first few nights she screamed fairly solidly from 3 until 6, except for the brief moments I came in and patted her. Then she decided to play a trick of her own. She would cry, I would go in and pat her then leave. She would cry a bit, but quiet down. I waited 1 minute, 2 minutes, 5 minutes, 10 minutes. Smug, I climbed back into my bed. Just, just as I started to drop off to sleep, she would wail. The timing was impeccable.

It’s been a hard few days, with tiredness making me grumpy and impatient. A busy working week hasn’t helped, with my fuzzy sleep deprived brain. Today (after a good, but busy Palm Sunday service) we all sat down for Sunday afternoon. I desperately wanted a nap but Alannah came up to me.

Poor older sister. She shares a room with the baby and has been woken up every night, too. And she doesn’t even drink coffee to help her stay awake during the day. She brought me one of her little sylvanian family figures. ‘Can you make her a scarf Mommy?’

I did it. With bleary eyes, while the baby slept, I knit a teeny tiny scarf and hat for a little cat. And tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night, the mothering marches on…

Happy St Patrick's Day!

A different perspective

So I went today for a certain 'uncomfortable test' that is just part of every woman's life. To my shame, I haven't had this done since we moved to Ireland nearly 6 years ago. But a recent ad campaign and the picture of a certain reality-show star's sad children about to lose their mother sent me off to the GP.

Oh, don't you love cultural differences? The last time I had this particular test done was in America. At a specialist lady doctor's office (I'm not embarrassed to write it, just can't be bothered to think of the spelling). White office, crisp white coats, nurse to take details and doctor to do the actual unpleasant bit in a clean sterile office.

Today I was at the GP, who has a practice set up in a house. Cozy light, carpeted floor, fireplace. Bit more relaxing, I think, not just for today but anytime any of us have to go in.

But the biggest difference was during the actual test (which, by the way, if you know what I'm talking about and are putting off getting one done, just do it. It's not a big deal). The nurse was chatting to me the whole time. About the weather, the kids, the upcoming St Patrick's Day. As I got undressed, as she did her bit, as I got dressed again, chat chat chat.

The Irish love the craic! (pronounced 'crack', meaning fun.)