Six weeks of Pregnancy to Go

I have about six weeks left until our fourth child arrives. I am 33 years old, and have had three pregnancies in the last three years. When this child is born, and for six months, I will have three children under the age of three. My oldest daughter will be 13 years old next month. Currently she is attending school out of the country and will not be back until several weeks after this baby is born. I miss her. I long for her help too, though I worry about asking too much too often.

Like any mom, I am amazed at the highs and lows I can have in one day. As far as this pregnancy goes, I am both tired of it, and trying to enjoy it, as it is my last. I am beginning the stage where the baby gains weight, sits lower in the pelvic cradle and causes that burning ache in the pelvic bones that makes it difficult to lift one's leg into pants in the morning! I am more resentful of the bathroom and my inability to go longer than 10 minutes without needing it, than I can say! But…if that is my chief complaint during pregnancy, I have very little to complain about.

I have all the usual questions and concerns. I feel as though I have tempted fate, or been blessed with more than my share of beautiful, good-natured, whole children…and that perhaps this time I have been dealt a harsher hand. My doctor asked me several months ago if I wanted all the testing to see if this baby may be at risk for Down’s syndrome.

“To what end?” I asked him. He replied that it would be for purposes of termination. I was appalled. I guess there are those who would make that choice, and it is not with judgment that I think on them. It is simply not an option for me. It is not something I would consider religiously, morally, or emotionally. I always notice Down’s kids with their parents when I am out and about. I always have. I have a tender spot for them and always feel they are very sweet. That being said, I am also afraid too. If I were called upon to bear such a one, would I be able to meet the task? Not only am I intimidated at the extra care and effort involved, but I am ashamed to say, I am embarrassed to think of having less than perfect children. That is directly related to the fact that I have the self-esteem of a brick.

Speaking of which, I have had plenty of downs about weight for the last three years! I am at my heaviest now, which is only about 6 lbs. heavier than I’ve been during this whole time, even through all three pregnancies. In the big picture, it’s not horrible I suppose. I decline to mention the exact number of course, but I have been blessed with a fairly even distribution, so to see me you might not think I weigh what I do. Then again, you may think I could rival a Mack truck. I do have a number of people who think this baby is my first, and that I don’t look imminently due. I think those are compliments, though I am not sure!

I think, these days, I am just getting by. I eat what I feel like, for the most part. This provides the dual sensation of guilt at not being ultra-careful, and the relief of not being ultra-careful. In the end, it’s just a toss-up. I dread my next weigh-in at the doctor’s office. I am frustrated over lack of energy. I suppose I am not doing myself any real favors by not building my health with only the best foods, as I have a demanding job taking care of the two little boys I have here at home. I would serve them, and myself better, by keeping my carbohydrates low and cutting out the sugar. I know better, but I have been unable to find the mental drive to stick to it. I had a much higher drive this time last year, when I was pregnant with my 10 month old. I think I am just weary these days. I also know this is my last baby, and I wonder if the discomfort and strain of a strict diet and heavy exercise routine is worth it at this late hour. I have my work cut out for me in a couple months though, that’s for sure.

I am always flying so high after I have a baby. I am delighted with the new little life, and enjoying the compliments of how well I am doing with a brand new one, and how ‘good’ I look, (it’s all relative of course, as most people here haven’t ever seen me when I was NOT pregnant!). I do well for about the first month. After a month or so, reality sets in. The sleep deprivation starts to take its toll, and the fact that I still look better in maternity clothes is getting desperately old! It’s a rough time I don’t look forward to.

I am a good one for excuses too. “I’ll start Monday”…is a classic. Yet Monday after Monday has come and gone without the desired fire in my gut to do the things I know I should!

At any rate, these things are neither here nor there at the moment. I am trying to remember that as much as I am uncomfortable, tired, weary, sore, or short of breath…it is the last time I will feel the kicks and jabs of my child within. That it is the last time I will smile, or roll my eyes, at yet another set of hiccups that throb away in my womb like a ticking nerve. I long for the end, yet I feel nostalgia as well.

I am still a little panicked about labor. It hasn’t been long enough for me to forget the agony of childbirth. I haven’t had time to mentally gloss over the details since the last, so I am acutely aware of what I have to go through yet. Although, here again, I have little to complain about…my last labor lasted three and a half hours!! Some women will hate me for that! I really can’t complain…well, not much anyway.

Even as I write these random thoughts, the baby is hiccupping away. I wish I could put a face, or better, a gender to the movements within, but, as with my last baby, this one was distinctly uncooperative during the ultrasound, and it’s gender will be left to surprise us at the last possible moment. My husband thinks it’s a boy…as boys are pervasive in his family. I think he’d like a girl. I don’t know for sure what I want either way, as there are pros and cons to either! The truth is, I want a healthy child, sound of body and mind. The rest is cake.
I have blogged on enough for now. I am just throwing out random thoughts, none of which are life-altering or profound. It’s just nice to be writing.

On Writing

I sit here staring at the cursor blinking in its unassuming rhythm. It is mindless of the turmoil the blank screen and its very relentless presence cause me. I have a forum, a blank slate, a free ticket to write to my heart’s content, and I am sitting here blocked before I even begin! Of course, the very fact that these words appear here, in this small space, defies the meaning of them. So I am now writing…about not writing. I am filling the page with strung together characters that describe the act of doing just that!

The truth is, how many ‘writers’, aspiring writers perhaps, find themselves in just such a predicament? How to make this little ‘blurb’ riveting or informative, or just interesting enough to entice you to read a little farther? I am so inexperienced in writing I barely know where to begin. I am tempted to begin somewhere in the middle of a scene, some random slice of mystery and intrigue to which I am not responsible for filling in the blanks, answering the tough questions, developing the characters, or even answering the basic five W’s. Would this be a cardinal sin of writing? Let’s defy the rules of convention and try just such an exercise.

“Naked and shuddering he felt the icy fingers of the cold air brushing over his flesh, raising random goosebumps and sending tiny shivers along individual hairs across his feverish body. Was it dark? It seemed as though it must be, but was it just that his eyes were closed? He couldn’t even tell if they were open or not. He felt disconnected and disoriented and tried to pattern his thoughts into a logical format. Eyes. His eyes. Could he feel them at all? Concentrating, he began to notice throbbing pain. His impressions, though hazy, were becoming rapidly distinct. He noticed a rough cold surface against his face; he was lying down, curled onto his side, on pavement. Darkness? Yes, it was night, he located the muscles responsible for his eyelids and managed to twitch one open slightly. There was a dim outline of a dumpster. The effort at sight was more than enough to tax his resources. He shut his eye again. Concentrating instead on what he could hear, he strained against the pain beginning to flood across his body to listen to the sounds of the night around him. There, a dog barked in the distance. No cars were passing by. There was a rattle of a tin can being dropped or kicked across a distant alley, the sound echoing lightly. His fingernails stung. They felt jagged, torn, and raw. He was thirsty. He wished he could take back that thought. The instant he realized it, it became an all-consuming obsession. He needed water! Where was he? Who was he? What had happened to him?”

Yes. Those are all good questions, and I do not have the answers to them! Was he mugged? A spy? A criminal? Was he inherently good, or intrinsically bad? Do you get the impression he is an innocent victim, or that his misfortune is the result of his own poor choices? I prefer to throw out these little scenes for which I can describe the details and create the mood…yet leave the plot for someone else! Perhaps I lack the commitment to see a larger project through. Perhaps I don’t have the confidence to feel I can adequately flesh out such a story.

Does one begin at the beginning, or find their way in from the middle somewhere? I wish I had the story all laid out in my mind. “X” meets “Y” they interact in the following defined relationship, learn “Z” and there you are, a nice tidy story. Do I rush out and invest my time and energy in ‘Creative Writing 101’, ‘Writing for Dummies’, or crash-courses in grammar, language arts, and plot development? Or do I feel my way out of the scene and see what happens, relying on whatever natural talent and raw ability I may or may not possess? Can I make you smell, hear, taste, feel and be there? Yes, I am confident of that. Can I tell you why you are smelling, hearing, tasting, feeling or being? Not so sure. I can throw you in the cab of a dusty pickup and jostle you across a rutted dirt road, but where does it lead, and for goodness’ sake, why are you in such a hurry in the first place? Or better yet, drop you into a worn Adirondack chair on a weathered porch overlooking a lake as still as glass with the sun rising across the water and the loons calling forlornly through the light mist across the lake. The question is, why are you up so darned early? It’s all a mystery to me, yet I am supposed to be the omnipotent ‘creator’ of such things…if I don’t have the answers, from whence shall they come? It is a disturbing thing to be a writer without a story…a purveyor of prose with no more than a one-dimensional image to offer.

So…that being said, the goal is to try to get from A to Z and fill in the gaps in the middle with life altering, riveting and incredibly well written prose. That sounds like a piece of cake…sure, if you’re Dean Koontz, Patricia Cromwell, John Grisham, or any other number of incredibly prolific and talented writers. In the meantime, I will blog, blog, and blog away until I learn this craft. You’re welcome to come along for the ride!

A Day in the Life...with a TWO-YEAR OLD

Today was one of those days that makes you contemplate your significance as a parent.

The day began with a rousing round of game show-like enthusiasm with "How many ways can I knock a baby over?" (I'll take "Baby Torture" for a thousand Alex...) Followed by baking banana muffins with mom...(and when she takes them out of the oven and turns her back, the TWO-YEAR OLD will bite the tops off a dozen.) These two entertaining activities are followed by a lively carnival-like game known as 'Whack-a-Ben', fun for TWO-YEAR OLD, not so fun for nine-month-old Ben.

Once we have all recovered from these simple games of giggles and grins, (or terror and tears, depending on which side you're on), and TWO-YEAR OLD is settled for a 'time-out' in his room to contemplate the universe...you realize the silence is eerily reminiscent of the calm in the eye of a hurricane. With dread you put down the battered infant on your lap (for which you are rewarded with instant ear-splitting screams of terror that the torture is about to resume), and go to find the TWO-YEAR OLD...sitting on the change table. The first thing you notice, is the odor. Dried, dessicated fish bits. MMMMmmm. Just wanted to feed the fish mom...so says the TWO-YEAR OLD with at least a half a cup of fish bit food all over the change table. The odor is unpleasant at best. Thankfully you have intervened right before the fishy-feast began.

Fine. Thank goodness for stock in the Hoover hand-vac company. The fish food now has bits of fuzz to add to it's nutritional value and interest. Lucky fish. Gourmet meals now.

The day progresses, unbelievably slowly, towards its inevitable end. During that time the TWO-YEAR OLD has pushed his chair over to the kitchen, opened a bag of pretzels, and enticed the crawling infant out onto the back porch for a sampling of salty death-sticks. The infant, covered in rock salt and rubbing his eyes, is both delighted and horrified by the new experience. Thank goodness for the hand-vac...again. Bye-bye pretzels, whereas fuzz is fine for the fish, it's not so fun in the pretzels.

Speaking of eating...it brings us to dinner time. With both children crying for food you try to prepare dinner and assure them that they will not starve before it's ready. Once it is ready, you are confronted by the stubborn will of your 9 month old who will no longer allow you to feed him. He is on a hunger strike. Give him the spoon, or give him death. You relent. You regret it. You hose off the high chair in the backyard afterwards, and hose off the infant in the tub too. There will be far more baths around here from now on. Your kitchen floor will never know such ups and downs again.

These activities are followed by the standard...dump the toy boxes...all of them. Empty the laundry baskets...stand on the chair and spit-wash your infant brother's hair...eat only chicken off your plate for dinner, play 'bulls eye' with your broccoli...and knock over dad's full glass of soda pop in the living room with your big yellow happy face ball. (Yes, that IS an outside toy.) Fight about the potty...relent, sit on the potty with the bubble-gun...and when mom runs out to pick up the crying baby who has fallen over from walking along the coffee table (again), build a pile of bubbles a foot and a half deep on the rug.

Your nine-month old helps himself to a nutritious dessert of MOSS from your artificial plant out on the porch, and your TWO-YEAR OLD bounces all his plastic toys off the baby's head. All is well in toddler-land. It's hard to contemplate the arrival of the next baby in just a few short weeks...the thought is staggering and the baby leaps in devilish anticipation as I slowly stare with glassy-eyed indifference at the toys strewn about the room.

Bedtime is in one minute...mom will then have a long bath, read a book and go to bed. I'm leaving the baby monitor off.

Big Bug Blog

It was a big bug. In fact, my usual repertoire of imaginatively descriptive words would only serve to relegate this truth to cartoon-ish qualities. I am forced then, to assure you in the simplest of terms that the bug was indeed big. Nor is the fact that I have stated this truth in the past tense to be considered with the relief that a permanent, and especially fatal, solution was applied. It is merely that time has passed. It was a big bug, and, wherever it is, it is still a big bug.

It never ceases to amaze me that with all my intelligence, education, and poise, I am reduced to the stereotypical lady-on-the-chair shrieking, mentally, if not in reality, at the sight of the scurrying and unassuming critter darting along a dusty baseboard. To carry this deeply troubling flaw even further, I do not even share the bravery often exhibited by said chair-hopping screamers, to grab a broom and attempt to smash the offending creature from sight. I simply freeze.

Perhaps it is the fact that the large insect has chosen to do the same. After an initial scuttling flight of a few inches upon being unceremoniously caught in the light, it stands its ground and stares back. Thus begins the psychological battle to which I inevitably fall prey.

We begin the showdown of ‘who blinks first’, which is ridiculous since I am sure that bugs, even big ones, do not possess the necessary anatomy to blink at all. Nevertheless, the battle of wills has begun. The oft stated placation that ‘it is as frightened as you’ has never carried much weight with me. These promises seem unlikely in my experience. I am convinced that it knows it has me cowed into inactivity despite my own size, which is formidable at the least, and then uses the opportunity to insure that I will not sleep the rest of the night. Nor cross into this room again without scouring the shadows for its presence for weeks to come. I jump as it flicks an antenna. It is the big-bug equivalent of saying ‘boo!’ and I react obligingly with a gasp, hammering heart and cold sweat. The battle continues since I have made no move to reach for either a broom, or a wad of tissue.

I continue to stare in horrified fascination, unable to tear my eyes from its well-muscled legs and shining carapace.

“I know what you did last summer” the bug's sibilant, hollow words echo in my imagination, but are no less real than if shouted at me in a big-bug voice. Of course, I immediately know to whom the bug refers. It’s cousin Lenny, its Aunt Mavis, its brother Jimmy…or worse…its mother. The ‘big bug’ I encountered in the garage, the one between me and the door to freedom. The one I engaged in a similar battle with just a few weeks previously. The battle I was disgustedly triumphant about ‘winning’ at the time.

I won that battle thanks to a nearby bottle of industrial bug killer with sufficient jetted stream of death to be effective from my otherwise useless hands. I’d watched in nauseated triumph as I primed the hose to full capacity, and let loose a stream of poison upon that bug that should have been sufficient to kill all the insects within ten square yards. As the last of the chemical drained to a mere dribble at my frozen feet, the target in question began its agonizing crawl towards death. I fled the scene of the crime as soon as it had moved from my path to freedom. Gasping for breath outside I was horrified to see it had managed to spastically crawl towards the light of the open door, dragging most of its useless limbs in a shuffling parody of Insect-Oscar-worthy death throes. Making it outside after me, I could hear its dying gasps and knew its unspoken final menacing promise.

Since that moment of my short-lived triumph, I have known the day of reckoning would arrive. As sure as the hair on the back of my neck is standing straight at this moment, I know that to be the case. This big bug cousin, nephew, brother, son, stares me down defiantly. Perhaps my time to pay hasn’t yet arrived, but he knows where I live, and he’ll be back with reinforcements. I back out of the room slowly, never breaking eye-to-eyes contact. I may have gained my freedom now, but my life is irrevocably tainted.

I return to bed, brushing violently at wisps of hair that fall across my cheek, and twitching and scratching my arms uncontrollably. I feel so violated. I sleep under the covers, with the light on. I check my slippers on waking before attempting to retrieve the paper. I peer suspiciously into the mailbox before reaching in to check for mail. I feel unseen eyes upon me. The electrical shrill whine of the cicadas in the trees outside my house seem to grow in strength whenever I venture from my front door, reaching metal cutting intensity. The quality of my life is forever changed. It would have been better if, standing on the proverbial chair, I had been able to grab the broom and whack with sufficient force to add big-bug jr. to my list of conquests. Perhaps my reputation would then have carried back to the colony that I was not to be reckoned with. Instead, in a few moments of frozen hesitation, I have ensured many sleepless nights and a vague sense of unease that will follow me wherever I go and whatever I do from now until I can make a stand.

The bug was big. But beyond that…I was small. For that, I will pay dearly.