When I had one baby, people would ask me, “How’s it going?”  “Isn’t it a change?”  “Don’t you just love being a mother?”

When I had another baby, people would question, “How’s it going?” – a bit more concern – “It’s different with two kids, huh?”  “How do you get anything done?”

And now that I have yet another baby, I get about one question.  “How are you doing?”  Mostly said with a great deal of concern coming from the furrowed brows of the asker.  It’s like there’s a secret club for people who have more kids than there are adults in the household, but they don’t tell you what it’s really like until you’re initiated, and then there’s no going back.

I have two responses:  “It’s okay – crazy, but good, you know … ” for the folks who don’t really want to know.

The others get the more honest:  “Three kids is a lot of kids.”

The nice thing is that it comes in degrees (for me, at least:  no multiple births around here).  When I had the first baby, I heard the typical:

– sleep when the baby sleeps (uh: we have no sleeping babies in this house.  Still)

– don’t try to get things done

– just be happy being in bed with the baby

– rest and take care of yourself

Yeah.  Whatever.  I could still get things done:  that was the problem.  When he slept, I could bustle about and be productive — just like I used to be.  When the second little man came, I could still pretend to get things done, but the list had slowly started to change.  Working from home?  Tried that:  no go.  Planning meetings in the evening?  Why do that when I could meet with a book in bed?

And now my list of Things I’d Like To Do has been so whittled down that a productive day looks like:

• wake before children or at least try to keep them from waking each other up (I’m looking at you, Mr. 5am riser Abe)
• figure out something to throw into the mouths of the baby birds (which are WIDE open – minemineminemine)
• corral people into clothes that they won’t throw tantrums over
• change diapers
• replace diapers and wipes (which disappear faster than candy around here.  Really:  we still have candy from a parade in July – ugh)
• figure out some activity that we can all do when one wants to play slap jack, the other is very obviously placing a book in my lap, and the third wants to eat/cuddle/sleep in my arms/be anywhere except the bouncy seat/high chair/rocking chair/cradle/any sort of contraption meant to entertain her so a human doesn’t have to
• lather.rinse.repeat.  Throw in a quiet time that no one takes, and that’s the day’s activities.

Wow.  Very different from the single life, or the dating life, or the young married life, or even the mother of one life.

I told the Hubby tonight, “I’m not intending to complain.  Really.  I know this is just a phase of life.  But man:  I’m tired, and I haven’t done anything.”

It’s 8:52.  And quiet.  Three hair cuts have been given in the last hour, four people have been bathed, and I’m feeling like I actually got something done.  But the boys would say we got lots done:  we read Truckery Rhymes and Millie’s Magnificent Hat  and the Magic School Bus Blows Its Top multiple times, we listened to a Dan Zane’s cd over and over, we ate pear chips and homemade granola bars, we examined the latest Lego Club magazine, and we spent time sitting with Boo trying to make her smile.  In the Type A world, it’s hard to put those things on the Productive List, but fortunately I’m too tired and floopy to be Type A … much.

TEN

• fingers and toes that the boys adore on a certain Little Miss
• times we remind people about “PERSONAL SPACE!  GIVE SOME PERSONAL SPACE!”  and “GENTLE!!!!” as they try to embark in Community Bouncy Seat Time
• minutes:  time it took for the Mama to fall asleep watching NCIS, even though she’d been waiting to watch it All.Day.Long. and was giggling during those few minutes, but the pull of sleep was too strong

NINE

• pounds – our next goal for weight (some to get to, some to lose+)
• o’clock:  time it feels acceptable to head to bed – any earlier just feels socially wrong, like drinking before noon

EIGHT

• average loads of laundry per week

SEVEN

• ty times seven – number of times Abe says “NO!”, stomps his foot, and engages in his Rights as a Toddler and the Mama engages in her Rights to Enforce Time Out (which isn’t so effective while stuck in the nursing chair)

SIX

• average hour everyone, and I mean *everyone*, is awake … and being fed … and dressed … with beds made (sigh)

FIVE

• different places people find a place to slumber in our rotating bed situation (Mama moves into Boo’s room to help her sleep, Abe moves into Mama’s room cause he can, Mama moves out of Boo’s room into Abe’s room to get some space, JJ and Hubby snore on)
• days between library visits induced by the guilt of knowing we’re taking up *that* much space on the shelf as the holds keep pouring in

FOUR

• times we’ve been to church, i.e. “Pass the Baby while Mama drinks coffee and gets to speak in complete sentences and use higher levels of thinking” time
• o’clock:  the hour in which the Mama is so grateful for friends bringing hot dinner and freezer meals – who knew a loaf of freshly baked bread could make a person weepy?

THREE

• fingers that bled when the Mama got tired of being clawed while nursing and clipped Little Miss’s fingernails
• hundred million pounds of guilt the Mama feels at the scabs on the fingers
• carseats to deal with:  that’s a lot of clipping and buckling

TWO

• big brothers who can’t get enough of their darling little sister (although they’re kinda done with each other)
• hours on average of consecutive sleep I get a night
• small people who are not having their needs met at any given time
• diaper-wearers, although we’re going to whittle that number down quickly (if possible)
• arms the Mama no longer has much time to use for things other than holding small people

ONE

• purple pacifier spit out in our general direction
• show on hulu watched per night:  working through Glee, Defying Gravity, Stargate Universe, Dollhouse, and planning a Battlestar Galactica binge someday soon
• month down with five members of the house
• chest that is the favorite place for a Little Miss to slumber
• tired, contented-in-a-weird-way Mama who knows wants to enjoy what she can, because this, too, shall pass

Did you know that I never thought I’d use those words together:  ”Darling” and “Daughter”?  Not that I didn’t think that you’d be darling, although we were a bit worried when you wouldn’t show us your profile during your last ultrasound, but instead smashed your face as far away from Dr. Tami’s picturewand as possible.  No, I never thought that I’d be a mama, much less a mama to someone who had the same bits’n'pieces as me:  yes, they’re complicated, and no, I still don’t know how or why everything works.  As evidenced by yesterday.

Because yesterday I gave birth to you.  Naturally.  And by naturally, I mean without the use of the Happy Machine, aka epideral.  First, on purpose, thinking, “Hmm, let’s see what this whole non-medicated birth experience is like”.  Then, once the “holy crap, this really hurts, I don’t wanna do this any more pleaseandthankyou” set in, on accident, because, see, you wanted to come into the world.  Right.  Then.

It all started Sunday night.  Well, it started a while ago, but I don’t think you want to hear the “When a man and a woman love each other” talk that a friend of mine loved to give.  But on Sunday night I had this strange urge to clean and tidy:  strange because it was my list of things to do on Monday, but this sudden desire of “I need to get these things done NOW” set in, so I bustled around doing laundry and paying bills and wiping down the kitchen and all other manner of Type A Dren activities.  Then when I went to lay down for bed, the contractions set in.  Not abnormal:  nightly fakers have been happening for a while now.  But these felt … different.

So we had a talk.  ”Boo, this is not a good time.  Your dad has work to get done tomorrow, and he also has a horrible case of The Oak and is going to be treated in the morning.  Your brother starts school on Wednesday, Grandmom had things going on Tuesday, and I’d like to go to Bible Study on Thursday.  You know what?  My schedule is clear on Friday.  I know I’ve prayed for you to come, but really:  I can wait until Friday.  So let’s wait, okay?”  And in response there was a very tight, uncomfortable “sqeeeeze”.  Here we go.

I got up and started cleaning more:  unloading the dishwasher, taking care of emails, making more lists of Things For Grandmom to Know While Watching Da Boys Even Though She Already Knows Everything But It Makes Me Feel Better, etc.  Your father woke up to take his four-hour dose of Benadryl (as requested by me because he’s so much more pleasant when not constantly scratching) and asked what I was doing.  ”I think I’m in labor.  Contractions have been every ten minutes for the past few hours.  So I futzing around and reading up on “When You Need to Go to the Hospital”.  I refuse to go into major labor now:  this can wait until the morning, so you can go back to sleep.  I didn’t want to wake you so you can get some rest.  Can you rest?”  ”Yep.”  And back he trundled to bed.  He did sleep.  I wore myself out by two, or at least enough to sleep through the gut squeezes, and woke up three hours later when your father was re-Benadryling and Calamine Lotioning (it’s been a fun few days around our house, let me tell you).

“Should I call your Mom?”

“Yep.”

Pushes buttons.  ”Good morning.  Yes, she’s in labor.  Okay, see you in a bit.”

And we were off and running.  I took That Last Shower, cleaned up, bustled around more – lists, packing, etc.  Because I’m a Melancholy personality type, and we plan for EVERYTHING.  You’ll find out.  Hope it doesn’t smoosh your free-wheeling style:  I think I can factor that into my plannings.  :)

So the contractions were coming fast, but I was determined to a) wait for Grandmom and 2) have a normal morning with your brothers, minus the very concentrated moaning I would emit every few minutes.  Your father was a bit concerned, but I wanted.my.oatmeal.  So Grandmom came, we headed off, listening to a podcast of the Splendid Table that your father tried to talk to me about later that evening and I commented that for some reason, I didn’t really hear what Lynn Rosetto Casper had said:  I was a bit distracted.

We got to the hospital, wheeled upstairs, and got settled in the exact same room I had been in last at the Birth Center (your oldest brother was born at the “Old” hospital where I got to watch Fox students walk from their dorms to class and was really hopeful that the windows were tinted or if they heard my labor yowlings, would use that as a really effective message of Why To Have Safe Sex).  I had planned on doing my usual “Hospital Gown Modeling” photo, but somehow that didn’t happen.  Because I couldn’t stop contracting.  And that’s not a picture you can go back and recreate later.  Oh well.

The rest is kind of a haze, which is a good thing, because I do remember thinking, “I don’t know why women give birth naturally more than once:  what crazy pills are they on, and I don’t know that I want any.”  Things I remember:

Being poked six times before getting an IV hook-up to work – apparently my veins roll and/or collapse.  Kinda like my resolve about that point.  The nurse apologized over and over.  Your dad almost passed out:  something he’s never experienced.  Something about taking Benadryl for four days, not sleeping much for six days, and only eating cereal for breakfast caught up with him.  That’s why I wanted my oatmeal:  much more of a stick-with-ya factor.

Praying to God, “Pleasepleaseplease”.  When you’re in a bad place, Anne Lamott says that’s the best prayer.

Getting an IV in and being able to get off of my back (ugh) and up into a squatting position, the only thing that’s felt comfortable with you.  I had bad sciatic pain in labor with your brothers, hence the drugs.  But this time I had a talk with God about how I’d really like to know that my body can do this, that I have this image of being a physical wimp and would love a redeeming experience.  So apparently He went above and beyond granting my desire cause I couldn’t have gotten drugs even if I wanted to:  there was no time.

Thinking (and apparently verbalizing out loud, oops) that if your dad was going to pass/crap out on me that I was having drugs.  See, I couldn’t do it on my own:  we wanted to do this as a team.  So often I do things on my own:  ”It’s fine, I’ll take care of it” will probably be on my gravestone (as opposed to your Granddaddy, which Grandmom says will say, “I didn’t do it/It’s not my fault”.  We’re very gracious in our family, as you’ll find out ).  But nothing would de-tense me except the calm, verbal reminders of your Dad:  ”Breathe.  Take it down.  Unclench your face/jaw/hands/toes.”  And I would.  As much as I could.

In the words of A Knight’s Tale (which was going to be the movie I wanted to watch while killing time waiting for contractions to pick up:  HA!):  ”Pain.  Lots of pain.”  Ugh.  Labor.  Hurts.  Which I knew, but I didn’t know.  The nurses told me to let them know when I was going to push, because while they could deliver a baby on their own, they liked to have Dr. Tami around to catch her.  I remember a nurse saying that to me, word for word, three times.  And each time I was pushing, thinking, “Um, I can’t tell you that I’m pushing because I’m busy PUSHING.”  And they aren’t kidding when it’s TheIntenseDesireToPush.  Because logically I did not want to:  it hurt.  But nothing was going to stop that bearing down instinct.  Ugh.

That I don’t like pushing.

Dr. Tami wearing a really nice dress and having a new haircut, and wanting to tell her, but I couldn’t make any of the words coming out of my mouth sound nice or conversational, but mostly desperate please, groans, or fairly instructional directions.  She tried to joke with me, and I was glad that she knew the difference between Dren-at-an-Appointment and Crazy-Dren-in-Labor.

Grabbing the bar, feeling your head come out, hearing words of praise, thinking, “But her shoulders still have to come out, and they’re wider than her head, and I’M DONE.”  I pleaded to be done; your dad got teary.  I heard the nurses and Tami joking:  apparently your head poked out, you opened your head, and started looking around like, “What’s going on?”  No cries or alarm:  cause you’ve heard me yell a plenty, just usually preceded with a “JJ!” or “ABE!”  And a few of the longest.moments.ever. you came out.  They were so happy; I was simply done.

Not getting to be done.  Because while you came out really quickly (well, quickly according to the people who did not give birth to you), the bits and pieces that were supposed to come out afterwards did not.  And it hurt more than labor.  Which was saying something.  I reached my limit:  I simply wanted to hug you and cuddle you and call you George like the WB Abominable Snowman, but they wanted to push and pull and do horribly painful things to me.  I admit that I cried:  I felt like a toddler pleading with adults that I couldn’t do anymore but being treated like, “Oh, you’re just tired.”  I almost kicked Dr. Tami out of sheer reaction of “Leave me alone”:  instincts are crazy things.  After getting an OB in the room, having some pitocin (ugh), and hearing a nurse say “Let’s just pray that this just comes right out”, I thought, “Hmm, this is a bigger deal than I realize” and “Oh.  Right.  God.  Prayer”.

Again, with the “pleasepleaseplease” and “thankyouthankyouthankyou” when it all finally came out, people stopped poking and prodding so much, and we got to snuggle.

You are lovely, little girl.  Ten fingers – long fingernails.  Ten toes – none webbed (sorry, Unca Matt).  LOTS of black hair.  I remember someone commenting on that, and when seeing it the first time, me saying, “Oh, Gran’s gonna cry.”  Cause you looked like I did:  eskimo baby – all black hair and red red skin.  You and me and Abe will be hiding out in the shade while Dad and JJ run around in the beach without sunscreen, getting all tan and skin-cancery.

You nurse like a champ:  1hr. 15min. with the first go.  You love to snuggle.  Your cry hasn’t warmed up to full potential yet, methinks.  You like to use me as a human pacifier, which is okay while we’re on “vacation”, but honey, we got boys to take care of when we get home, so this eating thing will be more functional than luxury – for both of us.  Nights and days are mixed up, but hey:  who doesn’t love the night life? (love to boogie?).  Fluids and solids go in and come out in all the right ways.

People have come to visit, love, adore, and bless you.  No matter what you may ever think, know that you are a prayed for, wanted, planned, loved blessing from above, and we are so happy that you came to join us in these crazy trips around the sun.  I love you, Darling Daughter.

Love, Ma

So I’m taking some initiative in my library holds by getting music as well as books (so many books – they had to set aside my pile in my own “section” last time.  Rock on.).  This way the kids can listen the heck out of the cd, but oops:  it has to go bu-bye.  And:  I try to get music that’s *not* available at my library so on the off chance that I actually let them frolic about merrily in the children’s section and they come across a beloved listen, I don’t have to be The Big Mean Mama or the Passive-Aggressive “Fine, Check it out, and I’ll resent you for it everytime it’s played” Martyr Mama (I’m good at both).

This week:  Blast Off.  From the Salem Library.  A little more honkey tonk than I was expecting, but this afternoon totally redeemed anything that makes my n0-country-in-this-household sensor go off.

I heard the strains of some familiar tune, but continued on with my work.  Then I heard JJ repeat it.  Again.  And Again.  Finally removing the earbuds from my ears, I realized what it was and did a little jig (as much as I can jig these days) – a cover from my favorite childhood/maybe allhood movie of all time: “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”.  Funny thing is I don’t think JJ has seen the movie all the way through, but for some reason, he *knew* this was a song he needed in his life.

Is this due to nature?  Or nurture?  I don’t really care because a vegetable isn’t singing it.

*[And yes, I've heard from other parents, in rather condescending tones, "Oh, we don't *allow* that kind of music in the house.  My child only likes jazz/classical/U2/Nora Jones/African tribal drum circles."  Bully for you.  Doesn't really help me feel better in my current circumstances, does it?  Sometimes we can't control everything that comes into the house.  And when your child discovers Barney or Yo Gabba Gabba, I'll try to empathize, since my natural smirk is probably about as helpful as those comments.]

• “When are you due?”
• “Wow:  you still haven’t had that kid?”
• “Any day now, right?”
• “Geez:  you sure are stickin’ out there.”
• “You must be *so* ready to be done with this.”
• “Wow:  she’s about to pop!”
• “And you really don’t have a name picked out yet?”
• “Mon-kee!  Mon-kee!” – which is actually Abe asking me to read a Cookie Monster book to him.  For the fifth time in a row.

So yes:  I’m still waddling in my neck of the woods, and I’m actually quite fine with that.  At night, when I’m having contractions (both wimpy preppers and the real take-my-breath-away-aw-crap-this-is-gonna-hurt ones), I may think, “Hmm:  tomorrow would be a nice day to have a baby.  Then I won’t have to …” [insert:  do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, clean up the ever-present crumbs, deal with preschool orientation, take one more deep breath while dealing with my toddler].

And every morning I wake up and realize:  “Hmm, it’s not today.  That’s okay, now I can …” [take the boys to the Coffee Cottage for a play date, get dressed up for Bible study, clean and organize and clean some more, enjoy more hours of consistent sleep than I will for a while, not have an excruciatingly sore bum].

I’m not surprised that she’s not here, honestly.  True, the due date’s September 19th/20th:  a week + to go.  If she followed the ways of her brothers, she would’ve come today, though:  Abe – 11, JJ – 12, Hubby – 13.  Makes it easier for me to remember birthdays, although months and years get tricky.    No, see, Hubby and I know this one is our free spirit:  she’s a girl, she’s the youngest, and she’s going to do just whatever she wants (methinks the bossing will come from the youngest up).  The boys felt ready to come:  pushing and stretching and making me really uncomfortable.  So far Boo and I have worked out a mostly-agreeable symbiosis (minus the sciatic pain:  nothing like the feel of randomly touching an electric fence shoot from your bum to your toes):  I have occasional bouts of insomnia, I have only recently had to pee every hour, I’ve been able to sit without feeling like I needed a lift to get my stomach out of my lap.

I haven’t hit the miserable point yet, and until I reach that, I don’t think she’ll come.  I remember sitting in Abe’s room, in the rocker, looking over at the stocked closet and the cradle all ready to go, praying, pleading, “Pleeeease come!  Please!  There’s no reason to stay in there!  Outside has so much more room!  And look:  you have presents!  To use!  And play with!  Come play with them already!”  Part of me would like to hit the miserable point so she will maybe recognize, “Uh oh:  pushing the host a little to far.  Vacate before she gets drastic!”  But then a real contraction hits, and putting off labor another day doesn’t sound so bad.

This tune may change as I see the forecast for this weekend, and if she doesn’t want to comply, then maybe we’ll just try a “practice run” of labor.  I’m sure the Birthing Center wouldn’t mind. 

Nope, I’m not that miserable, unless it’s 2am, and I have to physically flop from one side to the other before rolling out of bed and hobbling to the bathroom to pee and then realizing I’ll be awake at this time, but for longer periods of time, for many months.  And then despair does sink in.  But not for long:  my bladder holds not-a-lot, then it’s waddling and flopping back to sleep.

It’s not your job to tell me what Abe is doing.

Abe, knock it off.

Boo is due September 19th-ish.  The boys were due around the same day-date, and they came a week-ish early, but she’s a girl, so she’ll do whatever she wants.

Yes, she may come early.  But I’m mentally preparing myself for an October due date.  Stop rolling your eyes at me, Dr.  Tami.

Use.Your.Words.  Howling is not considered a word.

Ow.  Fake contraction, but still:  ow.

No, we don’t have a name.  Yes, that suggestion is great:  I’ll run it by the fam when I get a chance …

No more Elmo At the Orchestra:  Elmo needs a break.  Or Mama’ll need a drink, and she can’t have one of those for a while.

[Shaking belly]:  WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!!!?

Ow:  real contraction.  Sorry.

It’s only 7:30am.  I’m not talking about Screen Time Plans for the day right now.

Please stop smashing the cherry tomatoes into your shirt:  no, it’s not a tie-dye method.

You just ate an hour ago:  I’m not prepared to talk about snack time right now.

Way to poop in the toilet!

Shhhhhh.

You just ate a half hour ago.  I’m not ready to talk about lunch yet.

No, I’m not opposed to pink:  I just think there should be an appreciation of colors *beyond* pink for girls – girls can wear blue, too.

You can tell me I don’t have cankles, but you can’t tell me I don’t have *self-perceived* cankles:  don’t take that away from me.

It was a day.

I’m glad you have room for one more foods in your tummy:  we’ll get that in tomorrow morning.  For now:  go.to.bed.

But I realize I’m not doing that in return.  If you asked me right now, I’d say the same:  it’s so much to say.  Snippets are all you’re going to get.

– We celebrated Abe’s 2nd birthday.  A couple of times.  And he’s OH so two – complete with tantrums, bright smiles, hitting, and bi-polar moods.  Right on target.

– One afternoon while we were fixing JJ’s bleeding toes, Abe slit his head open outside on the bbq.  Nothing like coming outside to see your shirtless child gushing blood from the head.  If I didn’t go into labor then, I’m good until September.   Eight staples later, and we’re back in business.  (Staples removed by Granddaddy because my doctor, who apparently LOVES removing staples, was going to be out of town, and she didn’t want to give anyone else in her practice the pleasure of taking them out, so she sent us home with the removal device.  Good times).

– We crashed at the Grand’rents new digs:  highly approve.  Busted out Unca Matt’s old school legos:  the Black Monarch’s Castle will live again!

– Hubby’s folks came to town:  lots of food and conversation and water tables and sprinklers and baths.

– It got hot:  bloody hot.  But the heat and a local conference coincided.  Correction:  the heat and a local conference with childcare and air conditioning coincided.  Nuff’ said.

– Went to the beach:  cold.  Came back:  hot.  Not good for the preggo mama to try to acclimate that quickly.  Managed fine when living in the heat, but my body moved into autumn mode and is none too happy to be back in sticky summer.  We’re working through it with lots of pudding and crystal light (not-so-much a toxin-free pregnancy for this girl).

– I have no more space in my body for this child.  But her lease isn’t up for another seven-ish weeks.  I feel like the room Alice was stuck in after drinking the bottle and swelling up to be ginormous:  poor room.

– Next week:  VBS for one tyke.

– Following week:  shipping the kids off, going to camp.  High school camp.  That I’m leading some kids through.  And hanging out with.   Until mandatory lights out at 1am.  Then meeting with leaders in the morning.  7ish.  For like 8 days.  No Memory Foam Mattress Topper in sight, but we will have easy access to an abundance of squeaky cheese.  Yeah, we’ll see how that goes.

The other week I told someone that I just have to get through camp, then I can breathe.  They looked at me.  “Okay, fine, so it will be more labor breathing, but whatever.”

For Abe’s birthday Unca Matt got him the latest cool thing/monstrosity on the market:  Broby from Yo Gabba Gabba.  I just checked out the video from the library:  it’s like preschool crack – my children talk about it non-stop.  And they dance.  You’d think I’d relate and enjoy more, what with being the embodiment of a Party in the Tummy, but somehow it’s not connecting while they blast that and I try to drown it out with my current read: “The Hole in our Gospel” by the president of World Vision … I’m sure there’s parallels between the two somewhere ….

It’s funny how I don’t remember things from pregnancy to pregnancy.  I’ve heard countless mothers say the same thing, but I always thought, “How could you forget such an amazing, precious, life-transforming thing?”  And then I tell Hubby:  “This kid has so many more hiccups than the boys!” to which he responds, ‘Uh uh, Abe had a lot of them, too.”

Really?  Honestly, I don’t believe him, but my shrinking pregnant brain is in no shape to argue.  Although I did manage to find some small bit of lucidity to defend my position that “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty is *not* alternative radio material, even though I heard it on our local alternative station.  Don’t question my understanding of the Tom Petty cultural phenomenon or my ability to quote “Grosse Pointe Blank”:  you’ll get a beat-down.

I used to be floored that my mom couldn’t remember what year my brother was born, or would flip our birth dates (24, 26).  And now people, like the children’s pastor at a church we were visiting a few months ago, ask, “How old is JJ?”  To which I respond, “Oh, 5.”  “Um, then he needs to be in the 5’s class.”  “Oh, I’m sorry.  He’s really 4.5, but both my kids like to act at least six months older than their age.”  Yeah, step away from the crazy pregnant lady.

The only thing I can remember about the in utero boys is that JJ wedged his boot in my right rib cage – a LOT – , and Abe stuck his butt out, stretching my stomach to the point that I thought it would rip and reenact one of my mama’s most favoritist scenes from a movie (she was a lot more selective about what movies she would see with my father after that one ).  And the boys both moved:  a LOT.

So far this little one doesn’t have any trademark moves except for the regular hic.hic.hic.hic and the nightly Zoomba sessions.  That, and seemingly not liking to be touched or talked to:  more than once she’s jumped when people touch my stomach, and Hubby’s gotten a few pops to the nose when asking her what’s going on.

But she does seem to like to listen to Tom Petty.  How do I know?  Because I’ve dreamed about Tom Petty.  Twice.  And he’s on the radio a lot lately.  And I really like it.

And while I could leave you with a link to a Tom Petty song, I’m not going to.  Because while searching for the above youtube clip, I came across this.  And it makes me happy (and will be today’s homage to Mikey J:  gotta be culturally relevant).

This is my summer of craziness:  two tykes under five, one Buddha belly, and this insane determination to explore the local/sustainable/harvesting lifestyle.  Our CSA delivers a bounty of lettuce and other greens that must be worked through in seven days; I’ve hit the strawberry fields twice; our cherry tree gave buckets of fruit that have been cut, pitted, and frozen; I want to go back to the strawberries, but my Mama kindly reminds me, “Sweetie, other types of fruit are ripening.”  “Yes, Mama, but so am I.”

So then I bat my big eyelashes at Hubby as I say, “Boy, I’d really like to get blackberries, blueberries, peaches, and apples this year …”  My hubby who has the same childhood phobias of berry fields as he does of the fabric store (which I have NOT taken him to:  isn’t he glad I get my stash of yarn from Freddies?).

Each “harvesting” experience is interesting in itself, so different.  Raspberries are much kinder to my belly, getting to move up and down rather than squat and wonder if my doctor would just meet me out in the strawberry fields in September because it’s an awfully conducive place for contractions.  But I picked half as many raspberries than strawberries in the same amount of time (which is dictated by small tykes’ abilities to cope and patience for eating granola oat by oat).  But then I just washed the berries, threw them on a tray, froze them, and they’re ready to go:  no pitting, hulling, slicing, etc. (my fingers are still recouping from/protesting being make-shift cherry pitters).

So far the most consistent thing I’ve found:  once I’ve harvested, I’m ready for a break.  I don’t want to eat any strawberries or cherries:  the craving has been quenched (for the moment).  I’m still okay with raspberries, but am so ready to move on to the next thing.  Perhaps that’s what keeps the harvester going back to the fields rather than saying, “Ugh, I’m done!”  That, and true harvesters kinda hafta sorta harvest or starve.  However, I know that my teriyaki tree blooms year round, and that’s a hard one not to want to go back to over and over and over again (oh, my tree of the knowledge of good and House of Teriyaki:  how you tempt me).

I broached the idea with Hubby who immediately said, “Why?  I always had my own room.  Who would want to share?”  I, too, had my own room and *loved* it.  But our eldest’s need for alone time seems to be done within thirty minutes of falling asleep, and then he’s ready to put on his party shoes again.

Then a little Boo decided to make her presence known, and room reorgs had to happen.  I already have two scruffy roommates (at least one of them shaves on a regular/semi-regular basis depending if it’s No Shave November or not; the other one just sheds on my side of the bed) plus now a short-term renter whose 40-week lease will not be up for renewal.

We got bunks.  Yes, we are suburban IKEA web2.0ers with young boys in bunk beds.  Who woulda thunk it?  The beds were purchased and set up a while ago, and in typical fashion, we’ve been doing things in “stages”:  let JJ get used to them, move Abe to a regular bed in his room, move Abe to the bunk bed while JJ was up at the Grand’rents, and then the final installment which began on Saturday:  the boys share a room.

We had a brief bout of sharing rooms when visiting Hubby’s folks, and they did …. okay.  They fell asleep LATE, but that might have happened anyway.  The immediate benefit I noticed:  entertainment without the presence of adults.  Talking to each other.  Sharing toys.  Bossing each other around.  Trying to get the other one to do something they weren’t supposed to:  you know, all the stuff that siblinghood is about.

So Saturday night we loaded them in the room.  Abe:  delighted, jumped in the bed, pulled the sheets up, “ByEEEE”.  JJ:  “But I want to sleep on the bottom!”  Sigh.  However, they managed to entertain each other.  Until 10:15 pm.  JJ only came out of the room a few time with reports:  “I bonked my knee and it hurts.”  “Abe wanted this toy and I gave it to him.”  “We want the windows open and lights on.”  “I didn’t open the blinds, but *someone* did.”  Tears exploded only a few times.  When Hubby went to tuck the boys in after the final passout, they were continuing to share … the bottom bunk.  My response:  “I don’t care what they do, as long as I don’t have to get involved after they go in that room.”

That’s honestly my feeling.  I. Don’t. Care.  JJ gave us quite the workout training him to stay in his room and fall asleep.  Seriously.  It was training:  for us all (although Hubby did most the heavy lifting, or containing).  Every few moments, the door would creak open, or “tip toes” would be hurting running across the hall.  It was exhausting.  Abe, however, doesn’t seem to know that’s an option, and even when JJ leaves on Reporting Duty, he mostly stays in the room.  Progress!

Until 5:30am the next morning, that is, when I heard “tip toes” running through the hall and blinds being opened.  “Hubby:  Boys.Up.”  He immediately shuttled them back to bed:  Abe conked out, JJ bided his time for an hour until he could stand it no longer.  His morning report:  “Mama, I let Abe share the bottom bed with me.  And then I woke up and said, ‘Rise and shine!’  But Dad made us come back to bed:  why?”

They’re still adjusting.  JJ’s new favorite “mean thing” to say:  “I don’t want ANYONE to share MY room!”  Abe doesn’t like having quiet time in his old room, because then he might actually fall asleep, and might be a bit more pleasant (not necessarily, though).  Hubby’s dealing with the boys being loud, even if contained, for a longer period of the day.

Last night I was putting the boys to bed solo, which honestly I was dreading to a degree:  I was Reported Out.  But they fell asleep.  Both.  In a few minutes.  In their own beds.  It was so … idealistic.  It may not happen again anytime soon, but it *did* happen, and I will savor that for at least a few sleeping times to come.