My Nonnie

B

My Nonnie died today.

She wasn't a Grandma, or a Nana, or a Granny.
She was a Nonnie.
To the core.

My mom called to give me the news.
I stood in shock.
It wouldn't settle in.

The kids were screaming. The dog was spinning. Baseball was on. It wouldn't compute.

But tonight, as I settled into a hot bath after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet.
Then it set in.

I couldn't stop the tears.

Memories of her flooded me.

The way she clenched her eyes tightly closed and tilted her head back when she told a story.
How she'd do it again when she told the story the second time. Because she always did.

Then the third.


I thought of her soft fingertips tap, tap, tapping on the dining room table as she did this in a way that belonged only to her.

I thought of her walls so covered in pictures of family and nail holes from HANGING the pictures of family that you could barely see the wallpaper.
It looked like had a woodpecker for a roommate.

I thought of her love of a good republican president.
How she'd dedicated the only walls that didn't have pictures of family - The main bathroom walls - to be a place to hang THEIR pictures.


It was always strange to me to be sitting there, doing what business people do in a bathroom, and looking up to see Ronald Regan smiling down on me.
But she was proud to be an American and it showed. All over.


Nonnie loved cats.
Pictures of cats.
Cards with cats.
Clothes with cats.
Statues of cats.
But most of all - STRAY cats.
It took an entire family intervention to convince her that cats really, truly did not require a casserole sized pan of biscuits and turkey gravy every day to survive.
She was never convinced.


Nonnie was an early riser.
And she wanted everyone else to be.
We'd go to visit, drugged by jet-lag, and still she'd be banging on our doors telling us we needed to get up and eat breakfast because it was already 7:00 am - which was only 4:00am to our tired bodies.
I think she was positive that if people waited past 8:00 for breakfast they'd surely die of starvation.

If the banging on the doors didn't wake you, though, the banging of the pots and pans would.
We'd stumble out, not the slightest bit hungry, and before long would be having our mouths crammed with an 18 course breakfast.
As we gulped that down, she'd start making lunch.

No person on the face of this earth was louder (or more efficient) than Nonnie in the kitchen.

Even now, If I'm clanging around looking for a lid to a pot, Justin will say, "Hey Nonnie, do you need help?"

But she could clang and bang all she wanted because that woman could COOK.
You have never tasted a biscuit so flaky and perfect.
You've never had corn bread like Nonnie's.

I once mentioned that I liked these cookies she'd made when I was little out of ritz crackers, peanut butter and icing, and then returned later after taking a nap to see that while I'd slept she'd made literally hundreds of them.
There were pans on the counters, pans on the table....Even pans on top of the refrigerator.

Over the years she'd fed more people than you could even believe.
It was her call to fame.
She could whip up a pone of corn bread with her eyes closed.
What she couldn't do is give you the recipe, though, because she didn't have one.

I once asked her how she made her world famous hot fudge and she said,
"Oh. I don't know. I just do it"
Like it was part cocoa, part sugar, part magic.

I sometimes wondered if she REALLY didn't know, or if she just didn't want to tell because she wanted it to be something all her own.
Something no one took from her.

I thought of how many times in my life she told me she'd been praying for me.
How I knew that she had.
And hard.
How every page of her Bible had parts underlined. How the pages were bent and you knew that they'd each been read over and over.
And not just read, but LIVED.

I thought of how she rooted for me.
How she'd find ads in the Reader's Digest for becoming an illustrator and she'd cut them out and mail them to me.
The same ad every time.
Dozens of times.
No note.
No commentary.
Just an envelope and a clipping that said ,without actually SAYING, that she believed in me.

I remembered sitting at her table trembling and dreading to ask.
Just she and I in her kitchen as she stirred the soup she was cooking.
I was a single mom and I was struggling HARD to survive at the time.
Something had come up and I desperately needed money.
I didn't know who else to turn to.
"Nonnie....I need to ask you something. I hate to ask, but is there any way you can help me. I need to borrow some money...."
I held my breath waiting to see what she'd say.
Feeling ashamed for even having to ask.

She turned around with her wooden spoon still in hand, clenched here eyes, tilted her head, and said something I'll never forget.
Something that summed up my relationship with her, and the relationship I hope to have with my own grandchildren one day.

"Honey, Of course I'll help you. I'd jump in a runnin' saw mill to help save you."

Then she turned around and kept stirring.

I could go on and on.

About how she re-laminated her own kitchen floor when she was in her 80's.

About the stories I've heard of a fight between her and her second husband that involved something about burying a gun in the yard.
Something that was probably a good thing, because she had a true Irish, Murphy temper.

I'd tell about the way her skin smelled when she'd kiss you goodnight right before bed.

How as a kid I'd beg her to take her teeth out and she'd spit them out and suck them in in a way that would make me laugh and laugh and beg her to do it again.

I see her puffy permed hair and feel her soft, perfect-for-hugging body.

All my life, as my musical family has gathered, there's always been singing.
Every time, all the kids get together, with her in the middle and they sing about the River Jordan.

Nonnie sang the bass.

We'd all laugh as the low tones echoed in the room. A sound you didn't expect from an old, shrunken woman.
We younger cousins would give each other sideways glances and smiles.

Now, I know her voice will always echo in the room,
bigger than you'd ever expect,
in the empty space that will be left here that only she could fill.


Because no one will ever be able to sing Nonnie's part.

Today Heaven welcomes one of the truest saints it ever knew.
Norah Hitte-Hammonds.

She will be so VERY missed by us all.

My Nonnie, my fan, and my friend.

The Door

I woke up this morning and cried.
It was today.
The appointment was today.

And, yes, we'd talked about it.
Yes, we'd said we were done.
Yes, I know in my HEAD that I just can't have more.
It was my HEART that was the issue.

Today, Justin would get his vasectomy.

It really did have to happen. Not only am I of "advanced maternal age", but each pregnancy has been harder and harder on me physically with this last one ending in pre-eclampsia.

At first I couldn't really pinpoint why I was so upset over it. Why I felt so unsettled.
But then it hit me.
It's been a long road for me.
It's taken so much of my energy - emotional and physical - to have these children.
It's hard to settle into that that chapter in my life that I've devoted so much to, is ending.
The time of trying and hoping and holding my breath as I sit waiting in the bathroom
- Squinting my eyes to see if there are two pink lines.


"Were you trying for a boy?"

That's the number one question I get asked when I tell people we just had our fourth daughter.

No.
We weren't.
What we were doing was bringing to fruition the only dream I've ever had that really mattered.

Becoming a mother. That's what it was about.

I've thought about it for as long as I can remember.
From the time I'd stuff blankets up my shirt to make it look like I had a belly.
From the time I did photo shoots with my Cabbage Patches and then carried those photos around in my Velcro wallet.

I even planned what their names would be.

(The librarian giving me funny looks because she'd never seen an 11 year old checking out a book of baby names before.)

I always knew I wanted more than two.
Being one of only two had made me long for more siblings. I wanted a playmate.
Someone who got me unlike anyone else.
Especially since MY only sibling was a BOY that liked shooting things and drawing things on graph paper.
?
Snooze.

I dreamed of Thanksgiving tables filled with family.
Laughing and yelling to be heard and even arguing. Because that meant passion. And a family was the thing I was most passionate ABOUT.

I dreamed of traditions.
Of stairway walls lined with photos of toothless children and shots from vacations where at least one kid looked disgruntled.

I'd see a mother and her children out in public and find myself completely unable to turn away.
Taking in the subtlety of the looks that passed between them and the magic of what they were to each other.

It so overtook me, that when I found myself pregnant and single at the age of 22 and a friend of mine exclaimed,
"You can't be a mother NOW" I realized that yes I could.
I was made for it.

And mother I did.
From an apartment the size of a birdhouse.
We shared a room. We had no AC, and hardly any money - but she never missed a well-child visit. She was always clean and well-mannered. She was reading full books by the time she was three.
And when you ask Alena now what she remembers of the time when it was just me and her, she just remembers ME.
And HER.
And happiness.

That's it.

When Justin and I met, we never had that "it's all about us" phase, because it never was.
Alena was already there and therefore, we were immediately family.

A month after we got married, we sat at dinner in a crowded restaurant and decided WHY WAIT? - We were going to try for a baby then.
We knew we wanted kids, and who knew how long it would take.

And try we did.
For a year.

We tried everything.
Every convoluted idea, every herb, every theory.
I put egg whites places no egg whites should go.

It almost drove me crazy.

Then, after a year of trying,
I got pregnant.

I was ELATED.
Alena was elated.
Justin was scared. And a little deer-in-the-headlights-y.

But when I started bleeding a few weeks later, I was more crushed than I've ever been.
That pain was so deep and scarring that I will never forget it as long as I live.
There were weeks I don't even remember.

I have never cried more, prayed more, begged more than I did then.
PLEASE don't let me lose this baby.
PLEASE.

But I did.

I cannot explain the pain that I had at that time in my life.
I felt hollow. And teased.
I wondered why God would answer my prayer and then yank it away.

But I chose to trust and believe. And believe me, it was a choice.
I chose to pull myself up from the pit I was teetering by, and move forward.
To try and hope again.

Then a month later, I was pregnant again.

With Chloe.

Chloe who has been different and special from the beginning.
Chloe who sparkles.

I was scared to even breathe wrong for fear that it would happen again.
Thinking back, I didn't even enjoy that pregnancy at all. I lived in constant fear of loss.

Every child is special. Each one unique and wonderful.
Chloe just reminds me to trust.
Chloe reminds me that I was never forgotten.
That I was heard.
She was the answer to so many prayers.

Each pregnancy was hard for me. Multiple trips to the doctor. Multiple scares. Multiple ultrasounds.
I got used to staring at the primary colors of the mobile that hung above the exam bed in the ultrasound room.
The room where I'd have good news.
Then not so good news.

My pattern became have one, then lose one, with miscarriages between every one of the girls.
Three in total.
All three painful and challenging in different ways.
They challenged who I thought I was. My beliefs. My marriage.

It's something you never get used to.

But then, with the birth of each girl, over and over I have seen that God's plan is the best plan.
That we just cannot see the beauty He has planned for us until we're in the middle of it.

That what feels like painful and cruel stripping of our dreams is actually the pruning of our branches so that real growth can happen.
So that the fullness of our potential can be brought out.


As I sat on the bed this morning, changing the baby with tears dripping down my face, I don't think Justin understood.
WHY on earth was I saying all this NOW?
Hadn't we discussed it?
Hadn't I been around as he scheduled the appointment and made plans for it?

But no logical plan changes who I am, and who I am is wrapped up in being a mother.

It's hard to turn to the next chapter, when so much of your time and thoughts have been wrapped up in getting pregnant.
In staying pregnant.
It's almost been a full time job.

I know I have to close the door at some time, but
closing that door is SO hard.

My hands are shaking as I do it.

I'm not ready to see the door right next to it that leads to more freedom and independence.

I just want to stand and look at the back of THIS door for awhile.

To remember, in vivid detail, what lies behind it.

A finally positive test.
A fluttery kick.
The feeling of a warm baby being placed on your belly for the first time.
Big, gummy smiles.
Pudgy hands with dimples where the knuckles should be.
The sound of soft, sleeping breaths being breathed into the crook of your neck.
The weight, and the warmth of them.

Just let me stand at the door for awhile longer.

What's behind this door is the most beautiful, magical thing in the world.

Tessa Green and the Tunic of Torture

Most of the time I'm happy to have all girls.
Even when I see people's eyes bulge out when I tell them I have four.

When I see families of all boys, and the mom just sits near-comatose, eyes glazed, while the boys scream like banshees and poke at things
(like other kids' eyeballs)
with sticks, I count my blessings.
I don't think I could handle all that bashing.

Girls play differently.
Most of the time.

For example, I can set my girls up with crayons and paint and they'll sit quietly for over an hour "creating."
Hearts and stars and smiling princess faces.

I tried giving my daycare boys crayons one day and after I finished cleaning up the crayon marks on the hardwood left by one, I turned around to see a thousands bits of blue wax covering the other one's mouth.
The crayon was nowhere in sight.
Until later when I changed his diaper.

Therefore, most of the time I'm happy.
Except with one huge difference between boys and girls that I have found.

Girls have opinions on what they wear and boys don't.

I've found it starts, as most scary things do, around age three.
The age of independent thought process.
The age of disdain for every thing you, as a parent, do or say or think.
The age of total lack of reason and the love of tulle.

This last weekend, as Tessa entered hour two of her crying fit over a tunic top she didn't like, my sister in law - mother of three boys - chuckled and said, "I can't say that's ever happened to me. I just pick things out for them and they put them on. They never even comment on it."

She's livin' the dream.

But it doesn't matter what you hand a three year old girl.
She's going to hate it.

You could see it and think it's perfect and there is no earthly way she's going to find any fault.
And you'll be wrong.

The seam in the socks isn't straight.
The tag is itchy.
The waistband is too high and she "can't like" pants touching her bellybutton.
The neck is too tight.
The sleeves are too long, too short, too puffy, too tight.
And my all time favorite:
"These pants go all the way down to my feet."

Which is confusing, because isn't that the very NATURE of PANTS?

I try explaining to this darling three year old that when I see children who's pants DON'T go all the way to their feet, I usually look at their mothers funny.
I judge.
I can't help it.
I contemplate handing them $15 and pleading with them to head to Kohl's immediately, and maybe even leave their kids in the car while they shop to spare them public embarrassment.
A child's life is hard enough with peer pressures and home haircuts gone wrong.
Don't add waders into the mix.

On Chloe's birthday, I put Tessa in a brand new ADORABLE outfit.
It was one of the cutest outfits she'd ever worn.
I couldn't stop looking at her. Hearts for eyes.

I asked if I could take her picture.

The look she gave me in that moment was like something out of Children of the Corn.
Her pupils dilated and changed color.
I almost turned to a pillar of salt.

Then it started.

I knew it was coming.

With her eyes locked on mine, she slowly reached up and tugged at her neckline.
A look of distress formed on her face.
A silent look that needed no explanation.
Then she writhed her spine into a slight "S" shape.
She did 3 short exhale grunts.
Her lip curled up on the left side.

She was waiting for me to ask what was the matter.
I knew this, so I didn't.
I just stood and waited to hear it.

"I don't lllliiiiiikkkkkeee this shirt" she whined.
"It's too long down to my legs."

"That's because it's a tunic top. It's supposed to be long."

"I don't like tunic tops."

"Yes you do. Because I say you do. That is what you're wearing. Get over it."

This is when a fit began that I thought would never end.
I was pretty sure she'd still be crying over that tunic top as she entered her freshman year.
It was a battle of wills like you can only imagine.
A battle of wills that ended with me giving up and telling her to go upstairs and grab the brand new dress on her dresser that I had actually bought for her sister, but would let her wear just to shut her up. I knew she liked dresses. I thought it would be a clear win.

She was gone for 15 minutes.
When she returned, she was wearing the dress.

She was also wearing the exact same expression that she had been wearing with the tunic top.
Her nostrils were flared.
There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

"What on EARTH is the matter NOW?"

"I don't like these sleeves."
Cute little ruffle cap sleeves that they were.

"What is wrong with the sleeves?! They're adorable. There have maybe never even BEEN better sleeves."

"I don't like how they stick out."

Oh for the love of God.

"Look. You are either going to wear that dress with those stick out sleeves, or you are going to march back upstairs and put back on the tunic top. End of discussion.Those are the choices."

You would have thought I told her to wear chainmail.

It went on and on.
The party was about to start.
I tried distracting her with the thought of cake and balloons and friends arrival.
To no avail.

Those sleeves were just too darned stick-outy.

With two minutes until the party started, she arrived back downstairs wearing the tunic.

All of that for nothing.
Square fricking ONE.


Last night I got her dressed for Kids' Club at church.
I picked out a sweater and some jeans.
Jeans that were too "long down to her feet."

Another battle ensued.

I pressed on, though, and wouldn't let her change. I knew if I let her choose, she'd pick something like she'd picked earlier.
Last years' spaghetti strap Easter dress with size 2T stretch pants underneath and sandals.
It was raining.

I took her to kids' club, dropped her off, ignored her forlorn look, went shopping and returned to pick the girls up 2 hours later.
The MOMENT she saw me, from across the room, with a mouth full of cupcake she yelled, "Mama! I DO like these jeans now!"

She'd been thinking about those blasted pants for two hours.
But good. She likes them now.
That's one item of clothing out of 200 that I can put in the "safe" category.
At least for five minutes until she decides the pockets are too deep or the button is too button-y.

Good grief.

This is why little girls end up at the grocery store in rainbow tights, a tutu, and rain boots with their hair uncombed for days.
Because of opinion.
Because those girls' moms finally just gave up trying to control the beast and let their little girl pick what suited her.
Even if it's inappropriate for the weather.
Even if it makes it look like you are running a group home for troubled youth.

I'm just scared of doing that with Tessa.
I'm scared that if left to her own devices, it wouldn't just BE rainbow tights, a tutu, and rain boots, it would be a dog collar and black nail polish and leather pants.

And she likes Katie Perry's hair.
Maybe even a little TOO much.

And God help me.
One day I'll have yet ANOTHER three year old girl.

Just when Tessa's finally done fidgeting with her sock seam, it'll start all over again.
I'm not naive.
I know it won't skip one girl.
Even the most mellow of souls has extra sensitive skin to "itchies" at age three.
It's an actual medical condition.

Maybe I should go ahead and put myself on the prayer list at church NOW...

Either that or just buy about 30 of these and be done with it.

I'm Bringing Kerri Back.

The fact that I can see these words appearing on this screen is proof that I made it.
I have survived yet another swipe with death.

I have just come out of what was the worst virus of my life.
There were a solid two days when I thought I might ACTUALLY die. My life was flashing before me. I was having all sorts of really weird memories.
Most of them about the odd ways my old boyfriends dressed, strange jobs I've had and roommates I'd had that should have been INmates.

I was scared to go to the doctor because of fear they'd tell me I had mere moments to live and I just wasn't ready because I haven't even been shopping in New York yet.

Last Monday night, the whole family got sick.
It started with Tessa yelling, "Mommy! I frowed up" into the baby monitor at 1:00am.
We Greens use the baby monitor as less of a monitor and more of a cheap intercom system.

Before daybreak, they mayhem had progressed to Justin and Alena both throwing up and me trembling in the bed with chills.

It's really not prime newborn care-taking situation to have a fever yourself, while your three year old lays face down in a bucket on the other side of you.
It's really hard to nurse with one hand, hold back someone's hair with the other, all while feeling sickness overtake you, too.

I didn't even know Justin was sick until Chloe told me the next day. I had been counting on him to take care of us all.
He'd gone to sleep in the room with Chloe when Tessa had come into our room in the night. I thought he must have escaped it.
Nope.
That dude was down for the count. Head in the trash can.

And now it was Valentine's Day, nonetheless.

Nothing says true love like simultaneous contagion.

We called my mom.
Because that's what we do.
We have a Bat Signal, of sorts.
And thank GOD for her, because we never would have survived the week without her. Never.

Valentines Day was spent with me in our bed shaking so hard, I think I chipped paint, and Justin down on the couch wrapped up like he was scaling Everest, ALSO chilling.
Or so I heard from my mom, who was running back and forth between us giving updates and taking orders.
I had a brief moment of being really glad we'd earthquake strapped the bookshelf.
It was pretty extreme.
We barely spoke two words to each other all day.

The girls just played, and kept coming in staring at me like, "But....Who's going to make LUNCH?"
I feel like I lapsed in and out of being conscious.
There was something about a mermaid baby, but I can't be sure if that was real...

And one of the worst parts of the whole thing was that my best friend, Lisa, had just flown into town days before and we were supposed to be doing a laundry list of things we'd planned, not the least of which was to watch the rap battles on 8 Mile - VERY IMPORTANT - and all of that was just thrown right down the drain.

By the next day though, everyone in the house was totally better.

Everyone but me.

I was actually WORSE.
Of course.
Because WHY on EARTH would I think I should get a break?

I mean - I only just had a baby.
I'd only just brought LIFE into the world after hours of hard labor and what ended up being TWO epidurals and a jab to the raw nerves of my spine.
Why should I get off easy?

Well darn it if that sickness didn't get worse and worse and worse.
I'm glad I never looked in the mirror because I'm pretty sure I looked like the scariest person you can imagine.
(Joan Rivers?)
I have never had an almost 104 fever for even one day before, let alone 7.

The bedroom had started looking pretty dreadful.
Like I hoarded sweat drenched tank tops and pain reliever bottles.
I was changing my clothes 8 times a day. First I was freezing. Then I was burning up. I gave up on putting the clothes away and instead just piled them high by my bedside for easy middle of the night access.

I wasn't eating.
My entire diet consisted of water and medication.

The baby stopped nursing.

The horrors just kept on and on and I thought, once again, that the end was near for me.

And in the midst of all of this, Justin came in to the room and stood at the foot of the bed.

He gazed at me. I thought, thinking of some loving words to say to me in this, my dark dark hour.

I waited, thinking he was surely about to utter some sort of affection.
Then he said the words every sick wife yearns to hear.


"How long has it been since you washed your hair?"

*blink* *blink*

Yes.
Yes he did.

Alena kept showing up telling me how sorry she was I was sick and how she didn't like it because,
"You're usually the one who takes care of US and when you're sick it seems weird."

I took this to mean she wasn't liking the carrot stick and lunch meat dinner they were currently eating.

In some ways I think it's been good for them.
They'll appreciate me a little more, I think.
They'll realize that there IS a value to parting your hair well while it's wet so it doesn't dry funny because of those weird callicks.
They'll now see that it's nice to have someone around who contemplates balancing a meal and making sure not all four things on the plate are orange.

Justin's totally stepped up his game.
He went to the grocery for me. He's been bathing the girls and getting them in bed. He's made phone calls and totally taken care of business.
It's making me realize I can relax a little bit.
They ARE capable.
Imagine that.

When I finally came downstairs after almost days spent only in my room, I realized there is some damage control that needs to happen.

There was a Costco sized pan of Cinnamon rolls on the counter accompanied by a VERY large bag of Reeses Pieces.
And though I realize that the "CLEARANCE" sticker on them must have made them EVER so appealing, they are still something I'd never allow to enter our home if I was lucid.
The cabinet now holds a bag of Golden Puff cereal.
The kind in a bag.
I have a general rule just to never buy cereal in a bag in the first place. It scares me, just by nature.
The very first ingredient is sugar.
FIRST INGREDIENT.
And if you don't recognize Golden Puff cereal, that is because you probably didn't grow up in a house that would buy something like that.
Or Kool-Aid. Or Tang. Or Spam.
Or any of the other accompanying "side dishes" that go with this childhood memory delicacy like Justin did.
He unpacked it from the grocery bag almost as carefully as he pulled Paige out of her car seat the very first time we brought her home.

Justin Green. The Golden Puff Gollum.


It was clear that Tessa had been on a candy free-for-all. Possibly for days. She feels about 8 pounds heavier.
She keeps repeating, "Candy is NOT a snack" as if she's trying to remind herself. Not sure THAT'S working.

And I'm pretty sure I heard some weird chirping sound coming from the direction of Chloe's hair.
I'm scared to stick my hand in there.

Today was the first day I've gone outside.
The wind felt strange on my face.
I had to fight the urge to not lay down on the park bench. I just sort of caressed it like a creeper while the girls ate snacks and fidgeted with their shoes.

I guess it all has taught me a lesson as well, though. That maybe I DON'T want to always be sleeping and have quite as much quiet as I thought.
I missed making the girls lunch and putting them to bed.
I missed the daily routine that can seem so repetitive at times.
Those kids are wild beasts, but MAN it's boring when you don't have them and you're listening to your 6th loop of the Relaxing Guitar cd you bought at Target while you wait to take more Advil.
A childless life seems so boring now.

It's why I HAD kids, actually. So I wouldn't wind up one day alone on my death bed with nothing to do but write my medication schedule on my mirror with eyeliner so I don't overdose.

The week long nap was OK, but now,

I'm bringing Kerri back.

Baby Steps to the Blow Dryer

Well.
It happened.
I had the baby.
And thank goodness, because I was starting to worry I'd be like the woman I saw on TLC last winter who'd technically been pregnant for 60 some years.
She never delivered her baby and it somehow turned to stone inside of her.
Only in India.

No thanks.

Those last few weeks are brutal.

Things were swollen on me that I didn't even know COULD swell. Feet, fingers, eyelashes.
I felt like the Elephant Woman. Cloaked and hiding in a passageway.
Waiting to lash out and eat the brains of the next person who told me I looked like I was going to pop.

The idea of walking, (and I use that term loosely),
from the living room to the kitchen about made me cry.
The girls had taken to rolling in the ottoman from the living room and positioning it by the pantry to climb up so they could fetch their own snacks rather than even ask me.
They saw the look in my eyes.
They knew it meant not to mention Cheese-Its.

In the end, high blood pressure and low blood sugar won out, and
after a trip to Costco for a couple of rotisseries about made me pass out into the Turbo Tax display, it was off to the hospital for induction a week earlier than expected.
I thought I'd go in and they'd just monitor me for a bit, but an hour later and we were placing calls to try to figure out what to do with the girls and what on earth they'd eat for dinner now that Daddy was in charge of it.

It's funny the things you think in an unexpected moment like that.

I remember that I was just worried I hadn't packed my under-eye conceiler.
Justin was worried he hadn't finished the dusting.

The delivery was not my favorite of the four. It was long and dramatic with lots of nurses whispering things.
I have decided to name it "Horrors of the Epidural Space" because the epidural took two separate anesthesiologists and 8 different times of being punctured in the spinal column.
For a good time call: 1-800-Induction.

Not awesome.
My back looks like I gave a woodpecker a piggy back.

I almost gave up and just told them to forget the epidural.
For anyone who knows my feeling on epidurals, this is a big deal.
I also did not mention the hitting of a nerve, sending my leg kicking out towards a panicked Justin and a feeling that I'd been shot through the body with a lightening bolt.
All this as the very MALE anesthesiologist asked me to hold as still as possible while he muttered things under his overpaid breath.

I'd like to see HIM try to hold still as a 9 inch needle is shoved in and out of his spine during strong contractions like a jackhammer.

I mean. I'd REALLY like to see it.

Like - He'd better sleep with one eye open after putting me through that.
After commenting, "Hmmmm. That's interesting"
as I described the pain that had shot through my leg.

BUT, after 8 hours of labor and a near cesarean,
Paige Allison Green made her debut into this world at 5:00pm on Friday January 27th.

Dark, beautiful hair. Big, puffy lips. Scowl just like her Daddy.
She is, of course, perfect in every way.

I had my doubts about this, however, the first two nights in the hospital, when she cried and farted and pooped every 6 minutes.
The nurses kept bringing her back from the nursery looking frazzled.
That really scared me. These are people who are trained to deal with all sorts of mayhem and Paige was wearing them out.
I was feeling pretty scared of what I'd gotten myself into.
I couldn't even sleep.
By the end of my hospital stay, I had had approximately 11 hours of sleep over a span of 5 days and even that was broken sleep.
I'd just laid there blinking at the ceiling for DAYS.

The nurse was rattling off a list of do's and don'ts with a new baby and I just stared right through her imagining her head to be a giant Starbucks symbol.
Yada, yada, yada, Lady.

This is number four.

The first days home are surreal.
You're getting in a flow.
Your p.j.s become a uniform.

Your kids are asking what's wrong with your hair and why you're walking "that way."

At least mine are.

Tessa's favorite thing is to tell me daily, "It's OK, Mama. It takes awhile for your tummy to go away."

Thanks, Tessa.
Post-Baby Weight Loss Guru.
She is SO very knowledgeable.

All I can say is I am so thankful for my mom.
How do people even DO it without their moms?
She washed dishes and made dinner and answered the calls from the bathroom of, "I'M DONE!!!!" so that I didn't have to.
She massaged my feet and my neck and was just THERE.

Justin's doing well, too.
He's a great dad.
At least when he's awake.

He doesn't do so well with the middle of the night stuff, however.

The first night, as I finished feeding Paige and was re-swaddling her to put her back down, for a brief moment he opened his eyes and then he actually said the sentence,
"Babe, Can I get you anyZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ."

LOUD snore fully inserted into the sentence in the place of the word "thing" - which I had to just IMAGINE he was trying to say.
Had he REALLY fallen back asleep mid sentence?
I was feeling the love.
Feeling the support.

I had to laugh.
I did.
Out loud, actually.

Then, I had just laid her down and was about to turn off the light and his snores got louder. I nudged him to turn over, and he did. But he kept turning. Right out of the bed. He rolled to a stand like a martial arts expert and then just started walking.
Around the end of the bed. Around to my side. He started to reach for the baby. The one I'd just spent 2 hours getting down.
I said, "What are you doing?"

A look of recognition came over him.
A look of, "Oh. I'm not supposed to be here."
and he said, "I'm just coming to check on her." and then he walked back to bed.

Weirdo.

She's been doing great, though. The worries of the first two days have proven unfounded.
Waking only once or twice a night to eat and then going back to sleep.
She's a champion.

I'm so grateful.
I'm too old for the shenanigans Chloe put me through all over again.
I was really worried about that one.
I guess all the "Please, please, please, PLEASE GOD - Don't do that to me again" prayers fell on listening ears.

I just CAN'T be driving around Santa Rosa in the middle of the night trying to get a baby to sleep.
A person can only watch so many 2am infomercials.

I'm slowly getting back in the flow.
I have now blow dried my hair for the last several days straight.
My legs are shaved.
I have at least 4 items of makeup on and 2 items of jewelry at all times.
It may TAKE me until 3:00pm to do all of that, and you probably shouldn't look too closely at my eyebrows, but it's getting done.

Next stop: Pants that button and zip.

I really can't believe we have ANOTHER one.
What on earth is THIS one going to be like?
One can only dare to imagine.

I look at her peaceful sleeping face and think,

"I'm not fooled by you. Tessa was peaceful, too."

The End is Near

I can see it.
A light in the distance.
At this point, however, I can't tell if it's the light at the end of the tunnel or the angels calling me home.
They look similar when your eyelids are swollen because you have Pregnancy Puffyfaceitis.

I am SO done.
SO.
So much SO that I just want to keep saying SO.
SO.

SO.

So very SO SO.

The doctor has now instructed modified bed rest because of spiking blood pressures and the worrisome crazed look in my eyes.
I'm wondering if she knows that my version of modifying it will be - uh -
to not do it.

I'd like to know how on EARTH one is supposed to get bed rest when they have multiple children already.
Making the mini-me's snacks ALONE is a full time job that requires agility and stamina and training in hurdle jumping.

And also, how am I supposed to do it when the doctor is simultaneously writing out slips for multiple appointments in a week?

Twice weekly non-stress tests,
once weekly office visits,
once weekly Sweet Success Appointments,
thrice weekly mini-strokes.

They comment on my blood pressure being high when I'm in the office with concern as if they don't SEE the two little girls and a daycare baby climbing all over each other crying that they need to pee or that so and so is looking at them funny. One eating crayons. One eating boogers.

Of course it's high.

Your blood pressure would be high, too, if you had to wait for Tessa to zip her boots "all by herself" as you tried to get here on time.
That alone takes the patience of Job.

It would be sure to spike if you, too, were wondering why the entire back of the baby's pants were mysteriously wet as the two older ones helped each other scoot a chair up against the wall so that they could reach the sharps container for a "fun game" they just thought of.

The blood pressure cuff wouldn't even REGISTER my pressure the first time around today.
I'm surprised it didn't self destruct.
It just re-inflated to over 220 to try again.
It squeezed so hard I think I would have just preferred labor and I ended up ripping it off of my own arm and glaring at the 13 year old, 60 pound nurse who asked me if I'd like to take it later when I'd
"had a chance to rest."

Rest?
Does not compute.
Does not compute.

This girl had never even had a cheeseburger, let alone a truly stressful day.

Even my RESTFUL days are more hectic than her busiest day, I'd bet.
She probably needs some down time and a facial after Starbucks makes her latte wrong,
and I wouldn't be surprised if I picked a woman like her out of my mangled loosening hair at the end of some of MY days.

And the house is slowly turning into a disaster.

My version of cleaning has turned into kicking items around with my swollen sausage feet into various piles around the room.
Each stair has something on it I'd rather not carry upstairs.
The bed hasn't been made in 3 weeks just so I can have the delusion that I could just crawl back in at any moment.
I look at it longingly every time I lumber by. On my way to the bathroom.

Not that it would be that restful even in bed.
I can't lay on my left side because I feel like I'll pass out from compressing a major artery.
I can't lay on my right side because my entire right arm then falls asleep and hurts and makes me want to cry or cut it off.
I can't lay on my back because the weight of the baby makes me feel like I can't breathe.

I have resorted to propping myself completely sitting straight up on approximately 32 pillows in order to fall asleep.
I have a system.
If even one pillow is off it's like The Giant Princess and the Pea.
Before I know it, I've lost 2.5 hours to readjusting.

And then JUST when it's perfect.....
I have to pee.

Again.

And just to rub it in and make it extra fun, Justin has started snoring.
A LOT.
It's like in the sounds he makes I can actually HEAR him saying,
"Look at me. I'm sleeping SO soundly you couldn't wake me if you tried. And you know who ELSE can't wake me? Chloe, when she comes in three times a night saying she's had a bad dream. So, how about you just get on that?
Since you're up anyway."

At least that's what I imagine he's saying as I sit there in bed glaring at his silhouette that is lit up to blinding levels from his stupid blue light alarm clock that could lead ships into harbor. That alarm clock is a blog in itself.

I sometimes think I could spare at least ONE pillow for smothering.

I'm actually to the point of looking FORWARD to waking up 3 times a night for feedings, because that'll be, like, three times LESS than now.

Sounds restful.


Two nights ago Justin asked me for a massage.

I know he didn't mean anything horrible by it.
He deserves love, too. Most days.
But my real thought was that you wouldn't ask someone with Leprosy if they'd please just rub a smidge of lotion on your heels because they were a little cracked, would you?

No.
You wouldn't.

And my poor family.
Every meal has involved a can opener lately.
I'm just in no mood to saute or combine or toss gently.

I'm in a SMEAR mood, at best.

Thankfully, the girls would just as soon have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios as they would Shepherd's Pie, so I'm good.

I'm just TIRED.
I'm tired of having to stay up late so I can eat a snack I'm not even hungry for just so that my blood sugar is good in the morning.
I'm tired of peeing
ALL
THE
TIME.
I'm tired of flat shoes.
I'm tired of the 20 minute yoga session it takes just to stand up from being seated on the floor.
I'm tired of the same pair of jeans every day.
I'm tired of the looks I get when I'm out in public pregnant with my own kids AND the daycare kids in a cart.
I'm tired of getting asked if I'm "about to pop."

And on that subject, let me just say -
POPPING couldn't be further from the reality of what happens.
Popping implies a short, sudden burst that is over in seconds, resulting in total deflation.
The reality is hours of excruciating labor, several moments of wishing for death, the possibility of having your lower region cut with scissors or a knife, and months, if not YEARS to "deflate."

I'll show YOU popping.
In your most likely male mouth.

Don't think I won't.
I'm mean these days, too.

Some days are like a scene out of an exorcism movie.
Head rotating. Weird red steam. Levitation if deemed necessary.

I keep having out of body experiences and then I turn around and the girls are looking at me like this:

I mean....
That can't be good, right?

I guess it's good that God sort of makes you forget this part when you are trying for another baby or when you first get pregnant and are still in the la la stage. Otherwise, there would be no more babies and the world would end.

Part of the problem is that I'm not 25 anymore, too.
I've actually said the words, "I'm too old for this."
Scary thought.
I just keep praying that at least the baby will be a good sleeper like Tessa was.
That kid was an awesome baby. We never even knew she was there.
There were several times we almost forgot her places because she was so quiet and, well, ASLEEP.
Chloe, on the other hand practically required a team of specialists around the clock to keep her happy.
Still does, actually.
She was the baby that required 2am car rides to the drug store to get her to fall asleep.
I have never watched so many middle of the night infomercials as I did when she was an infant.

So now, I'm left wondering what this one will be like.
It's like Baby Russian Roulette.

"Please God, Please God, Let this be the chamber with the calm one."

I just have to tell myself it's only 2.5 more weeks.
I can make it, right?

Maybe.
Because then Justin's off for 7 weeks.
SEVEN.
Seven long and OCD project filled weeks.
Which means 5 weeks of wondering WHEN he is going back to work.

I may need back-up, here, people.

I have a feeling his Paternity Leave will be more like

Paternity, LEAVE.

A Pig, A Cat, and a Midget or Two

I am SO tired.

Like - I would KILL for the energy of an 80 year old tired.

The girls just yelled out,
"Mama! Pretend that you're the Mama and we're the babies and when we cry you come over and say, 'What's the matter?"

Pretend?
How is THAT a game?

Uh.
How about we play MOMMY'S favorite game of:
'Pretend you're trained masseuses and you rub my back and feet while I listen to soft music and then you go to bed?'

That's a good one.

Today wasn't a bad day.

It was actually pretty easy.

Well, as easy as it CAN be when you wake up before 7 and do daycare all day, change 15 diapers, cart all the kids to the preschool to pick up the four year old, work until 5:30 and then go grocery shopping before cooking dinner.
Oh yeah. While pregnant.

To truly understand what this sort of day is like,
I have created a training course.

What you will need to complete this course is:
An alarm clock, extensive weight training, multiple Legos and other small jagged toys, a pair of wild pigs, 6 cats,
and a death wish.

The night before training begins,
set your alarm to go off every two hours then drink 16 gallons of water.
You will now strap a 20 pound bag of dog food to your front.
This bag will not be removed.

Lay on a bed of nails. Flip side to side 60 times.

When the alarm goes off each time, get up and go to the bathroom.
In between those two hours, hire a midget to wake you up and tell you they had a bad dream and then carry said midget and hoist them into a top bunk because they are supposedly too tired to climb the ladder.
THEY are too tired.
Start to leave the room, then have the midget ask for "Itchy medicine."
Slather the midget with cream.
In the dark.
Take care to not get any cream on the midget's pajamas.
This midget has OCD and would require clean pajamas.

Place Legos along the path to get back to your bed and step on at least 3 with bare feet.
Suffer in silence.
Any hint of so much as a breathing sound will awake the midget and re-hoisting will be required.

After a combined total of 5 hours of actual sleep, get up for good.

Gaze for 2 minutes at your husband peacefully sleeping and wonder how it must feel to miraculously have night time hearing loss that allows for deep sleep no matter what the emergency.

Think about upping his life insurance policy.

But not for long,
because you must now immediately make a full breakfast for 6 to custom order.
This must be done no later than 3 minutes after waking and with your eyes taped closed.

Have aforementioned midget and two of his friends stand on your bare feet while you do this.
They will be asking for juice.
When you hand them the juice, they will ask how much longer till they eat.
While you are mid sentence answering that question, they will ask where their cartoons are.

Have a secret agent hide the remote the night before.
Search for the remote till you are sweaty.

Have one midget tell you you look gross.

Set the stove timer and microwave timer to simultaneously go off at the very second the midgets get angry because their cartoon is the wrong cartoon.

Now it is time to plate up.
Each plate is slightly different than the last.
You must have made a mental lists of who gets their waffle cut with syrup and who gets theirs with jam.
Think about which midget is allergic to peanut butter.
Think about where the Epi-pen is.

Have the midgets wrestle to determine their seating chart.
Check for bleeding.

After breakfast, release a pair of wild pigs into the house.
Attempt to capture both pigs at once with one hand, while wiping up a war torn table with the other, and bathe them.
Do this while resting your nose on cup of rotted milk.
Do not vomit.
*Vomiting = an F in the course and you will need to repeat your training.*

This is to simulate toddler diaper changes.

Have one pig roll in the rags you used to clean the other pig.

Re-wash this pig.

Repeat all pig steps up to, but not less than 15 times.

Now it is time for the cats.

Using only voice commands, guide all six cats at once into the family van.
It is time to get the preschooler from school.
There will be hissing and growling, but pay this no mind.
You are on a time table.

Spray all the cats with water, and then you must successfully strap all cats into the van in 1.5 minutes.
Warning: You may be injured.
Be strong, soldier.
The time is more important than possible Toxoplasmosis infection.
This 1.5 minutes is the amount of time left before you will be charged a late fee at preschool.

*Late fees = an F in the course and you will need to repeat your training.*

As you drive to preschool, you will be tested on which CD track is which.
Chim Chimney?
That's number 11.
It's a Small World?
That's good ol' 15.
You will be required to rapid fire off these tracks the entire way while being careful not to hit pedestrians and crossing guards.

Once you arrive at the school, release the cats into what is unfamiliar territory and again, using only voice commands, keep all cats together as you herd them, wide eyed, into the school.
Release a dog at the doors.
Attempt to keep cats cool and collected in the presence of said dog.
Have someone hide one cat in a classroom and carry all other 5, still soggy cats in your arms while you search for that cat.

Punch in your code to check out the preschooler with one hand while now holding all 6 cats in the other.
Allow one cat to poop.

Oops!
You forgot to pay tuition.
Write a check with your teeth.
Make the signature convincing.

Now go home.
Once home, run in a tight figure 8 pattern for a solid 3 hours.
Sort, correctly, several small items in 3 plastic bins without breaking your gait.

The moment you are done, have one of the midgets dump the bins out and then let a cat cough a hair ball on the mess.
Pretend you don't see the hairball and place your hand in it.
Sit with the feeling of warmth in your palm.

Never show frustration.

Remain in this mode until dark.

People will come to retrieve the animals.

You must now recount, in accurate detail to those picking up, everything each cat ate, licked, and looked at all day long.

Wish for death from exhaustion,
but only for a moment because now it's time to SHOP!

Gather 2 of the most angry midgets to go with you to the store.
For the best training possible, pick midgets who can't stand each other.

Place them in the cart and concentrate on a list while they box and bite and cause a scene.

Attempt to ignore the stares aimed at the angry boxing midgets.
Avoid all eye contact with other shoppers.

Write another check with your teeth.

Once home,
you will repeat breakfast procedure while all midgets scream and cry and stab at each other with pens.

Now yell something even YOU don't understand.

This course is complete when your third chunk of hair falls out and you have contracted a nervous twitch.

Now take a luxurious 12 minute break and then repeat all steps for 3 years.

Congratulations.
You have now graduated the course.

Your diploma will be mailed to you.

And yes.
It will be signed with my teeth.