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.

Parenting Paxil

I had visions of lots of blogs while I've been pregnant.
I thought I'd really DOCUMENT this one.
Yeah right.

I Don't know who I was kidding.
She'll probably be lucky if she ever gets her picture taken.

Between daycare kids 40 hours a week and Alena's homework that practically requires a degree and breaking up cage matches over which Calliou episode to watch, I haven't had a moment to breathe.
Unless I look down, I sometimes forget I'm pregnant.

It's led to seven months that have flown by and an upcoming baby that I currently feel totally unprepared for.

I have ten weeks to go and whenever I think about how soon it's all happening, I almost have a mini stroke.

By baby four I'd imagine this is usually the case, though.
At least that's what I tell myself to feel better.

I remember with Alena I was on constant red alert.
I read all the books.
Googled everything.
It all had to be perfect.
Clean clothes at all times.
Stuffy nose?
911.
Crazed hyper-sanitization.

If her pacifier dropped for a split second, I would pull out a pot and boil it immediately.
If I was in public, I'd buy a new one.

By the time Tessa came around 10 years later,
as long as it wasn't covered in dog hair, I'd just lick it off and shove it back in her mouth and just keep right on going.
I didn't even blink.
As long as the stains on the clothes were clearly not poop or blood, we were all good.

Oh how things change....

I guess with natural progression, that means this one will get the pacifier back regardless of the dog hair situation.
She may be mistaken for an under-bridge dweller.

Maybe I should have a onesie printed that reads,
"No need to call CPS. I'm baby number four."

I guess it's normal that I still don't have any bottles or pacifiers or actual necessities.
Right?

Please tell me I'm right.

She'll probably come home wrapped in one of Justin's hoodies.
Her diaper fashioned from a sandwich baggie with holes for legs.
Car seat? Nah. We've got bungees in the trunk we use for camping.

I have not bought one solitary item for her.

When I see first time moms now, I just sit and smile at the neurosis.
It's the same knowing smile I give when a first timer says, "I plan on delivering naturally."
Uh huh. Sure you do, Hon.

I see the panic over every noise and gurgle.
The concern over dry skin patches and mystery bumps.
The bags packed to the nines with everything short of an emergency flare.

In my mind, the only things you ever really need for a baby are:
Three rags
Something wet - be it wipe or rag with water or rag with Mother's spit
Gas drops,
and a pacifier. Oh thank GOD for pacifiers.

And possibly some duct tape.

Anything else you need can be fashioned from a combination of these items.

We over complicate it.

I feel lost sometimes when I browse the isles of Target and see some of the stuff they have for babies.
The same babies who would rather eat cat food than sweet potato puffs.
The same ones who would rather play in toilet water than with their $70 Baby Einstein mat.

Einstein.
Yeah right.

When Alena was an infant, her very favorite thing in the whole wide world was a quilted watermelon patterned place-mat my odd aunt gave as a Christmas gift.
It went everywhere with us.
We'd be leaving the house and ask each other, before the door was latched,
"Did you grab the place-mat?" People overhearing probably thought it was code for something.

My friend Beth and I laughed the other day over how we'd morphed.
Both of us currently have 3 kids.

We'd come from late nights listening to rap music and being out late dancing to late nights walking the floor with feverish toddlers in just a few years.

We talked about how it is taking our nervous Nelly husbands a little while to catch up with us on the concept of just relaxing with the helicopter parenting a bit.

She said the other day her husband came home to find her on the couch watching TV with not a kid in sight.
He said, "Where are all the kids?"
To which she answered,
"I don't know. They're SOMEWHERE in the house. I'm pretty sure I locked all the doors."

I told her that sometimes Justin will say,
"Aren't you going to check on them?! I hear Chloe screaming."
After which I tell him,
"Chloe is ALWAYS screaming. It's practically her regular speaking voice. If I got up every time someone was screaming, I'd never rest. If they're bleeding I'll check. And not just bleeding the microscopic amounts that they say needs a Hello Kitty band-aid. I mean REAL bleeding. Tourniquet style."

I guess I've just mellowed out.
If we don't have the bassinet set up by the time the baby is born, she can just sleep in Justin's spot.
That dude's practically Narcoleptic already. It doesn't matter where you put him.
I can only imagine how it'll be come February.
Me, shooting bitter glares in his direction in the dark room as he snores while I hold Paige for hours wishing for just a 10 minute stretch of rest.
If he falls asleep on the couch after dinner, I'll just leave him there instead of calling his name 8 times and shaking the couch to get him to come to bed.

What has happened to our culture as parents?
No wonder so many mothers are on anti-anxiety meds.
We're told we need ridiculous things like these:

I mean - WHAT THE HECK?!
and this:

For when the 60 squares of toilet paper your toddler pulls from the roll just aren't quite enough.
Or how about this:

Because, frankly, who has ALL that TIME it takes to labor over cutting up a frank?
Or this:

Because we'd rather people think that our child had a life threatening condition than that they EVER get a bruise on that precious little head.

Just see how many play dates you get invited to when you bring THAT thing.

RELAX, people.
You're losing it.
And that's saying a lot coming from me.

The Hormonal Hulk

Oh man I'm in a bad mood.

I think the dark cloud above my head has a smaller cloud above IT.

This is the thing with pregnancy.
One day you're humming lullabies and making little tiny baby hats with sparkles in your eyes and the next your jugular veins are sticking out of your neck and your kids are scared you'll eat their brains the next time you get hungry.
Which is, like, every four minutes.

I just can't control it.
It isn't for any tangible reason, really.
Nothing I can pinpoint.

I mean, the screaming doesn't help.
The fist fights aren't awesome.
Neither is the fact that 45% of my job involves wiping someone's butt.
Neither does the back ache or what feels like stumps for feet.
I'm not fond of hearing myself say things like,
"Russian Nesting Dolls are not for throwing at your sister's head."
It doesn't help my mood that Tessa's favorite thing to do in public now is to shove her little midget head up under my maternity shirts so the fabric stretches against her face like some creepy scene from Alien.
Or that when she does that it exposes the giant full panel of my lovely maternity jeans as I try to free her as she giggles.

Evil beast.

I'm not in love with the fact that at only mid way through my pregnancy I'm already getting comments like,
"Wow. Look at your belly! How cute. HOW far along are you now?"

I know what you're saying, people.

I know that you're really thinking that I look more like you did at 7 months than 4.
Need I remind that I was not a size 2 to begin with?
Need I remind this is baby number 4 and pregnancy number 7?
My body is more silly putty than elastic.
And if ONE PERSON asks me if I'm having twins or triplets this pregnancy, I am promising without a doubt that I am going to get violent.

I will be on the news.

A mug shot will happen.

By baby number four, you're over the La La Land of pregnancy and more in
Look at Me Wrong and You Die Land.

I mean, most days I wake up at 6:30 and am beckoned to IMMEDIATELY make breakfast for children who, Lord only knows how, ended up being morning people.
I am, and will never be one.
Before my eyelids can stay open on their own I'm toasting things and spreading things and looking for a sippy cup that doesn't have that wierd black stuff in the stopper.

Then daycare starts and it's a whole day of diapers and feeding and removing inedible objects from slobbery mouths.
Then there are the "Mamas" - THOUSANDS of them.
"Mama?! She hit me!"
"Mama?! I want Cheese-It's."

"Mama?! MAMA? MAAAAAMMMMMAAAA?!"
"WHAT?!"

"I love you."

My mom says one day she'll actually keep track of how many times they say it.
She loves to mention that , "Pretty soon you'll have ANOTHER one calling you."
This is when I make the half-mast eye face at her. The face that says,

"Thanks. I hadn't thought of that."

By the time the daycare kids go home then I start dinner and help with homework then Justin calls to ask what's for dinner.
I haven't even eaten lunch.
I have literally not even sat down since I sat on the edge of my bed choking back tears aimed at my alarm at 6:30.

This is when I dunk his head under water repeatedly in my mind when he sounds less than thrilled with "Tuna casserole" as an answer.

Then it's baths and bed time which consists of 6 gallons of water on the tile and more demands than two terrorists could dream up.

They need to go potty.
They need a drink of water.
Tessa's spitting her water at me, can you tell her to stop?
Cwowie's wooking at me.
They are hot.
They are cold.
They need their feet tucked under their blanket like some helpless shut-in.
I can't find Spirit. (the 2 inch tall Parrot that Chloe must have at all times - WHY oh WHY does it have to be so small and hard to find?!)
You didn't pray that I'd have angels around my bed while I slept.
Daddy only gave me a kiss. He forgot the hug.

Bed time takes so long and so many trips up and down the stairs that I should just strap on ankle weights and make it my cardio.
I've thought of hooking up Skype to their bedroom just to save myself.

This is about the time I become Mean Mommy.
A Mommy who snaps things like,
"If you call me one more time I'm going to sell you to traveling gypsies. Now lay down and go to sleep!"

Justin just sits blinking at me from the couch when I go back downstairs for the 15th time.
He hears it all on the baby monitors as he eats the aforementioned tuna casserole and watches sports.
Looks relaxing to come home and REST.
I wouldn't know.
I'm finding Spirit.

I see the judging eyes that wonder why I'm not more calm with our precious angels.
My look tells him that I dare him to do more than chew and stare forward.

But I FEEL that I'm being unreasonable.
I don't need to be told.
I feel sorry for the kids at the same time as I'm losing my mind and my patience.

Yesterday at church I got approached by a girl who asked if I'd please call her and let her come watch the girls every so often.
She was actually ASKING ME.
She said, "I just LOVE watching them. They're so cute. Do you want my cell phone number?"

For a minute I looked around for hidden cameras.
Was that even a real question?

How does every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and alternating weekends from now till the end of time work for you?
Yes. Yes I want your cell phone.
You might have to block my number before it's over.

My poor poor family.

There's a pregnant troll living under their drawbridge.

If Your Eyeballs are Bleeding from Stress, Press 2.

And then a flare was sent up through the boxes, followed by a weak, paint splattered hand shakily poking up through the ruins.

She was alive.

Barely.

This move has nearly killed me.
The next moving truck I go in will be run by a company called the "County Coroner" and the only thing they will be moving is my cold, lifeless body.

I guess it would have been easier if I were the type to be happy with stark white walls and no thought towards aesthetics, but I'm not.
I must paint.
I must create balance.
It's in my DNA.

I have taped off and painted and touched up and found studs until I collapse into the bed at night only to have nightmares of non leveled pictures after hours of striving.

Trying to get the girls settled in here has been a feat.
For the first two weeks, Chloe kept asking,
"Mama, when we're done here, can we go home?" - Which broke my heart.
Tessa cried a lot.
That's not like her at all.

It's hard explaining moving to children.

It's also hard explaining moving to OCD husbands.
"Sweetheart, it's very difficult to dust the frames if they're packed away in a box. I'm sure it can wait."

Justin spent the first couple of weeks here storming around with his nostrils flared.
He doesn't do well in chaos.
He doesn't do well with wall to wall boxes labeled
"Crap that was just left over."

Between the kids falling apart and his plummeting mood, I had
about had it.

Sure!
Let's just have pregnant, exhausted Mama be in charge of it all.
Let's have her make all major decisions. It's OK that her pregnant brain doesn't even remember how to make coffee correctly.
Who cares if she's dizzy?
Send her up the ladder to cut in the paint edges.
And go ahead and ask her if she got anything at all unpacked today while you were at work and she did daycare and made lunches. Surely she must have had a FEW spare minutes.
Just ask.

The doctor prescribed blood pressure medication for me.

And good thing,
because getting the AT&T Uverse hooked up here ALONE has been enough to send me to a five story ledge and question leaping.
It was like a two day repeat of "Who's on First" just trying to work that phone system.

I have now spoken to approximately 30 AT&T workers in 15 different countries.
I can sing 15 Muzak songs.
I have chatted online with 2 technicians.
I have a new friend named Shelly and a new enemy named Baharat.

At least that's what I THINK he said.
Who can tell with all that background noise of the Indian marketplace?

I maybe even heard a chicken.

It has taken a week of waiting and 5 hours of hold and department transfer time to get a technician out here to simply run a cable to one of our TVs.
First they only had our old address.
The technician complained he was knocking and knocking and no one was home.
No one was home somewhere else, if you know what I mean.

I won't go into full detail to save you all from pulling out your OWN eyelashes and eating them out of anxiety, (as I have) but let's just say I could have gone to school to become a technician and run my OWN cable in a quicker and more painless time than this all took.

AT&T will not be receiving any Valentines from me.
They're lucky I'm a good Christian woman.

But as of this very moment - between the last sentence and this one, it is fixed.
Problem solved.
No more bulging carotid arteries for me.

Well, at least not from THAT.

And I do believe I deserve a medal, as I, Kerri Green, have not taken one single day of daycare off throughout our move.
I have made snacks and fed them from my cupped, clasped fingers when I couldn't find bowls.
I have wiped faces with my bare hands because the towels were packed.
I have caught kids just in time as they almost ingested handfuls of
"WHAT THE HECK IS THAT" that they found as credenzas were carried out and bare carpet was exposed.

There were north of 16 Cheese-Its found behind our entertainment cabinet when it was taken.
I have no idea how that even happened.
Especially since Tessa never usually lets a Cheese-It slip by unnoticed.

But now things are looking more like a home.
Most rooms are painted.
Things are hung up.
I'm in LOVE with our bedroom.
Next stop is curtains because I really can't handle the 6:00 am Chloe and Tessa alarm clock I have because their room is full of light.

It's almost like the sun is actually IN there with them.

All that's gone on in the last few months have made the idea of a new baby take a backseat. Poor thing. They way things are going, we may need to just save one of the empty boxes to use as a crib.
I still can't believe it's real.

My best friend Lisa asked me yesterday if I was SURE I was done this time and I probably scared her with how emphatically I answered yes.

Four is going to put me on the brink of insanity.
Five would have me so far past that, that the brink would look like an ant.
From a plane.

I already worry about making sure Tessa's never left alone with it.
Ever.
I can't even imagine how fast it would be covered head to toe in sharpie tattoos.

But what's one more set of hands prying my eyelids open at ungodly hours?

But also one more fresh-after-bath baby head to sniff......
How could I resist THAT?

I can handle it.

It can't be as bad as the last 2 days with AT&T.

If I can survive that, I can survive anything.