Earthquakes, Book stores, Crap storms, and Shia Lebeouf

Did I miss something?  Did someone see four horsemen and forget to tell me?  Surely I would've read something about them on FB if they showed up.  Right?

Yesterday, while G was napping, I took advantage of the rarity that is Sloan working from home.  Henry and I donned our swimsuits and cover-ups and ran one errand and then were off to the pool.  And since G was not in tow, we could go in the deep end and work on our strokes.  (By the way, Henry can now swim a 25 meter lap all by himself.  Yes, his stroke is a hybrid of doggy paddle, freestyle, and drowning, but he is in it to win it, baby!) 

Our errand was heading to the used bookstore.  Normally I like to read on my Ipad, but we are headed to the beach next week and the Ipad is not kids-playing-in-the-sand friendly.  Henry skipped off to the children's section while I checked out the new releases.  And then--cue the Carole King--I felt the earth. move. under my feet.  I felt the sky tumbling down. tumbling down.  At first I was fearful that Henry was leaping off the shelves or some other tom-foolery and was searching for him so I could speak sternly to him in that "I'm going to yell at you but do it in a monotone whispering voice" that all mommies of preschoolers reserve for in public come to Jesus meetings. 

But then the books started falling off the shelves.  And the old people (because this used bookstore is run by a group of snobby blue hairs who think my asking for David Sedaris is beneath them) started shrieking.  And the teenagers who work the Tobacco shop next door had gone out into the parking lot.  I thought, "Oh my gosh.  This is a freaking earthquake.  My son and I are going to be found beneath a sea of musty books surrounded by all these old people.  They'll look for the elderly first, so we are going to die." 

Ummm....I may have been overreacting. 

I'm pretty sure the shelves at Midlothian's Book Exchange are so stuffed that all it takes for the books to fall is lots of traffic.

My sister's story is funnier. 

First off, you need to remember my sister has 8 children.  So inevitably, there is always some sort of drama going on.  Bats in the living room.  Barbies in the toilet.  A child in the corner crying because of some sibling.

Also, my sister's house is 13 miles from the epicenter of yesterday's quake.

She was outside giving her sons haircuts when she too felt the earth move.  Knowing her luck, she immediately assumed that her septic tank was failing.  So she sent the kids inside her house, trying to avoid the impending crap storm, envisioning a geyser of poopy water erupting out of her slate patio. 

Inside, the housekeeper and my teenage niece were rounding up the littles trying to get them outside.  Once my sister had just gotten all her big kids inside, they realized, no--it is not a crap storm but an earthquake. 

And really.  Let's think about this.  5.8 earthquakes are pretty much always preferable to exploding septic tanks and the resulting crap storm. 

But if you combine yesterday's quake with today's poor air quality from the Great Swamp fires and then add those to the weekend's prediction of Hurricane Irene and you have the plot to a Michael Bay end of world thriller.  I'm fully expecting to hear about a meteor coming toward the earth.  I made sure to speak kindly to my suburban today in case it transforms and gets upset about my secret desire for a minivan.

Or maybe I should be looking out for the Rodents of Unusual Size.  I'm not quite sure which would be more shocking at this point. 

When I Was a Parenting Expert

Before I had children, I was a parenting expert. 

My future children were perfect--obedient, kind, silly, brilliant, clean, and wonderful eaters.  They never walked around with boogers crusted over half of their face.  They quickly and quietly gave up both diapers and pacifiers at age 2.  They were adventurous eaters; their favorite foods were things like almond encrusted salmon, green beans, and brussel sprouts.  They never stole toys from other kids, rather, from birth they were able to speak in full sentences and able to resolve all conflicts with their stellar vocabulary and winning smiles.  They always listened to me and were masters at "first time" obedience.  They never went limp in parking lots of grocery stores but skipped happily alongside me with blue birds on their shoulders.

Umm....not so much.


In reality, there are times when I am talking to my children and it is as if the wind is blowing.  Days when I feel like all I do is enforce consequences.  Disobey, consequence, repent, pray, hug.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Every ten minutes.  For the same frickin' thing.

In reality, I have found that weaning your child off of methadone to be far easier than taking away their passie.  Just when I think we've left the passie in the crib for nighttime, she finds another one.  Probably from behind the toilet.  Or I'm having to give it to her because she insists while teething to shove her entire hand down her throat, thus causing some type of teething induced bulimia.

In reality, I had to drag Grace, who was kicking and screaming AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS!!! all the way across the movie theater lobby.  She was mad at me because I would not let her unfurl the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom and I swatted her hand away as she attempted to play in the stream of her brother's urine. 

In reality, Grace has been told that hands are for hugging not for hitting so many times that she now immediately hugs Henry after hitting him. 

In reality, Gracie prefers to eat only meat and carbs.  And not even those all the time.  She has missed so many meals because I refuse to be a short order cook that it is no wonder why she only has one roll left in her thighs.   Also, I don't take kindly to a plate of food being thrown in my face.  She did that at lunch today and so went down for her afternoon nap an hour early because Momma doesn't play that game.  Not when there is an empty crib upstairs full of all the wrong stuffed animals.

Oh, and did I mention that all of the loveys have been lost?  LaLa, our very favorite pink poodle lovey, jumped the stroller at the watermelon festival.  So she commandeered her back up lamb lovey and her brother's old blue lamb lovey.  But she lets me know that they are not LaLa.  They are simply Lovey.  And I'm not even sure where those are now at this point.  So yes, I just spent $40 on ebay for "A Pair and a Spare" set of pink poodle loveys.  Perhaps if we have three LaLas we will be able to locate one of them. 

Don't get me wrong, when Grace is sweet, she is sticky sweet like grocery store birthday cake icing.  But, boy oh boy.  When she is mad,  she is freakin' mad.  Do not poke the bear.  While she is comforted by song, you'd best hope you don't pick the wrong song to sing.  Guaranteed hits are the ABC song and Amazing Grace.  If you try to sing "You are My Sunshine" she will quickly remind you that, no, she is your little gale force wind.

I barely remember this stage with Henry.  His terrible twos were different as his temperament is much more even keeled and less demanding.  Gracie is just like me.  Which is to say she is loud, hates being told no, and can make you miserable if you cross her. 

But also, she could be possessed by some sort of two year old demon.   The verdict is still out.  The only thing I know for sure now in terms of parenting is that at some point in time we may need to call an exorcist.

TMI

Pain.

I'm not so good with it.  Or, I suppose it could be said that I have a high threshold of pain, but have had to deal with a high amount of pain for quite sometime.  I hesitate to say that I've been living with chronic pain because, well, it's not every day.  I have friends dealing with chronic pain from fibromyalgia, ulcerative colitis, arthritis, TMJ, and wandering husbands--but my pain waxes and wanes on a monthly cycle.

Yes, this is the post where I talk about my struggle with Endometriosis. 

Growing up I just thought I was a wuss. That everyone else also had cramps that made them double over in pain, become light headed, and throw up.  That everyone else became anemic and weak.  And that I was just a big weanie for complaining about it.  That everyone else would lose roughly a pint and half of blood a day for 10 to fourteen days every five weeks.  It didn't help that this also seemed to be the case for the rest of the women in my family.  Being on the pill did seem to lesson my symptoms, but only to say that instead of feeling like I was in labor, I was merely experiencing Braxton Hick's. 

It wasn't until we began seeing our fertility specialist that we first got the diagnosis.  Because really, they can't diagnosis the nasty stuff without digging around in your abdomen and lady parts. Oh, and did I mention that my lady parts initially were shaped like a heart?  The technical term they used was "uterine septum" but my doctor basically described it as having two uteruses.  (Or is it uteri?)  So when Dr. T removed my septum, we also okayed him to remove any and all endometriosis should he find any.  And he did.

Now for lots of people, simply having a baby clears up endometriosis for good.  You have a baby then you go on the pill to help reduce the hormones that cause the stuff to grow and you're golden.  But seeing as we were already struggling with infertility, I just couldn't bring myself to take the pill after Henry was born.  Something in my heart felt like taking the pill was completely giving up.  Was interfering with God should He want to perform some sort of miracle.

Eventually, I was back on painkillers every month.  At first, I could get away with large doses of OTC stuff.  Then I went to Ponstel, a non-narcotic.  Then, last summer, I finally found the pain in my back and abdomen outweighed the pain in my heart regarding ever being pregnant again.  Also, I think God had worked in my heart--I was resting in the fact that either our family was complete or if we were going to add to it, we would do so with adoption.

For certainly God performs miracles through adoption every day.

So I went back on the pill.  And while the pill reduced the severity of my symptoms, they were still there.  Nagging me.  I was still waking up every morning for a week having to change the sheets on my bed.  On more than one occasion Sloan was afraid to go to work because of the amount of blood I'd lost.  And it also seemed ridiculous to be spending $40 a month for this pleasure. 

So we're now back at the drawing board.  I quit the pill a couple of months ago and am getting an IUD on Tuesday.  I'm stoked.  Well, I'm not stoked about the pain I've been in the past couple of cycles, but stoked that, according the literature I've read, there's an 80% chance of this being healed up within the next 6 months without me having to have surgery again or, in the worst case scenario, remove the offending lady parts.

I am only two years younger than my mom was when she had to have her emergency hysterectomy after hemorrhaging on a girl's weekend to Williamsburg.  I want to avoid that.  I like drinks with umbrellas on my girl's weekends, thank you very much.

But this week has been hard.  I spent Sunday night through this morning in incredible pain.  I could barely walk.  And lying on the floor seemed only to invite my children to jump on my back and stomach.  Which, oddly enough, did not help the situation. 

An acquaintance of mine told me to make peace with the pain and work through it.  I told her she was an effing hippie and seriously considered de-friending her until she shot me a "I hope you feel better :)" comment.  And I guess I'm a sucker for emoticons even when feeling like I'm in labor passing clots the size of golf balls.  (See why I titled this post TMI?)

Taking the big gun narcotics while parenting solo is not ideal, so I was homebound both of those days.  The kids watched a lot of Sesame Street.  A lot.  Thank God we have something like 150 episodes of it on Netflix.  Henry has also fallen in love with the 1960s Spiderman.  And Grace ate the head off a decorative duckie soap.  Also, taking the big pills while you're basically having contractions doesn't really make you high.  (A good thing?  I guess it’s all depending upon how you look at it.)  It just sort of makes the pain a dull ache. And you have absolutely no ability to focus.  This morning was my first day back on my Ponstel, and I found many tasks half-done: laundry, dishes, and, randomly, I apparently attempted reorganizing my pantry. It’s probably a good thing Sloan is in Pennsylvania as he’d probably also object to the large bags of the kids’ toys I’ve sorted through with items to sell and/or give away.  I think the kids have 3 legos and a flash light left in the sun room.

Even more difficult than parenting while under the influence is attempting to parent while you're in pain.  I found that I didn't really care what the kids did so long as they didn't a) require me to move, or b) kill themselves.  I can't be sure, but I think we ate Ritz crackers and cheese cubes for more than one meal.  I was slowly going insane staying in my house.  I briefly remember washing and drying a large quantity of Capri Suns.  Yes.  I washed juice bags.  (Okay, so maybe you get a little high when you take painkillers.) And they are now neatly arranged on the bottom shelf on my pantry.  Which is right at Grace’s eye level, making that the world’s worst location for Capri Suns EVER!  (Seriously, I couldn’t manage to fold the six loads of laundry I managed to do but I hand washed flipping juice bags?  I’m killing me, smalls!)

Today, I was able to connect with a friend and we met at the pool.  She helped me wrangle the kids.  I'm planning on going to the pool tomorrow as well, two hours of which I will put my kids in the gym child care.  I have a date with my book and a chaise lounge.  Around lunch, my friend is again meeting me with her kids to help out.  She is also taking Henry the afternoon of my procedure so I can nap while Grace is napping. 

I have attempted to make some sense out of all this.  To discern what God has for me in the midst of this pain.  I would like for there to be a clear answer as to the why.  It has made it easy to be grateful for my infertility because it brought me Grace.  Pain, on the other hand, has not produced a neat little spiritual gift I can wrap up for you in a blog post.  Except to say, that like my infertility, the pain has brought me much Grace.  From my dear husband.  From my friends.  From my Savior who has not left me here to agonize alone, but has clung to me and brought me patience and peace.  Not peace with my pain, mind you.  But peace and patience with the people I'm still required to love and serve whilst in pain.  

New Routines

They say it takes 30 days of doing something new for it to become habit.  I don't know if that is true, but who am I to question "they."  It seems for me that just as soon as one motherhood routine becomes habit, something happens to make the previous habit null and void. 

And so, suddenly, I am back in the familiar place of not knowing what the heck I am doing.  With Gracie's recent breathing issues, our routines have gotten messed up.  (They won't "officially label her as having Asthma until she is four or so, but basically, she has Asthma.)  I've had to find an extra two hours in the day to neb Gracie (4x a day at roughly 30 mins a session).  On the one hand, it is very sweet to cuddle my girl.  She sits still and snuggles up with her face on my chest, gently rubbing La-La on her cheek with her fishy face mask on.  On the other hand, I'd like those extra 30 minutes to sleep and/or bathe in the morning and Oh! Hey 2 am, I haven't missed seeing you. 

The middle of the night nebbing session is the easiest as she and I both fall asleep and I usually wake up when the weight of her on my thigh causes my foot to go numb, which is about the time it takes for the Albuterol to run its course.  After lunch, before her naptime is also grand as she usually falls asleep and I get to read my book.  The morning is the worst time, because, well, I'm not a morning person and neither is Grace, but oh-my-gosh is Henry ever a morning person.  I usually neb Gracie while coaxing Henry, who is naked and dancing while screaming "Good morning, I'm naked!!!" to get dressed one slow article of clothing at a time.  And sometimes she gets antsy during the morning and evening treatments because she has to neb two medications and so it takes the full 30 minutes. 

And I'm having to find a new nighttime ritual.  We had gotten finally gotten down our bedtime routines. We have two: one for when Sloan is in town and one when he is out of town.  But now, with Gracie needing her nebulizer treatments every night for the foreseeable future (at the very least the next six weeks and most likely all of cold and flu season) the routine has had to change.   I cannot spend 10 minutes prepping G's hair for bed, then read her two books, then sing her a song, then neb her for thirty then put her to bed, then head to Henry's room (who was putting on his PJs and playing trains while I put G to bed), and read him a Bible story and two books, then pray, then light up is room like Vegas with his 3,000 night lights and add another 30 minutes to the mix. Or, I could, but then those precious hours at the end of the day when they are sleeping or at least shut in their room in the dark would be fewer. 

So last night and tonight, I broke out the Ipad.  Think I'm lazy or whatever, but Grace sat still for her treatment instead of trying to jump up and down or go to Henry's room.  And Henry put on his PJs so quickly without whining once so that he could crawl up in G's rocker to watch the Ipad. 

And what do we watch?  Sesame Street Music Videos on You Tube.

And yes, we do love Will.i.am's "What I am" but come on--if you've seen it, you've at least thought once Will.i.am wasn't thinking he was magical but bored out of his mind.  Seriously.  I've seen middle school boys forced to be in musicals show more enthusiasm.

That said...I would like to share with you our two favorite videos. 

Grace loves this one.  And I can't say I blame her.  Bonus that it was thought up by an adoptive Dad as a way to love his Ethiopian born daughter.

Henry's favorite is a tie.  He loves him some Ladybug Picnic, but his new favorite that doesn't getting boring at all when he re-enacts it is Bert doing the Pigeon.  If I can secretly film Henry doing the Pigeon I swear I'll post that too.  You'll pee in your pants.