Actual Unretouched Photo

What a day. Just like any other, only more.

The baby’s decided that 5 a.m. is a fine time to wake up for a ten minute snack. It’s sort of okay with me because that means she’ll sleep until 7:30 a.m. or 8 a.m. I literally staggered out of bed and to her room this morning for ten minutes, then back to bed for more glorious sleep. You’d think I’d go to bed early since I love to sleep so much, but the thing is, I love to sleep in the mornings! At night, I’d rather be awake, being uninterrupted and quiet.

The twins had a friend sleep over last night, so first thing this morning, my husband bought a dozen donuts. I had finished showering by that time (with Babygirl in the bathroom with me throwing extra washcloths into the tub and flinging the shower curtain open and getting sprayed with water). Dear husband took her for a ride in the car so I could finish getting ready in peace. Then he returned my baby to me and went to work. Yes, it’s Saturday, but yes, he worked, as usual. He tends to wait until Saturday to write his sermon, which tends to bug me, but what can I do, really?

During Babygirl’s nap, I worked on the wall in “her” room which we are currently sleeping in. It needs to be painted before we move the crib back in there and move our bed back into the master bedroom. When she was born, our sleeping situation was completely jumbled up. I slept with the baby in the master bedroom, while YoungestBoy was moved (he begged to move) to the twins’ room. My husband slept in YoungestBoy’s old room on the king-sized bed from the master bedroom, while I slept on the queen sized bed in the master bedroom with Babygirl until the day she fell off the bed. Since then she’s been sleeping in the crib.

Right before Christmas, we bought new twin beds for the twins and moved them downstairs to the spare room. YoungestBoy got their old room all to himself with the queen sized bed, Babygirl ended up alone in the master bedroom with her crib and when Babygirl started sleeping through the night at 11 months, I joined my husband in the king-sized bed in the baby’s new room (which was YoungestBoy’s old room). We didn’t move the crib into that room because it needs paint. And I know if I don’t paint it before we move the crib in, we never will. Who wants a baby to breathe in paint fumes?

And why have I procrastinated on painting? Well, one wall (where the window is) was covered with two layers of hideous wallpaper which was then covered with even more hideous fabric which was stapled on. The entire mess had to be removed, then the wallpaper paste had to be removed and the staples pried out and the holes filled in. I ripped the wallpaper off years ago (literally), but the staples and a few strips of wallpaper paste remained until today. During her nap, I got out the Diff to remove the final remnants of paper and got out a utility knife and needle-nosed pliers and pulled out the staples. It took two hours, long enough to watch almost all of the horror movie about Chucky the doll. I’d never seen it before.

Being the horrible mother that I am, my boys were downstairs watching television the whole time I was upstairs working. They were quiet, too, which was a miracle. I finished the job just as Babygirl woke up.

Early this morning, we received a phone call that J. had died in the wee hours of the morning. J. was an 85 year old man from our church in good health until suddenly he was diagnosed with widespread cancer. Being a pessimist, when I originally heard the diagnosis (after he had a CAT scan), I said, “It’s going to be days, not weeks” or “It’s going to be weeks, not months.” I can’t remember now, but sure enough, it was barely more than a week. This was exactly how my dad died. His liver was riddled with cancer and he slid into death very quickly.

J.’s son and daughter-in-law are close friends of ours. Our kids all play together, so this afternoon when my husband visited the family, he offered to bring the kids to our house to play for the afternoon. So again, I had a houseful of kids. They all played well together (if you call tackling each other in the muddy backyard playing well) and had a good time.

When the baby went to bed tonight, I went out shopping. I went to Old Navy and bought a bunch of shirts and pants and two baby gifts–all on clearance. I love the clearance racks. Then I went to Marshall’s and shopped the clearance racks again and came up with a pair of sunglasses, a pair of sandals, a gift for my mother, a pack of 12 board books, a computer game for my son’s birthday, a two-pack of black tights for me, and a shirt, all for $50. The man behind the register commented on my optimism–buying sunglasses on a rainy, February day. Doesn’t he realize that it will be summer in approximately twenty minutes? That’s how fast the seasons change in my world.

I finished up my adventure at Target, buying boring stuff like laundry detergent and napkins.

So, Happy VD. That’s Valentine’s Day, for the young and romantic. For me, just another day, only more. Don’t get me wrong. My sweet husband remembered to remember me with chocolate, flowers, a teddy bear and a card. He’s a good guy. I’m just a low-maintenance girl who is happy just to shop the clearance sales.

This afternoon, I found myself in my own backyard with three fifth grade boys, an almost-six year old boy who was desperate for the attention of the fifth grade boys, and three babies, ages 15 months, 16 months and 17 months. My cordless phone rang in my pocket and I said, “Hello?” and my husband said, “What are you doing?” I said, “I’m in the backyard with seven children, wondering how I ended up here!”

He laughed from the quiet safety of his book-filled office. I called him back later and asked if he’d bring home pizza. It was that kind of afternoon.

Actually, the children were all well-behaved. I only watched the 15 month old for three hours, and one of the fifth grade boys was only here for a couple of hours. But still. I feel like the Old Woman Who Lives in the Shoe. Only I can’t spank all the children and put them to bed. Isn’t that how the poem read?

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children she didn�t know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
Whipped them all soundly and put them to bed

I can understand why women pay other less-educated women $3 an hour to watch over their children so they don’t have to endure the thankless monotony of keeping children alive. But the thing is, I believe that wiping a nose with love is different than wiping a nose without love. I believe that taking care of those who cannot take care of themselves is as important as making a lot of money and having adult conversations. When did childhood just become a pointless stretch of time that parents can ignore if they can pay someone else to do the grunt-work?

Well, maybe I’m jealous of women who wear pantyhose and go to offices and talk to adults all day and have lunch breaks.

Wait. I used to be one of those women and I watched the clock. I had to put in 7.5 hours a day and I started counting down at 6.5 hours. Only 4.5 hours to go, just 3.75 hours left, just 2.5 hours, only 1.5 hours, I think I’m going to make it. I wanted desperately to be at home with babies. (I never thought about being at home with ten year olds, though. How short-sighted of me.) I just knew that the work I was doing for a paycheck wasn’t meaningful. My dad’s death during that time only reinforced my feelings that life was too short to sit in an office and watch the clock. He was only 47.

So, I want to be home. I want to be the one who reads my baby’s mind. I want to be the one to monitor the snack situation when the boys come bursting through the door at the end of the day. I want to be the one who rolls around on the floor with my kindergartener. I want to be in the backyard.

Every once in a while, though, I’d like to be the one waving good-bye and blowing kisses. My day will come. (I did the math the other night while I was trying to fall asleep and realized I’ll be 56 when Babygirl graduates from high school. My mother is just turning 61 this year. I am an old mother. A very old mother.)

Here’s a weird thing.

When I was born, my grandma was 59.
When Babygirl was born, her grandma was 59.
When my mother was born, her mother was 37.
When Babygirl was born, her mother (me) was 37.

That hurt my brain. Not a good sign. That’s what seven children in one day will do to an old woman!

I never really played charades when I was growing up. I’d see them played on television and I knew the gist of the game, but we never played at home. But now, oh boy! Every day is a new opportunity to play charades. And not just charades! No way. I get to play Baby Charades.

Babygirl is a pretty agreeable baby, as long as you do things her way, of course. She says a few key words, but more importantly, she nods. She’s been nodding for months now and mostly her nods mean “yes.” If she means “no”, she just looks at you blankly like you need a new brain or a translator or at least electric shock therapy. Then, the charades begin.

She leans in a runner’s stance, rocking towards her target. “You need something?” She nods. Then she points. I say, “You want to go into the kitchen?” Big emphatic nod. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.” Then, she gestures towards the refrigerator. “Oh,” I say, “You want cheese?” “Chhhzzzz,” she says and nods. “All right,” I say, “Here you go!”

She points, she leans, she grunts, she squeals, she nods, and occasionally, she’ll turn her head away or just fling herself to the ground to kick and holler. I’m a little scared that I can just look at her and know she’s thinking “I need a drink of water, you idiot.” My husband cannot do that. Understand, I mean. He certainly can think “I need a drink of water, you idiot” but he does not have the ability to send or receive telepathic messages. It’s something that seems to come standard with the uterus.

About a month ago, we had six inches of snow. That was Babygirl’s first experience in the snow. She can’t speak, but if she could I’m sure she’d have said:  ”Mom, I hate snow. Get me out of this stuff now. Snow is bad!”

Last week, Babygirl learned an important skill. YoungestBoy taught her to jump in mud puddles. They stomp with glee. I am the kind of mother who says, “Hey, it’s washable,” and then I take pictures. This philosophy has carried me through many messy times. I have pictures of a baby with paint on his whole face (TwinBoyB), a picture of twin babies with poop smeared all over them and the carpet (The Poop Incident) and of course, random pictures of kids covered in mud.

Today, the sun shone and Babygirl insisted on going outside. She’s learned to climb onto the Little Tikes plastic slide contraption and then she sits and slides. When she lands on her bottom she says, “Uh-oh!”

The days have been so much more pleasant since Babygirl has resumed napping. I almost feel like a human again.

TwinBoyB and YoungestBoy went to the dentist today for check-ups and cleanings. I was relieved to hear that they are both cavity-free. YoungestBoy had a lot of dental work the year he turned four, so I always worry about his teeth now. My husband took them and reported that YoungestBoy entertained everyone in the waiting room with his math skills.

Last night I goofed off so long talking about my red wall and my mother’s hideous fashion sense that I never painted the wall.

I just realized that I need to run to the store for milk and bread, so, alas, buh-bye!

Glory be! The baby still takes naps! She goes to bed awake with no fuss! I feel like I’m on perpetual vacation, all because the baby has embraced naptime again. I hardly know what to do with myself, so today I painted the wall behind the recliner. I layered on a second coat of tan and tonight, I will paint it red.

My family room has red walls next to the fireplace, then red stripes on the long wall. The more tactful visitors tell me it reminds them of “Farrell’s”, an ice cream place we used to have in this area a long time ago. The less tactful visitors say with awe, “Did you paint all those stripes?” I don’t care. I painted red stripes to give the room a little zip, a little pizzaz, a little whimsy. At least it’s not boring. When you can’t afford a room makeover and Trading Spaces is not coming to your rescue, you improvise with a can of red paint.

So, tonight I shall paint the wall red. This will be not quite as fun as painting the town red, but not as bad as falling into a giant vat of red paint.

Which reminds me of my dad’s song. He used to sing: “I fell into a vat of chocolate. I just fell into a vat of chocolate. What’d you do when you fell into the chocolate? I yelled, FIRE, because no one would save me if I yelled, CHOCOLATE!” At this point, he would shout with laughter. We’d all laugh along, too, because we could not resist him when he laughed.

I know. He was a wacky guy.

I don’t watch The Seventies Show. I lived it.

My grandma (still alive at almost 98 years old) sewed the hideous green dresses, complete with scratchy lace at the necks. I hated that dress. (Notice my clenched fists.) A lady named “Freida” (who had hair down to her backside) fixed my mother’s hair at the dining room table. Then, my mother would sleep very carefully with a satin wrap around her head so she wouldn’t muss the style. My brother is on the right. He’s sixteen months older than me, and my ex-sister is on the left. She’s sixteen months younger than me. I was so jealous of her young beauty–she had blue eyes and blond hair which was longer than my straggly mop. Being the vindictive type, I talked her into cutting it all off when she was a little older. I told her she’d look really cute with a shag. That was a lie, but at least my hair was longer then!

I feel like I’ve been paroled. Suddenly, out of the blue, the key turned in the lock and the door clanged open and I’m blinking in the light of freedom. Yes. Freedom. For now, my baby sleeps. She points to her crib and wants to nap. She sleeps for two hours! At night, defying all laws of logic and fatigue, she wants to go to bed even though it’s not yet 7 p.m.–and even though she actually napped–so I put her gingerly into her crib and cover her and close the door behind her and blink in the light of Freedom at 6:40 p.m.

I kind of waste my free time, though. I’m like a parolee who sits in his jammies watching cartoons instead of reading the classified ads. Today I read the newspaper and a chapter of a book and then looked at websites about Vacation Bible School and marveled that some fanatics not only have already constructed 10 foot replicas of volcanoes–they have also created websites on which to display their handiwork, complete with complicated directions. I’m more of a “read the directions and slap it together, how hard can it be?” kind of VBS director.

At any rate, tonight while my husband was gone at meetings, I read YoungestBoy two books and then came downstairs to watch the Grammys and paint the wall. The wall behind the recliner (also known as Command Central) had two gigantic holes punched into by the force of our ex-dog, Greta, a Newfoundland of great glee and even greater strength who used to run laps in the living room and into the kitchen. Then she’d come flying back to the living room where she’d land in the recliner with force great enough to break the wall. After an obscene amount of time passed, my husband finally finagled a repair by asking a handy friend we know if he could borrow some tools. (The oldest trick in my husband’s book, but it works every time. His alternate trick is so ask a friend for “help.” Then he stands around and watches the friend work and possibly holds a tool and chats.)

So, the friend came and fixed the wall and for weeks now, maybe a month, the wall has been staring whitely at me, begging for paint. While I was painting, YoungestBoy popped into the room, surprising me, and said, “Excuse me, Mom,” which caused me to scream a tiny scream. “Yes?” I said. “Mom, can I read the B Book, just for one or two minutes?”

Of course I said yes.

Then, more painting and another appearance by YoungestBoy. “Excuse me, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“I just counted to 500!” He’s an enthusiastic numbers guy.

“Good for you. Now go to bed. I love you!”

After I’d finished painting, he came downstairs one final time to tell me that he’d counted to 1,000. I told him it was 9:30 p.m., time to stay in bed. He wanted to know if he could count to 3,000 and I said, “I don’t care how much you count. Just don’t come downstairs again.”

My husband likes to think that all of YoungestBoy’s good characteristics are genetic, that they, in fact, directly passed from father to son. I’d like to think that he is a shining example of my exceptional parenting skills, but then I remember I have two other kids who are not shining examples of my parenting skills. So, it probably is genetic, but I’d like to think that my genes have made YoungestBoy who he is today. Okay. Well, at the very least, I did carry him in my womb. That’s got to count for something.

I woke up at 8 a.m. from the strangest dream. We’d moved to Michigan and were living in a large, rectangular, two-story farmhouse. In the dream, I was adamant about moving furniture downstairs from upstairs and at one point, I was insistent that the bedroom furniture be placed on the front lawn, in the lacy shadows of a large tree.

Then, I saw the view from the upstairs bedroom window–Mt. Hood! (Which, of course, is located in Oregon, not Michigan. But no matter. It was a dream.) However, things took a strange turn when I was suddenly having an ultrasound done to see if I was, indeed, pregnant. And not just any ultrasound. No sir-eee-bob. I had to walk from the waiting room to the ultrasound area naked.

Thank God my husband said, “Hey, do you hear the baby? She’s awake.”

My husband worked again today until 4 p.m. I cannot actually remember the last day he took off from work. I think it was at Christmas. While he was gone, the most remarkable thing happened. Babygirl took another nap in her crib. She nursed, sat up and pointed to her crib. I said, “You want to lay down in your bed?” She nodded. She actually slept about two hours. I read a chapter in a book, listening for her to cry out. When she didn’t, I went downstairs and cleaned up the kitchen. My basic cleaning turned into Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder cleaning in which I picked out color crayons from the baskets and discarded them based on how dull their point was. I banished all the “RoseArt” crayons, too. I threw away an old lipstick I found in the kitchen counter basket which collects all manner of flotsam. I tossed an errant lego, a choke-chain for the dog we no longer have, two dried up glue-sticks and more.

Then I decluttered the “junk” cupboard which overflowed with tape dispensers (Costco sold tape in packs of 8), combs, paint brushes, post-it notes, nail clippers, pens and yes, more. Stuff, junk, do-dads. I have no shortage of clutter around here. Part of it is my fault–I save it if I think it has value, even if that value won’t occur for ten more years. And then there are the kids who have vast stores of treasures, which cannot seem to stay put. I find Pokemon cards and plain-old playing cards and legos and balloons and tinkertoys and papers and books and dirty socks everywhere. My husband would like nothing more than to live in a home decorated in Early Dorm Room, so the baggage that comes with a family of boys and a baby assaults his senses.

When I finished throwing things away, I turned my attention to my sooty kitchen window. The candles purchased at Christmas-time smell great and leave a filmy coat of gray on the window frame and window. I washed the white paint, scrubbed the window and shook out the valance.

Puttering takes so much time and before I knew it, the baby was awake again. How satisfying, though to see my streamlined cupboards and baskets and unsooty window.

I told the boys we were going for a walk to 7-11 to buy Slurpees. They cooperated quickly and we were off, Babygirl in her stroller, Youngestboy by my side, chatting the whole way, TwinBoyA on a scooter and TwinBoyB on his bike. When I told my husband later, he exclaimed that such an outing was too dangerous! He’s Mr. Caution. I told Mr. Caution that the road is wide and there is a bike path and we were perfectly safe walking half a mile each way. The skies were mostly sunny and the temperatures were in the mid-forties and it almost felt like spring.

Tonight, Babygirl went to sleep at 7:15 p.m. For the fourth night in a row, she pointed to her bed and when I asked if she wanted to lay down, she nodded. I love having a nodding baby. Even if she doesn’t mean to say yes, but nods, it makes me feel like she is so agreeable.

I left the house at 8 p.m. and spent two satisfying hours at Barnes and Noble. I had a gift card to spend, but I wanted to spend it wisely. I bought four books: Sue Monk Kidd’s “The Secret Life of Bees”, a book about keeping a journal called “Leaving a Trace”, a funny book to send my friend, Diane, for her birthday, and Elizabeth Berg’s “Never Change.” My stack of books to read gets higher and higher and probably one day it will collapse and render me senseless. Maybe even paralyze me, which will be okay if I’m not blinded. Then I will be helpless, but still able to read.

I can always hope.

Well, miracles never cease.

I have moaned and belly-ached and griped and complained and whined about my baby’s lack of naps. She quit napping sometime last October, when she was just a little more than a year old. This was not at all okay with me, but what could I do? I could not bear to plop her into her crib and let her scream for an hour, so I went with the flow. I adjusted my expectations and decided to just enjoy nursing her and holding her while she napped for thirty minutes each day.

Today, I nursed her, as usual, in the gliding rocker in her room. After a few minutes, she sat up and pointed to her crib. I said, “You want to lay in your bed?” She nodded. I said, “Okay,” and put her in her bed. She laid down and I covered her up with her afghans. Without a pause, I walked out and closed the door, fully expecting to hear her protests.

But no. She napped! She napped for a full hour in her crib. I read a chapter in a book, read a message board, wasted time. I really did not know what to do with myself, but I didn’t want to make a noise or do something to jinx this miracle (like starting a project that required a measure of time to complete).

Tonight was the third night in a row that I’ve put her to bed fully awake. Each night she has gone to sleep without another sound.

A baby finally figuring out how to sleep well on her own is a miracle in its own way. After all those weeks and months of staggering through the day in a sleep-deprived haze, I sleep again.

Now, if I could just get my husband to stop snoring, I’d be all set.

What really gets to me is the tedium, the monotony, the grinding routine of doing the same stuff over and over again, every day. Each day, I’m crestfallen when I remember I have to think up dinner again. I just made dinner last night. I pick up the same toys. I wash the same clothes. I flush the same toilets, which surprisingly enough, the boys always forget to flush. I wear the same clothes. The only thing different each day is my stupid hair, which has a mind of its own which is in cahoots with the weather.

I hate the alarm ringing in the morning. I hate waking up in the dark. I hate mornings.

The sad thing is that this is what life is made of–the small stuff, the boring stuff, the routine stuff. Sticky floors and unfolded laundry and a stack of papers on the counter are my life. I am the Queen of the trivial detail, the Servant of the household demand, the Slave to the kitchen.

I need a make-over!
I need a chef!
I need a vacation in Tahiti!

But I’d settle for two hours at Target on Saturday. Without a baby in my cart!

Lately, I have been thinking about my dad. He died when I was 24, which is now 15 years ago, though he died in September and my birthday was just a few days ago. So, I was 24 and a half. He was 47, just barely.

I miss him so much. He never got to experience Seinfeld or the internet or being a grandpa. And that’s just the beginning of all he missed.

But this is not about missing him. This is about the time he took me out to have pie.

When I was about 10 years old, he invited me to go with him to have a piece of pie. This invitation struck fear into my cautious little heart. My dad had never taken me anywhere alone. He worked the graveyard shift and slept all day and hardly ever sat at the dinner table with us. I was a little scared of him because he was a tall man who was never home. He was stoic and unaffectionate.

And then he wanted to take me out to eat pie. I was suspicious because I’d already found a spiral bound steno pad under the couch with my mother’s handwriting in it. There were two columns: “His” and “Hers.” She had divided up their meager possessions into these two lists. I realized with horror what this list must mean, but I shoved it back under the couch without a word and figured if I pretended I hadn’t seen it that my world would not spontaneously combust. But, of course, I was wrong.

On the way to the restaurant, my dad asked if I’d prefer to eat or talk first. I said eat. So, I choked down pie. I can’t remember any small talk. I can’t even remember the pie. What I cannot forget, though, is my dad telling me that he and my mother would be getting a divorce. “We still love you,” he said. As if that made the catastrophe somehow better. Yes, your world will collapse, but we still love you. Okay, then. I will just stay here buried under the rubble while you love me. Thanks so much.

I used his hankerchief to wipe my tears and snot. You’d think that a father informing his daughter about his divorce from her mother would remember to bring a box of tissues, but no. He was not the kind of dad who would think of that.

They were divorced when I was 11. And I’m still not a big fan of pie