Nummies 911

Birth Philosophy

Charlotte is a stray cat that Molly brought home a few weeks ago. I, of course, do not need another living thing in this house, so I kicked her out at least five or six times, but she always found her way back.

After a couple of weeks of this, I realized she was pregnant. So we became Charlotte’s foster home. The last time I had a pregnant cat I was 8 or 9 years old, so I did some reading.
•    Cats can become pregnant as young as 4-6 months old.
•    Cats can become pregnant as soon as 48 hours after giving birth.
•    Cats are very needy and moody when they are pregnant.
Sound familiar? (By the way, a six-month-old cat is the equivalent of a 10-12 year old human.)

I’ve learned some other things along the way.

Turns out there is an old technique in birthing kittens that if the mother does not lick the kitten to stimulate it to breathe, you can “gently” swing the kitten downward between your legs to force out the fluid and clear the airway. WHAT!?! Seriously, that sounds as barbaric as some of the things we do to women in labor and delivery. Science only gets us so far. Doing things the way they’ve always been done, will get you all the way to crazy.

One information source made the declaration: There are no consistently safe and effective ways of inducing labor in a feline. Amen to that, and ditto for women! If only THAT was printed on every little thing a pregnant woman receives from her clinic, than maybe, just maybe, it would have sunk in by the time she reaches 36 weeks. I’m gleaning a little from the next lesson.

My kids have forgotten everything I’ve ever taught them about birth and babies. Being a childbirth educator, doula and finally nurse, I have always talked plainly and truthfully to my children about sex and birth and breastfeeding. However, this experience has taught me that unless you talk about it everyday, most of what you may have considered “covered” is actually “forgotten.”

Leaving things alone is the best way to get things right. In birth anyway, it has a design that works, if only we would let it. Almost everything I read encouraged the pet owner to NOT interfere with the cat's labor and delivery, but to be there as a "lifeguard" if something goes wrong. And yet, when we as humans have just as good a design on labor and birth, we REFUSE to believe in it. We judge it, question it, doubt it. Are there no wise women left who believe that birth is right, natural and best left alone? Are there no women who want swim with lifeguards? I could go on and on about this one, but I'll leave it for now.

While most sources say that a cat prefers seclusion, Charlotte wanted my attention in labor, so I sat with her, and petted her and tried to support her. But as any good doula knows, you cannot possibly prepare a female for what happens at the moment of birth. Charlotte became wide eyed as her first kitten emerged and she literally tried to climb up my arm. It was a familiar sight, one I’ve seen so many times as young, first time mothers climb to the top of the birthing bed to “get away” from the pain. The next time is better because while it hurts the same, we know what to expect and the panic is not as bad. By the third kitten, Charlotte didn’t even make a sound.

 

The children’s reactions to the kittens just exemplify how very different each child is. Cullen is squeamish and Camille is not. Cullen touched one of the kittens and then felt the umbilical cord. He freaked out and ran to the bathroom to wash his hands. Camille laughed and at 3½ years old, she mocked him with waving hands and laughing, said “I’ve got to wash my hands!” Camille picks up earthworms with her bare hands.

While Molly is imaginative, Camille is rather concrete. Molly is projecting personalities onto the kittens, determining little scenarios and trying to find names that fit.
Camille asks, “Is my kitten sick, or is he OK?”
She says, “I’d like my kitten to be a girl.”

Later, Camille thinks we should sing a song to the kittens.
“Do you know any kitten songs, Mommy?” she asks.
I reply, “No, that would be Molly’s department. Go ask her. I’m sure she can make up a kitten song for you.” And she will.

 

For Pop

I took a quiz on FaceBook the other day. "How OCD are you?" The results: "Very OCD." Lisa told me that I didn't need a quiz to tell me that. And the truth is no, I don't. But as I try each day to let things go and relax and enjoy life more, I realize that I may be losing the battle.

This past weekend I went to my brother's wedding. We were visiting with family and I related a story about how I came home from work one day and after an hour of looking at the sod that was laid in my absence, I had to take it up and do it over. I said "I'm trying to let things go..." and immediately my dad spoke up and said "Hold on to that OCD! It'll save you!" I laughed, because he had such an opposite view of our tendencies.

He related a story about unpacking a box with styrofoam pieces and how he almost lost it when someone broke one of the pieces, knowing that tiny little balls of styrofoam were scattering to the recesses of the living room. He wouldn't be able to sleep until they were all picked up. I smiled knowing exactly how he felt.

Well, today I received a package. Molly and Camille were dying to open it and in a laspe of reason, I let them, while I finished baking blueberry muffins.

This is what I found.

And it spanned several rooms....

So, while I'll spend hours, make that days, cleaning up tiny little styrofoam balls, I did NOT yell at the kids. Instead I laughed at them and smiled, knowingly, trying to accept myself. The self that is OCD. The self that finds joy in seemingly menial tasks. The self that wants to put things before people. The self that forgos sleep for order.

And I will continue to try and create a new self.  One that knows my tendencies are just that, MINE, not others. One that finds harmony living with chaos. And most importantly, one that doesn't turn longing into anger and direct it toward a three year old with a box full of styrofoam.

As I think about Pop, our connection and his philosophy, the smile gets bigger and maybe in the coming days I can come to believe that it is true...it will save me, too.

 

Nothing in particular

I’m finding it hard to write lately. I guess you’ve figured that out since you guys are still stopping by and surely saying, "What the hell?"

I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s just too much stuff rumbling around in my head for me to be able to organize it into a neat, well-written, witty blog entry. So instead, you get this.

Weekend before last, I went to Atlanta with Camille and stayed with Anna. We shopped and shopped. We went to the children’s museum, which Camille loved. We tried to sleep in on a rainy morning, but Camille didn’t cooperate. I went to at least four bead shops, a yarn store, Perimeter Mall, and IKEA. I finally figured out why IKEA can sell you anything. They lay out the store like a video game in which you get completely and utterly sucked in and then subsequently lost and distracted. You find yourself shopping for things and rooms you never even dreamed of because they have trapped you in “Work Rooms” when all you really wanted to shop for was “Kitchen Wares.” But isn’t that the cutest desk organizer you ever seen! And by the time I get to check-out, I’ve got to cough up my first born just to get back to my car.

I liked being in Atlanta. I like big cities with endless food and shopping choices. I like seeing the actual store fronts of the catalogs that litter my coffee table. Perhaps it comes from growing up in a very small town, in a time before the internet, during which time, if you needed something the slightest bit eccentric, you were just SOL! If you know me at all, you know that most of what I desire is totally eccentric, so I spent many years frustrated beyond belief. At least now I can order whatever I want off the net, if I can part with the money for the shipping. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from shopping in person for things, which obviously just do not exist. Anna accuses me of trying to stare into being the object for which I am searching. No, it’s just years of practice in not finding it.

I left Camille with Anna on Sunday, knowing that they would both be home on Tuesday evening. So I drove back Sunday night, all by myself. I went to sleep in the house ALL BY MYSELF. I’m trying to think. I know I haven’t spent a night alone since Camille was born, and so this was the first time in over three years that I have been totally alone. It was creepy…for about five minutes, and then it was calming, very calming. I slept, worked, ate, wrote, created and read without being interrupted. I think that is the thing I miss the most, the ability to focus, to finish a task without being interrupted 60 times a minute. When I started nursing school a few years ago, it was popular to get a prescription for Ritalin or something like it so one could focus and study harder. Being curious and of course wanting to do well in school, I tried it. I couldn’t see the difference. I would listen to my study group go on and on about how much better they could focus and stay on task while taking the Ritalin. I am naturally focused, to a fault. When I get something in my head, it takes on a life of its own. It’s hard for me to put it down, whether it’s an idea, a problem, or a task. I remember many days before children that I would walk into a closet or room in the morning and decide right there and then that this needed cleaning and organizing. Fast forward to 10pm that night and I would still be in my pajamas with boxes for Good Will and the trash and a beautifully organized room, however neglected the rest of the days agenda. But then came kids. Children don’t let you do that. I try. Oh, do I try. But instead, I get two minutes into something and lo and behold someone wants something to eat. Eat? You want food? But I’m about to reorganize the gardening tools and fertilizers in the shed. I’ve just pulled everything out! I can’t stop now! But I do, and if I’m lucky, I may get enough time to throw out a couple of things while putting everything back into the shed, still not organized, but now urgently calling me in the middle of the night or shower, nudging me, reminding me of tasks undone. I’ve been a parent for 12 years and I still don’t like that part of it.

Wednesday, I went to see a friend’s new baby. Very sweet! Really enjoyed holding her and feeling that little baby heat that builds up in your arms. She’s such a gentle soul and I felt she was right at home with her new family. Thanks for that gift. I really needed it.

This past weekend was hard. Work was hard, news from family was hard, being without Anna was hard. Feelings keep surfacing and demanding attention. I try to keep a balancing act. It’s one I haven’t perfected yet, despite years of practice. (I think if one has lessons to learn in each life, I’ve been a slow learner this go ‘round as I find myself saying “years of practice” quite often.) One word that keeps coming to mind is compassion. Compassion for myself, when I feel exposed and judged and dissected.  But on the other side is “fight.” Fighting for what is right, fair and what should be. It did help today to watch the movie Double Jeopardy with Ashley Judd. My favorite quote, “I gotta hand it to ya honey, it's just sheer hate driving you on.”

Just Text Me

Now that Anna is working out of town, Molly (10) and Camille (3) spend a few 15-hour days a week with a babysitter while I'm at work.  I am lucky that I have a wonderful babysitter right now that does a beautiful job with the kids. However, communications between home and work have had to be "negotiated." In the beginning, Molly would call me for anything and everything. Now, I've scaled it back to texting, and these are the sample texts I get on a daily basis.

from Molly:
"can I spend the night with Kim?"

"Kim's mom said no, can Kim spend the night with me?"

"Can she, her mom needs to know."

"Kim is going to Wal-mart, her mother says I can go, can I go?"

"Kim's mom says I can spend the night now, can I spend the night with Kim?"

"We are out of blueberry poptarts. Can you pick up some on your way home?"

So, these are the important conversations I get from Molly. And yesterday after working four straight days, I get home and she says to me casually, "Hey Mom, there's blood when I pee."

Me: "WHAT?!"

Molly: "There's blood when I pee."

Me: "Does it hurt when you pee?"

Molly: "Yes, and I have to go all the time. And I can't hold it."

Me: "How long has this been going on?"

Molly: "All day."

Me: "Why didn't you call me?"

Molly: "I don't know. But we're out of milk, I forgot to text you that."

(Update for those interested: She has a UTI, which the ped says was common for girls her age when they don't wash well enough, say at a two day sleep over on the previous Fri/Sat nights. She's off to Mexico for a long weekend and I pray she remembers to take her meds, not lose them AND drink only bottled water. If not, maybe she'll text me.)

Good Mom/Bad Mom

Since January, Anna has been gone during the week.  I have tried to adjust to not having any break or help with the parenting duties, but even today I think I am failing miserably. It's hard for me to understand why, since I've done this for years. Years. In my first marriage, I had a step-son from the age of 5, when I was only 22. My ex was in the army and was gone A LOT. I raised a step-son and Cullen and Molly almost completely by myself. And I think I was pretty good at it. But I also had more resources then, too; friends from LLL that I could call on if things were melting down and we needed a change of scenery.

This time it's different. For the past 8 years, I've had Anna if I needed a break, and work. Now that Anna's gone, I only have work.

All that to say, yesterday was a particularly difficult day. About 10 minutes into running errands, Camille starts whining that she wants to go home. Molly is talking non-stop. And I really just want a day to myself, or if I have to continue with this one, a really large drink. BUT, it is only 10:30am and we have just begun.

We make it home about 2:30pm and the rest of the afternoon is just as trying. Finally, despite the cold, I take Camille out to ride her tricycle. When we get out, the lighting is good so I grabbed my camera. I managed to get a few good shots that belie the day we had before now.

Favorite Rings

I received these beautiful rings as a gift.

I first saw them in a magazine and then bookmarked the Nelle and Lizzy website. I've been drooling over them for the last few months. They arrived in such a way, that I know I would love to work with these women.

The packaging was a delight to the senses. When I opened the cardboard shipping box, the aroma of lavender seeped out. I thought perhaps that the tissue paper was scented, but as I kept opening, the simple design of the packaging gave way to a natural, packing material that was an added bonus.

The rings are intertwined and each band has one of my children's names on it. It's hard to explain, but the bands rotate over one another so that at any given time, a different child's name might be on top.

I LOVE these rings. They are beautiful, shiny, and fun to play with. Plus I get to tease the children that whoever's name is on top is my current favorite. Nothing like a little competition.

Children are really little mirrors

  

  I was at work the other day talking to A. about our toddlers. We both have little ones about the same age.
    I told her Camille was at the sink the other day brushing her teeth. She sucked the water off the toothbrush and said to me, “That water is DISGUSTING, Mommy! It’s disgusting!”  I was taken aback because we don’t say things like that in my house. I have a pet peeve about calling foods disgusting or nasty. I taught my two older kids to say, “I don’t care for that,” or “I really don’t like that.” I have drilled in their heads that whatever food is served them in our house is not truly nasty; no matter how distasteful it may be. There are children in other countries who eat nasty food because that is all they have. It’s my modern version of “Eat your vegetables because children are starving in China.”
    So I told A., “I don’t know where she would have heard that, because no one in my house would have said that. She probably got it from a movie or TV.”
    Our conversation then turned to what foods our children would eat all day if we let them. Turns out A’s little boy loves Cheerios. I commented that Camille would eat Dora treats, those little gummy things in horrible colors that don’t mimic any real food colors. I said, “She asks for those all day. They are disgusting!”
    A. and I looked at each other and laughed. Turns out it wasn’t from TV after all.

Molly

Internet, this is Molly.

Everyone together: "Hi, Molly."

Molly is a brilliant, energetic, thoughtful, creative, and caring human being. She is shy in new situations and kind to others. She is giving with her talents, money, time and possessions. She is willing to try most anything once.

She loves art like me and has a mini-studio in her room. She loves pets, American Girl, gardening and computers. She loves to dress up and take bubble baths.

Most days she is a blur of joy, sound and light. Light. That is a word that I have used over and over to describe her. It is accurate because you cannot catch light. You have a hard time bending it, or changing its direction. Yet, you want it, want to be around it, gravitate toward it.

Yes, Molly is light. She finds it hard to settle down, hard to go to sleep. And yet, even when she finally succeeds, she is still glowing, like a comforting reminder of her day's work.  

Molly is light, or I could just tell you she is like a puppy on crack, that's pretty accurate too.

How does she know?

How does she know that I love her?

Is it when I tell her, “I love you.” Or is it when I give her a breakfast of oatmeal instead of the Dora treats she begs for. Does she feel that I love her when I tell her she must close the door behind her and she flails her little body against the floor in protest? I think not. And when that protest becomes overdone, and I firmly (maybe too firmly) place her on the bed and tell her to be quiet, does she know that I love her?

What about when I ask her to leave the kitchen because I have now tripped over her little body for the fifth time and I think I might literally break my neck? When she asks me to snuggle with her and watch Dora and I say, “no,” does she understand I have no time to snuggle when there are clothes to be washed and dinner to be made and that the mere mention of the famed explorer makes my stomach turn and my head ache?

When I think of her day... of negotiations, disappointments and yes, even all out battles, how does she know that I love her? It seems today was more about “no” and less about “yes.” She is three but she knows exactly what she wants, even if it seems totally unreasonable to me. She is bossy, headstrong, and defiant; sound familiar. And she will not listen to me, not that I spent much effort trying today.

Tonight she fell asleep, in my lap, while I wasn’t looking. It broke my heart. I look into this peaceful face and wonder, does she know?

Maybe I’ll do a better job tomorrow.