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Wednesday, February 28, 2007StokedWhat's a visit to the midwife for, if not to completely build up my ego and self-image? First of all, the intern commented on how toned my arms are and asked me if I do yoga. Yoga?! You're all laughing as you try to picture that. Me, doing yoga. I told her no, I just have "mommy muscles" from picking up babies and children for so many years. I might've mentioned that weekly ironing does a lot for biceps, too, but I didn't want her to think I was some sort of rabid housewife. We heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time, which is always a precious, indescribable moment. That in itself could have made my day. But there's more. My midwife kept telling me how great I look. No, seriously. It was like she couldn't believe that an OLD pregnant woman might look anything short of a complete wreck. Maybe there was something in my expression that told her, "Hmm. This one needs a little bit of building-up. I'd better say nice things to her." Yes, that's completely possible. But whatever her motivation, I left there feeling like the poster girl for Attractively Pregnant Women Over 40. And. As if that's not good enough, here's the best news of all (not just for me, but for all you "kind of older" moms out there): They (where "they" refers to The Medical Establishment) are seriously considering changing the cut-off age for "Advanced Maternal Age" from 35 to 45. Did you hear that?? "Advanced Maternal Age" is already defined as over 40 in Europe. And more and more women are having healthy pregnancies and healthy babies well into their 40s. Hah! I'm not so "old" after all! Toned arms, good looks, my baby's heartbeat, and a reprieve from elderly motherhood. A good day on the whole! Labels: pregnancy Monday, February 26, 2007The Truth Behind My "Earth Mama" ApproachSome of the comments I received on my last post have spurred me to explain why I've opted to go "all natural" for the birth of my fifth child. No, I'm not trying to "prove" something -- because I've already proven it. The birth of my fourth child (Spencer) occurred without the benefit of drugs. And it wasn't because I had chosen to do it that way; it was because the drugs didn't work. So you see, I've already been-there-done-that, under duress. And if I could do it without meaning to, I can certainly do it while intending to. Here's the story, taken from My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon. It's much easier to reprint this than to retell the entire story. Especially on a Monday. (The following is excerpted from My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon by Jill Schafer Boehme, Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. Used with permission.) Labor? No Sweat! Sometimes we are absolutely convinced that we are pros. Whatever the task, talent, or skill, we have told ourselves that, yes, indeed, we've got this one all wrapped up: another slice of the proverbial "piece of cake." And so it was when I went into labor with my fourth child. I had been there, done that. Three onsets of labor, three sessions of timing contractions, three trips to the hospital, three epidurals, and three vaginal births were all on my maternity resume. I was undaunted by Number Four. Thursday, February 22, 2007It's OfficialI'm wearing maternity tops. Not bottoms, mind you -- just tops. Twelve weeks along and I finally gave in. I'm ambivalent about this "showing early because you've been pregnant nine dozen times already and your stomach is just trained to stick out" business. I mean, I expected to pooch out a little early, but I was already "showing" at ten weeks. Ten weeks! I mean, part of me likes it. Unless someone is paying absolutely no attention to my physical state, it's fairly obvious that I'm pregnant. That's nice, because carrying this "huge secret" inside my body has been a little bit exhausting. I'm meeting a dear friend tomorrow for lunch, and she doesn't know about the baby yet. Something tells me I won't have to say a word. I'll just get out of the car and let my belly do the talking. And, honestly, that's easier than all the "big announcement" type conversations I've been having lately. Part of me doesn't like it. Back in early January, I finally reached my "perfect weight" goal. I enjoyed it for a couple of weeks and then the pregnancy pounds started creeping in. It's vanity, plain and simple. I know it and I admit it. I look at my favorite pair of jeans, now hanging forlornly in my closet, and sigh heavily. Why can't we carry our babies in removable backpacks until delivery? And this "showing" business has ramped up my frenetic "to do" list for the remaining six and a half months. I've got to: *Move around and decorate three bedrooms in order to incorporate the baby into our family. *Formulate a list of "things we need" for the baby *Make sure I've signed up for birthing classes, toured the hospital, prepared a birth plan, and in all ways have "birth readied" myself for the big event *Freeze a month's worth of lasagna, tuna casserole, and macaroni and cheese *Finish the first draft of my current novel (book two in the series) Just a few small things to accomplish, right? And please don't ask me to post belly pictures. Not going to go there. Belly pictures will be emailed to those whom I love and trust -- and only if I am properly bribed. You know. Gourmet chocolate, gift certificates to Plum Good Foods, trips to London -- simple things. I love being pregnant, though. I really do. Eric says I "glow," and I think he's right. I may whine about my expanding waistline, but I do rub my belly and talk to the wee one nestled inside, smiling like a goon and marveling at the gift of being able to experience this one more time. Neurotic? Maybe. But unmistakeably happy. Labels: pregnancy Tuesday, February 20, 2007Up, Up and Away
  Can you believe that the hot air balloons in the above photographs are made out of garbage bags and masking tape? Jonathan, my fourteen-year-old aeronautic genius, has been perfecting the craft of model hot air balloon making for a few years now. I would venture to say that he's finally mastered his technique. How do I know this? Well, a few days ago, one of his balloons traveled 230 miles -- all the way to North Carolina. Seriously! Every couple of weeks, Jonathan releases a balloon tagged with his web site information and a request to please email him with the date, time, and location of the discovery of the balloon. Sometimes he never hears anything, the balloon having found its untimely end in an empty field or high in the branches of an ancient tree. But sometimes he receives an email from an enthusiastic passerby who has found a balloon at the ends of its travels. It fascinates me. I mean, these are solar balloons, which means that, once you inflate them, they are powered by the heat of the sun, which is easily absorbed through their black surfaces. I've watched them sail quietly into the stratosphere until they become tiny dots against the bright sky. Then, they're gone. Until somebody writes from 230 miles away and says, "We found your balloon." Want to read more about it? Visit Jonathan's Balloon Web Site! You can learn how to MAKE YOUR OWN BALLOON, or you can PURCHASE A PRE-MADE BALLOON. Okay, so I'm a little proud of him. I'm just glad that I'm raising a kid who's way cooler than I was at his age. Take a minute -- visit his web site. And let me know what you think. Monday, February 19, 2007Just What I'm In the Market ForI was perusing the classifieds in our local, weekly newspaper on Sunday morning -- a sure sign that I was desperate for something to read. There, in the "Other Pets" section, I discovered an ad for two female zebras, $3000 each, and one three-week-old camel. Now. I've seen goats running around in people's yards and I've seen llamas sharing grazing space with horses on my way to Brentwood. But...a camel? Zebras? If someone can explain to me why anyone would want to privately own a camel or two zebras, I'm all ears. That was too weird. And now I'm off to continue my Writerly Pursuits, with a promise to blog about something other than zebras tomorrow. Labels: life Friday, February 16, 2007Take My Wife...PleaseSo I had to listen in on a stupid phone call last night. Make that two stupid phone calls. Eric had made an appointment with one of these "we'll train you how to be an Internet Marketing Guru" companies, and naturally they want "the wife" to listen in on the call, just in case the hubby gets all excited about investing thousands of dollars that he doesn't have. If the wife's in on the call, she can't cry "foul." I was inexpressibly happy about this, as you can imagine. The call was already underway when I shuffled into the family room and flopped onto the easy chair. "My wife just walked into the room," Eric announced to his phone buddy. "I'm going to put you on speaker phone." Lovely. So I said my hellos amidst eye-rolls and dramatic facial expressions. It was fairly clear that I was attending this phone meeting under duress. And it didn't take me long to get a little....sassy. Just a little. It wasn't that bad; I mean, I did make the guy laugh a few times. But Eric kept slapping me on the leg and mouthing for me to behave myself. Moi? Misbehave? The call ended with a promise from Phone Buddy that his supervisor would be calling us in a few minutes to go over the details. Translation: Hard sell. So I braced myself, and when the phone rang I plastered on an engineered smile so that my greeting might sound at least slightly personable. "And Jill, it's good to meet you," said Phone Buddy Number Two. "Carlson tells me that you're quite a firecracker." A firecracker?? Okay, so this guy warns his supervisor that Mr. Boehme's wife is "quite a firecracker." Fair enough. But why the heck did the supervisor tell me that? You should have seen Eric's face. Moments later, Eric accidentally hung up on the guy whilst reaching for his glass of red wine. I think I flustered him. Phone Buddy Number Two called right back, and he and Eric went on for a few more minutes, with the occasional "yep" from me. Finally Eric got up to grab a pen so that he could write down the guy's extension number. That's when he tripped over the space heater and fell headlong onto the floor in front of the sofa. And accidentally hung up on the guy again. I could hardly breathe. It was absolutely the most ridiculous spectacle I had seen all day. And Phone Buddy Number Two, undaunted, called a third time, assuming that Eric's cell phone had dropped. "No, it's not the phone," Eric said, "It's me. I got up to write your number down and tripped over the heater and fell." Why did Eric tell him all that, you ask? Good question. I think that, by that point, it just didn't matter anymore. His firecracker-of-a-wife had already embarrassed him, so what did it matter if Phone Buddy Number Two knew about the space heater mishap? I'm taking bets that Eric will never ask me to attend another stupid phone meeting. Mission accomplished. Thursday, February 15, 2007Perfect ReactionTo surprise my sister-in-law on Valentine's Day, the children and I decided that we would present her with a poem that she would read out loud. The ending of the poem would reveal that we were expecting a new baby -- and that would be her big Valentine Surprise (lucky gal). So I wrote a poem, printed it out, and the children presented it to her. She was a good sport, reading it out loud with expression and feeling. And when she got to the last line -- the Big Revelation -- she didn't get it. "What?" she said, smiling. The expression on her face proved that she wasn't understanding. Then, "WHAT?" she said, her face dropping into a dumbfounded, punch-me-in-the-nose expression unlike any I've seen. It was priceless. And we got it all on video. So I thought I'd share the poem with you. Not that you'll have the same reaction she did; you already know about the baby. But it's the day after Valentine's Day, I'm feeling a bit pooped, and I'd rather post something I've already written than struggle through something brand new. Without further hoopla or fanfare: We're blessed to have a special aunt Who loves us all so much; You're a doting, spoiling sweetheart And you've got the "perfect touch." Doesn't matter if it's raining, If it's cold or wet or gray, When you show up on our doorstep You bring sunshine to our day. But we wonder, dear Aunt Krissie, If it's tricky to divide All your love among four children Who are standing side by side? Do we each get just a quarter? Do you measure it with care? Do you slice it like a pizza, Giving each an even share? And we wonder even further, Dear Aunt Krissie, if it's true, That dividing all your love by four Is easiest for you? 'Cause we don't mean to alarm you, And we'd hate to make you cry, But we think you'd better change things By the time September's nigh. We'll be patient, we'll be gentle, We'll be quiet as a mouse, While you find a new love portion For the Baby in the house. Monday, February 12, 2007And I Was Worried About Math and Grammar??Lots of homeschooling parents worry that they will leave inadvertent "holes" in their children's education. You know...accidentally leave out something important, like the Declaration of Independence or the first moon landing in 1969. Not that sending your child to a public school ensures that they'll learn these things, anyway, but you get my point. Homeschooling puts a special kind of "pressure" on parents that doesn't really need to be there. Anyway, I've never been one of those homeschooling moms who worries a whole lot about it. Most of the subjects in school are artificially contrived, anyway ("Social Studies?" "Health?"). It all goes back to this: If a child can read fluently, he will have the capacity to learn anything about anything -- for his entire life. That, and a strong understanding of basic math, will give any child a firm educational foundation in life. Well, I've always thought so, anyway. Until this afternoon, when I made a horrifying discovery. My daughters didn't know what pickles were. Well, I mean, they knew what they were -- sour things in jars that you eat. Things called "pickles." "These are cucumbers," I said as I munched on my bread-and-butter pickle slices at lunch today. "Huh?" Rachel said. "I thought they were pickles." I tried not to gape at her. "Rachel, they are pickled cucumbers." "They're cucumbers?" It was Maggie's turn to look incredulous. "How can they be cucumbers?" "Maggie, what did you think they were?" "Pickles." Okay, this was too much. "You thought they were just pickles? Look at the ingredients -- it says CUCUMBERS." "I don't read ingredients." "I can't believe you didn't know these were pickled cucumbers. Pickling is just preserving something in brine. You can pickle lots of different things -- green tomatoes, pig's feet --" "Ears," Rachel piped. (Don't worry; that was in reference to a story we read in our history book about a British merchant who lost his ear by the sword of a Spanish sailor, and consequently pickled it in a jar to show it to Parliament. At least she was listening.) Maggie looked exasperated. "Well, I just thought these were pickles and that everything else was a pickled something else." Now there's a good dose of logic. So all this time I've been exposing my children to fine music and good literature, making sure they write well, testing them in math to be sure they've mastered the last unit, and reminding them daily that reading will expand their minds, vocabularies, and the beauty of life. I wasn't worried about contrived subjects or standardized tests or memorizing useless dates. I was confident that my children were turning out fairly well-rounded, thank you very much. Then my world was shattered by a jar of pickles. What else might I have missed? Do they know that coconuts grow on trees? That applesauce is made from apples? That the turkey on their plate used to have two feet, a beak, and a body full of feathers? Maybe we need to spend the next year on a farm. We are either way too urban or way too technological. Either that, or I simply never thought to mention that pickles are cucumbers. And now I'm wondering how old I was when I made that discovery myself. Probably around thirty or so. Do you think there will be any questions about pickles on the S.A.T.'s? Labels: homeschooling, parenting Friday, February 09, 2007Random Thoughts From a Pregnant MindSure, I've been through this before -- four times, to be exact -- but it's been awhile. And life is different now, with a new set of demands. So, naturally, I've been driving myself to distraction with an endless string of unspoken questions. Surely I'll feel better if I vent them here: 1. How am I going to reach over the side of the children's bathtub in order to scrub it during my third trimester? 2. Who is going to tie my shoes for me when I can't see my feet anymore? 3. How am I going to juggle a newborn's schedule with ballet lessons, homeschooling tutorial, and Youth Group? 4. When will I write? 5. How am I going to hear the baby's cry over the constant din that is "family life?" 6. Who is going to believe that I'm actually the baby's mother and not his extra-young grandmother? 7. When will I write? 8. What will I do if the baby is crying and Spencer has clogged the toilet and Jonathan is playing his drums and the girls are arguing over whose turn it is on the computer and Eric isn't home and there's water boiling on the stove and cars are starting to slow down and crane their necks as they drive by our slightly vibrating house? 9. When will I write? 10. When will I write? Labels: pregnancy Thursday, February 08, 2007Eau du BoySpencer knocked at my office door. "Mommy. Jonathan just went poop in the children's bathroom and it really stinks in there. May I use your bathroom?" "Sure, honey." A short while later I went into my bathroom to put away some freshly folded sheets. In addition to the swath of toilet paper all over the floor (what is it about my children and swaths of toilet paper on the floor??), there was a distinct, post-poop aroma hanging in the air. Which begs the question, how fair is that? He didn't want to smell the leftover fumes from his brother's offering, so he happily perfumed my bathroom instead. I didn't think that one through. Next time, I'll hand him a clothespin. Tuesday, February 06, 2007My Little Office Under the Eaves
 Those of you who have been reading me for any amount of time know that my "creative Hobbit hole," as it were, exists on the third story of our home, in the shape of a small, irregular room with a tiny window and lots of potential. Ever since I moved my load of stuff up here several years ago, I've been content to type away in surroundings that consist of bare floorboard, unpainted drywall, and a window with no sill or casing. Really, I've been okay with it. Nobody has used the room but me. I've got my red toile wallpaper chosen and waiting in the wings. It's been a "some day" dream of mine to have a real office instead of a half-finished, almost-office. It would appear that "some day" has arrived. Don't get excited, though. "Some day" simply means that Eric is soon to be moving in with me. (Did I hear a collective gasp?) We're giving his office to Jonathan as a bedroom, you see, as part of the "musical rooms" we have to play in preparation for Baby Number Five. Actually, I invited Eric to move in, hardly expecting the enthusiastic response he gave me. His eyes literally sparkled. I should have known I was in for it. Because all of sudden the drywall is a problem -- and the floorboards are a problem -- and goodness gracious, we must do something about that window. Excuse me. The drywall and the floorboards and the window never bothered Eric when this was my office. Now, suddenly, the walls need to be primed and painted. He's already planning on moving my computer somewhere else for a week or so, to protect me from Noxious Fumes. How thoughtful. "What color would you like to paint the walls?" Um, I don't want the walls painted. I've told Eric a dozen times that painting the walls any color is a waste of time and materials, since my heart is set on the red toile wallpaper. Priming isn't optional, but painting certainly is. And I've opted against it. Yet he persists. "What color would you like to paint the walls?" "Pink." That puts him right off the idea. Still, he's determined to forge ahead with the priming, and now he wants me to go look at flooring with him. Someone stop this man. I've got two boys' bedrooms and a baby's nursery to strip down and redecorate. Why is my husband obsessing about a tiny office under the eaves that nobody else can see? I'll tell you why. Because he's claimed fifty percent of it, and dad-gummit, he's just too aesthetically sensitive to work in a room with bare drywall. Funny. I've managed to complete two entire novels up here and am hard at work on the third. The drywall really hasn't been that distracting. Would it be awful of me to retract my invitation? To (lovingly) suggest that he take a hike? No good? Oh, I'm doomed. The one lifespace that offers me a sense of "things are okay, everything is good and peaceful" is headed toward certain upheaval. And all because I had a bighearted moment of weakness and invited my beloved spouse to share some space. This is like getting married all over again. Stay tuned for the ongoing saga. I'm sure it will get...interesting. Labels: life, marriage, writing Monday, February 05, 2007The White Screen of OblivionSomething's dreadfully wrong with my blog. In IE, nothing comes up but a blank screen. Of course, if that's happening to you, you can't read this...and I have no way of letting you know. If you're using Firefox, you're in luck. The white screen appears to favor IE. No surprise there. So if you can read this, and you're using IE, try emptying your cache. If you want to read my blog, type the URL in by hand. That seems to work every time. I have no idea what's wrong, but I've got Geek Charming working on it. Ugh. So much for offering you a witty, uplifting Monday Post. Not that I'm feeling particularly witty or uplifting, but...well, the grass is always greener. Here's hoping to business as usual very soon... Friday, February 02, 2007Tennessee MicrosnowIt snowed last night. And I use the term lightly. When I first moved to the South, I used to roll my eyes at the poor, Tennessee children who would gleefully grab their sleds and toboggans and run through the scant inch of white stuff on the ground. They didn't know what snow was, I'd scoff! The tips of grass blades would still be showing, yet the schools were closed and the children were acting as though they'd been given a free pass to Arctic Wonderland. Now, almost nineteen years later, it's my own children who are running gleefully into the barely-there snow at 7:00 in the morning, hoods up and gloves on, ready to revel in the storm of the season. I can't roll my eyes at them, though, because now I understand that, through their eyes, this is a lot of snow (not quite two inches today). They didn't grow up trudging through snow to their knees, or climbing up plowed piles of the white stuff that were tall enough to rank as small mountains. My children are born-and-raised Southerners, and they have no clue. How pathetic! As a diehard Yankee, I should have tried harder to drag them up North for a few winters so they could experience real snow. The kind that makes you dizzy when you look up at it. The kind that sticks to your eyelashes. The kind that actually covers the ground so that you can't tell where the path is or when the sidewalk ends. Problem is, I grew a thin skin very quickly after leaving Pennsylvania. Trips to my parents' home in the winter were akin to some sort of torture -- an entire week of teeth-clonking, butt-numbing cold. So we limited our visits to the summer months, and my children missed out on their only chance for real snow. So this morning we had hot cocoa with freshly whipped cream, and the digital cameras were out in full force. Barbie families emerged in winter gear and went out back for a romp in the snow. Spencer's bright red jacket darted back and forth across the white background. I even spent a minute or two outside, but it wasn't to play -- I had to roll the garbage bin out front. My sneakers were coated in snow. It's not real snow if you can wear sneakers in it. Still, it was pretty for a while. The light filtering in the windows has that snow-tint to it, which is far more pleasant than your average gray, low-cloud, February day in Middle Tennessee. Next year, I may have to ship my children up to Canada for a couple of weeks. (Snickle? Are you listening?) I'll derive great pleasure when, upon their return, they will join me in rolling their eyes at the hapless Southern children trying to make snowmen out of a centimeter of insubstantial fluff. I will be vindicated. Labels: life, Southernisms |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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