Avery – The UnderToad

Avery, Carter, Confessions, Eliott, Isaiah

Life with Eliott and Carter, 2015

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I have been mostly out of the blogosphere for several weeks now and getting back into it is a lot like deciding to go to the gym after weeks of physical inactivity. Nothing is comfortable. My work-out pants don’t look right, I can’t figure out what to do or where to start, and at the end of the day I’m left wondering if I should have just skipped it after all.

But this post has been long in coming. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t just sit around trying to get my kids to say funny things. And when I’m not on my A-game, I actually forget to write down plenty of what comes out of their never-silent mouths. Also, I keep waiting for the day that Eliott outgrows this list, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe that is completely impossible.

The following memories are things I jotted down directly after their original occurrence or utterance by one of my children. All statuses are cut and pasted directly from my Facebook feed. At this point, Eliott is 7, almost 8, and in 2nd grade at Calvary Baptist Day School and then 3rd grade at Clemmons Elementary School. Carter is 5, turning 6, and in 1st grade, also at Calvary, then 2nd grade in public school. Isaiah has just turned 2 and Avery turns 1 in August.

January 20, 2015
A little Tuesday afternoon visual for you: Isaiah, his cherub chub in all its naked glory. A bubble bath. Water mostly all over the bathroom floor, walls, mirror… At the top of his lungs, singing on repeat, “Let it go, let it go-oh…”
You’re welcome.

April 8, 2015
Today I told the girls about a friend (of our family) who is pregnant with her 5th child. Their responses:
Eliott: What?! Mommy she’s winning! You gotta catch up.
Carter: Oh no, Eliott. Mommy is NOT having any more babies. She wants no more little terrorist-es.

April 13, 2015

May 13, 2015
2nd grade “Author’s Day” is Tuesday. The name of Eliott’s story is “Lalaloopsy Missionaries” and I am so proud, for all the wrong reasons.

June 26, 2015
Segment of recent discussion with Eliott, about the neighbor’s escaped dog:
“…then me and Anna, like a dog and a farmer moving the cows over to the next field, just led Buddy over to the porch and had to haul him in there…”

July 7, 2015
Overheard from the playroom, decibel level exactly what you’d expect:
“ISAIAH! Argh! THIS is why I’m never having children! Not even a girl. And DEFINITELY NOT A BOY!!!!”
Happy birthday Carter Wait. May all your dreams come true.

July 30, 2015
So I’m officially done problem solving for my bickering daughters. Today’s moment of clarity comes after a physical (slap) fight where both girls are mad at each other and neither has apologized.
Me: Fine. Carter. What do you want? What do you want from Eliott right now that would make this all better?
Carter: Her money.
The birth of the American justice system right there, people.

August 13, 2015
Eliott in the backseat, doing “cootie-picker” fortunes with Carter: Three? Uno, dose, trace…. okay. Roe-joe? You will be rich when you grow up.
Me: Roe-joe?
Eliott: Yes. Mom. It means “red” in Spanish.

September 2, 2015

September 4, 2015
Isaiah: Mommy. Where’s my toast?
Me: I haven’t made breakfast yet. It’s not even 8 o’clock. Do you want a bagel?
Isaiah: Yes. I want tater tots, and ketchup, and strawberries. And blueberries or something.
*Or something.*

October 6, 2015
A glimpse into Eliott’s transition from Baptist school to public school:
Me: No, it isn’t Spirit Week, it’s a thing for ‘Say No to Drugs.’
Eliott: Say no to drugs?! Like we’re going to eat drugs?
Me: Do you even know what drugs are, Eliott?
Eliott: No. Not really.

November 15, 2015
Standard, contextually irrelevant conversations with Eliott:
E: Mommy. What are cappuccinos?
M: Coffee. Like the kind of coffee you get at Starbucks but without any milk.
E: Is there another kind of cappuccino? Like, parents or grownups or something?
M: Chaperones?
E: No. It started with a ‘ch-‘
M: Chaperones?
E: It was c-h- … cappuccinos.
M: Eliott where did you read this? Was it like, chaperoning a dance or something?
E: Diary of a Wimpy Kid. They were cappuccinos for a lock-in.
M: Chaperones.

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December 15, 2015
When an older woman pointed out baby Jesus in the manger-scene table decoration at a Christmas party last weekend, Isaiah rolled his eyes and very calmly replied: “No. That is not baby Jesus. That is Avery.”

December 18, 2015
Quote of the night: “I’m a first-grader! How am I supposed to know all this stuff?!”
Touche.

December 27, 2015
Eliott’s dinner table discussion about how she’s basically the only white girl in her class who is friends with these two specific black girls ends with, “Well it makes sense because I’m pretty much black. I mean, when we put our arms together they are practically the same.”
#somuchtruth

There’s More Where This Came From

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Avery, Carter, Confessions, Eliott

Easter Shenanigans

When I was a kid, Easter morning was almost as good as Christmas. We all had a (small) basket filled with candy–my dad’s favorites–Mars minis, M&M’s, old fashioned jelly beans, and malted milk balls in the shape of Easter eggs. (Never had a Peep in my life. Didn’t even know what they were until I had kids. Same goes for Cadbury Cream eggs, which I knew about from the commercials but just assumed they must be gross.)

The Easter Bunny hid our baskets of candy and always one toy, something crafty or educational, and seemingly far cooler than whatever we got for Christmas. One year I got a beading loom. Another year it was rocket making kits. Another year (2nd grade, the year I spent my Spring Break in the ICU for a life threatening asthma attack) we all got Walkman’s and various Contemporary Christian tapes. No lie, that was when I first fell in love with Carman, and I can’t say I regret his serenading me through that hospital stay one little bit.

Amazingly enough, ~~my parents~~ the Easter Bunny was pretty good about not repeating hiding spots of the baskets through the years. It probably helped that we lived in a new house for most of my life on about a three year cycle, but even so, the usual spots (dryer, dishwasher, refrigerator, microwave, top of a grandfather clock) were rarely, if ever, repeated, though we always went to them immediately suspecting the Easter Bunny wasn’t terribly clever. I want to say we all found our baskets fairly quickly, with the exception of the year that they were all under our own beds. I’m sure there were some tears for the last person to find his or hers, especially if that person was my sister Laura. She’s number three, which makes her the most irrationally sensitive anyway, but combine that with the fact that she was also a middle child and uncharacteristically competitive for a Paulus, and if her basket’s spot was a toughy, well, I’m sure there were tears.

Eliott has the same problem in our house.

So I have to admit, I have largely done Easter the same way with my own kids for the last decade. One exception is that my kids don’t have baskets, but big plastic Easter buckets which I found for a quarter on clearance and had the wherewithal to buy 4, even though I probably only had 2 kids at the time. Also, I tend to skip the damn Easter grass because, obviously. And I’m sure there were a few very young years where baskets were hiding in plain sight on the couch. Admittedly, the toy surprises have never been purchased from a Childcraft catalogue, but usually my kids act like the day is as good or better than Christmas.

Our Easter Bunny is cheap. The candy selection is limited to whatever is free (or mostly free) at the drug stores in the weeks leading up to Easter (which always includes Cadbury Eggs, for the win) and there are usually extras in the cabinet for weeks because the best deals always require buying multiple bags.

Add to this Easter parties at school and one or two Easter egg hunts around town, and we’ve basically got Halloween #2 on our hands.

Why has every holiday on Earth been injected with steroids?

I don’t know what got into me this year, but I drank the Pinterest Kool-aid, and despite a whirlwind Spring Break (with absolutely no extra time to myself) I managed to pull off a completely new Easter tradition that I fear just might stick.

I did scavenger hunts, you guys.

Four of them.

Fill in the blank and find your next clue.

I started with the plastic eggs, and figured I needed to keep things color coded or my genius children would very quickly be fighting. It turns out we had enough pink, yellow, orange, and purple to give each kid 10 clues.

I started with Eliott, and a very lofty goal of Easter limericks.

Within half an hour, things were quickly going about this well:

I bet you thought that was easy,
Then give your brain a little squeasy.
Because the next treat is hidden
In a place that’s sometimes forbidden,
Think of snacks that are not sweet, but ____________.

John made some serious bets that she would not be able to solve most (if any) of them. (The answer for the above if you still haven’t got it is “cheesy,” and the egg was hidden in a box of Cheese-Its, and this clue took her almost 20 minutes. Not exaggerating.)

I abandoned project Eliott for a few minutes and decided to gank clues for Carter’s eggs from someone else, via Pinterest. What I found was this very cute and pretty simple Free Printable Christ-Centered Easter Morning Scavenger Hunt Cards.

Let’s just say the juxtaposition of the Jesus-clues to the Easter-Bunny-up-late-with-an-entire-bottle-of-champaign-clues was maybe a bit of a mixed message. And I’m not sure the right kid got the Jesus-clues, in the end.

But whatever. There’s always next year.

Easter morning was fun. Isaiah’s clues were just pictures, telling him where to find his next egg, and he even solved some of Eliott’s riddles because, obviously.

Avery’s eggs were just hidden in various places downstairs without clues, and she didn’t find any of them. In hindsight, it would have been smarter to just scatter them around the carpet, all in the same place. Again, whatever. Isaiah found her 10th egg on Monday and I rewarded him by letting him eat the candy inside.

Easter. The gift that keeps on giving.

If you want to read (and try to solve) all my limericks, click here.

Avery, Confessions, Eliott, Friendship, General

Happy Memorial Day

I opened my computer this morning after a weekend of mostly avoiding the Internet, to the usual flood of semi-bad news. A dear friend from High School is in the throws of a cancer battle with her 3 year old daughter. She is, like me, a stay at home mom of four kids, all under the age of 10. My alma mater, that Baptist beacon that has been celebrated in recent news for finally fielding a winning football team and cranking out the beloved Chip and Jo-Jo, is all over the national news for potentially sweeping sexual violence under the proverbial Big 12 rug. Ironically, Trump and Hilary didn’t cross my newsfeed this morning, but I know they are still there, looming in the political horizon I refuse to gaze at anymore.

Meanwhile, Eliott was in my room first thing discussing the EOG review packet that is “huge” and “due Thursday.” Then, we hear Avery calling from the first floor. Her sing-song “Mom-my! Mom-my!” floated up the stairs and I asked John if she was still stuck in the high chair. He said he had let her out a while ago and I assumed she wanted me to see something she had destroyed. Eliott went downstairs to investigate, and took almost five minutes trying to find her. The toddler had shut herself in the small downstairs bathroom and the light was off. She wasn’t crying or panicking, just calling me patiently, waiting for the door to open.

We’ve discussed our plans for the day (as I lay in bed at 10:35, still in my PJ’s, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee) and it has come down to the choice between cleaning out a barely used basement room, or taking the chainsaw to some unsightly bushes growing around our mailbox.

My life is rough.

This is a fact which is not lost on me, as I seek to teach my children the art of gratitude and contentment. Every night this weekend ended up on the porch of one neighbor or another, where in the light haze of these early summer evenings, the usual banter of back-and-forth picking on each other was comfortable and familiar.

I am thankful for friends and neighbors who can laugh at themselves, and who keep us humble.

Friday was the last day of preschool, and I got a little teary-eyed, hugging the women who have been twelve hours of love for my babies each week, all year. I am thankful that when the ages and stages of four children feels constantly out of balance, there is one hallway on this Earth that looks and smells like comfort, consistency, and unconditional love.

I see the American flags and I’ve read the sentimental Memorial Day posts this weekend, thanking those who have served and died to give us our freedom. And I’m thankful for that too.

My little sphere of existence is currently turning a million miles an hour, but it is still very little, and arguably, pretty mundane. Today I am sincerely comforted and comfortable in the boringness of my life. I wish I had the ability to channel this sense of calm in the midst of the upsets that are inevitable coming one day. I wish I had the ability to give it to those who need it right now.

The most exciting plan for my day includes trying out the new dehydrator my mom impulsively sent me last week, and I’m not being facetious with my use of “exciting” as I debate which fruit I’m going to try first.

There’s some porch-fodder for the neighbors.

Avery, Confessions

Dear Avery

Dear Avery,

You are the fourth child. You are going to have to get used to being last, late, sometimes forgotten, and spoiled as a result of the guilt we subconsciously feel about this. We were really hoping you’d be another boy, so at least you can thank that sentiment for your brand new wardrobe up to the size of 4T.

You are now one year, one month, and twenty-three days old.

I’m sorry I didn’t get this post written and published on your actual birthday. And while I’m apologizing, please do not expect your baby book to be finished before you get married.

Daddy and I are so proud and thankful that you did finally figure out how to sleep through the night. You’re going to hear this a lot in your life so you might as well hear it now. The rest of your siblings all figured this out by 6 weeks. You sure topped them all by holding out until 6 months. I hope this means you will forge your own path in life, no matter how difficult that makes the lives of those you are surrounded by. I’m going to view this as a positive characteristic for your adult-self.

Though you can only say exactly four words coherently (Mama, Dada, Uh-oh, and Ball), it seems that your baby babble contains the mysteries of the universe combined with the passion of Martin Luther King Jr. Despite the fact that you come by this perfectly honestly and completely genetically, it is still going to drive me nuts and you are going to have your talking privileges revoked just moments after you master verbal communication. Talk to Eliott about this. She will empathize with you completely.

And while I’m on the subject of mysteries, I’d like to know, how is that you don’t like bananas? What child ever in the history of children has refused to eat the sweetest, softest, and most convenient baby food there is? I’m only going to forgive you for this because of your tendency to poop but one time a day at the exact same time every day. The predictability of your bowels has actually made my life a little easier, and at least half-way made up for all those late nights.

No one ever suspected me to admit this, but I’m secretly grateful for your small size and slowness to graduate completely out of the baby phase. It turns out I am already sensing the sadness that comes with the realization that it all goes by too quickly. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve given me plenty of reasons to look forward to the future, but I am trying to hold on a little longer to this small version of you, before I forget how you smell and how easy it is to carry you on my hip.

So happy belated birthday to my little partner in birthday crime. Our family was not complete before you, and it is infinitely better because of you.

Avery

Dear Avery

Dear Avery,

You are now one year, one month, and twenty-three days old.

I’m sorry I didn’t get this post written and published on your actual birthday. And while I’m apologizing, please do not expect your baby book to be finished before you get married.

So happy belated birthday to my little partner in birthday crime. Our family was not complete before you, and it is infinitely better because of you.

Avery, Confessions, Isaiah

Passing Notes

Me to John:

Had the most annoying day today at Walmart.
Well. Actually that’s wrong.
Had a STANDARDLY annoying day today at Walmart.
But that damn kitty litter box is returned and I got two tomato cages for my big plants and was judged by what I can only assume was a mom from Clemmons….
“IF MY KID WANTS TO IMPALE HIS EYEBALLS ON A TOMATO CAGE HE WILL DAMMIT. STOP BEING SUPERMOM FOR SOMEONE ELSE’S KIDS. NOBODY NEEDS YOU.”
Things I maybe almost said.

John to me:

Ha.

I had a similar incident at Home Depot when Isaiah was helping me carry that long piece of metal in the garage by the diaper pail.

The cashier was freaking out that he would cut his hand on it.

Me to John:

Yes well, after the eyeball moment, Avery snatched a plastic bag out of the cart and decided to eat it.

So you can imagine how well THAT went over.

John to me:

She is so QUICK.

Best friends, y’all.

Avery, Confessions, Eliott

A New Reason To Celebrate

The kid that made me a mom for the first time.

One year ago today, I was pregnant with Avery. Only twelve weeks, and already miserable enough to know I had to be carrying another girl. I didn’t blog about that pregnancy, I didn’t put anything in Facebook updates, and I didn’t post any pictures. Generally speaking, I lived every single day of those 39 weeks counting down the seconds until my next nap.

One year ago today.

I know the date because it was Eliott’s 7th birthday. Standard Dadderday, John was taking all the kids to the gym for the morning. He bought tickets to take Eliott and Carter to their first ever movie in a theater (Frozen) which would allow me to take a nap with Isaiah that afternoon. Then we were all going out to eat for Eliott’s birthday dinner. Her choice: Golden Corral (damn you, Saturday morning cartoons and your chocolate fountain commercials).

I got up and dressed early (unusual for a Saturday) because I needed to go to Walmart and wanted to beat the Hanes Mall Boulevard silliness. I don’t actually remember what I needed to go to Walmart for, because I never made it inside. The minute I stepped out of the car at ten o’clock that morning, I felt a rush, and looked down to see a puddle of blood at my feet.

A puddle.

For the next several minutes I existed in clear jello. My head pounding, my eyes hyper-focused, my sweat icy, my thoughts blasts from a panic-gun with a silencer. No. No. NO. This isn’t happening. I need John. I need to find something to protect the seats. My favorite jeans! This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. Omigod-omigod-omigod-omigod.

And then, I haven’t been this sick for the last three months to have this end now. NOT OKAY GOD. And, Alright, I’m sorry, I won’t even be angry when she turns out to be a girl, as long as she’s okay.

I was driving John’s car, thankful for the first time that he never quite got around to taking those bags to Goodwill. I stacked some old t-shirts to sit on and called him from the car. I probably sped the entire way home, knowing I had a valid excuse and a free attorney, should it come to it.

When I got home I showered, changed my clothes, and laid down on the couch with my feet up. John made exactly three phone calls. First, to my parents. Though they are five hours away his rationale made sense: “No matter how this turns out, I want them here. You need your mom. Plus, she’s the only person who will be able to get that stain out of your pants.”

Second, to David and Tonya, family friends who have a son Eliott’s age. If anyone was going to salvage the birthday plans, it was David and Tonya, who officially made Eliott’s birthday so great, she later declared, “I wish David and Tonya were my parents.” Finally, to Josh and V, friends willing to cancel all Saturday plans and stay with Isaiah indefinitely if necessary.

I sent a frantic text message to about ten women, simply asking them to pray.

And then I mostly cried, off and on, for the next several hours. Of course I thought I was having a miscarriage. And while I know several women who have had this experience, some multiple times, and survived, it didn’t make it any easier knowing that everything would eventually be okay. I now have a renewed sense of empathy for anyone who has ever lost a child, even one who has not yet developed fingernails and lungs.

We are not a family who does a very good job keeping secrets from our kids, and I’ve never been very good at hiding my emotions from my face. So even in the midst of all this personal fear, John and I tried to explain to Eliott and Carter what might be happening.

Because we already know the end of the story, I feel the need to resort to a list:

Anyone who goes to the emergency room because they have a fever and are throwing up deserves to die.
The prioritizing of someone with a stomach bug over a pregnant woman actively bleeding in the emergency room is just another notch in the idiot belt of America’s healthcare system.
If you live in the Winston-Salem area and have an actual medical emergency, the still-new ER in Clemmons is fully staffed, mostly empty, sparkling clean, and absolutely worth the 20 minute drive it takes from the Forsyth ER. I advise you to make this decision earlier, rather than later.
The fetus was fine.
What I was experiencing is called a “subchorionic hemorrhage” and it is strangely common but rarely spoken about. For me, the bleeding tapered and eventually stopped completely after about five days. The rest of my pregnancy resumed a normal level of miserable.
No matter how many times I type the word hemorrhage, I have to use spell check.
A perfect birthday in the eyes of a seven-year-old now includes not just a movie in a theater, but a popcorn/candy/drink combo, playing video games after the show, winning not once, but twice, the stuffed animal claw-game, Chuck E. Cheese for dinner instead of Golden Corral, and your mom not having a miscarriage on your birthday.

It is impossible to explain the kind of comfort that exists in knowing more than a dozen people who are not directly related to me, are ready to envelope us in the kind of drop-what-you-are-doing-and-go support that is typically only reserved for family.

It is impossible to explain the kind of physical and emotional euphoria I felt when I heard that heartbeat.

It is further impossible to explain how even a near-death experience as a fetus did not exempt this child from future mother-style-momentary-death-wishes despite all promises made one year ago today. (Not now, with her continued periodic 3am wake-up calls, and probably not when she’s 16 and hormonal either.)

And so today I celebrate the alpha and the omega of my current motherhood chapter. Two girls who are vying for the “Most Difficult Baby” award, winning me the “What doesn’t Kill you Makes you Stronger” medal, and probably eventually earning the, “If I had to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing,” sentiment.

Happy Birthday, Eliott.

Happy You’re Still Alive Today, Avery.

Avery, Carter, Confessions, Eliott, Isaiah

The Wait Family Christmas Card, love John

I was just cc’ed on an email from John to an old friend – a general life update, if you will. I realized I haven’t done one of these in a while and the email is so lovely that I’m reposting it here and considering using it as the letter that accompanies the Christmas cards we never send.

photo-35 — Carter (5yo), Eliott (7yo), Isaiah(2yo), Avery (2 months old)

[Dear family and friends,] *I added this.

[Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. We sure have a lot to celebrate this year.] *I also added this because the email seemed to start in the middle of a conversation that might have otherwise seemed confusing to someone on the outside. Everything from here on out is all John.

Eliott and Carter are both playing soccer now and are clearly the best on their respective teams. I think they have both scored all the goals for their teams this season. I coach Carter’s team, the Pink Sparkly Unicorns. Carter named the team. Their uniforms are orange. I’m not sure if they really like soccer or if they just like the attention that comes with being superior. Probably the latter knowing their parents. The boy is nothing like me or Claire. He’s more like my dad and my brother, very smiley and usually happy. There’s not much brooding or darkness in him. That’s bound to change since he only has sisters though, so we’re enjoying it while we can.

Avery is an annoying, crying infant. I have no hope for her yet. Claire is the only one who likes her on any sort of regular basis. However, to be fair, she’s only been alive for 8 weeks. I’m trying to keep an open mind when I’m not walking around half asleep. When she cries, it sounds like a mangy, angry cat. Very raspy, contemptuous, and demanding. She does smile on occasion to remind us not to chuck her out a second story window or a moving car.

We still call Carter the “Tiny Monster.” She is tall, thin, and weighs only 32 pounds. Isaiah is like a cinder block at over half Carter’s height and weighing 28 pounds. He likes to wrestle, and he does so often with Carter who is closest to his weight division and age. *Me again. Just want to note that Avery is actually closer to Isaiah’s age-division but John doesn’t currently count her in the kid line up yet because he is still undecided on whether to keep her.

Eliott is a bit of a space cadet most of the time. She often gets this far away, blank stare when we tell her to do something. She uses these times to enter “LaLa-Land” where she is an only child, a princess, and has no responsibility whatsoever. LaLa-Land is aptly named after Claire’s sister, Laura, who also frequents LaLa-Land. I’m not sure if Eliott communes with her aunt there or not. I prefer not to know the details.

Eliott, Carter, and Isaiah all love books. Eliott reads chapter books whenever we are not yelling at her or making her clean up one of her siblings’ messes. Carter is learning to read this year, and so she is still mostly into picture books. Isaiah likes to have books read to him as he repeats selective words back to the reader at a very loud decibel. I think he believes that words can only be spoken by yelling, which is probably my fault.

[We hope this letter finds you warm, well-fed, and Ebola free. Here’s to a great 2015!

Love, The Waits] It seemed like it needed a better ending. Man-to-man communication is so strange and free of the expected cordiality.

Avery, Confessions

Newborns.

I’m not apologizing for the lack of posts these days. I’m not apologizing that I have a baby who is now more than a month old and I haven’t taken any pictures of her in over a week. We had cleaning ladies come this week (best gift ever) and my house is still gloriously basking in the aftermath of a top to bottom clean. Everyone’s drawer has at least three pairs of clean underwear right now.

I’m killing it.

Avery is not as easy as Isaiah. (Probably no baby in the universe is as easy as Isaiah was.) And so perhaps I’m functioning in a delusion that things are difficult, when really they are just normal. Some days, it seems like she cries a lot and sleeps very little. One such day resulted in a somewhat desperate moment of handing her to my neighbor, who took her and responded totally genuinely with, “Yeah. But you know babies cry. My best advice is to just try not to stress about it.”

I half-heartedly laughed and maybe cried a little myself when she said that. We are nothing alike, this neighbor and I, when it comes to patience with our children. (She is more like a saint, in that area.)

But she was right.

And I’m hearing her words more often, in moments of frustration, and actually loving that she said them. Because the truth is, I have forgotten and I continue to forget. Despite the fact that I’ve done this three times already. I’m not an expert. I don’t hold the secret to happiness for all children (or myself), and all of this goes away about as quickly as it comes on.

Newborns.

I forgot just exactly how tiny they are. Despite how huge they feel in that last month of pregnancy. Despite how much pain they bring with them when they enter the land of breathing oxygen in the form of air. Every senior citizen on Thursday at Harris Teeter is right. They do grow up too fast. And they are so tiny. And there really is never enough time for holding them.

But tiny and precious and angelically perfect while curled up asleep against my chest does not diminish the evil I had forgotten about, that comes from riding in the carseat. The noise. Oh. Dear God. That noise. That relentless shriek that sounds like nothing but pure, unadulterated, ten pound anger. And it doesn’t end. Those moms who are so anti-cry-it-out have clearly never been stuck in the elementary school carline with a crying infant strapped to a carseat. Fact: crying does not kill babies. Despite how many times I’ve thought it might not be such a bad thing.

There is no limit to the range of emotions that such a noise can bring out of a mom, and my button is always pushed right at the ten-minute mark. The round trip from my garage to the carline back into my garage is a solid forty five minutes. I have envisioned careening off cliffs, hitting an ejector button, soccer-style carseat drop kicks. That noise causes the worst road rage I have ever experienced. Note: if a psycho white woman in a black minivan ever gets directly on your bumper and lays on her horn while you drive 35 on Peace Haven just know it isn’t personal and she probably has a screaming baby in the back seat. Also note: if you are driving only 35 on Peace Haven you don’t deserve a driver’s license.

In addition to the noise torture that likely rivals water-boarding, I also forgot just how much poop can come out of such a tiny body, especially at 3am the minute the wet diaper comes off but just before I’ve fully opened my eyes wide enough to locate a replacement diaper. Like soft serve machines, they are, even though their bottoms are no bigger than average sized plums.

This brings me to the laundry situation, the one I had mostly under control exactly five weeks ago. And it isn’t just baby clothes complicating things. Between the baby and the boobs and the number of wardrobe changes in a day, I might as well be taking care of triplets here.

In preparation for a baby I always buy mostly three-month sized sleepers thinking the newborn size look too small for any human that has ever come from my body. I had forgotten how ridiculously huge is the three month sleeper, and how ridiculously small is the hat that comes with it. Jewish clown outfits, those things.

I had forgotten some gloriously perfect things too. Baby farts. Hiccups. The way they learn how to use their voices for good and not evil for the first time. The way they go cross-eyed when they focus on one thing for too long. The way they recognize mama’s voice (or in my case, the schlep of slippers) from across the room. The first time they smile on purpose (which happened this week and John and I both acted like the child had scored her first soccer goal). The chin quiver that is only outmatched in cuteness by the foot quiver.

I love the way I try so hard to wake her up at 11pm for that final top-off, and then work equally hard to get her to go back to sleep at 4am.

For little more than ten-pound-balls-of-goo, these things sure do operate on nothing but extremes. And in those moments of extreme fatigue, or extreme exasperation, or extremely low patience, I’m trying very hard to let the words of my neighbor ring true and I’m really trying not to stress about it.

Avery, Confessions

Avery Wait: August 17, 2014

So I suppose it is time for the Internet revelation that I spent the last nine months growing my fourth (and final) baby. Though Isaiah is only twenty-months old, this was a fully planned event, all the way down to attempting gender specificity (didn’t work) and giving birth in the month of the Leo (nailed it). To all my conservative Christian friends, forgive me. I’ve not gone off the deep end of astrological worship, but in the last seven years, I’ve been taking notes of the alignment of the stars and the personalities of each of my children.

John and Isaiah are both Sagittarians. They are my two favorite men in the world. I am a Leo. A very high percentage of my closest personal female (and male) friends are also Leos. I just thought, if we could help it, why not aim to provide a final child who might have the potential to get along swimmingly with both her brother and her mother?

She was due on August twenty-fourth (tomorrow), which is technically Virgo territory. The babe came, on her own, a week early.

I love her for that.

I’m not big on telling birth stories. This is mostly due to the fact that I don’t personally find those of others terribly interesting, and so I assume the same about other people listening to mine. (If you’ve ever torn your ACL, you understand exactly what I’m talking about.)

That said, it might be helpful one day when all the hormones and sleep deprivation wear off, if I have a small record of how things went. After all, when you ask me how big each of my kids were and what day of the week they were born on, I have to dig out the hospital paperwork I never scrapbooked to remember.

I’ll try to keep things short and sweet.

Since last November, I haven’t been posting pregnant selfies or giving weekly updates, so here is everything you missed: pregnancy sucks. Always. Every minute of it. All four of mine were about the same for misery-inducing side effects, though this one was by far the worst for general day-to-day discomfort. In addition to the usual sixteen weeks of morning sickness, six months of acid reflux, and hip and back pain requiring bi-weekly chiropractor appointments just to be able to walk, this pregnancy came with a few extras.

I narrowly survived three (3) stomach viruses which left me exactly seven pounds lighter each time. I experienced a subchorionic hemorrhage (on Eliott’s birthday) in the middle of the grocery store parking lot and thought I was having a miscarriage. I was diagnosed very early on with prenatal depression and put on a low dose of Zoloft, which comes with its own awesome side effects including headaches and restless leg syndrome. My iron was so low at one point I began to experience ocular migraines once or twice a day.

Self induced complications of course include the full time care for three (3) other children, buying a new house and moving, sending (allowing) my husband on an eight day vacation, and living in another state from any and all family members.

That’s the bad.

The good is this. We are a ridiculously spoiled and blessed family, most of which I should probably blame on my husband and how much people seem to like him. It seems that in the worst of things, every time, one friend or another arrived out of nowhere to take our children to Chuck E. Cheese, provide a hot meal on a random Tuesday night, or come over and think nothing of exposure to Noro virus (and say nothing about my DSS disaster of a house) to feed, change, and put my toddler down for a nap while I was passed out on a couch moaning for my mother. Oh yes, and that one also made me toast.

Did I mention spoiled? And blessed?

Last Sunday morning I woke up, showered, and actually got dressed for coffee-duty at church. Nine out of ten people commented that morning about “it” still “being there” and how much longer did I have. (I guess when it appears you’ve shoved a basketball under your dress and are walking around like it’s normal, it is difficult not to comment on the thing.) To almost everyone I replied, “Technically another week, but probably tonight,” just to be sassy.

In all my previous pregnancies I’ve never experienced normal contractions. My water has broken, but I have no idea how contractions outside of the hospital work because I’ve always been put on Pitocin to induce them. At 2:00pm I was having the kind of pains that I’ve read about, but had to text two friends and ask, “How do you know when contractions are real?”

I laid down on my right side for an hour, and when they persisted (coming very slowly and weakly) I packed a bag and told John, “I think we might be going to the hospital soon. The Internet says this is called pre-labor and it could last a week or it could last a couple hours. I’m not going to call my parents just yet, but I’ll text Linda (the one ready to watch our other kids) and tell her to be on alert.”

Then I went out and watered the garden, started some laundry, and came back inside and sat on an exercise ball.

Within ten minutes, the little cramps that had been coming (mildly) about twice an hour suddenly started to come with full force and about every five minutes.

I called my parents. I texted Linda. I ordered pizza. I braced myself against the wall, and told John there was no difference between Pitocin contractions and “normal” ones, and we got in the car and went to the hospital.

Before even giving the nurse my name I ordered an epidural. (I know how these things work and if you don’t get on that ice-cream man’s list good and early it could take a full two hours to get him in your room.)

Epidural kicked in just enough to take the edge off so naturally I turned on Food Network and chilled out a bit. My doctor showed up and broke my water at about seven-thirty, and then the epidural sort of wore off. To men, they say contractions (or giving birth) feels like pulling your lower lip over your head or something dumb like that.

I’ll tell you what it actually feels like. It feels like a steam roller is crushing you from the bottom of your ribs to the top of your knees. It is like the worst bowel movement cramps you’ve ever had times fifty, but instead of just going, and relieving them, they last a minute to two minutes at a time and they keep coming.

For a moment I became the screaming and cursing woman I had just made fun of an hour earlier.

Then suddenly it was time to push.

“No. No pushing,” I said. “I need more drugs. Trust me. I can feel this. I shouldn’t be feeling this. I’m an American.”

The nurse ignored me. It was time to push.

I did so exactly once. She came out at 8:30 (or so).

8 pounds. 5 ounces. Head full of hair. Dark skin like Eliott, super long skinny body like Carter, and after two short shrieks, just as silent and pensive as Isaiah.

Because of my bleeding complications in post-birth with Isaiah and possible scar-tissue as a result, it was actually harder to get the placenta out than the baby. That was another forty-five minutes of pure hell, during which I once again vowed that in the moment I arrive in Heaven my first order of business will be punching Eve right in the face.

(All this for a -pardon the appropriate use of the expletive- God-damned apple?)

But now she’s home. We are home.

And we’re thriving.

Like the rest of my kids, she eats a lot and sleeps a lot and is proving to fall right into her place in line. Each baby was easier than the one who came before it, and so far Avery is no exception.

For the girls, a new baby is very much like getting a new puppy they can’t pet as often as they want, but both are being extremely helpful and motherly. Isaiah is completely smitten and I can already tell he’s going to continue to prove himself as the most-perfect boy who ever existed in my life.

Spoiled. Blessed.