DD7 complains incessantly. Not about ballet, which she loves again, now that the child who was bothering her in class is not attending. She just complains, about homework, which generally takes ten minutes of actual work and twenty minutes of complaining, about her sister, being bored, doing any task, and pretty much anything that she can articulate into a sentence.

Though annoying, the complaining is tolerable, or ignorable, except on Thursday. Then, the three of us are trapped in a van for the round trip, tired and hungry. Even the snack creates drama.

DD1 dislikes it when I (or anyone) is doing something that does not involve her. On Thursday, the exclusionary tasks make up a long list. She throws regular tantrums while I wash dishes, prep everything for dinner, do emergency laundry which inevitably happens, pack snacks and run everything to the car. Sometimes she naps. On Thursday, not so much.  It could be a form of protest.

Then we get into the van and head for the car rider line.

Today DD7 told us about her friend not being polite, then bursting into tears. DD7 clarified that yes, the person being mean was the one who cried. She didn’t understand why either. Immediately, DD1 grabbed the snack bag. Then she threw a cracker at her sister. Then all of the crackers, one after another. Instead of taking the bag back, DD7 complained loudly, in an indignant tone.

I couldn’t stand the drama a moment longer, so I said, “There, now she’s run out of crackers. ”

DD1 then threw everything else she could reach – sip cup, pacifier, a toy, and a brush.

I was unable to find sympathy in my heart for DD7, who declined to sit a row away from DD1, because she didn’t want to be bothered to move her booster seat.  Moving the booster seat involves simply picking it up, and carrying it back one row.  It takes seconds.  So, she was in no way ambushed by DD1, and had actually begun to complain prior to the cracker attack.

Gaah!

DD7 says she would like to also do gymnastics, karate, and pretty much any activity that a friend is doing or she hears about on the radio.  I have informed her that unless she plans to be say, an entirely different person, one not prone to injury or getting sensory overload when more than one afternoon per week is scheduled, she can forget about it.  For years I told her she could do something instead of ballet and she said no.  Now she just has far too good a time, has too many friends in class, and is too good to quit on a whim.  I have seen what it looks like when she genuinely isn’t interested in something – this isn’t it.

When I first heard that American Girl Dolls cost $100, I couldn’t believe anyone would buy them. I thought it was the most outrageously expensive toy. And I couldn’t come up with any type of scenario in my head that would justify such a purchase. Really, just how educational could they be?

And then, I heard parents and children extol the virtues of the dolls. Again. And again and again.

Hmmm. Finally, my most practical friend, said she had purchased one doll for each of her daughters. This friend proudly refers to herself as cheap. I stared in disbelief. She said the girls read all of the books.

As a parent, I am not above material goods as a form of motivation, within reason. Most particularly motivation to read.

And so I began researching the dolls. The quality, price, social aspects. We live in an ordinary middle class suburb. Every little girl seems to have one of these expensive dolls. And, turns out,  I like the dolls. Oh, the horror.

DD7 gets one for her birthday. Kanani, a little girl from Hawaii. We have tea at American Girl Place. DD7 gets the dog. And all she wants for Christmas is stuff for her doll.

I’m teaching her to sew the doll clothes. She had no interest in constructing  clothing for human beings. She’d leave that to me. But for Kanani, that is different, interesting, fun.

And she’s reading the books. All of them. We own two. The library has 74. She’s read about one per week since November.

Yeah, anything that gives me a positive activity with my daughters, and promotes reading is a good investment to me.

And they’re cute. Even I couldn’t resist.

My youngest child requires a harness to keep her in the grocery cart. It is industrial strength, four inches wide, padded, and fastens in the back with velcro. She must sleep with me. Because she escapes all other bed options.  And all babies will opt to roll toward mama like a heat seeking missle.

I carried her in a pouch, facing out, until she got reach and started pulling shelves down in the grocery. Then we switched to the Maya wrap, which held her until she began rocking wildly from side to side, attempting to get a better view of some mundane object, and messed up my back.

Now we’ve moved on to the Mei Tai.  Hundreds of years of use in Asia leads me to believe that it probably works. I have only had it for a few days. So we are still getting used to it. DD1 balked at the confinement at first.  And I’m sure my inept tying of the supports didn’t help.  But now she will relax happily in the hip hold position.

She likes the front hold position too, my back does not. She is not yet a fan of the back carry.  She’s tied more securely than she likes. And she’s not tall enough to see over my shoulder. It is difficult to get her back there without help. I haven’t figured out how to position the ties so that I  can reach and tie them. And she is not cooperative.  Either she will get taller, and decide it’s okay. Or I will figure out the high back carry.

A woman in the grocery store asked me if I thought the Mei Tai would be a good way to carry her dog. She was a little disappointed to discover human legs peeking out. That woman at the bra store would have really liked to talk about the neuroses of the dog carrying lady.

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Just in case you are completely over me, since my life is too messy for regular posting, I shall now remind you that I am kind of a nutt.

Some people get short of sleep, and just get tired. I however, become insomniac for days, then fall into a deep sleep that spawns really weird dreams.  Like Dad, threatening to haunt me. Dad was a mostly nice guy. But he had a well earned reputation of being the quiet guy who could suddenly lose it and get sent home from work for fighting. Yes really.

A lot of cussing went into the making of this kite

Add to that endless stories in childhood of taotaomona and you have the perfect recipe for an overtired adult freaking out about mungo beans, at 3:00 AM.

I hadn’t cooked mungo beans since 1991, or possibly never. No need. If Dad wasn’t soaking the achiote, I could find it at Auntie’s house. Then cousin paranoid rubbed her Cold War paranoia off on me. And I had to find achiote, and ham hocks, and make them work together to avoid eternal haunting. Or haunting until Dad got bored with me, which would be painful but not that long.

I forgot that ham hocks smell horrific initially, which is hours. And the only places that sell achiote around here are Indian groceries. And I prefer haunting to curry smell. So I settled for Mexican achote, no “i” and it is crushed with garlic. I consider it substandard to actual seeds. But potential haunting is an emergency.

Shockingly, I did not ruin the mungo beans. The hocks fell apart. The beans remained bean shape. DH ate a bowl of them. And baby ate a gigantic portion and rubbed it in her hair.

Haunting averted.

Sisters playing, a total carnage situation.

I haven’t been able to upload a photo.  It just hangs, then doesn’t show me the photo in the editor.  I’m guessing there is some “allow” setting that I haven’t enabled.

Wedding, St Thomas, USVI 2001

DH and I will be married ten years this weekend.  Just wow.

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On the bright side, life with a six year old is pretty funny.

Me: These pants are very loud. I should not wear these pants.
Her: How are they loud?
Me: They say, look at me. I am PANTS!
Her [voice flat]: Mom, pants can’t talk.

It’s funny to me anyway. Funny gets me through the day.

We’re still unpacking. And at this rate my little one will be in school before I finish. She is now eight months old, and zooming along on a path of destruction in her walker.

I have a new computer. It’s awesome. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have any of my passwords saved. And I’ve forgotten all of them. And I’m just now getting around to resetting this one. That is not the fun part. The fun part is that I can see photos at large screen size, do not constantly get messages from web sites and various software that my screen is too small, and can see more of the family tree without scrolling. (I’d need a stadium to see all of it at once.)

I would like to resume blogging, or writing of any kind. It’s therapeutic to me. Of course, I have also locked myself out of my eHow account. They sent me a note that one or all of my articles have been removed. Nice. One would think that those they’ve been paying me on are still there. But I don’t actually know. I do know that the widget is empty. But that may have just changed too. Take some time out with the family and every online service locks you out.

• I prefer a baby carrier to a stroller.
• My baby sleeps near me.
• I breastfeed.
• And I’m not a fan at all of crying it out.

I say indulge, rather than believe in, because I don’t usually consider these practices chores, but things that allow me to enjoy being with my child.  I’m also practical and think you can go too far.  Carrying poop around, in my opinion is going too far.  But I know people do it.  I don’t.  If we’re going to the park, or otherwise leaving the house, DD-1 wears disposable diapers.

Using cloth diapers doesn’t enter into the definition of attachment parenting.  But it seems that a lot of people who believe in attachment parenting also use cloth diapers.  So I put the practices together in my head.

Carrying your baby when your back aches is also going too far.

I have three different baby carriers, the Baby Bjorn, a Maya Wrap and a pouch sling.  I made the Maya Wrap and pouch slings.  I like each of them for different things.  I find the Baby Bjorn the most secure and best for housework, or anytime I really need both hands to be free.  The Maya Wrap can be adjusted for nursing.  So I usually wear DD-1 in it whenever we’re out in public, in case she is hungry.  And the pouch sling is the quickest, most low maintenance way to just put the baby on and go.  I don’t have to mess around and adjust it every time.

I’m always surprised when people don’t find baby wearing convenient.  Because it is convenient to me.  But I can see the deterrents.  In the Summer it is very hot and sweaty.  It wrinkles up your clothes.  And sometimes you just don’t want your child right in front of you – you can’t reach things.  And when you can reach things your little one can reach them too.  Still, I find it much easier to carry babies around rather than having to pick them up every time they fuss.

And since DD-1 has reflux, she needs to be upright.  And the motion of walking around soothes her.

In our room we have both a bassinet and a nest.  I think it has some other proper name.  But it’s a little frame with a firm mattress that we place on the bed.  It protects DD-1 from pillows and keeps her near us.  The bassinet has been through several family babies.  We had it second, for DD5, passed it along, and now have it back again.  Somewhere along the way the awning got lost.

I had a Snuggle Nest for DD5, and gave it away.  It did not come back.  But MIL got us another one as a gift when we camped out with her during the flood repair.  I feel quite privileged to have them both.  I could definitely live with one or the other.  But we use them both daily.  The unfortunate thing about both of them is that you’re supposed to stop using them as soon as your child can roll over.

Breastfeeding can be very funny, if it must be done in public.  I cover both of us up with the Maya Wrap.  But inevitably some unsuspecting male happens to realize what is going on and looks totally startled.  This has happened to us every time we go to a particular grocery store.  For whatever reason, DD-1 is always hungry in there.  One day two old men rushed up to admire her, then realized she was nursing.  I thought one of them was having a heart-attack, he looked so surprised and clutched his chest.  Last week, a young guy was walking past in the checkout-line and glanced down.  He turned his head away, then ran into the magazine rack.

I would prefer to feed DD-1 at home.  But her hunger is not on a schedule.  I think the location startles people too.  Probably one would think of a mother nursing a baby on a bench somewhere, rather than standing in the frozen foods aisle.

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Being a ridiculously paranoid and superstitious person, I felt compelled to keep this off the blog until after our new little person made her appearance.  Also, the pregnancy was not fun.  Being pregnant while having a five year old is exhausting.  When I was pregnant with DD5, I could sleep whenever I had the opportunity.  This time around, I needed to have DH around to look after DD5.  And even then she would sneak away from him and bounce into the bed with me and accost “the big tummy.”

Proud Big Sister and Baby

I have thought many times of posting on the blog, and getting my thoughts down over the past several months.  And I always chose rest.  I would have liked sleep.  But sleeping on my side is not my favorite.  And I was monstrously uncomfortable.

Our little person was a huge surprise.  Seriously, who gets knocked up at 39?  I didn’t just not intend to be pregnant at 40.  I didn’t think it was medically possible.  For DD5 to be born, the planets practically had to align.

One day I felt that severe nausea that is unique to pregnancy.  Everybody in the house had had the flu.  So I thought surely, it must be just a really bad flu… Accompanied by weird, vivid dreams, sore breasts, mysteriously achy teeth and two weeks later a missed period.

I decided it must be early menopause.  After a week, I dug around in the cabinet and found a really old pregnancy test that I had saved, certain that some panic stricken friend would come over and need it.  And voila, a positive pregnancy test.

Positive Pregnancy Test

Next comes denial:  I decided the test must be old and got damp in my bathroom or something.  Surely, it is defective.  Because surely, I am far too defective to be pregnant at 39 without any sort of medical attention.  Anyway, I am not that lucky.  And since no-one would believe me, I took a picture.

I called my doctors office and went in a few days later.  The nurse said, “Yes, you are pregnant.  Congratulations.”

Then she left.  And I sat there imagining my husbands impending meltdown.  The doctor came in and said, “Congratulations Mrs. Mercer.  You are pregnant.”

I said, “Are you sure it isn’t menopause?”

He looked very amused and looked down at my chart.  He said, “No, definitely NOT menopause.”

I said, “Are you sure that is my chart?  I’m 39.  The planets practically had to align for me to have my daughter.  Last year I nearly died.”

He smiled and said, “Well, you’re not dying now.”

I got a copy of the positive pregnancy test from the doctors office, and an ultrasound for confirmation. The nurse and technician were shocked when I said I had to guess the date of my last period.  I told them I am not tracking data that doesn’t matter.

They told me I was about six weeks pregnant and should go back out into the waiting room to look around at all the pregnant women who were older than me.

I was afraid to be excited.  And I can sometimes be a chicken-shit.  I went home and emailed the picture of the pregnancy test to DH and MIL with a note that I had been expecting Santa, not The Stork.  After an hour I called MIL.  She was nearly speechless, except to agree that meltdown was imminent.

I called DH.  He did not pick up.  I tried his other number.  I tried again and resumed panic.

I called three friends who among them have nine children, none of which were planned.  One laughed, one said good luck telling DH, and the third shared my shock.  All were delighted.  And sympathetic.

DH came home and did not speak to me for several hours.  Then he declared it impossible and did not speak to me again for about twenty weeks.

DH does not like surprises.

I had faith that he would come around eventually; as he is a genuinely decent human being.  And his mother raised him right.  And he was in the room when it happened.

I worked in the ESOL class today. I thought that would cheer me up. But it did not. I only felt more affection for immigrants, and thus missed my family even more. Usually on Tuesdays I feel quite happy, especially after class.

A positive side effect of my grandmothers death, is that it prompted me to have greater appreciation for my cousins, who I know and are still alive. That may sound preposterous. But my dad’s side of the family was exposed to radioactive fall-out. That did not assure a long life for him and many others of his generation.

On the other side of the family, I don’t really know people. It was my father’s family whom we lived near, and spent our time with. And pleasantly, these are the people who have all been appearing on Facebook. I know other families actually use the phone. But we have not. And for the most part, still do not. Though text messaging has become very popular among us.

I miss my cousins too. Argh.

I hate to be blue. I opened all the windows, put on cheerful music, lit a happy smelling candle, cleaned the house.

Still blue.

I felt better for a while after I spoke to a friend on the phone. Then I picked up DD and took her to the grocery. I have rarely taken her shopping with me since school started. But yesterday, we went looking for a gift for DH. And today we went to the grocery together. She was shockingly well behaved in the grocery. She is usually quite pesky about wanting to buy junk food.

Today, I told her she could could pick out a few things before we entered the store. And we agreed on a pastry, pears, spaghetti squash and cheese bread. (Yes, she picked those out.)

I now have an arsenal of ingredients with which to cook. And that should keep me busy all week.

I got a turkey for DH to mess with since they were 89 cents per pound. And now that I see how gargantuan it looks in my refrigerator, wonder if I will have to go out and buy a larger roasting pan or cut it into parts and cook them separately.

I tried to get inspired to sew. But the fabrics all looked boring to me. So I’ll need to ignore them for a while. Or buy something entirely new.

I may be encouraged enough now, by Liz and Marne to try knitting. It still looks incredibly complicated to me. But I think that a handful of cotton or cashmere yarn could be very soothing on an evening like this one, already dark at 5:30 PM. That may be temptation enough to get me past the imagined doom of knitting.