Along with many other adventures, marriage offers a new perspective on traditions from your family of origin. As a child, I was under the impression that every American family began Thanksgiving Day by gathering around the television, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in its entirety, and eating sausage balls and orange rolls. Only after I got married did my husband disabuse me of this notion, and in fact gently inform me that it was a little wierd. Fortunately my kids, who adore both television and simple starches covered in sugar, sided with me, so the tradition has continued in our household.
The orange roll portion of the tradition began with my grandmother Betty, who made them from scratch. After she passed away a few years back, both my mother and I sheepishly admitted that while OUR orange rolls didn't taste like Grandma's, Sister Schubert orange rolls in the tinfoil pans tasted almost as good as the original article. I suppose this makes sense since Sister Schubert looks more like my grandma than either my mother or I do. For the past several years, however, the rest of America appears to be losing interest in the orange roll industry. I know this because each year it takes me more stops at more grocery stores to bag my Thanksgiving supply.
This year I decided to involve Google in the search process, with disastrous results. In the interest of admitting when we have gone a little crazy, I share the following email that my mother and sisters received today:
"Hello all. Thought you would like to know that I have reached a new Thanksgiving low...I just got off the phone with the Sister Schubert corporate office, where I paid overnight shipping to have orange rolls delivered to my house in time for the Macy's parade. Thanks to their handy online search function I know that no grocery store in Durham or Chapel Hill is carrying them, and my life is too crazy to drive to Raleigh just for orange rolls. I am too ashamed to tell you what it cost me.
Mom, I ordered extra to bring for Christmas just in case you have the same problem, as the Sister Schubert Searcher tells me there are no stores in Huntsville stocking them either. Yes, I am hoarding orange rolls."
Love, Katie"
Hoping all your Thanksgiving dreams come true!
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Nine Months
Nine months old. Rolling, sitting, EIGHT teeth but still laughing, saying "dada" and "ah-dan" (we aren't sure what that last one means). Champion raspberry blower. Sweet sweet boy.
Friday, November 9, 2012
As usual, my attempts to talk all the children into coordinating Halloween costumes failed,
so we had a joyously mismatched Halloween. We trick-or-treat in our "adopted" neighborhood of Trinity Park, where the kids' school is located, and it's a treat just to stroll the streets and take in the decorations on Halloween night. Enjoy.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Going Pro
This past weekend my five year old son became a professional soccer player. Professional, that is, to the extent that I am now paying him. And the question I have been pondering this week is: why do I care so much?
This need for motivation in sports is a new experience in our household. My eldest child was, startlingly, a natural athlete. Once we placed him on the field and explained the basic idea that you get points for taking the ball from others and putting it in the goal, he was off. As I watch him out there, his small body bending and twisting with agility and grace, I am sure of one thing: I am making no genetic contribution to this phenomenon. I'm no couch potato, but my sports of choice -- swimming, running, hiking -- have in common that the main requirement is a determination to move from point A to point B, and eye hand coordination is secondary. (It is fairly difficult to fall off a hiking trail, although the consequences may be dire.) I watch him with joy, but there's also a lingering wonderment as to where he got it from.
With Samuel, soccer is a different game. In soccer as in all things, this kid rows his own boat. Lest you get the impression that my husband and I are soccer-pushing super parents, I assure you that we are not. He was eager to join the team, loves putting on the uniform, gets excited when there is a game. Once the game commences, however, he trots sedately up and down the field. He's careful to stay close enough to the pack to be included, but not so close as to compete with the team stars for an opportunity to actually touch the ball. He is neither naturally graceful nor particularly clutzy. He's just relaxed. Sometimes he quits watching the game altogether because he has a (non-soccer-related) thought that he wants to communicate to the sidelines using uninterpretable sign language. Post-game analysis is usually focused on the quality of the week's snack, regarding which his criticism is sharp and relentless.
Samuel seems quite content with this approach to the game. His father and I are a different story. It's a hard sell to bundle four kids into the car and cart all their equipment down to a damp grassy patch so that you can sit for an hour and watch your child amble casually somewhere near a game in which he does not actually appear to be participating. My husband must occasionally be banished so that he will not embarrass himself (OK, me) by shouting instructions from the sidelines --which incidentally, if you were thinking of trying it in a similar situation, does no good whatsoever.
Maybe my kid just has a happy-go-lucky disposition. But I wonder if there's something not so sunny at work. This kiddo is nothing if not a pragmatist, and I suspect that he has summed up the situation as follows: I am not the best, and if I run around after the ball, it's going to be hard and I'm probably not going to score. So I'll hang out in the back here where I can be part of the team, but not try too hard. (And as a bonus, I'll get a snack.)
This is not a pattern for life that I want to encourage. So this past weekend, in a stroke of genius or desperation, I had a parking lot heart to heart with my son. I reminded him that Mom and Dad didn't really care if he was the best, OK, or not very good at soccer. We just cared that he tried his hardest. I asked him to be more...stubborn.
We talked about how stubborn is bad sometimes, like when Mom wants you to eat a vegetable or when you won't compromise with your brother, but it's also good sometimes, like when you can't do something very well yet but you keep trying and don't give up. And to help this stubborness along, I offered an incentive: every time his foot touched the ball, he would get a penny. A light was kindled in his little eyes.
"So if I get enough pennies will I get some of the grey money? If I get five pennies I can get one of those big grey monies and if I get ten pennies I can get one of the other grey moneys?"
I assured him that I would make change for nickels and dimes. And we shook on it.
And here's the thing: it worked. For the first part of the game he did his usual thing, but at some point he got in a kick. He looked up at me, grinned, and held up one finger. And he was off again.
Was he transformed into a fierce, talented soccer playing machine? Uh, no. He was not what anyone would term a scoring threat. But he kicked the ball thirteen times, and each time he looked toward the sideline with his excited smile, and held up his fingers to show me his tally. I wasn't quite sure why, but my inner parenting gut told me we had done something good here. I am out one small grey money and three cents, which seems like a bargain.
Over the days I've puzzled on what happened here, and whether it was good. Here is the conclusion I've reached: I think it's good, because Samuel and I together figured out how to transform a game where he felt like he couldn't compete, into a game where he could compete against himself. And in the process he discovered that more effort got more results.
I really, truly don't care (at least I think I don't) whether my son is good at soccer. But I know there will be many more times in his life when he tries at something and does a big belly flop. And I hope that with my pennies I can help him learn that if he digs in his heels and keeps trying, he may still not be the best, but he will get better,and he will be doing HIS best, which feels pretty good.
If he demonstrates anything like his natural tenacity for avoiding vegetables...we may see him in the World Cup yet.
This need for motivation in sports is a new experience in our household. My eldest child was, startlingly, a natural athlete. Once we placed him on the field and explained the basic idea that you get points for taking the ball from others and putting it in the goal, he was off. As I watch him out there, his small body bending and twisting with agility and grace, I am sure of one thing: I am making no genetic contribution to this phenomenon. I'm no couch potato, but my sports of choice -- swimming, running, hiking -- have in common that the main requirement is a determination to move from point A to point B, and eye hand coordination is secondary. (It is fairly difficult to fall off a hiking trail, although the consequences may be dire.) I watch him with joy, but there's also a lingering wonderment as to where he got it from.
With Samuel, soccer is a different game. In soccer as in all things, this kid rows his own boat. Lest you get the impression that my husband and I are soccer-pushing super parents, I assure you that we are not. He was eager to join the team, loves putting on the uniform, gets excited when there is a game. Once the game commences, however, he trots sedately up and down the field. He's careful to stay close enough to the pack to be included, but not so close as to compete with the team stars for an opportunity to actually touch the ball. He is neither naturally graceful nor particularly clutzy. He's just relaxed. Sometimes he quits watching the game altogether because he has a (non-soccer-related) thought that he wants to communicate to the sidelines using uninterpretable sign language. Post-game analysis is usually focused on the quality of the week's snack, regarding which his criticism is sharp and relentless.
Samuel seems quite content with this approach to the game. His father and I are a different story. It's a hard sell to bundle four kids into the car and cart all their equipment down to a damp grassy patch so that you can sit for an hour and watch your child amble casually somewhere near a game in which he does not actually appear to be participating. My husband must occasionally be banished so that he will not embarrass himself (OK, me) by shouting instructions from the sidelines --which incidentally, if you were thinking of trying it in a similar situation, does no good whatsoever.
Maybe my kid just has a happy-go-lucky disposition. But I wonder if there's something not so sunny at work. This kiddo is nothing if not a pragmatist, and I suspect that he has summed up the situation as follows: I am not the best, and if I run around after the ball, it's going to be hard and I'm probably not going to score. So I'll hang out in the back here where I can be part of the team, but not try too hard. (And as a bonus, I'll get a snack.)
This is not a pattern for life that I want to encourage. So this past weekend, in a stroke of genius or desperation, I had a parking lot heart to heart with my son. I reminded him that Mom and Dad didn't really care if he was the best, OK, or not very good at soccer. We just cared that he tried his hardest. I asked him to be more...stubborn.
We talked about how stubborn is bad sometimes, like when Mom wants you to eat a vegetable or when you won't compromise with your brother, but it's also good sometimes, like when you can't do something very well yet but you keep trying and don't give up. And to help this stubborness along, I offered an incentive: every time his foot touched the ball, he would get a penny. A light was kindled in his little eyes.
"So if I get enough pennies will I get some of the grey money? If I get five pennies I can get one of those big grey monies and if I get ten pennies I can get one of the other grey moneys?"
I assured him that I would make change for nickels and dimes. And we shook on it.
And here's the thing: it worked. For the first part of the game he did his usual thing, but at some point he got in a kick. He looked up at me, grinned, and held up one finger. And he was off again.
Was he transformed into a fierce, talented soccer playing machine? Uh, no. He was not what anyone would term a scoring threat. But he kicked the ball thirteen times, and each time he looked toward the sideline with his excited smile, and held up his fingers to show me his tally. I wasn't quite sure why, but my inner parenting gut told me we had done something good here. I am out one small grey money and three cents, which seems like a bargain.
Over the days I've puzzled on what happened here, and whether it was good. Here is the conclusion I've reached: I think it's good, because Samuel and I together figured out how to transform a game where he felt like he couldn't compete, into a game where he could compete against himself. And in the process he discovered that more effort got more results.
I really, truly don't care (at least I think I don't) whether my son is good at soccer. But I know there will be many more times in his life when he tries at something and does a big belly flop. And I hope that with my pennies I can help him learn that if he digs in his heels and keeps trying, he may still not be the best, but he will get better,and he will be doing HIS best, which feels pretty good.
If he demonstrates anything like his natural tenacity for avoiding vegetables...we may see him in the World Cup yet.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Mrs Watson
Like a lot five year old boys (and, I would suggest, all of the best ones), Samuel just loves his kindergarten teacher. This week his conversation has included some particularly great Mrs. Watson stories. Today's edition:
"Mommy, Mrs Watson says that if we feel just a little sick we are not supposed to come to school".
"Really?"
"Yes she does, because today Luke felt just a little sick and he came to school anyway and then he threw up on the rug".
Point taken, Mrs Watson.
Mrs. Watson's job has some brighter spots. Tonight Samuel composed a letter and sealed it up in an envelope to take to school tomorrow:
"Dear Mrs Watson, I am going to be a scaree dragon for Halloween. I have a poerful tial and poerful wings. Roooooooor. Scare you right out of your pants. Love Samuel"
"Mommy, Mrs Watson says that if we feel just a little sick we are not supposed to come to school".
"Really?"
"Yes she does, because today Luke felt just a little sick and he came to school anyway and then he threw up on the rug".
Point taken, Mrs Watson.
Mrs. Watson's job has some brighter spots. Tonight Samuel composed a letter and sealed it up in an envelope to take to school tomorrow:
"Dear Mrs Watson, I am going to be a scaree dragon for Halloween. I have a poerful tial and poerful wings. Roooooooor. Scare you right out of your pants. Love Samuel"
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Little Boys and Fairies
My friends' little girls are into Fairies. Not just the traditional Tinkerbell from our 20th century childhoods, but a whole host of new and improved fairies with their own books, TV series and action figures. Apparently, there are delicate girly fairies, but also tough modern role model fairies who fight evil, defend the forest and generally make themselves useful.
You might think that all this fairy talk would make a mom of four boys feel left out. However, I am here to tell you that we have fairies at our house, too. Here are a few of the ones my kids have made me aware of just lately:
The Pee Fairy: She comes along after you have peed and run out of the bathroom (presumably with unwashed hands) to flush the toilet. Sometimes, I am sad to say, she has to call in her associate, the Poop Elf, to get rid of even more incriminating evidence.
The Laundry Fairy: This busy creature can be found all over the house -- in the bedroom, bathroom, next to the front door and in many other nooks and crannies -- picking up socks and underwear and flying them safely into the hamper.
The Dish Fairy: our boys really believe in this one, because they confidently leave their dishes on the table every single night so that she will have the chance to vanish them into the dishwasher. No matter how many times they're called back to the supper table because "The Dish Fairy Does Not Live Here!", they still believe.
Our home really is a magical place!
You might think that all this fairy talk would make a mom of four boys feel left out. However, I am here to tell you that we have fairies at our house, too. Here are a few of the ones my kids have made me aware of just lately:
The Pee Fairy: She comes along after you have peed and run out of the bathroom (presumably with unwashed hands) to flush the toilet. Sometimes, I am sad to say, she has to call in her associate, the Poop Elf, to get rid of even more incriminating evidence.
The Laundry Fairy: This busy creature can be found all over the house -- in the bedroom, bathroom, next to the front door and in many other nooks and crannies -- picking up socks and underwear and flying them safely into the hamper.
The Dish Fairy: our boys really believe in this one, because they confidently leave their dishes on the table every single night so that she will have the chance to vanish them into the dishwasher. No matter how many times they're called back to the supper table because "The Dish Fairy Does Not Live Here!", they still believe.
Our home really is a magical place!
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Let There Be Light
I walked into the bathroom this morning, flipped the switch and the light came on. I realize that for most people this is not an unusual experience. But our bathroom light is special. In the words of a friend (describing the windshield wiper on his 1980 pickup truck, which coincidentally had a similar sort of problem) "it's not broken, it just works in a different way". A few years ago, the light went out. Experiments with a new bulb and jiggling various wires failed to make it come back on. We assumed a problem with the wiring. Fortunately vanity lights and the good old sun keep the room reasonably well lit, and "fix wierd bathroom light" soon fell to the bottom of a very long to-do list.
The habit of flipping the switch persisted, and a few months later the light came back on. Over the years this has become a pattern. The light is off and then, one day, it comes on. Once it resumes functioning, we have light in the shower for days or weeks, then one day it disappears again. And because I don't really expect it to work, it has become a pleasant little suprise, an omen of a good day. Oh look, the light is back on, I say to myself as I get into the shower. And I am cheered by the unaccustomed brightness until it goes away again.
I have tried to connect the light's moods to various factors -- the temperature, whether we've been walking around in the attic -- but have never found a predictable pattern. And my response to this intermittent electrical mystery has gotten me thinking about seasons.
We have seasons, of course. Times when the weather is different and we need some rearrangements in our wardrobes to move in comfort from our climate-controlled homes to our climate-controlled cars to our climate-controlled offices. But modern life has pretty much been engineered to obliterate seasonality. We can buy pineapples and mangos at the supermarket all year long. If the bed is chilly in mid-winter we don't have to light a fire or add another quilt, we simply punch "up" on the thermostat. Sweat is an embarrassment to be avoided. Drafts are just indications that it's time to buy new storm windows. We feel entitled to all of life's comforts, delivered in thirty minutes or less, all the time.
But the truth is that life's biggest joys are for the most part seasonal. The tomatos I buy next month at the supermarket just won't taste like the ones I got at the farmer's market in the heat of July. Next week those beautiful fall leaves on the drive home will have disappeared. Christmas comes but once a year. Family traditions change. Friends move away. Our children will not be babies forever, our bodies will not be young and pretty-much-healthy forever, our parents and grandparents will not be around to share our lives forever.
We all resist change. When we find something good, we want to hold on. But I am learning that life has seasons, and that pineapple in January and a life in which "good things" are frozen and preserved so that no new good things can fit into my tightly controlled universe, may blunt the joy of encountering the new and the unexpected, the uncontrollable blessing. And I wonder, as I shower in a warm glow, whether God might be using my bathroom light as a reminder to bask in the season, while it lasts.
The habit of flipping the switch persisted, and a few months later the light came back on. Over the years this has become a pattern. The light is off and then, one day, it comes on. Once it resumes functioning, we have light in the shower for days or weeks, then one day it disappears again. And because I don't really expect it to work, it has become a pleasant little suprise, an omen of a good day. Oh look, the light is back on, I say to myself as I get into the shower. And I am cheered by the unaccustomed brightness until it goes away again.
I have tried to connect the light's moods to various factors -- the temperature, whether we've been walking around in the attic -- but have never found a predictable pattern. And my response to this intermittent electrical mystery has gotten me thinking about seasons.
We have seasons, of course. Times when the weather is different and we need some rearrangements in our wardrobes to move in comfort from our climate-controlled homes to our climate-controlled cars to our climate-controlled offices. But modern life has pretty much been engineered to obliterate seasonality. We can buy pineapples and mangos at the supermarket all year long. If the bed is chilly in mid-winter we don't have to light a fire or add another quilt, we simply punch "up" on the thermostat. Sweat is an embarrassment to be avoided. Drafts are just indications that it's time to buy new storm windows. We feel entitled to all of life's comforts, delivered in thirty minutes or less, all the time.
But the truth is that life's biggest joys are for the most part seasonal. The tomatos I buy next month at the supermarket just won't taste like the ones I got at the farmer's market in the heat of July. Next week those beautiful fall leaves on the drive home will have disappeared. Christmas comes but once a year. Family traditions change. Friends move away. Our children will not be babies forever, our bodies will not be young and pretty-much-healthy forever, our parents and grandparents will not be around to share our lives forever.
We all resist change. When we find something good, we want to hold on. But I am learning that life has seasons, and that pineapple in January and a life in which "good things" are frozen and preserved so that no new good things can fit into my tightly controlled universe, may blunt the joy of encountering the new and the unexpected, the uncontrollable blessing. And I wonder, as I shower in a warm glow, whether God might be using my bathroom light as a reminder to bask in the season, while it lasts.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
To The Mountains! Said Fred
That's a line that only those who have read "Big Dog, Little Dog" far too many times can really appreciate, but we did look a bit like Ted and Fred as we piled into the car for our recent trip to the mountains of southern Virginia. Wonderful friends, lots of time to relax together, and a rare chance to get out on the trail with all four boys -- what could be better!
Enjoy some photos of our mountain weekend:
Virginia Highlands Photos
Enjoy some photos of our mountain weekend:
Virginia Highlands Photos
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Go Heels: Tater Tot's Birth Story
Background: I've been slow to post P's birth story, in honor of his turning six months old today, here it is.
I have never made it to 40 weeks gestation, and labor with my third child was three hours and eight minutes long. So when the Tater Tot came along, I didn't think patience would be a big part of the equation. In fact I figured my biggest problem would be not delivering on the side of the road. Maybe we should have a plastic sheet and some towels around just in case, I said. Forget that, we're headed for the hospital as soon as we're sure it's on, my husband said. I hope we have time to take pictures, I said.
Fast forward to 38 weeks. My shortest pregnancy lasted 38 weeks, 3 days. My longest was 39 weeks, 2 days. So with family members coming in to town at 38 weeks and staying through 40, we figured we should have it covered.
Thirty eight and six. Mark and I planned a last date night while my sister heroically babysat all three nephews. During dinner, contractions began. Four minutes apart. One minute long. Thai food does it every time, he said. Maybe we should skip the movie, I said. We strolled outside the restaurant. I think this is really it, I said. We stopped for dessert. Contractions spaced out, then stopped. Should have gone to the movie, we said.
Thirty nine and three. My regular midwife appointment. The Tater Tot now holds the family record for gestating time. I've always been a cervix agnostic. I think it's better not to know what's going on down there til it becomes obvious. But with four days of child care coverage left I'm getting a bit jumpy. Would you like me to check? she says. I cave. You're dilated to about 2, she says. Would you like me to strip your membranes? I cave again.
4:30 pm. I wake up from a lovely nap, walk into the bathroom and get a whopper sink-clutching contraction. Hmmm, could be something. Or not. I am no longer confident in my predictive abilities.
5:30 pm. We have run out of "I'm sure I'll still be pregnant by then" groceries, so we all go out for pizza. Steady contractions five or six minutes apart do not deter me from eating a few slices. You never know when you're going to need that carbohydrate load.
7:00 pm. Contractions continue to come, and it's now time for a serious strategy session. At 9pm the Duke/Carolina game, perhaps the biggest rivalry in college basketball, tips off in the stadium next door to our hospital. For weeks I have been sternly instructing this baby that the one time it CANNOT be born is during the Duke/Carolina game. Ah, labor irony. I think it's going pretty slow, I say. I think I can make it til halftime. Earlier we asked the midwife how we should get to the hospital during game night traffic and she said, "Call an ambulance". No kidding. I put the other kiddos to bed. It's nice to know they're all settled.
10:00 pm. The golden hour--halftime. We jump in the car, our timing determined not by how far apart the contractions are, but how long til the final buzzer. It's eerily silent as we approach the campus. Every living, breathing thing in Chapel Hill is either at the Dean Dome or at home in front of the television.
10:30 pm. Meg, one of my favorite midwives, is on call and I'm dilated to 5. It's really quiet around here tonight, the nurse says. (Apparently even babies in utero don't want to be disturbed during the big game.) Do you want me to get the tub ready? My previous trips to this hospital have all involved brief but lively stops in triage and pushing out a baby the instant I get into a real room. What do you know, they have tubs.
11:00 pm. We all keep a vague eye on the game on TV. I sit on the birth ball, get a back massage, and drink some Gatorade. If those guys need it, I definitely do. They only have to play for sixty minutes.
12:00 am. I live in the tub for about an hour and it is indeed all it's cracked up to be. My oh-so-nice nurse Jennydoes does heart rate checks with a little waterproof thingie. Meg hangs out by the tub and chats between contractions from time to time. The game is over. Carolina lost. We hope it's not an omen.
12:50 am. Contractions kick up a notch, so I get out. The tubs aren't set up to allow a water birth, and I really don't want to crawl out dripping wet and cold during transition. Some of the Gatorade and pizza make a reappearance. Based on prior experience I'm confident that vomiting usually marks the final leg of this journey. We'll be all done in an hour.
2:30 am. Really? Weren't we supposed to have a baby already? I have a nice rhythm going marching up and down the black and white squares on the floor, three or four lengths of the room for each contraction. I know I can do this, I'm just starting to wonder how long I can do it. Every contraction I think surely my water will break and just wash the baby out, but no such luck. I'm starting to feel a little pushy, but wonder if it's wishful thinking because I am so ready to move on to the pushing stage. We finally decide to check progress. 9 cm. We debate whether we should break the water to move things along a bit. I've always liked to wait for the old natural "pop" but...I am not enthralled by the idea of delivering an 8 pound baby in an intact bag of waters.
Meg breaks my water and everyone is very impressed by the volume of amniotic fluid. Nice to know all that weight and girth wasn't just excess fat! Tater Tot immediately moves down and I'm at 9.5 cm with just a lip left. Meg helps move it over baby's head. I have heard horror stories about this lip-pushing business, but it doesn't seem so bad.
The pushing stage takes more work than with babies #2 and #3. I think the Tater Tot just started off higher, so had more distance to travel. I feel like I'm not making a lot of progress, but then my cheerleaders (Mark, Jenny and Meg made a great team covering the upper, mid and lower zones respectively) start to report sightings of a hairy little head. I'm very very happy to be pushing instead of pacing.
3:58 am. Tater Tot makes his way into the world in a slow and (relatively) dignified manner with Meg's gentle assistance. Midwives rock! His gender was a "suprise", but I think after three boys we were sort of expecting another. We love boys! I say. Throughout the pregnancy I wondered if I had a secret, unconscious desire for a girl, but at this moment I know that I'm really excited to be a family of four boys.
He comes to me immediately for a skin-to-skin snuggle and feed, all warm and damp and fresh baby smelling. We cut the cord pretty quickly because we want to donate cord blood.
We nurse and the placenta is delivered without much fanfare. Tater Tot has a weigh in: 21 1/4 inches, 8lbs 1 oz. Almost the same measurements as his oldest big brother
Daddy takes a well-earned post game nap on the foldout sofa while P and I snuggle and have our respective snacks. We talk about our plans for the day: warm showers and baths, meeting all the big brothers and Grandma, a big plate of eggs and bacon from the hospital cafeteria. I am so excited to get to know this new little person. He has arrived in a big, loving family where he will never be lonely. But I'm glad we got to be alone to watch the sun come up that first day, just Mommy and Tater Tot.
Epilogue: I will insert a promo here for my star team of hospital-based midwives at UNC Hospitals. We had a wonderful, warm birth experience in which we felt completely supported in our desire for a natural childbirth and cared for as a family, with a team who was prepared and experienced for low-intervention birth. I wish more women across the country had access to this brand of great care.
I have never made it to 40 weeks gestation, and labor with my third child was three hours and eight minutes long. So when the Tater Tot came along, I didn't think patience would be a big part of the equation. In fact I figured my biggest problem would be not delivering on the side of the road. Maybe we should have a plastic sheet and some towels around just in case, I said. Forget that, we're headed for the hospital as soon as we're sure it's on, my husband said. I hope we have time to take pictures, I said.
Fast forward to 38 weeks. My shortest pregnancy lasted 38 weeks, 3 days. My longest was 39 weeks, 2 days. So with family members coming in to town at 38 weeks and staying through 40, we figured we should have it covered.
Thirty eight and six. Mark and I planned a last date night while my sister heroically babysat all three nephews. During dinner, contractions began. Four minutes apart. One minute long. Thai food does it every time, he said. Maybe we should skip the movie, I said. We strolled outside the restaurant. I think this is really it, I said. We stopped for dessert. Contractions spaced out, then stopped. Should have gone to the movie, we said.
Thirty nine and three. My regular midwife appointment. The Tater Tot now holds the family record for gestating time. I've always been a cervix agnostic. I think it's better not to know what's going on down there til it becomes obvious. But with four days of child care coverage left I'm getting a bit jumpy. Would you like me to check? she says. I cave. You're dilated to about 2, she says. Would you like me to strip your membranes? I cave again.
4:30 pm. I wake up from a lovely nap, walk into the bathroom and get a whopper sink-clutching contraction. Hmmm, could be something. Or not. I am no longer confident in my predictive abilities.
5:30 pm. We have run out of "I'm sure I'll still be pregnant by then" groceries, so we all go out for pizza. Steady contractions five or six minutes apart do not deter me from eating a few slices. You never know when you're going to need that carbohydrate load.
7:00 pm. Contractions continue to come, and it's now time for a serious strategy session. At 9pm the Duke/Carolina game, perhaps the biggest rivalry in college basketball, tips off in the stadium next door to our hospital. For weeks I have been sternly instructing this baby that the one time it CANNOT be born is during the Duke/Carolina game. Ah, labor irony. I think it's going pretty slow, I say. I think I can make it til halftime. Earlier we asked the midwife how we should get to the hospital during game night traffic and she said, "Call an ambulance". No kidding. I put the other kiddos to bed. It's nice to know they're all settled.
10:00 pm. The golden hour--halftime. We jump in the car, our timing determined not by how far apart the contractions are, but how long til the final buzzer. It's eerily silent as we approach the campus. Every living, breathing thing in Chapel Hill is either at the Dean Dome or at home in front of the television.
10:30 pm. Meg, one of my favorite midwives, is on call and I'm dilated to 5. It's really quiet around here tonight, the nurse says. (Apparently even babies in utero don't want to be disturbed during the big game.) Do you want me to get the tub ready? My previous trips to this hospital have all involved brief but lively stops in triage and pushing out a baby the instant I get into a real room. What do you know, they have tubs.
11:00 pm. We all keep a vague eye on the game on TV. I sit on the birth ball, get a back massage, and drink some Gatorade. If those guys need it, I definitely do. They only have to play for sixty minutes.
12:00 am. I live in the tub for about an hour and it is indeed all it's cracked up to be. My oh-so-nice nurse Jennydoes does heart rate checks with a little waterproof thingie. Meg hangs out by the tub and chats between contractions from time to time. The game is over. Carolina lost. We hope it's not an omen.
12:50 am. Contractions kick up a notch, so I get out. The tubs aren't set up to allow a water birth, and I really don't want to crawl out dripping wet and cold during transition. Some of the Gatorade and pizza make a reappearance. Based on prior experience I'm confident that vomiting usually marks the final leg of this journey. We'll be all done in an hour.
2:30 am. Really? Weren't we supposed to have a baby already? I have a nice rhythm going marching up and down the black and white squares on the floor, three or four lengths of the room for each contraction. I know I can do this, I'm just starting to wonder how long I can do it. Every contraction I think surely my water will break and just wash the baby out, but no such luck. I'm starting to feel a little pushy, but wonder if it's wishful thinking because I am so ready to move on to the pushing stage. We finally decide to check progress. 9 cm. We debate whether we should break the water to move things along a bit. I've always liked to wait for the old natural "pop" but...I am not enthralled by the idea of delivering an 8 pound baby in an intact bag of waters.
Meg breaks my water and everyone is very impressed by the volume of amniotic fluid. Nice to know all that weight and girth wasn't just excess fat! Tater Tot immediately moves down and I'm at 9.5 cm with just a lip left. Meg helps move it over baby's head. I have heard horror stories about this lip-pushing business, but it doesn't seem so bad.
The pushing stage takes more work than with babies #2 and #3. I think the Tater Tot just started off higher, so had more distance to travel. I feel like I'm not making a lot of progress, but then my cheerleaders (Mark, Jenny and Meg made a great team covering the upper, mid and lower zones respectively) start to report sightings of a hairy little head. I'm very very happy to be pushing instead of pacing.
3:58 am. Tater Tot makes his way into the world in a slow and (relatively) dignified manner with Meg's gentle assistance. Midwives rock! His gender was a "suprise", but I think after three boys we were sort of expecting another. We love boys! I say. Throughout the pregnancy I wondered if I had a secret, unconscious desire for a girl, but at this moment I know that I'm really excited to be a family of four boys.
He comes to me immediately for a skin-to-skin snuggle and feed, all warm and damp and fresh baby smelling. We cut the cord pretty quickly because we want to donate cord blood.
We nurse and the placenta is delivered without much fanfare. Tater Tot has a weigh in: 21 1/4 inches, 8lbs 1 oz. Almost the same measurements as his oldest big brother
Daddy takes a well-earned post game nap on the foldout sofa while P and I snuggle and have our respective snacks. We talk about our plans for the day: warm showers and baths, meeting all the big brothers and Grandma, a big plate of eggs and bacon from the hospital cafeteria. I am so excited to get to know this new little person. He has arrived in a big, loving family where he will never be lonely. But I'm glad we got to be alone to watch the sun come up that first day, just Mommy and Tater Tot.
Epilogue: I will insert a promo here for my star team of hospital-based midwives at UNC Hospitals. We had a wonderful, warm birth experience in which we felt completely supported in our desire for a natural childbirth and cared for as a family, with a team who was prepared and experienced for low-intervention birth. I wish more women across the country had access to this brand of great care.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
It's Hot
Normally the mild climate is one of my favorite aspects of North Carolina life, but we have been having a stretch of That Weather here in NC. Over one hundred degrees, steamy humid, make-up melting, hair frizzing heat. Weather of the sort that only those who have lived some portion of their life in the deep South can really identify with, the sort that explains why native Southerners have evolved the ability to drive with the backs of their thighs lifted off the seat and steer only with the tips of their index fingers.
You would assume that a lifetime of intermittent exposure to this sort of heat would acclimate a person. But in my experience it has the opposite effect. I've seen Californians fan their way philosophically through the occasional hot week with no air conditioning, treating it as a mildly unpleasant novelty that will soon pass. But a broken AC unit in the middle of a Southern summer is a full-force natural disaster that will induce cursing and spitting at the repairman in otherwise polite and kindly little old ladies. Telling a Southerner that there is no air conditioning in his forseeable future is like saying to a heroin addict "we're all out for the summer, but I can get you some more in mid to late September". We are air conditioning junkies and we need our fix.
Which makes me all the more in awe of my children. They seem blissfully unaware that the atmosphere outside is approaching the point where we could bake cookies on the hood of our automobile. They ask to go to the playground and moan when it's time to come home. They go to camp and ride horses (ugh! imagine the amount of body heat produced by an exercising half-ton mammal!). In general, they go right on with their little kid lives, sweating like piglets to cool themselves off just as nature intended.
I know that a day is coming when they will notice. They will look up one day and say "Man, it is HOT in here" and will grump about the ruin of their plans for the weekend and will complain about how long it takes the air conditioner to cool the car off and how inconsiderate the parking lot planners were to plant only two tiny shade trees in an acre of concrete. In other words, they will become grownups. And I will be a little sad, remembering their small red faces and the way their hair used to curl up in sweaty ringlets on their necks, and how they used to be too busy enjoying life to care that it's HOT.
You would assume that a lifetime of intermittent exposure to this sort of heat would acclimate a person. But in my experience it has the opposite effect. I've seen Californians fan their way philosophically through the occasional hot week with no air conditioning, treating it as a mildly unpleasant novelty that will soon pass. But a broken AC unit in the middle of a Southern summer is a full-force natural disaster that will induce cursing and spitting at the repairman in otherwise polite and kindly little old ladies. Telling a Southerner that there is no air conditioning in his forseeable future is like saying to a heroin addict "we're all out for the summer, but I can get you some more in mid to late September". We are air conditioning junkies and we need our fix.
Which makes me all the more in awe of my children. They seem blissfully unaware that the atmosphere outside is approaching the point where we could bake cookies on the hood of our automobile. They ask to go to the playground and moan when it's time to come home. They go to camp and ride horses (ugh! imagine the amount of body heat produced by an exercising half-ton mammal!). In general, they go right on with their little kid lives, sweating like piglets to cool themselves off just as nature intended.
I know that a day is coming when they will notice. They will look up one day and say "Man, it is HOT in here" and will grump about the ruin of their plans for the weekend and will complain about how long it takes the air conditioner to cool the car off and how inconsiderate the parking lot planners were to plant only two tiny shade trees in an acre of concrete. In other words, they will become grownups. And I will be a little sad, remembering their small red faces and the way their hair used to curl up in sweaty ringlets on their necks, and how they used to be too busy enjoying life to care that it's HOT.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Windy City Weekend
https://picasaweb.google.com/HayesFamilyNC/Chicago2012?authkey=Gv1sRgCOj65eSsmYLR_AE
Friday, June 1, 2012
Tater Tot Update
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
A Fine Specimen
Most days, I manage to be both a mom and a doctor. Which leads some people to think that I must have it more together than average, sort of an "I Don't Know How She Does It" phenomenon, except that I'm not as skinny or as perky as Sarah Jessica Parker. Spoiler alert: I am about to destroy this myth forever, by telling you a story about...urine specimen cups.
I know certain things about myself. One of them is that whatever I don't do the night before (pack lunch, add something to the briefcase) has a high likelihood of falling right out of my brain in the morning rush. I know this, and yet I occasionally go off to bed muttering the deluded phrase, "I'll just grab it in the morning". Yesterday I applied said delusion to my breast pump parts. The pump itself lives under my desk at work, but all the little plastic gadgets have to come home and go through the sterilizing cycle, then come back to work the next day to keep the dairy running. It is admittedly a little complicated. On this particular morning I didn't realize my grave error until the moment I pulled into my parking space.
(Sidebar: I call it "my" parking space because it is the same spot in the parking garage that I choose every single workday. My brain is so cluttered that I will otherwise forget where I parked and have to wander around a five-level parking deck looking for myself. I don't think anyone else actually considers it "my" space, but thankfully no one else seems to want it.)
So there I was with a set of vigorously lactating breasts, an extra-long workday that involved three planned pumping sessions, and nothing with which to extract milk. I contemplated various unappealing options including an hour-long round trip home during lunch, asking my already overloaded hubby to rescue me, or going upstairs to the NICU and begging for a "new mom" kit. Which I most certainly don't qualify for, but they don't make an "old mom with breastfeeding brain" kit.
Then it hit me. Wasn't I missing a set of parts anyway? And weren't they probably in the car somewhere? A quick scramble in the floorboards, and I had a set of parts that could be washed and do for the day. But what was I going to put the milk IN? You guessed it...this is where the cups come in.
A quick trip into the clinic supply room and I had a handful of brand new urine specimen cups that sealed up Mommy Milk just as well as those fancy Medela suckers do. Day salvaged, I went about my business.
The only awkward part was last night, when I had to bring the hubby up to date on the slight change in the dairy supply chain. "The stuff in the fridge in urine specimen cups is milk. It's clean. Don't ask."
I know certain things about myself. One of them is that whatever I don't do the night before (pack lunch, add something to the briefcase) has a high likelihood of falling right out of my brain in the morning rush. I know this, and yet I occasionally go off to bed muttering the deluded phrase, "I'll just grab it in the morning". Yesterday I applied said delusion to my breast pump parts. The pump itself lives under my desk at work, but all the little plastic gadgets have to come home and go through the sterilizing cycle, then come back to work the next day to keep the dairy running. It is admittedly a little complicated. On this particular morning I didn't realize my grave error until the moment I pulled into my parking space.
(Sidebar: I call it "my" parking space because it is the same spot in the parking garage that I choose every single workday. My brain is so cluttered that I will otherwise forget where I parked and have to wander around a five-level parking deck looking for myself. I don't think anyone else actually considers it "my" space, but thankfully no one else seems to want it.)
So there I was with a set of vigorously lactating breasts, an extra-long workday that involved three planned pumping sessions, and nothing with which to extract milk. I contemplated various unappealing options including an hour-long round trip home during lunch, asking my already overloaded hubby to rescue me, or going upstairs to the NICU and begging for a "new mom" kit. Which I most certainly don't qualify for, but they don't make an "old mom with breastfeeding brain" kit.
Then it hit me. Wasn't I missing a set of parts anyway? And weren't they probably in the car somewhere? A quick scramble in the floorboards, and I had a set of parts that could be washed and do for the day. But what was I going to put the milk IN? You guessed it...this is where the cups come in.
A quick trip into the clinic supply room and I had a handful of brand new urine specimen cups that sealed up Mommy Milk just as well as those fancy Medela suckers do. Day salvaged, I went about my business.
The only awkward part was last night, when I had to bring the hubby up to date on the slight change in the dairy supply chain. "The stuff in the fridge in urine specimen cups is milk. It's clean. Don't ask."
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Am I a Bedtime Tyrant?
OK, so bedtime at my house is a little regimented. Make that a lot regimented. As in, "the world may end if bathtime does not start by 6:30 so that PBS viewing can start at 7 so that reading aloud can start at 7:30" regimented. I can predict with frightening accuracy the exact amount of time it will take to clean, brush and outfit for bed four children in sequential and various flavors of concurrent order, and I get a bit tied up in knots if I forsee that this is not unfolding in a timely fashion on a particular evening. My husband, a delightfully laid-back non-watch-wearing sort of person, has some concern that this behavior is pathological. And occasionally, as I break into a sweat because we're running late to watch Curious George, I wonder if the man has a point. Perhaps my kids will grow up to be tightly wound, anxious Type A people who freak out if the mailman is five minutes late. Maybe they'll never learn to manage their own schedule, because it came pre-ordered from Mom the Bedtime Tyrant. Maybe the condition will be come permanent, and no one in our household will EVER BE ABLE TO RELAX AGAIN.
But here's the thing. Last night, all went well in the land of the Bedtime Tyrant. We had our act together enough to chop and prep the night before, so dinner was actually on the table at six with minimal stress. The kiddos actually ATE it. #1 and #2 had plenty of time to get ready for bed in a leisurely fashion, while #3 and #4 got baths and emerged all cute and nice-smelling. There was cuddle time for #4 til his appointed bedtime, rolling smoothly into read/snuggle time for #3 til HIS appointed bedtime, setting me up for read/snuggle time with #1 and #2 before THEIR appointed bedtime. At 8:30, all in the upstairs zone was silent. Whoo-hoo! I felt like an elite athlete hitting a good split. Round two, the downstairs zone, involving lunch packing, backpack-stocking, clothes-selecting, and cleaning up dinner, was all done before 10pm. Lo and behold, hubby and I went to bed at OUR appointed bedtime. And talked in complete sentences. And checked a couple of nagging to-dos off the list. And actually enjoyed each others' company. I felt great. I felt stoked. I felt...RELAXED.
I admit, it is sort of a bummer that there's no room in my evening plans for long hot baths (although I do occasionally declare a Long Hot Bath Emergency and to heck with the dirty dishes), running out for a pedicure, or pretty much spontaneity on any level. And don't get me wrong, there are many evenings at our house when the dinner is not hot, nobody gets a bath, and chaos reigns. But on the other hand, I do have these four pretty awesome kiddos. And one unquestionably awesome husband. And yesterday, I got to hug everybody and spend a little face time with them and let them know that they're worth my attention. Which I guess is a decent trade-off for never getting to watch "The Bachelor". And maybe even being known as the Bedtime Tyrant.
But here's the thing. Last night, all went well in the land of the Bedtime Tyrant. We had our act together enough to chop and prep the night before, so dinner was actually on the table at six with minimal stress. The kiddos actually ATE it. #1 and #2 had plenty of time to get ready for bed in a leisurely fashion, while #3 and #4 got baths and emerged all cute and nice-smelling. There was cuddle time for #4 til his appointed bedtime, rolling smoothly into read/snuggle time for #3 til HIS appointed bedtime, setting me up for read/snuggle time with #1 and #2 before THEIR appointed bedtime. At 8:30, all in the upstairs zone was silent. Whoo-hoo! I felt like an elite athlete hitting a good split. Round two, the downstairs zone, involving lunch packing, backpack-stocking, clothes-selecting, and cleaning up dinner, was all done before 10pm. Lo and behold, hubby and I went to bed at OUR appointed bedtime. And talked in complete sentences. And checked a couple of nagging to-dos off the list. And actually enjoyed each others' company. I felt great. I felt stoked. I felt...RELAXED.
I admit, it is sort of a bummer that there's no room in my evening plans for long hot baths (although I do occasionally declare a Long Hot Bath Emergency and to heck with the dirty dishes), running out for a pedicure, or pretty much spontaneity on any level. And don't get me wrong, there are many evenings at our house when the dinner is not hot, nobody gets a bath, and chaos reigns. But on the other hand, I do have these four pretty awesome kiddos. And one unquestionably awesome husband. And yesterday, I got to hug everybody and spend a little face time with them and let them know that they're worth my attention. Which I guess is a decent trade-off for never getting to watch "The Bachelor". And maybe even being known as the Bedtime Tyrant.
Monday, April 30, 2012
The Veggie Smuggler
I am recently re-thinking my position re: vegetables. Not the "pro" or "anti" position (as a parent, I think you're required to be "pro")...but the "upfront" versus "covert" position.
I came into parenting with an earnest conviction that you can persuade a child to eat almost any food with a combination of early, repeated exposure and denying them more interesting alternatives. This worked OK with #1 who has developed into a reasonably adventurous eater (and a vegetarian...oops...but more about that later). Then #2 came along, displaying an ability to hold out against unwanted foods that would make a hunger striker proud. #1 and #3 aren't exactly banging on the fridge demanding more raw greens either. While sticking to the party line of healthy (or in kidspeak, "wierd") meals gives Mom & Dad some moral satisfaction, it hasn't actually done a lot of good in terms of delivering anti-oxidants and fiber. Combine that with child #1's discovery that making meat involves killing animals, and his subsequent conversion to vegetarianism, and you have a real head-scratcher when it comes to the family dinner table.
With all this in mind, I've been debating the virtues of "hiding" vegetables in otherwise kid-acceptable foods: zucchini in the muffins, spinach in the pesto, and so on. Point being: do I want my kids to LIKE vegetables, or just EAT vegetables? As we gear up for another summer, season of garden produce abundance here in North Carolina, I'm beginning to think that while I dream of "like", for now I'll settle for "eat".
I scored a quasi-success this week with some stealth-veggie chili -- #1 and #3 ate as much as I could dish up, although #2 steadfastly refused saying "I don't like chili". What can you do with a human being who dislikes chili on principle? I got him back by serving bran muffins as the side item. Distracted by his hatred for chili, he gobbled them up.
Enjoy the recipe below. I call this "Mom's Revenge" because the evil secret -- pureeing half the mix --means that even if the kiddos eat around the parts they think they don't like, they are unknowingly sucking down the same exact parts in puree form. Cue evil laugh.
MOM'S REVENGE CHILI
1 can low-sodium kidney beans (drained)
1 can low-sodium black beans (drained)
1 can stewed tomatoes, undrained
1/2 medium butternut squash, seeded and cut in half-inch cubes
1 purple onion, diced
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 tablespoon cumin
1 1/4 cups water or beef bouillon
Combine all ingredients in crockpot and cook on High 4 hours or Low 6-8 hours, until squash pieces are very tender. Remove appoximately half of soup and puree in a blender or mini-food processer. Return to pot and stir together. Add salt to taste before serving. Top with cheese, sour cream or cilantro. Makes about 6 small or 4 large servings.
I came into parenting with an earnest conviction that you can persuade a child to eat almost any food with a combination of early, repeated exposure and denying them more interesting alternatives. This worked OK with #1 who has developed into a reasonably adventurous eater (and a vegetarian...oops...but more about that later). Then #2 came along, displaying an ability to hold out against unwanted foods that would make a hunger striker proud. #1 and #3 aren't exactly banging on the fridge demanding more raw greens either. While sticking to the party line of healthy (or in kidspeak, "wierd") meals gives Mom & Dad some moral satisfaction, it hasn't actually done a lot of good in terms of delivering anti-oxidants and fiber. Combine that with child #1's discovery that making meat involves killing animals, and his subsequent conversion to vegetarianism, and you have a real head-scratcher when it comes to the family dinner table.
With all this in mind, I've been debating the virtues of "hiding" vegetables in otherwise kid-acceptable foods: zucchini in the muffins, spinach in the pesto, and so on. Point being: do I want my kids to LIKE vegetables, or just EAT vegetables? As we gear up for another summer, season of garden produce abundance here in North Carolina, I'm beginning to think that while I dream of "like", for now I'll settle for "eat".
I scored a quasi-success this week with some stealth-veggie chili -- #1 and #3 ate as much as I could dish up, although #2 steadfastly refused saying "I don't like chili". What can you do with a human being who dislikes chili on principle? I got him back by serving bran muffins as the side item. Distracted by his hatred for chili, he gobbled them up.
Enjoy the recipe below. I call this "Mom's Revenge" because the evil secret -- pureeing half the mix --means that even if the kiddos eat around the parts they think they don't like, they are unknowingly sucking down the same exact parts in puree form. Cue evil laugh.
MOM'S REVENGE CHILI
1 can low-sodium kidney beans (drained)
1 can low-sodium black beans (drained)
1 can stewed tomatoes, undrained
1/2 medium butternut squash, seeded and cut in half-inch cubes
1 purple onion, diced
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 tablespoon cumin
1 1/4 cups water or beef bouillon
Combine all ingredients in crockpot and cook on High 4 hours or Low 6-8 hours, until squash pieces are very tender. Remove appoximately half of soup and puree in a blender or mini-food processer. Return to pot and stir together. Add salt to taste before serving. Top with cheese, sour cream or cilantro. Makes about 6 small or 4 large servings.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Life as a Six-Pack
Since our sweet boy #4 was born recently, I'm often asked what it's like to have four kids. In all honesty, most of the time being a parent of four doesn't feel that different to me than being a parent in general. But occasionally I run across something that might be unique to the 4+ experience.
You might be a parent of four if...
The size dial on your washing machine is stuck on "super"...and this is not a problem.
You have a filing system for the different sizes of hand-me-down boxes in your attic.
You and your spouse consider going out to dinner with just one child a "date night".
You are excited that your kids have birthdays in the same season so you can make pediatrician appointments in batches.
You get the case discount at Whole Foods -- on milk.
You have ever paid your seven year old to babysit.
You bathe people in pairs.
The guy at the bagel shop doesn't actually know your name, but you've been coming in with a baby for so many years in a row, he just calls you "Momma".
A New Start to the Blog
I've been a little neglectful of the family blog as our family has grown (hey, at least it wasn't the family dog), but I'm making a fresh attempt to document the highs, lows, and frequent outbreaks of chaos that make up life with two parents, two jobs, four small boys and one large dog. I'll try to make the updates reasonably frequent!
As an enticement for you former readers to come back and visit often, here's a link to some recent photos of the gang on Easter. A good time was had by all, although the older guys weren't too thrilled with the "good sportsmanship" rules of egg hunting with toddlers.
Easter 2012
As an enticement for you former readers to come back and visit often, here's a link to some recent photos of the gang on Easter. A good time was had by all, although the older guys weren't too thrilled with the "good sportsmanship" rules of egg hunting with toddlers.
Easter 2012
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