Thursday, March 1, 2012

Since last I wrote...

I gave birth to a fourth beautiful, perfect (to me) daughter. We're awfully, awfully fond of her. Her head smells like milk and flowers and fresh, wild things, and it makes me giddy and drunk and full of love every time I bury my nose in her soft, downy hair. Bliss.

Her birth was a lovely, short, amazing home birth...she was 8 lbs and a few oz change, and is just absolutely gorgeous in every way. Three weeks later, I'm still amazed that she's here, and that we're lucky enough to have her. :mush:

This week was my first official week "on the job" as a full time mother of four, all by myself, with no hubby at home. The training wheels are off, so to speak. :OP So far, it's gone something like:

Day 1: Feed people. Breathe in and out. Nurse a lot. Cuddle, do what I can, pretend the clutter isn't really there. Babies "don't keep". This time is so incredibly fleeting, and I want to soak it all up and hopefully remember some of it. Revel in my toddler's chubby legs and the fantastic popcorn-y smell of breastfed poo. :happy grin:

Day 2: Get really brave. Take all four children to the park. Soak up some vitamin D. Enjoy the sound of squeaky swings and birds and no quarreling. Be thankful my spouse is a good cook. :) Reconnect with my toddler. Offer to let her nurse again. Giggle as she tentatively tries and then falls into a fit of laughter. Let her climb in bed with me and baby, discovered that my "top" side-lying boob reaches all the way down to her mouth, thus assuring that she shan't need to be endangered by her wallowing big sister while she sleeps. Cool beans. If the "girls" are going to be a C Long, it might as well come with perks (because it certainly doesn't come with "perky". Ba-dunk CHING! :P)

Day 3: Wake up with a stomach virus. Be even more thankful that my spouse has sick days left this year.

Day 4 (today): Make brunch for the kids. Gluten free waffles and vanilla'd yogurt with coconut oil and nitrite free bacon, baby. That's how we roll.

Sort colors with older kids. Discuss Oliver Twist with older daughter. Snuggle the middle two. Read books. Attempt to clean a bit. Nurse a lot (mush, love, kiss). Make a nice pot of bean soup for later this week.

Then, crazy hour happens. All parents know of what hour I speak. It's the hour when all children become rabid ADD squirrels on 'roid rage, PMS and crack all rolled into one, and parents try to keep their calm game face on until bedtime.

DD1 (in an attempt to be helpful) tossed glasses (yes, glasses :doh:) into the sink, and one missed and smashed on the floor. The middle two were out on the back porch throwing ubiquitous handfulls of dirt at one another, because hubs opened the doors to cool off the house. In a hurry to sweep up the glass while he corralled the other two and unloaded groceries, I forgot to remove my Vibrams before walking through the living room to grab a diaper to change the now fussing daughter #4.

I tracked a piece of glass into the living room. Our second born (5.5 years old), Lark,  was at this point tearing through the living room and dining area gleefully flapping pretend wings and announcing "I'm a chicken!! I'm a country chicken, and I lay eggs!!! WHEEEEEHA!", right up until her foot found said piece of glass. She came to me on the fragile edge of tears saying, "All of a sudden, something poked my foot. Am I OK?"

No, no, she wasn't. I could feel the glass ticking under my fingernail as I gently ran it across her pink heel, and I calmly hollered for my spouse. (Yes, I've mastered the womanly art of hollering dispassionately.) All the rest of the little chickens came running with worried looks on their faces, and for the next 15 minutes, I tried to distract my second-born from what she felt was the trauma of her life as my husband tried to remove the damned sliver of a mason jar from the poor child's foot. Her sister read Fancy Nancy to her. I fed her from my stash of chocolate. She squeezed my hand and punched a pillow and announced that "this is the worst night, EVER!" Our nearly 3yo was terribly troubled by the sight of daddy digging about in her sister's foot, as that's not something that normally happens, of course.

In the end, the thing that brought her the most relief (besides the glass ultimately being removed...go husband!) was me leaning in and saying, "You know, even though it's an adult word, I'd really understand if you wanted to say "fuck", just this once. It usually helps me when I'm in a lot of pain. I said it when I was in labor with you. :P" (The f-word is a coveted word for this child, though she generally refrains because I dislike her using it.) She said it, her eyes widened, and she whispered to me, "I really want to YELL it." I told her to let it fly. She did. I wasn't sure if I should self-flagellate or pat myself on the back. I try not to over-think these things.

Her quick-thinking big sister made her a badge that says, "#1 bravest!" with paper and glue. I was very proud of them both.

The #1 bravest. 

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