Well, I managed to post for 20 consecutive days in the month of November and then on the 21st life took over and I didn’t. I didn’t even regret it.
On Saturday evening we were debating taking the still drippy nosed cheesedoodle to church, but not putting him in the nursery. Sunday morning the mackerdoodle woke up with the phrase, “Mama? My nose feels . . . DIFFERENT!” and we began talking about one parent staying home with children and the other going to church. Then, in the middle of breakfast, the cheesedoodle threw up all over Jonathan. No one went to church.
Jonathan’s head feels like it is filled with silly putty. The mackerdoodle is suffering post nasal drip resulting in nausea. The cheesedoodle continues to have a runny nose, and his little grunts are beginning to sound hoarse and slightly crunchy. I spent yesterday wiping noses, administering Wal-borne and fluids and snuggling. I did not blog. It wasn’t even a hard decision.
So I am a NaBloPoMo failure, but looking over the twenty days of posts, I think it was a successful failure. I got back into my habit of noticing things in my life as bloggable, and pre-thinking my posts before sitting down at the computer. I made time to blog earlier in the day, and chose blogging over on-line time wasters like Facebook. I remembered all the things I enjoyed about blogging, and Sunday the 21st proved to me that I have left behind that obsessive quality I once had.
NaBloPoMo gave me a bit of a kick start to remember how much I enjoyed blogging, and why I enjoyed it. Snotty noses and pukey Sunday breakfasts have proven to me that I’ve got blogging in perspective. All in all, I think this was my most successful failure yet.
Tonight our friend Betsy had a surprise birthday party and we were invited.
Another neighbor entertained the kids while we waited for the guest of honor to arrive.
When she arrived, she was really surprised!
Her husband announced all the food in a big food runway event.
While the children - mine front and center - danced. It was dinner and a show.
I’ll get you all the pictures tomorrow Betsy, but I hope you don’t mind me sharing some of them here first. Thanks for including us in your celebration! We had a LOT of fun.
One of the challenges of parenting is that when you begin to see yourself reflected in your children, there is a temptation to assume that because a child may be like you in a lot of areas, they necessarily think and feel like you in all areas.
I am not a routine person. So much not a routine person that I forget to brush my teeth or apply deodorant, because I never do anything in the same order twice. One of Jonathan’s frustrations with me is that I don’t like driving routines and when I drove more often would often take longer routes home just to avoid going the same way too often.
A couple of days out of routine visiting with Nana and Papa last week had meant a few evenings without baths, so Tuesday morning, after breakfast, I declared bath time. The cheesedoodle thought it an excellent beginning to the day, frustrated only with the brevity of his morning water play time. The mackerdoodle, however, spent the entire bath saying to me, “This is different mama. I don’t like it. It’s different. Baths in the morning is different, mama.”
So even though the mackerdoodle and I are a lot alike, she is her own little person, with her own preferences. I suspect that she will grow to hate the fact that I know five different ways home.
Driving home from a Cracker Barrel dinner (brought to us courtesy of generous Mom and Dad) tonight, and the mackerdoodle riding in Papa’s truck with Nana and Papa (a must do for each trip) Jonathan and I were able to hear an entire song on the radio and the song we heard was written apparently about us. Jonathan was 20 and I was 19 when we got engaged, and we’ve been married 15 years. We didn’t have the wisdom to get rings at a pawn shop (good idea!) but marriage was certainly harder than we thought it would be.
15 (and a half) years later I can’t imagine dancing in minefields and sailing the storms with anyone else but my Jonathan.
I’m embedding the whole song, but my favorite part is:
So when I lose my way, find me
When I lose loves chains, bind me
At the end of all my faith
to the end of all my days
when I forget my name, remind me
Cause we bear the light of the son of man
So there’s nothing left to fear
So I’ll walk with you in the shadow lands
Till the shadows disappear
Cause he promised not to leave us
And his promises are true
So in the face of all this chaos baby
I can dance with you
In my dream about which I posted yesterday, I did not mean to imply that I would rather go through menopause than have my snickerdoodle! In my dream, I already had my three doodles. I meant to illustrate the shift in my thinking from fear of menopause, to preferring menopause over a fifth pregnancy, and fourth live birth.
I fear I may be digging the hole deeper. This is all caused by NaBloPoMo and posting with tired pregnancy brain.
When I was in my twenties watching that big 3-0 approach and still childless, I used to dread hearing two things from a doctor. The first was “there’s nothing wrong with you.” This would be an indication that somehow, psychologically I was causing my own infertility because I just knew I was totally psychotic and hiding it well. The second was, “You’re entering menopause.”
I dreaded menopause like people dread death and tax bills and speaking in public. I feared the day when my last hope of being pregnant would evaporate into hot flashes and night sweats and hormone replacement therapy. Some women struggle with “the change” as a sign of getting older. I saw it as the end. It was like a death.
This latest pregnancy has been more exhausting than my other two, and my age is a contributing factor. I am achier and fatter earlier and tired more often and just generally feeling run down. I have an excellent doctor who isn’t subjecting me to increased pressure or testing because of my advanced maternal age, but my body is generally feeling more advanced age than maternal this time around.
Last night I had a series of very vivid dreams, and in one I was sitting in my doctor’s office in Georgia. He was saying, “There’s nothing wrong with you, you’re just entering menopause.” My response was, “Oh. What a relief. I thought I was pregnant again.”
Friday the high was 75. The low will be 51. Saturday the high will be 53.
I guess those Indians, or gypsies or old women or pastrami realized we had their summer and took it back in a hurry.
A 26 degree drop in one day. Good thing my mom and dad brought my winter maternity clothes when they did.