Life or Death

Since birth, we have often referred to our third son as "Curious George".  He came into this world nosy, and with the drive to explore.  There conveniently happens to be a cute little monkey in lots of books that shares the name, thus making this title doubly adorable.  Anyhow, this curious nature lands George in many a predicament...or so he thinks.  George being our dramatic, man of many faces, hilariously gets himself into situations he perceives as life threatening, almost daily.   Matt and I, being somewhat laid back on the parenting spectrum, noticed that we have begun to prolong the poor child's terror for a few moments to catch a good shot of the moment between life and death.

We know he has gotten himself into one of these messes by the sound of his blood-curdling screams.  He screams a lot.  One of his screams, I can easily identify as the "I just spotted Zebra-friend" scream.  Another one is the "Curtis just took my toy" scream.  Yet another is the "something is preventing me from getting what I want" scream.  And the last is the "I may die momentarily if someone doesn't come to my rescue" scream.  Which is what he is doing in ALL of these photographs.  Even the last, you can't see his face, but just reference the 3 above and imagine what you might have seen from the other side...

 

Perhaps, a big contributor to him getting into these predicaments so frequently is actually the fact that George is our third child.  Not only our third child, but the third in less than 4 years with 2 older brothers.  Perhaps it has nothing to do with his personality, and all to do with the fact that we let him wander off, unseen, a little more than we did with his brothers.  Perhaps it's the combination of both.  Whatever it may be, it amuses me.  He has yet to truly get anywhere near a deadly situation, and I don't foresee that happening.  His big brothers are pretty good at tattling.  And George's screams can be heard loud and clear throughout the house (and possibly neighborhood.)  So, keep on exploring, Curious George, and we'll keep photographing it.

It's not cute.

My condition is no longer "cute".  I'm not sure that is every was, but I'll give you weeks 24-30.  In the beginning, I am too tired to care, it's not visibly obvious to anyone that I am pregnant, and I feel no need to broadcast it, so I am generally left alone.  Then the bump starts to appear.  I start to feel better.  Normalish, almost, well, not quite, but tolerable.  So I happily oblige strangers and colleagues alike with a smile and response to their pregnancy related questions.  But now, as I approach the end, and it has become completely, undeniably, grotesquely obvious that I am hugely pregnant, I cannot avoid the incessant questions, smiles, comments of sympathy, stares.

It's my fourth pregnancy, and unless I am accompanied by my three boys, everyone is shocked to hear this.  They don't even perceive how bored I am with their unoriginal questions.  I honestly don't know what's worse, though.  Someone who just keeps looking at me and smiling at my "precious cargo", or the tactless person that races me and my cart in the Costco parking lot so they can catch up to me to ask me when I'm due.  Seriously!?  You don't know me, likely have never seen me, likely never will again.  Why MUST you be sure to bring my giant belly deformity to attention.  I mean, pregnancy is technically a medical condition which requires, close and regular follow-up.  No one sprints up to the person with an obvious left-sided deficit from a recent stroke to ask about their medical condition.  It is actually considered rude and socially unacceptable to stare at people with gross, physical deformities (and I don't mean gross like disgusting, I mean gross like in the pathological diagnosis sense).  Just because the creation and bearing of children is generally regarded as a purely happy phenomenon, doesn't mean you can assume anything.  It's not a happy experience for everyone.  There are a million different circumstances in which people are pregnant, and it should be their experience to have, and not be required to be shared with every person who thinks it's adorable.

It's not cute. My clothes hardly cover by belly, my pants constantly falling down, and I only have about 3 things that are comfy to wear.  When you get up from your seat and insist I sit, I will reject you.  Sitting is no longer comfortable. Standing isn't either.  Nor is sleeping.  I am giant.  Just let me be.  Don't tell me I "need to eat to feed the baby."  I birth huge, healthy children, I weigh over 200lbs, I don't think eating is a concern.  And as you tell me I need to sit, and eat, you then ask me when I am due, and are shocked that I still have 7 weeks to go...and inevitably the twin topic is broached.  No, it's one fetus.  It will be 10 pounds.  A lot of people have two 5 pounders as twins AND, as stated above, I am not naturally a "small" person anyhow.

Most recently though, I have had a new late pregnancy experience.  When I am in public with my 3 boys, it has become routine for people to bluntly ask, "is this one a girl!?"  Originally, I would just fake smile, shrug my shoulders and say, "we don't know".  I still do this mostly, but one time, someone caught me so off-guard, and I was so flustered  that I just said "no".  As in "No, I don't know", but I just didn't have time to finish my complete thought before she gave me such the look of pity.  As if having a 4th boy would be a tragedy.  It truly pissed me off.  I mean, what a bizarre reaction!  You people all go from looking at me and smiling at my miracle, to feeling sorry for me because it might be a 4th boy?  I have since said "no" to a few other strangers, and gotten quite the range of reactions, but none of them have been congratulatory.  One woman told me she has 9 sisters and no brothers and "that you have to stop trying at some point".  As if assuming I am just going to keep birthing children until I "get" a girl.  It's an extremely interesting social experiment.  A good friend of mine is expecting her 4th boy, after years of fertility issues, heart break, thousands of dollars spent on procedures to help her conceive these wonderful boys.  Do you think she feels sorry for herself because all of these amazing miracles, that for a fleeting moment she thought might be impossible, turned out to all be the same sex?  And if this one does turn out to be a girl, and I don't have another, will everyone assume that's because "Mission: produce an O'Laughlin female" is complete?

To be clear, if I specifically talk to you about my pregnancy, often, you are free to discuss it with me all you want.  You can even smile at me if you like...though, if you know me, you won't do it.  I don't even mind when my family and friends touch my belly.  This baby will be part of their lives too, eventually.  As for you strangers, you will never meet 4.O, so don't worry about it.  In my defense, I have never looked at another pregnant woman and smiled while pregnant.  And almost no other pregnant woman has looked at me and smiled.  We all have a mutual understanding.  We all feel one another's pain.  We see that it's not cute.  We are all just trying to distract ourselves until that wonderful little bundle finally arrives.  Then, I will be happy again.  I will smile at strangers.  I will let them marvel at my beautiful miracle.  Because, a newborn, my friends, is not only cute, but stinking adorable!

An example of how "not cute" my current condition is (photo concept and composition compliments of Brock.)

My Many Color Days

Dr. Seuss has a book where he uses colors to insinuate and describe moods.  I love this book.  I have read it to the boys' a couple times, and mostly feel it is above their head (as are the messages in a lot of Dr. Seuss books.)  The other night, as we read this book, I got to the brown page, which reads:

"Some days, of course, feel sort of Brown. The I feel slow and low, low down."

 I then look Brock in the eye, and say, "I don't think you have EVER had a day like this."  Brock, who abhors the idea of not knowing/experiencing everything, adamantly states, "Yes I have!"  So I inquire as to when?  He fumbles and mumbles a bit, obviously unable to think of an example, and settles on, "When I was a teeny, tiny baby."  Ok, Brock.  Guess I can't argue there, who knows what kind of days newborns have, I just assume they are all kind of the same, and somewhat stressful...not really Brown though.  The very next page reads:

Then comes a Yellow Day.  And, I am a busy, buzzy bee.

As I am reading this one, I am thinking in my head, ummm, this is EVERY day for Brock.  No sooner do I finish the final sentence, does Brock then emphatically, and ecstatically state, "I have LOTS and lots of those days, mom!"  I just laugh, and agree.  Yes, yes you do Brock.  Since the day he was born, his pediatrician, and our family friend, as well as most any observant bystander, has always described him as "busy". It's funny.  Babies, toddlers, kids seem so very transparent to us, but it turns out, they have significant insight as well. Our little shark, as we call him, (because he behaves as though if he were to stop moving he might die) is fully aware of his busy personality, and embraces it as his own.   Let's just continue to hope, as I always have, that he chooses to use this energy, willpower and insight for good, someday.

Mom Knows Best.

With all the medical advancements, and significantly improved quality of Ultrasonography, studies show that the best indicator of baby's size before it's born is mother's intuition.  When the OB, midwife, sonographer and mom give their estimates, mom is usually closest.  It makes sense, really. She is the one carrying the child, day after day.  Feeling the movements become stronger, feeling the top of it's little bum (or head if baby is ornery), feeling her stomach get shoved closer to her throat, no longer able to bend over enough to tie her shoes.  I remember with Curtis, starting about 32 weeks, commenting at every appointment how huge he was.  Brock was only 8lbs 12ozs, so there was no reason to suspect a gigantic baby, but my OB listened to my concerns, agreed, and obtained a 38+ week ultrasound.  This US estimated Curtis to be 7lbs 13ozs.  I remember the exact measurement, because I just laughed when she said that, and told her, no way.  Less than one week later, Curtis was born, and he weighed in at a whopping 9lbs 7ozs, just as I had suspected.

They also say, that every baby gets bigger.  And as the chart above indicates, George followed suit, and though born a week early, managed to come out an entire pound heavier than his previous brother.  So, if we go by patterns, 4.O is estimated to be 12 pounds if born on the due date.  Now, let me say, this chart is based off the theory that a baby gains 1/2 lb every week during the last trimester (which, I doubt is entirely accurate).  And I do know that at 35 weeks, George was estimated by US to be 6lbs 15ozs +/- a pound (obviously it was +, which would put him at nearly 8 pounds at 35 weeks!!!)

Anyway, the point I am trying to make, is that, the whole mother's intuition thing is TRUE.  So far, I have been the most accurate guesser of baby size.  In fact, I think I guessed Brock's exact poundage in the family poll.  I joke about the size of baby 4.O all the time, but when asked, I admit that I don't think this one will be quite as big as George.  I even told the OB that I guessed it to be approximately 5lbs right now (as I also indicated on the chart above.)  I have only gained 10 pounds, and truly have been trying to eat better, in an attempt to keep the size down.  So, when the opportunity arose to get some estimated weights on Baby 4.O, I jumped on it!  At 31wks and 1 day, Baby 4.O weighed in at 5lbs 1oz, +/- 13ozs.  Somewhere between George and Curtis.  Just as I suspected.  That being said, it's still a GIANT baby.  This baby could potentially, by the US stats, be nearly 6lbs right now.  A few of you reading this, personally carried a baby to 40 weeks which came out around 6 pounds!!  Imagine carrying that child for 8 more weeks...

I'm not trying to down play the feat of carrying a fullterm infant.  Or even a premature one.  It all gets miserable near the end, no matter the size of your baby.  Every woman should be commended for every single delivery she has, whether the delivery is 2 hours long, without pain meds, and a 5 pound baby or 25 hours, with an epidural, and a 9 pound baby, or even a scheduled cesarean of a nice, average, 7 pounder.  I am merely pointing out, that when I joke about carrying a "term baby" for up to 10 weeks, I am not kidding. 

I might take the Nurse Midwife's advice that we work with, and start taking some Primrose oil, and getting acupuncture starting at about 37 weeks or so...

The Ice Cream Social

In stark difference to last year, the Mendon Ice Cream Social turned out to be a nice little Saturday.  Instead of heading up late the Friday night before, we all packed up in the morning, ate a hearty breakfast at McDonald's and drove the 2+ hours through Missouri farmland, full and ready for day of outdoor fun.  Instead of the wicked 90+ degree weather with an obnoxiously high heat index that is expected for the weekend before August, it was somewhere in the low 80's and felt that way.  Instead of making the trip alone, with a 3.5 year old, an 19 month old and a 5 month old, I had a husband with me and an added year to each of those ages (so that's like 3 years more mature!)

We spent the entire day outside.  It's a little (and big and adult and elderly) boy's heaven.  Acres and acres of open space.  A limitless selection of ponds.  ATV's, tractors, trucks, bikes, and any other device with an engine you can imagine.  Fishing poles.  Yard games.  Shotguns, handguns, rifles, dynamite, firecrackers.  Cold beer.  Or cold Sprite, whichever your preference.  Brock loved riding the 4-wheeler, but not too fast.  They all loved "Redneck Golf".  They found the pump fascinating.  George was extremely disturbed by his father in a helmet.  Curtis was in shock after his first ATV ride.  The ALL loved watching the boys shoot.  George laughing with every round.  Brock put on a helmet to watch them light the half stick (the only boy down there with any sense.)

After the pyrotechnics, we finally trekked on over to St. Joseph's Catholic church.  This church beautifully displays the stained-glass artwork of my late Uncle Gary.  It has been home to the ice cream social for as long as I can remember (besides a few rain out years when it got moved to the high school).  In the 30 years I have been attending, NOTHING has changed.  A few familiar faces have passed on, and few new faces have arrived, but the food, games and company remain the same.  This little town, with a population of 169, has preserved everything you can imagine about country living.  You will never eat a better bite of pie, nor a better scoop of ice cream.  The bingo game is a lot older than I am, and still functioning great.  I think it's still even the same microphone, speaker, and announcer from my childhood days.  The turtle races never cease to be entertaining.  And we still go home with a few unnecessary pieced of glassware from the nickel toss, and a couple 2-liters of soda from the ring toss.  (George may, or may not, have been cheating...but gosh darnit, he wanted that Cream Soda!)

We appreciated the scene.  We enjoyed our food.  And we packed up to drive home by 8pm.  We had 3 boys conked out in the back seat.  I fidgeted the whole way with ridiculously restless legs.  And we arrived safely home, to our air-conditioned abode for a solid nights sleep.  We had three exhausted boys for the rest of the day Sunday, and they all fell asleep before 8pm.  Perhaps, one of these years, we will make a full three day, two night stay at the ol' Smith Family farm.  But for now, I am content with our day.