Sweatpants and Roseanne Barr

I hate sweat pants. There's no cruder evidence that you're an unapologetic housewife. Not the June Cleaver kind - that would demand a button down blouse, a skirt that swishes when you're pulling the cookies out of the oven, and a waist the size of my pinky. No, I'm talking more in the genre of Roseanne Barr. 

So I had a Roseanne Barr kind of day. I wore my grey lounge pants (the kind with a stretchy waistband which allows for generous cookie consumption) and last summer's VBS t-shirt (my name inscribed in puff paint). I must look like I'm throwing in the towel. I've completely lost touch with my blow dryer, and even my $40 concealer from Mario Tricoci feels overworked and underpaid. 

I look forward to the weekends when Ryan is home. I might get a chance to linger in the shower, shave my legs, and scrub my heels. I'll hopefully get an unhurried cup of coffee and a few quiet minutes alone in the morning. I'll find time to sit at my desk and make sense of the paper that's been piling there throughout the week. I might even read the paper and put on lipstick. 

These are the small graces in my day.

Filter

This whole thing is a crazy idea. Blogging, I mean. First, sleep deprivation does the craziest things to you. Most recently, I'm discovering that my "filter" is gone. You know, the filter that asks you helpful questions before you open your big fat pie hole. Questions like: "Is this really helpful to say?" "Aren't you being a little unkind? Unfair maybe?" Yeah, those kinds of questions. So, here I am, exhausted and a little set on edge, and everywhere I turn, I'm opening my mouth to say something either I don't really mean or I mean but didn't intend to say. Blogging is sure to be dangerous in this frame of mind.

I think there was a "second" point - can't remember now what it was. And of course, it's 6:04 a.m., and I hear a baby crying. I'll have to come back later to tell all the gory details of Camille's 4th birthday.

Great Books

So I cried as we finished the final chapters of, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane tonight. Audrey was lying on her bed (and sucking her fingers!), Camille was tinkering at her "desk" on the floor, and Nathan was snuggled next to me on Camille's bed. My voice started to quiver, and before I could help it, I was in a full-blown sob. The kids gathered close around me, sort of staring in bewilderment. Nathan kissed me on the cheek. Camille said, "Mom, stop talking like that," obviously annoyed at my voice, and prayed later that "Mommy wouldn't cry." Audrey smiled knowingly - she got the poignance of the ending. (I won't reveal here what happens - go find the book at your local library and read it to your kids!)

I love a great children's book. This, and another by Kate DiCamillo, called The Tale of Despereaux, are recent favorites. She writes a elegant story but one that is readable for young children. (And who couldn't love an author who uses the word, "perfidy" in a kid's book?) A particularly moving picture book (and I cry absolutely every time I read it) is Now One Foot, Now the Other by Tomie dePaola. Now that we're on the subject, I'd name these as books we come back to again and again: James Herriott and Beatrix Potter and their animal stories, P.D. Eastman and David Milgrim and their early readers, stories illustrated by Jerry Pinkney, The Children's Story Bible by Catherine Vos, to name a few.

My friend, Lynne, herself a twin mom, keeps reminding that if the kids are fed and bathed, it's a good day. (And let me tell you - I have the most profound sense of accomplishment when my kids' nails are clean and trim.) But I would have to add one more item to her list - have we shared a book together?

Audrey is herself a voracious reader. She learned to read at 4 1/2, and I still remember the day when she sounded out the word, "thermometer." Nathan is reading better and better every day, and I know we'd make even greater strides if only they published Star Wars readers. Let's be honest - Camille's lucky if she knows her alphabet. I do have to brag that she finally learned in recent weeks to write her name. (They're officially admitting her to preschool next year.) It did take a bit of convincing her that her name wasn't C-A-I-L-L-M-E. "That's how I do it," she kept insisting. And who can argue with that? 

I miss reading. I'm looking forward to the day when I can enjoy more than a page and a half before falling asleep. Speaking of sleep. . .

Groceries

Groceries delivered to my door at 8 a.m. on Memorial Day. Could life really get any better? This is my third delivery from Peapod. I finally decided that paying a babysitter at the rate of $15/hour to get to the store made a lot less sense than paying Peapod $7 to bring the groceries to me. Generally, the groceries are more expensive, but I'm also not giving in to that last minute impulse to stock my cart with M&Ms.  

Life now with five kids is all about reinventing the way we do life. Sometimes I feel apologetic for the help I do get - groceries delivered, a babysitter's help during the week, friends and family chauffering my kids to their activities. But I've got to be honest. I need it. It's not that any one day is impossible. What's hardest is this sense that life never lets up. In many ways, every parent feels like this. You're on 24/7. And my fear, I suppose, is that someday I'll either collapse from complete exhaustion or, before that happens, lose my marbles. So I accept the help, less and less apologetically, because I know that even though I could probably do it myself, I couldn't keep on doing it myself, day after day, week after week. 

Hope

I'm in a better frame of mind tonight. Worship does that to me. So does being with God's people.

Had to include some verses from a hymn we've sung the last two Sundays: On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand.

On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,

And cast a wishful eye

To Canaan's fair and happy land,

Where my possessions lie.

O'er all those wide extended plains

Shines one eternal day;

There God the Son forever reigns,

And scatters night away.

No chilling winds or poisonous breath

Can reach that healthful shore;

Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,

Are felt and feared no more.

When I shall reach that happy place,

I'll be forever blest

For I shall see my Father's face,

And in His bosom rest.

I am bound for the Promised Land. . .

I know this sentiment could very well typify what some people really disdain about Christians, as if we're all just "pie in the sky" kind of people. And I think that's a fair criticism of a lot of Christians. But let's face it. The best thing going for being a Christian is HOPE. Hope that there's more than the muck of this life. Hope that Someone's in charge, Someone who knows what He's doing, whose intentions are good. Hope for a better tomorrow. Hope for personal growth and real life change. Hope for redemption of the worse situations.

Call it cloying sentimentality, this Christian notion of eternal hope, but I've got to be honest. I don't know what any one day would look like without it.

The maze

I got lectured by my mom last night. She starts out, "Jen, you've gotta give Ryan a break." I ask, "What do you mean?" "You work him like a dog. He never has a moment to himself. And you've got to realize, that he's a diabetic. That takes a huge toll on his body. I know he's young, but he needs rest." 

(OK, for starters, you don't pull out the diabetic card like that. Completely unfair.)

But, let's think rationally about this.  Well, Ryan did help me peel sweet potatoes in the morning before heading out with the big kids for swimming lessons. When they got home, Mom and I and the girls went shopping. Meanwhile, he put the babes down for a nap, played ball with Nathan in the yard, and mowed the grass. We got home, I fed the babes, and in the balmy afternoon sun, he played more games with the kids. Then came dinner (which I made), baths (which he drew and I finished), and for the grand finale, he feel dead asleep, first on the couch, then prostrate on the bed (still wearing his baseball cap and Asics). Mom generously did the dream feed for him, and I roused him just enough to get him in bed sans shoes. 

The evidence is yours to evaluate. But you might guess that I'm just a little bitter (incensed?) at the notion that somehow Ryan works like a dog, and he deserves more breaks. Breaks? Who gets breaks when you've got five kids? Everything is work. There seems to be no letting up for either of us. We both work all week long and continue working outside"normal business hours." It sounds like I resent it, and truth is, most days I don't. But somewhere, lurking inside me, is this apparent readiness to claw the eyes out of anyone who would suggest that somehow Ryan works harder than I do.

I've got my litany of reasons why not. Nursing two kids? Can I just stop there? So this morning I wake up a little bitter - at mom and however unfortunate, at Ryan, too. My mind turns on sentences and paragraphs that all begin with, "I. . ." or "My. . ." It's a dangerous place to be. It's a surefire road to resentment and bitterness. It's the "I" that crucifies marriage.

And so I pray and open the Scriptures this morning. It's a habit I just can't kick. And there, I look for a way out of the maze of "I" and "my." 

Joining the 21st century

I don't read anyone's blog. Truth is, if you send me a link to your homepage, I might not even check it out. I guess I tell myself I just don't have time for that. Justifying my complete insensitivity? Maybe. Even as I write now, I'm starting to hear a baby cry. It's 6:26 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Last night went something like this: Ryan and I give the babes (Andrew and Colin, 4 months) their "dream feed" at 9:30 p.m. At 2:30, Andrew starts crying. I run downstairs to warm bottles in the microwave (a practice my mom most recently informs me might cause permanent brain damage - but it IS faster.) I hand a sleepy Ryan the bottle and the crying babe, and he trudges down the stairs to the office. Nothing like a middle of the night feed and an episode of Prison Break. Meanwhile, I wake Colin and discover he is completely soaked and stinking of pee. Did I really forget to take off his cloth diaper before bed? Had it been Ryan who had forgotten, you better believe he would have gotten in trouble for that one. Now I only have myself to blame. So I strip him completely down, he cries (it's freezing!), and we finally settle in for his bottle. No burps, I lay him back down and start pumping.

Can I say that the only thing that keeps me going when it comes to pumping is my iPod? Hello - welcome to the 21st generation, Jen. I've discovered the world of podcasts. One of my favs- ManicMommies. Profane at times, I admit, but it makes me laugh. I've decided that may be one of my top priorities in this season of life - just keep laughing. (Thanks to my witty husband, who makes that all the more possible.) Last night's podcast was an episode of Fresh Air. I was in and out of consciousness while learning a little about Richard Nixon - scumbag, I guess. Reminds me of my absolute political naivete when I was a student studying abroad in France. We were discussing Watergate in a class, and I claim that Nixon was a democrat. In my family growing up, if you did something bad, you were of course a democrat.

Yes, I'll probably have to talk politics in this blog at some point. Hopefully, I'm a little better informed now at the age of 33 than I was at 20!

Back to the babes, yes, I think one continues to cry, and that means this blog has to end here really darn quick. I'm starting a blog, certainly not because I have free time on my hands, but because I want to first, make some sort of coherent sense of these very long days as the mother of five (Audrey-7, Nathan-5, Camille-4 (next week!), Andrew and Colin (4 months). I want to remember them, and let's face it. A babybook is not likely in the twins' near future.