It's My Party...

I did it again.

Honestly I don't understand how or why I am able to throw a pity party together so quickly. But that is where I am. Sitting here thinking about my lack of talent... in anything.

And that is what my brain is telling me right now. I realize it's not logical. And I actually know it's not true. Trouble is, it feels true. It's so easy to think about all the people in the world who have similar talents, but are really good-- I mean, the best-- at what they do. And then I compare myself to them. It's not fair, I know, but that is the lot of a perfectionist. I look at those that have achieved perfection (or so it seems), and wonder what the heck is wrong with me to not have gotten to that point with any of my talents.

"Jack of all trades... master of none."

I just read something a friend wrote, along with the comments in response, and thought, She's a good writer... and everyone else thinks so, too. Man, no one out there would ever want to read anything I've written. Mom and Kevin are nuts to encourage me!

Yes, I realize this is completely self-centered.

While I am happy for my friend's talents, somehow I end up turning that on myself, wondering why I just can't be the "best" at anything. Why I have to settle for just being "pretty good" at a lot of things. Now that part about being "pretty good" at a lot of things is true. Pretty good singer. Pretty good dancer. Pretty good writer. Pretty good pianist. Pretty good athlete. Pretty good student. Pretty good mother. But darn it, I just can't get past that "pretty good" stage, and for some odd reason, that's always been important to me! I don't know why... but I hate it!!!

For the most part, I don't think about it. Perhaps I'm even optimistic and ambitious regarding my talents, thinking about what solo I'll shoot for in choir, or contemplating a good course for a writing career. But occasionally something triggers the pity, and then it takes me a day or two to shake it off, spending too much time listening to that stupid little voice in my head that says I'm dumb for even trying-- that I've always been rejected in the past, so what's the point in trying to change the inevitable.

The "inevitable."

I'd like to punch that little voice right in the kisser.

Okay, I know I'm not "the best" at anything, but I don't have to be. Achieving perfection doesn't increase my worth to the the Creator. He gave me the talent I do have, and I can't spend time whining because "I don't have more!" Talk about a selfish brat! So what if I'm never the American Idol? So what if I never write my own Twilight? Can't I be happy without being the best? Can't I be satisfied with being "pretty good"?

Sheesh.

All right, party's over. Everybody go home. That's right, you with the lampshade on your head, take your sad little face and get out.

I have some writing to do.

Mommy Tag

I wasn't tagged with this, but I saw it on a friend's blog and thought it was adorable. Ask these questions of your kids...

1. What is something mom always says to you? Allie:Nice things. Sami: Climb off
2. What makes mom happy? Allie: If I do what you say. Sami: Go to sleep.
3. What makes mom sad? Allie: If you don't obey Mom. Sami: Don't make her happy.
4. How does mom make you laugh? Allie: By tickling me. Sami: Ha ha! (I think she was demonstrating)
5. What was mom like as a child? Allie: Good, not bad. Sami: Uh... I dunno.
6. How old is your mom? Allie and Sami: I don't know.
7. How tall is your mom? Sami: Big. Allie: Why don't we bring out the thing to see how tall you are? (She was referring to the scale)
8. What is her favorite thing to do? Allie: Be happy. Sami: Be happy. (Too bad Sami was just copying what Allie said)
9. What does your mom do when you're not around? Allie: Go home and do something. You go home and feed Drew, right? Sami: Play at the park. (Hmmm... I think she misunderstood me)
10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for? Allie: I don't know. Sami: I dunno.
11. What is your mom really good at? Allie: Holding Drew very gently. Sami: I dunno... Play outside?
12. What is your mom not very good at? Allie: Jumping jacks. Sami: I dunno... Not good at doing jumping jacks. (Glad you're an individual thinker, kid)
13. What does your mom do for her job? Allie: You get ready fast. You get ready for church, and you feed Drew. (I'm beginning to see a trend) Sami: You take a shower.
14. What is your mom's favorite food? Allie: All the kinds you make. Pasta, green beans, broccoli, and spinach! Sami: I dunno... CARROTS!
15. What makes you proud of your mom? Allie: When you're good at doing stuff all by yourself. Sami: Making funny faces.
16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be? Allie: A mama cartoon! Sami: Santa Claus!
17. What do you and your mom do together? Allie: We go somewhere. Sami: Sam's Club
18. How are you and your mom the same? Allie: 'Cause we're both wearing PINK! Sami: I dunno.
19. How are you and your mom different? Allie: 'Cause we wear the different same shirt. (Say what?) Sami: I dunno... wear pink?
20. How do you know your mom loves you? Allie: 'Cause you love me a whole lot! Sami: To hug each other.

Oh, and Drew's answer to all of these was, "Waaaa!"

I tag: Everyone who wants to do it!

Happy Birthday to me...

There were two good things about my birthday-- all of the kind birthday wishes posted by friends on my Facebook account, and the fabulous dinner out with Kevin without the kids (thanks to the Jarvis family for babysitting).

Everything else about my birthday made me want to cry.

And, no, it had nothing to do with turning (gasp) 30. I really don't care about that. Yeah, it's weird to be leaving my 20's behind, but it's kind of exciting to be starting fresh on a whole new decade of life. A lot happened in my 20's (marriage, college degree, kids, the "real world," and a few near-death experiences to boot!), so I'm sure there's a whole lot in store for me in these next ten years (although, I'm hoping to skip over the near-death-thing this time around).

But my birthday just wasn't a very good day, and really, the rest of my week has seemed to follow suit. That morning Allie was great getting ready for school, until it was time to make her bed and put her shoes on. She had plenty of time to accomplish those two tasks before leaving the house at quarter to nine, oh yes. But somehow, she just couldn't get her rear in gear to do those two simple task in fifteen minutes, but rather took ten minutes past that to get it done. So she was ten minutes late to school. Not a huge deal, but I hate being late anywhere anymore.

By the time I got home, I had to feed Drew immediately, then shower and dress, and then go grocery shopping. By the time I finished grocery shopping, I was ten to fifteen minutes late to pick Allie up from school.

When we got home, I dumped the groceries on the kitchen floor, and got the girls lunch, following which I nursed Drew. Once all three children had been fed, I walked into the kitchen to grab some lunch myself when I looked up at the clock. Hmmm... 1:30... 1:30! Yup, I had a doctor's appointment right at that moment. I yelled, "Hurry, girls, get your shoes on! Let's go! In the car NOW!" I shoved a couple brownies down that had been leftover from FHE (hey, it's calories!), and started the car.

So I was fifteen minutes late for my appointment. The receptionist took my co-pay and asked the nurse if the doctor could see me.

"He said he would only have time to establish her-- anything else and she would need to make another appointment." I looked down as my eyes started to tear. See, I needed more thyroid medication (I have hypothyroidism). My doctor left the practice, so they needed to give me a new doctor, who needed to "establish" me as his new patient before providing any other health care (meaning, just a routine check-up and review of medical history). So, the nurse's response meant I would have to come back another day to have my thyroid re-evaluated, and my medication prescription refilled. Having all three kids in tow, I thought I would have a breakdown right then. But I blinked and held it together as the nurse called me to the back.

I think Dr. Chrieki must have felt sorry for me, as he walked in to see three children crowding the tiny exam room along with me. He not only did the check-up, but refilled my meds, and gave me the blood test, a flu shot, and a strep culture. He actually offered a tetanus shot, too, but realized later they had run out of his preferred variety. Darn. After the flu shot, I rubbed my shoulder and sang "Happy Birthday" to myself. The nurse laughed. Yeah, sure. Funny when it's someone else's birthday. :)

After coming home, I nursed Drew again, and then put Sami down for a nap (two hours late). When all was quiet, I got on Facebook, and saw that Sarah had had her baby, precious little Peter. I thought I should call her. Forty-five minutes later, I realized I should get off the phone and give the girls a bath before leaving to go out to dinner. After I finished drying Sami's hair and warming a bottle, Kev walked in. I threw on some lipstick and ran a brush through my hair, and we threw the kids and the diaper bag in the car and left for the Jarvises' house.

Normally I would say birthdays are a family event. And actually that morning I had thought, Ya know, maybe we should tell the Jarvises to not worry about it, and we'll just bring the kids. But then the day kicked my trash, and I knew I needed to go somewhere nice and quiet without children. We went to our favorite schmancy restaurant, Continental Flambe.

That was possibly the best dinner of my life.

And then we picked up the kids (it took thirty minutes to get them to leave), and got them to bed over an hour late, and that crappy-day feeling came back.

So, I tried to remember the Creme Brulee.

In the Past Month...

First of all, here's my apology for not sending out any Christmas letter/card/picture this year. Yes, I was too much of a slug to even get anything out via email. But I figured you all would be forgiving since I just a baby ripped out of my uterus and all.

But, boy, am I glad he came out when he did! I was so uncomfortable. After the doc stitched me up following the c-section, the nurses warned me not to work my abs too much for a while-- they had to stitch up some abdominal muscles I apparently had torn. Gee, no wonder I was in excruciating pain so often! And here I thought it was just round ligament pain.

So little Drew Nathaniel was born Sunday December 7th at 7:49am. He weighed 8 lbs. 11 oz., and was 21 1/2 in. long. As much as that's a good-size kid, he wasn't huge, which is what I was expecting. After all, Kevin had weighed 9lbs. 12 oz. at birth, so I was expecting a monster of a baby. But he was only an ounce bigger than Sami had been.

I had been scheduled for a c-section on the 9th, but started feeling sporadic contractions on the 5th, the day of Allie's ballet recital. I prayed I could just make it to see Allie dance, and I did.

Then the next evening the contractions suddenly became regular, consistent-- three minutes apart, lasting nearly a minute each. I called the doctor on call, and in spite of how close the contractions were, he didn't seem concerned-- just told me to rest and drink some hot tea or water to see if they slowed. I drank some water while resting on the couch, and they did seem to slow a bit. So I went to bed. I awoke at about 1:30am, the contractions having returned. Thirty minutes later I woke Kevin up to time me, and the contractions just continued to intensify-- one minute twenty-five seconds apart, lasting one minute. I could no longer really talk through them. I knew we had to get to the hospital, so we came up with a short list of people we could call in the middle of the night to stay here with the girls. We called Linda Samuels. She answered on the first ring, and was here within twenty minutes.

By the time we got the the hospital, it was after three. The nurse in labor and delivery got my belly hooked up to a monitor and stuck me with an IV. Her reasoning was that they'd get me started as if I were going to have a c-section, hoping the IV fluid would slow down the contractions so they could send me home-- since it was the weekend, the doctor on call was delivering for my doctor, and everyone involved preferred for me to be delivered by my doctor. That was not to be.

Five o'clock rolled around, and the contractions continued at the same pace, the pain only having intensified. With each contraction I would grab the mattress on the hospital bed, whimpering, trying to relax the rest of my body. It was excruciating. And with them coming at me every minute, I had little relief. Each time a contraction would end, I'd immediately fall asleep just to be awakened by another contraction a minute later. By this time, the nurse knew I needed to deliver, so she called the doctor and anesthesiologist. Both were on their way. Little did anyone know that right when the anesthesiologist would walk in, he would be summoned to the ER because of the victims of a gun war that had just come in. Lovely. The nurse checked my progress with the thought that if I had been progressing rapidly enough she could tell the ER that I was just as much of an emergency. I was dilated to a 1. A one! That's it! After all that pain! Typical. I was not a priority.

The nurse wanted to cry for me, so she put some medicine in the IV that "took the edge" off the contractions a bit... and made me dizzy-- so much that I could only sleep to keep from being cross-eyed. So I slept through the next hour of contractions. By then the anesthesiologist was ready for me, and I was finally prepped for the c-section. And by 7:49 we had a baby boy! I didn't even realize they had pulled him out at first. He didn't cry. He had swallowed meconium, and needed to be suctioned out before crying to keep any of it from entering the lungs.

After the nurse had wheeled me into recovery, Kev came in with the baby name book in hand. Yes, it's true-- we still hadn't picked a name. He said he came across a name he kind of liked-- Drew. Huh. Drew. I liked it, too. So after a day of mulling it over, we went with it. Nathaniel being the middle name of one of Kevin's ancestors, Jesse Nathaniel Smith.

My parents came to help several days after Drew was born. They stayed for a week, washing dishes, doing laundry, taking Allie to school, driving me to doctor's appointments, keeping the girls entertained, etc. Allie's school Christmas sing-along program was that week, so they got to see her sing with her class. They left several days before Christmas. Unfortunately, Dad came down with a nasty case of the flu a few days before they left. He spend those last days here sleeping, occasionally emerging briefly to get a drink of water.

This was the first Christmas we've had with such a small baby, but at least we didn't have to travel, nor did we have to entertain. We spent half the day in our PJs. Quite nice, actually.

They kill me!

Last night at dinner, Allie's cute rambling went to the mixing up of our family roles-- Dad was Allie, Sami was Dad, Mom was Sami, and Allie was Mom.

"Is that so?" I said to her, "So, if you're Mom, then what does Mom say?" I knew I was possibly setting myself up, but I couldn't resist. Curiosity got the better of me.

She shrugged her shoulders, grinned, and covered her mouth bashfully. It took her all of fifteen seconds to come up with, "Children, stop it! You're driving me crazy!"

I died laughing.


Then later that evening as we began to head home from Sam's Club, Sami broke down. I'm really not sure what happened-- something about her blanket. Maybe Allie handed it to her when she wanted to get it herself? I really don't know. All I do know, is the situation ended in Sami breaking down. Oh, how the pathetic tears flowed! Allie, exasperated, turned to her and yelled, "I hate your whining!"

Sami responded, "I hate your screaming!"

Touche.

Rambling

Drew's fussing again. Nothing new there. I had hoped I'd end up with another angel baby like Sami was, but no dice. Thankfully, he's not quite as difficult as Allie was (he doesn't have the attitude-- and, yes, I truly believe Allie had attitude right from the womb). Friends had wondered if Allie was colicky. Nope. She just plain hated being a baby-- life got better temporarily whenever she learned something new like sitting up or crawling or walking. But little Drew is colicky. Kevin seems proud of how "hard he works" to get the gas out, with all of his moving and grunting. And he does pass an awful lot of the stuff-- like father, like son. But the poor baby just isn't content very easily. I'm doing my best not to wish this time by quickly, because this is time I'll never get back. But I won't be disappointed when he starts to smile and laugh either.

And while the girls adore their little brother, rarely getting irritated with his constant unhappiness, my biggest challenge with them is getting them to understand that if Drew isn't fussing to leave him alone. Or if Drew is sleeping, don't touch him. They don't get it that the best way to help is to not try to "help" him most of the time. But Allie is old enough to actually be a good helper when I need it this time around-- to grab the burp cloth for me while I'm mid-nursing, or find the binky, or sing him a sweet little song when he's especially sad. And best of all, the girls give him great kisses, all the while speaking sweetly and softly to him. Okay, maybe Sami doesn't speak "softly" very often, but she means well.

I'm just grateful Allie and Sami's relationship seems to be back to normal now-- some fighting, mostly playing, as opposed to... well... the opposite of that. While I was in the hospital, I'd look forward to every visit from Kev and the girls, but I'd also dread it, too. Within thirty seconds of walking through the door, Allie was reprimanding Sami for something minor, and Sami was weeping and wailing, swinging for Allie's face, in response. I'd sigh, and then since they usually came right when my dinner had been brought in, the girls would beg for my grapes and chocolate cake. Not long after I made it home, my parents came to help out, and the fighting got worse. Allie's tantrums even made my mother sit on the couch fuming, arms folded, lips pursed, ready to kill her. And Mom wasn't even the one responsible for dealing with it!

But the girls are back to normal now. Fewer fights, fewer tantrums. Of course, the house is just as disastrous during the day as ever, with books and dolls, and dress-up clothes strewn here, there, and everywhere. To their credit, though, it's all always cleaned up by bedtime-- I don't touch that stuff.

I'm just exhausted. I told Kevin the other day, "Man, I'm getting too old for this!" And I won't even be thirty for another couple weeks. Maybe that's why women in other primitive cultures have children in their teens.

Suddenly the idea of being a thirty year-old grandma doesn't seem so bad!