That Old Cliche

"Life has just been so crazy."

That's what I keep feeling like I ought to write here as some feeble explanation as to why I haven't posted anything in months. I haven't written to celebrate my baby girl's first birthday, first words, or first steps. I haven't put up pictures of our vacation to Florida, which, by the way, took place in May. I haven't said a single word about learning to play the banjo or camping at Kalaloch or taking Geneva on her first ever Ferris Wheel ride. Did you know we bought a new car? Well, we did. Geneva has already barfed in it, earning it the nickname Vomit Comet. I'm taking care of four kids during the day now, a topic which could be fodder for several new blog posts in and of itself. Oh, and my wonderful brother and his darling fiancée had their wedding this June, an event so quirky and charming and perfectly them that it almost defies description. So yes, "life has just been so crazy" about sums it up.

But oh, my skin almost crawls at that old cliche! Life is always crazy. Whose isn't? It is full of comings and goings, of changing seasons and the changing activities that go with them. Life without this so-called craziness would be boring. Hollow. Empty. And if we're smart and self-aware, the craziness we put into our lives is really just a happy jumble of things we choose to do, with some unavoidable obligations thrown in. I haven't mowed the lawn in about a month now, but the truth is I could have if I'd decided it was important enough to me. The same goes for making jam, or keeping up on this blog for that matter. Saying "life has just been so crazy" feels like apologizing for the choices I make. I know I can't do every activity that piques my interest, or spend endless hours with the people I love, or maintain a perfect home while simultaneously being a completely engaged and involved parent. Every moment that I choose to devote to one thing comes at the expense of the thousand other things I could be doing, and so I strike the best balance I can. It's the best anyone can do, really.

Now, after a brief hiatus, my crazy happy balancing act includes blogging again. It's a choice I'm really excited about! A jam-packed life is worth recording, and worth remembering.

The Best Worst Song Ever

When I am shopping for produce I often break out in song. More specifically, I like to belt out the Valderi parody "broccoli, broccola, broccoli, broccola-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha..." As if this song weren't goofy enough, Geneva has created a parody song of my parody song that goes a little something like this: "Broccoli, brocco-locks, brocco-honk-honk-honk-honk." It's complete and utter nonsense, and she nearly chokes on her own laughter every time she sings it.

So, a few days after the creation of the brocco-honk song I was cuddling with Geneva during naptime and singing James Taylor's Sweet Baby James. Geneva stopped me in mid-verse and told me no, that was Daddy's song and only Daddy was supposed to sing it. "Okay," I replied, "what does Mommy sing then?" She grinned. "Broccoli, brocco-locks, brocco-honk-honk-honk-honk!"

Seriously, kid?? You're giving me Brocco-honk???

The upside is she probably meant it as a compliment.

Kids are cute.

It's so we won't kill them.

Brevity is a virtue

You may remember that a couple of years ago I wrote a VERY long post detailing a rather unpleasant evening filled with useless contractions, disappointment, and general discomfort. This time around I'll keep it short.

False labor stinks.

Big

It's official: I'm Big. A startling number of my maternity clothes are now too small (honestly, who were they designed to fit?) and I find myself not only unwilling but physically unable to do some of the bendier, twistier tasks that motherhood asks of me. I've started favoring slip-on shoes. I can no longer classify my main nighttime activity as sleeping, but rather as trying to get comfortable.

Buuuuuut.....

I am grateful! My baby is wiggly-- shockingly, even painfully wiggly-- and I never find myself worrying if she's still healthy and safe, since I know she'll bludgeon me in the ribs again in five minutes to let me know all is well. I don't know if I'll ever get to carry another little one, and that knowledge is helping me to keep all of the discomfort in perspective and just enjoy my "alone time" with the fetus, relishing each hiccup and knowing that right now I know her better than anyone else possibly could. And finally, finally, I feel like I no longer have to apologize to the world for my exhaustion and generally scatterbrained demeanor. My body speaks for itself. It used to be that I couldn't enter the grocery store without some bossy old lady (me in forty years?) coming up and telling me that either Maya or Geneva needed a nose wipe or had dropped a goldfish cracker or something. Nowadays, however, people just leave me the hell alone. No more questioning looks when I go strangely blank in the eyes, seeming not to notice that Geneva is shaking milk from her sippy cup into her shoe. I think everyone who sees me now knows exactly what is going on: I am trying, in that blank-eyed moment, not to pee my pants as a Braxton-Hicks contraction smashes the baby's head forcefully into my bladder. At least, anyone who has ever been pregnant knows. Honestly, it's a huge relief.

Oh, Boy

I realize that babies and even young children are pretty androgynous. I also realize that my child does not have a lot in the way of hair-- that classic indicator of femininity. So, I can't really take it personally that most strangers immediately assume that Geneva is a boy. Still, sometimes I look at my beautiful little daughter, and then at the doofus who is referring to her as "a handsome little dude" and wonder exactly how unobservant the average person is. Based on this unscientific study, my results indicate: very.

Here's a peek at some of the recently-worn outfits in which Geneva has been called a boy.

Perhaps the average stranger's reasoning goes something like this:

1) If you are wearing anything with pant legs, you are a boy.

2) If your clothing contains any "male" colors, like blue or tan, you are a boy.

3) If you are wearing a collar, you are a boy.

4) If you are not entirely saturated in pink, you are a boy.

5) If you are a girl, you are a boy.

More likely, the average stranger isn't wasting a lot of brainpower on the subject, which is fine. It's good for a laugh anyway.

Rocky and Pippin

I was planning on blogging about our trip to the beach today. It was to be a post filled with pictures and prose about the beauty of the world and the loveliness of having good friends with which to enjoy it. But I'm afraid I can't write that post today. Simply put, I'm sad.

At 5:45 this morning a neighborhood dog escaped from her yard and made a beeline for our chickens. They were just waking up and I'm sure the noise is what attracted her. She was able to tear off some of the fencing around their pen and get inside, at which point the frantic cackling of the chickens woke up Avery and me. The good news is that two of our chickens actually made it out of the pen and were able to get away. The bad news is that the other two did not. Our silver wyandottes, Rocky and Pippin, died this morning around sunrise. They were smaller than the others, and more shy. They liked to roost on the top of the chicken run, and usually foraged together as a pair. After an awkward chicken adolescence they turned into very pretty birds. I will miss them.

I know that not everyone who reads this will feel the same kind of sadness that I do. They are, after all, only chickens. But when you raise a creature from its infancy, providing for its every need and watching it grow and thrive, there's an indelible connection that's formed. I loved those little hens.

I know I won't always miss Rocky and Pippin, but today I do. Today I miss them terribly. Looking out into our yard, there are no chickens to be seen. The other, luckier two haven't moved from the spot where we buried Rocky and Pippin this morning. I can only see an empty chicken pen, and occasionally hear a sad cock-a-doodle-doo.

Pippin, Percy the rooster, and Io the cat.

Rocky and Pippin roosting...

...And taking flight.

Rocky

I think they had a good life. They had sunshine and shelter, bugs to chase, grain to eat, and a nice little flock to belong to. It won't be quite the same without them.

Haiku

Please stop screaming, child.

You missed your nap and you're tired.

Sleep will save us both.

The computer ate my long, awesome blog post, so here are some pictures instead.

Avery and Geneva at home.

In Greenlake during our chicken coop tour.

New haircut.

This will probably seem funny later

I'm writing this at about noon on Friday, still in my sweatpants because to be quite honest I only woke up about an hour ago. Normally that's not something I would do, much less admit to, but today I have an excuse: last night was awful.

Now, yesterday itself was not so bad. I had a nice afternoon and spent most of my time puttering around and being domestic. I got some chores done and was feeling good but very, very tired. When Avery got home he helped me finish cleaning the back porch and then I decided I had to lie down. I was dozing when the first contraction hit, and it woke me right up. Having contractions is nothing new, as I've had a handful of false starts already, but I still get excited each time. So I checked the clock and went back to sleep hoping that this time would be "it." I woke back up ten minutes later with another one, and then again ten minutes after that. I gave up on sleeping and got in the shower while Avery prepared dinner. Usually getting in the shower will slow or stop my contractions altogether, but this time they kept going, much to my discomfort and delight! In fact, they kept on going for the next few hours, right through dinner and a phone conversation with my mom. Gradually they increased from every ten minutes to every five minutes, and by 10:30 I was too excited to just sit and watch TV. Avery and I headed out the door for a walk around the neighborhood, and as we left I caught myself believing that this-- THIS-- could be my last pre-baby walk.

The streets were extremely dark, but there weren't many cars to dodge. We crept along at a snail's pace, stopping every five minutes so that I could lean on Avery through a contraction. As we walked we peeked into peoples' yards and watched the lightning overhead. There were booms and flashes coming from every direction! It was very dramatic, and seemed to fit the mood of nervous anticipation. After walking for almost an hour we decided to head back toward home, and thought it would be a good idea to stop off at the hospital on our way to fill out any necessary paperwork while I was still able to carry on a conversation. Plus, we reasoned, a hospital is filled with doctors and nurses. Surely someone there could tell us whether this was truly early labor or just another false alarm. It had been nearly five hours at this point and we desperately wanted permission to get excited.

Of course, at 11:30 the main entrance to the hospital is closed, so we came in through the E.R. and explained that we just wanted to pre-register and maybe ask one of the nurses if this could possibly be The Real Thing. Looking back, I'm not sure how articulate I was about this, considering I was kind of out of it. We were escorted to a side room to fill out some paperwork and then asked to follow a nurse upstairs to Maternity. We were told, "they want to check you." Okay, so we were going to be checked. That must be a good sign! Up we went.

That's when things started to get weird. I was immediately ushered into a small exam room with two beds and was told to pee in a cup and change into a gown. That in itself didn't seem too strange, but there was no other explanation given. In fact, the nurse quite nearly left the room without telling me what it was she wanted me to do! I used the restroom and changed out of my clothes, then perched on one of the beds. The nurse came back and performed an internal exam, where I learned that I had dilated to........ ONE! One centimeter after five hours of contractions. I was not the most pleased I've ever been, but the nurse seemed very cheerful and reminded me that this meant my contractions were doing something productive, even if it didn't seem like much. Then she told me to lie flat on my back and, without further explanation, started strapping me to an external fetal monitor. I happen to know what these look like, having worked in a nursing lab, but I don't think Avery had a clue what was going on and I was too groggy to protest. I meant to say something like "can you tell me why I need continuous fetal monitoring?" or maybe "I would prefer not to be lying flat on my back" but all that came out was "Ummm" as the straps dug into my sore belly. The nurse straightened up and said "make yourselves comfortable. I'll be back to check on you in a while." My brain screamed "WHAT?" and I had the presence of mind to ask "what's 'a while'?"

"An hour and a half."

And so we waited there, Avery in his hard little chair and me flat on my back, watching the baby kick the monitoring device and listening to her little heartbeat as my contractions, which had been going strong for over five hours, slowly stopped. I remember watching the clock, knowing somehow that the next contraction wasn't coming, and thinking what a horrible idea it was to hang a clock right over someone's hospital bed. At that point I started to cry. I had been so sure that we would finally be meeting our daughter soon, and instead we were sitting alone in a tiny hospital room, both of us uncomfortable and exhausted and wanting nothing more than to just go home. It was too much, and I couldn't even stop crying when Avery brought the nurse back in, hoping she would let us go. She was very kind, but kept us for a bit longer to monitor the baby. Avery was mad, and I was drifting in and out of sleep so that nothing seemed entirely real. At some point another girl was brought to the bed next to mine, and I was grateful that everyone was whispering for my benefit. Finally, around 1:30 we were released. I didn't have to sign anything; we just hobbled back down the hall and out the door into the night. The storm that had been threatening must have broken while we were upstairs, and the rain was coming down in sheets. At least I had a sweatshirt-- poor Avery was wearing shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. We walked slowly home, soaked to the skin and not saying much. Like before, the weather seemed appropriate to the circumstances.

I know I shouldn't complain. My baby is healthy, I am healthy, and whatever happens I know she'll be born soon. This whole thing will probably seem funny later, but right now I just feel frustrated and disappointed, and don't have the emotional stamina required to put this in perspective. My daughter was supposed to be here today and instead I'm sitting on the couch in my sweats writing a serious downer of a blog post. Not exactly what I had in mind.