Made It

I made it through my first night back at work. The details aren't worth mentioning, but I developed mastitis (again!) while away. Came home miserable and feverish. Went to my family doctor, am on antibiotics and starting to feel better. Doing all the supplements and homeopathics, as well.
My special friend Jess, who lives back in MI, had the nerve to have baby #2 without me catching. Hmmphff. We got a new dishwasher. Tova got cuter. Lars is still employed. Kjirsten and Lea are here for a visit. It's sunny and beautiful. Okay, that's about all I got.
Later.

Tomorrow is ONLY a day away!

My husband and I are barely speaking because I go back to the baby delivering business tomorrow. As in the day after today. Tomorrow at 6 pm I have to walk myself out of my home, where my 4-children will be, and get in the VW and drive to work. There I will spend 14-1/2 hours at the hospital delivering other people's children. Petra, Soren and Annike will leave for school before I get home and so we will go 21-hours before seeing each other again. Unbearable.

Excuse me while I go puke.

Lars is singing Tova to sleep.

New-Moan-Yah

Soren, picture taken 2-months ago.

Pneumonia! For crying out loud, Soren Miles Viking the First has pneumonia. Crackles in his lobes! Infiltrates on his x-ray! And, otitis media in old righty ear-io. Poor fella. He has a follow-up visit on Monday morning, assuming everything is okay then he may return to school that day otherwise it's back to the couch for more Sesame Street. On the up-side, his fever is down to 101.1 right now. Praise be, y'all!

Pain and Suffering and Metaphors

Poor Magdalena Humphindunkingsmumkingdinger with her case of the Infamous San Diego Fleas (nearly resolved after a session with Crazy Leslee, the Groomer Extraordinaire) that nag and itch like a $30 prom dress from K-Mart.

Annabeaner, with eyes like a big pizza pie, and her hi-lo fever between 99.9 and 102.0 all day long. (I mentioned nothing about original metaphors.)


Sorry Soren with a fever of 103.0 and a hacking cough that sounds like an axe hitting a maple tree in winter.

And finalement ma chere Tova who is growing nicely and feels like a zip-lock bag filled with vegetarian vanilla pudding.

Petra was back at school today, but mentioned a headache that she failed to tell her teacher about and a sore throat -- now we've probably got the whole ding class uber infected because no matter how many times I tell that girl to cough into her elbow she coughs into her hand. Now whaddya suppose that class pencil sharpener looks like? Buggy!

Lars is busy training some guy from China how to do all their jobs out here so that pfarma can start outsourcing and fire all their US workers.

Me? I'm beginning to feel like a donkey pile drived me into MRSA cause man oh man do I feel like dook. Plus, holy piss, I am going back to work next week and it is just k-i-l-l-i-n-g me. I just wanna vomit all over our country's stupid policy on maternity "leave". Lord help me. Or at least pfarma . . . this could be their chance to do the right thing for once and give my husband a $57K raise and the title of Solo Breadwinner. Puhhhhhhhhlease? Somebody? Anybody?

Annike's Dream

Annike leaped from her bed last night screaming. She raced through the house searching for a mommy or a daddy, frantically calling out. Here's the story, as told by her:

Tchwa-tchwa's (Petra's) dweam (dream) went in to mine. Her fingews wewe cutted (her fingers were cut). Mommy and Daddy cut them with a slingy (slinky).

I clarify with her that this was her dream about Petra.

It was Tchwa-tchwa's dream. It went into mine. The dweam was going thwough the wall. (The dream was going through the wall -- Petra slept in our bed a bit last night while I was observing her fever, our wall is connected to the girls' room wall.)


Now that is really creepy.
Soren had a screamy dream last night, too.
What does this all boil down to? Petra, Soren and Annike all have fevers. We haven't checked Tova Margie yet. Now I'll have 3-hotsy totsies at home with me, so much for my produce shopping today. And to make matters worse, my hair looks just amazing this morning. It's unfortunate that my hair will be cooped up inside the plague house all day.

So much and so little

Maggie's going back to work, too. She works from home. On her recliner. Run Maggie!

The day-to-day is quite busy, and yet there is little that is bloggable. I'm beginning to be consumed with awful anxiety as my return to work date is approaching. I hate this, there's not really much to say about it either, it's just plain awful. Makes me very sad. I love being with my kids full-time. I love all the time I have with Tovita. She's so squishy. Working. Didn't win the lottery. Ergh.

My husband, on the other hand, can't wait for me to go back to work. Something about money. The deal is, though, that when I return to work the cleaning help arrives. Paid cleaning help. My husband will insist that he can be the cleaning help, but in our near 10-years of marriage he has yet to pick his own undies up off the floor. Another point that should be addressed is that I am NOT the cleaning help. Cleaning is stupid and a waste of my time. Just like working outside the home. Damn mommies having babies! Anyone ever teach them about birth control! Sheesh.

Though, if I spend too much time teaching my patients about birth control then I might not have a job anymore. Hmmmm . . .

Wanna Be

Last night at dinner (it was Spaghetti Wednesday -- nothing alliterative about that), Annike told us:
"I wanna be a teachow (teacher) when I'm big. The kids should be scheven yew owd, eight yew owd (seven years old, eight years old). And Tova. Alscho, I will teach schience."


Then Petra jumped in:
"Fowst I wanna be in the Olympics like Shawn Johnson. Then, ummm, whewe do people live whewe thewe's lots of land?"
"Ummm, Montana?" (that was me)
"And snow! You'll get lots of snow." (Lars said that)
"Yeah, Montana. I wanna live thewe and have a fawm that people can visit. But, they have to pay fow theiw own duck food."


Then, we do what comes naturally, and we all turn to Soren:
"What do you want to be, Soren?"
"I don't know."
"Come on, think of something."
Lars listed a whole bunch of options.
"I guess I'll be a soccer player." (He answered grudgingly.)
Discussion ensues. We discuss the plausibility of being a career soccer player (as if Petra's Olympic intentions are plausible, but the peanut gallery remained silent on that one).
"I'm a good punter, I'll be the punter on a football team."
More discussion, Lars suggests he could be the coach of the kicker on the football team.
"I'll be a soccer coach."
More discussion.
"I'll be a football coach."
Everyone is cringing

Our son, the Amazing Soren, with dreams of becoming a professional ball kicker.

If you asked me, I think I'd kind of like to own a wedding dress shop. Weird, huh? I just really like those pretty dresses.

Ocho

Don't Let Dead Dogs Lie (once again, or is it "Lay"), more Prop 8 stuff:

Don't Divorce Us

Biblical Marriage

And the one many of you have probably already seen, but always worth seeing again, Prop 8 the Musical

Good Mother

On her 10-week birthday, Feb 6, Tova is well fed and growing nicely.

The day was going well, that is until a stranger to me meddled in my life with unsolicited parenting advice in an obnoxious and condescending way. It set me off. I don't respond well to people meddling, especially to the "advice" of people unknown to me who have no insight whatsoever into my circumstances. I have a temper, I'm not afraid to admit it. Occasionally my temper is a problem for me, though, occasionally it'll get the job done. It usually takes a lot to get me going on my Temper of Terror Roller Coaster, though, in certain circumstances I can go from 0-60 in a nanosecond -- especially when it involves my children. I may have lost my temper this afternoon, my head is certainly hurting like I did. Even if I didn't lose my temper (I'm told I didn't), I didn't respond in a snarky, clever way that would have made me proud. Later, I found out that the obnoxious stranger was a 2nd grade teacher at my kids' school. Now I am really rankled . . .

Since then, I've received reassurance from those dear to me that I am a good mother and that the 2nd grade teacher was out of line. But, it's got me on the rampage because it certainly is not okay to humiliate someone and make them feel like they are a bad mother. That is simply wrong and that kind of behavior holds no value, whether it's to someone like me (a seasoned and generally confident mother) or to someone like my patients (a young and timid teenager who is doing her best). There is just not even an itty bitty drop of water under my bridge -- no siree. Nope.

As it were, I'm not vindictive so I'll have to let this dead dog lie, or is it lay? Also, she's a teacher at my kids' school. I guess there's no sense in making a mountain range out of some pimple-butt-lame-brain-meddling-donkey's stinky meddling molehill, right?

A Rap (of sorts) by Me, the Scorned-By-A-Stranger Mother

Simmer down. Breathe. Meditate.

Cause it's about to get crrrrrazy with an update!

The wind's a-howling and the rain's a-coming down

And I just can't seem to get rid of this frown

But then I see around me within my sight

4-amazing things that I've cooked just right

Our #1 Viking is little Petra the Leigh

Who is sitting at her desk reading studiously

She's tiny and she's pretty but she's tough as nails

With the strength of 100-men and 7-beluga whales

She's a speller, she's a math-er, and an athlete too

She's the super-special something in our rug-rat crew

Then there's sassy Soren, our Main Man boy

Though he thinks he's Jewish, he's really a goy

He likes to play soccer, Legos and games with cards

And the volume of his shrieks can be heard for yards

But the thing about my son that you should know

Are that his happy dappy moods make our family flow

Our third dear one, a precious bundle of joy

Is our 3-year old Annike who is clever and coy

She's soft and she's squishy with lovely blond hair

That frames her darling visage, so yummy and fair

Lest you be fooled by her most angelic of faces

She'll demand to use the potty in the most awkward places

Bringing up the rear is our Baby Tova Marge

At 12-1/2 pounds she's large and in charge

With beginnings quite small but now like a blimp

Some of the best moments with our new little imp

Are the dimpled, drooly grins that cavort with her cheeks

And mingle with goo-gah's as she charmingly speaks

And now it is clear, though I was stung by those words,

I know at this moment that woman was just full of turds

For who so could provide the world with such beauty

Than a mother lovingly committed to her mothering duty?

I may not always be pleasant, perky or perfect and all of the rest

But to those who meddle, know that I'm doing my best

. . . and that should be enough, so shove it!

The End

Reasons Why Not

There are many reasons for NOT returning to Michigan. For example, trying to drive to the airport but the lake effect causes white out conditions, freezing temperatures and slippery stretches of highway that the Weather Channel deems "impassable." Miles of white-knuckled, vomit-inducing driving with the four most precious beings asleep in the back of the van did not re-endear me to my home state. When we stepped off the plane into San Diego this morning and smelled the salty air, saw the palm trees and felt all that sunny warmth I was relieved to be back.

Having said all that, Lars and I did our usual round of "what if . . ." Which included us moving into his dad's neighborhood, sending the kids to my aunt's Montessori school, having weekly dinners with our parents and never having to do that damn-awful goodbye again. I hate goodbye. Sometimes I feel like I don't belong there any more and most often I feel like I don't belong here. Someday someplace will feel like home again, and if I had it my way it would be where all my family could live right near us, where no one ever lost their jobs, and there was a fun BBQ to go to at a friend's house every Friday with plenty of Vernors, Jolly Pumpkin beer and Zingerman's desserts.

Grandpa Lee (Lars' dad) and Grandpa Jim met Tova for the first time at Grandma Marriete's/Meme's funeral (2/2/09).

Tova (9-weeks) was watched over by US Marshals during the service and after, as she got to make the acquaintance of Grandpa Wendell (92-years). The extremes of life were not lost on me, but near about made me rupture my heart. Only so much emotion I can handle these days, not to mention the agony I feel because Tova never got the chance to meet Meme.

Smiling at Grandpa Wendell. Again, too much emotion for me, so I stayed on the other side of the room where the lemon bars were safely in arms reach.

You can never get too many kisses in your life.

Oh for crying out loud, did we really have to say good-bye to Thorne again? Was it really necessary to go through that? It's like salt on wounds. Salt. Salt. Salt.

This little girl deserves to have all these wonderful adults around her all the time. All the time! Are you listening?!

Later, there were even a few smiles from my mom and my newly widowed grandpa.

We're so lucky to have them all. But Hell, crap, piss -- it is so painful to say goodbye.

Lots of people love my kids in Michigan! Damn goodbyes.

Oh Lord give me the strength to get back to California.

Please? Someone help me? Because separating the most important people in your life from the other most important people in you life is like . . . it's like something really awful . . . so awful and physically painful and I just don't know what to call it.

The US Marshals bit was no joke, they really were there to do security at the funeral. I suppose it was because my grandpa's Federal Judge buddies showed up -- too many of those guys all in one place at the same time, I suppose.