Coffee? Please?? Another cup, perhaps???

I have absolutely nothing profound to say today. How can I? How could I? The entire night went like this:

Put the Bug in her bed. Cover her, tuck her, pat her, fall into bed.

Hope that she will stay asleep. Listen to her grunt and flop her head from side to side. Realize that she is not, in fact asleep.

Pick her up before she wakes Sleeping Beauty My Darling. Bring her into the bed. Latch her on and fall asleep while she nurses fitfully. Sort of.

Wake up to a sleeping baby and a cramped shoulder. Put her gently back into her bed. Cover her, tuck her, pat her, fall into bed.

Lather.

Rinse.

Repeat.

It's not that I do not want to sleep with my little Buggie. Rather, putting her into her own little nest stems from the need for actual sleep, rather than the pseudo-slumber which results from trying eighty-three positions, none of which are comfortable, all of which result in the cramping of muscles I thought I had lost long ago. It all adds up to one tired, sore, cranky Mama, for whom there is not enough coffee in the world! (Also, we have a smallish bed, in which three bodies just do not fit....) And on most nights, my Buggie sleeps very well in her little bed, which is a mere 18 inches from my own pillow.

Now, upon Waking For Good this morning, I totally realize that last night's shenanigans happened because she needed to ignite a Bug Bomb. (For laypeople, this translates to "fill her diaper with toxic substances capable of leveling Daddies of all dispositions.) Since my Buggie only does this once or twice a week, it really is quite the production. Broadway would be stunned. The drama is intense, and it literally draws the entire family into its thickening plot.

She nearly-never poops when her Daddy is home, a fact which never ceases to delight him! Last night, though, as we had settled into our Rosary and My Darling snuggled with his smallest girl, he glanced at me with rather an odd look about his sweet, handsome face. He got up quietly and went to the changing table. Upon removing the Bun (so-named because we use these), he encountered the Bug Bomb. They are stealth, my friend! You cannot smell the horrors therein when they are encased in the Bun....it's pretty much a big ol' surprise party just waiting for the Guest of Honor! .....Which turned out to be My Darling last night.

Now, I know that we should be focused in our prayer. Really, I do. And though we strive for this as our goal, there are times when it is just not possible. When the Bug Bomb continues to explode even after the "shell casing" has been removed, concentration is not possible when there are other children around. The giggles erupted like so much baking soda and vinegar. Think Coke--"Shaken, not stirred."

It was plentiful.

It was stinky.

It was HILARIOUS!

And apparently, it was the first of two such weapons to be deployed.

And so, Dear Reader, you are witness to an entry devoted entirely to dirty diapers and the treasures to be found therein.

BUT! Oh yes, the sliver--if not fleecy--lining to this would be the joy of clean diapers, mine to fold, soft on the rump roast and the reason her little tushie is so adorable in baby jeans......

We are a cloth diapering family, and my goal in this small area is to keep the basket next to the changing pad stocked and ready for action, making the changing of the guard an easy prospect, and one that indeed even a child can engage in!

I DID get to fold diapers this morning. This occurs every other day or so, after they've been washed clean. They come down from the drying rack smelling faintly of the lavender oil that I put into the final rinse (along with white vinegar and tea tree oil to help balance the pH and add a bit of antibac to it all).

I am one of those weirdos who actually doesn't mind folding laundry (save the sorting and pairing of socks--this is drudgery meant for minions who masquerade as children!). I like to see the neatly organized stacks of folded garments, ready to be put neatly into the proper drawers tossed carelessly about the room, only to wind up back in the hamper.

Diapers are another category all together. I am the only one who folds them, because I am rather particular about them in the end. "Do it right, do it once," I tell my brood! Well, in the case of diapers, that means I am the only one who does it at all. (This enables me to be the kind Mama I strive to be, rather than the grumbling Mama I turn into all too often.)

Ah....the wrestling boys who have engaged one another since midway through my blogging have run out of steam--but only because one of them is now in tears. My attention is needed.

And it's library day.

....And here we are--Thanks Be To God!

We did it! We made it to 36 weeks. The Pumpkin is growing larger (and larger, and larger...) with every passing moment. In truth, I'm starting to feel a little nervous about just how big this baby might get! At any rate, we can now take each day as it comes, and whatever day this baby decides it's birthday should be will just be.

Chris came on Friday morning and gave me the green light to (as she phrased it) "get up and jump around" if I wanted to--which I do, but let's face it: that's not likely to happen at this point! My Darling joked that he would bring the little trampoline into the living room. At least I think he was joking!

Since I had the approval of my ever-wise midwife, I went with my family to Mass on First Friday. Afterward, we went to the home of some very dear friends for supper, along with two other families and Fr. E. and Fr. B. (who is our chaplain this year, since Fr. E.'s new duties keep him so busy he can scarcely find the time to breathe, for Pete's sake!). What a perfectly lovely time we had, with a big, delicious meal graciously spread before us by equally gracious hosts, several rounds of cards for the men, satiating conversation for the ladies, and general merriment for the (19!) kids. Just to be in the mix of it all was such a tremendous blessing, I can barely express my gratitude.

Thanks be to God!

Yesterday morning, My Darling took me and the Monkey along with him on some errands. Since it was my first time out in nearly a month, there were a few things which had long been on my priority list that I had hoped he would have time to pick up.

Ah-ha: the key word here is my priority list.

We stopped and picked up some odds and ends, along with a package of teeny tiny diapers for the Pumpkin, and The First Outfit. I'm not always so picky about what my children wear--modesty is always a priority, of course, but hand-me-downs are the standard rule of play. That First Outfit, though, has to be just the right thing. I like to have something new, purchased specifically for each baby. I've saved them, of course, with the intention of passing them down so that if they are blessed by children and choose to use their First Outfit for their babies, they can. I've been looking and looking online to see what's out there, but it's never the same as going and looking through the racks and touching the fabrics and imagining my sweet baby's face and hands appearing, dressed in whatever my heart settles on.

I finally saw something that was just right--a set of three cotton sleepers, with matching t-shirts, gowns, receiving blankets and hats. I have enough to put together an outfit suitable for either boy or girl, and now I finally feel like everything is in place, and the Little Pumpkin can make a grand entrance any time.

You hear that in there, Little Pumpkin? Any time. Any old time would be just spiffy.

I know that patience will be well rewarded, but it's a virtue I've never been blessed with.

Especially now that I waddle rather like a penguin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mass this morning was overwhelming in its beauty. My perspective was of one who's been deprived nearly of the very air, finally able to gulp in all I wanted all at once.

In addition, My Darling and I had listened to a presentation by Steve Ray while we were out and about yesterday morning. In talking about the history of written scripture and how unavailable it was to early Christians, he explained how people would memorize what they heard at Mass--the Scripture readings, especially. They had to; they didn't have Bibles unless they were the absolute upper-crust of wealthy, and even if they could afford them, there was a pretty high likelihood that they couldn't read anyway. (Bibles in churches were chained to the pulpit not to keep them out of the hands of the common people (who couldn't read them anyway--but could sell them if they chose to), but because they were so incredibly valuable that the Church wanted to keep them in a place where they were accessible to be read to all of the people. Their worth was about three years' wages for the average laborer at the time.) He said, "They memorized them as if it was the last time they would ever hear them. Can you imagine how differently you would view the Mass if you thought each time that it would be the last time you'd hear those words?"

Well that's a great thing to say to a hormonal woman who's prone to emotional outpourings anyway! (Yes, I sit on the throne as Queen of the Weepy People...and I hold court several times a day...) So while I was at Mass today with my family, this thought kept running through my head..."What if this truly was the last time I could go to Mass?" Not even in the sense that you never know what tomorrow will bring, just what if it was the last time? What if I had to live out the rest of my days without the beauty of the Mass? Without receiving Jesus sacramentally? Without hearing the Word of God in nearly every single spoken word that is part of the liturgy? Shouldn't I be absorbing every single word, every action, every prayer--every single time--as though that truly was the case??

Remember that air I was suddenly able to gulp?

Gone.

I've cried at Mass before, but not with the sheer wonder in my soul at what a miracle it is that I can walk into any Catholic church any time I want and attend Holy Mass. People around the world die for this. Their sacrifice for the Mass is so inspiring that it has pushed me to feel even more deeply appreciative of the Sacrifice of the Mass.

I think Pumpkin sensed the intensity of Mama's emotion. While Mass is usually a rather active time of day for my sweet babe, things were relatively subdued this morning. Oh, everything's absolutely fine--we're rocking and rolling this afternoon--but during Mass, things were very subtle.

I can barely wait to have my beautiful baby in my arms as it is, and now in addition, I am anxious in my heart to have my baby in my arms at Mass. I want to bring this child into the church and allow the sights, sounds and smells to permeate this precious baby's heart and soul the way they do mine. Is there anything more beautiful?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Any time, Little Pumpkin.

We're ready.

Modesty for Mama, please.

I did better this morning. I was awake at 6:23, which, had I actually continued with the openeing of my eyes and rolled out of bed, would have made my goal of 6:30. Alas, no. I rolled away from the clock, pulled the blanket snugly up to my chin and settled back in for another 9 minutes. Rats. But today I was downstairs by 6:40, and that was after having made the bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am the sort of person who, upon hearing really good news, has a hard time keeping a lid on it. I guess growing up with not a lot of good news much of the time makes me that way. Or maybe it's the delight I feel when I see joy on the face of another person. Or maybe it's just a gift from God and I should stop analyzing it.

When I took my pregnancy test last Monday and saw that it was a faint line that I nearly went blind in order to see, I was happy. Only happy. Because, I reasoned, this cycle is the first after our loss, and there's a chance this is not what it looks like. I called my friend Mary anyway. Mary has the sense to be wisely happy--the kind of happy that isn't jumping up and down screaming, hauling out the helium-filled mylar balloons. Mary's response was something along the lines of, "That's great, that's really great. Are you going to test again tomorrow?" This is the wisdom that comes from a mom with a heart open to life, like mine, but who has also survived miscarriage, like me. Her caution was well warranted and much appreciated.

Tuesday was another story. When I calld Mary on Tuesday and said,"This line is fat, Mary! This is no shadow!" then Mary sounded like she wanted to grab those balloons. And that was ok--because I did, too! There was no hesitation this time, no thought that my body might be playing tricks.

Now it's time to prepare. Early? Well, probably. Because we chart my cycle very carefully, we know that we are four weeks, one day into this pregnancy. We're due in early December. That's a long time to prepare, I suppose, but prepare I must. First things first: I must be sure that I have the clothing I need to get to the end.

I think this is a normal woman thing. We see an occasion on the horizon, we buy appropriate attire. Going to a special dinner? Buy a pretty dress. Going on an anniversary date? Buy some spiffy new shoes. Planning on gaining 35 pounds and more inches than are on that tape measure? Go maternity shopping!

Now, there's really not much to buy. I have a friend who just brought me two boxes of clothes, and another friend who's due in May and has declared herself done with children--she said I could just keep her clothes. This is very kind. They are both dear. But there is one item that I don't suppose I'll find in either collection, and that is a Long Black Skirt.

I found the Long Black Skirt that I love at Dress Barn. It's cut well, it drapes nicely, it's unbelievably comfortable, and it hits about four inches above my ankles. I love it because it's incredibly modest, so when I sit on the floor (anywhere) to chat or change a diaper, there is absolutely no chance of flashing anything at anyone. This is of the utmost importance to me.

I had found the Long Black Skirt's maternity twin on a website, but it was $30, and I was hoping to save a few bucks. Ah, the frugal life. Since I'm always reasoning things out, I reasoned that to buy the kind and quantity of fabric I'd need, along with the notions and pattern, I'd be spending that much anyway. I absolutely refuse to alter the Long Black Skirt, because I will eventually be smaller than a baby elephant and will need to wear it again. And to buy another Long Black Skirt to alter would, again, be just as expensive (and more bothersome, for Pete's sake!) than just buying the one online. But there was a chance that I could find something on clearance at Motherhood, right? It's the end of winter. They want to rid themselves of all things long and warm to make way for light and breezy.

The problem is, they do not carry long and warm. If pants are what you want, that's great. They have pants. They have polyester and microfiber and terry and denim, and probably twelve other kinds. But skirts? Oh heavens, no. Since I was wearing the Long Black Skirt yesterday, I merely motioned to it and asked, "Do you happen to carry anything close to this?" I was given a look of absolute disdain. Ugh. How dowdy. So frumpy. I was informed that they do carry skirts, but they're just a little shorter. OK, I thought, a little shorter might not be so bad. It can be a little shorter and still be modest.

It turns out that "a little shorter" really meant "not even to the knee." When I said, "Oh, that's just not long enough for me, thanks," the look of disdain gained animation and I believe she may actually have laughed when I turned to leave. Not that I care. But I'm not lowering my standards just because that's what's available. Look, sister, I've had four babies and am already getting the poof of proof of number five. This body, in the first place, is only for the eyes of my husband, and in the second place, is most decidedly NOT for public viewing!

I amazes and astounds me that there are so few choices in maternity wear out there. No. It doesn't amaze me, really. When you look at how fashion has changed, how we are encouraged to show as much skin as possible all the time, it really doesn't come as a surprise that the options are so limited. For Pete's sake, there's actually a book called Stop Dressing Your 6-Year-Old Like a Skank. (not a word I'd ever use by choice, thanks.) Modesty, save for what seems to be a small segment of the population, has been put quietly in the corner.

I firmly believe that the pregnant body is absolutely beautiful. It's sacred. There's a miracle taking place in the body of every pregnant woman--we're partnering with God in an act of creation, and that in itself is nearly sacramental. So why should I dress my pregnant body in a way that is disrespectful? There are ways to cover my body that are fashionable that still show dignity and self-respect. (Not to mention respect for my husband.) I don't need the flesh of my expanding belly to show in order for people to appreciate the loveliness of pregnancy. They're going to know, for Pete's sake.

I will be purchasing the Twin of the Long Black Skirt. Shipping, shmipping. Modesty comes first.

I wish Dress Barn sold a maternity line. They'd make a fortune.