Hello there, 5!

Dear Lucas,

I figured it's about time I wrote you one of these.  After all, your sister got one every month for her first year (though they're not posted on this blog).  Mattias also got them every three months or so. Now it's your turn.  I promise you it wont always be this way often-overlooked-third-child.  Would it help if I secretly told you that you're my favourite?

All joking aside, you kinda are.  Let's face it... you're adorable (okay, the other two are as well), but you don't talk back.  Or tell me no.  Or give me attitude.  You seem to get that silence is golden, and... your poop doesn't smell bad.

I thought I'd start with today, because for many reasons, it's pretty special.  First off, it's your Uncle Marc's birthday.  You met him a few weeks ago and seemed to like him, even though the thought of changing your diaper made him gag.

Secondly, it is your 5th monthaversary.  It seems unbelievable that you have been around for that long.  Yesterday, I saw a mom with a newborn and it seemed to me that you still should be exactly that size; all tiny and snugly.  I love the stage you're in, but I do miss those milk-coma days.

But most importantly, exactly one year ago today, I found out that you were on your way to bless our family.  I remember being so scared, not because you were coming, but because there were signs that I was going to loose you.  I had known about you for less than 24 hours, yet I was already so in love with the idea of you that I could barely breathe.

But here you are; 365 days later.  A perfect fit into this crazy family of ours. You are such a lovely baby and you are so loved. I can't wait to see what this life has in store for my wonderful third-born.

Love,
Your Mama

Why I'm suing Pintrest

The other day I decided to google pictures of "homework organization ideas".  Elise will be starting her journey into the public schooling arena in the fall, and rumour has it that homework starts early and often these days (I'm sure I'll be ranting about that when it happens).

Because I feel like I might spontaneously combust when things are disorganized, I decided to get a jump on it.  Little did I know that such an internet search would be extremely damaging to my Mommy Psyche.

It all started when one of the images that popped up was someone's Pintrest page.  Let me just say that I am not on Pintrest.  I'm not even quite sure I get it. But I made the error of clicking on the link.

What greeted me was photo after photo of the most incredible organization ideas.  Not only for homework, but for everything!  Your mail!  Your car! Spice jars! Box tops! Toe nail clippings!

You name it, it can be organized.

Not only that, but it can be designed to match the decor of your room.  Match your magenta sofa!  Make the purple in your painting pop! Who knew that I was doing such a disservice to myself by not caring about these things?

Even worse, all of these pictures looked like no living soul had ever ventured into that living space ever.  Do people really live like that?

As I delved deeper into this soul-sucker known as Pintrest, there were other, more disturbing circles of hell; food, clothing, children's rooms, closets, woodwork, and craft after craft that would make Martha Stewart look like a clumsy 5 year old learning to use scissors.

And it dawned on me; I SUCK as a mother.

I can't make the Taj Mahal out of veggies.

I won't be able to fashion my daughter's wedding dress using kitten fur.

I lack the know-how to take a dilapidated section of fence and craft it into a designer crib for my baby.

And I just don't have the time to grow my own organic garden while caring for free-range, grain fed animals and doing it with perfectly styled hair and wearing the latest fashion trend that I naturally sewed myself.

When I take a banana, strawberry, some yogurt and an orange, the only thing I can make out of it is a smoothie.

So I have decided to sue Pintrest for pain and suffering by bringing to light my huge shortcomings as a mom.  Damn you Pintrest.  At least I'll know to blame myself when my children turn to a life of crime because I never was able to make them a pizza with toppings arranged to look like the Last Supper.

4 Months!

Happy Easter!

3 Months!

Really?  How can that be?

It all started with a tree

Have you ever had one of those days where you go on your annual pilgrimage to a tree farm to cut down a Christmas tree and you end up having a baby?

No?  So it's just me then?

From early on in my pregnancy, I had a feeling Lucas was going to come early.  Except I had him pegged for a between Christmas and New Year's baby, not the one-month-early trouble maker he ended up being.

We packed the kids into the car early on December 8th to make the hour or so drive out to a tree farm we had been going to for the last ten years.  We had two other families coming with us, and everyone was enjoying themselves.

I had been having contractions here and there, but nothing concerning.  Until on the hayride back we hit a rather sizable thump and my uterus decided to pay me back in kind with a rather sizable contraction.

The real fun didn't start until we stopped for lunch on the way home.  Our friend noticed my wincing was coming at pretty regular intervals, so Fred and I decided to start paying attention.

And then we realized that my contractions were every minute and a half to two minutes apart, and were lasting about 30 - 45 seconds.  And we were an hour away from the hospital. 
So off we went, with Fred doing 100 mph on one of the worst highways in north Texas.  At one point I couldn't even talk, the pain was so intense.  A call to the doc confirmed that we needed to get to the hospital ASAP.

I told Fred that under no circumstances was I going to have a baby on the side of a highway, and that was all the incentive he needed to make our 14 year old car go as fast as aero-dynamically possible with a tree strapped to the top of it.

Fred dropped me off at the front of the hospital, and I'm sure I was quite the sight; lumbering and wincing my way to the elevator.  As I got to the front desk of L&D, I tried to communicate the issue and instead burst into tears.

The wonderful nurses got my into a room, one of those love;y backless gowns and hooked up to and IV with some labour-stopping drugs.  When it became apparent that they weren't working, two nurses came in to tell me that the doc would arrive in an hour to do the c-section.

By this time, Fred had just left to fed the kids dinner.  So I told the nurses that today wasn't really a good time for me to have a baby, it being a month early and all that.  It was a nice thought, but let's instead try some more drugs and do a little wait-and-seeing.  The nurses said they understood, and left.  I sat in my bed feeling satisfied that I had made my point.

The nurses came back about 10 minutes later with a third nurse... the charge nurse, who talked some sense into me.  They explained that I was in active labour and there was no going back.  If they waited to long, there could be some danger involved since this was my third c-section.

(The doc had a good laugh about my thinking I had a choice while they were prepping me for surgery)

To make a very long story a wee bit shorter, I called Fred at dinner, who frantically started calling people to help wrangle our kids.  Elise had to stay at the hospital with us because we had nobody who could look after her, but the nurses and a neighbour kept her company and she was pretty happy to be there for the birth.

They rolled me into the operating room and within 20 minutes, Lucas was born.  At 6 pounds, 8 ounces, he was big for a preemie, so the took him to the regular nursery.  I got to see him for about 30 seconds to give him a kiss, then he was whisked away.

Unfortunately, he started having breathing problems, and ended up in the NICU.

At 1:30 in the morning, I realized my son had been born 6 1/2 hours ago, and I had only seen him briefly in the OR.  I asked my very hesitant nurse to take me to the NICU in a wheelchair to see him.  I sat for 30 sweet minutes and held his tiny hand as he lay sleeping in the incubator.

The days that followed were hard.  He was hooked up to tubes, wires and a C-PAP.  I could hold him, but wasn't allowed to nurse him at first.  And when I was given permission, I could only do it once a day because it tired him out so much.

Being discharged without my baby was the worst.  I struggled between needing to be at the hospital, and needing to take care of my kids at home.  I was pumping every three hours so Lucas could eat when I wasn't there.

I realize this post has become very long, and if you're still reading, you must either be related to me, or crazy.  Or both.

But I thought it important to record the details of Lucas birth, as a reminder to me that despite everything that happend (and believe me, there is a lot more to the story, I just didn't want this to turn into a novel), it all turned out okay.

And I received one of my most favourite Christmas gifts, ever.

Flowers die... donate so a child won't

"Mama? Why do you hate flowers?"

This question was posed to me by Elise just the other day. A neighbour had brought by a vase of flowers because she and her family were going away and she didn't want them to go to waste. Elise saw them and proclaimed them to be, "absolutely so gorgeous."

Apparently she noticed my indifference, because she then asked her question. I made some off-handed remark, then distracted her with something bright and shiny.
Because really, how do you explain to a five year old that flowers are stupid because they die, without sounding like the most heartless person ever?  It's just hard for me to spend a lot of money on something that just sits there for a few days, and then... Poof! They go to the great flower bed in the sky.

Give me chocolate any day.

So why the post slamming flowers? Because Thursday is Valentine's Day. And no doubt roses are in your future; either as the giver or recipient. Enter a very cool idea put forth by some very cool peeps in the DOC:

"We want to help the Life for a Child program, sponsored by the International Diabetes Federation, which aims to take “contributions from donors [to] go to established diabetes centers enabling them to provide the ongoing clinical care and diabetes education these children need to stay alive.”  Our idea was to take the typical “dozen roses,” so popular on Valentine’s Day, and save just one rose to spare the life of a child. “Spare a Rose, Save a Child” is simple:  buy one less rose this Valentine’s Day and share the value of that flower with a child with diabetes in the developing world.  Your loved one at home still gets flowers, and you both show some love to someone who needs it."
-Taken from www.sixuntilme.com

For the cost of ONE rose, you could donate to save the life of a child. Even though here in the U.S., I am able to keep my daughter alive with life-saving insulin, in developing countries, type 1 diabetes is a death sentence.

To donate, just click here.  Flowers for Valentine's Day might be nice, but saving the life of a child is even better.

Two Months!

And two days.  What can I say? Life is busy these days.

Mattias-isms

For the longest time, Mattias didn't really talk.  And when he did, he spoke in some weird language only I could understand.  About 50% of the time.  When he turned 2, all of a sudden the words came and he hasn't stopped taking since.  Some of my favourites:

Me (walking into Mattias's room one morning): Good morning, little man!

Mattias: Mama! Co-co (Portuguese for poop)! Co-co Mama!

(Sure enough, there was co-co).

Hear-we-ow-ow-ow-ow - Cereal.  I'm not sure why he adds those extra syllables on the end, but it sure is cute!

I ate my food all! - This is cute because it is a direct translation of I ate all of my food, from Portuguese.  Even cuter is that Elise used to say the exact same thing.

Kip-kip tree - Christmas tree

Hinnerwanna - Cinderella

Baby wucass - Baby Lucas

Que dat? - What's that?  A hybrid of Portuguese and English.

Mama, I'm talking to you - what he says when he's trying to get my attention.

I want to tell you something - Usually he doesn't, he just likes to say it.

Hoo-ha - What he calls his pacifier... in Portuguese the word is pronounced shusha, but he can't say the letter "S".  Hence the hilarious, yet oh-so inappropriate pronunciation.

My silly boy, at the "kip-kip" tree farm

Happy One Month, Lucas!