Lopsided Soldier Crawl...

Thought that posting this video of 7 of 8 doing her little lopsided soldier crawl might help someone down the line who may need information on neonatal stroke. This is not the best video and only shows a couple of movements forward, but I will post better video as I get it. As you will be able to tell, it is her left side that is affected. This little crawl was our first indication that something was up with 7 of 8. You can read more about her diagnosis and physical therapy here (In Her Right Mind...)

BTW, the audio on the video is not related to 7 of 8's crawl but is 1 of 8 and I discussing her dear friend whose father speaks Castillian Spanish and whose mother speaks Mexican Spanish. I would remove the audio, but that will take a few more steps and so must wait to another editing session...

The Rewards of Motherhood.....

So let me get this straight....

I'll be toothless....

For Moms, More Kids Mean Fewer Teeth

but spry????

Breast-Feeding May Cut Mom's Arthritis Risk

There's always a silver lining.......

Somehow, It Knew....

I posted just a few days ago about my experience on the Arc Trainer by Cybex and my subsequent run on the latest model of treadmill...and apparently someone let my treadmill at home know about this indiscretion on my part (Arc, The Limping Runner Sings...). The belt on the home treadmill has now completely turned into a stretched-out rubber band whose only purpose is to now try to grab the tread of my running shoes and cause me to turn my ankle in a manner in which ankles were not designed to turn.

I'm a bit surprised at my treadmill's vindictive personality--after all, it's been years since I have darkened the door of a health club (they tend to frown on you bringing in eight children while you work out--something about fire code violations for too many kids in the playroom...). I've put who knows how many miles on my old Pro-Form 900. It seems a bit ironic that this would be the week in which the treadmill would play out, the very week I experienced a health club treadmill manufactured in this century. But, regardless, a new belt the treadmill must have should we choose to give it new life and more miles.

Believe it or not, there are websites dedicated to finding the 'treadbelt' you need for your old treadmill. By my math, my Pro-Form is about 11+ years old, so this should be an interesting scavanger hunt. Then there is the recommended deck wax and motor brushes which should extend the life of the treadmill even longer and bring my tab for belt, wax and brushes to about the estimated cost of....a new treadmill. Now, I want to be 'green' and all that and don't want to be responsible for taking a salvagable treadmill to the dump, but I have a deep philosophical question to answer...do I really want to recondition this decade old treadmill for yet another decade's run? Hmmmmm....

Artist in Residence

3 of 8 has always been the sketch artist around here, rarely seen without some kind of paper product and pencil in hand. He loves looking at other artists' pencil drawings and enjoys seeing what Bethany at http://bethany.preciousinfants.com/ is up to. He took some time yesterday, using the cover art from Christopher Paolini's Eragon and Eldest to create these drawings, completely free-handing them. Thought it would be fun to share....

Higher Education

1 of 8 completed her first day of college, enjoying a three hour class in French. She is scheduled to do all of French I and II this summer in 6 week intensive blocks.

4 of 8 and 6 of 8 were discussing their college goals after 1's example. Says 4 of 8, "I want to take Spanish in college, just like 1 is taking French." 6 of 8 replies, "Yes, I want to take college, too. I'm going to take British Accent...."

And She's Off.....

1 of 8 has headed for her first college classes this morning, replete with new notebooks, fresh pencils and pens, and a whole bunch of exitement!!!

Arc, the Limping Runner Sings....

I'm a runner...okay, jogger. But a runner/jogger I am. I would love to be a Jazzercizer or an aerobics girl or a Pilates princess. But that would take coordination and cute outfits and I just can't seem to muster that. I am only willing to engage in aerobic-esque activities in the privacy of my own home due to the fact that I have to pause the DVD innumerable times in order to grasp what 'cha-cha, grapevine, box step, sidelift' could possibly mean in the scope of human movement. Once I finally learn an aerobics tape, I am singularly devoted, which probably explains why I'm still doing Jane Fonda's step aerobics videotape from 1990. I can actually do the whole routine. And it's only taken me a little over a decade to nail the choreography.

But I digress....running, that's the thing. I'm not fast but I do endure, slow mile after slow mile after slow mile. I'm not built for speed or power bursts but I can last...which has the unfortunate side effect of turning your knees into powder once you enter the orbit of your fortieth year. My right knee began swelling like a melon, then making odd popping noises. To compensate for the sore right knee, I adjusted my running stride which did alleviate the most aggressive symptoms on the right side...and then sent those symptoms over to the left knee. Hmmmm....

After an extended running hiatus due to the twins' pregnancy, partial bed rest and post partum exhaustion, I've been back in my Nikes and running well. But M has serious concerns about what I might be doing to my knees again. He knows that it is my goal to NEVER have knee surgery if I can help it. He has tried to reduce some of my knee surgery fear with a recitation of his own knee surgery which occurred after blowing out his ACL during football --"It wasn't bad at all--there's only this six inch nasty scar and the complete numbness down the length of my shin from where they nicked the nerve..." Somehow, I don't find this comforting.

I've run for years either outside on the pavement (I know, I know) or on a treadmill we purchased years ago that has now seen a crazy amount of mileage. The motor still runs fine, but my gait over the years has stretched the tread, the belt, into a warbly, slipping mess. I try to think of the resulting tread terrain as an obstacle course of sorts. I run straight on for a while, then the belt moves over to the left, squeaking and squealing, at which point I hang on to the handrails and run at an angle to move the belt back to center. It's not pretty, but it works and it definitely keeps me alert...

M has been working out on a new machine, a sweat-inducing device that he has believed could be the answer to all my knee-phobic, wanna-keep-running dreams. He discovered said machine at his fitness club and has been a devotee for over a year now. M has been wanting me to come with him to test drive this marvel. It's been a long process to get me to agree--I first had to lose a bunch of pregnancy weight so I wouldn't be horrified to be seen at a health club, then I had to start working out like a fiend so that I would be in good enough shape and skinny enough to be seen at a health club--ironic, I know, but vanity knows no limits. While there is still a ways to go, I finally decided that I was ready to climb aboard and give this whirligig a go.

It's called an Arc Trainer and is the product from the Cybex company. It looks like a good ol' fashioned elliptical trainer, but the motion of the feet is more akin to the inbred cousin of the stair climber and elliptical. M jumped on, reved up the incline and resistance, cranked up the iPod and was in training nirvana. I, on the other hand, couldn't figure out what I was to do. Did I need to put my feet all the way to the front of the pedals? Was I supposed to lift my knees straight up? But then how was I to stretch out my quads? Was it supposed to feel like I was going backward? Great, a device that was going to require coordination. In the meantime, M was increasing incline and resistance, hands saluting like a sprinter, sweat pouring, 'arcing' with all his might. I looked like a cat with baggies on its feet.

I ended up doing 30 minutes and my quads definitely took on the burning aspect of lactic acid run amok. I finished my time, surveyed all the shiny machines climbing, cycling, rowing...and then I saw it. The latest generation....treadmill. Now there's my game. I climbed aboard, turned the speed and I was off. No special steps, no pedals, no choreography. Just pound out the miles, pound on the knees.

I'll be back to visit the Arc Trainer. I think after a bit I could adjust, could learn to 'swing step' or whatever the motion is. I might even begin to look more like a 'natural' after some training, maybe even look like I was achieving some level of aerobic burn. But for now, I gotta say---have you seen the newest treadmills??

In Her Right Mind....

We've had a interesting week here around the Octamom household. We've learned a little bit more about our precious 7 of 8, taking a peek inside her mind and learning a fascinating piece of information about that busy brain.

7 of 8 has developed one of the most unique crawls of all our babies. When her twin 8 of 8 began cruisin' crawling early, 7 of 8 would observe him with a certain level of interest, but seemed quite content for several weeks to let him have the crawling spotlight solo. When 7 of 8 did get motivated for mobility, she opted for a style of crawl which we deemed 'the wounded soldier'. Using her right arm as her lever, she would pull herself along, kicking her feet on occasion and using her belly as her primary platform. She certainly exhibited crawl charm, a mode of individuality unobserved in the babyhoods of her other siblings. We chalked it up to a creative mind, took funny video and frankly didn't think too much about it...until about 8 weeks ago.

Over that weekend a couple of months ago, M and I looked at one another and experienced a revelation; 7 of 8's crawl had remained unchanged. The 'wounded soldier' belly crawl had remained consistent. She had gained more finesse and speed, but she continued to keep her left arm mainly out of the way and did not get on her hands and knees. Her twin brother was a model of the cross-crawling pattern, was scaling the stairs with ease and was beginning the thrill-seeking stunts of pulling up and letting go. 7 of 8 continued her lopsided belly motion. It sort of hit us all at once; this was something on which we were going to need some advice.

After chiropractic adjustments, pediatric evaluations and ultimately an MRI this past Wednesday, we have an answer. Either in utero or right at the time of birth, 7 of 8 most likely experienced a neonatal stroke, resulting in a lingering weakness on the left side of her body. The fruit of this event is mainly in her left hand, which she somewhat avoids using, and in her left foot. She does not have any stiffness of the muscles or rigidity, and she is willing to use the left side, but seems to need to be reminded.

Our course of action is to begin physical and occupational therapy this Tuesday. It is a unique opportunity: 4 of 8 (our child who is hearing impaired) is so excited to be able to work with 7, having been the recipient of extensive Auditory Verbal Therapy herself. Because we worked so hard as a family in therapy with 4 of 8, we are thankfully not feeling as overwhelmed as we did when 4 of 8's hearing loss was diagnosed. While there is a tinge of bittersweet heartache with 7 of 8's news, there is also a sense of gratitude that we have been entrusted with her progress and growth, along with an acceptance of her adorable way of moving herself through her terrain. Just like 4 of 8's unique accent due to her hearing loss, 7 of 8's little crawl is simply an individualistic accessory that has a charm all its own.

7 of 8's prognosis is considered to be very good. The amazing brain has an incredible ability to rewire and reroute. Time will tell how her right lobe makes adjustment for her left side. As the right side of the brain is responsible for the left side of the body, it will be fascinating to see how 7 of 8 works in her right mind. For now, she seems happy to be the 'talker' of the twins, while 8 of 8 is the 'mover and the shaker'. Her brunette hair is more plentiful and longer than 8 of 8's light blond fuzz. Her big green eyes light up with grins at her 'little' brother's sparkling blue ones. 7 of 8 and 8 of 8 are so different on so many levels and yet their relationship has gained this week a new sweetness. 7 of 8 has begun making significant strides in her motor skills, all in an effort to keep up with her 'baby' brother. And he keeps cheering her on.

Newtonian Housekeeping

I don't claim to be Madame Curie, but I do run a lab of sorts, a scientific environment ripe for observing the tendencies and patterns that govern the housekeeping habits of my day. In my laboratory, we test such burning theories as "How long must you allow oatmeal to sit in a bowl before it hardens to the consistency of mortar?" and "If 4 pair of muddy shoes are located in the center of the foyer, how many days can the average family member ignore their existence, preferring to trip over them to putting them away?" You see the kind of heady research that we are conducting here, all in the name of ground-breaking science.

Of course,this housekeeping lab has been up and running for almost two decades now, and so I feel confident that there are some theories that we have tested long enough to provide platform for responsible publication. What I have uncovered here in the science of what I call Newtonian Housekeeping is that, shockingly, regardless of the effort exerted by the Housekeeper (that would be me), the natural state of the Octamom House is chaos, complete and total. It is important to grasp this overall guiding truth before we move on to the headier stuff because it provides the principle strut off which the following formulas swing. This rule of clutter chaos is so predominant in the Octamom Household Lab that I have actually arrived back at the house, having taken ALL the children with me, to find a bigger mess than when I left; for example, the time I ran kids to the dance school and got back to the house to find that the float on the washer had failed and there was now enough water standing on my wood floors to fill an above-ground pool. Or the time the cat found every Kleenex box on the premises and proceeded to render said tissue product into almost microscopic bits of reconstituted paper/cotton product which circulated through the air ducts and deposited itself on furniture for the next six months--again, while we weren't even on the premises! So you can only imagine what happens to a domicile while we are on the premises...

I have used the 3 Newtonian Laws of Motion as the base theories for Octamom's Newtonian Housekeeping. While I could populate the descriptions with complicated equations, I must leave that bit of math for another day as I have hardening rice cereal in a bowl on which I must keep observation logs. The 3 Octamom Newtonian Housekeeping Laws are as follows:

1. A body at rest tends to stay at rest unless an extremely motivated mother is able to encourage that body to move.
It is amazing to me that a baby can sit in the middle of a room full of other siblings unrolling 16 rolls of toilet paper and all the bodies at rest in that room will stay at rest while the Charmin hits the fan. My first few observations of this phenomenon had me thinking early on that this must be an aberrant experience, something that surely did not happen with any sort of regularity. I now realize that this is a non-response that is predictable and replicable over and over, whether it is toddlers playing with toilet brushes, 4 year old unstuffing stuffed animals or 2 year olds dropping popcorn kernels in the floor vents: the bodies at rest stay at rest....

2. The rate of change of momentum of a body is proportional to the maternal force acting on that kid's body and is hopefully in the same direction.
Chores and upkeep at my house are directly related to my willingness, drive and PrePeriod Rage to keep the troops moving. If I push for a clean bathroom, the body I have set in motion to make that happen will only stay in that direction if my 'encouragement' is proportional to that child's resistance ("I could just pee in the backyard and shower off with the hose and then we wouldn't need a clean bathroom..."). If I allow my maternal force to wane in the least, the change of momentum for that child will fall off considerably, as in, that child will most likely find a way to end up playing Legos again....

3. All forces occur in pairs and these two forces are equal in magnitude and opposite in direction.
I have been able to leave this third law in its original translation from the Latin, but I do feel it appropriate to convert this heady language. In Octamom-speak it reads something like this: The fastest way for a kitchen floor to get dirty is to clean it. "Why, Octamom," you say, "I have seen this myself!" Yes, I know, Dear Reader, this is the part of my theory that I believe the most obvious. My kitchen floor can stay at a certain state of dirty, never more, never less...until I clean it. Then, within a matter of say, 30 minutes, the floor is covered in silt, sand, grass, mud and crushed organic PopTarts (seriously, they do exist...) If I had left the floor in its former state, within the 30 minute window it would look no better, no worse. But the force of my cleaning forces the opposite force to occur and therefore the floor returns to a state of crumby, muddy equilibrium. It does give me pause before I whip out the FloorMate and scrub away; I realize that I am awakening the Anti-Clean-Floor Forces that silently exist along the baseboards.

My Newtonian Housekeeping Theory is not without its weaknesses. I realize that there are those homes out there that somehow manage to stay decorator magazine fresh moment to moment. I have seen these homes, I have been in these homes, I have surprise-dropped by these homes, hoping to catch these alien homemakers in a moment of household mess humanity. It doesn't happen. Regardless of the day, regardless of the circumstance, this Stepford species of domesticity maintains the auspices of a furniture showroom. However, I am presently working on a new theory that would explain the seeming caveat to my well-honed research. I think it may have something to do with Intelligent Design....

This Little Piggy...

Always trying to encourage the kids' natural talents.....

Pseudophyllidea Marketing

It's so fun to check out all the little widgets and gadgets available for blog sites. It's my kind of shopping--techy, sparkly and free. Everything from little clocks to rotating factoids to conversion tables populate the numerous ways to individualize the enormous collective known as bloggers. I keep trying to remember Jackie O's precept to put on all your chosen jewelry and accessories for an outfit and then to remove at least one piece in order to look classy and trim. However, I do seem to hold to the Jersey Shore Girl maxim: more is more. My blog front page can take on a carnival-esque design with bleeps, blips and shiny things. I keep thinking 'no more widgets', but just like tribbles, more seem to appear in the control panels.

One little gadget that is lots of fun (and free!) is my blogpatrol program. It keeps a count of how many readers stumble by and from whence they come. It's been a fun geography lesson to show the kids that someone from Poland has seen a slide show of our Christmas holidays, that someone from the North Mariana Islands has been interested in my new Palm Centro (yea, I'm still bringing it up...). Blogpatrol also gives me a little chart on the search terms that bring people to my blog based on the labels for my posts. Handy.

Search terms have become the new cold-call lists for the new millennium. For a continuing fee, those mavens of the web marketplace can position themselves to take advantage of the high volume of searches for a variety of content markers. I perused an older version of one of these lists and found any number of Celebrity Du'Jour names, vacation spots and a multitude of pornography queries (are we ever gonna grow up, America?). But there was one term I did not find in these marketing materials, a term that has driven my blog traffic WAY up and continually stays at the top of my Blogpatrol charts. It is the singular term that has generated hits to my blog from around the world. It seems to cross all cultural and timezone barriers. It seems to surpass any governmental and religious philosophies. It is the search term that must address a common and unspoken need across the globe and it is a term I fail to find in all the web marketing material. And so now, in the spirit of fair play, I will share it with you:

TAPEWORMS

Several months ago, I shared 5 of 8's journey through the pseudo-parasite infestation he imagined himself to have (I Think Discovery Channel May Owe Me Some Money, Google Cures Tapeworms). I blogged about his fears, questions and the ultimate brilliant cure he developed himself for his psychosomatic symptoms in the aftermath of seeing a Discovery Channel presentation on human parasites. Humble pages from mommyhood. Remembrances of childhood fears and humor. And apparently a profoundly searched topic on the web. Within a day or two of posting, I began to notice the trend; readers sent to my site in answer to such queries as "cures for tapeworms", "pictures of tapeworms", "symptoms of tapeworms", and my personal favorite, "little baby tapeworms" (I don't know what kind of mental picture that conjures for you, but it definitely gives me the giggles...).

I suppose in a vague way when I began sharing life as the mom of a large family that I would find audience in those who either share this lifestyle or those who live next door to that type family and are trying to figure them out. I assumed my extended family members across the country would visit the blog frequently, virtually stopping by for a cup of coffee and a chance to catch up. But in that way we often find our niche in life and on the web, it simply never crossed my mind that I would become the go-to-girl for all things tapeworms. And yet here I am.

To that end, based on my web stats, I do feel honor bound to now post a few factoids about tapeworms, their diagnosis and their possible cures. And for the litigious happy, I do not claim to be a medical expert, I am not suggesting you take my advice over your physician's, and I am not selling anything having to do with tapeworms (yet). So to that end, check out the following facts:

1. Pseudophyllidea is the most common type of tapeworm (also known as flatworm) to find a host in a human.
2. Taenia Saginata (the beef tapeworm) is the most common tapeworm to infest humans in North America: the fish tapeworm is most common in Asia and the pork tapeworm is the most common in Latin America.
3. A tapeworm can grow from 6 inches to 26 feet in length, depending upon available nutrients from the host. However, there apparently is a little bit of a controversy over possible links as one trivia game I own says that tapeworms can grow up to 33 feet. I like the 33 feet fact--it sounds WAY grosser...
4. The best way to avoid a tapeworm infestation is to cook your meat until done---160 degrees internal temp.
5. The are pharmaceutical prescriptions and any number of herbal remedies on the market.
6. Tapeworm eggs used to be sold in the US and Asia as a diet supplement at the turn of the 20th century. Makes ephedra seem a little unambitious, huh?
7. Most symptoms are generally vague, general stomach complaints. The piece de resistance would be the presence of tapeworm parts in your personal bathroom facilities--and I'm just not gonna get more specific than that....
8. Always wash your hands after using the restroom, even in your own home.
9. Don't drink dirty water.

Well, that's about all the parasitic bantering I can take for one day. Wishes for clean intestinal tracts and good health for those of you who have arrived here seeking tapeworm info. Who knows, maybe soon, I'll feature a widgit that generates little-known parasite factoids!

It's Not Easy Being Green

6 of 8 only last year ended her reign as baby of the family, the only one in the family to have held that position for so long, almost 4 years. We worried about how she would respond to the change in title and titular privilege, but I have to say, she has continued on without really acknowledging that a new pageant was held and she had to hand over the crown. She is possibly the singular child of eight who still operates as though she were an only child and the rest of us are her staff.

6 of 8 keeps us continually delighted with her little mannerisms, her squealy girlishness and her unbelievable vocabulary and diction, no doubt picked up from her years of accompanying me to 4 of 8's auditory verbal therapy and hours of diction drill. 6 of 8's 's's hiss with precision and she loves to explain to us that a champion is someone who is a winner, an amphibian is an animal like a frog and so on.

She is also part crow or squirrel or something scavenger, loving all things shiny. She can make necklaces out of tinfoil, bracelets out of hairbands and tiaras out of pie tins---anything to be sparkly. And her favorite color of lipstick is red--just trust me, by the time you have this many and are this tired, you learn to pick your fights....

Earlier today she prevailed upon one of her older sisters to let her go dumpster diving into some of their stash of costume jewelry--and she came up with a winner. My old Mood Ring--remember those? Some kind of egg shaped rock that interacted with body heat and as a bonus would turn your finger green from the mystery metal comprising the band, probably something in a nice vintage Chinese lead. I had apparently handed off this relic to one of the girls in a pre-menstrual closet cleaning session (is there any purer energy that a Pre Period Rage?) and this heirloom was pawned off on 6 of 8, much to her great delight. She bounced down the stairs, anxious to share her good fortune and new sparkliness.

But like many material blessings, she soon discovered a dark side. At dinner, she was giggling over something, then happened to glance down to her hand. Her countenance changed immediately to a somber one. "Oh, I thought I was happy, but I guess not..."

"What?"

"Oh, the ring...it's blue so that means sad..."

M and I suppressed a grin. She continued to occasionally check in on her 'mood' throughout the meal and adjusted accordingly.

While shoveling the trenches of post-dinner, I asked her how she was feeling. "Just a minute," she chirped, quickly rotating her hand to check the mood barometer. "Oh, I guess sad because the ring is blue..."

"Who told you blue is sad?"

"Well, 2 of 8. She said if the ring is blue, it means you're sad." 6 of 8 clings to the words of 2 of 8 as if gospel. If 2 of 8 says broccoli makes you a better dancer, 6 of 8 is ready to imbibe. If 2 of 8 says ice cream will stunt your growth, 6 of 8 refrains. Oh, the power...

"Now, wait," says Wise I. "What color are your beautiful eyes? What color is the sky?"

"Blue..."

"Well, is the sky sad?"

"No, it's beautiful!"

"And so are your eyes! To me, blue is a happy color! And green can mean you're giggly and the black means you must be sleepy and ready to go to bed..."

But I must confess, I often fall into the sin of my own mood divining, looking at the circumstances around me to indicate the emotions I should run through the paces. If the dishwasher backs up, I should feel household disaster. If the lady at the checkout is snippy, my mood stone turns irritable. If the babies miss nap, if the stain gets set, if the invitation doesn't arrive, I consult my internal mood stone and respond accordingly. But who says those things must dictate the tenor of my day? What if I simply rearranged the meaning of the philosophical colors? What if the color rude inspired patience, the color tired inspired calm, the color frazzled inspired trust in a God who holds all things in His Holy Hands?

Thank You....I Think

You would simply be amazed at the things people feel free to say to you when you show up in a grocery line with a large number of children. Many an intimate conversation has been had in the cozy confines of check-out with an absolute stranger who is dying to know what kind of birth control I practice, the method by which my children escaped the borders of my uterus, how I breastfeed twins, even our economic status in providing for this tribe. I used to be somewhat put-off, then embarrassed, but fatigue and degradation of shame now allows me to just wallow into all of it, showing off my best stretch mark on my right hip (almost an angry inch wide!) and my belly button which has been popped into the shape of a creature's nose from Fraggle Rock. It's a competition of sorts, how to out-shock the inappropriate questions of the gossipy breed, all the while trying to seem as sunny and dippy as Goldie Hawn, no offense intended (or taken, I would guess)...

In the spirit of that competition, I could use your help, Dear Reader, to deal with the most awe-inspiring comment I receive, the one for which I have no comeback, the one that traffics in the varsity, nay, the professional League of Tacky. I humbly submit the following actual conversation from my field notes:

Scene: Me at Costco, children surrounding me, hair up in a clip, some form of mascara on, trying to hang on to keys, the new Centro, the wayward 4 year old and a sliding avalanche of bread and eggs...

Middle Age Pudgy Bored Woman: "Excuse me, excuse me, over here...."

Patient Me: "Yes, you possibly meddling little thing, you..."

MAPBW: (see above for explanation of acronym): "All those all yours?"

Patient Me: "Yes, these are all my groceries..."

MAPBW: "No, no, those kids, are those kids all yours?"

Slightly Less Patient Me, scouting the geography around me: "What, these children? One, two, three, four...fi...yeah, yep, all mine..."

MAPBW: "What??!!! Don't you have a television--hahahahaha!! But seriously...(looks me up and down, very slowly...) you look pretty good, you know, your figure, for having 8 kids and all...."

Fed Up Me: "How sweet...we aim to please...."

.....for having 8 kids and all....for having 8 kids and all....for having 8 kids and all......

Dear Reader, please enlighten me, does this not seem like a thinly veiled jab masquerading as a compliment....or is it true compliment offset by a complete lack of consideration as to how it might be received? Does this mean my physiognomy would be repulsive in the perkier mother of 2? Are my hips horrific until considered in the light of being a grand multipara? What should a body look like after being stretched to and fro like an epidermal rubber band? How should a bosom respond to the demands of wearing seven different cup sizes in an 8 month period? What is the acceptable level of discoloration under the eyes of the chronically sleep deprived? Is two inches of root grow-out acceptable if you have 8 kids in tow, but unacceptable if you sport only a paltry team of 7? What is the cut off for 'attractive' for a mother of 8 but woefully unacceptable of the rest of the female population? How low should I set the standard? You see why I need your counsel, Dear Reader.

Obviously these are questions that cannot all be answered here today in our short time together, but they do deserve my utmost pondering. As I contemplate my Fraggle Rock proboscis belly button.....

Mother's Day

It seems the longer I'm a mother, the worse a friend I'm becoming. I received in the mail late last week a card from a precious woman in the Lord from a church I attended over 25 years ago. She and I have been sending each other Mother's Day cards since I first entered the sorority almost 18 years ago--and for the second year in a row, I failed to send her a card pre-Mother's day (business idea: you know how they have those crazy belated birthday cards? Maybe we need them for all the other holidays, too. 'Merry Post Christmas', 'Love You Later Valentines'...Hallmark execs, feel free to contact me for more marketing magic like this...) Last year I had a great excuse; I was only a handful of days post-delivery of the twins and had experienced less REM sleep than the Apollo 13 crew. This year, well, hmmm. What can I say? It's a made up holiday anyway, right? (and tomorrow I'll send my belated Mother's Day card...)

My children and their father have worked hard this year to make this a special day for me. I was awakened to fresh spinach quiche and creamer with coffee (that is not a typo). I was able to complete my morning run without interruption. 2 of 8 organized the troops for quick changes into our Sunday best costumes and we enjoyed a sweet morning at church. Lunch was lettuce wraps at one of my favorite places, followed by a long nap. Currently, the sounds of my kitchen being destroyed all in the name of love and dinner I don't have to prepare are filtering back to my spot in front of the computer.

But I have a Mother's Day confession, maybe one you yourself can share. I have mothered for almost 18 years, been pregnant 10 times, birthed 8 babies, breastfed for going on 10 years (don't do the math--it might freak you out...)and yet I still find myself wondering where the adults are. These kids look to their father and I as the seniors in the groups, the ones who should have the answers, the provision and the ideology, while I keep looking over my shoulder trying to figure out who they're looking to. Pretty heady stuff--especially when high school doesn't seem all that long ago, when I see people chronologically my own age and assume they are older than me. I have known peers who have easily slipped into their roles as grown-ups, chatting up kids, college saving plans and tax shelters with ease. They respond easily to being called 'Mr.' and 'Mrs.', while I still get the giggles. I can be conversant with this group, but I keep waiting for some unseen film director to yell, "Cut! Try to do it with more believability this time, girl! You are supposed to be playing the role of Responsible Adult, replete with answers and confidence!" But all delusions aside, my driver's license states in glaring reality that I am part of the middle age continuum, the beacon for the young and the strength for the old. Little ol' girly me.

My Mother's Day gifts this year are a collection of clues as to my personality. Those of my readers who know me will find this confirming, those readers who know me through my writings will find this collection revealing. Beautiful new bath towels, chocolate non-pariels, peanut M&Ms, vanilla candle, a pedicure, bath salts and lotions, Star Trek postcards and that most ironic of gifts, the Sigmund Freud action figure. I would illumine you more on this collection, but my Mother's Day dinner seems to be taking on a hint of singe and so I must retire to the kitchen and act like I am in charge of this household while still secretly delighted that it still feels like I'm playing house....

Twin Toddlin'

They always say that a workout partner can help you maintain your goals and stay accountable. So to that end.....

Leading a Double Life

Can you believe it? We survived a year of no sleep, double the diapers, double the laundry, double the joy, and fatigue to some exponential factor I can't begin to explain. Yes, 7 and 8 of 8 celebrated their big day. To form, 7 of 8 was lady-like and delicate with her cake, while 8 of 8 began by trying to pick up the whole cake in his mouth and followed up with a double-handed grab. At the one hour mark, 7 of 8 was still happily eating away, one finger-lick at a time, while 8 of 8 had demolished his cake, smeared frosting on anything within reach, experienced a complete sugar rush that resulted in pounding and jiggling his highchair until it looked like he was attached to a jackhammer, had a full bath and passed out asleep as he experienced a sugar crash.


We were blessed to have one set of the grandparents come to town for the festivities and had numerous singing phone calls from many other of the crew. We are so thankful to the Lord for such an amazing year...