My stomach is growling so persistently that I just stopped what I was doing to check that there wasn’t a (small) wild animal on the loose in our house.

There wasn’t.

I’m not even hungry, just noisy.

Sometimes being pregnant is a little bit weird.

That is all.

Dear Time Change, my old nemesis:

Interesting move, oh stealer of sleep.

Sadie has actually been happier since the time change, because we’ve been letting her go to bed at 7:00, which feels like 6:00, which is when she would choose to go to sleep. (We usually convince her to hold out another hour, so that she doesn’t wake up before the sun in the morning.) And everyone else has had trouble figuring out how to fall asleep and when, but no one else melts down about it.

Overall, we were fine Sunday. We were fine Monday. Tuesday was okay. I was starting to think this particular case of spring forward might not be so bad.

And then Wednesday happened.

See, with Sadie going to bed early and getting up early, but everyone else going to bed late and still getting up early because Sadie’s up early, some of us are a little bit freaking exhausted. And by some of us I mean all of us. I could have slept all day today. The older kids are so overtired that they can’t quite remember how to get along with each other, and I keep being called on to mediate disputes over such important matters as Whose Turn It Is To Look Out The Window At The Birdfeeder. (Um, everybody’s?)

See what happened there? I started to think the time change might be okay. I was lured into complacency. And that’s when the havoc began.

Well played, Daylight Savings. Well played indeed.

No love,
Me

Related Posts: Are you need of additional rants on Daylight Savings Time? Oh please, let me help. There’s more here, here, here, here, and here. I’m not such a fan of the whole time change notion.

Have you ever noticed that when your six-year-old gets out of bed ten minutes after lights out because he just discovered he has a splinter in his hand, you can’t very well say, this is not the time to have a splinter, please go back to bed?

You pretty much just have to deal with the splinter. Right then. With the already-tired child who isn’t going to want to let you anywhere near the splinter-spot, since it’s starting to swell and hurt.

Even if you were planning to eat dinner right then instead.

Yeah, I hadn’t ever given it any particular thought before either. But now, let me assure you, I have.

Do you ever spend the whole day worrying about something, maybe freaking out a little bit, and then it turns out there was nothing to worry about? I do this a lot when I’m pregnant. Like: When was the last time the baby moved? I don’t think the baby’s moved in a while. I can’t remember the last time there was movement. Oh no. What if Something is Wrong? Oh no. Oh wait, was that a kick? Okay, that was a kick. Nevermind.

Monday I did the same thing, worrying over the toddler. She’s fine, she was fine, she will continue to be fine. This did not stop me from spending half the afternoon fretting. (She complained—quite forcefully—of a tummyache. And I think she really had one. But it got better without any real intervention, as such things usually do.) I think I spent three hours’ worth of mental energy needlessly wondering whether there was something I should do to help her.

Is it just part of the job, this worrying that usually turns out to be for naught? I think it is, at least for me. That’s the way I’m wired, for one thing. I am a champion worrier. But there’s also the fact that a lot of the time, it’s just me making the calls on what’s fine and what’s A Problem, and a number of small people are relying on me to get it right. I have to know when to call in backup or break out the medicine chest. (Um. We don’t have a real medicine chest, I just like the visual.)

And maybe worry is the wrong word. Maybe it’s more like watchfulness. Increased awareness. Making sure everything works itself out-ness.

So I watch, and I wait, and I figure that most of the time everything will be just fine, because most of the time it is. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying the next time.

Thing #8,957 I never expected to hear any of my children say:

Child number three to child number four: “I’m sorry I ate your flower.”

(Yes, real flower. Literal flower. Weed-flower picked by child four from the backyard. Bitten right out of her hand by child three to—I think—I hope—demonstrate the edibility of said flower. And then it wasn’t really a flower anymore.)

“Eh, is okay,” said child four, and tossed the remaining stem over her shoulder.

And that pretty much sums up my weekend. How about you?

Says the husband: Woah, you look pregnant today!
Says me: I know! Must be the outfit.
Says he: Or the whole BEING PREGNANT THING.
Says me: Could be that. I suppose.

We subscribe to a bunch of kids’ magazines around here. A couple of kids’ literary magazines, a couple of science magazines, a history magazine. This and that. A regular influx of new ideas to read and ponder = good, I think.

One of the kids’ science magazines just arrived. This month’s theme: Growing Up. Much of the focus was on animals—hatching eggs, metamorphosis, how puppies are born. But one story was about—go on, guess—human gestation. Pregnancy.

The story is set up as though the narrator is speaking to the child-reader. When you were in your mommy’s tummy, this happened! And then this! Like that.

So I read it with the kids, which led to them asking all sorts of good questions:

Why does it say the mom will see a doctor? Why doesn’t it say “doctor or midwife?”

Why does it say the baby was born in a hospital? Why doesn’t it say “might have been born in a hospital?” Or “some babies aren’t born in hospitals?”

Why is the mom lying down when her baby is born?

Dear magazine-makers: when my nine- and six-year-olds can create a more accurate and inclusive description of birth than your educational content providers did, you may have a problem.

And then the kids and I got to discuss, just a little and at an age-appropriate level, why some women choose midwives and some choose doctors.

People often think we use a midwife because she’s friendlier than a doctor, or because we like her more. Um… no. We are friendly with our midwife. We live in the same neighborhood. Our kids have been to each other’s birthday parties. Our personalities mesh well. But I first hired her because she’s an excellent midwife. And I preferred to be attended by a midwife rather than a doctor both because I wanted to give birth in a particular location (home), and because I wanted a health care practitioner that followed the midwifery model of care (as opposed to the medical model of care).

The midwifery model of care, though, doesn’t mean “care provided by a midwife,” just as the medical model doesn’t mean “care provided by a medical doctor.” Each model describes a different philosophy of care, and involves different practices and norms; each is associated with different outcomes. There are valid and logical reasons for choosing each of these models, and both have a rightful place in our health care system.

The midwifery model focuses on health, wellness, and prevention, while the medical model focuses on managing problems and complications. (The midwifery model also pays special attention to identifying and referring those women who need obstetrical intervention.) Care is individualized in the midwifery model, and made routine in the medical model. The midwifery model is associated with lower rates of intervention, and with higher maternal satisfaction. It also fits with and honors my personal belief that—under normal circumstances—my body was made to be able to give birth.

There are doctors who follow the midwifery model, and some midwives who more closely follow the medical model. (Some have argued that the models should be called the physiological model and the pathological model, to better describe them, but those names haven’t really caught on. Go figure.) Asking a few pertinent questions can usually help a woman determine what model of care a birth attendant embraces.

Not everybody believes what I believe; not everybody wants the same things I want in a birth attendant. But there are real and measurable differences between these two models of care, and we should each be able to choose a birth attendant whose philosophy best suits our circumstances and our values. Which philosophy fits us best is something we can each decide for ourselves. Of course.

For more information on these models of care:
The Midwifery Task Force’s brief definition of the midwifery model of care is available here. An expanded explanation can be read here.

Our Bodies, Ourselves offers definitions of both the midwifery model of care and the medical model of care. Childbirth Connection also compares the two models.

Dear nasty-looking spider that just crawled through my kitchen window and into my sink:

I don’t know how you squeezed your big old spider body through the window screen, but I see that you did. Was my shiny white kitchen sink so enticing that you had to abandon your shadowy web in the crevice of the eaves outside? Does this look like the obvious place to set up shop and rake in the bugs? Are you just really into fruit flies? (And if so, are you on a low-cal spider diet? Because we won’t really have a problem with fruit flies until we have summer fruit.)

Methinks it matters not, because I just rinsed you down the drain. Yes, yes, I maybe could have caught you and relocated you, but you kept darting away from me, and really, if you come into my house with weird poisonous-looking markings and stripey legs, you should either cooperate with me or expect a quick demise.

Remember that next time. (Oh wait, you can’t.) Well, tell your friends. (Hmm, nope.) Let this be a lesson… okay, there may be no take-away here. Spiders of the world, take note. And stay out of my sink.

Love,
Me

Dane, seeing that I’m staring at a blank Word doc, says: “Hey, you know what’s great for writer’s block?”

And, though I don’t have writer’s block—I have thinker’s block—I say, “What’s that?”

“Doing the dishes while I run to the store!” And here he smiles charmingly.

“Sadly,” I say, “I already planned to clean the bathroom.”

But thanks to his expert negotiating skills, I end up doing the dishes and cleaning the bathroom after all; he deals with the laundry and sweeps the floors.

And still I have a touch of the thinker’s block. So what I have for you, in lieu of an actual coherent post, is a list of bullet points.

- Teaching kids self-sufficiency is awesome. It also leads to the nine-year-old accidentally sweetening our pot of oatmeal with mango tea instead of apple juice. Or at least it did today. The good news: mango tea in oatmeal is tasty. The bad news: I’m not super-sure it wasn’t caffeinated. (The package didn’t indicate, either way.) Now I’m wondering why no one has ever marketed caffeinated oatmeal before. Seems like there’d be somebody willing to buy that.

- The kids had a stellar two-hour quiet time today. (Insert raucous applause here.) Quiet time has been a little bit, um, nonexistent since the younger girls gave up their naps, but today it went very well indeed. I have hope for the future of quiet time once again. And to go along with the quiet, I was sicker than I’ve been in days, so I mostly just sat on a sunny patch of floor and rested my head. For the whole two hours. Bah, who needs productivity! Yeah, me.

- At my midwife’s suggestion, I checked a pilates video out from the library. Because while in theory I’m sure I’d love to take a regular prenatal yoga/pilates/miscellaneous fitness class, I think we can all recognize that it ain’t gonna happen. Thus far my video has taught me that even in pregnancy, posture is an attainable goal. Which is good, in case I was worried that one of the side effects of pregnancy might be that all my bones would turn to pudding. In related news, if anyone has a different prenatal pilates video to recommend, go right ahead.

And with that, we shall end our bulleted list. Feel free to return to your regularly scheduled… um… your regular… uh… schedule. (Thinker’s block. Strikes again. It’s serious.)

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Means: There are leftover cupcakes. And there’s about to be one less.

“Okay, kids! Bedtime!”
Means: So I can eat another cupcake.

“Oh, I don’t know what I want for dinner.”
Means: How many cupcakes do I have to eat before it’s a meal?

“Are you going to run to the store?”
Means: So I can eat a cupcake without having to share?

“I think we’re out of breakfast things.”
Means: There will be no more cupcakes left by morning.