One thing that’s way, way easier for me with this fifth child is breastfeeding. For example, right now I am nursing him AND two-hand typing. Serious! I was reading a post by a first-time mom, and she said that one thing she hated about nursing was that she was totally stuck, totally bored: she couldn’t read or write or do anything because she had no free hands. This situation can improve with experience, unless of course your baby is of the sort who unlatches and screams at the sound of a page being turned, and babies of that sort do unfortunately exist, and in that case you are well and truly stuck and may want to take up meditation, or using the power of your mind to bring bad to your enemies and good to your friends, or some other activity you can do utterly silently and motionlessly. But so far I have had good luck with babies in this regard, and baby Henry is nursing obliviously even though my arm is jittering under his downy head as I type. I can also walk around, unload the dish rack, add an item to the shopping list, pack a small carry-on, etc. I PREFER to sit in a chair with my feet up, reading Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, but I can move around and do other things if I WANT to.

Actually, EVERYTHING is easier with this fifth child. My first baby was difficult. My second baby was more difficult in some ways, though easier in others, and also more enjoyable because I knew SOME things and had already made many of the Big Decisions (co-sleep or crib or bassinet or bureau drawer; cloth or disposable; etc.). The twins were kind of challenging because there were two, and I am sure glad I didn’t have them FIRST, but they weren’t as difficult as I’d been expecting. And this baby is–so far–easy.

He’s still a BABY, of course. He still wakes me just after I’ve fallen asleep. He still cries right after we sit down to watch a movie or eat dinner. He still has a huge blow-out diaper right after I’ve changed him, or right after I’ve buckled him into the car seat. But I sling him around like a new purse; I tuck him right into our household, barely rearranging the furniture to make room.

When I’m driving somewhere I’ve never been before, the drive seems really LONG. Then on the way home, when I know where I’m going or don’t have to worry about being anywhere on time, the drive seems so short. It has been the same for me with the babies. Well, except that I would have had to make the outward journey twice without coming home in between. And then now I guess I’d be saying I was on the way home with this baby–but then what were the twins? And really even the second outward journey was easier than the first…except when it was harder…so I guess that would be like driving to a familiar place but having engine trouble on the way. Also, it’s not like I don’t still go nuts all the time, so I’m not sure I want to use a “peaceful easy drive” comparison after all. And it’s coming up on 3 weeks now and I still haven’t been able to get my act together and bring the bouncy seat up from the basement, a task that would take all of five minutes, and the house is a total pit with heaps of clutter on every surface, and how does THAT enter into the driving thing? And what about when I’m standing over a sleeping baby at my bedtime, thinking, “Do I wake him and nurse him, or take a chance that he’ll wake me 5 minutes after I drift off?” Well, Henry is crying now (WHY IS HE???), and that makes it really hard to think. Someday I would like to make just ONE good Life Analogy, but it will not be today.

I am very grateful to those of you who pushed me to call the OB. I am a terrible, terrible wimp about calling the on-call doctor. I’ve done so only one time in my whole life, and it was when I thought I was in early labor with the twins—and even then, I waited until the sun came up to call. I tell you this with cringing shame. But anyway, I did call the OB on Saturday, because you guys are so bossy, and I got a very bossy antibiotic that won’t let me eat for 2 hours before or 1 hour after taking it and makes me set an alarm to take it in the middle of the night, and I am so so SO glad I got it two days earlier than I would have if I’d followed my usual wimpy ways.

Elizabeth is going to cause me to lose whatever mind I have left. After several nights of going down fine for bedtime and naps, she’s back to the crying. Last night she cried for an hour and a half after her bedtime. I finally went in and snuggled her and patted her and comforted her—and then when I put her in her crib she cried. So then I rocked her to sleep, feeling both Right and Wrong about it, and she didn’t wake up when I put her in her crib, but she DID wake up at 3:30 a.m. and didn’t go back to sleep. So! You can imagine what a happy, happy household we are this morning, with a crabby, nodding-off mother and a crabby, tired toddler. She keeps emitting these SCREAMS at NOTHING, and I am about ready to join her.

Today I really must start packing for the trip to my cousin’s wedding. We leave Thursday morning, which means I have three days for packing. I must do it! I must! I must stop blogging and go start on the packing!

I have been waiting so long to dye my hair again. I’d dyed it back to my own color shortly before getting unexpectedly pregnant, and my OB has a stroke if his patients color their hair, so even though I keep reading it’s probably safe, I don’t like to tease him and I’ve been suffering my natural color for about ten months now. That’s too long. Last night I colored it—and the color didn’t take. Did you know that hair color can expire? I did not—and if I HAD known, I would have assumed it was like those things that tell you to throw out ALL your make-up every 2/3/6 months. Not because they want more of your money, oh no! It’s purely because they are concerned about your health!

I’ve acquired many boxes of hair color on one clearance or another, and I’ve been sitting here all smug on my pile of riches—but now I find out that I am sitting on a pile of useless boxes. The active ingredients change with time, so you can get a different color than you expect, or patchy results, or no effect at all. I guess I should be grateful that I got the last option, but I was still disappointed: I was expecting to see my light-absorbing brown-blonde change to a more appealing, light-reflecting, blondier color. But no! I removed the towel for the big reveal—and there was my very own brown-blonde as usual, sucking the light and color from the room. Well, now I have to toss out a bunch of hair color, and then go buy another box.

At least my hair is all yum soft from the conditioner that comes with the hair color, so if you met me in the dark you would think I had great hair. Man, why don’t they sell that conditioner separately? It is so much better than any conditioner I’ve ever used.

Good news: I went to the dentist about that chipped tooth, and it “only” needed a replacement filling, not a crown. So it was “only” $250—but that’s a heck and a half better than it could have been.

Bad news: We thought Paul had paid vacation time saved up, since he never uses any. He took 8 days off from work when Henry was born. We just got his paycheck and there’s no vacation time on it. I thought it was a problem of Paul forgetting to tell his employer he wanted to use vacation time. Paul thinks it’s a problem of not having any vacation time, possibly because of vacation time expiring, unpaid, when it’s not used, or for some other stressful reason.

Good news: It looks like our new insurance does not have higher copays for office visits, even though they told us it would.

Bad news: They were also wrong about the monthly employee contribution being lower.

Good news: The library was having a book sale, and I got 19 new-looking children’s books for $7.

Bad news: Rob lost a library book. I’m feeling that compulsion to keep looking and looking and looking for it, even in places I have already looked for it.

Good news: Less than a week until the trip to my cousin’s wedding (I’m going with my parents, Edward, and Henry), and I’m still glad I’m going. I think it’s going to be fun. My parents and I are buying lots of treats for the car ride, and my mom and I saved up a whole bunch of celebrity magazines to read.

Bad news: I tried on the dress I was planning to wear to the wedding, and it looks terrible on me. I’d thought the high-waisted style would be kind to my postpartum figure, but actually it looks maternity. Also, I’m not sure why I ever bought such an ugly dress.

Good news: I have a skirt and shirt that I bought a long time ago because they looked cute even though they didn’t suit the occasion I was shopping for that day. I tried them on, and they’re PERFECT. Not only does the skirt hide my tum, it’s long and I won’t have to wear nylons, and also the shirt totally emphasizes my great breastfeeding rack.

Bad news: I’m pretty sure my incision is infected. It started getting bad on Friday at 5:00. I am not kidding: my body knows office hours, and is mean to me. I’ve never had an incision get infected before, so now I’m worrying about hysterectomies performed in a last-ditch effort to save my life. Also, I’m worried that this will mean something bad for the trip.

Good news: I have Demer0l.

Bad news: Henry already looks older. He’s not even 2-1/2 weeks old and he’s lost some of that itsy newborn look.

Good news: Henry nursed for a long time last night, and I was up until 11:30 nursing him—but then he slept until 7:00 this morning.

Bad news: I’m practically blowing off Father’s Day. I kept forgetting to have the kids make cards or even to have them tell me what to buy. Last night I got Paul a bag of Doritos, a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and a box of Gobstoppers. The kids didn’t even choose it, and I think of that as being the number-one most important thing for a Father’s Day present: that the children be involved in the selection.

Good news: Who the hell cares? I’m okay with this plan for this year. At least he’s getting something.

Bad news: I’m having a problem with Blogger: it’s really really slow to show what I’m typing. Paul thinks the problem might be with my computer, not with Blogger. Either way, I don’t know what’s wrong or how to fix it. Also, I’m getting a headache.

Good news: I have a big bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. (Not Paul’s.)

Shannon is suggesting we pool our recipes for chocolate-chip cookies, and I’m all for that idea: I’m going through my cookie stash even faster than I’m going through my muffin stash. Go on over and sign up so I can steal your secret family recipe.

This is my fourth time through postpartum, and Paul and I are getting better and better at handling it. What helps most of all is this kind of thing (also, observe my mad Photoshop skillz):

Paul is worth all the food scraps he crams down our non-garbage-disposal-equipped sink when he does stuff like this for me. While I’m the hospital he goes to the grocery store and buys all the foods I want after I have a baby (theme: “things they fed me in the maternity ward where I was ha-a-a-a-a-a-ppyyyyyyyy *bursting into tears*”): cranberry juice, milk, deli turkey and fancy chunky grainy breads, colored wraps and Romaine lettuce and tomatoes and chicken breast and Caesar dressing. Then, whenever he’s home, he handles my meals. The above photo is of what I found when I was exhausted and sad at the end of the day and had just peeled an endlessly-nursing baby off of me for what felt like the first time in a week. I went to my computer and there was a chicken Caesar wrap, a glass of milk, and a vase of roses. I shouldn’t even be telling you about this, because in the future when I want to complain about Paul you’ll all be like, “Yeah, whatever, you spoiled bitch.”

Food is the absolute best thing for my morale (well, good food and good narc0tics), but I’ve also found that small accomplishments are helpful. I’m not saying I wear myself out cleaning the house from tip to toe, because AS IF, and also I think it’s more helpful to let that go as much as possible. But if the kitchen counters are making me feel sad and overwhelmed and hopeless because they are covered in dried milk puddles and little blue marks from someone’s clay and speckles from boiling fudge, and I manage to wipe them down, I feel like maybe I have a grip on life after all. Also: pretty, sparkly counters.

So this is what I do. I am good at keeping a mental list, but you could do this on paper too—as long as the list itself won’t overwhelm you by its very existence. What I do is I put small items on the list in order of priority, choosing each day which one I really want to try to get to. Today it was the counters: I didn’t care if I got nothing else done all day, but I did want to get to the counters. Yesterday it was a couple of bills I wanted to pay. The two days before, it was that I wanted to get some digital photos cropped and uploaded so I could order prints for my in-laws.

If I don’t get the task done that day, it’s no big deal—I just try again the next day. But if I DO get it done, I feel pretty good. I feel like I’m managing to get things done after all, and like maybe I’m coping okay after all. Sometimes, if I got the top list item done, I might even think of tackling the SECOND list item! Superwoman!

I am most likely to be successful if I do my list item early in the day. Today I did the counters while I was still in my pajamas. I got breakfast for Rob and William, and I went into the kitchen intending to make Rob’s lunch, and instead I spritzed all the counters. I let the spritz sit while I got Edward dressed. When I came back, I went swipe-swipe-swish with a couple of paper towels and I was done. I didn’t lift up the toaster and clean under it, I just did the minimum—but it’s surprising how much of a difference it made, and I felt all perky and pleased with myself. Highly recommended, if you can keep yourself from launching one of those cleaning cycles where now you have to scrub the sink, and that reminds you to fill the soap dispenser, and that reminds you to do the one in the bathroom too, and that causes you to spritz the bathroom sink “while you’re at it,” and so on until you’ve totally overdone it and also Rob has missed the bus.

What the hell is up with Blogger and/or my computer? I’m typing, and it’s way, way behind. For example, right now the screen is showing me typing “and/or” near the end of the first sentence, even though I’m all the way over here at the end of the third sentence typing “typing.” Frustrating.

I took Henry for his 2-week check-up this morning. On the way, I dropped off my prescription at a pharmacy with a drive-up window. My plan was to thank them when I picked up the prescription for having a drive-up. What a great thing for a mother of five, four of whom are currently in the car and three of whom have to be buckled/unbuckled and can’t be trusted to walk. But when I came back 90 minutes later for my “this will be ready in 30 minutes” prescription, it was not yet ready.

One reason I get very, very crabby when that happens is that I know there is no one to bitch at. I worked for awhile as a pharmacy technician and the problem is usually understaffing, and bitching at the clerk just makes the clerk feel yuckier than she already feels: she doesn’t like the understaffing, either, and she’s about to quit from being run off her feet and yelled at all the time. Complaining to management doesn’t help, since then they yell at the clerk, too, rather than drawing the conclusion that their “save money by pissing off customers” idea isn’t working out. So I just held my teeth together in a grim approximation of a smile and said, “These things happen” and “I’ll come back later”—when I would really have preferred to let loose about how annoying this was and how I really couldn’t come back later unless I loaded FOUR children into the car.

One thing that helps get the prescription done on time is to tell the clerk at drop-off when you’ll be back. Like, if I’d said, “Okay, we’re going to a doctor appointment and I’ll be back in an hour,” she would have written that time on the prescription and it probably would have been ready. But I was a big dim and didn’t think to do this.

Hey, do you have any pressing pharmacy questions? Like, why does it take so long to fill a prescription? Or, why do they always give me the generic? Or, do the clerks remember everyone in town who has a male-enhancement prescription, and do they notice how many tablets are gone through per month? Ask away, that’s what I’m here for. Swistle: Where to go for HOTTT pharmacy tips!

Last night was a bad night: Henry was fine, just nursing as usual, but Elizabeth woke up crying at 3:10 a.m. and never did go back to sleep. I wrote a whole post about this and about how Paul handled things (a highlight: he hit the wall with his open palm and said in an aggrieved “is this too much to ask?” tone of voice to his post-surgery, up-breastfeeding-in-the-night wife, “ALL I want to do is SLEEP”), but then I deleted it because I noticed it crossed the line from “Ha, ha, my husband is such a cheesehead” into “I actually dislike him and this is a bad marriage,” and since that’s not true, I thought maybe 2 weeks postpartum on 4 hours of sleep was not the right time to write about whether he could possibly love me if he thinks missing sleep is so catastrophically miserable and yet happily lets me suffer it for eight and a half years and counting.

Then I wrote about The Sadness and how I feel it creeping up on me the way it always does after a baby, but then “The Sadness” seemed like such a stupid name as soon as it was out of my head and on the page, and the whole post seemed melodramatic, and I thought it sounded self-pitying and like I was asking for a huggy comment section, so out it went and I will talk about postpartum sadness some other time when I can handle it in a less maudlin manner.

Then I wrote half a sentence about kids not letting Rob sit down on the bus, and I realized I don’t even want to think about that, let alone write about it.

It’s a Down day. I was planning a Target trip, but what was I thinking? With FOUR children, one of whom will want to nurse on 15 seconds’ notice and one of whom woke up four hours too early and one of whom has been grabbing things off shelves and flinging them? I would end up grabbing upper arms and hissing, I just know it, so let’s not do that today.

Instead I put in a load of laundry and tried not to go all martyr over it. Later perhaps I’ll make some fudge. I’ll nurse the baby and not try to do anything else. I am on the verge of tears for no reason, which is classic postpartum for me, and I think it would be best not to push it today.

Also, I have a question for you: What on earth are you doing for Father’s Day? It snuck up on me and I have no idea what to do. I mean, what to have the KIDS do. I don’t get Paul a present from me, but I organize the children to do something for him, and that usually means a trip to the store, but I don’t see that happening. Should I just have them scribble some cards and then I can order a pizza or something? What are you doing that’s easy and cheap? (Hey, keep it clean!)

Look, you can see my pretty new car seat. Er, Henry’s pretty new car seat. Since we knew we were having a boy, my intention was to get a boyish car seat—but it happened that my clear favorite was one that could be for either boys or girls. That’s the Graco SnugRide in the Devon pattern, in case you want to be car seat twins with me.

Today I loaded Henry into it, and I took four children downtown, half an hour away, to City Hall to get the birth certificate error fixed. This is the kind of downtown that is all one-way streets, paid and/or parallel parking, and other cars swooping around as I bumble along anxiously looking for the right street number, driving in the wrong lane because I am not sure I know how one-way streets are supposed to work and so I treat them like two-way streets. I was not made to live in a big city, and my periodic forays confirm this time and time again.

I would like to milk this situation for all the pity and sympathy I can get—but the fact is that I found City Hall on the first try, I found the parking lot, I chose the entrance that happened to be right outside the correct office, and I dealt with helpful city employees who got me out of there in about 10 minutes. The only glitch: I got all the way in there and realized I’d left the form in the car and had to lug everyone back out to the parking lot and back in again, but that was over quickly.

You are going to think I’m just trying to impress you when I say we stopped at Taco Bell on the way home, but the thing is I was feeling high on the success of the outing so far, and I pushed it, and I shouldn’t have because by the time we left, Elizabeth was making awful toddler noises (it’s screaming! no, it’s whining! no, it’s screaming!) and Henry was wailing that riveting newborn cry. Still, I felt good! We survived! We ate tacos! And when we got home, it was naptime!

One more thing, and then I should really spend some time with one of my many offspring. On Sunday–get this–I actually said to my mother, “You know what….Henry hasn’t spit up even one time.” Oh oh oh. *shakes head sadly* You would think that a mother of five would understand at least the basics, but no. So of course yesterday Henry spit up all over my shoulder, and today he did one of those projectile spit-ups that left his own baby self pristine but covered his car seat, my nursing pillow, and the blanket and pillow I use when I sleep in the recliner. Nice shot, Henry! Also, now I live in fear, because what I actually said to my mother was that he hadn’t spit up OR peed/pooped on me.

I have been up and down all day today, and it is only 9:00 in the morning. This is Paul’s first day back to work.

Last night started out well: I nursed Henry at 8:00, and he was still asleep in his infant seat at my bedtime so I went to bed, and he didn’t wake until after 2:00 in the morning so I got some nice by-myself sleeping done, and also it was encouraging to see him sleep a big chunk of time like that.

But what woke him was Elizabeth, crying, which she’s been doing a lot more of since we brought Henry home, especially at bedtime and naptime and during the night. And Paul let her cry for a long, long time, and I could hear him SNORING which made me feel like putting a stake through his heart. And when he finally went to her, he BROUGHT HER OUT to let her sleep snuggled on him. And then he said nonchalantly, “She’ll probably be up at 5:30 when I get up.” That’s what he said to his exhausted, breastfeeding-in-the-middle-of-the-night wife, who was facing her first day of five children on her own. So that was not a good beginning to the day.

Then he went off to work, clearly happy to be getting the hell out of here, and Elizabeth did indeed get up when he did, so at 5:30 in the morning I was watching a newborn and a toddler through bleary, uncomprehending eyes. But she was cheerful and cute, humming to herself and making little comments about everything, padding around in her pink sleeper feeties, and Henry was all alert and cute, and okay, I can handle this. Then the sudden awareness that the twins have a check-up this morning, and that probably means I should scrape a layer of dirt off of them first. And the discovery, in the kitchen, of a piled-high-and-squashed-down trash can, and a teetering-full dish rack.

I am always hoping, when Paul has to do (some of) my job for awhile, that he will be left thinking, “Oh my god, I had no idea how hard that was! I’ve got to help out more!” Instead he seems to be left thinking, “Oh my god, I had no idea how hard that was! Thank god I don’t have to do it anymore!”

********

But THIS was a big Up: I took the twins to their doctor appointment (Oh, hi! It’s 11:30 now! This post is taking me forever!), and of course I had to take Henry and William also, and it went fine. Totally fine. I put Henry’s car seat and the less well-behaved twin Edward into the double stroller, and I let Elizabeth walk, and William opened doors, and it went fine. So now I feel better about the goddamned stupid department of vital records making that stupid-ass mistake little birth certificate mix-up, and I think it will be humanly possible to go this week to fix it. Not today, though. Today I’m all used up.

I am currently using my Newborn Survival Sleep Plan, which took me four babies to perfect. The NSSP takes these things into account:

1) That I can’t comfortably sleep lying down for a couple of weeks after a c-section (I like to sleep on my side, which pulls at the incision).

2) That I start losing my mind if I have to repeatedly deal with a crying, crying baby in the middle of the night when I am so tired already, and I hate how that makes me feel about the baby.

3) That in my experience so far, newborns are too dim to learn much from what I do to them at this early stage.

4) That sleep is more valuable to survival and sanity than almost anything else, and that I don’t really care what I have to do to get it.

So this is the plan: I sleep in our extremely comfortable La-Z-Swistle recliner, mostly reclined, which is very cozy. If the baby wants to sleep there with me, he may. (He always does.) If I nurse him in the night and fall asleep that way, so be it. (It is always so being it.) Bad habits be damned!

Actually, I’m more nervous about it than I pretend. Who DOESN’T project forward, imagining that each deviance from your intended path will lead to a permanent, unchangeable, highly regrettable situation? I imagine the baby, two years later, still sleeping only on me and only in the recliner.

But so far I have had great luck with this gamble. What happens is that after a few weeks the baby gets a little heavier, I get a little tired of sleeping in the recliner, my incision heals, and pretty soon I don’t feel as much like having a damp hot baby pinning me down all night. I start going down my intended path without even meaning to, feeling naturally inclined to put the baby down in his bassinet instead of automatically going back to sleep with him on me. I recover from the surgery and am less desperate for sleep, and so I can tolerate a little nighttime training. Before I know it, the baby’s in the bassinet and I’m in bed. (See how it sounds so smooth and easy when I am looking back on how it happened with other babies? Stay tuned to see how it goes in real time.)

But for now, NSSP is in effect, and it is cozy.

I love the newborn stage. I wish there was a way to have more newborns without having to have more children.

Henry’s torso is the size, shape, and approximate heft of a loaf of zucchini bread. His skin is soft and foldy, like a soft elephant’s. His hands and feet are purpley. His legs are skinny. His eyes look like they belong to a woodland creature. He has big wrinkles under his eyes. A newborn-size diaper is big on him, down to his knees. He still likes to have his legs folded up against his tummy. His hair is too, too soft. His mouth pops open if you touch his cheek.

I had my stitch check at the OB’s a couple days ago. He was showing me how he wanted me to take care of the incision, and he was using a huge q-tip dipped in hydrogen peroxide and he was saying, “Really GET IN THERE with it.” And I was like, “Uh huh. Listen: the best I can give you is blind, fearful dabbing.” And when I say “I was like,” what I mean you to understand is that I said nothing of the sort, and in fact I said, “Okay!”

I got the preview copy of the birth certificate in the mail. If there are any errors, I have to bring it in person to the city where Henry was born, to the downtown area of one-way streets and paid parking, and I have to do it within 14 days, and they’re not open on weekends so I have to bring four children with me including two toddlers and a newborn. I was fervently hoping there would be no errors. There is an error. It is such a dumb error: they listed my maiden name as Swistle Middle Maiden Maiden. Just, my maiden name twice. But I have to go tell them in person that that’s not correct, and I have to do it this coming week. Furthermore, I know from experience that when I correct this error, they will claim to be unable to put my current legal name in its current legal form (Swistle Middle Maiden Married), but will claim to be able to do only Swistle Middle Married. I hate them.