For the third time, I am pregnant on my birthday. For the second time, I’m not supposed to be.

To be truthful though, I wasn’t pregnant for much of my birthday the first time – just five hours and forty-three minutes, to be exact. And then the Princess was born, the best birthday present I have ever gotten.

At this time eight short years ago, I was holding my newborn and being injected with Methergine since it had been a fast labor and the bleeding wouldn’t let up. I didn’t want to eat or drink. I didn’t want to sleep. I just wanted to hold this amazing creature that had finally decided to show up. Only after a few hours did I realize that it was my birthday, too.

As we packed up and got ready to leave the birth center, I got a call from Mr. MG – he was layed over on his way home from Panama, but would be in that night. For a week. The poor man was so tired the entire time he was home, I doubt he remembers much of it.

And here we are now, and here she is. We didn’t know it then, but the Princess was born to be a big sister, to be the eldest. She is neat, tidy, ultra-responsible, and has a zeal for bossing her brother. Mix that with a vocabulary that sprouts from her insatiable reading habits, and it’s hard not to expect her to be twelve instead of eight.

Sometimes I forget and think, “Why can’t you just act your age?!” Then I remember – oh, yeah… she is. The rest of the time I am panicking because it is going so fast, too fast, and I haven’t said enough I love you’s or given her enough snuggles before I know she is going to start pulling away to be even more of her own separate person. And because I am an all-or-nothing sort of gal, I veer wildly between frustrated distance and outright smothering her.

Tonight we will share our birthday. There is nary a twinge of contraction, so it will remain a two-person birthday. (She said she would like her sister to kindly not be born today. There’s sharing, and then there’s asking too much.) This is one link we will have that she will never grow out of.

Happy Birthday, Princess.

…being a cat with nothing to do but sleep on the heater vent.

(At least she stopped attacking the Christmas tree for a little bit. Sigh.)

Just so’s you know…yep, it’s my due date. And nope, nothing doin’.

At my midwife appointment this week the babe was at +1 station. Plus one! So I have been told to go for walkies, Grommit, and sit on my birth ball to work this kiddo down. It already feels like I am holding her in with my knees, but what do I know?

The good news was that I am measuring at an optimistic 37 centimeters, even though she is so high. A rough guesstimate puts her around eight pounds. Now, if we can only get her out before she is a toddler.

Mr. MG was going to go out to do a three-week stint of exercises on the water, (Well not him, precisely, the boat. But he was going to be on the boat. Or in it. Whatever.) so I asked him the night before to go up in the attic and retrieve the big box of baby duds so that I could wash and sort and fold them. So he headed up the ladder and started digging around.

Long pause. “There aren’t any baby clothes up here.”

“You’re crazy. I got the maternity clothes down in the spring, and there are baby clothes up there now. I remember packing them.”

“Uh, nope. 16…17…18 red Tough Totes of Christmas decorations, but no baby stuff. Man, we must really like Christmas.”

And then I remembered! Back when the Bear was seven or eight months old, my friend H found out she was pregnant with #4, hard on the heels of #3. When I had asked her how she was doing, she said she trusted God to provide. Alrighty then, I thought, I need to give this woman some baby clothes – and I promptly cleaned out anything that was too small for the Bear. Down to the last sock. And then I must have wiped it from my memory. Besides, Mr. MG was pretty adamant about not having anymore. I didn’t need that stuff anyway.

So now there I was, 36 weeks pregnant, looking up at the attic like it might spit out some itty bitty clothes if I just stared long enough.

“Guess I’d better do some shopping.”

“Yup.”

I bemoaned my baby’s future nakedness to my mom and mom-in-law. I freaked out a little to my friend L and her hubby after church. And I prayed a lot.

A few days later, there was a bag stuffed full of cute pink clothes on the front porch; L and Mr. L had gone shopping at the thrift store and then washed and folded the lot. (When the Princess saw the bag of clothes, she exclaimed, “Thank you, God!”) Another friend from church packed an empty diaper box of her baby girl’s stuff, plus a bunch of clothes for the Bear from her son. MIL hit the sales and found the cutest jammies! And L keeps dropping off odds and ends that she finds, like the booties fairy. The baby cupboard runneth over.

So H was right – God does provide. Not only does he keep track of the sparrows, he works in baby onsies, too.

Last night was the co-op open house. The Silver Eagles (the same group of retirement-aged folks who host the barn shindig) came out, so it was a full, happy room. And the pot luck was incredible! Five different kinds of brownies, and I ate NOT ONE! (I did have a bit of blueberry cobbler, though. But that’s fruit, right?)

I didn’t realize how much great work the kids did all semester. It was an awesome thing to see all their frescoes, etchings, watercolors, and oil pastel creations all spread out. I think the kids were impressed, too – it’s one thing to schlep in to co-op every week and do your class work, it’s really something else to see it all displayed together. They were very proud.

My 9-12 year old class was responsible for writing a paper on an assigned artist to present to the group. They really bowled me over with the quality of writing they each displayed. And not one lost their nerve; each got up there and did an amazing job. It’s not every day you hear a ten year old kiddo talk intelligently about Chardin.

The Princess’ class got up after that to do a presentation for their history class. She had been practicing her lines for weeks, and was so excited for her big moment to come. I was shuffling my copies of the art essays and getting set to listen when I looked up and saw that she had put on her heavy coat before going up front. Kinda odd, I thought. Then she she quickly marched off the stage, straight toward me.

“I need to go home, Mama. Right now!”

*Cough*

*Gag*

And up it all came. Every bit supper, salad, and desert. She had had the cobbler, too.

What did I do? Well, I am a total spaz when it comes to my kids yakking – my mind just freezes. I instinctively just hold them close and say helpful things like “poor baby” and “oh dear.” In this case, I also attempted to catch the flood. In my free hand that wasn’t holding her. When that didn’t work (except to widen the circle of splatter) I grabbed a drinking cup, which was unfortunately still mostly full of water. It wasn’t going to get any better, so I grabbed a used paper plate to catch the rest, and started walking her out of the room, regretting my need to sit up front with every step.

This whole time, the Bear was absolutely losing it. It just terrified him to see his sister yakking. He went rigid and started screaming when she lost it, which was really useful for grabbing anyone’s attention who was not yet aware of the circus going on at our table.

So I blindly marched the Princess to the restroom – “No, Mama! That’s the men’s room!” “Oh, right. This way.” – and cleaned us both off. She had neatly missed herself, with the exception of the toes of her shoes, which probably only got splattered as I tried to catch. Me, on the other hand… She got me from humongous belly to toes.

After we were wiped off, it was so very time to go. My mom, mom-in-law, and my friend L had all done crisis control after we had left the room, so I just got the kids and my keys and fled. They both wept and wailed all the way home and all through getting ready for bed because of having to leave early.

So it’s definitely safe to say that whatever the Bear had was contagious. Since they have each nailed me in the past week, it may only be a matter of time until my own unique display. Can you say bad timing?

I had no idea I had left out the all important information: the due date. I wasn’t trying to keep anyone in suspense, I just don’t put a lot of stock in due dates.

When I was pregnant with the Princess, I was due in the middle of November. Mr. MG was on deployment in Panama, and hoped to fly home in time to be there for the birth. Since we had no family in the state at the time, a friend from college drove up from Oregon to be with me. Luckily, the navy made flying out of Panama run late, because I was late, too. My midwife said that, if I didn’t go by 14 days post-date, she would send me to the hospital to be induced under the care of a doctor. The thought of delivering in a strange place with a strange doctor and no husband or family was too horrible to entertain – on the 13th day, I took Castor oil. Boy was my midwife surprised, and not just a little ticked. But the Princess arrived, healthy and happy, on my 26th birthday after only 6 hours labor. And Mr. MG got in that night for a week’s stay.

(Oh – I need to say this – yes, Castor oil is just as awful as they say. The texture was exquisitely disgusting, and we’re not even going to talk about what it does to your innards. Suffice it to say that one bathroom is simply not enough.)

When I was pregnant with the Bear, Mr. MG was transitioning to a new ship, and went on leave in between assignments to be home for the birth. He took off a month – all his available leave – two weeks before and two weeks after my due date. You’d think that would cover it, right? But no. The Bear was also late. Late enough that I went into labor one day after the leave time ran out and Mr. MG had to fly to the opposite coast. Our baby boy was born 15 days late (but no Castor oil this time, thank heavens) (different midwife). He met his daddy for the first time 4 months later.

So, you see, due dates mean absolutely nothing to me. I have very big, very late babies. I have tried walking, spicy food, the magic salad, the rated R theories, you name, I’ve tried it. But they like being in there and don’t vacate until they are good and ready.

I have my birth kit ready. I’ve got the baby clothes folded and put away. I’ve got the champagne bought and ready to go. But I also have no illusions that it is going to happen any time soon.

I’m due November 26th.

I figure we’ll get this baby out around December 10th.

Yesterday was a busy day. School, piano lessons, lunch, running errands, and an appointment with my midwife. A late afternoon appointment means no nap for the Bear (don’t hate me because my 3 1/2 year old still snoozes for two hours every day…) but he manages okay if I don’t push it all the time.

He had been complaining of an icky tummy all day, but the kid has a glass stomach – and also a flair for the dramatic and the attention it brings – so I pretty much blew it off.

Until we were driving down the road to the midwife’s place and he burst into tears, followed by yakking up everything he had eaten all day, still totally undigested. Now, that got my attention. Oatmeal. Cheese sandwich. Banana. Milk. (Oh, man. Milk is the worst.) I pulled over and began damage control.

The Princess – who usually cannot abide anything messy – did wonderfully for someone sitting next to a preschooler doing a pretty convincing Linda Blair imitation. She got in the back seat and I grimly started scooping off the goo. The poor Bear sat there, crying, holding his sodden arms away from his body and muttering, “Ew. Yuck. Ew. Yuck.”

Fortunately, I stock the van with everything I may need in case of accidents, hunger, sleepiness, bodily injury, or nuclear holocaust. I whipped out the spare clothes, plastic bags, paper towels, and cleaning wipes and went to work.

As I am scooping his own chunks off of him, the Bear calmly says, “It smells like scones. Can we buy some scones on the way to Ms. C’s?”

Sigh.

Well, sum it up to say that we did not buy any scones.

Random thoughts on a day so wet and rainy, it seems impossible for that much water to fall out of the sky:

Man, it’s wet and dark.
Beautiful.
But dark.
I sure could use some coffee.
Glad I got the laundry folded last night. I couldn’t face it today.
All those tiny socks!
And the itty, bitty hats.
Actually, those hats aren’t so itty bitty now that I think about it.
I’m not sure I’m ready for this labor thing again.
That’s it! No more sugar, period! Not even fruit!
I want to sneeze out an eight pounder.
Eight pounds sounds almost abnormal, like I smoked or drank espresso the whole time.
I need to finish the Christmas newsletter.
And the Christmas cookies.
No nibbling!
And the birth announcements.
I really need to start addressing envelopes, if nothing else.
I should run some errands today.
Wanted to paint the kitchen last night.
Perhaps I am nesting a bit.
I need to do my lesson for co-op.
Only two weeks until open house! It’s gone so fast.
I’m going to miss it, I think. How crazy is that?!
What I won’t miss are the early mornings. Early mornings with no possibility of caffeine.
I think I could get a gold medal in whining if only it were an Olympic sport.
I wouldn’t even need to train!
Whining and eating cookies, my two natural gifts.
Well, I’d whine a lot less if I could eat some cookies.
How about some tea, instead? Yes, that’d hit the spot.
Some nice warm tea on a wet, cold day.
Mmmm.

Donna asked for the recipe, so here it is:

Glorious Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 1/4 c. Old Fashioned Rolled Oats
1 c. Flour
1/2 tsp. Baking Powder
1/2 tsp. Baking Soda
Pinch of Salt
1/2 c. Granulated Sugar
1/2 c. Dark Brown Sugar
1/2 c. Semi-sweet or Dark Chocolate Chips – Cold!
1/2 c. Unsalted Butter – Cold!
1 Egg
1/2 tsp. Vanilla Extract
1 c. Walnuts, roughly chopped
1 c. Chocolate chips
1/2 c. Heath Bar Toffee Chips

Preheat the oven to 375 and line baking sheets with parchment paper.

Buzz the oatmeal in a food processor until it is almost powdery, then mix it into a medium bowl with the flour, baking powder, soda, and salt.

Put both sugars and the 1/2 c. cold chocolate chips in the processor and pulse until the chocolate is grated. Cut the butter into pats and add to the sugars and chocolate. Process intil blended. Scrape down the sides and add the vanilla and egg. Process until mixed.

Add the flour mixture and pulse five or six times. Add the walnuts and pulse until flour nearly dissappears. Dump the dough into a large bowl and add chocolate and toffee chips. Mix and knead it all together – you’re probably going to have to do this with your hands – the dough will be pretty stiff.

Roll into golf ball-sized balls and bake for six minutes. Rotate the cookie sheet and bake for 5-6 more, until the tops are just barely turning color and forming crags.

Enjoy! And eat an extra cookie for me, since I can’t have one. Actually have three or four – man, I miss cookies!

After a month of living with the pesky, needy green things, today I can celebrate. I am chucking our radish sprouts. I may even make evil cackling noises while I do it.

We use Sonlight for science, and part of this year’s “Intro to Biology” is the book Green Thumbs: Radishes from the good folks at TOPS. Don’t get me wrong, these experiments are so amazing – one involved creating four different growing environments with a baby food jar, a paper towel and a scrap of plastic wrap. People, I was the MacGyver of radishes! But it also means observing daily the growing habits of these little baby plants. I mean every day. For a month.

I’ve had it with these intruders. Water me! Give me warmth! Don’t let the cats eat me! Blah, blah, blah. Enough already. Eviction time. Out you go, and don’t let the front door hit you on the hypocotyl when you leave.

The Princess liked the activities a lot – and we both learned a ton. She got hands-on experience with hydrotropism, toxic stress, correct soil temperature, geotropism, and detailed plant anatomy. Never again will she call a cotyledon a true leaf. And she discovered a love of detailed data collection, as long as it didn’t involve drawing specimens, which she detested with a white hot hate of a thousand suns.

But as much fun as she has had, all good things must come to an end. So tonight we say buh-bye to the radishes. Hear that teeny, tiny little trumpet playing “Taps”? It’s for the sprouts wilting in the compost bin.

Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!