Mom & Pop Home School

I don’t usually let it get to me. Most of the time my fertility issues and other people’s new additions to their families are entirely separate issues. Most of the time I can just be thrilled for other people and play with their sweet little chubby cheeked cherubs and thoroughly enjoy them without so much as a twinge of envy or even longing. I can just be joyous along with them, and it’s not even related in any way to that sad little empty place in my heart. Usually I don’t even think about it much, let alone let it bother me. But today I’m feeling it. It seems like lately there are babies everywhere. It’s raining babies! But no babies for me.  

There were dozens of them at church today, many of which are still so brand new that they still have that peach fuzz fresh newborn look with the lost little eyes and the proud papas carting around the little baby seats with the fresh little pink or blue blankets that haven’t even been spit up on yet, they’re so new.

One darling girl in my class at church was talking today with shining eyes about when she went to the temple with her family not long ago to be sealed to her adoptive parents, and how wonderful it was to kneel with them at the altar in the Lord’s house and be officially joined as a family just as if she was born to them, and know that they would be her family forever.

Another woman shared with me about how she’d been to the temple yesterday to witness the sealing of her friend’s new adopted baby to their family.

In sacrament meeting we sat across the aisle from a cute couple and their adopted toddler and I was thinking about how even though they’ve been together a good while now, the mama still looks so delighted and the daddy looks so proud of his little family, and the little girl looks so much more content than when she first came to live with them, with her cheeks filled out and her spotless little dress, and her hair all braided so carefully and beautifully by her mother.

And it seems like the women at church who aren’t carrying around newborns are all pregnant (I know this is completely untrue–I just had my infertility goggles on today). One of my good friends is pregnant as well. I’m not sure why it is, but I seem to see less of her when she’s pregnant. Does she avoid me? Do I subconsciously avoid her? Is she just more tired, or busier with family things when a new one is on the way? Who knows. I saw her today at church too, though we didn’t have a chance to chat. I miss her.

This past week I got to spend quite a bit of time with my youngest brother and his lovely wife. They’re expecting their first little one this fall, and they’re so fun to watch as they experience the wonder of it all. It’s amazing to be around them. And I’ve found out that another brother and his wife just recently found out they’re expecting their third. I love to watch the family grow and branch out, it just puts me in awe.

I often feel that somewhere out there is at least one more child already in the world who is meant to be in our family. And I feel that we’re a step closer to finding her, or him, or them–except the dratted bedroom is not the right size and the person who can do something about THAT is not in the office. It’s funny how much this feels like being pregnant, but without a due date–and without the funky pinched nerves…lol. But I wish things could move along a little more quickly. In some ways it feels like month number nine, but the delivery date could be any time from a few weeks to years from now. But I’m anxious to get them here. I love the child(ren) already, even though I don’t even know what they look like.

And then also I sometimes wonder if the fact that two miracles have happened for us might mean God might be willing to allow just one more for me and let me have one more before I’m too old. And maybe that’s the real problem today. My birthday is less than two weeks away. I’ll be thirty-seven. Already two years beyond the point where you’re automatically considered high risk because of your age. And I took a pregnancy test this morning. I didn’t really think it might come out positive, but I have to check now and then because it’s not impossible, just unlikely, and for medical reasons I need to know as early as possible. The things never do come out positive (except for twice), but every time I need to do one there’s that slight little sliver of hope that wiggles around somewhere under my solar plexus, and then dies in a little internal fireworks catastrophe before I take a deep breath and get on with life. Again. Maybe this morning’s breath was just not deep enough.

We’ve had our home study for foster/adopt liscensure. Our bedrooms are a few inches too small to make up the proper square footage for multiple occupancy. An exception may be able to be granted, but the person who can make that decision is out of the office for surgery until July. Thus, we must wait. I’m going to be quite frustrated if it doesn’t go through. We’ve purchased two new mattresses (a friend was kind enough to donate a bunk bed frame they were getting rid of) and a minivan, rearranged a bunch of stuff in the house, and purchased locking storage for all the toxic chemicals in the house. Not to mention taken hours and hours of training, and gotten our hopes all up. Gah! I guess I should have measured the bedrooms first.

The kids and I had a fun trip to Wyoming to attend the baptism of my youngest sister’s oldest son. Aunt A and Uncle J rode out there with us in the aforementioned minivan, and did a lot of the driving. A good time was had by all. Uncle I got us a rockin’ deal on a nice hotel room. When I checked in, the girl at the desk asked me if I was the bishop’s wife’s sister, as I evidently looked just like her (and I was one of a number of parties checking in under “the bishop’s” group reservation). I’m flattered because my sister has always been better looking than me, but it was a little startling to be identified as the bishop’s wife’s sister by the hotel clerk.  Dunno why, just the context I think. It wasn’t at all odd to be introduced as the bishop’s daughter in my parents’ ward a few years back when Dad was the bishop there.

While there I drove down south a bit and met up with an old friend from another lifetime who drove a bit north from where she lived and we got to see each other for the first time in almost 20 years. It’s hard to fathom that anything I remember so well could possibly have happened 20 years ago. I must be getting old (ha!). It was sure good to see her again, though. Many eons ago she was almost like another sister, but we had lost touch with each other after the end of high school sent us flying off in different directions. I’ve wondered about her often over the years, and finally tracked her down a while back. I’ve talked to her on the phone a couple of times since, but hadn’t seen her until the trip. Aunt A and Uncle J watched the kids for me, and I met my friend and her husband for dinner. It was fun hearing about her kids and her job and her faith and how her life has come together since last we met.

Pop had a birthday. He thinks he’s old. He’s not, though, because he’s only a year older than me, and I’m not ready to be old yet.

My birthday is coming up. I want fat quarters. The fabric kind, not the kind that means I’ve been eating too much. That kind I’ve got already. (For those of you who are not fabricaholics, fabric is sold by the yard, or in fractions of a yard. A “fat quarter”, also known as a “quarter flat” is a quarter of a yard of fabric. But if you cut a quarter of a yard the “normal” way, what you get is a strip of fabric that’s 9 inches wide and 45(ish)-60(ish) inches long, the width of the loom the fabric was made on (usually 45 for quilting fabric). Which is an awkward shape. So for a “fat” quarter, they cut a half yard of fabric, 18 inches, and then cut it in half again the other way so it’s still a quarter yard, but it’s a fat rectangle, 18×22 ish, rather than a long skinny rectangle. At quilt shops and lots of fabric shops they have racks of them that have been pre-cut and neatly folded around a cardboard rectangle so you can just go in and browse through them like a card file. They’re usually organized by color. Any color or pattern is great–half the fun is seeing who picked out what. I’m looking more for medium and dark tones at present though, rather than very pale fabrics.)

Which brings  me to the next thing. I’ve started a new quilt project. I find stitching very therapeutic–and I think we can all agree I need therapy. To increase the therapeutic effects, I’ve signed up for a quilting class at a nearby quilt shop so I can get “out” once a month for some Mom time. I’ve decided to hand piece this one, because a) I’ve never hand pieced an entire full-sized quilt before, b) hand piecing is very portable, and I can stick it in my purse and work on it during all those hurry-up-and-wait times as well as while watching tv, c) my sewing machine is on the fritz and needs a trip to the shop, and d) I find the quiet, contemplative hand stitching very soothing on my nerves. But mostly because it sounds like fun. If the hand stitching weren’t enough of an indicator of the level of my insanity, have a look at the quilt pattern (the colors in mine will be quite different). It’s called a “Dear Jane” quilt, patterned after a Civil War era quilt made by a lady by the name of Jane Stickle.  It’s a sampler quilt, with 169 pieced blocks (each 4.5 inches square) in the center, surrounded by a border made up of 52 pieced triangles, 52 un-pieced triangles, and 4 corner kites, with a scalloped border; and judging by the discussion at the class and the reactions I’ve received from interested stitching friends and acquaintances, a “Dear Jane” strikes fear into the heart of even avid and experienced stitchaholics.  I have to tell you, though, I’m REALLY enjoying it so far. Each block is different, which keeps things from getting too monotonous. It’s like 169 little jewels in a fancy jewel box. I’ve purchased some nifty software that lets me print out templates for all the patterns. I’m having a really good time with all the little shapes and colors. This is why I want the fat quarters for my birthday. I don’t want the same fabrics to repeat too frequently in the blocks. Fat quarters make me feel like a kid in a candy shop. Your honor, I rest my case. I think there’s no need to further demonstrate my insanity.

School-wise, we missed quite a number of days this winter and spring due to illness, so we’re plowing on into the summer, but at a reduced pace. For a change of scenery, we’re going through the first portion of Winter Promise’s All American I curriculum. I’m really quite enjoying it, and it’s working well for both of the kids. I do want to get enough done so we can maybe take August off, though. Cricket’s resistance has diminished considerably since we began our homeschool adventure, but it does wear me down after a while.

Sometime during the night our aged guinea pig, Jiggle, joined her sister Wiggle in the great beyond. Cricket was a little sad, but has understood that this was coming. Sunshine spent the night at her friend’s house across the way and has not yet heard the somber news. Mom and Pop are bracing for the impending onslaught of “can we get a [insert pet here]”. Suggestions over the past few months have included rat, lizard, fire bellied toad, duck, hermit crab, dog, cat (achoo!!), sugar glider, finch, skunk, horse, gerbil, goat, turtle, parrot, and fennec fox. Apart from “where would you keep a goat” and “foxes bite”, my standard answer has been that we weren’t getting any more pets until some of the ones we already had weren’t around anymore. Most notably Jiggle, since she was the most elderly. And now the time has come. I must gird up my loins and practice saying “no llamas”.

Sunshine: “Hey Mom, elephants are COOL! They can smell long distance!”

Cricket: My darling son and I were watching a show on tv, when a commercial for some kind of wrinkle cream came on. The ad promised to make you look like you did ten years ago. I thought, slightly less than ten years ago someone guessed (with a very generous tone in her voice, since I had a 2 year old) that I was maybe eighteen. In the last 5 years or so, people have finally started recognizing me as an adult at first sight–I don’t know if it’s the extra poundage or the grey hair, but whatever it is, it works! I commented that if that skin cream made me look like I did ten years ago nobody would take me seriously. Cricket gave me the most incredulous look, and said, “Oh seriously Mom. Like anyone takes you seriously now!” Oh yes, I am the picture of parental authority. Lol. But he did clean up his room and sort his laundry when I asked him to, so at least he’s cooperative, whether he “takes me seriously” or not.