And the Winner is . . .

Commenter #7, Marcy, who I once upon a time only referred to as Mrs. Owens, my sixth grade teacher. And I don't think she's aged a bit in those (gasp) 23 years. How wonderful to see you again! If you'll email me your address at ruth_mannion@yahoo.com, I'll get Scrappy in the mail to you. Our winner was selected by my random number generator, also known as my husband, Bracken. I was planning on using one of my children, but the only ones here right now would give me numbers like "I don't want to!" and spit up.

As a consolation prize to all of you who entered and didn't win, here is a picture of me circa 1989 when I knew Marcy. I went from sweet mullet to rad perm. With bangs. And high waisted overalls.

For the record, I started out as a pretty cute kid, if I do say so myself, but then I got hit with a mullet, glasses, and giant grown up teeth all at about the same time. And then began an awkward stage that lasted for such a painfully long time.


Thank you all for the wonderful comments. I feel so warm and fuzzy inside. I mainly write my blog for my own amusement, and to journal the crazy and sweet and poignant in my life, so I'm glad it reaches others, too. Lately I've been seeing new readership on my tracker, so I just wondered who all was out there. I hope to do more giveaways in the future. Keep your fingers crossed that Rosie starts sleeping better, enabling me to be more creative.
If not, you'll just get more crazy. And that can be fun, too.

I Heart You, and thus, a Giveaway!

A friend of mine recently found this cute tutorial on Pinterest for a beautiful ruffled felt heart shaped wreath. She shared it with me, and I loved it. Then, she went a step bigger and better and braved the lines at Joann's to get me all the necessary supplies to make it. This was super fantastic because it meant that I would actually be able to make it before Valentine's Day. So, I sat down last night and whipped out this beauty in about 2 hours.

After making this wreath, I found I had a couple of tips and some information to add to the original tutorial.

• I used a 12" styrofoam heart wreath.
  
• I cut about 150 3 inch circles, and used up my entire 3/4 yard of felt.
  
• This means you'll need at least 150 pins. I bent several of them while I was assembling my wreath, so I was glad I had extra.
• I bought flat head pins in case the heads showed, but they don't show at all. I'm sure you could use round head pins, and they wouldn't hurt your fingers so much when you push them in. I quickly started using my leather thimble to protect my fingertips. Now I'm trying to convince my daughters that the thimble is a tool, not a finger puppet.
  
• Instead of tracing 150 circles onto the felt, I cut one circle out of craft foam, then held it in place as a pattern on a double layer of felt while I cut. This saved a lot of time, plus I didn't have to be super careful to keep my tracing line from showing when I cut them out.
  
• It's important to place the circles close together, but don't pin them too closely or they'll get crowded quickly. Instead of luscious ruffles, you'll have flat folds of fabric. Space your pins about 1/2 to 1 inch apart. After I had a few inches covered on my wreath, they started looking too dense so I pulled a few of them out and placed them elsewhere.
• Fluff the circles to fill in any thin areas.
  
• Hang it on your front door, then keep going outside to admire how cute it is.
  

When I was finished, I found I had a large pile of concave square pieces of felt, the scraps from between the circles. I also had a spare 9 inch foam heart, so I decided to put those pieces to use. I call this little guy Scrappy. He reminds me of flames of love, and I think he's charming.
If you decide to recycle your scraps like me, I would recommend using flat head pins. They are more likely to show since your pieces of felt are smaller and more randomly shaped. I did end up cutting some most of my scraps of felt into appropriate pointy shapes to fill out this wreath. As with the circles on the first wreath, I folded the pieces into fourths before pinning them on the heart.

And I've decided to do something fun with it. I'm going to host my first giveaway on this blog I'm going to give Scrappy to one of the six of you reading this. Leave me a comment telling me why you read my blog, and I will randomly pick a winner from the comments. The giveaway will be open until Wednesday, January 25, 6pm pst. Good luck!

Fever

When I was 8, my family moved to Whitehall, Wisconsin. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of this town. I just checked and the population is about 1600. It was even smaller when I lived there, though I did live there at the same time as Newt Gingrich's current wife, Callista (which I just learned, and isn't really a claim to fame). Every year, the high school cheerleaders would host a cheer-leading camp for the elementary school girls, at the end of which the girls would get to cheer at a high school basketball game. In an attempt to help me make friends, and not because I showed any aptitude toward cheering, my mom signed me up.

Having not yet learned that thick-legged, uncoordinated girls do not the best cheerleaders make, I was thrilled. I enthusiastically learned the routine to "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" (which also initiated my love of George Michael). I diligently scrunched my cheap little pom-poms in an effort to make them as big and beautiful as the big girls' pom-poms. And I put on my best approximation of the high school girls' uniforms. We were the Vikings, and our colors were black and orange. I had a black leotard. And I had some red shorts that fell slightly into the orange spectrum. There were all I had, and if you looked at them in the sun, they would work.

The night of the big game, I proudly arrived at the school, only to learn that the rival team's color was red. By the time I marched out onto the basketball court, I had been teased so much by the other girls that I was sure all eyes were on me and my embarrassment of an outfit.

Undeterred, the next year I signed up for the clinic again. This year as I diligently practiced, my mom diligently sewed. She was determined that I wouldn't suffer the same humiliation again, and made me a fabulous cheer-leading outfit while juggling the demands of six kids, including a small baby. I don't even know how she got the fabric given how small our town was and the pre-existence of the internets. It was orange, with black godets and our viking logo embroidered in black on the front. And it was awesome. I tried it on as often as I could in the days leading up to the game.

The morning of the big day I woke up hot. And I'm not talking hot like in this picture. I'm talking hot as in fever. Though my mom had a strict rule about not sending us to school with fevers, if I didn't go to school that day, I couldn't cheer. I was heartbroken, and I'm sure my mom was, too. Since it was a low grade fever, and I had no other symptoms, my mom decided to let me go to school and keep her fingers crossed that I would be fine.

I got home from school that day, excited to cheer that night. Unfortunately, my mom had been on the phone that day and learned that the chicken pox was going around. How did you know if you had it? A low grade fever. My mom checked, and found the first few pox hiding around my hairline. I wasn't able to cheer that night. I'm sure it wasn't out of spite over not being able to wear my fantastic outfit, but I diligently infected all 5 of my siblings, including my 6 month old sister. Thankfully, she was young enough that the scars she got when another sibling picked all of her scabs off don't show.

I still got a lot of wear out of that outfit, accessorizing it with legwarmers, heels and a rainbow belt. And yes, I did have a mullet to top it off. Though I rocked it (see above), I never forgot the injustice of not being able to wear it and perform that night. It was my first clear experience with irony.

Chloe's birthday is July 2, so she never gets to celebrate her birthday at school. And unfortunately, her half birthday is January 2, usually the last day of Christmas vacation. Still, she wants to be able to celebrate her half birthday at school on whatever the closest school day is. This year, for whatever reason, I just couldn't get my act together. Weeks had passed and I still hadn't gotten a treat together. Finally, yesterday, I decided it was time. Chloe and I baked cookies. I found my last sheet of labels and printed up tags for the ziploc bags we'd put the cookies in. Nothing fancy, but it was enough for her to feel special.

And then she coughed. A rattling, painful cough. And confessed that her throat had been hurting all day. I cringed, and hoped it was just the change in the weather. I checked on her last night, running the temporal thermometer across her forehead. Fever. As she whimpered and rolled over, I said a silent prayer that she was just hot in her blankets and she would be fine.

This morning I went in to wake her, thermometer in hand. She sat up in bed and said, "Mom, my throat hurt, but I coughed and now I feel fine! I'm better!" But her eyes were too bright and her cheeks too red, and when I scanned her forehead, her fever was even higher. It broke my heart to tell her she had to stay home. "But I was so excited to share my treat today!" she said as her eyes filled with tears. I assured her that we could put the cookies in the freezer and she could bring them when she felt better, and she smiled.

I'm so glad there's such an easy fix for her fever crisis. Her gratification with be postponed, not cancelled. I just hope my mom, who passed away 12 years ago this month, knows how grateful I still am for that cheer-leading costume I never got to cheer in.

It's my potty and I'll cry if I want to

As a mom, I've found there are three very important keys to a successful outing with kids.

1. Make sure they are well rested
2. Make sure to bring plenty of snacks
3. Make them use the bathroom before leaving the house and at every convenient interval thereafter, whether they think they have to go or not. And especially if they insist they don't need to go.

These rules are not just for kids, but for dads and moms and aunts and anyone else on the outing. And they are especially important when all of your children are female and require an actual toilet to relieve themselves.

I recently was very, very pregnant, and therefore had to use the bathroom quite often. Pretty much every time I left the bathroom I needed to turn around and go back in. After my baby girl arrived I was overjoyed to have my bladder return to its former capacity. And I got cocky. One super busy day I failed to adhere to rule #3 and found myself stranded on the freeway behind a car accident trying very hard to not think about the fact that I hadn't used the bathroom in 8 hours. I recommitted to stick to rule #3 in the future.

My little sister came out to visit after Christmas and we decided to take a trip to the city. We rode BART into San Francisco with all the kids. We explored Union Square, then rode the trolley down to Fisherman's Wharf. I kept the children fed and pottied (though they continually complained, through mouths full of food, that they were starving). We had a delicious lunch, then wandered over to look at the seals on Pier 39. As we headed back toward the Musee Mechanique, we passed the fully automated, free standing bathrooms. I've always given them a wide berth, not fully understanding how they worked and fearing for their cleanliness. However, this time, despite the hordes of holiday crowds, there was no line. As I realized that it was time for a potty break, and this was our best option in the area, I decided to give it a try.

I pushed the button on the wall, and the mechanical door slid open. Leaving Maggie with my sister, with Rosie strapped to my chest in her carrier, Chloe, Addie and I entered the bathroom. It was very clean, and full of all sorts of buttons, ones to open the door and turn on the water, and a kickplate to open the door for those who prefer not to touch the buttons. However, after Chloe relieved herself, I realized there was no button to flush the toilet--it would only flush after the room had been vacated. (Cue ominous music) Since we were already in, I had Addie go. Then, remembering rule #3, I also decided to use the bathroom.

Perhaps it's better that you don't know this wasn't the first time I had used the bathroom with my baby attached to me, but I figured this was my best option for the moment. And I have often shared a stall with my girls, though every time it's a race to get my pants back up before they decide it's time to unlock the door. As I quickly did my business, the girls started getting restless. Chloe started dancing around. I watched in horror as her foot, seemingly in slow motion, banged into the kickplate. Frozen in terror, I was helpless to stop the large door from sliding open, exposing me, quite literally, to the crowd that had gathered to wait for the bathroom.

Time stopped. I aged several years as we tried to locate a button that would close the door before discovering there was no button that would close the door. The only way to close the door was to get off the pressure sensitive floor, which could only be accomplished by leaving the bathroom. And I was literally caught with my pants down. The line of people politely backed away, out of sight. I called to my sister and had her move my double stroller in front of the door to give me a little bit of a shield. And I thanked my lucky stars that I had chosen the bathroom that faced the ocean, and not the one that faced the street.

As quickly and discreetly as I could, I got my pants up and got out of there. One of the people waiting, another mom, commented on how calm I was. She said, "I would have been screaming at my daughter." Oh, I was definitely screaming inside, but I didn't want to do it out loud because I really didn't want to attract more attention. So I laughed. This was the sort of thing that could only happen to a mom, and because I've been a mom for some time now, it hardly even phased me. Easily the most embarrassing moment of my life? Yes. But was it something that in future years I would look back on and laugh about? Yes and no. Because I really couldn't do anything but laugh about it right then. It was hilarious.

Not that I want to repeat the experience anytime soon.

My Crazy

And no, I'm not referring to this little grinner as "my crazy."

For the record, I come by my crazy totally honestly. My sister got married in October of 1999. My mother had been battling stiff-person syndrome for 13 years and was nearing the end of her fight. She stayed in the hospital up until a few days before my sister's wedding so she could be as healthy and stable as possible for the big day. For months leading up to the wedding, she sat in her hospital bed with all her candy making tools on the bedside table, making chocolate cups for the wedding reception. She also needed to make the wedding cake when she came home. Had she ever made a wedding cake before? No. But that didn't slow my crippled mother down in the least. And the cake she made was in the shape of the Mt. Timpanogos temple. With stained glass windows. My mother passed away less than 3 months later. She was literally dying and continued to make things seemingly beyond her skill set simply because, as she had once said while contemplating the construction of her first (and only) man's suit, "I think I can do that."

Forward 13 years to yesterday. Our ward had announced that there would be a gingerbread house competition at the annual Christmas party. There would be categories for children, youth and adults. Now, we make a house every year. I've posted instructions as to how we do it. I've often made gingerbread for more than one house a year, but only because we've often hosted gingerbread house parties. We've never made more than one for ourselves. But I heard the word "competition" and my crazy went into overdrive.

I had hoped to get the gingerbread made before Saturday. But I ended up doing an arrangement for a funeral, and making a shepherd/Jedi robe for a nativity play, attending a Christmas party back in Citrus Heights, and oh yeah, taking care of a cute little 6 week old girl and 3 other children. And so, Saturday morning I started making gingerbread. I put together a house for the girls, then completely stepped away as they decorated. I did this so I could, one, get the pattern for my house printed and enlarged, and two, so they could have complete creative control without my control freak tendencies stepping in. It kind of was a mistake to stay so far out of it. I put out a lot of candy for them to use, and very little ended up on the house. Whoops.

The little "garden" out front was Chloe's pride and joy.

Then I started making my house. I used a pattern from a book, not realizing quite how large the finished product would be when I started. It was easily 4 times as large, and 4 times as complicated as anything I have made before. But I said to myself, "I think I can do that." 3 batches of gingerbread later, I finally had all the pieces baked, complete with stained glass windows. I kept those sheets of gingerbread moving in and out of the oven as fast as I could, watching the minutes ticking away, realizing there was no way I could get this done in the time I had left. I ignored my sad baby who really wanted Mom and not Dad. I started to sweat. And yet I pushed on because I was too invested to give up. A piece broke as I started to assemble the house. I baked a new one. I got all the walls together and the house standing. I hurriedly decorated walls.

And then I put the roof on. I realized as I placed the second roof piece that it was slightly undercooked. But I had no time to make a new one. I've never lost a piece of gingerbread yet, and trusted that even if it was a little soft, it would still work. I added extra icing, and started to decorate. Then the back slid off, and the front started to collapse. I pushed the back up, and enlisted Bracken to hold it and my baby while I finished the final details. 15 minutes after the party started, I threw on some clothes, tied my hair into a bun and loaded everything and everyone into the car. As we drove, I touched up the makeup I was still wearing from the night before. And listened as the roof of my house fell apart in the back of my van.

We arrived at the party, and I jumped out of the car to survey the damage. The front of the roof was in pieces, but had conveniently crumbled inside the house. The back had slid completely off, and cracked down the middle. I debated whether I should bring it in. I also apologized to my husband for all the chaos the creation of this behemoth had caused. Ultimately, I decided to display it, adding a note that "heavy snow" had caused the cave in. I was more than a little embarrassed, but decided that I was illustrating the idea that it is better to try and fail than to never try at all. I happily cheered for my daughters when their entry won first prize in the children's category. I was shocked when my entry won in the adult category. I'm not sure if I won out of pity, or just for the sheer size of the monster. Maybe the judges were afraid of the lingering crazy they could see in my eyes.

As we drove home, I attempted to tell Bracken a joke about how tired I was. Halfway through, I stopped because it really wasn't funny, and I couldn't remember how I was going to end it. When we got home and got all the girls down, I collapsed into bed. I was wakened in the night by the cold I had been fighting rearing its ugly head. I managed to get a little more rest, but when Rosie got up to eat at 5, I couldn't get back to sleep. Instead I got up, made another batch of gingerbread, and reassembled the roof, decorating it with candy I had salvaged from the original. I also made muffins, cleaned the kitchen a bit, and cut up some fruit (to help remedy the damage wrought by unsupervised candy gorging). Because I am crazy. And now, for the rest of the holiday season, I will be able to look at the physical evidence of my craziness.

In actuality, though, I am kind of grateful for this episode of crazy. Truth be told, the creative crazy had been completely absent throughout my entire pregnancy, and I was a little worried that it was gone for good. Though I sometimes struggle to recognize my limits, and my projects get a little out of control, I love creating and making and having projects to do. So, welcome home, Crazy. You have been missed.

I'm pretty sure the little Rapunzel doll she's holding will find her way into the house before the holiday is over.

Lately

Deep thoughts from Chloe

On tears: Mom, I might cry a little, but it's not because I want to go to bed. It's just my hot cocoa is so hot.

On jealousy and Rosie: I think she looks sad because she thinks you're going to get mad at her because she winked at me and not you.

On obesity, after I told her to stop eating candy: But why, Mom?
Me: Because eating too much is unhealthy.
Chloe: And it can make you fat. But you wouldn't make fun of me if I was fat.

Dramatics from Addie

When her sister refused to kiss her: I just want to live in a world where people love me!

When I insisted she eat her dinner: I have a ridiculous life, I just want to die!

When she couldn't play with the toy she wanted: I just don't feel special. I don't want to live here anymore. (And then she went and opened the front door. I talked her back into the house, mainly because I knew I didn't have the energy to find her later.)

When I insisted she take a nap today: I don't want you to be my mother anymore.

Performance art from Napoleon Maggie-mite
(who refuses to acknowledge the existence of any other shoes in her closet)

I guess she wanted to listen to the sound of crunchy autumn leaves.
I asked her to change her pullup, but didn't follow through to make sure she did. I had no idea her pajamas had such wicking power.

Rosie's birth story

I need to get this written down before I forget, since it's already becoming a blur. This may get a little long, but that's because it's mainly for me, and Rosie.

Our little girl was due to arrive on 14 October. Given the fact that I was induced with all three of the other girls, I really didn't expect her to come on her own. But I had a little bit of hope, mainly because I just really wanted to feel what it was like to go into labor on my own. I also was nervous about being induced this time.

The day after my 20 week ultrasound, I got a phone call from the genetics department at the hospital. During the ultrasound, they had found that my umbilical cord only had one artery, instead of the two it was supposed to have. Single Umbilical Artery (SUA) is a fairly common condition, but is often accompanied by other birth defects, so they needed me to come back in for an additional, more thorough ultrasound to make sure everything was okay. Two days before our move, when I was already more than a little stressed, I went back in for another ultrasound. Thankfully, everything looked fine. I had also opted to do the additional genetic testing with this pregnancy, which I had opted out of with the previous ones, and all those test results looked normal as well.

Me at 41 weeks. The shirt was a gift from my sister and reads "Pregnant is the new sexy." I was definitely feeling it.

However, this reminded me that there had been an issue with Maggie's umbilical cord, so I called my previous doctor to find out exactly what it was. After Maggie was born, and they were examining my placenta, they discovered that there was a velamentous cord insertion. This means that rather than the cord inserting into the middle of the placenta, the cord inserted on the edge. The cord is then less protected and more prone to damage, and possibly hemorrhage. Everything is usually fine, but when I read that there is an increased risk of velamentous insertion with SUA , that sometimes the cord can get snagged if your water is broken by the doctor, it made me nervous. And then I googled more, which is very unwise, and learned that the medications often used in induction, particularly when ripening the cervix, can negatively impact a baby with SUA. Although generally I felt like things were going to be fine with this little girl, these other worries kept nagging me, particularly as I got closer to my due date.

That is a big belly.

My due date came and went without any action on my part. I was having contractions here and there, and my cervix was still a 1. My insurance provider's policy is to not induce before 41 weeks, so I was grateful (though nervous) when I was able to schedule my induction for 41 weeks and one day. Not that that made the time pass any more quickly. As the week wore on, my mood declined. I started avoiding leaving the house because I was tired of answering people's questions about when my baby was due. Then I found out there was a good chance the hospital would be full on Saturday, and I might not be able to come in that day. I was supposed to call the hospital at 5, and was very relieved when I got a call at 2 inviting me to come into a different hospital at 4. I didn't care where I had this girl, just as long as I had her.

We ran a few errands, loaded up the car, and drove to Antioch. This was actually a newer and nicer hospital, though just a little further away. They admitted us right away. We had brought all the girls with us, and they were sure excited and interested in everything going on. The nurse got my IV started immediately. She did a great job, but it was very stressful for Addie to see me getting poked. Even the next day when she came to visit, Addie was still very concerned about my IV. The midwife checked my cervix and decided it looked favorable enough to start the pitocin without having to ripen my cervix first. This was a big change from my previous inductions. Typically, they insert a misoprostyl pill, which I respond very well to, but it's at least 6 hours before they can actually start the pitocin. So, not only did my induction get started faster, but my worries about the medications used in the induction were lightened.Bracken left and brought the girls to our generous friends who kept them overnight. I got started on the pit, and my contractions started right away. Bracken returned and we played card games while my contractions intensified. At about 10:00, my water broke on its own. I've never felt that sensation before. It was another huge relief to me that it broke by itself. They checked my cervix shortly thereafter and found I was about a 5, and since the pain was getting pretty intense, I asked for my epidural.

As always, the longest part of labor was the amount of time between when I asked for the epidural and when the anesthesiologist actually arrived. But once she finally got there, it was the fastest, smoothest epidural I've gotten. Once it kicked in, my whole body relaxed. In fact, when they checked my an hour later, I had dilated from a 6 to a 9. 30 minutes later, I was complete. I started pushing at 1:40, and things moved quickly. I got to reach down and feel her head as she crowned. At 1:54 am on 23 October 2011, Miss Rosemary Ruth Mannion arrived.And that's when things got a little interesting. I remember sitting in a birthing class back in 2005, eight months pregnant with Chloe. I raised my hand and asked, because it had been weighing heavily on me, "How often are babies born with the cord around their necks?" The instructor quickly replied, "Not very often. It's nothing to worry about." Well, 4 births and 3 cords around the neck later, I do know that it is nothing to really worry about, but it does happen often! Rosie had the cord around her neck, but it hadn't tightened. She got an 8 on her first Apgar, and a 9 on her second. And it turns out, the cord was slightly velamentous again. It's a good thing I'm not planning on making any more umbilical cords because I am not good at it! Either that or I'm just too creative at it.

Then they weighed her. Because of the SUA, I'd had an extra ultrasound to monitor Rosie's growth. Though everything looked fine at the 21 week ultrasound, there is still a concern with SUA babies and fetal growth restriction. At 30 weeks, she was right on target for size. My other babies all weighed within 2 ounces of each other, and I gained about the same amount of weight, so I thought it would be pretty obvious if her growth had been affected. As always, I laughed when the midwife checked my belly and told me she thought the baby would be about 7, 7 1/2 pounds, but definitely nowhere near 8 1/2 pounds because that is what I have been told every single time. But still, I wondered. When they finally weighed Rosie, about 2 hours after she was born, she was 8 pounds, 11.5 ounces, and 20 inches long. My heaviest baby by 3.5 ounces. Take that, SUA. We beat you on every front (knock on wood). The nurses kept commenting on how big she was, but she still looked tiny to me.The most dramatic part of the delivery, though, was what went on in those two hours between when she was born and when Rosie was finally cleaned and weighed. Though I only had a first degree tear this time, for some reason, I started hemorrhaging after Rosie was born. I had to have extra medication, and some extra procedures from the midwife to get it to stop. All the nurses and midwife kept blaming it on the fact that I'm a redhead, but it's never happened to me before. Is it because I've given in and started dyeing my hair redder? I really don't know. Thankfully, the bleeding did stop after I'd lost about 3 pints of blood. I felt awfully calm throughout the whole process. Maybe I was just super tired, or maybe the whole process was just surreal because it was so much shorter than my other labors (only 8 hours!), but I was peaceful during the drama. Given how short my labor was after I finally got the epidural (only about 2 hours), I've wondered if I really needed it. However, I know it did speed my labor up, and the more I reflect on everything that went on after the birth, I'm glad I had that buffer against the pain in place, because otherwise it would have been rather rough.
We are so glad Miss Rosemary Ruth is here. She is named for Bracken's aunt, and for me, obviously. Since our daughters' hair has gotten progressively lighter with each one, it seems fitting that thus far she seems to be blonde with a hint of red. I was actually hoping for a blondie this time, and Chloe had been praying very earnestly for a "yellow-head." Her eyes seem to be blue, but I won't put any money on it until she's at least a year old. What I do know is that we love our little girl and know our family wouldn't have been complete without her.