Well, class #3 went better than expected. Not only did Bean walk out happy, but she said the teacher didn’t yell, and when we got home she was able to show us first position, second position, and plie. I think I’ll just back off. I’ll keep talking to her about handling tough situations, but I’ll let her take this one herself. When fall comes though, I’ll be looking for a new ballet school.

Bean started taking ballet a few weeks ago. They call it ‘Princess Camp’ and she loves it. There’s a 45 minute dance lesson, followed by watching a part of a princess ballet (they’re doing Sleeping Beauty now), and arts and crafts time. It seemed like the perfect thing, since she’s into princesses and she’s been begging me (of all people) to teach her how to be a ballerina.

She loved the first lesson and couldn’t wait to go back. After the second though she wanted to quit. This morning we’re scheduled to have the third. I spent all week trying to get out of her what the problem is, and I’ve figured out that it’s the teacher. She’s a 17-year old and she does most of the toddler classes.

Apparently, the teacher yells. And she expects the 4-yr olds to do exactly what she says when she says it. Bean tries hard to follow directions, but she doesn’t always understand them. So now - even at home - she’s started responding with “I don’t know” when I ask her if she did something wrong. I can ask why her little brother is crying, did she take a toy away from him, why is she crying, did she understand me when I told her to get dressed… And her stock response now is “I don’t know.” And then she cries. And all of this just in the last week.

I peeked in the window at the class last week - just long enough to see her getting into trouble for not following directions that she didn’t understand. And being yelled at. It broke my mommy heart. And she was trying so hard! So now, I’m about to throw her back into the pack of wolves. Granted, I’ve tried to give her some coping skills, like what to say when she doesn’t understand. And we’ve had the talk about knowing who she is and who loves her - and not getting upset when a silly teenage ballet teacher says something mean.

But I’m conflicted. A part of me wants to march in there, tell them they’re treating children unreasonably. Another part of me wants to approach the teenage teacher and have a heart to heart with her. The bigger part of me wants to remove her from class. But what would that teach her? So off we go. Lunch packed, we’re headed to ballet class for Bean to be verbally pummeled into submission again.

And chronic low milk supply.

So I haven’t been a major screwup in breastfeeding my kids. It’s just that my dairy-cow-like-hooters aren’t very dairy-like. I always took comfort in the fact that those things are supposed to be functional - so the burden of carrying them around and finding the elusive comfortable bra was at least a worthy cause. But no more! I might as well be flat as a board, since for all their massive weight, these ta-tas are and always be virtually empty of anything substantive. Can’t say I didn’t try.

It’s official. My semi-professional business-mobile minivan has been christened. It is now a soccer-mom taxi. Ages ago when I was an SUV-driving suburbanite hip mom I posted this lovely bit of YouTube-dom. For those of you who don’t want to click over, it’s “Mom my ride” - a tongue in cheek play on Pimp My Ride, only for minivan driving moms. A few short months later I tragically traded in my super-cool SUV for a white minivan. Yes, white. As if there weren’t enough white minivans on the road already to populate an entire nation.

And I kept my minivan mostly clear of any kid-related mess. No spoiled milk. No sippy cups. Crumbs cleaned up quickly, no soccer ball dents or diaper-related clutter. My minivan was for business use (well, and personal mom use too, to be fair).

But yesterday I came back to my minivan after it had been parked in the hellish heat of a parking lot for 2 hours in the middle of the day only to find melted crayon. On my leather seats. Melted yellow crayon. That’s it for me. The tide has turned. Next thing you know I’ll be cleaning up curdled milk and spilled juice boxes, picking up little plastic action figures (and their body parts), bemoaning the fact that the back seat is littered with clean diapers, coloring pages, and the occasional stale animal cracker (I say occasional only because my 2-year old is bound to find them and eat them off the floor before they go stale). The melted crayon is only the beginning.

Is Mudlark these days? Good question. Most of the time I’m reveling in the fact that I’m getting my family back. Back from where, you might ask? Well, let’s just say I’m regaining control of my kids. Over the last 6 months I sank into working-mom-dom, followed by overdue pregnancy blues, and then into blissful new mom-hood. Blissful new mom-hood brought with it the realization that I wasn’t a stay at home mom for 4 years just to turn my kids over to someone else and let them teach them all the things I don’t want them to learn.

So lately I’ve been reclaiming my children. They like it, I think. Except for the fact that reclaiming them means re-instituting rules that they’ve gotten away from. And the sudden onset of discipline (which they’ve lacked for, oh, about 6 months). But I have a secret to tell you… shhh… (if you’re under the age of 15 stop reading here)… here it is… kids like discipline. They like to know the rules and understand where the boundaries are. So I may be the heavy right now, but my kids are happier. And they’re becoming the sweet, respectful, well-mannered children I thought I’d lost.

Wanna know what else I’ve been doing? Watching Lost. Lots of it. Fast and furious. Hour after hour. The minute we get the kids in bed we camp out on the couch and watch pirated creatively-obtained episodes of Lost, accompanied by popcorn or ice cream. We’re half way through season 3.

No worries - I’m not wasting time. I’m nursing. Which is good because we found out today that Bruiser (baby #3 - we decided that his earlier coined nickname, Peanut, definitely didn’t fit him) isn’t gaining weight. As in, in 2 weeks’ time he’s only gained an ounce. He’s quite a bit longer, but he’s getting skinnier by the day. (Note: this is probably not due to my stellar diet - note the popcorn and ice cream course enjoyed nightly with Lost). So I say, Moms, ignore the docs. You know your kid best. I called to schedule a weight check and they hesitated to let me come in - ’silly mom, don’t be so paranoid… your kid is probably just fine!’ But I was right. I knew my kid wasn’t gaining, and I’m so glad I found out now rather than waiting until his next appointment in a month!

The lactation consultant said he’s lazy. No news to me! That would explain why he stubbornly refused to heed my pleas to exit my womb on time. And his reluctance to respond to the pitocin in the hospital and just. come. out. Lazy kid. That’s okay though. There’s grace for that. And lots of nursing. Which very well might bring more Lost. And ice cream. And popcorn. It’s a rough life…

After yesterday’s fiasco with contractions every 3 minutes that stopped at the doctor’s office, the baby dropped and they agreed to induce me.

So, today is the day! I’m on my way to the hospital, and I’m having this baby today!

I’ll update when I come home, but for now, take comfort in knowing that he won’t actually stay inside me until he goes to college.

Apparently I’ve been in prodromal labor for weeks now. It’s gotten really active over the last 5 days. It’s this ridiculous starting and stopping of labor. Let me explain. The baby hasn’t dropped yet (even though I’m past 40 weeks!). But I keep having contractions. I’m not talking about Braxton-Hicks, I’m talking about real, start in the back radiate to the abdomen, last at least 30 seconds and require serious concentration and relaxation techniques to get through them. And they come every 6-8 minutes, then ever 4-5 minutes, gradually intensifying and getting longer and longer. Just like I’m actually in active labor. They don’t stop when I change positions like they would if it was false labor.

But they’re 100% unproductive. And eventually, they just stop. Out of the clear blue. They trick me. Every time. Like this morning. I was awakened with a really strong contraction around 4. And they kept coming. At first every 9 minutes, before long it was every 5 minutes, and they were nearly unbearable. I moved around, I tried relaxation, tried to sleep. Soon, I was convinced (and very happily so) that today would be the day. So I got up and showered, started putting toiletries in the hospital bag. And around 8:00, after 4 hours of being in what I would call labor, the contractions stopped.

And here I am, disappointed. Again. Apparently, says the midwife, it’s not unheard of for a woman’s body to kick-start labor, only to fail. And then keep trying. Again and again and again. For weeks on end. There’s something rather sadistic about that, at least as I see it. Maybe if the baby would drop I could go into active labor. But then, it might take active labor to get the baby to drop. There’s something disturbingly chicken-and-eggish about this. So now I ask, can someone please get my baby out? Or will he really be stuck there till college?

I’m officially past my due date. The baby is late.

It shouldn’t surprise me - Bean was 10 days late and who knows when Little Man would have come if I hadn’t been leaking fluid and necessitated an induction. But now I’m ridiculously pregnant. As in, I get looks of pity from strangers as I walk waddle around town in my frumpy end-of-the-pregnancy-so-this-is-all-I-can-wear clothes. And flip-flops. With bad hair and no makeup, because what’s the point?

I’ve stopped paying attention to the contractions. They were coming every 4 minutes for a while today. But then they stopped. Just like they always do. Maybe tomorrow. (As I’ve said every day for weeks now…) But with every passing day, the chances get better - or so I tell myself. This kid can’t stay in my belly forever. He’ll have to go to college one day…

Your maternity clothes don’t fit around the blessed girth of your belly.

You don’t remember the last time you had ankles.

Or the last time you saw your feet.

The receptionist at the doctor’s office knows your name. And medical record number.

Strangers don’t ask when you’re due - they only ask if it’s twins.

Friends routinely greet you with “You’re still pregnant?!”

You’ve moved your steering wheel back as far as it goes. And you don’t fit behind it.

You have more flip-flops than anyone should own because you have no hope of ever wearing real shoes again.

Your ring finger tan line is going away because it’s been that long since you’ve worn your wedding ring.

Your necklace is too small for your water-retaining neck.

You seriously consider hijacking a pharmaceutical truck and doping up on pitocin.

Certain personal hygiene tasks require amazing feats of acrobatics.

You lift heavy objects in hopes of hurting yourself (and being induced).

You can feel the water retained in your feet jiggle when you walk.

When your friend shares her good news that she’s pregnant you reply with “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Things that don’t work to evict a baby induce labor (yes, I’ve tried all of these in recent days):

• Jumping with your kids at the Jump Zone (one of those bounce house party places)
• Scalini’s eggplant parmesan (well, it worked for Bean, but not baby #3. And a 50/50 chance doesn’t do it for me.)
• Olive Garden’s eggplant parmesan
• Homemade chicken parmesan (chicken monterey-jack really, because I was out of parmesan) - they say the combination of basil and oregano helps… I beg to differ. After 3 nights in a row, it didn’t do squat.
• Spicy foods
• Walking. A lot.
• Jumping on a trampoline.
• Bouncing and rocking on a yoga ball.
• Pineapple - but if you eat a whole one all at once, it’ll make your tongue burn.
• Pressure points in your hands, legs, and feet
• Oxytocin and prostaglandins - as boosted by ‘certain activities’ (this is a G-rated blog…)
• Rolling my hips in circles - but it did provide plenty of entertainment for anyone who caught a glance of it.
• Spending time on my hands and knees on the floor, arching and rolling my back - ditto for the entertainment factor.
• Pushing down on my belly (entirely unscientific, but something keeps telling me that gravity needs a little help)

Anyone? Ideas? I’m not willing to do castor oil, and my midwife advised me not to try black or blue cohosh.

Actually, today was my personal deadline for delivery before my due (the baby’s actually due next Sunday). I have too much going on this week to be in the hospital in labor. Wednesday we see Liam’s neurosurgeon and Friday is Bean’s 4th birthday. So for now, I’m done with trying to induce myself. At this point I’m hoping the baby waits until next weekend. Of course, if he doesn’t come on Saturday I’ll be doing jumping jacks on the trampoline while eating spicy foods and pushing down on my belly with one hand while I use the other to push on pressure points and simultaneously rolling my hips in circles. It’ll be quite a sight to see.