You've Got to Be Kidding Me

The good news is that we are all well again.

The bad news is that we probably ruined our dining room table by failing to do research before attempting to refinish it. My husband just jumped right in (my fault probably) before we knew we were supposed to sand WITH the grain of the wood. Also, for some reason, the middle section, which is a leaf, is lighter in color than the rest, especially after we applied the golden oak stain. I did quite a bit of searching last night, and it looks like we could try to bleach the other parts, to try to get more uniform color (not fun, sounds risky). Or, we could try a darker stain on the leaf section. Trying to do anything like this with three youngsters around is not easy, to say the least. The finish was peeling off, due to water being trapped under a table cloth some time ago. I couldn't stand the sight of it anymore, so I requested that we start working on sanding it.

It is still a pretty table, but the stain we applied yesterday really brought out the scratches from sanding in the wrong direction. Last night I read that no amount of stain or poly will fix a bad sanding job. Wonderful! We're supposed to use a 320 sand paper before each coat of poly. Let's hope that those sandings, done right, will minimize the scratches. Luckily, they are only visible when the light catches the table just so.

I suppose with kids, you just get used to flawed furniture. No big deal. I just so wish I had done my usual Google research before we embarked on it. I'm usually quite the fanatic about research.

Now to the You've Got to Be Kidding part of this post - the part that makes me want to do continuous primal screams. Aunt Flo, who was supposed to make her appearance on the 9th, did not. And STILL has not. Of all times to start using harsh fumes in our house! I just checked the poly can, and it says, of course, that it contains chemicals known by the State Of California to cause birth defects. That's just wonderful! Where can I disappear? Should we even use it? If we don't, the table won't be sealed and will become an even bigger mess.

Sperm are supposed to only live five days! Five days max. And his? They apparently lived SIX days. SIX days! I don't want to start all over, God. I'm too old. Don is too too old. We can barely support the clan we've got. What's going on? We didn't have the sterilization surgery after Rose was born, because neither one of us was comfortable with trying to play God. It's fine for other couples. The Bible doesn't say anything specific enough to know which direction to choose. We could only go with our consciences on this one. I'm sure that will end up being the right thing.

I did my frantic research last night, and found that the miscarriage rate is 35% for my age (just turned 42). The Down Syndrome rate is 1 in 76, if I am remembering correctly.

We will take what God gives. I have enough faith for that, and Don does as well. It is wonderful news when you've been waiting for another child. Glorious, jump-up-and-down news. And certainly, every baby is a blessing. I know that, and live that. But I had blood pressure issues with all three full-term pregnancies. The last one, at age forty, resulted in painful varicose vein problems throughout the second and third trimesters. I had to buy support hose online that were nearly $100/piece with shipping included. Yes, I kept those. What I didn't keep was the 0-3 months baby girl clothes. I also gave away all of our boy clothes, through size 2T.

I have my maternity clothes, a bassinet, two cribs, a stationary entertainment center, a playpen with changer, and a high chair. So it's not all bad. I was really hoping to nurse Emily for two years. The milk ran out during my last pregnancy around 9 weeks, but Timmy was an older nurser by then, at two-and-half-years old. Hopefully Emily Rose will press on with the nursing, no matter what happens, until she's at least 18 months.

I guess my biggest concern right now is whether or not a miscarriage will come while I'm alone with my three kids. One of mine was experienced at ten weeks, and ended up being much like an abbreviated labor, with screaming pains coming on without a lot of warning. I guess I know what to expect, for the most part. I don't want to go through that kind of grief, but perhaps it's different when one can say, somewhere in the back of the mind, that "perhaps it's for the best". It probably feels the same emotionally, though, whether eagerly anticipated or not. Rose does need a sister, for sure. She needs someone to play Barbies and dolls with, besides me.