A Merry Christmas newsletter!

2016 has had its ups and downs. We lost Mohamed Ali, Prince, John Glenn, and Harambe. And THAT ELECTION THO...

The faces we made through all the news stories of 2016

Mighty Michael!

Our family also had some rough patches, but it has mostly been a great year. Of course the highlight was the healthy home birth of Michael Patrick Sullivan. He is mostly just a big, happy, observant boy who likes people. We all adore his round and jolly self. Far from being neglected as the fourth child, I'm concerned on a daily basis that he may be smothered with love by his siblings.

The Big Three

This has been a year of reading and superheroes for the kids. Diana finally finished her learning-to-read book and has become comfortable enough reading on her own
that she now seeks out opportunities to read to other people. She is eager to learn as much as she can about anything she can, and especially loves science experiments. Liam pours his natural energy into everything he does. He loves to help Joseph work or build things. He spends school time learning to read and write, but his passion this year has been superheroes. Our brave, strong, wildly energetic boy is very much like a superhero himself. Matthew is very bright with the brain of a natural engineer and all the benefits and pitfalls that come with it. He is two years old, which is easy to forget because he is so talkative. Because of his age, he can be incredibly sweet... except when he's not. 😉 He loves to buddy around with his daddy for hours.

Six people and their ride to the Alvord Desert

A year for us wouldn't be complete without traveling. We visited Maui twice for company meetings. Joseph went to Indianapolis for work, vacationed in Mexico (where he narrowly escaped being nibbled on by a shark) for the tenth anniversary of a trip with some friends, and went to northeastern Oregon to hunt elk. We had a fairly slow summer mostly spent in voluntary quarantine thanks to repeat cases of strep. (Poor Joseph was the only one to come down with all the nasty symptoms every time- four times in three months!) After a lot of medical sleuthing, we determined that Matthew was a carrier, but after some intense antibiotics, we seem to have kicked the problem and no one had to have their tonsils out. Despite having strep every two weeks or so, Joseph managed to finish his commercial multi-engine pilot rating so that he could fly out to Ohio and pick up the completely repaired Cessna 340. Having a plane with six seats that can fly almost twice as fast as the smaller Cessna 172 has been grand. Joseph basically looks for opportunities to fly friends and relatives around, and as a family we've flown to Tacoma and the Alvord Desert for day trips and to Skagit Field in Washington to stay the weekend on Whidbey Island.

Our exciting news on the home front is that it looks like we will have a new home very soon! After two years of paperwork and planning, we broke ground on a new house and it is nearly complete. It is a "handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground." (Pop quiz: What book is that quote from?) We hope to be moving in by the end of January 2017. It will be sad to leave the house where our family has grown for the past six years, but it will be oh-so-nice have more than our current 950 square feet for six people. We have definitely outgrown our first house!


We are so grateful for all the blessings that have been showered on our family this past year, including the love of family and friends. And if you are one of the dedicated few who care enough to visit our blog and read a Christmas newsletter, then you're one of our very favorites! (Don't tell the others.) 😉 Merry Christmas and have a happy 2017!

Mommy and Michael 

Diana found an art rock on Whidbey Island

Liam making one of his expressive Cespedes faces

Matthew in the springtime!

The whole family on Maui, December 2016

A Good Dad

These days I try to change clothes quickly, but he'll glance sideways and see it. I know he does. I know he sees the extra pounds, the loose skin, and the stretch marks from carrying four babies to full term in the past five years. But he still smiles when I walk in the room and tells me I've grown more beautiful and elegant over the past nine years. He wraps me up in a hug in the kitchen and tells me I'm hot. Even when I have no makeup on and I'm wearing clothes that have spit up and peanut butter and dirt on them, he remarks to the kids what a beautiful mommy they have.

He's tired. I know he is. He stays up late programming or flight planning or studying for another flying exam. He gets up in the morning to try to get some work in before his first appointments of the day. He spends all day talking to people, answering emails, having meetings, fitting in flight lessons, and doing work that comes with being associated with five different companies. But at the end of the day he still comes home and wrestles and gives piggyback rides to kids or takes them for walks and bike rides. If I haven't gotten the chance to go to the gym or if I have smoke coming out my ears, he offers to watch the kids while I get out of the house to work out or have a quiet moment. Usually he does it all with a smile.

He loves cleanliness and order. He always has. But he lets it roll off his back when he comes home and there are toys and books all over the floor and I've stacked things in an "I'll deal with it later" pile on the last clean surface and the kitchen is a mess from the last three meals. Instead of fighting about it, he simply jumps in and cleans up the kitchen almost every night.

He values peace and quiet. I know he does. But he lives here in what could be generously called a 1,000 square foot house with me and four screaming, laughing, wild banshees, and he tells us all the time that he's the happiest man in the world and that he loves coming home. When it's too much, he encourages us to all get out of the house together.

He is busy. He always is. But he still listens to mundane stories about my day and tries to help me with my problems. He helps figure out how to deal with the kids. He listens to their rambling stories and thousands of questions. He takes his daughter on a date every Friday. He makes time to see his friends. If I am at home and feel like I'm LOSING IT and send him an S.O.S., he comes home and tells me to take a drive or a walk around the block.

He is a good dad. One of the best. He's a good dad in part because he's a good husband. Because he's such a good role model. Because he puts his family first. Because he's a good servant and a good leader. A man like that can change the world by filling it with one well-loved, well-supported family. I know all of us agree that we are so blessed to be a family with him. Happy Father's Day, Joseph!

Comedy Hour: Grocery Shopping

Let me set the scene for you:

We have four kids, so at this point, germs spontaneously generate from time to time in our household. Because we were getting over the latest round of colds/fevers, and because I'm a considerate human being, I hadn't taken my children out in public in many moons and the rations in the house began to dwindle. We needed to go shopping. I had no favors to cash in, so I decided to take the children by myself.

As I mentioned, we have four kids, so naturally I hadn't showered yet that day (it was only 4 PM). Maybe I didn't have makeup, and the only shoes I could find were old flip-flops, but I had sheer determination (and maybe a touch of desperation). After all, not one more PB&J or grilled cheese sandwich could be made if we ran out of bread, and then we should all starve.

I fed and burped the baby. I loaded up all the children. I remembered our reusable bags. By the time we arrived, no one was crying. So far, so good.

Now I love shopping at Winco for a lot of reasons, but unfortunately they have very few multi-kid carts. They're regular carts with big plastic seat monstrosities affixed to the back so you can load two kids on the plastic seats and one in the cart. They're essential for families with three or more small children, nice to have if you have two kids, and if you have only one child then you do not have the right to even look at them, let alone lay your hands on them. As we trailed our way to the entrance of the store, we saw one last big cart. And as Liam ran up to it with joy, a woman with a single child loaded up her perfectly-capable-of-walking eight-year-old and pushed it off. To that woman I'd like to say that Jesus is watching you. I think I remember Dante writing these sorts of people into one of the levels of Hell. Maybe.

So whatevs, I'm a professional. I can improvise. Firstly I wipe the living daylights out of a regular cart with sanitizing wipes. Then I put my infant, car seat and all, on the inside of the main basket. This means there is basically no room at all to put groceries, but I read an article once about how it's unsafe to precariously balance car seats on top of the seat portion of a grocery cart, so now I always put the car seat in the main basket 50% because I think it's safer and 50% because I don't want to have an argument with a stranger about how it's unsafe to have my baby up so high and how I'm a bad mother.

It's a crowded time to be shopping, but the kids are cheerful and boisterously helpful, which was nice. We even ran into my sister-in-law and her kids, which gave us some measure of courage. Michael was starting to fuss, but it was fairly low-level. I could handle it. I just needed to speed everything up and we needed to get out fast.

Unfortunately that's very difficult with children and impossible with the combination of children and crowds. I'd like to give a special shout-out to the lady who just stood in the middle of the aisle reading a sauce mix packet while we waited for about five minutes for her to move. Whatever she was looking for on the back of that packet- the answers to life's mysteries? A coded message from the NSA?- she was incredibly thorough and focused because she was definitely unmoved by the now-hysterically screaming baby just a foot from her and my increasingly piercing stare. When she finally looked up, she commented that I had lovely children, noticed that one of them was crying, and said, really, "You should really get him home!" Would that I could.

As we buzzed around the busy aisles, it was clear the two youngest boys had already mentally bailed on our group endeavor. Michael alternated screaming and spitting up on himself. Matthew from his perch in the cart seat tried to antagonize anyone within reach: touching things he'd been forbidden to touch, trying to order me around, kicking at his older siblings if they were too close. Liam sometimes rode on the front of the cart, but sporadically jumped off and danced up and down the aisles full of happy energy. Diana tried to compensate for her brothers by being over-helpful and trying to get all the groceries for me. We started to have to circle back to aisles to get items I'd missed. Liam announced half-distractedly that he had to go potty. We were beginning to falter.

But really the pinnacle of the whole affair came in aisle 17, the Mexican food aisle. Most grocery carts have a plastic cover over the metal handle and on this cover is printed the name of the store. Normally they're affixed to the handle with some sort of screws, but if those screws are removed, they rotate freely around the handle because they're just curved plastic. If you have the perfect storm of having the screws removed, having a two-year-old with fiddling fingers pry up the edge of the mostly rigid plastic cover, and having a three-year-old holding loosely to the cart with his finger in exactly the right place, what can happen is that the two-year-old moves his hand and allows the plastic to snap down on the three
-year-old's finger like a tiny guillotine and pinch so hard that it actually removes a chunk of skin from his thumb.

Yes, on one of the carts at Winco, we left a piece of my child's thumb. Blame the lady with one child.

We have always joked that we'll never lose Liam because we can hear him from a mile away. That's when he's happy. When he is sad or in pain, Liam naturally has volume equivalent to a tornado siren. Do I even look like I would make that up?

So to recap, our situation is as follows: one infant covered in his own spit-up and screaming at the top of his lungs, one three-year-old tornado siren holding a finger dripping blood, one two-year-old troublemaker kicking viciously at his siren-brother out of sheer spite and bad attitude, a five-year-old girl narrating the whole thing unfolding before my eyes and generally getting in the way of the other shoppers, and an unshowered mother fumbling for a band-aid in her purse next to the tortillas in aisle 17 at the busiest shopping time of the day GOD BLESS THEM ALL.

I got a band-aid on it. We practically ran to the check-out lines. I forgot like a third of the things on the list and at that point, I didn't even care because we were cutting and running. I was tempted to just grab the kids and leave the whole cart behind. At the car, I hand sanitizer-ed (I CAN MAKE IT A WORD IF I WANT TO) the heck out of everyone and threw crackers their way so I could finally feed the baby before his head exploded. Feeding him made him (and me) feel a little bit better, and he thanked me by choking a little bit and letting milk run down my front while he got his wits about him, then throwing up everything he'd just eaten all over the shoulder of my new nursing dress. Still, he seemed comforted somehow and I was all out of energy for caring. So we made it home and everyone was alive and we even had bread for sandwiches after it all, so I'm going to characterize that whole circus act as a success and FREAKING HEROIC to boot. You're welcome. Mothers of four or more children, you are superhuman.

Michael Patrick Sullivan

He's finally here!

Michael Patrick Sullivan was born at home on his due date, March 22 at 12:47 PM. He was a round 9 lbs 2 oz (a whole half a pound larger than his brothers) and 21.25 inches long. He came out blue and silent initially, with the umbilical cord across his neck, but quickly turned a nice shade of pink and yelled admirably. He has a very healthy set of lungs. In fact, he seems to be in all ways just an incredibly healthy, vital baby. (Praise God!) It's more like having a one month old instead of a newborn. Right away he was alert and turning to listen to people's voices, especially mommy's. He was even able to lift his head to turn and listen to people and he managed to (probably accidentally) get out a couple of smiles just a few hours after being born. We are so so glad to meet him! The big kids keep asking to hold him or crowding around to "help" him or entertain him. Michael will probably never suffer from loneliness or a deficit of attention with so many loving siblings around. Diana has gone into full mothering mode and is happy to do anything and everything to help me with the baby. Liam seems to have a new, grounding sense of responsibility. He has been an incredibly reasonable, responsible boy lately and practically glows with pride every time he comes over to talk to me about the new baby. Matthew was a little skeptical at first that this was actually the fabled baby from mommy's tummy, but he seems satisfied now with the idea that the storied baby finally just came out. He likes to hold him occasionally, repeating "Hi, new baby!" and patting his head.

The birth story

(This is a hint to skip this part if you don't want the details.)

It took a while to be convinced that I was really in labor. I'd had a few false starts in the previous days, including one day when I even gave my midwife her "heads up" call since I really felt constant contractions. So when I woke up with contractions at 4 AM, I was suspicious but not entirely convinced. The contractions were anywhere from 3 to 10 minutes apart depending on what I was doing, and they weren't all progressively stronger. I tried sleeping again (no luck), then sitting in the bath, walking around, and sitting up. Thankfully the stronger contractions held off until after 7:30, so Joseph's family came to get the kids for the day. I didn't really want them to see/hear me in labor if we could help it.

I've been basically apprehensive about giving birth since we found out we were expecting. It's unlike me. With the other three kids, I reached a point at which I knew it was going to happen, it had to happen, and I was just going to do it as well as I could because there was no other choice. Truthfully, I think I was a bit traumatized after my experience giving birth to Matthew. It was all so painful and overwhelming and out of control. What I wanted most this time was just some control, or at least the illusion of it. Poor Joseph kept asking if he could do anything for me and I didn't have any ideas for him. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to yell. I didn't want to squeeze his hand with each contraction for the hours between when the kids left and when I went into transition. I wanted to slow the whole process down as much as possible so that I would have some control. Early on I laid down on the bed and the contractions started coming two minutes apart, but they were so much more painful and difficult to take that I quickly got up again and sat on a rocking chair pretty much for the rest of the morning. I knew that if I wanted to speed up the labor process, I could just lay down on the bed, but I wanted as much as possible to control this birth. So instead I sat in that chair as contractions started coming harder, but still staying around four minutes apart. We finally called the midwife when I started feeling hard tightening at the end of each one. I love that we were able to have a quiet, peaceful morning at home while I was in labor. I really like home births.

By the time my midwife arrived around noon, I was starting to feel some light pushing at the end of each contraction, which I think made Joseph just a little nervous. Knowing me and fourth-time births, she sprang into action and set up everything very quickly. I delayed moving to the bed as much as possible, but when the pushing started to feel moderately hard, I knew I couldn't stay sitting on the rocking chair. Sure enough, as soon as I laid down, everything started moving very quickly. Contractions were very strong and I started to get the urge to push hard. Feeling my baby's body move down into my pelvis was more painful than I remembered with any of the other kids. I had to grab Joseph's hands and yell, which I really didn't want to do because I still didn't want to lose control. With each contraction I asked Jesus to give me strength for my baby's sake. In the weeks leading up to that day I'd prayed hopefully for a painless birth. God didn't give me that, but I actually felt God's hand over the whole process. He didn't take away the pain, but he did give me space enough not to feel afraid or totally out of control. Throughout the entire last stage of labor, even through hard pushing, I had 2-4 minutes between contractions- enough time to regroup my thoughts and focus my energy on pushing rather than having my energy directed for me. I was able to focus on pushing more and yelling less. (The assistant midwife asked, "Is she always this quiet during labor?" Which was a far cry different from my experience having Matthew.) I could catch my breath, pray again silently for strength, even respond to people when they spoke to me. I felt like a person and a participant in the process instead of the animalistic experience with Matthew's quick labor and I was so so so grateful for that. 

Moments after delivery

My water broke one or two pushes before his head emerged, as usual. This time it took a few pushes to get his head all the way out, and that pace was slow enough to prevent tearing, which my midwife was particularly on the lookout for. Another push or two and his body was delivered. He was just a round healthy boy from the beginning. And as usual, the moment he was out, the pain was gone and I was just ecstatic to see my baby. I may have even cried a little. 

I did end up tearing and needing stitches again. Those little hands got me. While it was a fairly small second degree tear, Lisa found something that neither she nor her assistant had ever seen before. (Which is an awesome thing to hear when you're already enduring the least pleasant part of post-childbirth.) She called around to some Certified Nurse Midwives and OBs and wasn't able to get a good answer. Since she wasn't comfortable dealing with something she was unfamiliar with, she ended up taking me, only three hours after giving birth, to the ER where a local OB agreed to look at the issue and repair it. (A decision I totally respect. I'd rather have someone who's willing to defer to other experts than someone who makes uninformed decisions.) Since Michael was healthy and I was going to an icky ER, we decided to leave him at home. It was totally bizarre to have been pregnant for ten months, holding my baby for a few hours, and then suddenly go out, baby-less the day I gave birth. There was a lot of waiting, but the OB recognized the issue right away and said it was not a big deal at all and that the repair would be quick and easy. Lisa and I were both incredibly relieved. After about half an hour, I was on my way home again. It was probably the nicest ER visit I could have hoped for.

Now here we are with a five day old baby. Joseph, my mom, and his family have been taking care of the older kids and me, which is an incredible blessing. I love having the support to just take it easy and care for my baby, especially since the first week or two after giving birth is so rough physically. I'm still healing up and I need to make sure not to walk around too much or carry anything heavy. Sitting for long periods or even standing for short periods can be uncomfortable. Breastfeeding was, as I expected, absolutely excruciating, though we recently found that a different position makes the pain much more manageable. My milk came in and the engorgement made practically every movement by the upper half of my body incredibly uncomfortable. The reality of having a new baby, at least in my house, is sleeplessness and broken, aching bodies- me keeping mostly to my room so no one has to see how uncomfortable and messy everything is. We have a small house full of kids and it feels too awkward to fill it up with people visiting. As a result, we still have some family and close friends who haven't seen Michael yet, even though I know they'd love to, and I'm so thankful they're so patient! I've really enjoyed having the space to be reclusive and just recover from having a baby. 

And that's where we're at so far. His birth and our recovery hasn't been all magical rainbows, but it's been very manageable, which makes it all seem better than I expected. We've had so much help from God and from the people around us. He's healthy, I'm healthy. and things are getting better every day. 

A snapshot of late pregnancy

Hello! I'm dusting off this long-neglected blog again while the morning is still dark and the house is still quiet to share what's been on my mind lately, which is a snapshot of late pregnancy.

In just a few days I'll be 39 weeks along with our newest baby, which is significant because both my other boys were born just two days before the 40 week mark. So we'll hopefully be seeing this baby's sweet face soon.

Pregnancy is miraculous. Throughout it all, you can't help but feel that it was brilliantly designed by someone who knew what they were doing. For example, in the first trimester you can't eat or keep food down, presumably because this helps save you from food-borne illnesses, which would be much more harmful to a little baby before 12 weeks old. The same masterful design applies to the last two weeks or so of the last trimester. In this case, the object seems to be that the new mother will become so uncomfortable just existing in her own body that she would gladly endure childbirth, and that's really been the case for me.

Here I am, up a couple of hours before the kids because I can't sleep. Anyone who tells you to try to be "well-rested" before birth has never been pregnant. I don't know what woke me up exactly. It could have been my hips aching from having a heavy baby resting on them. It could have been getting up for the 20th time to use the bathroom. It could have been that when I got back in bed, my brain decided this would be a good time to puzzle out exactly where to put the infant car seat in the second row of our car and what I should get accomplished this weekend. In any case, I was lying awake long enough to get hungry because after all, I hadn't eaten in hours, and when I tried to ignore the feeling, a small someone began kicking, wiggling, and punching to remind me to get up and eat. At 5:30 AM.

This doesn't bode well for me today because now that I am HUGE, I naturally tire easily. The nesting instinct is real, and it has set in, so normally I'd bounce around the house clearing clutter, setting up baby gear, making freezer meals, and folding adorable baby laundry, but instead, I know I'm going to get one or two things done today and take breaks while I'm doing them, then be tired and cranky. Pregnancy is a beautiful time.

I don't really care that much about my weight because I know it all comes off eventually. With my first baby, I think I stayed on the low end of the recommended 25-35 lb weight gain. With my second, I was probably on the high end. The third pregnancy I think broke through that and this time I don't give it any thought as I don't end up weighing more than my husband. I would describe my body type at this point as "grumpy land-walrus waddling around the house trying to snack in peace." And you know what? This land-walrus don't care.

But the truth is there are lots of physical challenges that come with being heavier than I've ever been in my life. Some days I don't know if my pelvis and hips can actually still support me or if they'll just up and quit. I walk the same way I watched my older relatives get around when I was young: grimacing and hefting myself up (rest here to give the baby a minute to settle), then leaning to each side to swing the opposite leg around. Heaven forbid I should need to, say, run around after kids, change clothes or diapers, or bend down to pick/clean something up, or put on someone's shoe. Because with this pregnancy, I'm also dealing with pulled abdominal muscles and/or round ligament pain. I can't hurry anywhere, though I have found myself pulling off a light trot when it comes to whisking a child away from the road. I get out of breath doing simple things like doing the dishes or putting away groceries. Basically all I'm cut out for right now is bobbing in a warm-water pool for the remainder of this pregnancy. Joseph also snapped what he calls a portrait of late pregnancy, which is me sitting on a recliner chair looking at my phone and eating chocolate fudge brownie ice cream off a carton balanced on my belly. Don't judge.

This baby is healthy and growing, and that is real cause for celebration. He lets me know that he is outgrowing his home by stretching his feet into my ribs or extended episodes of trying to find the exit or punch his way out. My body lets me know it will soon be time for labor with Braxton-Hicks contractions that aren't joking around. And he lets me know that this is not cool by kicking, punching, and readjusting himself after every hard squeeze.

So basically everything about living and taking care of three kids, which is already a challenge, is more difficult because I feel like a large invalid, and you have been tricked into reading an entire post of whining (and that's just the stuff I can share in polite company). GRUMPY WALRUS DOESN'T CARE ABOUT YOUR TIME. I feel that I have two options at this point: having this baby soon or being pregnant forever. (If you contradict me, I will start crying because nonsensical feelings leading to tears are at an all-time high too because: PREGNANCY.) In this day and age, it is possible to send a person into space, but not to design clothes that will fit a pregnant woman in her third trimester, so I wear the same 2-3 outfits. My feet and I are in a long distance relationship. This is just not a fun time.

The last two weeks really are the hardest two weeks of pregnancy, BUT I am so very lucky. The place I live, my economic situation, and my family and friends all enable me to take it easy and enjoy myself as much as possible. I can be a grumpy walrus because I am treated like a queen by my husband, who works for our family all day and then still helps take care of the house and kids when he gets home. I am helped out by family members who watch kids or stop by just to bring gifts, and by friends who watch our kids so I can enjoy some last time with Joseph before a new baby. I am healthy enough to have the option of trying for a quiet birth at home with a midwife I know and trust. So far, this baby has given every indication of just being a healthy, growing baby trying out his body in preparation for living with us in the outside world. I don't have to work or do hard manual labor. I'm not starving, I'm part of a culture that values women. I am blessed surpassing reason in so many ways that it allows me to dwell on being a grumpy walrus, which actually makes me very happy indeed.

I know it's not a walrus, all right? Just go with it.

So I'm going to go make some pancakes now that it's time for kids to get up, then take a breather, then eat something other than pancakes so I don't ruin my blood sugar for the day because it feels bad and because my midwife is now IN MY MIND encouraging me to eat protein, spinach, and quinoa. Grumpy walrus OUT. Hopefully the next time I pop on here it will be after having a brand new baby.