There's Something About Molly

I knew this would happen. Even as I wrote about my ambivalence toward my pregnancy, even as I moaned about the failure of my superdrug, I knew that once I saw her sweet, sweet smile, once I watched her fall asleep in my arms, I would be hooked. And I am.

But there's something different.

I am in awe of Molly. I can't look at her enough. Every smile is mentally recorded, every move fussed upon. I don't recall things being quite this way with my boys. Of course I loved them, but their babyhoods were more of something to be endured to get to the good stuff--the toddlerhood, the point where they became their own people. I was never much of a fan of infancy; I find babies to be boring to the extreme. Especially my own. But Molly is remarkable.

Is it because she's a girl? Because she's my last? Or perhaps because her being is so improbable?

I won't deny that she's an incredibly good baby: she sleeps 12+ hours each night and rarely cries unless she's hungry or very tired. She's happy and laid back, and doesn't mind being carted around on my schedule and catnapping when given the opportunity. She'll swing happily for hours while I develop recipes in the afternoon, and can fall asleep with The Colbert Report blaring while I nurse.

But it's not just those things...

I can't believe how close I was to not knowing Molly, to not having her in my life. I can't believe I thought my life was complete without her. I can't believe that Ronan almost missed out on being such a loving big brother, or that Declan might not have gotten the chance to "help" me with his baby sister.

There's something about Molly. Something that makes me feel wonderfully lucky.

Jonah's Miracle?

The very first book we read about autism - back before we got the official diagnosis, but knew it was coming - was Karyn Seroussi's account of how her son was cured of his autism through the implementation of a gluten-and-casein-free diet. So, for the next four years, we put Jonah on the same regimen: no milk or wheat products at all, which meant we had to buy special breads, pastas and pretzels made with rice or soy.

But it didn't cure him. It didn't help much at all.

There are many miracles in the autistic community. Kids have lost their diagnoses after being treated with vitamins, or chelation (a controversial procedure that removes toxins, such as mercury, from the body), or hyperbaric oxygen therapy. And we've tried a lot of those things. But none of them did for Jonah what they had supposedly done for other people's children.

I used to feel this incredible pressure to try every alternative treatment I heard about. Because what if Jonah's miracle was out there, but we never found it because I stopped trying? One thing Kennedy Krieger has done for us is relieve that pressure. Knowing that Jonah's tantrums were caused primarily by his mood disorder means that no diet, no B12 injections, no amount of oxygen could have "cured" him. Bipolar disorder is a medical condition, and requires medical treatment.

But now I'm thinking about miracles again. Because, although Jonah's aggression has virtually disappeared since he was prescribed lithium and abilify, his doctor at Kennedy has just started him on a new medicine that she hopes will help with the lingering irritability, crying and SIBs (self-injurious behavior, such as the hand-biting Jonah does when he's agitated) she is still seeing. This new drug, riluzole, is only FDA-approved to treat patients with Lou Gehrig's disease. But doctors have also seen amazing results treating psychiatric patients who haven't responded to traditional mood stabilizers - like Jonah, who has been on so many different medicines over the years, I lost track long ago. Clinical trials are going on at Johns Hopkins (across the street from Kennedy), and the psychiatrists at Kennedy have just begun prescribing it to their patients. The two who are now taking it, according to Jonah's doctor, have made enormous gains.

New drugs are exciting - so full of hope and potential. It's thrilling to think we may be part of the beginning of a great advancement in the treatment of kids like Jonah. Although I've stopped believing that Jonah will ever be cured of his autism, we sent him to Kennedy to solve the puzzle of his mood disorder. Giving him the gift of a tranquil mind would be miracle enough for us.

Happy Birthday Declan!

Where have the last 4 years gone? How did my baby go from this:

To this, big brother to two little ones?

We took Declan to the Renaissance Faire for his birthday, and he got to wear his new pirate costume, complete with hat and boots. He was by far the most dashing young pirate there. He loved the magic and the shows and the 3-foot-tall slushies, though was devastated that he couldn't buy (or touch, for that matter) the numerous (real) swords on display.

As soon as we got home, I rushed to bake cupcakes and prepare his favorite foods for his birthday dinner: steak, homemade mac-n-cheese, and edamame.

So did he enjoy his celebratory meal? Not exactly. He fell asleep in the car on the way home from the Faire and we couldn't wake him for dinner, even with the promise of cupcakes. He slept right through the night.

So we ate in his honor. Happy birthday Declan!

Maybe He Needs A Map

The other night at dinner, Andy was asking Hilary about her reading - a topic he talks about a lot these days, because he's so impressed with the fact that Hilary is reading chapter books and she hasn't even started kindergarten yet. (Me, I'm a big believer in the theory that reading is genetically pre-programmed, and that it's not necessarily a predictor of anything. Take Jonah - he was reading at four, before he could talk, and he was completely self-taught. We didn't even know he could do it until he started writing in chalk on the driveway. I mean, of course I'm proud of Hilary, but I'm not sure her skill reflects any particular initiative or effort on her part.)

Anyway, I digress.

So, Andy asks Hilary, "Where is your Wizard of Oz book?"

Hilary says, "In my room."

Andy asks, "Where in your room?"

And Hilary, mishearing him, tells him exactly where her room is: "Next to the twins' room."

Matty, Keri and I laughed so hard I don't think we actually made any noise. I mean, are there so many kids in the house, and is the house so much of a labyrinth, that Hilary could possibly think her father would forget where her room is?

I guess so!

They Do! They Do!

After 2 years of positing the question, "Who else wants to live in my house?", someone finally accepted. No, Amy's not pregnant again. Family friends just bought a house close by and are staying here while the house is renovated.

For those keeping track at home, that's three moms, three dads, six girls, four boys, and the usual three cats and one dog. Though we briefly considered having some of the parents double up (anyone else watching Swingtown?), in the end we decided to donate Molly's room to Patrick and Rhea and have their daughters, Jazzy (8) and Sophia (4 1/2), bunk with Erika and Hilary.

It's only temporary (or so we keep telling ourselves). Hey, that sounds familiar...

Yes, we've reached maximum capacity. Yes, we're crazy. And yes, it will be fun. Look out for a special guest post in the coming weeks.

Back From Family Vacation

Last week, Andy and I took Erika, Hilary, Aaron, Gretchen and Oat down to the New Jersey shore for five days of family bonding. We had an ideal set-up: a friend of Andy’s from work has a house in Margate that he let us use for free – plus, we miraculously found in the back of our minivan about two hundred dollars worth of two-year-old tickets to one of the amusement piers in Ocean City. All we really had to shell out money for was pizza and salt water taffy, which pretty much comprised the kids’ daily diet for the five days we were down there.

(And breakfast bars. Boy, did the kids enjoy breakfast bars every morning! Sometimes they even had two!)

This was Aaron and Gretchen’s first time at the beach – I didn’t take them last summer because I couldn’t deal with the prospect of spending the entire time scraping sand off their tongues (i.e., “Aaron, stop eating sand! Gretchen, stop eating sand! Aaron, don’t you know by now how gross that sand is!). But now that we’re successfully past that important sand-eating stage of development, I was excited to see how much the twins would love the beach.

Well . . . let’s just say they didn’t get it, not at first. Every time any part of Gretchen touched the beach, she would shriek, “Ahhh! I dirty!!!!!!!” It wasn’t until our second or third day that they were truly able to embrace the scratchy, itchy, gritty existence that is a day at the beach. After that, though, they had a great time – all the kids did. They loved the ocean, even if the water was freezing. They loved eating junk food on the Boardwalk and going on rides – boy, did they love rides. I think Aaron went on the carousel 25 or 30 times. No matter what you asked him all week – “Aaron, do you want to go to the playground?”; “Aaron, did you brush your teeth?”; “Aaron, can I have a kiss?” – the answer was always, “I want to ride the big horse!”

The kids had such a great time, in fact, that I can’t imagine taking a vacation any other place than the Jersey shore for the foreseeable future. I mean, sure, Andy and I have plans for grand family vacations – including a safari in Kenya, exploring the national parks, touring through Israel – but I can’t imagine actually embarking on an expedition like that until the twins are way less annoying – I mean, labor intensive. Until then, it seems like we can have a lot of fun while avoiding troublesome situations like long car or airplane trips and inconvenient accommodations (not too many hotel rooms sleep 7) if we just keep going down to the shore. And Jonah loves the beach and the rides even more than his brother and sisters, if that’s possible – so it really is the one vacation that’s equally appealing to all five kids.

Does this make us boring and predictable? I guess. It might even make us intolerably lowbrow – at least to our friend, Hylton, who hates the Jersey shore and all the sticky, sweaty crowds it draws. But at this point in my life – with two-year-old twins, an autistic son who is quite firm about what he likes and doesn’t like, and two other girls who are determined to claim their fair share of our attention – keeping it simple seems like the right strategy. At least for now.

Make New Friends, but Keep the Old... or Just Look Them Up on Facebook in 30 Years

I'm addicted to Facebook.

I know I'm not the only one. I can see all my friends constantly update their status with ever more clever and witty comments. I get bombarded with emails to install the latest gizmo that my friends have installed.

I found groups for my elementary school (Bluefield) and summer day camp (Blue Rill). I found people on Facebook that I went to kindergarten with. Kindergarten! That was 30 years ago! These people look old. Some of them are bald. Some are chiropractors. Some both. I have vague memories of playing with these people, running wild through our apartment complex, playing hopscotch until dusk.

I'm excited when I find these people, or they me, and I pore over the few remaining class pictures I have, trying to match the face to the name, the face then to the face now. And we exchange pleasantries, one sentence updates--I'm a food writer in Philadelphia with three kids. You?--and then... that's it.

There's a reason it's been 30 years since we all spoke; we've all grown and changed and moved on. We're not the same people we were at 5. Now most of us have kids who are 5.

Last week in the car, I told Declan that his friend Josh wasn't going to be in his class this year. Declan didn't respond, and when I turned around I saw him sucking his thumb and silently crying. Declan and Josh have been in school together for all of their short school careers--more than 2 years. I'm sure Josh's mom and I will do our best to schedule playdates and possibly joint after-school activities, but soon both Declan and Josh will move on and find new friends. And Declan will struggle to remember exactly who Josh is...

...until 2038, when they find each other on Facebook: "I'm a pirate in Ireland with 5 kids. You?"

My Son, the Model

It's weird enough having a not-quite-4-year-old son who's more into fashion than I am. It's even weirder to have said son work the camera like nobody's business.

While at the Baltimore Zoo last week, Declan lagged behind the others so he could climb up on some rocks. Great, I thought; a nice boyish activity. But he wasn't looking to climb and jump and possibly scrape his knee. He was looking to pose:


Back at home, when Daddy wanted to take some pictures of Declan to forever immortalize his first (of many, I'm sure) black eye, Declan took it as an invitation to work it:


I've been reading a lot lately about gender confusion; I've even contributed some of the reading myself (see the Little Boy Pink essay I wrote about Declan's princess phase last year). But I think the so-called gender confusion is displaced; our kids aren't confused, but maybe we are.

I remember when Erika was 2, the height of her girly-girl stage. She insisted on wearing dresses all the time, preferably garish and pouffy dress-up dresses. She would no sooner play with a truck than she would an electric fence. She was a girl to the extreme. The exact opposite of Amy.

I, of course, found this hysterical: here was Amy, who basically lived in track pants and oversized t-shirts (she's a little better now), with a daughter that longed to teach Amy a thing or two about fashion. Erika was the last thing Amy expected.

Then there's my cousin Darlene, who's pretty girly herself. Her first daughter, Nancy, however, preferred football to fancy dresses. Nancy, I'm sure, was the last thing Darlene expected.

I think it's only natural for us to have certain expectations of our children. From the moment we find out the gender of our child, we start to fantasize about his or her future, try to picture what he or she will be like as a toddler, a teen, an adult. And even though I consider myself fairly evolved, when I pictured Declan's future it wasn't as a fashion designer or male model. But why not?

Now, Erika has shunned dresses for jeans and is happy to play pirates with the boys or pick up frogs outside (something her macho father refuses to do). Nancy (willingly) got her hair and make-up done for her aunt's wedding, though she still spends Sundays at Giants games with her dad. And Declan loves to pose for the camera. And bake cookies. And he can't wait for gymnastics class to start in a few weeks. But he also loves swords and jumping and wrestling with his brother.

I know I harbor misguided expectations of my boys, and I'm trying really hard to let them go. I'm trying hard not to see Ronan, my rough-and-tumble tough guy, as a footballer. I'm trying not to be so surprised when I find out that little tough guy loves to draw, and at 2 1/2 can already draw representatively.

When I look at Molly, I try to see a blank slate. And it's working. I can't quite see her future yet, or even know what I want for her. Just happiness, of course. And that's gender neutral.

Just the Two of Them

Amy and her brood are enjoying a little R&R "down the shore," leaving us with our own mini vacation here. Without their usual plethora of playmates to choose from, Declan and Ronan are resorting to playing with each other. Sometimes that's fun...

And sometimes it's not...

Yes, Ronan gave Declan his first black eye, but not quite in the way you think. They were jumping on the trampoline and discovered the hard way that Ronan's head is harder than Declan's cheek. Is it wrong that I'm a little bit proud of Declan's bruise? Probably. Especially since he got it so innocuously.

We've managed to keep busy over this first week of "vacation," one of three before school starts up again. We baked cookies and cupcakes, saw a few of Declan's girlfriends, and managed trips to the Academy of Natural Sciences (aka the Dinosaur Museum) and the zoo (where the "Beavis and Butthead" photo, above, was taken).

Today we'll bake banana bread with all the rotting bananas, and hopefully find something to do with 5 gallons of milk (we still got the usual 7 gallon delivery on Monday even though two-thirds of us are away).

Only two more weeks until school starts!

The Last Day of Camp... So Sad

Today is the last day of camp for Hilary, Declan, and Ronan. Amy's got lots of fun stuff planned for Hilary--farm camp, a trip to the Jersey shore next week--but I've got nothing. Three kids and nothing to do for almost a month, until preschool starts up again.

Most women do this on a daily basis. Matty could do it in his sleep. But I am not most women (not as patient and coordinated) and I am certainly not Matty (I'm prettier).

The problem is that I don't really like to hang out with the kids at home by myself. Frankly, I get bored. I don't know how to play with 2- and 4-year-olds. I like planned activities, trips to the museum or library. But that's also hard--how do I nurse Molly and still keep a tight reign on the boys? A friend of mine uses a leash for just this purpose, but I just can't do the leash. But I also can't be sure that Ronan will stay with me when I tell him to. We're close, but not quite there yet.

So what's a mom of 3-under-4-years-old to do? How do I make being at home more tolerable for all of us? I'd love to hear some ideas.

VIPs in Manhattan

Last week, I took Erika and Hilary to New York City to see the premiere of "Fly Me to the Moon," the new 3D kids' movie I kept referring to as "Bugs in Space," because I could never remember the real name. I got the tickets when the manager of Strollerderby - the Babble blog I write for - sent an email to the listserve asking if anyone was interested in attending the event and reviewing the movie. Even though I will be paid the impressive sum of $10 for this post (assuming it doesn't get a thousand hits, which seems unlikely, given that it won't possibly include any dead babies or aggressive breastfeeding propaganda) I jumped at the opportunity. I thought it would be really fun for Erika and Hilary to go to a movie premiere, and to see the stars on the red carpet (we only saw Buzz Aldrin, since Kelly Ripa made a quick, early appearance minutes before we arrived). But more importantly, I wanted them to go to a movie premiere with Mommy knowing it was for her work.

The kids see me in my capacity as Mom - getting them up and ready each morning, chauffering them around, snuggling with them at night, etc. They see me dashing off to tennis or to the gym. But I really want them to see me as a professional person as well, especially the girls. I want them to grow up expecting not just to be mothers, but to have careers as well.

Maybe all girls today have that expectation. But I can't help remembering, when Erika was about three years old, and she said she wanted to be just like me when she grew up. I asked her what that meant, and God help me, I can't remember exactly what she said, but it was something like, "I want to play tennis and have nice jewelery."

But I think I accomplished my mission. I took the girls to the nail salon the morning of the premiere, so we could all get mani-pedis for the big event, and while Erika was drying her nails the nice lady next to her asked if she was getting primped for a special occasion. Erika said yes, that her mother "wrote for the computer" and had been invited to see the very first showing of "Fly Me to the Moon." Which, I have to say, is a lot nicer to hear your daughter say about you than that you play tennis and have nice jewelry.

Molly, My Irish Molly

Our First Video Attempt

Amy and I both just bought nifty new devices for easy video taking on the go, so expect lots more where this came from... Enjoy!

Declan in the Middle

Whether middle child syndrome is real or something cooked up by The Brady Bunch writers to give Jan a plausible storyline remains to be seen. All I know is my experience with Declan, whose birth order puts him right in the middle of the 8 kids in the house, but whose personality makes him youngest of the big kids or oldest of the little kids, depending on the day.

Declan is truly the best candidate for middle sibling in our household, because he's so adaptable. He's equally at home in an elaborate pretend world with Erika and/or Hilary as he is pushing a stroller with Gretchen or striking a sword with Aaron and Ronan.

Instead of being neglected, as is the stereotypical case with middle siblings, Declan seems to have the most options. At almost 4 years old, he's still young enough to play with the little ones, but mature enough to play with the big kids.

I can't help but wonder how his position in the family will change as all the kids get older. Will he spend more time roughhousing with boys Aaron and Ronan as they mature? Or will he gravitate toward the more creative play favored by Erika?

I've been thinking about this more as I grapple with the decision of whether to send Declan to kindergarten when he turns 5 (which is the last day before the cut-off) or to wait and hold him back a year and send him right when he turns 6. If he starts kindergarten when he turns 5, he will be the absolute youngest kid in his class. He will also be just one grade behind Hilary. But if I wait until he turns 6, he will be two grades behind Hilary, but just one grade above Ronan and the twins.

Does it matter? I'm not sure. As the kids get older and spend more time at school and in their various after-school activities, it seems their playmates at home will take more and more of a backseat. When Declan is in first grade, and Hilary in third, and Erika in fifth, their worlds will be so completely different, I can't help but think this separation will transfer to the home as well.

But until then, I'm enjoying watching Declan in all his many roles: big brother to Ronan (who adores Declan, even when clobbering him over the head), doting cousin to Gretchen, prince to Erika's princess, puppy pal to Hilary's puppy.

I'll enjoy it while it lasts, because all too soon I won't be worrying about whether the kids are playing together, but whether Declan is dating Hilary's friends or Gretchen's friends. And I'm certainly not ready for that.

A Rude Awakening

Yesterday, Keri took Declan, Hilary and Molly to a playdate. Andy and I had a tennis match scheduled at our club, so we just piled everyone left into the minivan and took them with us, so Ronan, Aaron, Gretchen and Erika could enjoy a little swimming under the capable supervision of Marina and Oat.

Andy and I didn't play our best tennis, but we still had a great match against our friends Ricki and Andy Eisenstein. When it was over, we went down to the baby pool to hang with the kids.

In case you're counting, that now makes four adults watching four kids (one of which is a very capable swimmer) play in about ten inches of water. Plus, a friend of Andy's from work was there watching her two-year-old and chatting with us. Not that she was in any way responsible for our kids, but she does represent another set of eyes that you would think might notice if something went wrong.

Which it did.

Erika had helped Ronan climb into a little floatie meant for a baby to sit in, and somehow, he managed to tip himself over so he was upside down in the water, and couldn't right himself.

And the first person to notice? Andy Eisenstein, one of our tennis opponents, who was sitting at a table near the baby pool with his family and dashed into the water in full tennis attire (including his shoes and socks) to grab Ronan and haul him on to the deck.

Ronan was fine - he was crying, and scared of course, but he didn't cough up any water, so I don't think he was under more than a few seconds. But it is scary, that so many of us were there and nobody noticed what was going on. I feel like we had just started to react when Andy jumped in the pool, but maybe what we were reacting to was the drama of Andy jumping into the pool - it's hard to know for sure, given how fast everything happened.

I've written before about how nice it is to have as much support as I have from Keri and Matty, and how they remind me of things I need reminding about and keep me from screwing up too badly. But, as I learned yesterday, there's a flip side to having so many responsible adults around - it can breed a false sense of security, the assumption that someone else is paying attention. I see it all the time at the house - Ronan or Aaron or Gretchen finishes breakfast or lunch and wanders out of the kitchen, and Keri and I don't scramble to retrieve them, because surely if they start to do something too destructive or dangerous, Marina or Oat or Iza or even Erika or Hilary or Declan will notice and call us.

And we've paid the price a few times, nothing too bad - mostly unwanted marker scribbles on the carpet, the dining room chairs, even on Erika's crocs.

But the pool is a different story altogether. And maybe we were less vigilant because the water is so shallow, and the kids navigate the pool so confidently, and we didn't appreciate how dangerous it still was. But now we know. I'm still not sure what specific strategy we should employ: assign specific children to specific adults? Just constantly remind the adults present to be more vigilant? Don't let the two-year-olds play in floaties meant for infants?

I am sure of one thing, though: we owe Andy Eisenstein a new pair of tennis shoes.

The Modern Brady Bunch?

That's what NPR host Bill Radke called us on Weekend America... Listen to the full story here.

But It's A Great Opportunity, Dammit!

Last summer, Andy and I joined a . . . I hate to say a "country club," because that sounds so snooty, and this club will basically take anybody, but that's pretty much what it is. We signed up for the tennis, but I really fell in love with the swim team program they offer for the kids. The coaching staff runs practice six times a week (I think they hope the kids will come two or three times a week, but of course they can come as often as the parents want to take them), where they teach swimmers as young as five or six the correct form of freestyle, backstroke, breast stroke and butterfly. There are meets every week, in which even the beginners get to participate, so all the kids get to feel like they're part of the team.

And did I mention that all this instruction and experience costs a grand total of $50 per kid, for the entire summer?

Amazing, right? Fantastic value, right?

So you can imagine how frustrated I am now that Erika has decided SHE DOESN'T WANT TO BE ON SWIM TEAM.

This was Erika's second summer on the team. And she is only seven. So of course, it's hard work. She doesn't have the technique or the endurance of the older swimmers - not yet. And I think even I would be exhausted by the number of laps of the Olympic-sized pool the kids complete every practice.

But it's just so good for her.

This is how I look at it: swimming is great exercise, one that strengthens virtually all the major muscle groups. Even if Erika chooses to spend her summers exploring more sedentary activities, such as drama, or zoo camp, or playing with farm animals, at least I know if she goes to swim practice several times a week she's staying active (which is a huge priority for all my kids, as so many relatives on both sides of their family have struggled with their weight, including both their parents). Plus, consider the fact that swimming is one of the few sports people can do their entire lives (how many outlets are there for adults to play field hockey, lacrosse or even soccer?) and that there's no substitute for early instruction when it comes to learning any skill. Factor in the discipline, sportsmanship, and yes, the price and convenience, and it seems like a no brainer that I should MAKE Erika be on the swim team.

I know, I know - I sound so autocratic. And I always thought I'd be the kind of parent that encourages my children in their unique abilities, and helps them pursue even their most idiosyncratic dreams. (As far as Keri claiming in an earlier post that I'm forcing Hilary to take the exact same activities as Erika, when she really wants to be a ballerina, I will just say that Hilary is somewhat of a dilettante at this point in her life, and decides from day to day that she wants to take ballet, to take soccer, to become a fairy, to live on an island with Barney, etc., but that I can say for certain that ballet is definitely not one of her unique abilities) But you know what? That unconditional enthusiasm has to be tempered with the fact that Andy and I are adults, and we do know what's better for Erika than she does right now.

But I'm all for compromise, and Erika and I already have a tentative deal on the table: she'll do swim team next summer, and I'll let her go to horseback riding camp (a sport I've always resisted, because it's relatively dangerous and, from what I can see, builds no skills that can be applied to anything other than horseback riding - furthermore, and most damning, should she excel at this sport it would eventually require us buying A HORSE). Hopefully, we can continue this kind of negotiation with all the kids, this balance between passion and practicality, so that we will all be happy.

Thanks, Dr. Doom and Gloom

At the pediatrician practice we go to there are two doctors. One is laid back and amenable, quick to dismiss the occasional rash or runny nose, happy to go along with our own delayed vaccination schedules. The other one? Well, we call her Dr. Doom and Gloom. She's a bit, shall we say, overenthusiastic about tests and hospitals (this isn't always a bad thing; when Matty and I thought something was wrong with Declan since he was so small, she's the one I went to see, knowing she would order the full battery of tests I needed to assuage my fears; he was fine). She has sent Amy's kids to the hospital on more than one occasion, once to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia since our local hospital apparently isn't good enough. She has literally begged me to get my kids vaccinated on the right schedule. Oh, and she told me at Molly's one month checkup that she might have Down Syndrome.

With the benefit of hindsight and negative test results, I can almost laugh about the whole thing now. But when Dr. D&G told me of her concerns, I began crying and barely stopped for 4 days. Matty and I examined Molly from every angle looking for the markers the doctor had seen: wide-set eyes, epicanthal folds, low muscle tone. That's it. Those were the only markers. Sometimes we saw them. Sometimes we laughed dismissively. We pored over websites and message boards looking for clues. We imagined our future with a child with Down Syndrome and suddenly began seeing kids everywhere with Down's: a tween skater dude at the movie theater, an adorable child on the pages of the Nordstrom catalog.

After 4 days, Molly began to be more alert and awake for longer periods. Her eyes, epicanthal folds and all, no longer looked even remotely Down's-esque. The wide spacing of her eyes looked like her brothers', nothing more. By the one week mark we were already fairly convinced that Molly did not have Down's; that night, the other doctor in the practice called and told me he very much doubted that she did.

By the time the tests came back on Friday, confirming that Molly did not have Down Syndrome, I was relieved, but not surprised. Though (I hope) it goes without saying that we would love Molly no matter what, life is hard enough without starting out with the deck so heavily stacked against you. Down's kids have a myriad of health problems to contend with, not to mention the social inequity from being so different. I'm sure Molly will have to endure many social hardships in her life, whether she's a purple-haired tattooed Goth chick or nerdy straight-A student. Or both. I'm just happy that this is one hardship she won't have to endure.

Pictures of Molly

There are 568 photos of Declan during his first 3 months of life. In the months that followed, there are whole folders of pictures on my computer with titles like, "Declan's First Meal," "Declan Goes to the Children's Museum," "Declan Goes Apple Picking."

There are far fewer pics of Ronan, of course, though we managed to snap him meeting his big brother the first time, watching his first marathon (we were living outside of Boston at the time), petting a goat at the zoo, traveling to Florida to visit the family.

And Molly? Well, here's Molly at the hospital:


Here she is her first day home... Oops, never mind. Here she is with all her siblings and cousins... Um, scratch that. Here she is during her baby naming, an important ritual in a baby's... Ok, forget that, here she is on her first trip to... No, don't have those either. Oh, wait, here's one, Molly at 1 month old:

Cute, isn't she?

I know I'm not the only parent to photographically neglect subsequent children, but since I've always given Amy so much grief about it (C'mon, she's got 5 kids! How many pictures do you think there are of Aaron?) I thought I'd be a bit more conscientious.

But here's Molly, 6 weeks old, and I'm already neglecting her. Does she really need her diaper changed in the middle of the night? I'll change it twice in the morning. Tummy time? Eventually. Music class? Ha!

I hope this early recognition of my neglect means I won't repeat it as Molly gets older. I hope that I can still mock Amy as her younger children suffer from tag-a-long neglect. (Yes, Amy, I'm sure Hilary really wants to play tennis and take drama, just like Erika (even though she told me she wants to take ballet); and yes, I know Hilary told you she wanted Erika to come along on her first ever trip to the American Girl store (which I'm told is a big deal to little girls), but was it really such a surprise when she decided at the last minute that she wanted to go with just you?) But I digress...

Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right? So here's my pledge: I will take lots of pictures of Molly. Though I have no problem with hand-me-downs, I will buy her a new dress to wear for her first birthday. I will not force her to play soccer and take drama, just because her older brothers do it. I will not...

Well, let's just start with the pictures for now.

And in This Corner, Weighing in at 28 Pounds...

My boys won't stop fighting. Actually, only one of them won't stop fighting, the other one won't start. And I'm pretty upset about it. Though probably not for the reason you think.

Ronan likes to hit Declan. So does Declan hit Ronan back, sucker-punch him in the jaw, kick him in the kneecap? No. Declan cries. Not cry in pain, but cry out, as in, "Ronan hit me!"

Needless to say, Ronan finds this hysterical.

I know I should be happy that Declan is such a good kid--he's the least likely of all the kids in the house under 6 to hit or kick or punch or pinch--but frankly, I think he needs to toughen up a bit. I heard the following exchange from their room one morning:

Ronan hits Declan. Declan cries.

Declan: "You are mean!"

Ronan: "I not mean!"

"Yes you are!"

"No I not!"

Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum... Not once did Declan raise his hand in defense. Or offense.

I was at my wit's end the other day, after a long car ride to Baltimore with the boys sitting far too close together. We've tried every sort of reproach with Ronan and nothing seems to work. But there's not much you can do in a moving car when the boys are strapped in right next to each other. This resulted in the following exchange:

"Ronan hit me!"

"So hit him back." Swat.

"Ronan hit me in the face!"

"So hit him in the face." Swat.

Unfortunately, Declan didn't really have the heart to continue, and Ronan found Declan's feeble attempts at revenge even funnier than his whining.

I don't really want to encourage the boys to hit each other, so now I've come up with a new approach. When Declan whines that Ronan hit him, I tell him, "You and Ronan need to work it out."

Declan's the smart kid. Hopefully he can figure it out. Because I certainly can't. Anyone have any better ideas?

For The First Time, All 8 Kids Together

Jonah finally met Molly this Independence Day, as we took the whole crew down to Baltimore for the first time since she was born.

He was underwhelmed, to say the least. If I had to guess what he was thinking, it was probably something along the lines of, "Another baby in the house? Great. Can I have a lock on my door?"

Jonah did enjoy the pirate adventure we took on the Fearless, a ship that sails several times daily from Fell's Point. We all thought it was great, in fact - costumes, treasure, water cannons, singing and dancing (Jonah kept asking for "more dancing," which, I have to admit, was something of a surprise. I think this is a taste he acquired on the NBU, where they have dance parties all the time, and where, to my chagrin, he's developed a passion for the Macarena). We were very lucky in that no one else signed up for our time slot, so we had our own private excursion.

We all also decided that Fell's Point was by far the coolest neighborhood we'd seen in Baltimore - much nicer even than the Inner Harbor, which is more slick and commercial, flush with chain stores. We didn't have a lot of time to walk around, but it looked like there were plenty of quaint shops and restaurants, along with an open square where you could relax and enjoy soft pretzels, if you're Jonah, or shockingly blue ice cream, if you're every other kid in the family. I just can't believe no one suggested we check out Fell's Point before this. I mean, it's literally down the exact same street Kennedy Krieger is on. Oh, well. Better late than never.

In Defense Of Hilary - And Myself

I was cut to the quick by Keri's claim, "I've asked Amy to teach Hilary some tact, but to be honest, I think Amy finds it all too funny to put to an end."

Although I do find some of Hilary's questions funny - such as, "What would we do if there were no bathrooms?" and "What if cars didn't have tires?" - I wouldn't find it at all amusing if she, in her quest to solve all the mysteries of the universe, said something hurtful.

But the reason I haven't taught Hilary tact is that I just don't know how. How do you teach a five-year-old that some things shouldn't be said, even if they're completely true? Why is it okay to say, "That man is tall," but not okay to say, "That man is fat?" Why is it a compliment to say, "That lady looks young," but an insult to say, "That lady looks old"?

The fact is, Andy and I have spent so much time drilling into Erika and Hilary the importance of always telling the truth, that I'm not sure I want to complicate matters by trying to explain to Hilary the exceptions to this rule. Hopefully, as she gets older, she'll become more socially savvy, and she'll begin to understand why she shouldn't announce, upon opening a present, "Oh, I have this already."

In the meantime, if anyone has any tips on how to help develop this kind of social awareness, please pass them along!

The "Whys" Child

Hilary is driving me crazy.

I know you shouldn't say that about a child, much less your own niece, but the fact is Hilary's got a new habit that just makes me nuts.

Lately, all that comes out of her mouth is question after question after question. I'm all for encouraging curiosity, but for the most part, these are questions to which she already knows the answers. (I'm more tolerant of the questions she actually doesn't know the answers to, like "What if we didn't have any skin?" Really, what if we didn't?)

On a recent 90 degree day when Molly was crying in the car: "Why is Molly hot?"

After Gretchen pinched Aaron's face: "Why is Aaron crying?"

When Ronan's in time-out after pulling Hilary's own hair: "Why is Ronan in time-out?"

And a classic: "What's a bathtub for?"

Usually I just respond with, "What do you think?" and she answers correctly each and every time.

Then there are the questions that she might not know the answers to but still shouldn't be asking:

To her grandmother: "Why is your skin like that?"

To me, a few weeks before Molly was born: "Why are you fat?"

To me, just the other day, pointing at my still-recovering belly: "Are you growing another baby?"

To a family friend: "Why do you eat so much?"

I've asked Amy to teach Hilary some tact, but to be honest, I think Amy finds it all too funny to put to an end.

Goodbye, Uncle Bob

Last week, our great-uncle Bob died. It wasn't sudden or unexpected; Uncle Bob was 91 years old and celebrated his 71st wedding anniversary the day before he died. He also welcomed his 11th great-grandchild that week, and died in his sleep with his wife and youngest son by his side.

Uncle Bob was a typical, corny sort of uncle, always telling the same jokes (Did you stick your finger in this drink? Because it tastes so sweet!) and repeating the same old stories each time we saw him (When your mother was about your age...). We never discussed politics or current events; he never asked about my boyfriends or studies or work. We each had our part in the family: he, the affable patriarch; me, the zany youngster, and we rarely strayed from our roles.

Now, of course, I wish we had. I never asked him about his days as a shipbuilder during the war, or his photography hobby, or his uncanny knack for fixing anything that was broken. When I was a kid, I was more interested in getting airplane rides from him than hearing stories about his youth. As an adult, I was too busy chasing around my kids to sit with him for more than a few minutes. Just when Amy and I started planning our final trip down to Florida to visit him, it was too late; his mind and body alike were wasted away with cancer, emphysema, old age.

At Uncle Bob's funeral, I learned more about him than I had during my entire life. I never knew about the shipbuilding or the photography, though of course his family reputation as the fix-it man was legendary. But as each person rose to speak about Uncle Bob, I realized there was a lot that I did know about him. His kindness. His absolute devotion to his wife, my Aunt Rose. His complete satisfaction and happiness in his life, a life that gave him more than 30 years of retirement, and allowed him to die in his own home, surrounded by those who loved him.

I didn't cry when I found out Uncle Bob had died. Instead, I thought about lucky he was, about how jealous I was of his life and death. Uncle Bob wasn't a wealthy man, but his life was rich with friends, family, and happiness that few people ever get to experience. I will never spend 70 years with my one true love. I will never be completely satisfied with my life. I will certainly never have 11 great-grandchildren.

And I will never forget Uncle Bob.

Good Ronan

Nothing gives me more pleasure than when I see Aaron walk up to Gretchen and smack her in the face, or Gretchen walk up to Aaron and grab his cheek and pinch really hard. I'm not a sadist, but I am happy to see the twins go through exactly the same phase that Ronan was going through when I wrote about what a terror he is here, and here... and here. Why am I happy? Because it means A) I'm not a bad mother, and B) Ronan is not the devil child I thought he might be.

Of course, Ronan still has his moments. He's still 2, after all, and if the first 4 months of his terrible twos are any indication, the next 8 will be very long indeed. But he does seem to be learning. Sure, he stabbed his brother in the eye with a bubble wand the other day, but it turns out he was only trying to defend Aaron, from whom Declan was trying to snatch something (something very important, I'm sure). And yes, he did pull Hilary's hair this morning, but that was only because... well, okay, that was for no reason. You can't expect miracles overnight.

But Ronan is starting to talk a lot more, and he's just so darn cute about it. Last night he was helping Matty clear the table, and he kept picking up plates, bringing them to Matty, and saying, "Here you go, Daddy!" The other night Andy was engaged in his nightly ritual of giving the kids Noble Duke of York rides, and Ronan stood patiently at Andy's side, announcing after each ride, "Getchen's turn!" "Hilly's turn!" "Aa-on's turn!" until finally, "Ronan's turn!"

He's trying so hard, at everything. He wants to do everything "my-sef," from buckling his carseat to climbing in the bathtub to putting on his shoes to changing his own diaper (I don't actually let him do this last one). He so wants to be like his big brother and cousins. And every day he gets a little bit closer.

At his preschool/camp, the teachers call him "Spicy." At first I thought this was just a euphemism for "bad kid," but after spending some time there the other day for Ronan's camp open house I saw how much these teachers love him. I used to ask them about Ronan's behavior at school, and they would dismiss his hitting or pushing with a wave of the hand and say, "He's 2... All the kids in the class are like that."

I thought they were just saying that to make me feel better. But now that Gretchen and Aaron are turning 2 I see that those teachers were right.

It's going to be a long year.

Gretchen Loves Aaron

20 Years Later

Two weekends ago, while Keri was crankily awaiting Molly's overdue arrival, I was at my 20th high school reunion (yes, Keri gave me permission to go, knowing that might necessitate my missing Molly's birth - and yes, I understand that, should I have missed the birth, Keri would have made me feel guilty about it the rest of my life, but I went anyway. I still ended up missing the birth the following Tuesday, incidentally, because the freakin' nurses kept me in the waiting room while Keri was "getting an epidural," when what they really meant was, "birthing the baby at that exact moment." But at least she can't be mad at me for that.)

The reunion was amazing. It's funny how potent those old relationships can be, how resilient. I saw friends I hadn't seen in ten years (since the last reunion), and when we all got together for dinner the night before the reunion, it took about five minutes before it felt like we were back in high school.

Back in high school with important jobs, spouses, and about 14 kids between us.

It's interesting . . . I think for the past year I've been feeling pretty depressed about getting old. Forty is fast approaching (two years away), and I've been spending a lot of time wondering if people pass the second halves of their lives watching the clock tick down and thinking about everything they thought they would have accomplished by now.

But the reunion didn't make me feel old. It made me feel energized. It made me want to track down everyone who had been once been important in my life and catch up. So I started by finding two old friends who had missed the reunion, and had great conversations with them - hopefully, we'll get together sometime this summer.

I could make some kind of crazy resolution to contact one of those old friends each day, but I know myself, and I know that any project requiring consistent follow-through is doomed to failure. Still, I hope to get through my list. Because what I've learned is that, for me, there are few things as revitalizing as feeling a lifetime of relationships tighten around me like a net rising out of the water.

Molly at Rest

Third Time's a Charm

For those of you considering a surprise pregnancy while on Depo-provera that you don't find out about until 17 weeks, I highly recommend it. Not only did I have a nice short pregnancy, but I gained less than 25 pounds, all of which came off in the first week post-partum.

But the real prize is Molly. Sure, I love her and all that, but what's really great is that all she does is sleep. And eat. And then sleep some more. As I write this, she's sleeping in a pack-n-play next to my desk. Soon, she'll whimper and I'll nurse her while I do research for an article online or catch up on my celebrity gossip. Then I'll put her back in said pack-n-play for another few hours of sleep.

I know what you're thinking. 1) You bitch. Stop gloating. 2) Just you wait.

And you're right, of course. I'm sure I'll look back on this post in 2 or 3 weeks at 3am in the middle of a 2-hour crying jag and bemoan the unfairness of it all. I'm sure Molly will get harder before she gets easier, as she finds the strength to stay awake for more than 10 minutes at a stretch and wonders what on earth to do with herself.

As for the "you bitch" part, I'm fine with that, too. I gained plenty of weight with Declan and Ronan during their insufferably long (40 weeks!) gestations, and frankly, was just on my way to losing the last few pregnancy pounds when I found out I was pregnant with Molly--2 years after Ronan was born.

So is my miracle recovery and easy baby my compensation for getting pregnant when I wasn't supposed to? Of course not. Molly herself is all the compensation I need. As I might have predicted, the very first time I looked at her sweet face, I fell in love.

And I'm sure once she opens her eyes long enough for me to look into them, I'll fall in love a little more.

Good Golly!

Miss Molly Isla made a very quick entrance into this world on June 3 at 9:24am after the world's fastest induction (less than 2 hours!). The speed demon clocked in at 10 pounds and 21 inches.

Welcome Home Molly!