You may have noticed it's been a while since I've posted regular blogs. Also, I haven't yet written about the coming of Cuarto (number four) into our ranks. This is entirely in keeping with Cuarto's usual treatment as the last (and, to be frank, uninvited) member of the boy herd.
A quick glance at the baby book reveals pages of entries for Primero (hospital ID bracelet, lock of hair from first haircut, congratulation cards from family and friends, and a particularly memorable montage of jolly-jumper photos), Segundo (same as above, sans the jolly jumper shots--Segundo never took to bouncing--he'd hang in the traces like the world's smallest paratrooper shot down over France), and Tercero (same as above only fewer in all categories). However, there are no pages for Cuarto. Recently I found his hospital ID bracelet stuffed into the bottom of an old jewelry box.
This omission of his birth relics gave rise and credence to the rumour (perpetrated primarily by Tercero) that Cuarto was adopted. Actually, the story (as embroidered by Tercero) was that Jack and I found Cuarto in a dumpster in New York City in 1992. The fact that Cuarto was born in 1987 apparently didn't twig the kid into dismissing the tale as bogus--toddlers are not good at math. It didn't help when Cuarto would come crying to us, upset at Tercero's latest version of the adoption tale. No matter how many times we assured him of his genetics, Tercero would say, Don't believe them--they HAVE to say you're not adopted!" And when we pointed out his uncanny resemblance to Jack, Tercero was there ahead of us: "For crying out loud--they just kept looking until they found somebody who looked like dad and who had a kid they didn't want--they're not STUPID!"
No, there are few birth relics for Cuarto. By then, I had little time for memorializing his entry into the world. I was back at university, commuting from Herbert to Saskatoon for night classes, determined to get my brain into some kind of working order. The only class I missed that term was my Monday night Medieval Literature class--I was in labour that evening and had the baby the next morning. I was back, however, the following week, determined to get my money's worth. I was PAYING for these classes, after all. And with more than money.
Let me backtrack a little. You all likely know the statistics on the reliability of birth control devices. Cuarto is a living reminder that nothing is perfect. By the time the doctor confirmed my condition ("I'm WHAT? AGAIN?"), I'd pretty much known it was true, but was in denial.
It was summer, and I was taking an intersession course in Western History. As the hormone fairy came to visit (thank you Robin Williams for that vivid and apt metaphor), I'd sit on the window sill of U. of S.'s Arts Building and sob uncontrollably, moaning that my life was over. I couldn't fathom how we'd handle yet another kid. Why, we'd have to buy a different car--our Fiat had room for only three in the back seat. And where would we sit in fast food restaurants? Tables could accommodate two, at the most three kids and two adults. The modern world was not designed for the four-kid family. Even fairy tales went in threes--there were no "Four Billy Goats Gruff", or "Four Blind Mice". Goldilocks didn't have to deal with four bears. Also, whoever heard of the FOUR Stooges? AND, Moe only ever Nyuck! Nyuck! Nyuck'ed three times!
No, the world follows the Rule of Three (it's an actual rule--it's got a Wikipedia entry). So here we were, a fourth coming along to bust up the gang of three (I googled gang of three but actually found an entry for "Gang of Four"--the repressive regime led by Chairman Mao's wife that was responsible for the "worst excesses" of China's Cultural Revolution in the 1960's--good thing there was no Google in 1986--this wouldn't have boded well).
To make matters worse, we'd just gotten rid of the last of the baby stuff--crib, stroller, high chair, play-pen, etc. Now we'd have to replace them. Things were not looking good. Number four was already incurring a lot of expense and angst, and he wasn't even born yet.
My state of denial lasted as long as the summer class. That fall, I was faced with deciding to continue school, or take a break while growing a baby. By then, I'd gotten a taste for intellectual stimulation (always a short supply when surrounded by toddlers who argued whether people's brains were made out of popcorn or jello) and decided I'd go for broke and continue my higher education. By dint of night classes, I was able to continue with my program of studies.
As February rolled around (and I grew exponentially--47 pounds--8 was baby and the rest Liberte Mediterranean Yoghurt), it became increasingly difficult to wedge myself into those ping-pong-paddle desks. I was sure my fellow students were making book on whether I'd extricate myself at the end of class, or have to wear it home.
By then, we'd purchased all new big baby items (including a Chrysler K-Car station wagon to replace our beloved Fiat) and loaded up on the small ones. We'd fielded all the inane comments about the baby's gender ("But what if it's another BOY?" "You're not buying anything PINK, are you?" "Maybe you could exchange him for a girl--hah! hah! hah!"). Jack and I had known from the beginning that it would be a boy. The ultrasounds of those days didn't usually reveal the sex. The images were not nearly as clear as they are today (Lab tech says to onlooking parents--"there's the head!" Onlooking parents, seeing fuzzy blob, look at one another and say "uh...sure...whatever you say...").
By the time contractions started again (for the skinny on contractions, see "Primero" blog entry), I was prepared. Having discovered the wonders of epidurals with Tercero (for the wonders of epidurals, see "Tercero" entry), I'd already put in my order with Doctor Heather. And I'd packed enough stuff in my overnight bag to last a week--I wasn't in any hurry to leave the hospital. After all, this was to be my holiday away from kids, and I was going to milk it.
Jack drove me to the hospital at a considerably slower speed than he had with Primero. By now, we were old hands. I knew my labours didn't progress rapidly, so there was no hurry. We dropped off two kids at one set of grandparents, and one at another--we'd learned it was best to split them up if we ever wanted babysitters again.
We proceeded leisurely to the hospital, swanned our way through registration and up to the maternity ward, only to be told the labour-and-delivery rooms were all booked, as there was a mini-baby-boom currently happening. I'd have to be content with a regular labour-and-delivery cubicle. "Whatever," I said airily. I was having an epidural anyway. No sweat--it wouldn't take long, and I'd be back in my room in no time. As long as they didn't put me in the hallway (which was the case for the late-comers that week!)
By this time, hospitals had done away with the more barbaric aspects of "prep" (see "Primero" blog entry). I settled into the bed and was once more hooked up to the monitor. Jack greeted the contraption like an old friend, readying himself to tell me how intense the contractions were.
Cuarto didn't take long to enter the world--the delivery was routine. Obviously practice made perfect--by the fourth time, we'd pretty much gotten it down pat. Doctor Heather announced "Another boy!" Jack and I both said "We know..." When Cuarto was put into my arms, we realized that all the angst and doom-crying about a fourth was so much air. Another baby! (Nature makes them cute for a reason). A sibling for the three amigos to fraternize. AND hand-me-downs were a go!
When the boys came to the hospital, they were fascinated with their infant brother, and wanted to take him home right away, all except Tercero, who kept ordering us to "Leave him here!" But then, that's what his brothers said about HIM when he was born--ah, brotherly love--it starts early.
There is a quaint hospital custom, perpetrated by maternity nurses, called "rooming in". This is where the nurses wheel the baby (snugged in a transparent plastic bassinet) into your room so you can feed, bathe, change, groom and entertain said baby while the nurses have coffee or something. When I had Primero, this custom struck me as a lovely way to bond with the baby. By the time Cuarto came along, I realized that the nurses were using me as unpaid labour, and I went on strike.
Every time the bassinet was wheeled in, I'd wheel it right back to the nursery. There were a few half-hearted attempts at returning it to my room, but by the fifth or sixth trip, the nurses gave up. I settled into my hospital vacation, which was enjoyable indeed. Every morning, when the nurse would come into my room carrying the bundled Cuarto (by then they'd quit rolling in the bassinet--apparently the wheels were giving out), she'd chirp "And are we going home today?" I'd chirp back, "We are not!"
But of course, all good things must come to an end, and by the sixth day, I was ready to go home. After all, I had a class to attend. Which I did, the very next day (or evening, to be exact).
It was an interesting experience, taking classes while looking after an infant and three small children. Luckily, Cuarto turned out to be the easiest baby of the bunch--he was good natured, slept when he was supposed to, didn't display any alarming eccentricities, and did everything on schedule. I would joggle him with my foot in his little plastic rocker as I studied for exams, or nurse him as I slogged my way through Chaucer's Middle English ("Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote / The droghte of March hath perced to the roote..."). I don't know if he was the ideal baby or just bored with the Middle Ages--whatever the reason, he turned out to be an extremely easy kid to look after. It was as if his arrival was the ultimate cosmic joke: (God--"I've got good news and bad news...the bad news is--YOU'RE PREGNANT AGAIN! The good news is, he'll be the easiest of the bunch.)
Which is what Cuarto has been from the beginning--our easygoing, cheerful, most sunny-dispositioned of them all. To this day, he refuses to worry, fret, get upset or dismayed by much of anything. His aplomb is legendary. He takes whatever life throws and works with it sans fuss or muss. Of course, his brothers like to take credit for his equanimity--"It's a harsh world out there--we're just toughening him up!" was their usual answer whenever Cuarto suffered something particularly nasty at their hands. Primero was particularly dedicated to accustoming Cuarto to the world's vicissitudes, perhaps because his position as "the baby" had been usurped.
Now we cannot imagine our lives without Cuarto. He has always been a delight, as have they all, but he was the icing on a considerably enjoyable cake. And while I would never advise anyone to have four kids today (remember the rule about never being outnumbered!), I would also not trade an instant of the adventure we had riding herd on those four boys. Yee-haw! Let the adventure continue!
