Doc Appt & The Singing House

I had my 37 week visit yesterday.  The doctor said the baby had grown since my last visit.  She felt all around my belly and thinks he's small--not even 6 pounds yet she said.  That's fine with me.  (One of the symptoms of someone with gestational diabetes is having a "big baby." Hm...)

Oh, my favorite part of the visit was when she looked at my blood sugar numbers and asked if I made them up.  I couldn't believe it.  I was so insulted.  Wow.  When she saw my reaction to her accusation she said she was joking.  I think she was trying to call me out but then realized I really was telling the truth.  They were so low she didn't believe they were real.  Well, lady, I don't tell lies and I do not like when people question my integrity.

Between the time that the nurse took me to the room and the doc came in I heard them talking in the hall...

Doc, "Did she give you her numbers?"
Nurse, "Who?  What numbers?"
Doc, "Miss Ruthann.  Her blood sugar levels.  She's diabetic."

I wonder if the doctor even read my whole chart because it was never confirmed nor was I diagnosed with gestational diabetes since I could not complete the test.  We were only testing my blood sugar to see what they would be like over a couple of weeks instead of attempting the test again.

Ug, I can just feel the attitude oozing out of this post.  I am so moody lately.  My blog probably seems really negative and boring to read.  Part of it is because I'm stuck at home all day with daycare kids and don't get any social time whatsoever except on Saturdays if we go out and a little at church on Sunday so I'm not super chipper lately.  I hope it's mostly from the pregnancy hormones and I can be back to normal in a few weeks!

Some good news though...December 17 is my last day watching kids!  I CAN.NOT.WAIT!!!  Then at the end of January I will have one little girl back, but she will just be two days a week.  I think I can handle that.  And if not, I won't have to.

After sorting out our priorities, Devin and I decided the best thing for our family is that I stop watching kids.  I don't necessarily think that watching kids is a bad thing, but for ME it's not a good thing.  I can not give my own kids the attention I want to with other kids here and it kills me.

I read this in an old church manual and loved it...

I tied the napkin around Fred’s neck and placed before him his glass of orange juice, his cereal, his big glass of foamy milk. In my own opinion I classified among the superior mothers whose children are brought up in the approved manner of an enlightened day. Fred ate it all dutifully and then slipped down from his chair.

‘Now can I go over to Jimmy’s, Mother?’ he asked.

‘But Fred,’ I remonstrated, ‘you were over there yesterday, yes, and the day before. Why not have Jimmy come here today?’

‘Oh, he wouldn’t want to.’ Fred’s lip quivered in spite of his six years of manhood. ‘Please, mother.’

‘Why do you like Jimmy’s house better than ours, son?’ I pursued. It came to me suddenly that Fred and all his companions were always wanting to go to Jimmy’s house.

‘Why,’ he explained hesitantly, ‘it’s ‘cause—it’s ‘cause Jimmy’s house is a singing house.’

‘A singing house?’ I questioned. ‘Now what do you mean by that?’

‘Well,’ Fred was finding it hard to explain, ‘Jimmy’s mother hums when she sews; and Annie-in-the-kitchen, she sings when she cuts out cookies; and Jimmy’s daddy always whistles when he comes home.’ Fred stopped a moment and added, ‘Their curtains are rolled clear up and there’s flowers in the windows. All the boys like Jimmy’s house, mother.’

‘You may go, son,’ I said quickly. I wanted him out of the way so I could think.

I looked around my house. Everyone told me how lovely it was. There were oriental rugs. We were paying for them on installments. That was why there wasn’t any Annie-in-the kitchen here. We were paying for the overstuffed furniture and the car that way, also. Perhaps that was why Fred’s daddy didn’t whistle when he came in the house.

I put on my hat and went over to Jimmy’s house, even if it was ten o’clock and Saturday morning. It came to me that Mrs. Burton would not mind being interrupted in the middle of the morning. She never seemed to be in a hurry. She met me at the door with a towel around her head.

‘Oh, come in. I have just finished the living room. No indeed, you are not interrupting. I’ll just take off this headdress and be right in.’

While I waited, I looked around. The rugs were almost threadbare; the curtains, dotted Swiss, ruffled and tied back; the furniture, old and scarred but freshened with new cretonnes. A table with a bright cover held a number of late magazines. In the window were hanging baskets of ivy and wandering Jew, while a bird warbled from his cage hanging in the sun. Homey, that was the effect.

The kitchen door was open and I saw Jerry, the baby, sitting on the clean linoleum, watching Annie as she pinched together the edges of an apple pie. She was singing; singing “Springtime in the Rockies .”

Mrs. Burton came in smiling. ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘what is it? For I know you came for something; you are such a busy woman.’

‘Yes,’ I said abruptly, ‘I came to see what a singing house is like.’

Mrs. Burton looked puzzled. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

‘Fred says he loves to come here because you have a singing house. I begin to see what he means.’

‘What a wonderful compliment!’ Mrs. Burton’s face flushed. ‘But of course my house doesn’t compare with yours. Everyone says you have the loveliest house in town.’

‘But it isn’t a singing house,’ I objected. ‘It’s just a house without a soul. Tell me how you came to have one.’

‘Well,’ smiled Mrs. Burton, ‘if you really want to know. You see, John doesn’t make much. I don’t think he ever will. He isn’t the type. We have to cut somewhere, and we decided on nonessentials. I am not very strong and when Jerry came we decided Annie was an essential if the children were to have a cheerful mother. Then there are books, magazines, and music.’ She pointed to the radio. ‘These are things the children can keep inside. They can’t be touched by fire or reverses so we decided they were essentials. Of course good wholesome food is another essential, but we don’t buy things out of season, and our bills are not large. The children’s clothes are very simple and I make them. But when all these things are paid for, there doesn’t seem to be much left for rugs and furniture. But we find we get almost as much pleasure from our long country walks, with Jerry in her buggy, as we would in a car, especially if we had to worry about financing it. We don’t go into debt if we can avoid it. Moreover, we are happy’, she concluded.

‘I see,’ I said thoughtfully. I looked over at Jerry and Fred in the corner. They had manufactured a train out of match boxes and were loading it with wheat. They were scattering it a good deal, but wheat is clean and wholesome.

I went home. My oriental rugs looked faded. I snapped my curtains to the top of the windows, but the light was subdued as it came through the silken draperies. The overstuffed couch looked bulky, and not nearly so inviting as Mrs. Burton’s old day-bed with pillows you were not afraid to use. My house was not a singing house. I determined to make it sing.

I think this story has such a great lesson and I always want to remember it.