LOST A SOCK

Full House, The Lost Episode

Last Monday morning as we were freshly home from our mountain trip, I carried ten thousand things on my mind for what I would need to accomplish.  Kevin was back to work, there was no fresh food in the house, laundry piles hip-high and half filled suitcases and souvenir bags lay everywhere, and also Vacation Journals called for me, as we hadn't gotten around to them while on the road. 

I felt overwhelmed in the first days of being home, not as if we'd been gone for months, but more overwhelmed than I saw fitting, just the same.  

We were all worn out from traveling and I gave us time to slowly fall back into a routine.  I continued to feel off, and awful, and by mid-week with the ever-repeating cloudy weather and chill in the air I realized that it was possible I was coming into seasonal depression.  It happens some years, and others not.  And it's the most peculiar thing, since fall is one of my very favorite things in life, that the chemicals in my brain should pronounce themselves Terribly Out of Whack while I attempt to devour the best of the colors, smells and crisp autumn temperatures from behind my camera lens and within my favorite jeans and hooded sweatshirts.

Just the same I trudged forward with my List of Musts and previously signed-up-for engagements and Kevin and I had an important pow-wow, now sure that my person was taking an unplanned trip through utter Sadness and Despair.  It was, in fact, bringing luggage filled with all motivation and ability to process day-to-day normalcies with it, and I, not a crier, was crying about everything.   

This past Monday was KJ's seventh birthday.  And if there is one thing that is high on my list of Important Things, it is making sure that there are fantastic birthday memories for my children.  We have family gatherings for cake and presents, and fun activities.  This year we'd met friends at Lego Land the day before, and planned cake again the next night, which I think would be the eighth time this birthday season.  Birthdays are those days I get to think about my child all day, and over all the years how wonderful he is and how my life is infinitely richer for having him in it.  You never know how special childhood birthdays really are until you are on the parent end of them, and you get to fall in love with your child all over again.

And then I opened my eyes on Monday morning feeling like a goner, as if I'd been hit in the gut with an old wooden baseball bat, and couldn't muster the strength to get myself up and pull myself together.  I lay in my bed beside my birthday boy, there after a bad dream the night before, quietly singing happy birthday to him as he opened his eyes, and I told him that I loved him, and I was so proud of him and that I wanted him to have a wonderful day.

Then by mid-morning he was screaming from the tops of his lungs, and the Earth spun far from its natural orbit as my son got the idea somewhere that there existed a possibility that he should not have to homeschool on his birthday, but possibly he could watch television all day instead, he thought.  And this is the part where parenting is so difficult, and so tricky, because with your first child it is always the first time for everything and there is no manual for how to get through a very important battle with your child on his birthday. 

As things escalated, as they sometimes do, I stood there sobbing in the middle of my kitchen, lost in the chemical warfare going on inside my brain, trying to explain to a now-seven that spending your birthday painting pictures of mountain sunsets and creating other masterpieces on All Day Art Day, and calling it homeschool, is infinitely better than five hours of SpongeBob.  We live a good life on our birthdays, or at least we should.  We do what we do, not lay around wasting time.  How do you tell that to a kid?  A kid who is now so worked up, yelling and stomping his feet, crying such angry tears because he suddenly believes it possible that his mother is trying to cheat him on his day?  It probably would never have even surfaced in a parallel universe, had I whisked him off to public school earlier that morning, because all kids go to school on their birthdays, right?

He insisted that I was mean, so mean, and that I was ruining his birthday by not giving him the day off.  We yelled at each other and we both cried.  I had a fit of my own, in the middle of all of the anger and sadness that might be remembered as the seventh birthday morning.  These are the things we mothers don't talk about very often, how we majorly screw it up with our kids because we, too, are human, and we have all-too-short tempers and simply don't know what to do, most especially with an oldest child, because we've never been there before.  We don't have the right words, we didn't expect the problem, we don't have all the answers.  I mostly try to handle things from a calm place.  I have worked very hard over many years to keep my shit in check.  But I blew it, here.

By lunchtime I told the boys we needed to start over.  No day ever has to be a wash-out unless we decide it so, and we apologized and settled down and painted.  We rented a movie, ordered his favorite dinner and had one of his friends over to play with his new Lego set.  Kevin came home from work on time, we had cake, and a mostly good day.

A volcano, even, in his mountain sunset. 

So I went to the doctor yesterday, with symptoms ranging from chills and fever and wheezing all the way down to sure death, and I feel almost silly admitting that I managed to catch the Swine Flu, of all things.  But I certainly believe it, having been sick as a dog since Monday afternoon.  My to-do list seems to be growing by the second, but at least this evening I can sit up straight again and speak English.  We did indeed skip homeschool yesterday instead of the day before, and my children did watch television a good portion of it while I lay shivering and dying on the couch.  This early part of fall has been quite the learning experience, if nothing else.  I hope that I can again gain momentum and drag myself out of the seeming pit of misery as my tamiflu kicks in, or hope at least that maybe all of the despair was only my body gradually losing the battle against a bunch of pig germs.

Thankfully, we have almost all of the autumn season left to go.

Goodbye, So Soon

Even a bit faster than I thought it could happen, the three-year-old preschool Saga of Tears has come to an end.

I was going to give it the week, this week, remember?

So in the car tonight, on our way home from a library-sponsored bubble demonstration (what is it about bubbles that can make even adults so doggone happy?) I reminded Jack that he would need to get to bed on time tonight to be rested for preschool in the morning.  And then, silence.

I asked him if he was going to be okay, and with the small voice that is forcing back tears, he said yes, that he would try to be okay.

I suppose I should go back and say that his anxiety about preschool is pouring all over our lives, these days.  Anytime there is mention of me so much as leaving the house for twenty minutes without him, there are tears, clinging and wailing until I agree to bring him along.  He refused to stay behind and play with Kevin's mom last week while I ran to the hardware store, and then this afternoon it took much cajoling for him to go with Kevin's aunt, and KJ, for ice cream.  I had to convince my three-year-old to go out for ice cream.

He was a clingy baby, and a clingy toddler.  I didn't mind.  I gave him what he needed.  (A baby bjorn.)  Some babies just want to be closer to their mothers than others, is all.  Then this summer, as he settled into age three, he became a bit more independent.  He even attended two sleep-overs with family.

But school has taken us backwards, quite a bit.

So as his worry quickly turned to tears in the back seat of our car this evening, I finally offered that Kevin and I would not make him attend preschool this year if he wasn't ready.  I had been waiting, dead-bolting my mouth shut, before uttering those words-- to make sure I was giving my boy the fairest shake possible with school.  What was enough?  Two weeks?  Three?  I could tell it wasn't time, after the first two days.  And when I finally gave him permission to be Not Ready, he sighed, and I could easily feel his relief.  And then he cried harder.

Did he think he was disappointing us, or that there was something wrong with letting go of whatever is Just Not For You at a given point?  Most certainly, therein lies a reminder for myself and for all of us in grown-up land who are punching in for a million different requirements, large and tiny.  March to the beat of your own drummer, for goodness sakes. How long do we get here?  Eighty years, at best?  And then what?  Holy hell, be happy NOW. Live honest.   

I told him it was okay, and that maybe going to school would be easier when he is four.  He repeated that, and felt better. 

So this fall we will carry on with our original plan to continue swim lessons at the YMCA, and maybe try out a new sport.  And we will visit the library, the museums, the apple orchard, pumpkin farm and the zoo, and we will explore the massive middle chunk of our country. And try out parent-attended karate in the winter, as per Jackson's request. 

He will be fine.  And I will be mostly within his reach for another year.  

And besides, I really don't see his teenage years being spent perusing the fabric store with his mother, because he's not a fan of hanging out with friends.  We really don't hear those tales very often.

Why, hell yes I enjoyed my cake!

Why do you ask?

Well, actually, at first she wouldn't touch it.  Suddenly a bit shy about making a mess, I guess.  Then I handed her a spoon, and she was Off To The Races!

About mid-way through I began questioning how great of an idea this was for my poor child, who consumes actual cake, or sugar for that matter, approximately next to never (I knew I would find some benefit for her being a third child. Girl lives healthy.)  And though I worried that it would knock her little socks off, she did okay.  She remained awake for something like thirteen hours straight, but her head never spun.

Yes, there remains a pink overtone to her skin.

Also, I failed to get a picture of my sweet girl in her birthday dress.  It was pretty and pink, with a big flower.  And this is all I have.  A princess and her presents.

Which were loved forty percent as much as the cards.

We decided to try a September combo party this year, celebrating KJ's birthday as well.  He turns SE-VEN in a couple weeks, people.  Why would he do this?

Also, he's shattered his father's pure Notre Dame heart by straying from the herd, excited as all get-out this year for Oklahoma.  Here's his first Sooners jersey.

No, we have no idea where this fascination came from.  We live in the Northernmost Westestmost tip of Indiana for all practicality, and can spit into Chicago.  Oklahoma?  Eh?

This weekend we were finally able to corral all of the Ray-Dunscombe kids into one room for a sit-down shot (which, hello, five kids under seven, welcome to the impossible) as Bree and Luke and the kids were able to join us as overnight visitors for the weekend.  Where the moms stayed up too late talking, and then the babies took turns waking up all night.  To make us paaaaaaaay. Mwahahahaha!

And then back we go, to homeschool on Monday morning, with the old baking soda-volcano experiment.  Great way to get rid of mashed-together Play Doh, great way to use up all of your dish soap.  That you don't particularly want to use up.

While I am so glad that our Double Birthday Bonanza went off without a hitch, I have to say that I am tired.  The transition from Mom X 3 to Mom X 3 plus Teacher and Party Planner has been exactly what I imagined when we originally took the homeschool leap.  Though I do love it, it has doubled, or even tripled my workload between lesson planning, teaching and cleaning up from school, on top of everything else I normally do here.  I need a serious vacation, friends.  Or a mother's helper.  Or a cleaning lady.

Start your day with a steaming hot cup of Mommy Guilt

So it turns out that posting about homeschool is the easy part.  Here I was worried that the kids wouldn't want to participate, and I had frightening visions of arguments over Lego or Wii time and much hatred for getting down to business every day.  But when I call Time For School, everyone hops right over.  This is the good stuff.

But what people aren't hopping for, is preschool.  Unfortunately.

Jack cried at his first day of preschool.  This came as no surprise to me, as Jackson is the child who spends his every day within thirty-six inches of my person most of the time.  And I was once a preschool teacher, and a handful of my students cried on their first day, and they got through it.  I sort of saw it coming with Jack, and told myself he too would get through it. 

Some of my students cried on their second day.  Jack did too.

This morning we are finishing out our second week of preschool, and still the crying.  Worse every day. 

Sadly, it isn't just a little crying at drop-off that can be calmed by promises of pick-up soon, or anything he can be distracted from.  Jack wakes up at seven a.m. sobbing giant crocodile tears that he doesn't want me to leave him at preschool.  That, after he spends the entire night before worrying that he has to go to preschool again the next day.  He cries through breakfast, and he begs, while getting dressed, that I please don't take him to school.  I try to soothe him in every way I can think of, by reminding him how we always picked up KJ, and mapping out his day for him so that he knows snack time is half way done and story time means mom is in the hallway. 

Nothing calms his little worried mind, though, and by eight thirty I am inevitably dragging him down the long hallway so his teacher can pry him from my body while he screams at the tops of his lungs, reaching for me.  She shuts the door to keep him inside and offers to draw Batman with him, or set up bowling (two of his favorite things.)  And I can hear him screaming for me until I am outside of the building.  He calms down after fifteen or twenty minutes, usually, and then two hours later I pick him up.  And by the time we reach the car he is again asking worriedly when he must return.

I signed this poor child up for preschool this year, thinking it would give him some time to do his own thing.  I wanted him to enjoy it, and make his own friends and have new stories to tell.  I thought it was the right amount of time away per week for a three-year-old, and would be fun for him.  I didn't envision this.

I suppose I am writing this to document some little blip on our family timeline, either the time Jack almost had a nervous breakdown over preschool and we called Game Over, or the time I almost had a nervous breakdown over my son's nervous breakdown and then he magically got over it super-quick in week three and wouldn't even kiss me goodbye in October. 

I can't say for sure what the outcome will be here.  If not for the advice of family and friends to wait it out, I might kindly thank his teacher for the most expensive two weeks of playdates evah, and not return after today.  I have never been the extreme tough it out mom, always preferring for the kids to do things when they are ready, rather than when society dictates that they should be ready.  And I, too, was that nervous kid in school with the stomach ache about being away from home, so I know how it feels. 

And in the same, we're trying to strike a balance between worried stomach ache and sending the wrong message by prematurely calling quits. 

Has anyone seen my parenting manual?  I can't seem to find it anywhere.

Everyone needs a hand to hold on to

Once in my younger days, when we tried to become pregnant for months on end with each of our boys, I thought that the two week wait between ovulation (sorry guys -- today we shall address oooovaries) and the green flag for the ol' pregnancy test was the longest, most horrible wait in the world. 

Turns out, of course, that there are more difficult things to wait for.  Like the two little days to find out if you have a return tumor.  That is worse.

The wait for results had never been this bad with my previous three scans.  I watched the ultrasound as I lay on the table and made out what I could of my inner anatomy.  I knew I had a small sliver of ovary left on my right side after the initial tumor was removed, so I normally look for that crescent shape when the ultrasound tech scans my right side.  Three months ago a dark circle sat atop the crescent, and my doctor told me it was nothing to worry about, probably a cyst that would go away on its own.  I accepted that answer.  But then this time again, something was there, larger and visibly different than the first time. 

I knew I would have to wait at least the two days for any kind of real answers, so I decided to best utilize the forty-eight hour gap by diagnosing myself with everything from a cyst with an impressive life-span to full-on ovarian cancer at age thirty, and I did my best to figure out how my husband would fare in raising our three children should I become sick, or dead, or how I would feel putting my kids back into our town's public schools and canceling our long-awaited fall vacation in the mountains.  It was a fabulous couple days.

I finally spoke with my doctor this morning, struggling to glean the necessary information through his very thick Chinese accent, but got that he was saying, again, that he thought probably a cyst.  Another cyst or the same, or actually a tumor he did not make clear.  He told me to see him back in a month and we could talk further.  Quite dissatisfied with the certainty of diagnosis, of course, I continued to ask questions, reminding him that there was something in the last scan as well, and that just eleven months ago there was a very large mutating tumor living in my body.  And then he cut me off, responding with a, "hold on."  And he handed the phone to his receptionist and told her to make me an appointment.

I was so upset.  Upset that we're still jumping from test to test with only guesses as diagnoses, upset that my doctor was so rude when I clearly had cause for concern, and mostly upset with myself for still not changing doctors to this point.

Back when I finally became pregnant with KJ in early 2002, we were in a very different situation than we are today.  We had crappy HMO insurance with a measly two obstetrician choices for our area, and that is how I ended up with this particular doctor.  My pregnancy with KJ was permeated with high blood pressure, premature labor, bed rest and a premature delivery that came in the form of an emergency c-section.  So when I became pregnant with Jackson in 2005 I figured I should stay with this doctor, because even though he wasn't the best in the field, he at least understood my history.  Wash, rinse and repeat nasty pregnancy with Jack, and by the time Marin came along, I decided again to stay again.

I knew, though, that by the time my third child was safely delivered and this tumor thing happened (eloquent description, I know) I needed a doctor who specialized in something like this.  I am so grateful that recent years have blessed us with out-of-this-world medical coverage that affords us just about any doctor that can be found, and in the same I am so angered by the way our country's health care fails the poor.  If not for our current health insurance, I would still be stuck here, nodding my head to months upon months of untested cyst diagnoses until possibly they were found to actually be a tumor, and cancer.  And then what?  Because I was unable to afford a second opinion? 

Early this year when we were told that Marin's kidney problem was simply a mystery, and instructed to keep her on antibiotics for another solid year until her next appointment, I went specialist shopping without batting my eye.  In no time she was diagnosed, and now just six months later she has recovered from a very necessary surgery and will lead a very happy, normal life.  And so it needs to be with my situation (and should be for the situation of every person who is faced with a scary medical problem, job title be damned).  I will see my own University of Chicago specialist in six weeks (my God the time we've spent at that place this year) (we need a revolving door!) and hopefully gain some peace of mind.  Of course I am hoping for the best outcome, even a simple cyst diagnosis as my original doctor offered.  Just as long as we're a little more sure than basic guesses.

Which falls into the Flexible Parenting category

Back in January when it was time for Marin to move into her own bedroom, we quickly threw out the idea of a child moving into the spare bedroom downstairs, thanks to my ten thousand neuroses worries that one of our young children just couldn't sleep that far away, even if seprate bedrooms meant quieter bedtime routines. 

We purchased bunk beds and the boys were thrilled.

They stayed up at least two hours past bedtime for the first month and often sounded like a herd of caffinated cattle coming through the floor, but they were happy with the arrangement.

Eleven days into Project Boys Room they asked to have a sleepover, where KJ joined Jack in the bottom bunk.  I thought it was cute.  Even snapped a picture:

Seven months later the sleepover was still going strong, only by this point they were waking at five and six in the morning, yanking blankets from each other and arguing noisily over who was taking up too much space (and who was going to wake the baby gaaahhhhhhh sssssshuuuuuushhhhhh).  Each time I suggested that one child relocate to the, er, empty spacious bed on top, they formed a weeping, pleading chorus of NOOOOO's, and I felt pity in my heart. 

Albeit less pity than I would have felt, say, had we not just shelled out several hundred bucks to replace the perfectly functional set of twin beds they already owned.

Last week I waved the white flag.

No more crying over separation, no more fighting over blankets before the sun came up.  I spent an entire afternoon deconstructing bunk beds.  I arranged them in such a way where the toy box fit perfectly in between, and then I scrapped that idea, positive that twenty-eight inches of space would have one or the other sleeping in the wrong bed again that very night.  I smashed the beds together and called the boys upstairs.  They threw up their hands and shouted with glee that they had one giant bed.  That could be jumped on, even. 

Write that one in the Very Thick Book of Parenting Things I Didn't See Coming.  Also, so much urine.  And vomit.  I never saw those coming either, for the record.

What about you?  What took you by surprise?

A Letter to Age Three-and-a-Half

Dear Age Three Point Five,

Because you are surely the most interesting age on any child I have ever raised before, I find it appropriate to give you a little stage time.  If I can catch you, that is. 

Now, 3.5, I call you the most interesting because you are not only the most fun and the most fun-ny, but in the same you are also the most creative, the most imaginative, the most trying and the most explosive.  You understand that this description of so many mosts can only be summarized by that very word, interesting, don't you?

Many mothers who bravely walked and some who perished on these trails before us, 3.5, sent back warnings of what was to come with Age Two.  Two would contain tempers and meltdowns and mine and noooo.  Two could be cute, but it would also rock our socks, they said.  And when 1.5 did that very thing in our household, and Two calmly came and went, I thought I'd made it through the high hurdles of toddler parenting (version 2.0) with only a few scratches.  I thought we were out of the woods, and only a smooth ride to the teenage years could be on the horizon. 

But then you arrived, 3.5, and you found a way to rock my socks in the very same way as your predecessor, 1.5.  The two of you were cut from the same mold.  Only you came equipped with extensive vocabulary.

You ham it up for the camera, when you are willing to look, and you no longer sing the correct words to songs.  Names for your loved ones end in brand new suffixes, such as Mamasmack and KJslap, and even your own identity has changed a few times in recent months, from Baby Chick (oh was that fun when you trained the other siblings on the Little League sidelines to call you Chick, and you'd Cheep! in response to them) to Princess Leah, to now, Baby Boy.  You've also created and continue to develop Optimus Prime's alter ego, Optimus Crime  (yeah, send the check this way, Hasbro) and you tell me every day that you will name your firstborn Son Of A Gun.  You also clean every surface of our house with an Accedor Wipe, which is any wet wash cloth, and I have absolutely no further information to the root of the term.  But it sticks.

You love your new swing set with a dedication only seen previously in The Notebook, and though I sometimes swear that trips outside to give you a push (again) (and again) (and again) on your yellow swing will be the death of me, I cannot tell you the happiness I feel to see you so...happy.  When you are happy, you are really, really happy. 

...And when you are angry, I am sorry to say, 3.5, that you are really, really angry.   

The temper tantrums of this age showed up out of nowhere, and they kept right on coming for days and weeks and months.  At first I was surprised with the frequency and the passion you would fight me on things like String Cheese With Blue Wrapper versus the now obvious preferred Red Wrapper, and I worked to ignore your kitchen floor meltdowns.  But that was of no use, having you scream and kick wherever it was you fell in the moment, so I attempted a strong-arm tactic, speaking to you in syllables through gritted teeth and furled eyebrows.  Surely you should be so impacted by upsetting your old pal Mama, no?  Heh, no.  That made things ten fifty ten-thousand times worse.  At last I found that sending you to sit on the stairs, from the very second I could see a meltdown coming on until the time you calmed yourself down to be the only answer.  I am glad you are passionate, 3.5, and I hope it really takes you somewhere someday.  You and Son Of A Gun, together.  On a father-son road trip, possibly.

I see you struggle, sometimes, to find your niche in our family now that you are no longer the baby, but not the biggest boy.  You are easily best buddies with your big brother, who consumes nearly all of your time, and you have bonded tightly with your little sister in recent months.  As soon as she wakes in her crib, you rush to climb in with her, and always request that I leave her in there with you for a little longer so that you can be babies together.  Then you ask me to pull you out at the same time as I lift her, so that I can hold both of you in my arms and call you two babies.

At other times you pretend to be a girl, like Princess Leah, and you request that I buy you a Tinkerbell in the Michigan Avenue Disney Store.  In small ways I try to help you figure things out, by offering you stories of yourself from when you were a baby, and talking up all of the wonderful things that a big boy can do.  Last week I put together a picture book for you, covering your tiny baby days through now, 3.5, to give you a little continuity, and a bit of concrete perspective that, really, you don't have to be anyone but perfectly wonderful you.  And so exists the reason that you will venture out to preschool twice-weekly, beginning next month.  I think you will really benefit from having something that is all your own, standing in-between no big brother and little sister, just time for you to be you, with your own friends and your own stories.

When we met with your teacher on registration day last month, you attempted to explain that you will both homeschool and attend preschool this year, calling me your first teacher.  She agreed that a mommy is every child's first teacher, and I saw you write off the misunderstanding, almost with an eye roll.  And then you climbed on a chair and turned off the lights throughout the school office.  Way to get yourself remembered, 3.5.

You really will approach and speak to any person, child or grown-up.  This is something that bothers your brother, 6.5, to no end now that he has familiarized himself with a handful of social rules, such as less gabbing with the strangers.  At the zoo last month, as fifty or maybe a hundred people stood in the underwater dolphin viewing area, you watched at the glass for as long as a 3.5 attention span would allow.  And without a second thought you were sure that someone, something, must break the silence of the underground room, and you called the attention of everyone there.  "Hey everybody, look at me!" you exclaimed as your little body tried to block the porpoises behind, "I'm an animal -- a rhinocibiter!  I've got a creeeepy faaaace!" and then you made a scary face for all to see, just before your reddened face brother dragged you up the steps so we could escape. 

This is the sort of thing I hope to keep around through 4.5 and 5.5 and 6.5 and forever.

Lastly, 3.5, I most definitely could not publish a letter to you without giving a nod to the bat fever that has recently consumed you.  It began earlier this summer with two sets of pajamas that were passed down from your brother, which were originally purchased for a quarter apiece at a yard sale, worn before the two of you by who knows how many other little boys.  These Batman Pajamas instantly became your most favorite thing in life, even though you barely knew the character's name before Pajama Night One.  You refused to take them off in the morning, so I let you play in them.  Later you played outside in the sprinkler while wearing them, and when you came in you immediately changed into Batman Pajamas The Second.  Days and even baths later, I did put my foot down when you yelled screamed stomped asked to wear them to the playground and to Dairy Queen, and eventually you agreed to change only for the cause of more swings and chocolate ice cream.  Then for three lifetimes you continued to live in those pajamas, agreeing to take them off only for the occasional wash and visit to the clothesline, happily returning to them as soon as possible, even while they are still a bit damp. 

Later on I met you half way, and I drove you all over creation in search of a size 4T Batman shirt.  We found one, and you call it your Day Shirt.  You have a Day Shirt and two Night Shirts, now, all of which display your character. 

Your new preschool backpack?  Also your character.

Your new action figure (also unearthed from deep in the toybox, hand-me-down yard-sale-ville)?  Your character.

And your face paint colors at the zoo this afternoon?

Who'd have guessed it?

Sometimes I wish to bottle you up and keep you this way forever, 3.5.  Mostly those times when you willingly give me long, snuggly hugs, and when you announce yourself the rhinocibiter.  Not quite so much when you're visiting the stairs for the eleventh time in a day and I am beating my head against the fridge, breathing deeply through my nose and kissing goodbye my very last threads of patience.  I know you will grow very quickly, though, as school influences rush into your life in a few weeks, and your siblings and I (and your pajamas) are no longer your sole influences.  Just try to stay away from light switches there, and now that I think about it, steer yourself clear of the office altogether, ok?

Love,

Mamasmack

The logical Next, following baby puke in the eyes

I went to the beach yesterday.

I went to the beach not at all in the normal way where you grab a towel, a bathing suit, a cooler and three overstuffed bags of crap if you have kids, but in a different way. 

After a drawn out trip to the grocery store, which required infinitely more energy devoted to keeping my children from becoming lost, stolen, and poisoned from licking the myriad of germs off the shopping cart handle than to thinking through what I actually needed to buy, I treated myself to a drive-thru, fully-iced, bubbly Diet Coke as we exited the parking lot. 

I took a deep breath and appreciated my treat. 

It has been well over a month, maybe even two, since the kids and I have been apart.  It has been more than a month, other than those hours when I am asleep at night, that I have not been on constant call and constantly needed.  The best part to being a stay-at-home-mom, of course, is that I do not have to leave my kids every day.  I do not miss a moment of their young lives.  The worst part is that I don't get to leave them any day, giving me never the chance to miss them and so rarely the chance to be anything other than mommy.  And I think I could be an even better mommy if I could just find five minutes to not be found.  And maybe even something else completely my own, sometimes.  My battery is in dire need of recharge.

I noticed fairly quickly after we pulled away from the grocery store parking lot that the entire crowd of people in my back seat had fallen asleep simultaneously. 

I practically leapt from my seat (soundlessly, of course,) and quickly decided to stretch this miracle for as many blissful minutes as I could get out of it, frozen groceries be damned.  I didn't even care that I sort of had to pee.  Then I drove North and East until I reached our favorite quiet road that borders Lake Michigan. 

The wind blew noisily through all of the open windows and the late-afternoon waves rythmically splashed the shore.  I wondered why I had never done this before, on a random weekday afternoon of just the kids and I, being as how the water is right there, so close to home.  I drove up and down the miles-long road twice, and then all the way home and into the driveway, for more than an hour, before anyone woke up. 

And then as I unpacked my frozen thawed salmon and crushed package of blueberries my daughter figured out how to climb the stairs for the first time, and made it all the way to the top in record time for a baby who had never gone so much as a single step before, and my three-year-old had diarrhea and missed the potty.

I considered going back to the beach.  Maybe we could move there.

SpongeTen SquareMonths

Before I had children, and then when I had only one child, I planned to be fabulous at childhood documenting.  I condemned every too-busy mother who ever lived as I wrote detailed letters in KJ's baby book every four to six weeks for the entire first year of his life, outlining exactly how many times he made poopies that month and which words he learned with proper genius pronunciation.  His first blonde little curl of hair lives there, as do pictures of his first Disney vacation, and even grocery store receipts should he ever wonder what the going price for a brick of Imperial Margerine was back in '02.  Jack has pictures in his book, and a handful of words, as well.  I can't remember if his hair is in there or not, and his book still boasts blank slots for baby's first birthday.  Or, wait, did I fill that in one other time when a bout of guilt struck?  And also, it seems to me that I've also blogged this before but cannot remember that either.  Maybe I just talked about it with a friend?  Am fabulous at parenting.  Usually remember to bring all children along when leaving the house.  Score!

Regardless, my daughter Marin shall inherit a spiffy clean baby book, and this blog. It turns out I am just like every other mother of multiple children and simply cannot find the time for documenting (or, fine, yes, I possibly could while my daughter makes busy rummaging through the front closet on a mission to lick the soles of each person's shoes, but that is normally the time of day I run the vacuum and change the bags in the kitchen recycle cans, ensuring that at least she can later gnaw on mostly clean garbage while I prepare lunch.)  (And hence, bare baby book.)

I've been thinking for a couple weeks now that this month needed to be documented.  It was so busy, and so packed with milestones that one day my daughter might wonder about. 

You know, like at what point in her little life we made a forced pit stop at Burger King, her vegetarian father's personal favorite, where she donned Baby's First Jonas Brothers Cardboard Crown and consumed baby's first french fry.  (It was nine months, baby.)

Admitting to the blogosphere that I fed my nine-month-old baby french fries, by default or not, is sort of like begging for the condemning glare I received when my six year old ratted me out to another mother in the Osh Kosh Outlet Store earlier this week as he proudly announced that his baby sister loves a good peanut butter sandwich.  Hey Lady, our three year old gave her a peanut and then we were all Woo-hoo! No Peanut Allergy! just after we were all Woo-hoo!  Didn't choke to death! 

Hang on.  I'm getting way out there.  Back to the milestones.

No she hasn't toppled down the stairs while eating honey and playing with matches yet. Why do you ask?

At Marin's nine month doctor visit our pediatrician was a bit surprised that she wasn't crawling yet, and told me to give her a call if she wasn't on the move by ten.  I continued to thank my lucky stars that I had a late crawler on my hands, and went on my merry way (people, I've had two crawlers before this one- I KNEW what I was in for.)  So two weeks later, she crawled.  Then two days later she became a pro at pulling things over on herself pulling up, and days after that she figured out that she could actually move along the furniture.  During this handful of days she also mastered her own versions of the words This, Kitty, and Danny (our canine) and has learned to very sternly exclaim NONONO! when she suddenly declares meal time to be over, just before she attempts a solo exit from the high chair. This week I have also witnessed her let go of the couch at least a dozen times and stand for a brief second before plopping to the floor, and tomorrow she has Olympic Hurdles penciled in on her baby calendar. 

See?  Milestones, yes?

As if that wasn't enough, we are also cutting teeth numbers two and three as we speak, and have summer colds.  And if I hadn't previously stressed the constant pulling up, may I now encourage you to put together the trifecta of teeth, snot-fest and standability for the mighty result where No One Here Is Getting Any Sleep. 

Two nights ago, only one hour past the sweaty battle that has become Marin's bedtime routine, little Miss was standing in her crib wailing yet again.  Having just fallen asleep myself, still in that angry-bear-unconscious-zone-of-the-dead, I shoved my snoring husband out of bed, Garfield and Odie-Style, directing him to bring back the baby and the baby Tylenol.

So while the now-happy-as-pie baby and I waited in bed for Kevin to return with meds, I rested back down on my pillow and my daughter pulled up on my head.  She was having a great time tearing my hair out by the roots when I began to ask her who the happy baby was.  It was her, of course, but I never quite got that question out, as my daughter quickly interrupted by throwing up in my eyes and nose.

Ohhhh Lordy indeed that's one for the baby book.  If I kept up with that sort of thing.

My immediate reaction was to shut my eyes and feel around for the burp cloth I'd been wiping her snotty nose with (oh the concepts that no longer seem so gross and so I Would Never, like using a mucus-laden cloth to wipe your face when you find your eyeballs swimming in half-digested carrots and cottage cheese.)  That's when Kevin entered the room, still half-asleep with the Tylenol in hand.  While studying my face suspiciously he asked, What the hell happened to you? 

This all while Marin is still atop my head and baby vomit is pooling in my eye sockets and nasal cavities.

Get herrrr offff of me, I rather loudly suggested to the clearly naive man. 

Once I was cleaned up and the baby was fed (again) and ready to fuss herself to sleep, our subdivision's power randomly went out for an hour, the house temperature reached a fan-less one hundred and ten degrees, KJ immediately went bananas that no night lights were working and the moon was not! bright! enough! and Jack slept through all of it because God is at least Merciful, and also sooo funny.

So happy ten month birthday (several days ago) to my fantastic daughter.  May we slow down into this new phase of fun now that it has begun.

And may she get at least one chance to ride her new pony.

Don't judge me today

As I write this post late on a summer afternoon, I sit in as much darkness as can be offered to me.  It has been an incredibly noisy day, and now as I shamelessly utilize my Forty-Two Inch Flatscreen Nanny for the boys while my baby daughter naps, I find myself pulling the blinds in the window nearby, and turning off the desk lamp.  Even the light was too loud at this point in the day.

So let's talk about child noise for a moment, okay?  Because I need to know... 

Are your kids loud?

I mean, some days, are they really, really crazy freaking loud?  And in this loudness they seem to jump at you, and wave their hands at you for attention, and need more drinks, have more stories, demand more butt wipes, create bigger messes than ever before and generally bounce off the damn walls?

I have two boys, ages six-and-a-half and three-and-a-half.  My six year old, who I previously believed to be the more mild of the two boys, has recently taken to climbing.  Climbing the furniture, climbing the non-child intended parts of the swing set, climbing trees, scaling the counter at Dairy Queen, happily climbing his sister's baby gates just because he can, as well as other various safety gates, bars and contraptions along our nearby lake, to name a few.  All the world has become his gymnasium and he has Deep-Seated Robot Instincts that drive him to conquer all that is large or horrendously dangerous.  (Case and point?  This is the kid who just now exclaimed, "Mom, look at this!" while balancing the baby's upside down Leap Frog table on one hand high above his head.  If it's not worth climbing, find another mildly dangerous use for it.  Quick!)  His smaller brother, while not the avid climber just yet, has reverted back to those all-too-familiar temper tantrums that we dealt with at age one, and thus has found his own plan of attack for Taking Down The Parental Unit.  Add to this the noise levels of previous mention, plus one recently crawling and standing toddler and surely you want to comfort me in your arms while stroking my hair and buying me nice coffee, yes?

Will you please listen?  What were my directions?  Focus. Don't karate chop your brother.  Don't kick your brother.  Stop picking up your sister.  Your sister is not a toy.  Marin what are you eating now?  Who brought legos to the baby?  Don't sit upside down on the couch.  Get your hands out of your pants!

Is this familiar to anyone? 

The ten year old next door has been lighting off bottle rockets and fire crackers all afternoon and today instead of passing judgement I shall simply deduce that he, too, was driving his mother absolutely crazy, and sending him outside with a flame and explosives was her last option.  He is no longer mesmerized by the new Star Wars cartoons on tv, God help me her.

I have learned, by now, that childhood runs through one phase after the next.  Someone tell me that my children will discover a deep love for quiet, and rest, next, right?