To Keep

Do you have little things you did one day way long ago that have creeped into your daily life and suddenly become part of your permanent structure?  Little rituals. You know, like

• Wishing on the first star you see
• Making your morning coffee the same way
• Wearing the same scarf when the weather turns chilly
• Using the same greeting/farewell with those you love the most

I find the littlest rituals of our days are the ones that mean the most to me.  A few years ago, exactly when I'm not certain, our boy was much smaller and wasn't feeling quite well when it was time for bed.  I was trying to figure out how to get him comfortable enough to make it through the night.  I took his little paw and kissed it, palmside up, then wrapped his fingers around the kiss.  Doing the same to the other hand I told him "Now you have two kisses to keep from momma."  I Eskimo kissed his nose and he rolled over to sound sleep.  Fast forward from toddlerhood to kindergarten and hardly a night passes without me walking away from his bedside holding a kiss to keep in the palm of each of my own hands.  It is our thing.  Our little ritual.  Palm to palm, nose to nose.  And he can keep those kisses on his hands as he sleeps, through the next morning and out into the big bad world.  Until we meet again. 

Sometimes I feel that I'm not so good at this mom thing.  But then I remember that I arm my little man each day with the armor of my love and two kisses from me he can hold onto forever.  To keep as he sees fit.  What more does a little man need?

One Small Step From Preschool, One Giant Leap Toward the Future

Today we took one baby step into kindergarten. It was the "ride the bus to school with your kids and meet the teacher" (or in our case, drive) day. You take in the supplies, get to hang in the classroom a bit, see what the daily routine will be like, and generally relax about sending your baby off into the big, bad world of kindergarten.

Granted, I am not that nervous about it at all. Our boy has attended school in this district for two years. His preschool was taught in the same building as his kindergarten will be in. He rode the same bus he will ride this year. Played on the playground with his preschool class. Ate school lunches. He's Mr. Experience when it comes to the whole school thing. So I'm not going to be the mom who is wiping tears away as my little guy scampers off into the big bad world of kindgarten. (I was that mom two school years ago and it was awful)

What I did think about today was my freshman orientation group from last February. I lead the parent group while the students go into the high school gym with the teachers and administrators. Those parents were just like we were today. Wide-eyed. Scribbling down notes. Asking lots of questions. Wanting to make sure they got this right. I've led more than my fair share of freshman orientations, my very first was only a few weeks shy of little man's birth. Each time the first-time parents say "how did I get here-it all went so fast." That is what I am feeling right now. And I know before I blink, I will be where they sat last February. My husband and I will be sitting in a high school gym or auditorium, listening to the guidance counselor talk credits, state testing, eligibility for athletics, extra curricular activities, ACT testing information and more. We will be scribbling down notes that have nothing to do with volunteering for afternoon snack rotations or class parties, but scheduling and GPAs.

I know it is the cliche of parenting-it all goes so fast. Just when I think I have one stage figured out, we have transitioned into another. I loved babyhood-loved those snuggles. Loved those naps he took with me. I adored toddler years where he squealed happiness about a spoon or paper. Joy oozed from him sun-up to sun-down. At three he began to memorize car makes and models. We ventured into preschool then. I loved discovering his interests as he did. Like watching a sunrise. Four and five have been a slow explosion from small boy into all boy. We don't walk anymore; we run. We don't talk anymore; we shout. We don't sit down anymore; we flop. He loves rock and roll, dinosaurs, Detroit Tigers baseball, all things cars, tractors and construction equipment. He loves books and reading to us. He loves to draw pictures more than he does coloring in pictures. He loves the movie Short Circut. Yes, it all goes so fast, but it is a fun ride. And I am just as anxious as he is to see what is around the bend. The only difference is, I want to linger a moment longer before we get there because I know just how perfect right now is.

 

Kindergarten, here we come!

 

Why Our Son May Not Make 10

See this face...

don't let it fool you with its innocence and adorableness.

 

Me: upon noticing our son leaping from kitchen stool to kitchen stool, at risk of life and limb, "Jack, quit jumping on the furniture!"

Jack: "Huh? It's not furniture."

Me: "Quit. Jumping. On. The. Furniture."

Jack: (pounding said stool with fist) "It's hard, see. It's not furniture because it's hard. Furniture is comfy. This isn't."

Me: "It is furniture. And quit jumping on it. And while I'm explaining this, the table, chairs, and non-comfy objects are furniture."

Jack : (giant exasperated sigh) "Nope. They aren't. But I'll stop jumping."

 

Because he was like, doing us such a huge favor.

 

Me, My boy, Dinosaurs and a Rocket Ship

As a school counselor, I am blissfully aware that I am home from the middle of June through the middle of August (give or take a few days).  This means for the time being, I am a stay-at-home mom and am privy to the thoroughly enjoyable insights spouted off at random by our son.  You know him...this one conducting a business call in our dining room with a telephone that isn't plugged in...

When you are five, you have the world pretty much figured out.  As in this conversation...

(Upon exiting our car at the grocery store and examining the car parked directly next to us)

J: Mom, there must be dinosaurs around here.

Me: (not really listening) mmmmmhmmmmmmm...

J: Like Brachiosaurus or T-Rex

Me: (figuring out he may be crazy) What are you talking about? Dinosaurs are extinct!

J: Obviously not, because one put a giant dent in that car with its tail.  Duh.  (shaking his head with disgust)

Clearly I know little about dinosaurs.  My science education was a bust.

Or this morning, instead of a normal "good morning" there were demands and expectations...

J: Where's our space ship?

Me:  (trying to hug him with little success) Um, you mean any space ship?

J: No.  Ours.


Me: Well, I...um...well...I don't know.

J: You lost it?!  But I wanted to go to the moon!  I've never seen the moon!  I always wondered what it looked like!  (insert giant sigh)

Me: (calling after him as he wandered into the bathroom) Sorry buddy.  Maybe someday we will get it back!

I want to know where in the parenting manual we were supposed to be prepared for five year olds who expect dinosaurs to dent our cars and space ships to be parked behind our houses.  Oh, and use phrases like "all my life."

(Lack of) Potty Training

Seriously. WTF

I mean, we did this two years ago.  That's right, two years.  Count the months. They equal 24.  Twenty-four blissful diaper-free months.  Two years.  Two years without worrying about carrying around a diaper bag. Two years without having to find a suitable place to lay down our bundle of joy to wipe his rear end (because he got too heavy for those grody tables). Two years that we didn't have to carry a change of clothes everywhere. Two years of keeping the wipes in the car only.

And now we are back to this.  For the past week or so our five year-old boy has gotten up wet.  He is refusing to wipe himself.  He is wetting his pants.  A few months ago it was just an accident here or there.  Bed wetting we can understand.  But that isn't the case.  It is the "I have to go but I don't want to go so I will hold it as long as I can and ohmygoodnessIleakedandnowwhatdoIdo" thing.  Not wet through and leaking down his leg.  Oh no.  He is too engrossed in his play.  Or too sleepy right at dawn.  Or too much into his movie.  Or loves riding his bike too much.  And don't get me started on how helpless he becomes when it comes to wiping and washing his hands. 

Yes, I am ranting.  Because this boy insists he can "do it myself momma!" all the time.  Unless it is related to potty and hygiene.  He has regressed to babyhood.  And we cannot figure out what to do with it.  I am up to here (hand stretched to sky) with the wet pants and stink.  Potty training was much preferred to this! So I am open to suggestions.  Or offers to board our son while he works it out. 

I know, I know...I should be more patient.  I should be understanding.  But right now.  In this moment.  I. Am. Not.  Someday I will look back on this and giggle (possibly).  Just like we do over his hitting phase.  But today I want it fixed. And like any parents, we know that once this is solved, another problem will move in to replace this one.  Possibly one that is even more aggravating.  The neverending fun of parenting, right? 

For now, I reserve the right to rant.  And will call our family physician for a consult to rule out any serious medical issue.  And purchase a board to beat my head into.  And then turn to the bottle.  Because this is a problem that can only be solved by a good, stiff drink. 

For me, people! Yeesh!

It Wiggles!

This is what we heard exclaimed from the backseat of the car on our way to shopping on Saturday. 

"It wiggles!"  With his fingers jammed into his mouth.

"My toof! It is loose!"

I was not ready for this.  I mean, the dentist said a few weeks ago he had moderately loose teeth on the bottom.  Ones that may (or may not) be out by the end of summer.  You know, right before kindergarten starts.  But that was months away.  Ages. 

Not now. 

I glanced back.  Fully prepared for his little sausage fingers to show me a "toof" that barely budged under their force.  But no.  This sucker was a dangler.  Shoved forward in that grotesque way that teeth do when they are ready to come loose from a child's mouth.  This one wasn't even the tooth that had shown signs of wiggle.  How could that be?!

He couldn't wait to get into the store.  Bolting for the first mirrored pillar, he stared, open mouthed, wiggling it with his tongue and trying not to grin.  Also, trying to talk at the same time.  Pulling him away was more than difficult. 

By the time the two of us parted from my husband and headed for Gap Kids, he was pausing at every mirrored surface in the mall.  Checking to see the progress of the wiggler.  Needless to say, our progress was a bit slow.  I kept telling him to be careful, he didn't want to lose it here and miss out on the tooth fairy getting it. 

I swear, he is on to us.

48 hours later and the "toof" is still there.  Dangling by a thread.  I cannot stand to look at it.  The whole process of losing teeth just grosses me out.  Of course, now that he knows this, he misses no opportunities to show me the progress.  I am certain before we get to our family photo shoot on Sunday, he will have a gap on his lower jaw to show with pride.  Part of me grins to think of it.  Part of me is wistful.  Once the baby teeth are gone, he loses that "littleness" forever. 

Sigh.  This mothering business is nothing but heartbreak and falling in love all over again. 

For now, I'll be taking suggestions on tooth fairy amounts.  Last I checked, it was less than a dollar.  But that was in the 80's.  I'm sure inflation has upped her amount!  And we will need the skinny soon...

Letter to a Five Year Old Boy

I write this on the twenty-first of February.  Five years ago today was the last full day of pregnancy for me.  I was on bed rest.  Skyrocketing blood pressure caused me to take to the couch for the final weeks of pregnancy.  I was scheduled for an appointment on February twenty-second.  I remember hoping things were just bad enough that they would induce me, because I was massively uncomfortable, swollen, I couldn't eat much, and I desperately wanted our boy to make his appearance in the world.  Twenty four hours later, he did.  February 23, 2007 at nearly 2am. 

Five years have come and gone.  Five years! How can that possibly be? We have transitioned from spit-up rags, tiny diapers, infant-sized ball caps and bottles to electric guitars, slime, youth-sized ball caps, and requests for root beer with dinner.  That first year I had an ever-present companion that rested like a turtle on my chest.  Our summer was blissful-first feeding at sunrise, back to sleep for the both of us for a few hours, then playtime.  Lots of rocking on the porch swing watching the sunshine play with the trees.  Tasting the salt in the air at the beach.  Now our summers aren't much different-I am tackled in the mornings by a man-child who wants his "lovins."  He loves to play in the sand, dirt, or grass.  Evenings we catch the sunset together in our same spot. 

We love watching you grow little boy.  Just the other day your dad and I talked about what a bundle of personality you have turned into.  You are so generous with your love and generous spirit.  And I love how grateful you are for things.  Your sense of humor is still developing, but my goodness what a sense of humor it already is!  And the sarcasm you have-and you're only five! You are a perfect match for our family.  You show such compassion for anyone who is hurting-quick to hug, kiss, and give love to those who need it.  Only five short years ago we didn't have you as a daily presence in our lives, and yet we cannot imagine a single second without you in it. 

I so look forward to the coming years. To the discoveries you'll have.  To our adventures as a family.  I savor each day with you and our little family.  Our baseball games where you ask your dad one million and one questions.  Football games where you cheer for both teams without realizing it.  Dinners out when you flirt with the waitresses.  Car trips when you name each and every vehicle on the road.  Life with you is magical and fun.  Happiest of birthdays little man.  Here's to many, many more.

Love,
Momma

Sick of Sick

I'm posting today from the homefront.  Well, I'm always posting from the homefront.  Difference now is this...
1) I have yet to shower. (grossness, as my sister and I would say)

2) I have yet to put on anything resembling clothing other than sleepwear. Outfit du jour, leggings, oversized Old Navy orange long sleeve top, tank, and glasses.

3) I am wearing my favorite LL Bean slippers.

Here is the thing.  Shhhhhhh...

I.  Am.  Not.  Sick.

Nope.  But my little guy is.  And I am sick as hell of him being sick.

Last night, as I was on the precipice of sleep.  You know, that moment where you are blissfully aware that you are just about to drift off?  Yeah, that.  Our bedroom door creeeeeaaakkkkeeeddd open and little feet stormed into my bliss.  Something about a robot with red eyes on the ceiling fan.  And then an obscenely hot little body was smushed against mine.  I was a bad mom and asked this hot little guy to walk his scared butt back to his room-THROUGH THE DARK AND SCARY HOUSE.

I know, abject apologies.  I'll pay for that session of therapy for him.  In cash.

When I got him to his room, he tells me of his pounding headache.  His flushed cheeks told me what the issue was.  Then the thermometer confirmed it.  Sigh.  Medicine issued, blankies tucked, I (foolishly) thought we were back in the business of sleep.

Hell to the no.

There I lay, on my precipice and again...creeeeeaaaakkkkkk..."I need tissues" in the most pathetic voice.  I flipped on the bedside light (mostly in fear of our son's vomit.  I am terrified of vomit.  Mine. My son's. Other people's.)  But it was snot.  My husband wiped snotty nose.  We resigned ourselves to a child sleeping on our bedroom couch.

Today, I am home.  And I am sick of my son being sick.  This is about a three week cycle for us.  Two weeks of health followed by one week of misery.  Scheduled an appointment with the ENT.  I am almost positive my baby will be losing more than teeth this year.

Stay tuned...

Transitions are Just, well, ugh.

We are going through a rough patch with our boy.  He would much rather it be summertime, if you asked him.  Staying up late, sleeping till he wants to crack open those baby blues.  Morning snuggles while watching Nick Jr. Leisurely breakfasts in our pajamas. Late lunches bracketed by loads and scads of playtime.  Sunny afternoon bike rides on the sidewalk.  Evening baseball games on the TV with dad. It is a good life for a little boy when mom is home all summer and we become a lazy pair together.  This summer I let our boy live a decidedly unscheduled life.  After a hectic and stressed school year, we all needed it. This summer was exactly what the doctor ordered.  We were relaxed, rested, and happy. 

However.

The transition back to schedules, routine, early bedtimes and early risings has not been easy.  I repeat.  Not. Easy.  My laid back little guy refuses to listen to a thing I say.  To the point that we do nothing but bicker from the moment I pick him up from the sitter to the moment he falls asleep.  We bicker over buckling his seat belt, taking off his shoes, playtime after school, what is for dinner, how much he eats, putting on pajamas, kissing daddy goodnight, climbing into bed, even kissing me goodnight.  It is exhausting.  I said out loud the other day that it has gotten so taxing I actually dread coming home. 

Don't get me wrong.  I adore this man child.  My family makes me happier than anything on earth.  My home is my sanctuary.  But this year, our transition is not going well.  It is the dirty secret of parenting that none of us want to talk about.  That we can love our child and hate the time we are in.  I know that it will eventually even out, and he will go back to the lovable little guy we want to hang with.  The school year will bring order back into our laz-a-day life.  I will not give up this fight.  I know that part of our boy is craving the structure we are bringing back into his world, even if he is fighting it with all his four-year-old might.  We just need to get him back.  Before we know it he will be willingly putting away the silverware again, leaving his shoes lined up by the backdoor, and tossing dirty clothes in the hamper. And his scowls will disappear.

Fingers and toes crossed!

Adventures in Picky Eating

I used to be what one would call a "picky eater." When my husband met me no matter where we went to eat, it was chicken fingers and fries for me, thank you very much. My knowledge of vegetables ran only as far as the tuber family could take me. Anything green, forget it. Over the years though, my palate has expanded broadly. I merrily order steak cooked medium rare (emphasis on the rare). I bake kale chips whenever it is in season and gobble them down. I could eat butternut squash roasted all fall and winter long. I will kill a platter of crab cakes before you can blink. And, (this totally blows my husband's mind) I've even been known to spread roasted marrow on crusty bread and sprinkle it with sea salt before downing it. Chasing it with a swig with a dry, spicy, punch-you-in-the-mouth red wine. Yes, I said marrow. As in bone. As in, we ordered a giant porterhouse steak for the two of us, and I had heard the marrow was good. It was. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Needless to say, I am not that picky anymore.

However, there is a picky eater in our house. Our son. I shouldn't be too shocked. After all, I come from a family of four kids, and three of us strained the "bits" out of sauce before it hit the plate (the fourth kid just ate the "bits" from the other three on top of his!). But our son used to eat anything you put in front of him-with glee. With gusto. With abandon. He loved any and all food. We still talk about the time he was with us at a fancy Italian restaurant and had part of our braised lamb shank and cannelini beans. Then he hit a wall. I can count the foods he will stuff in his face on my 10 fingers. We worry about nutrition. We fret over anemia (he really just wants PBJ). He even will go 1-2 days with hardly consuming anything other than liquid. Of course the next few he eats like someone hired him to, and he's getting paid in M&Ms and matchbox cars.

This summer our goal is to re-expose him to as many tastes as we can. The school year is so crazy, that meals can be hectic. We have gotten our stubbornly picky eater to consume the following:
Hamburger
Grilled red/orange/yellow peppers and zucchini
Baked potatoes
Hot Dogs (that was a first! Always claimed to hate them before!)
Steak
Strawberries
Peaches
Raspberries
Blueberries
Cantaloupe
Ribs
Baked Beans

Most everything he gagged down at first, and other than the baked potato, he pretty much likes it all. This look comes over his face, kind of shock, and he says "it's good!" Like we were trying to trick him or something. We have all sorts of tactics-we "race" him to get bites in, we threaten to drink his precious juice box, we have been known to get treats after dinner and he doesn't if he didn't eat properly (but the next few days shoves pretty much everything into his mouth). Maybe by the time school starts he won't be so picky, and will actually eat the school lunch? One can hope. I just know how crippling it can be to be a picky eater, and don't want my son to be held back in the same way I was in my youth. The world is your plate little man, eat up!

On the Discovery of Miracles

This morning is gloriously sunshiney, filled with puffs of springtime breezes, and perfect.  Much like the past two days.  The only difference?  Every single muscle, joint, tendon, even my skin...hurts.  I feel as though I aged 50 years overnight. 

Owwwwwwwwwwww.

Why, you ask?  Well, yesterday, after the most delicious mother's day brunch at our favorite Italian restaurant, we headed home.  At first, I intended to sit on our porch and read (I'm in the middle of Planting Dandelions: Field Notes From a Semi-Domesticated Life by Kyran Pittman. It is fantastic.  Go get it now).  Then we stepped out of the car and the garden beckoned me.  So off went the dressy clothes and on went the t-shirt and denim.  I grabbed the wheelbarrow, shovel, rake, and gloves and prepared myself to only divide a few black-eyed susans and be done.  Ha! I pulled, yanked, shoveled, and spaded up countless stubborn weeds.  I transplanted a hydrangea that has failed to thrive.  I divided those black-eyed susans and made four new spots for them.  I raked out bits of ornamental grasses left over from our assault on them last week.  I neatened up the beds.  Then I fertilized.  Oh, did I fertilize. 

In the process, our son Jack was my partner in crime.  He rotated between shoveling his sand under his playhouse and helping me.  This is the first year he really is 1) interested in it and 2) able to be of any real assistance.  He wheeled the wheelbarrow.  He picked up sticks.  He pulled easy weeds out.  And, he was there when I found the rabbit nest.  I moved aside what looked to be a lump of straw in my vegetable garden.  Well, it was a lump...of straw covering four baby rabbits.  I literally squealed as the four rabbits hopped out and scattered.  The glee in Jack's eyes was immeasurable.  He giggled over the rabbits and my scream.  Of course, I had to explain that rabbits did not hatch from eggs.  Then we had to catch them because they were trapped inside the vegetable garden walls.  This was his favorite part...because both my husband and I were holding these tiny bunnies (he named each bunny "tiny"). 

Later I found a toad.  Remembering his joy over the rabbits and the fact that he remembers toads from two springs ago, I called him over.  I had the toad in my gloved hand.  Jack reached out, wide-eyed, grabbed the toad in his palm and whispered things to it only the toad and Jack will know.  Secrets between a pre-schooler and toad.  I love it.  He named it "Henry Toad." 

For Mother's Day I received many gifts...new beads for my bracelet, a handmade card, brunch with my boys...but the best was the look in the eyes of our son as he witnessed the miracle of nature right in our very own yard.  When I was giving him a bath last night I asked him what his favorite thing was that day, and his response was "the animals."  Mine was simply, to be his momma. 

Stinking Babies

I know, you're reading that title and are thinking one of the following things:


1. I hate children/babies (not true...love them.  Have one of my own. Two if you are counting my stepdaughter, which I do)
2. Our four year-old has regressed and is un-potty trained, therefore creating a stink. (nope...but would love some helpful hints on how to nix the nighttime pull-ups)
3. Just wanted something catchy to grab your attention to read something unrelated to babies entirely. (I'm not that brilliant of a blogger...but thanks for the credit)


No, I'm lamenting my stupid and crazy state of being.  Here is what I am looking at this morning:

That is my boy Jack...almost 3.5 years ago.  Pardon me.  I must go to another room and weep a bit.

Okay, I'm back.  Look at that face.  Those sausage legs.  Those rolls on his wrists and knuckles.  Excuse me.

Whew.  That was rough.  Seriously, it is killing me.  That little face.  As I type this I can hear him in the basement "rawring" as he plays Iron Man in the playroom.  By himself.  Without his momma.  Oh the horrors.  

Well, working on his baby Mixbook, coupled with all of these women who are having babies (well it seems like EVERYONE is having babies) is making my stupid, idiotic ovaries scream in protest at me.  I keep telling them to shut up, but seriously, they aren't getting the message.  Stupid things.  They aren't the ones who have to get up and feed a baby in the middle of the night.  They don't change stinky diapers for years on end.  They don't lug diaper bags everywhere.  No, once they do their job, they go back to resting peacefully in a dark, warm place.  You know, like I get to now that Jack sleeps for 12 solid hours, can go without a diaper, feed himself, and play Iron Man in the basement without me (sob).  

No more babies for this momma.  I'm serious.  We are done.  I'm just having one of those moments where I'm staring at photographs of my baby and remembering only the best parts of it.  Someone out there remind me of the truly horrific parts.  Please.  Like how I won't be able to sit upright for at least two weeks after the bundle of joy arrives.  

Okay, that was enough.  I think that thought alone did it.

Your 5th Year

As parents, we all know it isn't a job filled with funshine and roses.  (for the record, yes, I did mean funshine-as in the Care Bear, funshine bear) Parenting is hard, trying, exhausting, scary, panic-inducing, and overwhelming.  That's the ugly truth that no one tells you.  I mean, when I gave birth to Jack, everyone told me how much labor would hurt, how tired I would be afterwords, how starving I would be...but no one told me how I wouldn't be able to sit in an upright position for two full weeks.  Yeesh.  That needs to be in the manuals.  If there are any non-parents reading this, now you know.  Your bits will be a bit beyond the line of sore for a good long while.  I'm just sayin...


But parenting is also fun.  It is fun, wonderful, loving, emotional, exciting, thrilling, (gosh, this sounds like a Cedar Point commercial here...) and breathtaking.  Today I'm posting on our son, Jack's, fourth birthday.  He has now existed on this earth for four years.  We are entering the fifth year of his life.  I look back and cannot believe it has been that long, but has felt so utterly short. 


In the past year, we have made huge strides, dearest son.  One year ago, it was still diapers and sippy cups.  Now it is big boy underwear and cups without lids.  As you turned three, you began to make the transition from toddler to boy, and it showed.  It showed in your lumbering up and down the stairs, but your insistence to "do it by myself," in your desire to help get dressed each day, but inability to put your arms and legs in the right place each time, in your wiggly ways when we were out, how you insisted on walking next to the cart but were never able to quite do it.  Now I look at you and see a boy who is growing into a helpful little man.  Just tonight, you helped me search for items at Target and the craft store without (much prompting) and never had to get put into the cart.  You gave your own order at McDonald's (your birthday meal of choice).  When we got home, you helped me put together your treat bags for your classmates tomorrow.  You helped me unload and reload the dishwasher, upset that I wouldn't let you put in the detergent pack because it wasn't full enough to run.  When I finally let you sit down to watch some of your beloved Nick Jr. you wanted me to snuggle you.  Be still my momma heart.  


We laid there on the bed together, much like we did four years ago this very day, snuggled up together.  You wrapped in a blanket then, your own blankie now.  That early morning you were born, you stole my heart.  Each day you do something that amazes me, makes me melt, and yes, even frustrates me beyond words.  But mostly little man, you make us laugh our heads off.  What we didn't know before you arrived, but all can honestly say now, is that you are the missing piece we were looking for.  You are the best boy, the perfectly imperfect one to complete us.  We love you so very much, our four-year-old little man.  Happiest of happy birthdays.  

Our little chunker four years ago

And the handsome man you've become

Mommy Meltdown?

I read this article about mommy meltdowns on Huffington Post last night and as I read I felt myself sitting up and becoming more and more irritated as I read.  Not at the writer, because she (I'm assuming it was a she, but it could very likely have been a he too...it isn't cited anywhere I can find) is spot on with this article.  No, I was irritated by this statement Tina Fey fielded from her physician:

"The ear-nose-and-throat doctor I see about some stress-induced canker sores offers, unsolicited, "You should have another one. I had my children at forty-one and forty-two. It's fine." Did she not hear the part about the stress-induced canker sores?"

I am the mother of two children.  I have a lovely stepdaughter who is 22 years-old.  She came into my life (or I came into hers...something like that) when she was 14.  I also have a son who will be 4 years-old next week.  My husband and I decided when we were married that we would only add one to our family.  Seriously, the 18 year age difference between our two kids is plenty, thank you.  But what irritates me the most about the statement from Fey's doctor is this:  I hear it all the time.  Why is it that people assume you need/want more kids?  Is there something wrong with my family because we made the very thoughtful decision to add only one more child to it?  Because our kids are 18 years apart?  Because my stepdaughter has the luck to have a mom, dad, stepdad and me?  Because our son Jack has a sister who is so much older than him, he doesn't remember her living at his house?  We made the correct decision for our family, and have never had doubts in our minds about it. 

The whole crux of the article on mommy meltdowns was to ask us parents why it was so bad to admit that parenting isn't always easy.  This really makes me laugh.  I can't tell you how many lunch table conversations I have with my work BFF's about how confusing/challenging/crazy parenting our kids can be.  I know that when we get together with our friends who have kids, and I'm talking to the adults in the group, the conversation turns to the crazy stuff our kids do that makes us so frustrated.  It is almost like a competition-who has the kid who drives the parent the most crazy!  I think the media is the only place where parenting is put on a pedestal and made to seem as though it is some blissful walk through a sunny field of flowers.  All of the bloggers I follow who have kids (Alice Bradley, Heather Armstrong, Rebecca Woolf, Karen Wolrond, Ree Drummond, to name a few) talk very openly about how crazy and wonderful parenthood can be.  Why beat ourselves up about it? 

I know that after work today I am going to take advantage of this beautiful weather and walk outside for a while before picking up my son from the sitter's.  Who knows what dinner will be.  At some point I know the chorus of "Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy" will make me crazy and I'll have to seek refuge somewhere.  By the time bedtime rolls around I'll tuck him in and read him a book with some good snuggling.  When all is said and done, parenting isn't terrible, but it isn't easy either.  It just is.  And someday our kids will become adults and our relationships with them will be completely new and different.  But this is the job we all signed up for.  We made decisions, make PBJ sandwiches, give kisses, get sticky-handed hugs, and wipe away tears.  We're all parents and it's our job.  Too bad the media hasn't caught on to that yet.

Raising a Man

Today I read two beautifully written pieces about raising children and boys in this world.  All the time I look into my son's pool-blue eyes and wonder what kind of man he will become.  Will he be as kind-hearted as his dad?  Will he have his uncle's senses of humor?  Will he have my love of the outdoors? Will he have compassion, kindness, hope, happiness? One of the things I so love about mothering is watching all of his many layers develop and open through time.  I can now see how he will be a big-hearted soul...he is so loving as a three-year old boy, and has an innate sense of how to comfort those who are sad.  I think that (and his giggles) is my favorite quality about him at this age. 

But I also worry.  How do I arm this man-child for life in the big, bad world?  How do I provide him with the skills needed to be a good partner, parent, citizen?  There is a plethora of information available for parenting girls.  How to arm them with "girl-power."  Don't misunderstand me-I love that.  I love that I see girl-power in my students all the time.  But I still want to raise a man who can be a wonderful human, and I don't know if there has been much thought given to this.  The article I read on The Daily Beast today confirmed my worries.  I think so many parents are in the same predicament that we are-and there just are not resources dedicated to helping out boys.  I know...they've dominated the world for years.  I'm not looking to raise a neanderthal here.  But a happy medium.  The kind of man I can look at and burst with pride because of his sheer goodness.  It isn't easy. 

On Girl's Gone Child  today Rebecca Woolf wrote about arming our kids so that they feel ready to take on the world.  I think she nailed it. So I will continue to nurture my son's big heart; but I will also work towards giving him the knowledge that he is a beautiful, wonderful human that we all cannot possibly imagine our lives without.  And when I tell him that he's loved, he remembers all the kisses, hugs, and words we've shared through the years and feels it.

Secrets to successful shopping

Shopping...we went shopping yesterday.  Glorious, beautiful, wonderful wandering around an actual mall shopping.  Girls, you know what I mean by that.  The kind where you wander between rows of un-worn clothes and run your hands down them wondering which will become yours.  Prior to becoming a mom, this took place on a fairly regular basis.  I owned many pairs of shoes.  I had purses (plural).  Now, shopping with a three-year old who believes the entire world is his to run (and he is correct in this assumption, just don't tell him) is typically a nightmare.  When I'm looking for something to wear, it becomes a marathon to see just how long I can go before we hit meltdown.  This has caused my shoe stock, purse inventory, and general style to take a nose dive, much like our stock market.  My closet and Lehman Brothers have a lot in common.  Then yesterday happened.  Our second stop was at Gap Kids.  I know...expensive stuff.  But I'll get on my soapbox for a minute because I have shopped many places for our boy, and this is one where he can get clothes that he wont rip-tear-wash through-destroy within a month of owning.  I would rather spend the extra cash and have it last one, possibly two seasons (i.e. two winters...yep, moms...two!) instead of the half a winter that the Target/Old Navy/Kohl's/Children's Place stuff does.  Can't tell you how much we've thrown away from those places because our devil has destroyed it!  

Anyhooo...I digress.  We were at Gap Kids and he found a Buzz Lightyear shirt that was all vintage-y cool.  Way better than the cheesy ones I've bought him other places.  It even had those velour letters (in an 80's throwback to my childhood) that said "I do my own stunts" on it.  He was literally ready to strip on the spot and change in the middle of the store.  I am not kidding.  So, in a typical stroke of husband/dad brilliance my husband told our son that if he was good the rest of the day (no whining, crying, and listened to both of us) he could wear the shirt home.  Guess what.  IT WORKED!  I was able to browse the big people side of Gap.  AND TRY STUFF ON.  I even walked out with some beautiful new items for my starved closet.  Then we had lunch at PF Chang's.  Oh the loveliness of it all.  And he wore home his new shirt.  

Of course, he lost the shirt privilege when he proceeded to stick his arm in the toilet later to dig out used toilet paper.  But that is another story entirely...

Boys.

my worst qualities

It's funny, when you have a baby, you imagine that they'll have your eyes, your spouses smile, a family hair color, etc.  All the goodness that has been brought together by two families in your marriage or relationship you somehow think will be funneled into this tiny creature.  And for a while, you are convinced it is possible.  Then you begin to really know your child.  One day you have your "come to Jesus moment" and realize that one of your worst qualities has been passed along to your little angel.  Lately I have had to admit that our son has my childhood irrational fears.  At one point, he was a brave little boy...roaring his roar at the world.  But sometime this past spring began to develop fears of loud noises and things that went bump in the night.  Trains in the distance, in particular, seemed to scare him the most.  When we were in crowds at sporting events, he would clap those hands to his ears in a death grip.  The garage door going down could send him into a shaking fit.  When I saw the scared look creep over his face, and the fear enter his eyes I knew all too well how he felt.  As an adult, I handle my own phobias much better, but when I was little they held a death grip on me.  I want to look him in the eyes, hold his little hands and tell him all is well.  We will keep him safe.  But I know better.  I know that there are not enough words in the world to make him overcome this.  There are not enough hugs, kisses, pats, blankies, stories, lights on, or extra tuckings in to make it better.  It just is.  I hate that he has inherited this from me.  Not because I hate that he is skittish.  No, that isn't it at all.  I just hate that my little man has to feel that same gripping fear that I so well remember from childhood, and at times, as an adult.  After all, who wants their child to fear things in life?  I wish I could have only passed along my very best to him, and in many ways I did.  But, he got some of the bad too.  Much like the days in our life...he will have to take the bad with the good and make do.  I just love him extra hard to make up for it.

Pardon me while I become a puddle

Today was one of those days that they don't warn you about when you have a baby.  Today was our boy's first day of preschool.  He climbed onto the school bus without so much as a look back over his shoulder and was off on that lumbering yellow submarine.  Our baby no more.  He is getting so big, so long, so tough.  There are still glimpses of the baby boy we brought home, but they are getting fewer and further apart.  It was bittersweet today for me.  I remember just how exciting starting school was for me as a little girl, and didn't want to crowd his excitement with my own mixed feelings.  I want him to love school as much as I did.  I want him to run into learning with as much enthusiasm every day as he did this morning.  So I held my tears in until he was out of sight.  But being a mother is the most heartbreaking thing I've ever done...it is a series of goodbyes.  You love that being so hard, but you work so that your little person can grow and leave.  It is all mixed up and hard.  And it is something I wouldn't trade for anything in this world or the next.


Little man...go and conquer today...and every day...

In which I vent about the potty (childless readers, beware)

We have been potty training.  Our three-year old has been in the process of learning to go on the potty since June.  Peeing he's got...no problem.  But pardon me while I vent about poop.  I am sick to death about it.  Smelling it, seeing it, touching it (gross...I know), washing it out of training pants.  You see, he simply refuses to go in the potty.  He knows that is where it goes.  He understands the process.  He's even done it a few times.  Yet, no matter what we try (and believe me...we've tried everything) he just WILL NOT ELIMINATE said poop into said potty.  


I've. Had. It.


If I brought in the teenagers who are my students to deal with our son right now, they would probably all take abstinence pledges before leaving our house.  Without prompting.  This is what he would drive them to.  

on perspective

Today wasn't the best of days.  Don't get me wrong, it wasn't awful by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the type that put me in a little bit of a funk.  You know what I mean, those where you'll be driving alone in your car, mulling over what your day has been like and feel the gloom draw ever closer around you until you're irritated just by the sight of the sun.  Blech.  The thing is, no tragedy occurred in my life today.  I managed to accomplish a vast majority of things off my to-do list at work.  I stuck with our new healthier eating plan.  I remembered to pick up the milk at the grocery store on my way home.    This girl just needed a serious dose of perspective to right the world.  Well, I got it...

Late last year, a woman that was in my high school class lost her son to a courageous battle with cancer.  He was slightly older than our son.  On Facebook, and on her family's blog, so many of our classmates showed tremendous support from far and wide, through messages of support and prayers.  It amazed me what we were all capable of, all these years later.  When he passed, even though I never had the chance to meet him, and even though I have not seen his mother since high school, I was incredibly saddened by it.  I grieved for this amazing child and family who lost so much.  I don't know how they survive.  Today she posted to her blog about how they are moving forward, even through so much pain still.  I continue to think about them when I am struggling to find the strength to be a better mom to our son.  And today, when I was having a pity party for myself, I realized just how wonderful I do have it.  We all need that slap in the face sometimes...to sit back and count our blessings.  I don't know what tomorrow will bring, and I know that I don't want to waste today wallowing in pity for myself because of a few little problems today.  Ugh, that just looks so annoying typed out.  Wallowing in pity.  

I'll get off my soapbox now...I have a wonderful little boy who keeps running in here trying to get me to watch Doc Hudson race.  Just promise me that today, you will take a step back in your lives to think about the good that is in them.  It is there, even when you feel all is lost.