CSquaredPlus3

He Says Collecting, I Say Hoarding

Our five-year-old son loves stuff.  Talking with friends, having two older kids, and remembering my own childhood quirks, I know it's not uncommon for children to keep trash and trinkets.  Forever.

This child, the five-year-old, knows where every broken plastic toy, shred of ribbon, deflated balloon, popsicle stick with a joke he can't read, and object stolen from his older brothers, is located.  When I stealthily purge a few of his items, no matter how deeply buried they were beneath the latest additions, he busts me.  And hell hath no fury like... you know what I mean.

"Mom! Did you throw away part of my collection?"

"Honey, I donated a few things you don't play with.  There are children without toys who would enjoy that... stuff."

Recently, I thought to myself how well our youngest son has been maintaining his room.  Other than a few dozen lego creations displayed on his dresser, things appeared to be in order

The five-year-old has a bathroom attached to his bedroom that is basically unused.  He bathes in the master bathroom, brushes his teeth in his brothers' bathroom and doesn't require much lavatory drawer space regardless.

While putting laundry away, I was tipped-off that there might still be a problem when I opened his closet.  Balloons from his father's birthday that he claimed to have released to China!

 

I entered his bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain and found this:

 

Then I opened a couple of drawers and discovered my little hoarder is still struggling...

 

And, yes, I recognize we all have a junk drawer, but come on.

I'm both sad, that he's going underground... and proud.  I enjoy a worthy adversary.  I'm also impressed by his use of semantics.

Anyone else have a young, or not-so-young, "collector" in the house?

I Love You Too, Rocker

Labels are so unfair.  As kids, they can be difficult if not impossible to shake.  I had a buttoned-up image in high school.  One day I wanted to dress grungey instead of preppy.  Not only was I uncomfortable, but so were the kids around me.  Like, "Whatcha doin?"  Don't screw with the norm, man.

It goes without saying that we all have many facets to our personalities, but most of us settle into a recognizeable label or two, either by choice, or by allowing ourselves to be steamrolled into it.  It took me years to have the courage to pick at, peel, and rip the labels off of myself that I didn't want there in the first place.  I realized, Gee, that wasn't so hard.

I'm careful with labels and descriptors around our sons.  Pointing out one boy's emerging interest or talent has -- at times -- limited the other two, unintentionally.  All three boys are finding and creating their personal definition, and they deserve to feel comfortable editing well into adulthood.  I don't want my parental power [and yes, I still have some] to influence who they want to be.  Or, who they are.

Disclaimer complete.

Inspite of my careful word choice around the kids, they label themselves and each other.  The boys have -- in their own words -- been a birdwatcher, bug-catcher, chef, artist, scientist, nature-lover, the athletic one, the diabetic, the creative one, the polite one, the tidy one, the sloppy one, the ornery one, school boy, and the rocker.

Middle Boy [11] is a self-described rocker.  He wears his label loud and proud, but I remind him that he's like a Colorform set.  He's the laminated board and the labels he tries on in life, as long as he's careful and kind, are vinyl and easy to remove. 

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In an effort to get the following photograph for my parents' holiday card...

 

... we had plenty of outtakes like this one.

 

Christmas dinner was punctuated with exciting moments like this...

 

...and a tender moment -- where the young help the old make the "rock on" sign properly -- is captured below.  [Although, no one is doing it right.  But, shhh, don't tell.]

 

Even my mother and the son who chooses not to be a rocker, had fun playing with the vinyl label.

 

Middle Boy seems happy with his evolving identity for now.  He feels good about himself and is enjoying the Colorform scene he created.  Who knows how long it will last?

All I know is, my sweet boy thinks he's leaving me the "rock on" sign in the shower every day.  But the wonderful thing is... he's signing, "I love you."

Muppet Therapy

Head colds have come and gone the past week.  Chris traveled to Connecticut and made it home on his scheduled flight, despite the east coast winter storms.  I found a lump in my breast, had a mammogram and an ultrasound and all is well.  I'm thankful for nuggets of fat.

Before Chris left town [because everything falls apart after his departure], he called me as he was driving the boys home from school.

"Middle Boy doesn't feel well.  You'll have questions, so just talk to him."

Chris handed Middle Boy the phone.  In between congested deep sniffs and a lisp I can't recreate, I could tell he was trying to hide that he was crying.  He was difficult to understand, but I heard that his ear hurt... and something about his tongue on a pole.

"What?  Did you stick your tongue to a pole?"  Temperatures were well below freezing that day.

"Uh-huh," he cried.

It was like ordering Chinese food over the telephone, but eventually I got that another boy was successful removing his tongue from a frozen pole at recess so Middle Boy tried the same trick.  I asked if someone dared him to do it or if someone yanked his head off the pole, suspicious that he might have been bullied into the situation.  Nope.  He made both the entry and exit decisions on his own.

Middle Boy described how his tongue skin was still on the pole, and how he couldn't eat his lunch because... there was mustard on his sandwich, and oh his ear... it hurt so badly.  It had been a terrible day.  Would I please call the doctor?  Of course.

He went to the doctor that evening, had an ear infection and a bum tongue.  Antibiotics for one, ibuprofen and tepid, bland liquids for the other.

I listened to Middle Boy vent from the backseat of his father's car on the way home from school that day, and responded with mom-speak. Aw. I'm sorry, honey.  Shoot.  It's okay.  You can rest all weekend.  I understand.

He was finished.  He had purged his troubles for the time being, but still felt lousy.

One of Middle Boy's Christmas presents was a Muppet Whatnot.  He was able to create his own Muppet online, and the completed gift had arrived a few hours earlier.

 "I know it's been a rough day, but I have some news that might cheer you up.  There's a package with your name on it waiting for you."

He sniffed a few times, "Wha?"

"It's your Muppet."

"YETH!"

What's our vector, Victor?

The first entry in my 2011 journal...

I also have specific writing goals, as well as general/specific personal and family goals.  I don't feel the need to share here, but Chris has reviewed my lists and has agreed to be my accountability partner. 

NOTE:  If you show me yours, I'll show you mine.  Email me.  I've always been a good cheerleader.  I may not be able to do the splits or a Herkie any longer, but I'll pull a hammy trying.

The last few months of 2010 I didn't blog much.  Pretend the following are appropriate-length, funny, moving, entertaining [with attached photos and/or video] blog posts:

• Completed the Triple Trail Challenge for the second time.  Over. It.
• Got my braces off. [Pictures to come in a future post.]
• Finished writing a book.  [I'm waiting to hear from a publisher and considering the next step.]
• Dealt with a health issue.  I'm going to live but am recovering from numbness on my right side.  [Seriously.  I totally had an MRI of my brain, and was able to prove to Chris that my mind is perfectly healthy... and genius.]
• Celebrated my sons' birthdays.
• Chris and I cranked out another one, completing our 21st year of marriage.
• Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas -- check, check, check.
• Maintenance of relationships was poor, but real friends/family/people understand.

**********

The five-year-old boy has already accomplished a 2011 goal.  He learned to whistle.  He's usually the last person in our house to wake up in the morning.  He likes to creep down the stairs and startle me.  I allow this to happen even though I hear his bedroom door open and feel his little presence behind me.  And now I have to pretend I don't hear him whistling from the time he lifts his head off the pillow until he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

**********

I'll share the summary and affirmation paragraph from the Twenty-Eleven Goals entry in my journal.  You have permission to roll your eyes, remind me of my words when I bitch about them, join me in the cheesefest, or... nothing.

I've decided to add one more specific goal to my personal list.  I'm going to teach the 5YO boy to whistle with his two fingers in his mouth.  Just watch.

Happy New Year.

Spit

I was sweet on a neighborhood boy.  He was in the sixth grade, I was in the fifth.  A younger girl rarely caught the eye of an older boy in those days.  He was popular and had a little sister who knew how to make pom-poms out of tissue paper.  She was pretty and he was athletic.  They were a sibling power couple.

"Kirk's such a fox.  He's tuff," I remember saying to a friend within earshot of my dad.  "He's the best basketball player in the whole school."

Basketball is a religion in Indiana, or at least it was in the 70s, so the fact that my little Hoosier crush played the game well, elevated his celebrity.

"You like Kirk?" my dad asked.  "That kid spits all the time."

It was true.  Kirk was a spitter.  Maybe he still is.  But the way he spit as a kid was neat.  He'd walk down the sidewalk, sometimes dribbling a basketball, look to the side and spit with speed, force and precision.  He spit with equally precise frequency, like a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, ticking methodically across the grass.  It was awesome.  It also might have been a compulsion, but it melted my butter.

*****

I was looking at family video recently.  Chris and the two older boys braved a thrill ride at a local amusement park in August. The five-year-old boy [he was actually still four when the video was taken] and I are a crack team of backpack watchers and videographers.  It was the end of the day, which is my excuse for putting a four-year-old in charge of belongings.  I think he bummed a smoke from the people next to him, and karate-kicked potential abductors in the stomach.

"Spit" is a small part of the video, but I know my family will appreciate it.

Soaring and Spit from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Large Like Jabba The Hutt

It's my mom's fault.  My inability to explain things to the kids with straight talk.  My brother only wanted to know what the word "virgin" meant that summer evening while we ate dinner as a family in 1980.  After a lengthy explanation where Mom described "purely driven snow", "virgin wool" and things that had never been touched, she asked him, "Now, Joe.  Are you a virgin?"

He replied, "Nope.  I'm a Gemini."  He was eleven.

**********

A couple of weeks ago, I was in the Salt Lake City airport waiting for my two oldest sons to board a Southwest flight to Denver.  Because they're 12 and 10, I decided to forgo the $50 each way unaccompanied minor charge.  They've flown many times with Chris and me, and were excited to travel alone to spend some time with their grandparents.

The boys didn't seem nervous, until I finished the Mom Pep-Talk.

"When you get on the plane, don't pick an empty row.  You won't have control over who chooses to sit with you.  You're small, clean and quiet so you'll be attractive seatmates to everyone.  Do NOT sit next to a man.  Any man.  Not that all men are bad.  It's just that the majority of crimes are committed by men.  Look for a woman.  A clean woman... with kids.  But if she doesn't have kids with her, look for someone who looks like she probably has kids.  Or an old person.  Old women are usually very safe.  You can sit by an older man as a last resort, but only if he's really old and doesn't look creepy.  Not that you can tell if someone's creepy or bad by how they look.  Because sometimes someone can look nice and clean, but they're creepy... don't worry about that right now.  Avoid a large person if you can.  Large people aren't bad, it's just an issue of personal space.  Does that make sense to you?  I don't mean to sound unkind... I'm talking Jabba the Hutt large, not normal large.  You know, where they might leave some DNA on you.  But look out for the slender people who are shedding skin or don't seem clean.  It's a hygiene issue.  Look for someone who has good hygiene regardless of their size.  Know what I mean?  It's important not to judge people by their appearance.  Just look for a clean, mom-type woman... although women commit crimes too... just not as often.  You'll be okay..."

I babbled and confused and worried them.  They wanted to know what kind of crimes people would commit on an airplane.  I explained I would hate for someone to lift one of their iPods.

Oldest Boy is a germaphobe like me and can now add to his growing pile of nightmares, the vision of a Jabba the Hutt-like person invading his personal space and sharing germ-ridden DNA, then stealing his iPod.

A woman, the clean kind with a handful of children, was in earshot of my terrifying pep-talk and instructions.  She understood everything I was trying to convey to my sons and assured me she would keep an eye on them, even offering to sit with them if necessary.

The boys made it to Denver, had a great time, and returned safely with no tales of traumatic events [other than my pep-talk], no flesh-eating diseases, and all of their possessions.  Oldest Boy told me he scouted the moms in the boarding area for the return flight and found one to sit with them.  [He still listens to me and values what I say.  Good news, bad news.]

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy in Colorado - June 2010

**********

In case anyone was wondering...  I'm not a virgin either.  I'm a Gemini.

In Sync

I'm not exaggerating when I say our three sons were all dreadful sleepers as infants and toddlers.  Even now, at the ages of 12, 10 and 4, we rarely make it through an entire week without a middle-of-the-night blood sugar issue, bed-wetting incident or nightmare.  Sleep deprivation is debilitating, especially when it lasts for years.  Not that it's a competition, but it takes a lot for someone to trump the length and extent of sleep deprivation that Chris and I have endured.  Regardless, we muster compassion for anyone who's experienced lack of sleep, even those on the less severe end of the spectrum.

Chris' career hasn't required him to travel much over the years, which means we've been able to enjoy most of the hellish, sleepless nights together.  Recently Chris has been traveling a bit more.  With the boys a little older and all of us better rested, a sharp contrast has emerged in how I physiologically react when Chris tells me he has a trip approaching and how I ultimately manage the challenge.

**********

NEWS OF THE TRIP
Then - Seize, whine, then apologize to Chris for seizing and whining, and immediately start mini-therapying myself by repeating affirmations of my patient mothering skills and ability to function on zero sleep.

Now - Calmly say, "No problem," plan what shows I'll watch after the kids go to bed and debate internally if it's poor parenting to have a glass or two of wine when Chris is out of town.

ANTICIPATION
Then - Knowing Chris had a trip planned created tremendous anxiety for me.  I lost precious sleep worrying about the fact that I would get even less sleep when he was away.  I always managed my single-parenting days and nights better than I thought I would, but with the fear I might "fail" [not knowing what that would look like, but knowing I didn't want to find out] sitting on my shoulder.

Now - I don't hyperventilate anymore when Chris gives me his travel dates.  Occasionally the boys and I have a long night or complicated day, but we don't have multiple challenging days stacked one on top of the other, week after week, month after month, year after year.  I can deal with "typical" curve balls.

SLEEP
Then - I simply didn't sleep well, if at all.  The kids were up many times a night.  Someone usually threw-up.  If it wasn't a child, it was a dog.  When the house was quiet for twenty minutes at 2:00 AM, instead of sleeping, I tortured myself with envious thoughts of Chris sleeping soundly in a hotel bed while simultaneously missing him in ours.  I struggled with bad dreams, so I rarely slept deeply.

Now - I sleep great.  Sometimes a boy needs something in the night, but it's manageable.  I still have a vivid imagination and experience a nightmare once in a while, but it seems better now.  Maybe because I'm getting more sleep.  It's also much easier to make my bed in the morning.  I enjoy that.  Bonus!

SCHEDULES [Chris takes the older boys to school when he's home.]
Then - Awakening a baby who slept poorly the night prior, placing him in a backward facing car seat when what he really wanted to do was nurse [ALL DAY], was difficult.  The four-year-old [then baby] was a car screamer.  It upset the two older boys and lasted until he was three-years-old.  No joke.

Now - I prepare the four-year-old the night prior, explaining his father is out of town so we get to take the big boys to school.  This reverse psychology worked a few times but now he groans.  He doesn't like being woken from a deep sleep, pulled from a warm bed and placed in a cold car seat.  But he does it without protest.  Sounds small, but it sends me to the moon.

**********

Chris is out of town.

Yesterday morning as I uncovered my four-year-old son's warm, sleeping body, I whispered, "Good morning.  It's time to take the big boys to school.  I'll carry you."  He rolled towards me, eyes closed, hair sticking up like a rooster and reached out obediently.  I picked him up and drew in his scent  --  clean sheets and lavender soap from his bath 12 hours prior -- and I reminded myself to never forget this moment, how perfectly we fit together as he clung to me.  I felt happy and content.

I carried him downstairs and put him in his car seat, the big boys quietly helped me by opening doors, handing me the four-year-old's blanket, and double-checking the house for lights that needed to be turned off and doors that needed to be locked.  We were in sync.

Five minutes into the thirty-minute drive, the four-year-old's eyes were open and he looked peaceful.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if we could listen to his iPod, but asked if we could call his dad first.  We called Chris and left a voice message telling him we missed and loved him, and wished him a good day.

Chris will be home late tonight, maybe even early tomorrow morning.  I used to memorize or have handy flight details, hotels, meeting times, etc...  It's not that I don't have that information... somewhere, I'm just... I don't know... busier, better rested, able to send and receive texts [finally].

The boys and I are glad Chris doesn't travel much or for very long.  But now when he does, we all work together to fill in the gap created by his absence.  Sleep helps; so do restaurants.  I might not be hyperventilating waiting for his return like I used to, but just like then, it's nice to have the other guy home so I can poke him in the middle of the night and groggily demand, "Cuddle me.  I had a bad dream."

Tamale and Slash; A Boy and His Personal Brand

A couple of weeks ago, Middle Boy's beloved fish, Rainbow, went to the big fishbowl in the sky.  Rainbow was a betta and Middle Boy's first personal pet.  Mary, our dog, doesn't really count because Mary and Middle Boy never hit it off, especially after the two unfortunate pooping incidents of 2003.  One on his bed, and one almost on his lap.  It was as if the dog and the boy knew immediately that they didn't like one another seven years ago. 

Middle Boy [now 10] has always loved animals, so one year, his deductive reasoning skills led him to the conclusion that because Mary was an animal, and because he loved all living creatures, he must love Mary.  He's a logical child so the sound arguments left him no other choice.  I'm certain he continues to rely on this rationale every time Mary glares at him or chews holes in the carpet under his bed.

Rainbow's passing was heavy in our home.  The sadness he experienced surprised Middle Boy, which subsequently surprised and moved me.  He came down the stairs nervously saying, Rainbow's dead. He was fine this morning. Together we confirmed that, in fact, it was curtains for Rainbow.  Middle Boy wanted to execute the flushing ceremony himself, even after the color drained from his face when he thought he saw blood in Rainbow's habitat. [There was no blood.]

It was a long, sad afternoon.  I cleaned the fish tank.  I also removed some fishsticks from the freezer, per Middle Boy's request.  "Too painful," he said. [He's since managed to choke down salmon and shrimp, so I think he's recovered from the "seafood-is-Rainbow" PTSD.]

Middle Boy found comfort in processing his thoughts aloud.  I don't think I fed him too much.  He didn't act sick.  I've had him for almost two years.  That's old for a betta.  I think he died of old age.  Probably in his sleep.  That's gotta be it.

I finally asked, "Would you like a new fish?  Would that make you feel better?"

He tried not to jump on the offer, but I could tell it was exactly what he wanted.  "I think so," he said.  "Not to replace Rainbow, of course.  Just to help me with my grief."

We went to the store to purchase a fish.  Middle Boy wanted to make sure the new fish didn't resemble Rainbow.  Again he reminded me, Rainbow could never be replaced.

The new fish is bright red and perky.  He flutters and swims when he hears voices.  Middle Boy noticed that Tamale [the fish's name] does not like to be observed eating and we've been instructed to leave the room when the fish is fed.  He needs PRIVACY, Mom.

 

Middle Boy gave me permission to share this tender fish story.  In an effort to balance his soft side, he also gave me permission to share a drawing he created a few days ago.  It's Slash from Guns N' Roses, one of Middle Boy's idols.

Middle Boy -- a fish loving, electric guitar playing, softhearted, appreciative of the edgy and cool set, ten year-old.  I hope he never changes.

The Zen Of My Sons On A Beach

The boys have a two-week spring break every year.  It's great.  Long enough to do something special, as well as rest and refortify.

This year we chose to drive to Anaheim, California, and hit some theme parks.  The drive was only nine hours with Leadfoot Ross at the helm.  Chris and I have become pros at delicately balancing nutritional needs with dehydration while on the road to minimize needless bathroom breaks.  The kids are fine.

My fears about having a "caboose" child were vividly realized on this vacation.  I always wanted to have children close together to avoid the "Space Mountain vs. Tea Cups" dilemma.  Oldest Boy [12] and Middle Boy [10] had a blast riding thrill rides with their father.  Four-Year-Old-Boy and I spent a lot of time perusing gift shops, buying trinkets and toys he didn't need, and eating over-priced snacks.  He was completely overwhelmed by the noise, the music, the characters and the intensity of all things animated and robotic.

The sun even seemed to shine painfully brighter for the four-year-old.  He selected a pair of pink, bejeweled High School Musical sunglasses that he now wears all the time.  His father is so proud.

 

We were in California for a week and managed to hit Disneyland, California Adventure, SeaWorld and Universal Studios, in spite of the fact that we were all battling a virus.  The same virus I'm certain attacks all families as they embark on a much anticipated and valued family vacation.  We medicated.  Problem Solved.

[A medicated family is a happy family!]

We spent our final day of vacation on the beach.  Even though it was cool and breezy, the boys enjoyed flirting with the water and playing in the sand.  I sat on some rocks, taking a few photos and video, and minding our things.  I occasionally irritated all four of my white fellas when I interrupted their fun to reapply sunscreen, or remind Oldest Boy to check his blood sugar, snack or reattach his pump for a quick bolus of insulin.

My interruptions didn't affect them for long... 

[Chris and the boys - JOY!]
 

As I sat looking at the ocean and smelling the air, I looked up at the sky and thought of my grandmother.  She passed away in August 2009.  Before she died, she promised that if she was able [without scaring me], she would contact me after her death to give me the real scoop.  I summoned her, sitting there on those rocks.  Can you hear me, Mamaw?  Please answer me.  I've been waiting for months.  Where are you?  You promised.  There are so many things I need to talk with you about...

I waited, and still, nothing.  I miss her.  I need advice about some specific issues, and her thoughts on some general ones.  Sitting on those rocks, my mind meandered and bounced.  I thought about the past, the present, the future.  I continued to knock on Heaven's door... seeking Mamaw.

Then... I think I heard something.  It was probably my own voice, but allow me to pretend it was her's.  She gently said, Shhh.  I'm watching those wonderful boys play on the beach.  I suggest you do the same.

Priorities - Spring Break 2010 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Sheltered

Our recent houseguest, Jane Devin, smokes an occasional cigarette.  We maintain a smoke-free environment here at Casa de Ross, but have a special place for our smoking relatives and friends to discreetly burn one.  I call it The Smoking Room.  It's a small but private porch outside of the walkout basement.

 

The weekend delivered snow, so the boys spent much of Sunday afternoon building a snowman and snow cave in the backyard.  Jane was at Starbucks and I was upstairs when Chris heard simultaneous, frantic knocks at two of our doors -- a back door, and a garage door.  Oldest Boy [12] was at one, and Middle Boy [10] was at the other.

Chris answered Oldest Boy's knock at the back door first.  "Dad!  There's cigarettes down by the basement.  They're in a shallow dish."

Chris told Oldest Boy to hold on a moment.  He then answered Middle Boy's knock at the garage door.  "Dad!  There's a pile of cigarettes.  In a dish!"

Jane's full, shallow dish was sitting on a window ledge outside.  The boys had to walk down the snowy stairs to the lower porch and must have searched to find it.  They couldn't get to Chris or me fast enough.

It was tucked in the far left hand corner of this space.

Chris explained to each boy that the cigarettes were Ms. Devin's.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if it was okay that Ms. Devin smoked.  Chris said she was an adult and it was her choice to smoke cigarettes as long as she didn't expose others to secondhand smoke.

When Jane returned from Starbucks, I couldn't wait to tell her that the boys had visited The Smoking Room and discovered her habit.  Middle Boy considers himself an artist and writer so I think he was particularly disturbed to know that Ms. Devin smoked.  He glanced at her suspiciously for the rest of the afternoon but avoided eye contact, like he'd seen her naked by accident.

Later that evening, Middle Boy was still processing the cigarettes.  "I thought it was a joke at first, Mom.  Like they were fake.  But then?  I smelled them, and they were REAL.  I know it wasn't good for my lungs, but I had to know.  Then I ran and told Dad."

I still haven't educated the boys that the word for a shallow dish that holds cigarettes butts and ashes, is ashtray.  I also haven't told Middle Boy that simply sniffing an extinguished cigarette probably won't harm his lungs.

I DID show them the shallow dish we offer to all of our guests who smoke...

 

Resourceful

When a four-year-old boy has his favorite Lego sword taken away because he's been "battacking" the dog and his brothers and his parents, make sure he doesn't see where it's been stashed.  It's possible, he'll pretend he doesn't miss the sword for a day or two, then when you least expect it...

...curious noises are heard coming from his room, which is located above the office where his mother sits quietly writing.  Not terrible noises... just curious.

The noises cease and the four-year-old boy casually enters the office and ponders aloud, "I wish I could fly," as he sighs.

His mother smiles and replies sympathetically, "I wish I could fly sometimes too, honey."

An hour later, the mother makes one of her routine patrols of the house, picking up toys to be returned to their respective bins while dusting banisters with her forearms as she motors up the stairs.

Upon entering the four-year-old boy's closet, the mother discovers a project has been underway.  A project that had not been approved because it would have most likely resulted in severe injury or death.

 

Perched on the very top shelf of his closet, was exactly where the four-year-old's father had stashed the sword... for safekeeping.

There were no injuries or deaths, and the boy and his sword have been reunited.  The mother had cocktail hour early that day.

Good Sports

From the beginning, Middle Boy said he didn't want to do it.  Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old Boy were in.  Mary [the dog] seems to enjoy the attention when I fiddle with her, so she's usually cooperative as long as her outfit isn't too tight.

I managed to talk Middle Boy into wearing the costume for pictures only.  Oldest Boy tried to persuade him to wear it trick-or-treating, but Middle Boy was firm.  He wanted to be Plo Koon, a Star Wars Jedi Master.  As far as he was concerned, his brothers and the dog could dress in The Wizard of Oz costumes I so lovingly purchased.

 

 

The Tin Man, Cowardly Lion and Dorothy embraced their roles!

 

The Scarecrow?  Not so much...

 

After we took pictures, Oldest Boy began feeling... awkward.  I think I said, "Adorable!" a few too many times.  Middle Boy quickly changed into his Plo Koon costume.  Oldest Boy watched his brother don a cool mask and a light saber.  His feet were growing colder by the second.

"I don't think I want to trick-or-treat as the Tin Man."

"You look awesome!  With [4YO Boy] and Mary, you'll be the hit of the neighborhood.  Just wear it with confidence!"

His eyes started to well.  Chris, standing behind Oldest Boy, looked at me and gently shook his head, as if to say, "Surrender, Dorothy."

"What are you going to be?" I asked.

"I can be a Jedi. It's easy."

Oldest Boy scrambled, removed his make-up and appeared on the front porch ready to trick-or-treat as a Jedi.  Our Cowardly Lion was confused and disappointed.  At four-years-old, he was young enough to want to remain in his costume, but old enough to know he'd been duped.

Mary dressed as Princess Leia for Halloween three years ago.  I thought it would be inappropriate for her to be Jabba's slave Leia [in the metal bikini], but I'm rethinking for next year...

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

The Fit

We had the stomach flu in our house last week.  First Middle Boy, then me, then the 4-Year-Old Boy.  It was a 48-hour, violent flu.  There was pain, moaning, dramatic proclamations -- "I'm going to die!" -- and lots and lots of laundry.

It began with a call from the school informing me that Middle Boy had been vomiting.  The 4-Year-Old Boy and I rushed to the school to rescue Middle Boy.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I was a little irritated when I found out that he hadn't even made it to a trash can.  He threw up sitting in his chair in Strings Class.  He told me he missed his cello, and only hit the bow.  I reminded him, lovingly, that he was TEN years old and next time he gets sick at school, he should GET UP and try to hit a receptacle.

Middle Boy was very ill.  I was a compassionate mother and nurse, helping him get to the toilet, brushing his teeth for him, wiping his face, feeding him ice chips, and providing bowls and Ziploc bags for security in case he didn't make it to the bathroom.

It finally appeared his stomach was calming.  Over the course of four hours, he drank ginger ale and ate a few soda crackers as he watched SpongeBob Squarepants on the couch.  I was happy to see color in his cheeks and hear him laugh instead of moan.  Oldest Boy and 4-Year-Old-Boy were in bed for the night.  Middle Boy said his stomach still hurt a little, but he was ready for bed.  I tucked him in, showed him where the security vomit bowl and Ziploc bag were, and told him to come to our room or call us if he needed ANYTHING.  His father and I were there to help him!  Poor, poor child, I thought.

Five minutes later, as I was climbing into my own bed, Middle Boy appeared in my doorway.

"I threw up."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"In my bed."

"WHAT?"

It was horrible.  Chris and I obviously had not communicated well about how much ginger ale or how many soda crackers we were each giving Middle Boy.  There were at least two liters of stomach contents all over the bed, the carpet, the wall, the nooks and crannies of the bed frame, beadboard and baseboards... it might have even been on the ceiling fan.

"CHRIIIIIIS!  I NEED HELP!"

Chris ran up the stairs.

"He puked again.  EVERYWHERE.  He needs a shower.  He's already dripped to our room and back to his."

Middle Boy looked at me sheepishly, "Sorry, Mom.  I thought I was done."

I know he didn't mean to.  He was tired, probably very comfortable in his bed, and half asleep when he threw up.  But there was something about the brightness of his eyes and the rosiness of his cheeks, that made me think he COULD have gotten up.

I started cleaning the mess and the more I cleaned, the angrier I became.  I stomped and slammed as I moved wet linens from room to room and searched for the proper cleaning supplies.  I had "sick" fluids running down my arms and on my forehead.  I had been SO careful as I cleaned the vomit messes earlier in the day.  My fate was sealed.

As I continued to clean, I yelled weird things at Chris and Middle Boy.  I rarely use foul language in front of the kids but I said ass and shit and hell and damn and maybe even the Big Daddy of bad words.  I barked at Chris about picking up Mary's dog shit.  Because, you know, at 10:00 p.m. after your child has puked ALL OVER HIS ROOM, it's important that the dog shit is picked up in the backyard.

I've cleaned up vomit messes more than once.  All three of the boys have thrown up in their beds.  For many reasons that I clearly see in hindsight, this particular crime scene pushed me over the edge.  I had a fit.

Middle Boy went back to bed in a restored room and made wide-eyed promises to hit the toilet or the vomit bowl... next time.  He was fine that night, although he threw up again the following night.  I'm happy to report Middle Boy came into our room and announced that he needed to vomit.   Chris did a standing broad jump from our bed, ensuring Middle Boy was escorted to our toilet and properly aimed.  No fuss, no muss.

I apologized the next morning to the entire house for my fit.  The only one who didn't seem phased was 4-Year-Old Boy, probably because he's an expert fit-thrower.

Please tell me you you've thrown a fit.  As an adult.  With an audience.  While sober.

The Third Child

Our third [and final] child turned four on September 9th.  I think he had a nice day and felt celebrated, but I felt badly because his birthdays are so different than his two older brothers were at the same ages.

With the first two boys we had parties with friends, games, decorations, treats, pinatas, crafts and adult beverages.  We planned and prepared weeks in advance, allowing each boy to select a theme or a special party location.  At the ages of three and four, the two older boys had preschool friends and had been to age appropriate places, like Build-A-Bear Workshop.

In most ways, Toddler Child is much more exposed than the first two boys were.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were not allowed to watch shows like SpongeBob SquarePants or Rugrats.  My friend T was visiting one time [he doesn't have children] and even he commented on the garish and off colors of animated shows for kids.

Oldest Boy [11] and Middle Boy [10] eventually watched SpongeBob SquarePants [Thankfully, Rugrats is off the air.], but it wasn't until they were seven or eight.  We're stricter than most parents we know when it comes to movies and media that we allow our kids to view or play.  Childhood is fleeting.  There's time.  I'm not worried about them missing anything. 

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy are beginning to enjoy shows that many of our friends allowed their kids to watch at a much younger age.  The problem?  Toddler Child sees some of these movies and is now one of THOSE children that I used to shake my head in judgment and say, "WHAT are they thinking letting their child watch THAT?"  

I called Chris one day in a huff because Middle Boy came home from kindergarten asking me if he could watch Mr. & Mrs. Smith like one of his classmates.  Uh, no.

NOTE:  Brad Pitt didn't stand a chance when he agreed to do that movie.  Angelina Jolie was in her prime and looked stunning.  I might have considered leaving Chris to go adopt babies all over the world with her too.  Poor Jen.  I can't believe she didn't see that one coming.

Sadly, as exposed as Toddler Child is to certain media, slang, and social ideas [via listening to his brothers], he's not exposed to many social experiences outside of our home.  We don't have him in preschool, by choice, so he and I spend a lot of time together.  He's not quite the parasitic head he once was. [Read here.]  But we remain very attached to one another.

For his birthday I planned for the two of us to spend a few hours at a dinosaur museum near our home while Chris was at work and the older boys were at school.  Toddler Child was happy with the idea.  I felt guilty because I wasn't throwing a little party, but in reality, he doesn't know what he's missing.  A day out with me when we don't have to hit Costco sounded great to him.

I called Supermodel and asked if Supermodel Jr. could go with us.  Supermodel Jr. was available.  She's the youngest of six children so she's more exposed than her older siblings were at her age also.  She carried a purse, wore sunglasses and applied her lipstick with more skill than I currently do.  Toddler Child was very interested in her.  I was very impressed by her.

[Click all photos to enlarge.]

She had Toddler Child hold her purse while she colored.  He looked a little uncomfortable, but politely obliged.

 

After the museum, we had lunch, visited a children's farm then stopped at the bakery on the way home to get Toddler Child's cake.  I watched those two little kids interact, observed their differences and similarities, and was pleased to see how kind and polite they were to one another.  It was a fun and memorable day for all three of us.

Even though it wasn't a party with lots of kids and a pinata, I like to think our third child felt celebrated, and I know that he will always appreciate the gift of enjoying your own company.

 

I Blinked

As quickly as it began, summer break is ending.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy return to school next week.  The school they attend resumes classes after Labor Day so we enjoy a summer break like the kind I had when I was a kid.  Three full months.  I love having the boys home and will join Toddler Child next week as he mopes around the house muttering, "I miss the big boys."

Our summer is ending with an assortment of tales to tell, but I've not had the time to chronicle everything publicly. 

Shortly after giving birth to Oldest Boy, I asked Chris if he got any good pictures or video.  He said, "I decided I wanted to experience the birth of our child, not worry about documenting it."  There's balance in that philosophy.  We have photos and journals that I'm thankful we have, but many, many years from now will any person really care?

Abbreviated Tales

Death:  The boys were prepared for Mamaw's death.  They were even prepared for the death of Susan Nelson, the wife of blogger, Fat Cyclist [Elden].  But they weren't prepared for the death of their beloved kindergarten teacher who passed unexpectedly due to a pulmonary embolism.  She was only 48.  These three deaths all occurred in August.  We parented through the death of a woman who had battled breast cancer for several years and left behind her husband and four children.  We parented through the death of an older person, blessed with a full and long life.  And we're still discussing the death of a teacher who appeared healthy one day and the next, was gone.  Rough.

It's Not Funny Anymore:  I had another incident with the car.  I dropped off Oldest Boy at his teacher's house for an ice-cream social.  As I backed out of the driveway [too fast], I hit the front of her husband's parked car.  No one was hurt.  When I called Chris to tell him what had happened, his normally calm and understanding tone was replaced with irritation as he said, "Are you effing kidding me?" 

NOTE:  My parents are refusing to take any calls from me if they see I'm calling from my cell phone.  [I only use my cell phone in the car.  For the record, I was NOT on my phone when I backed into the parked car.]

Birthdays:  Middle Boy turned ten on August 30th and Toddler Child will turn four next week.  Middle Boy thinks it's cool to be in the double-digits, and Toddler Child says he wants to be two, not four.  I told him I wish time worked that way sometimes too.

 

Hummingbird:  We had a hummingbird in the garage.  It flew around and rested on different brake cables of the bikes hanging from our garage ceiling.  I won't make this tale longer than it needs to be.  We were excited at the time.  You would have thought we had a bald eagle nesting on our trash can.  I have too many pictures of a hummingbird sitting on my bike's brake cable.

 

History:  We can't rewrite it.  Isn't that both a tragic and a glorious thing?  For now, this tale will remain very abbreviated.

Goodbye Summer:  I can't believe it's over!  I say this at the end of every school year, holiday, vacation, etc...  And I know I'll say it again.  I'm trying to enjoy the last few days before school starts by ignoring the toys that are left around the house, delaying wiping fingerprints where there typically are none, and avoiding yelling up the stairs, "Take it down a notch, boys!" when I hear them roughhousing.

Today I took my camera upstairs instead of requesting the boys downshift their play.

 

 

I miss the big boys already.

The Weapon

Chris was out of town last week.  I can now manage the the kids and the house while he's away without hyperventilating or leaving teeth marks on my tongue from biting it with frustration.  Toddler Child sleeps through most nights and we deal with a nightmare, an accident, or a blood sugar issue only occasionally.  I don't think a child has vomited once in 2009.  [I know.  I shouldn't tempt fate by sharing that fact.]

The week went fairly well.  Except for one day.  It was T-minus 24 hours until Chris was to be home.  I hate coming undone when I'm so close to the end of something that requires a little more from me.  I don't know if I create a self-fulfilling or a self-defeating prophecy in these situations. But I do it almost every time.

I was singing dorkily in the car while taking Middle Boy to his guitar lesson.  His disapproving, yet ironically not disrespectful, glances told me he was embarrassed by my grooves.  I asked him lightheartedly, "Do I ever do anything that annoys you?"

"Sometimes."

"Like what?"

"Well...  I can't think of the word... but sometimes... you're... ... ..."

I knew what he was thinking.  I instantly felt it.  He truly didn't know the word, but he was thinking bitchy.  I waited.  He was innocent and thoughtful as he searched for the word to answer my question.

"... sometimes you're...  grumpy."

I asked him to explain and give me some examples.  The look on my face and the tone of my voice told Middle Boy this wasn't going the direction either of us thought it would.  He nervously described how he dropped a perfectly clean, plastic fork on the floor and I got REALLY mad.  I don't remember this, and I told him so.  I wanted more examples.  I was aware of my subtle but palpable shift to defensiveness partnered with antagonism.  My son was aware too, and chose his words carefully as he answered the assault of questions I threw at him.

When we got home from the guitar lesson I told Oldest Boy about my question to Middle Boy and the answer I received.  He could tell I was irritated and politely and diplomatically supported his brother.  He said some days I'm very patient but other days I get frustrated with them a little quicker than usual.

What did I do with this honest and valuable information from my sons?  I chastised them.  All night.  I peppered what should have been a pleasant evening with, "And ANOTHER thing..."  I reminded the boys of everything I do around the house.  I reminded them how good they have it compared to other kids.  I reminded them that the "other mothers" who are sooo wonderful have GRUMPY days too.  I reminded them that some kids don't even HAVE a mother.  They were pink-eyed and trembly-lipped a couple of times.

Toddler Child was lying low.  Happy for once that he wasn't the boy on the receiving end of one of my manic lectures.

Dinner, showers, bedtime reading routines, all were accomplished successfully.  Toddler Child had been sleeping with something to protect himself and the rest of the family while Chris was out of town.  He requested it for one more night, in case he needed to battack someone.

NOTE:  We're not a gun family.  Chris nor I were raised by parents who hunt, target shoot or have a need for a gun, so we're raising our kids the same.  Our arguments are just passionate enough that if we had a gun in the house, it's possible that one of us would eventually be referred to as "Stumpy".  Or "inmate number 35704-019".

It was after 10:00 PM and all three boys were asleep.  In a span of seconds, I was painfully aware of how heavy I'd been earlier.  Selfishly, I entered Oldest Boy's room, hugged him and apologized for my rant.  He hugged me back and said, "I forgive you."  I repeated the scene in Middle Boy's room.  He's a sound sleeper and didn't respond.  I hoped somehow my words and heart penetrated his dreams.  I would talk to him in the morning.

Toddler Child hadn't been on the receiving end of my behavior directly, so I chose to let him sleep.  I also didn't want to invoke a battack by a plunger. 

One weapon had been drawn too long.  It was time to put them all down.

He's Home

With his two younger brothers in tow, I made the 90-minute trip -- in closer to 60 -- and retrieved Oldest Boy from diabetes camp today.  He was hanging out by the swings with his cabin mates when we arrived.  As soon as he saw us approaching across the field his arm shot up in the air and he waved unabashedly at us.

Toddler Child reached him first...

Oldest Boy had a blast.  He shared stories of exciting and good things that happened at camp and a few stories that made my heart ache for him... but mostly good things.

When we arrived home, he was greeted by Mary, the dog, and Wren, the crazy parakeet, with the truest dog and bird love I've ever seen.  Because he's a boy after my own heart, he wanted a shower immediately after hugging and kissing the pets.  He took a long shower while Middle Boy sat outside the shower door listening to more stories, peppered with jokes, riddles and silly songs.  I could hear the laughter echoing in the bathroom, spilling down the stairs and over the balcony while I prepared dinner in the kitchen.  

After a show and tell session where Oldest Boy showed us all the various crafts, trinkets and treasures made and found at camp, we had dinner... a meal a little more special than usual to make Oldest Boy's homecoming as warm as possible.

The kitchen is clean, as are the three Ross boys.  They're in their pajamas in Oldest Boy's room, and he's still holding court.  I think I'll go join his admirers..

Camp

Oldest Boy is at diabetes camp this week.  We began attending family camp the summer of 2003, shortly after he was diagnosed with type 1.  He was five-years-old and camp helped us all realize there's life after diagnosis -- just make sure you have a glucometer, syringes, insulin and glucose tabs at all times. [Now it's infusion sites, reservoirs and IV prep pads for his insulin pump.]  We returned to family camp the next three summers.  Oldest Boy "graduated" from family camp the summer before he began third grade. He was officially old enough to attend future camps without his parents.  He was eight.

Oldest Boy is eleven now and this is the first year he chose to attend the six-day, five-night camp.  He went to a winter camp for diabetics when he was ten and didn't have the greatest experience.  Some of the counselors were a little rough around the edges, used foul language and discussed inappropriate topics in front of the young campers.  Oldest Boy said he asked them to stop, but it left a bad taste in his mouth.  I'm proud of him.

After discussions with the camp director resulted in promises of better counselor training, and a commitment from a school friend to join him, Oldest Boy was ready to give summer camp a try.  He's older now, equipped with a little more self confidence, and understands if goofy, teenage counselors choose to act stupid... he can tell someone and choose to walk away and do his own thing.  Ironically, it's not Oldest Boy's diabetes care and management that he, his father, and I have had concerns about regarding the decision to go to camp.  It's exposure to older kids who don't realize that you can't unring a bell in the mind of a child.

I left Oldest Boy at camp on Sunday.  He allowed me to help him carry his things to his cabin before we checked-in with the doctor, dietitian, and other people with clipboards.  His friend had arrived at camp before we did which was a huge relief to Oldest Boy.

I was conflicted as I left.  I knew he was in good hands and that experiences like this are important for him, but I worried about the insulin reaction he'd had the night prior [He came to our room sweaty and shaking in the middle of the night. His blood sugar was 35].  I worried he'd get homesick.  I worried the counselor with the stretched earlobes [gauging, I think it's called] and the five o'clock shadow would have porn under his mattress, as I simultaneously realized the clean-shaven, collared-shirt wearing counselor was just as likely to have porn... and blow.

I quit torturing myself, received my farewell hug and kiss from Oldest Boy and watched as he and his friend walked away, happy to simply be boys... at camp.

Snippets of Oldest Boy from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

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Almost

I'm pumped!  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy will be dismissed from school for summer break tomorrow at noon.  Sure, having two more kids in the house means more toilet, sink, and kitchen usage during a day, but overall it's less work than the rigid routine we all adhere to during the school year.  No more packing lunches, driving to and from the school [30-40 each way], and no more homework.

I don't complete my sons' homework for them, but I support, encourage and oversee their various projects and goals.  The level of parental involvement required these days in both public and private schools is a good thing in my opinion.  I've joked about it [here], but I sincerely believe kids who have involved [not controlling or micro-managing] parents are generally better off than those who do not.  Regardless, I'm looking forward to no homework...

... and more family band time.  An old friend was in town Saturday - a friend who can play almost any instrument by ear - and led us in this session...

 

Chris conducted.  Sort of.

We eventually got him to sing and he promised the boys he would contribute more vocally to our family band nights as well as lead us in guitar.  I'll do anything.  I'm not musically talented, but I wish I was.  [Don't we all?!]

I've stocked up on peanut butter, tuna, water balloons, paper towels, flushable toilet scrubbers, popsicles, sunscreen, guitar picks, and patience [send me some of that if you have any extra laying around the house].  We're looking forward to a simple but fun summer.  No more homework!  Almost...

Dear George Lucas

Middle Boy [9] wrote a letter to George Lucas recently...

The poor kid wrote the letter in early March, but for some reason it took me until late April to mail it for him.  When I finally sent his letter and drawing to Mr. Lucas, I enclosed the following note...

 

Chris and I crossed our fingers and hoped, someone... anyone... would acknowledge Middle Boy's efforts.  We explained to Middle Boy that George Lucas, not unlike Santa Claus, has lots of helpers and probably can't personally reply to every piece of mail he receives.

A few days ago, a special, large envelope from Lucasfilm Ltd. arrived.  I don't know who was more excited in our house -- the boys, or Chris and I.  [Click on the image to enlarge.]

A few pieces of Lucasfilm Ltd. swag were included, and Middle Boy handled the content of the letter with surprising maturity.  He said he understood why they needed to protect themselves... said he "knows the feeling" because of his chapter book idea.  [Middle Boy won't even allow Chris or me to view some of his movie or book ideas.  You never know who will steal a good idea, he says.]

He was thrilled with receiving anything from a George Lucas employee.

The original envelope, letter and artwork were returned... but the envelope had been opened, and it was obvious his "unsolicited submission or idea" had been read and reviewed.  If an Auquatrooper shows up on The Clone Wars series?  That's our boy!

Mother said, "No."

Growing up, my mother was politically liberal, opposing my father's conservative bent, but raised us in a home with routine, structure and emphasized the importance of being considerate and kind to others. In hindsight, my borderline-hippie mother was very old fashioned in her parenting style.  I'm thankful.

I'm a day late with my tribute-to-Mom post.  There are many fabulous "Mother" stories to share, but I thought the following captures her well...

******************************

I was home from college for a visit when I was 19 or 20.  Even though I had no curfew while I was at school, Mother imposed one when I was home.  She said she worried and that I would understand some day.  Sometimes my curfew was midnight, sometimes it was 1:00 AM, but there was always a time I was to be home.  I also had to give her an itinerary.  She never checked, and we both knew I often fabricated where I would be, because going out with friends was just that... going out.  We didn't always know where the soiree would be happening, until we got there.

One night I drank too much at a party.  I spent the last two hours prior to curfew hugging a toilet in someone's apartment while strange guys peed in the bathtub behind me.  A good friend held my hair and assured me, no one "noticed" I was so sick.  The same good friend called my mother at midnight and politely told her I wasn't feeling well and we'd better spend the night at the apartment.  Mother said, "No."  She told my friend, I need to speak to Chrisy.  Now.

"Moh-hom, I'm sick.  I can't get in a car.  I'll die."

"You won't die.  Either [your friend] brings you home, or I'm coming to get you."

My friend drove me home because she was afraid of Mom.  Mother was waiting in the driveway in her bathrobe.  She gave my friend a dirty look, like it was her fault somehow that I was an idiot, and helped me into the house.

It was a long night.  I threw-up in my bathroom and in the bowl Mom left by my bed.  I moaned and groaned and made promises to God I swore I'd never break... but did.  Early the next morning, Mother came in my room.

"Does Dad know?"  I asked.

"No.  But I don't know how we can hide this.  Was it worth it?  Was. it. worth. it. CHRISTINA?!"

I cried and said no, and told her how terrible I felt.  She toggled between trying to help me feel better by being a good nurse, and scolding me.  One moment she was placing her hand on my forehead, offering me water and ice chips, asking if I was ready for a little toast and aspirin, all in a soft, compassionate voice.  Then, she'd furrow her brow and speak sternly, What were you thinking?  Does this feel gooood?  Does it?  Do you realize what could happen to you?  Anybody could take advantage of you.  Anybody.  Jesus.

Back and forth... compassionate, nursey Mom... then angry, disappointed, what the hell were you girls thinking? Mom.

She was like Shirley MacLaine as she stomped around my room in her bathrobe, shaking her head at me, giving me the business, opening my window because, "We need to get some fresh air in here... honestly, Chrisy."  Then on a dime, "Honey, I'm sorry you feel so sick... can I get you ANYthing?"  On.  Off.  Black.  White.  Anger.  Softness.  It was classic.  It was Mother.

She may have understood my situation more than I realized at the time.  I found these pictures of her when she was 19 and in her college dorm room.  I'm thinking Grease, a little more Rizzo than Sandy...

 

Mother met Dad one summer while on college break.  They married and three years later Mom gave birth to her first child.  Me.  Marriage and motherhood summoned Mom's inner Sandy... but Rizzo's still there.

 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

"...it's wasted on the crappiest generation of just spoiled idiots..." Louis C.K.

It's not what you have, it's who you are.  I tell my kids this all the time.  I also tell them, there's no shame in having and enjoying nice things, we simply don't judge people by their possessions.  Someone may have a larger home with more "stuff" to play with - that doesn't translate to good or bad, just a person with more stuff.  Then we review the opposite example...  Someone may have a smaller home with less "stuff" to play with - again, not good or bad, just a person with less stuff.  It's who a person is that's important.  I think our two oldest boys get it.

Cheri at Blog This Mom included a wonderful link in her recent blog post.  It's a clip that's making the rounds so many of you may have seen it.  If not, it's worth the four minutes.  Conan O'Brien is interviewing the comedian Louis C.K., and Louis riffs about how AMAZING life is and how spoiled we are.  It's funny and true.  YouTube embedding has been disabled for the clip, but click on the link and watch it - "Everything's amazing, nobody's happy..." 

Chris and I continually struggle with how much is too much with our kids.  Our boys are far from spoiled, but also have plenty to play with, and have rarely been denied a requested "special" gift for a birthday or holiday.  We've made it clear what the boundaries are so they don't ask for things they know aren't kosher in our home.  They don't seem bothered and haven't complained about desperately wanting something that we don't believe is appropriate.  I can honestly say, I don't think our boys are "bummed" that they don't have game systems [other than Wii], cell phones, or computers in their rooms with Internet access.  Oldest Boy [11], Middle Boy [9], and Toddler Child [3] seem content to play board games, build things with Lego's, watch some television, and play approved games on the family computer.  When they're outside, they play.  I mean, they really play.  They look for sticks and rocks and bugs.  They build forts in the bushes, ride bikes and run to nowhere.

The goal isn't to raise our kids to be so counterculture that other kids view them as socially off.  But my fear is... that it's happening.  Chris and I have discussed this and are united in our opinion that it's not worth it to join the mainstream on some of our issues.  We just can't.

I confess, sometimes I want to.  It's about me though, not the kids.

I spoke with a friend last week and reminded her how much we'd love to have she, her husband and kids over for dinner.  I knew as adults we'd visit and eat and drink and laugh... but, I impulsively said, "Will your kids be okay playing with our kids?  We don't have a big screen TV with a game system in the basement, or lots of cool play equipment in the backyard.  We have rocks and sticks."

She was very gracious and said, "Heck yeah!  They'll have a blast!"

After thinking about how concerned I felt for our boys and the possible social judgment they might endure based on what "stuff" they did or did not have, I realized that when I tell my kids, It's not what you have, it's who you are, I need to remind myself... it's the truth.

My Money's on Miss Piggy

Per Wikipedia - "In colloquial speech, bullying often describes a form of harassment perpetrated by an abuser who possesses more physical and/or social power and dominance than the victim. The victim of bullying is sometimes referred to as a target. The harassment can be verbal, physical and/or emotional.

... Targets of bullying in school are often pupils who are considered strange or different by their peers to begin with, making the situation harder for them to deal with."

One of our sons has been bullied recently.  He seems to grasp what has happened and although hurt and fatigued, he has a surprisingly logical perspective about the situation.  The bully-er is not a bad or mean child and is fortunate to have a mother who received the information graciously and will redirect his behavior appropriately.  I'm confident of this.

My brother Mallory Joe was severely bullied when he was in the sixth grade.  We were raised to be lovers, not fighters.  No toy guns in our house, no hitting, no unkindness tolerated... Mother wouldn't even allow us to say the word "weird" because it was derogatory.  People aren't weird, she would say, they're... different.  

Mallory Joe didn't know how to handle the bullying.  I don't think Mom knew how bad it was.  She listened to my brother and encouraged him to take the high road, remember sticks and stones may break my bones... all the quasi-hippie, make love, not war encouraging words.  Mallory Joe did what Mom said... and continued to get. his. ass. kicked.

One day Mallory Joe came home from school, disheveled, clothing torn and clearly shaken.  Mother asked him what had happened.  I watched her make-love-not-war-philosophy fly out the window as she listened to the humiliation my brother had endured after school.

She sent Mallory Joe and one of his friends out to find the bully that afternoon.  She was calm and firm as she gave the boys specific instructions on how and what to say to the bully.

I'll never forget seeing Mallory Joe and his friend confidently ride away on their bicycles, empowered with the knowledge that amnesty for acts not yet committed awaited them when they returned home.  Mother channeled her best pissed-off Miss Piggy voice and yelled after them, "OH... AND MAKE HIM BLEED, HONEY!"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

Miss Piggy

Easter

The boys dyed eggs on Friday evening.  I always buy one or two extra Paas egg decorating kits so we can dye eggs another time.  Once a year seems unnecessarily infrequent for something so fun, but every month seems excessive.  Two or three times a year... feels about right.

On Saturday I was running last minute errands on behalf of the Easter Bunny.  While I was away, Oldest Boy whispered in Chris' ear, "I know you and Mom are the Easter Bunny," and gave a smarmy wink.  Chris winked back and said, "Shhh.  Don't ruin it for your brothers."

Middle Boy still believes... in everything.  It's a blast.  He's nine so we know he's close to discovering the truth.  Either through his own mental gymnastics, or other kids planting seeds of doubt with their stories of revelation.

"Dad, I can't figure out how the Easter Bunny gets around the whole world.  How does he get over the oceans?  He can't just hop...  Santa at least has the reindeer.  They can fly super fast... plus they're part of the horse family." [Duh.]

Middle Boy repeated his thoughts and questions to me this morning.

"Mom, even if the Easter Bunny didn't have to cross the oceans, he has to hop way fast...  I can't figure it out.  Do you know how he delivers eggs and baskets around the world?"

"No, I don't. [looking up, faking a concerned, confused expression]  He has a way though.  I'm sure."

What I do know?  That the Easter Bunny at our house deserves the wine she drinks while dying eggs, because she hops her ass off making Easter special for the children.  [Or "shildren" if it's been a particularly long day.]  [See wine behind Oldest Boy in photo.]

Happy Easter!

Full

It was 42 degrees yesterday when I was driving home from the mall with Toddler Child, recovering from a fit, in the back seat.  I thought it looked deceptively warmer than what my car thermometer registered.  The bright sun, clear skies and calm air made it appear at least 20 degrees warmer.  The snow has mostly melted in our small town and surrounding areas, but the mountains remain snow-capped.  I find the transition from winter to spring, pretty.

The two older boys were spending the afternoon at the home of friends.  Friends that are brothers the same ages as Oldest Boy and Middle Boy, attend the same school, and have a new puppy.  They were overflowing with happy and content.

I took Toddler Child to the mall, thinking it would be nice to get out of the house, return a couple of things, and leisurely stroll with my three and a half-year-old son.  The final child in our tribe.  I assumed with another month of natural maturation under his belt, he might behave and not throw a fit.  I was wrong.  Not even close.  It was miserable.  He actually screamed shut-up a few times.  [Please no judging.  We do not say shut-up in our house.  He saw it on a Muppet video.  Toddlers can behave like belligerent drunks sometimes, and it doesn't mean he's spoiled, or I'm a bad person.  Shit happens.]

I wrested him into the car while a few people watched and wondered if I was hurting him.  I wasn't, but the ordeal was painful for both of us.  I managed to get him buckled in his car seat while trying to look calm and composed as I closed his door, resisting the urge to slam it.  I climbed in the front seat.  Once in, I sat there panting with frustration and feelings of self-pity because my experience mothering infants and toddlers has not been normal.  [I realize there is no normal and being home with small children is difficult - even for the mothers who have kids who nap.  I wouldn't know what that's like, but I can imagine, and I'm sure it's still difficult.  No sarcasm here.  Sarcasm is cheap and unattractive.]

I pleaded with him, "Honey, you have to stop throwing those fits.  What happened?  It's not appropriate.  We can't go back to Build-A-Bear - not today.  When you can be calm we'll try again another day."  He screamed and kicked and didn't hear a word I said.  I felt like I had to say something, even if it was to myself.

Fifteen minutes into the 30-minute drive home, Toddler Child found his calm.  His head resting on the car seat, his eyes pink and swollen looking out the side window, at nothing, and he was touching his ear.  [He's an ear fondler.]  He was exhausted and so was I.  We were empty.  I asked him if his fit was over and he said yes, Mom.  I told him I loved him even when I was angry - there was nothing he could do to make me stop loving him, but I didn't like his behavior.  He just looked out the window, touching his ear.

We continued home in silence.

The day was so beautiful.  The quiet in the car was nice. 

We were only five minutes from our house when I noticed a group of men, maybe five or six of them, sitting in the grass taking what appeared to be a lunch break.  They were construction workers.  A few were large men, a few were small, almost wiry.  They were dressed in jeans or coveralls, flannel shirts, sweatshirts and various shades of brown lace-up boots.  They all looked happy.  Happy to be employed, happy to have lunch on the grass on a beautiful day, happy to be sharing life anecdotes and laughs with one another.  Just happy.

One man, a larger person, was laying on his stomach.  He wore faded blue coveralls over a gray hooded sweatshirt.  His boots were light tan and he had the toe of one boot balancing on the heel of the other - his feet stacked like a tower behind him.  His arms were folded under his chest and his chin was resting on his arms.  He looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s and I bet when he goes to the barbershop, he simply says, "High and tight!" with a grin.

These men... so full... filled me.

Toddler Child and I sat on the couch together when we got home.  He watched television and touched my ear while I read the paper and rifled through a stack of magazines and catalogs.  He may not have been satiated, but he was on his way.