The Lesson

It is almost midnight and I am enjoying the peace and quiet that comes with having everyone in the house, except me, asleep.  With this tranquility I am actually able to hear something.  I am able to hear myself think!  This relatively rare moment of being alone with my thoughts (and Jay in a deep slumber beside me!) has made me quite introspective and analytical. 

The reason why I record all the "goings-on" of my family is so I won't forget the daily events that shape the boys' childhoods.  It is my hope that the record of their milestones will some day be a source of great joy and amusement for them and their families.  

But as I sit here tonight I realize that just giving a travelogue of their lives is not enough.  I want my precious sons to know not only that I love and adore them but that I am a person, too.  I'm not just the chief cook and bottle washer or the person who doles out punishment.  I have actual feelings, opinions and hopes for myself irrespective of my responsibilities as a mom.  

I know this is a tall order!  It will undoubtedly be years until this is something they understand. Perhaps it won't happen until they have children of their own.  Hopefully children JUST like them!

It is with this in mind that I share the following story.  It is a departure from my usual posts but is one that I feel is worth telling...not just for me but for my boys.  

I've been pretty good lately. I've been to the gym 4 times this week, despite the boys doing everything in their power to give me an excuse! It seems as though getting there is half the battle!

I feel like I've already gotten my workout by the time I make it to the gym. Owen dislikes wearing a coat almost as much as he dislikes bread.  So before we can get in the van, I put on my workout clothes and a full-on smackdown takes place in our living room...WWF style! I become a WWF mom as I wrestle Owen into a coat. And I truly mean wrestle!  

(My current win/loss record for the week is 3-2.  The 2 losses occurred because the temperature wasn't cold enough to warrant a full on wrestling match!  My cut off point is 32 degrees.)  

So after Owen's defeat, he gets strapped into his car seat (where he can't take off his coat) and proceeds to scream the 2.1 miles to the gym about the indignities of having to wear his coat.  

If that isn't reason enough to NOT go to the gym, than I don't know what is!

After the ear-splitting 2.1 miles, I drag Owen with one arm and use the remaining arm to lug the 8.65 pound car seat carrying the 19.4 pound Kai.  Drew is left to straggle along beside the car seat wondering why he always gets the short end of the stick.  

I must look like a crazed lunatic because on more than one occasion I've had people ask me right there in the parking lot why in the world I would need to go to the gym with 3 boys to run after.  "You've certainly got your hands full!" they say.  Or "3 boys, huh?" Followed by a look of pity or admiration...I can't tell which.

Nevertheless, in to the gym I go to drop the boys in the play center while I sweat out my frustrations on various pieces of equipment.  I plug up my ears with my headphones, listen to music blaring at me from my IPod and tune out everything else.  I never speak to anyone and rarely do I even make eye contact with the various bodies engaged in different workout torture techniques, just feet from me.  

That is the way of the gym.  And that is the way I like it.

But this week I got distracted.  I started noticing a family that was there each time I was.  There is a Mom and Dad and a son who is probably in his early twenties.  The parents are always dressed in ordinary workout clothes with no real unique or noteworthy features (just like the rest of us).  

I only noticed them because the boy is in a wheelchair.  I don't know the nature of his disability or the scope of his limitations.  I just know that he has them.

I know that I'm not supposed to stare but for some reason my eyes would follow them around the gym as they worked.  Because of the size of the gym and abundance of mirrors they were never aware of my looks.  They are also unaware of the profound affect they had on me.

On the fourth day of my observations the family made their usual route around the gym.  As the son was attempting to use the machine with the pulleys (for biceps, chest, etc.) he was suddenly gripped with what I assume was a severe muscle spasm.  This spasm caused his entire upper body to lock down or freeze up.  His hands were rendered useless in the throes of this attack.  

As this boy struggled through what undoubtedly was a painful experience his parents never left his side.  The mom knelt down next to him and cradled his legs and rocked him back and forth.  She placed her head in his lap and smiled and offered soothing words of encouragement.  The father massaged his son's shoulders and patted his head and stroked his cheek.  All the while, the son looked staunchly determined to grip the machine with a hand that just wouldn't cooperate.

For 10 minutes I discreetly watched the family fight their battle against a broken body with smiles on their faces.  In the midst of this struggle they were truly smiling.

I was taken aback.

I looked around at the dozens of people staring in the mirror, sweating away the pounds, and dreaming of looking better in their jeans.  I looked at my well-worn running shoes and thought of how easy it was to run a mile or two and then move on to the bike.

I abruptly dropped my dumbbell and raced to the locker room with tears welling in my eyes.  I quickly hid myself in the dressing room and shut the curtain as hot tears streamed down my cheeks.  

The tears were flowing out of pity.  Not pity for the loving family or the determined boy in the wheelchair, but pity for myself for thinking that I had it rough because my children made it difficult for me to get to the gym that day.  Pity for myself that I have the audacity to resent my body for not being "perfect."  

And shame for a society that doesn't recognize the heroic efforts of ordinary families facing extraordinary challenges.

After I collected myself, I gathered up my children and went home to the daily grind of dinner and dishes and bedtime routine.  But I did so with a bit more clarity and a broader perspective.  I know that everyone has their own battles to fight and demons to conquer.  Some people fight them alone while others are blessed with families to help them face down their foes.

Either way, I was touched by the dedication and love that this family unknowingly displayed to me.  

Will I continue to complain about the sticky floor I have to clean or the tantrums I must endure?  

Probably.....(well, almost definitely).

But for now, I'm happy that I was taught a lesson in the most unlikely of classrooms.  And it is my hope that my sons will some day know that their mother still must be taught just as I (hopefully) am teaching them.  

Food for thought...

I have a love/hate relationship with food. And it really is a relationship! Next to my boys and Jay, I spend most of my time utilizing my culinary skills, thinking about the next meal, making a grocery list or shopping for said groceries.

The love part of the relationship comes when I get to cook a meal without children underfoot complaining that they see something green coming dangerously close to their plate. (How dare I attempt to get some vitamins into their growing bodies!)

The hate part of the relationship comes from cooking 3 meals a day for 4 different boys with different tastes.

Whoever said 2 year olds don't have discerning palates doesn't know Owen! We start our day the same each morning....

First, I drag myself out of bed and down the stairs to start the breakfast routine. When I can finally see straight, I pop a few pieces of bread in the toaster while I start filling juice glasses and mashing a banana for Kai.

By this point, Owen has straggled in and promptly crinkles up his face and plugs his nose in disgust. (I kid you not, this happens every day.)

As if the air around him is too caustic to breathe, he barely chokes out the same pitiful phrase each day...

"I smell someping!"

Each time I ask him what it is that is so offensive. He can't even utter words. He just looks in the direction of the toaster and points.

You see, bread is Owen's arch enemy. His disdain for this most basic of food extends to bread in any form. The said nemesis doesn't even have to be toasted for him to claim the aroma is assaulting his olfactory senses.

(On a rather sacrilegious side note, each week Owen plugs his nose and states, "I smell someping!" as the bread passes in front of him in our Sunday Sacrament service. I don't know if I should laugh or cry at this!)

Even the most heralded and convenient of all baby foods has never been swallowed by Owen. The foe in this case was the banana.  What baby doesn't like a banana?

*The approach

*The realization

*The refusal

...

In contrast, Drew was the most willing and amenable baby when it came to expanding his food portfolio. We started off with avocados and worked our way up to kale and tofu (which Jay thought was a bit too "granola").

By 9 months old, Drew's diet of organic and healthy food would rival that of any tried and true vegetarian!  Perhaps I got a little overzealous when I introduced mustard greens.

Despite my southern roots, I had never eaten mustard greens but knew they were packed with nutrients. So into my baby's open mouth they went. Bite after bite Drew opened his mouth to receive the green glop like the sweet and trusting baby he was.

As I neared the bottom of the bowl I noticed his big blue eyes were watering. A fearful expression appeared as the spoon neared his lips. What was wrong?

Had the mustard greens gotten cold? I decided to take a bite to find out.

SHAZAM!

Those greens are not mild and they are not timid!  They come by their name honestly! Imagine a bowl of spinach covered in spicy mustard and there you have what I was poking down my beautiful baby!

Thankfully Drew survived the mustard greens caper and goes on to eat a few green things today...despite the traumatic experience. 

*Drew is happily eating avocado

I've lived and learned a bit in the food department and Kai is reaping the rewards of this experience.  There isn't a mustard green in sight and bananas are back at the top of the best baby food list.  In fact, things are going so well that Kai occasionally likes to wear his star snacks like a chart of the constellations!

And so my relationship with food continues to grow as do the boys' stomachs.  I am not at liberty to terminate this relationship so I will evolve, adapt and even make my morning toast...despite the protestations of a bread-hating 2 year old!

Shower of Fear

I have about 10 minutes a day that I live in fear...  

I live in fear that my home will be burned to the ground (NO!  I don't keep matches or flammable substances around....but with 3 boys you just never know!).  

I live in fear that a precious tooth will be chipped or stitches will be required (both of which have happened when I dared to blink...Drew has a jack-o-lantern grin and Owen has a forehead like Frankenstein!).

I live in fear that all my shoes and clothes will be strewn about after having been stomped on, twisted about, and stuffed in slobbery mouths (Yes, this has occurred.  I have refrained from telling Jay that Owen and Drew have, tragically, tromped around in my high heels like little soldiers.  Heels do indeed sound cool when clomping around on the hardwood floor!)

When is the dreaded 10 minutes of fear?  

When I take a shower!!!  A simple, necessary and supposedly "relaxing" shower!

Must I be robbed of all serenity and peace just because my offspring possess the Y chromosome?  I have come to terms with the fact that I will never shop for pink or purple or anything pastel.  I have even come to terms with the fact that any extra money left at the end of the month can't be for buying a new pair of fabulous shoes but, instead, must be funneled into a fund for our future stratospheric grocery bills!  But I digress.....

I take all precautions necessary when I enter the 10 minute chamber of fear.  I place the 2 older boys in front of the electronic babysitter i.e. TV, and strap Kai in the bouncy seat hanging from the door of the bathroom.  All little people are contained within my room where I can hear them and I can be accessed should there be an incident.  

Despite the precautions, I still fear that I will be summoned to an "incident" where I will be soapy, cold, naked and thoroughly unpresentable....and as mad as a wet cat!  I have these vivid nightmares going on in my head as I scrub my scalp and shave my legs. Definitely not the calming, aroma-therapeutic shower experience that the soap commercials suggest!

Working through my fears, I press on every day and continue to shower, as I must.  

After wrapping myself in my robe I happen upon a most peculiar scene.  A scene which I am strangely grateful for as it does not involve destruction, blood or mayhem.

It involves a little boy with his mother's make-up and an oxygen mask.  It is a scene that is altogether perplexing and comical.  

"What in tarnation are you doing?"  I ask.

"I'm looking handsome...with your make-up!"  Owen replies.

"What is around your head?"  I demand.

"It is my ear patch!"  comes the response.

"WHY?"  (I can't wait to hear the answer.)

"Because I'm a scurvy pirate!"  

Enough said.

 

*The only other incident was when Owen pulled back really hard on the spring in the bouncy seat, trying to launch Kai across the room like a rock in a sling-shot.  I stopped that before Kai had a chance to get into orbit.  Thankfully, Drew is a really good tattle-tale.

Memory

I wonder every day if anything I say actually sinks into Drew's head.  This, I assume, is the core problem for parents since the beginning of time!  After all, the famous apple was eaten because a child didn't listen!

The following stories clearly show that more is sinking in than I previously thought...

When we visit Grandma and Grandpa in Alabama, Drew's favorite book to read is a book about fish.  I'm not talking Nemo.  I'm talking about an almanac, of sorts.  A fisherman's guide to hundreds of fish found in the ocean.  It tickles me to no end to see Drew snuggled up on Grandpa's lap being told about the fish.  He studies each picture and listens intently.  

I haven't given this book much thought since our last visit 5 months ago.  Until...

Our trip to Wegman's (a grocery store heaven!) this weekend was just like any other... very hectic, crowded and somewhat stressful.  I bribe the boys with cookies from the bakery just to make it through without an "incident."  

As we casually strolled by the fresh fish counter I barely looked at the display.  I absently glanced at the large, whole fish perched on a bed of ice.  (Frankly, they give me the creeps with their dull grey eyes and gaping mouth.  I'll eat them but I don't like to look at them!)

Just as nonchalant as you please and quite matter-of-fact-like, Drew pipes up..."Hey, look! There's a striped bass!"  And on to the bakery counter he went to choose his cookie bribe without a second thought.  

I glance over and, sure enough, there lay a striped bass in its glass casket.

The boy knows his fish but can't remember where he put his shoe!

Drew must've listened closely to the tour guide on our recent trip through Luray Caverns... 

Kai has had what we like to refer to in our family as a "nose situation."  Upon close inspection of Kai's nostrils, Drew noted that his nose was like a cave.  

"Why?" I ask, quite perplexed.

"Because he has stalactites hanging in there!" 

Oh, well, of course.  I should've known that, right?  

He knows the difference between a stalactite and stalagmite from the tour guide, but doesn't listen when I tell him to put his clothes in the laundry basket!

Moral of the story:  Score 1 for Grandpa and score 1 for the tour guide.  Score a big fat ZERO for me!!!

 

Costumes and Teeth

Halloween sort of snuck up on me this year and disappeared just as quickly...like a vanishing ghost.  I just don't know where the time goes!  Who is stealing it?  And if any of you have any extra, could I borrow it?

I started the conversation about the all important costumes several weeks in advance.  I was doing pretty well, I thought, to get the boys involved and to take ownership of their holiday. I wanted to make their costumes because, after all, doesn't that make it mean more? (Whomever fed that line of hooey to frazzled moms must've been insane, a male businessman, or the one who stole all my time!)

Every day waiting in the preschool carpool line I asked probing questions about what each boy would like to be for Halloween.  It would've been nice had they come up with ideas that I could've actually made or put together.  Instead, Drew wanted to be a skeleton or a spider. Owen wanted to be a pumpkin.  How do you make those things?  I thought about putting Owen in orange tights and stuffing an orange shirt but figured Jay would not be pleased with the tights part!

Maybe I just don't have enough imagination and I certainly don't have any sewing skills....I just couldn't dig deep enough to make my boys' costumes.  So, defeated, I marched off to a discount store with the oldest boys in tow.  

We arrived before the doors even opened and we waited.  The only way I could feel better about buying a costume was to make an event out of it.  So we ate candy corn and chatted about our costumes.  Owen insisted that I couldn't be a princess like I suggested but that I had to be a pumpkin.  (I explained that a pumpkin wouldn't be figure flattering but that argument was met with a blank stare.  He's a boy...he wouldn't get it.)

After passing the 4 racks of girls costumes we finally arrived at the one rack of boys costumes.  (This is pretty typical when shopping for boys.)  We quickly perused the options and the boys made their selections.  I was surprised at their choices because it was nothing like what we had discussed.  But if a boy wants to be a gorilla or a chicken, far be it from me to stand in their way!

The only snag in the costume plan was when Drew discovered some vampire teeth in our Halloween box.  

"Wouldn't those look good for a gorilla to wear?"  he said.  

"You would be ferocious!" I said.  Which pleased him a lot.

Not to be outdone, Owen was very adamant that he wear some ferocious teeth, too.  I told him there was only one set of plastic teeth and Drew got to wear them.  This was unacceptable and I sensed a melt-down approaching.

I prepared myself for a tough sale and quickly thought of some reasons why he couldn't wear the coveted teeth. (Besides the obvious...that they were already spoken for.)  This was the best I could do...

"Chicken don't have teeth!"

That is the truth.  

Melt-down averted.  Score one for the Mom!

Grandpa Time

Owen kept saying, "Push me up the sky, Grandpa."  (Yes, there was a hint of exasperation in his voice as he said it.)

  

Grandpa's presence was requested after the discovery of a walking stick.  

    

Just plain sweet.