For Cora...A Bucket List

Author's Note:  (I've always wanted to write that.)  I wrote this at 3:30 in the morning on October 29, the day Cora was born.  I had a wicked case of insomnia from the steroid shot I received to mature the baby's lungs.  Little did I know that in just 2 short hours I would be rushing to the hospital in labor.  These are the words that tumbled out in my sleep deprived stupor.

Cora Jeanne....
I've thought long and hard about having my first girl for my last child.  You are unique and special to all of us.  

I promise to provide you with your very own bin for your dolls and Barbies right next to your big brothers' bin of Bad Guys.  When you come to me to tattle and whine that another Barbie got kidnapped by the neighborhood Bad Guy and thrown in a pit with Dinosaurs..... I won't solve your problem.  I will teach you to march yourself right back around, rescue your doll with a vengeance, and dress up the Bad Guy in Malibu Barbie's attire.  That'll teach him.  

And that will teach you to always stand up for yourself.


It will be important to possess proper manners.  What better way to practice those skills than to invite your Daddy for a good old fashioned tea party?  He can sit down at your little table, in your little chair so that his knees rub his ears.  You must insist that he wear a tiara and perhaps a feather boa to make him fit in with all your gussied up stuffed animals.  Please don't hesitate to remind him that he must raise his pinkey when he sips the tea from the dainty teacup.  Even though his hands might seem too large, it is important that he places the cup quietly back on its miniscule saucer.  Forcing him to speak in a high-brow British accent is optional. (You MUST tell me when all this is going on so I can get my camera.)  

Won't it be fun?


I hope that you will smile when you see your three big brothers dressed in their finest Sunday attire, each one clutching a flower for you, at your dance recitals.  You should forgive them if they don't answer right away when you ask them excitedly, "What was your favorite part?"  If you press them on the issue I'm sure they will come up with something.  

I can't wait to hear what they say.

If you go the sports route, I hope you will forgive me if I call your three-pointer a "goal" or if I miss a play or two because I'm playing solitaire on my PDA.  I'm still your biggest fan, just not the biggest fan of basketball. 

Would you consider soccer instead?  


I hope that I can instill in you that beauty doesn't come from how good you look in your jeans or the size of your dress in your closet.  It comes from how you treat people, how you show others respect and kindness, and how you always respect yourself.

Perhaps you could gently remind me of that when we are out shopping and I grumble and complain and march myself over to the "mature" section of the store.


When you get your first boyfriend I hope that he is nervous around your family and afraid of your brothers.  That means he cares about the right things and knows that you have 3 older brothers that won't hesitate to "take him outside" should he cross the line.  I hope you show him that line.  And I want you to always be a lady and expect him to be a gentleman.  After all, you don't want "to be your own gentleman."  

Owen would be very angry with that.


It would be spectacular if you felt comfortable enough to tell me about your first kiss while your Daddy plugs his ears and remembers you as the girl with pigtails and pink tights....not the young woman you've become.

Will you do me a favor and tell him that he is still the most important man in your life?  He would like that.

And when I drop you off at your freshman dorm, I'll look around and wonder how we got here.  How did we make it through training bras, boyfriends, groundings and a driver's license?  You'll give me a quick hug and kiss and hurry off to meet your roommates and set up your room.  I'll just stand there (thanking the fashion gods that I remembered to not wear anything remotely resembling "mom jeans") wondering:  Did you ever figure out how to use the nunchucks Kai gave you for self-defense?  Did you pack the pepper spray from Owen?  Did you ever read the book on self-defense from Drew?  

Did you remember to tell your Daddy that you love him?

I promise not to cry until the campus is in my rear view mirror if you promise to call me and tell me that you miss me....at least once a week.

And I hope you know that you always have a place to call home.  It is with us.

{All photos, again, by my friend Jen Espanet.}  

And Then There Were Two....(Girls, that is)

Cora Jeanne

October 29, 2010

6 lbs. 7 oz.

19 inches 

We have one dainty and petite and oh, so very cute little baby.  Her 10 fingers are thin and long and her two feet are tiny...no Flintstones feet like her big brother Kai.  Her cry is decidedly feminine (unlike Drew's wail that could peel paint). She has two big blue eyes, like Owen.  Her disposition is kind (like her Daddy).  

All five of us are totally and completely smitten.


Thankfully, she looks good in pink because she has a lot of it!  Actually, she looks good in everything, from her birthday suit to her oldest brother's white sleeper (which is surprisingly still white and very cozy).  I love to look down at her during a night feeding, when the house is quiet, and see her in that white sleeper. 

I remember my three precious little baby boys that wore it before her and how they are big boys sleeping in their big boy beds down the hall...with dirt under their raggedy fingernails and Lego's hidden in their pillowcases.  So I hold her tightly and for just a minute longer because soon the white sleeper will no longer fit and I'll have no more babies to put in it and she'll be sleeping down the hall (or in our closet) with chipped pink fingernail polish on her fingers and Polly Pockets in her pillowcase.

She has one given name, but has several others to try out.  Kai calls her "baby sister" (with a lisp) and "nice baby."  Owen calls her Cora-ster (its an Owen thing) and Drew calls her "Miss Cora."  Jay calls her "Sweetie."

I am just happy to call her mine.

Our one little girl.

It wasn't easy bringing her into this world.  From the moment we found out we were having another child to add to our brood of three, we were nervous.  My doctor was nervous, too, and didn't know what to do with my "complicated, distorted anatomy." So off I went to some doctors who did.  Specialists.  A team of high-risk doctors that are accustomed to navigating around innards such as mine.  They called me several different names, "one-of-a-kind" and "unique," in an effort to not make me feel like such a freak show.  But, alas, no one wants to be "special" when it comes to your organs.

I just wanted one word to describe me:  normal.  Since I've never been completely that, I guess my insides decided to follow suit.

They didn't use words like "epidural" and "dilate" and "just one more push" to describe the upcoming birth of our daughter.  My doctors said scary doctor words like hysterectomy, bladder damage, catheter and severe adhesions.  

And then there were the scarier, life-threatening words like placenta accretia and uterine rupture.  All things that were very real to my birth.  (NOT the birth plan I had in mind!)  With things like that swimming around in my head I decided the only thing to do was trust in the life-savers that were my doctors.


And pray.  Fervent, honest, pleading prayers.

I could handle the pain, the scars and the recovery.  I just wanted a healthy baby and a healthy me.

And I was blessed with that.  One sweet baby girl and one thankful Mama.

And then there were two...

{All photos by my friend Jen Espanet.}

My Birthday Wishes

I won't be getting candles this year (pretty sure open flames are banned in the hospital) so I thought I might post my Birthday Wishes.  I hope that putting them out there doesn't mean they won't come true!

This year, I wish for....

1. A romantic getaway with Jay.  All by ourselves.  Someplace different and far.  Maybe with a snowy slope or a sandy beach.
2. Patience with myself (and the hooligans and hooliganette) as my body heals.
3. Magical parental genius-ness to know how to seamlessly integrate Cora into our lives.  (And to keep her safe from Kai.)
4. My next dose of Percocet.

If I am going to be held to making only the three traditional wishes (I thought that this year I might deserve a pass), than #4 gets bumped up and I'll do without the parental magic this year.


I'm serious.  Pain management is important......I'm buzzing the nurse.

Beautiful

*Written several weeks ago


Just three weeks left.  

And with each grain of sand that drips through the hourglass, so goes another moment where I just don't feel like I've been productive enough.  I've rested my enlarged self on the couch and thought about the fans that need cleaning and the windows that show layers of grimy boy gunk that must be attacked with a chisel.  But thinking about it and writing lists is a pitiful substitute for the energy that is sorely needed to accomplish my goals. 

There are still so many meals to freeze, so much organizing to do, so many beautiful little pink clothes to put away (in a dresser we have yet to buy) and so many boys to bandage up, pick up, clean up and hurry up.  (Not to mention the husband who is busy building up our home office unit that I commissioned of him months ago with a deadline the same as my pregnancy.  The man can do anything EXCEPT build more time into our days.)

With all the hustle and bustle and worry about the upcoming arrival, I have to remember that there are three little boys that don't care about the fans spitting dust down on them.  They are about the business of finding beauty amongst the dirt and debris.  So I've taken a page from their book of life and come up with a few things of beauty to report....


Drew searches high and low for little trinkets to save for his new sister.  He found a purple plastic ring buried in the dirt, brought it all the way home from Colorado, cleaned it up and safely put it in his "treasure box" so that he could give it to his baby sister one day.  That ring is beautiful to me.  And so is the one that he chose from the dentist's prize box, foregoing all the cars and action figures, so that he could have another one for his sister's other finger.  

Look at me....being magnanimous and choosing to see the beauty and not the bill for the cavities that took us to the dentist in the first place.  (And the accompanying 45 minute the dentist-isn't here-yet-delay in the waiting room with all 3 boys.)

Owen continually dumps out little pink apparel (that are homeless without a dresser) all over my bed and floor so he can view each piece and say, "How cute!"  and "This one will be her favorite, I think!"  Another beautiful magnanimous moment where the excitement of a little boy is more important than the giant mess he left in his wake.


With all the beauty that I'm learning to see, I'm ashamed to admit the most difficult place for me to find it is in my reflection in the mirror.  The tired eyes, the enlarged ankles, and especially the MANY MANY extra pounds.  


Where is that altruistic spirit when I try and wiggle my way into my pants in the morning?


It is in the heart of my precocious two-year-old who reaches up to my puffy cheek with his grubby hand, looks me in the eye and says (with his signature raspy voice), "Mama, you boo-veal."  (Kai speak for "beautiful.")


For now, I'll take his word for it and work a little harder in my goal to find beauty everywhere. 

Date Night

*Written in June
 
We have been at each other's throats!  It is like I'm living in a perpetual political debate!  There have been raised voices, defiant looks, harsh words and unmet demands.  It seems like the stresses of everyday life have made us growl at each other instead of taking a deep breath and speaking kindly.  I've been dispensing punishments like candy to anyone who dares to look at me wrong.

The only solution was for me to go on a double date with them.  It always helps me remember why I like them.  (I would've taken Kai but I didn't want to continue the streak of raised voices.) 

So out we went to the boys' favorite "fancy" eatery, Chili's, where we dined on pizza, chips and salsa and colored on our menus.  And every date is not a date without the mandatory lecture:

  "How a Gentleman Treats a Lady (and other appropriate manners)."  

(If they've heard it once they've heard it a thousand times.)

1. Always escort your lady and don't walk her through a puddle.
2. No burping, tooting or laughing when something sounds like a toot.
3. Listen to the lady, even when she is talking about something other than a vehicle or explosion.
4. Open the door for the lady and let her enter first.  NO EXCEPTIONS!

After digesting the lecture, yet again, we were off to put our skills into action on a balmy summer night.  The conversation stayed mild and within the allowable topics.  Barely.  I was escorted by my gentlemen rather nicely until Owen decided to bolt ahead on the sidewalk.  That prompted another manners lecture:
  
    5. Never leave your lady in the dust.  She might be wearing heels.


As we approached the door, my gentlemen were poised and ready to do their job when a lone lady appeared and opened the door for herself.  With a puzzled look on his face, Owen watched the stranger open her own door and shrugged his shoulders and said to her and me:  

"I guess she's her own gentleman."

She sneered.  

I giggled.  

And I thanked my lucky stars that with 4 gentlemen to call my own, I'll never have to be "my own gentleman."

Freedom Ride

On September 11, 2001 I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard of the attacks on our country.  I vividly remember a wave of fear washing over me as news kept pouring in about the horrific details of that day.  Those feelings lingered for quite some time as I wondered what our future would look like, as a nation and as a citizen.  How would the events of that terrible day erode the feeling of security and peace that I felt prior to the planes hitting the buildings?  It was an insecure time.

The years have gone by and the rawness of that day has dulled with time.  The lives lost and innocence of a nation something to be mourned and remembered.   However, the landscape of my life has only subtly changed.  

I make it a point to wear slip on shoes when I go through airport security because all shoes must be removed to take a cozy ride on a conveyor belt instead of being walked across the threshold of the security door.  

A very small price to pay.

I have to buy water in the terminal instead of carrying it through security.  The exorbitant price of H2O is not so pleasing (except for the vendor).  But still....

A very small price to pay.

Others sacrifice more while I can only send emails and offer prayers.  As my brothers have each served in Iraq and Afghanistan (Merrill is currently there), they miss birthdays, anniversaries, goodnight kisses and even births of their babies. 

A very large price to pay.  But one they do with honor, pride and dignity.

What can I do to celebrate the freedom I still enjoy that once seemed so fragile?  How can I show the bad guys that they didn't get what they came for?  

Well, I can do what I'm still blessed to be able to do......

ANYTHING I WANT!!!  (Well, within reason.  You know what I mean.)

This year on 9/11, we taught our boys to ride their bikes without training wheels.  A lifelong skill that will bring a sense of freedom, happiness, independence and plenty of Band-Aids and possible trips to the ER.  

Jay perched their trimmed down bikes on the top of a gently sloping grassy hill, whispered instructions and encouraging words in their ear and then pushed them off for their maiden voyage.

As predicted, Owen rode down the hill with his "game face" on and not a crash or a bobble to slow his descent.  Back up the hill he came for more, with only the slightest crack in his game face.....a smile.  

Also as predicted, Drew was nervous and required more detailed explanations than his younger brother.  I think Jay stopped just shy of explaining the physics of Newton's First Law, and an object's momentum and its relation to mass and velocity before he pushed Drew off to what I thought would be certain disaster.  I was pleasantly surprised when he didn't return to Jay missing all his shiny new front teeth with his bike in a twisted heap of blue metal.  As his confidence grew, so did his bike riding skills.

 

Predictable, yet again, was Kai's desire to be older than his little 2 year old self and ride a big boy bike like his brothers.  He felt so left out and embarrassed by his less than desirable transportation.

And a little bit unpredictable was the reaction of a very patient, proud and loving father who said that he felt like "a real father" for teaching a skill to his boys that will remain with them for their lifetime.  

Who was it that insisted, while I rolled my eyes, that we bring long pants for the boys to change into so that they wouldn't get scraped up knees?


A real father.


Who was it that proudly went to the store to buy new back tires to replace the worn out ones?


A real father.


Who was it that willingly gave up the ONLY day he has to tinker, relax and catch up on things so that he could instruct, encourage and cheer on his very sweaty but beaming boys?


A real father.

That is how we celebrated our freedom.  

Freedom=Sacrifice=Families=Happiness

Truck Men Part 1

I have known this moment would come for a few years now.  I've actually been waiting in silence for it.  Ever since we got rid of our truck to buy the mini-van I've been expecting to have the conversation we just recently had.  The "I-just-can't-live-another-day-without-a-truck" conversation that set in motion a whirlwind of phone calls to Colorado and three of my men-folk on a truck gathering journey.  (More on that later.)

There have been times in the past two years, sans truck, that I've looked over at Jay in a quiet moment and I see his face soften ever so subtly and a look of fond nostalgia washes over him.  He reaches for my hand and begins to speak....  

Expecting to hear him recollect the time we spent at the beach or the early days of our courtship or tell me one of the infinite reasons he loves me (or something of the like), I'm jolted to reality when I hear him say,  

"Remember that green and white truck we had?  Nothing has ever been as comfortable to travel in as that truck.  And remember that black truck that I had to start with the screw driver?  Man, those were great trucks.  I miss those trucks.  Maybe we should never have gotten rid of those trucks.  I had this truck once...."  

And then his eyes glaze over and he's detailing every truck that he has had and the ailments that each one possessed. Jay is lost in a dreamland of glow plugs and transmissions.

It is both endearing and baffling.  Me?  I like to own a really nice vehicle and get good use out of it and then send it on its way, never looking back.  Jay?  He loves 'em and leaves 'em, but not without first fixing and tinkering and caring deeply for them and then bringing them up years later with great affection mixed with a bit of longing, perhaps feeling a little guilty for ever letting them go in the first place.

Apparently this love of trucks has a genetic component.  While my father-in-law has passed down many enviable traits like honesty, compassion, work ethic and humor, he has also passed down this inclination for all things truck.  Big trucks, bigger trucks, fancy trucks and plain trucks.

As long as I've been a part of this great family, I have seen trucks grace the front of their eastern CO desert home as plentiful as the sandy earth upon which they sit.  And just as easily as a desert wind can blow, so can a new truck find its way to the Spencer abode.  

They have a good life there.  Hauling trailers with horses to a rodeo here or a ropin' there.  You just never know what kind of truck (or how many) will greet you as you drive up to the house.  And while the elder Spencer seems to have no particular brand favorite (Dodge, Chevy or Ford), it seems as though Jay has broken from the mold and become a "Ford Man."  

And so it is that I now find a giant red and gray 1996 Ford F350 PowerStroke parked in front of our not so large .5 car garage.  And it is a dually, no less.  That means it has 6 wheels.  Six. The more the merrier, I suppose?  We don't really need the additional 2 wheels but there they sit on my driveway, barely squeezing themselves between the bushes on one side and the grass on the other. 

Also, it has two fuel tanks.  Two.  (Please note that I said "fuel" and not "gas."  I've been thoroughly schooled throughout my 11 years of marriage in the ways of trucks.  Diesel is "fuel" not "gas."  I think I learned that on our second date, or something.)

As genes have a pesky way of sticking with the bloodline, I noticed a disturbing (yet sadly predictable) incident when Kai laid his eyes on our truck for the first time.  He walked up to the giant metal behemoth with awe, gingerly climbed onto the running boards and pressed his nose to the window.  Reverently he said, "Daddy, I yike your twuck."

After that declaration of solidarity and admiration, he gently stroked the side of the truck as if to say, "You're home now, buddy.  We'll take care of ya.  I've got your back."  

And with a parting pat, he walked into the house secure in his knowledge that he, too, is a truck man.  Third generation.  It runs deep. 

First Day of First Grade

It was thoroughly uneventful.  Boring, even.  It's a yearly gateway into gaining maturity and educational excellence and my oldest offspring was completely nonplussed.  I had no choice but to take my cue from him.

Drew got up at the same time he got up practically every day during the summer (7:30), ate his favorite breakfast of eggs on toast (but the toast is on the side) with ice water (don't ask, I'm just the cook), dressed in some new clothes and shiny new sneakers (that he can tie by himself!), and moseyed down the street to his bus stop with his school supplies in his backpack and Mama and brothers in tow.  

He jumped onto his bus and never even looked back.  I sort of just stood there wondering what an attentive and caring mother should do after her oldest just left the nest for the wide world of elementary school.  Meanwhile at the bus stop, another mother of a first grader "had a moment" with tears and shoulders heaving up and down and 50 pictures on her camera to remind her of each step her daughter took onto the bus.  

All I had was Owen crying because Kai poked him in the eye with a sword (someone's lawn flag) that he wrestled, like King Arthur, from the grass.  And Kai was helping himself to someone's leftover beverage, that he found hiding in the community's mailbox, while I was trying to listen to the bus driver's instructions to the waiting parents.  

But that is how it generally goes....Drew slips quietly through the events of life while I try to manage the chaos around me.  As much as I tried to make this day exciting and special, Drew approached it like he does most everything....like a seasoned veteran.  He's not bursting with confidence, shaking with fear or so excited he can't sit still.  He is just Drew.  Despite the fact that this is a new school for him, he just goes quietly about his business and deals with life as it comes.

And then he was home, with his best friend running after him to "ask him what he learned about."  He liked math the best, wants to buy lunch tomorrow, plans to introduce himself to a boy that looked like he could be a friend, and there were 3 kids in class who "weren't quality students."  He wasn't one of them.  


And that is that.

  

Peach Pickin'

In order to squeeze the last remaining drops of fun out of summer (and in an effort to assuage my guilt over being too tired to do much these past few months), I took the boys to Hartland Orchard to pick some peaches.  It was a hot and steamy affair, even at 9:30 in the morning.  And the bugs were so plentiful that we were picking more of those from our hair and eyes than we were picking peaches from the trees.  

Some boys had a knack for picking peaches with enough bruises and blemishes to rival Kai's forehead.

And another boy chose the peachful surroundings to do a little communing with nature.  

Hauling around their bags of fruit quickly lost its luster and I could tell we were in for a sprint and not a marathon at the orchard. 

But we got what we came for:  A little fresh air, beautiful scenery, a change of pace and 2 pecks of peaches and one peck of apples. 

Unfortunately for me, the peach skins are not the kind that like to go without a fight and the de-skinning process that was supposed to be a family affair looks like it will be me fighting the fuzzy orbs with a vegetable peeler.  It is a fitting farewell to my arduous summer.  I am looking anxiously ahead to our eventful fall!

Movin' Right Along

I haven't documented my pregnancies or births with any of my children and I feel a little sad about that.  But, I also feel a little sheepish about recording it here on my very public journal.  I recognize that people aren't necessarily interested in sentences that begin with..."Well, my uterus...."  or "The doctor said...."  

But I feel that I have a story to tell.  Every woman does.  I have my own pioneering journey to motherhood that is uniquely mine.  One that maybe my daughter might gain strength from one day. (I'm not silly enough to think that my boys will have any desire to go back and read the "pregnancy posts" when they are grown.  They'd probably rather eat broccoli.)  I won't record it all.  I don't want to be responsible for anyone reading this passing out with boredom.  But I'll record some. 

I'm at the 27 week mark now and feeling (and looking) every bit like I am 37 weeks pregnant.  If you were to visit my home you would see the tell tale signs that a large and cumbersome pregnant lady lives here.  There are various pillows in all sizes littering the floor next to my side of the bed.  I start out with 2 and end up with 3 and sometime in the middle of the night I fling them all off the bed in uncomfortable disgust.  I've not been able to come up with the right ratio of pillows to belly; therefore, comfort eludes me.  

I've also reached the stage where rolling over is like unto a 4 point turn.  Grab headboard, hook leg on side of bed, maneuver belly and finally twist body to final resting position.  It won't be long until I reach the stage of having to wake up the man who got me into this state and requiring that he push me onto my other side.  I think it is the least he can do.  (Well, that and paint my toenails which are out of my reach.  He's getting decent at it but shouldn't quit his day job.)

I might not bend down to pick up the clutter on the floor, but if I drop a cookie I'll certainly put forth the effort to retrieve it.  Since bending at my non-existent waist is not possible, I gracefully do a plie in second position so that my fingertips can grasp the tasty morsel.  I've gotten pretty swift at this maneuver so the 30 second rule still applies and I can eat my cookie with confidence.

There is a wisdom and resolution I've gained through my four pregnancies that have taught me to be grateful for the goodwill that is shown to pregnant ladies instead of having to show everyone that "I can do it".  I allow people to give up their chairs so I can take a load off and I'm thankful for the rest.  I leave the heavier objects (except Kai) for others to carry and can do so without feeling like I'm lazy.  

I'm finding it easier to ask for what I need and learning to say no without feeling guilty.  My desire to make the birth of our last child one that is joyous and happy and as peaceful for our family as possible (despite the tumultuous birth and recovery that is to come), has led me to organize and plan so that we won't have any clutter (physical or mental) standing in our way.

I am finally able to embrace the ever changing emotions that come as a result of this roller-coaster ride of hormones.  I can throw my hands up in the air and say, "Bring it on!" instead of feeling like I'm not a strong woman if I shed a tear or two.  Oh, and there have been tears!


So here's to the last 9 weeks.  May they be uneventful, happy and (dare I wish for it?)...swift.

Boys, Interrupted

*This was written back in June after we had the first of many (and many more to come) ultrasounds.  

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program of blue and red, polo's and plaid, and cargo's and khakis.....to bring you ruffles and ribbons, pink and purple, and tights and tutus.  Girl things.

It is a girl.  We're having a "little miss."  

So ingrained in my vocabulary these past 6 and half years is "buddy" or "mister."  As in...
"You did a good job, buddy!"
"You better stop throwing your bowls off the balcony, mister!"
Or my favorite: "Young man!  When I catch up to you, you aren't going to like it!"

Now it might be....
"Hold still, little miss, while I attach this utterly frivolous and extremely feminine explosion of pink ribbon to your newborn hairless head with something sticky:  honey or K-Y or Karo syrup or Elmer's glue should do the trick."
"Young lady!  Stop calling your older brother Katherine and chasing him around with my perfume and lip gloss! And NO!  You will not get a sister, little miss!"

When the ultrasound tech put the magic wand on my gelled up belly, the first thing she said was, "Well, you're having a girl."  All nonchalant like.  And then she swiftly moved on to measuring the baby's stomach and bladder.

"Wait a minute!" I said.  "You have to go back to the parts that clearly denote that this squirmy little thing in my tummy is indeed of the feminine persuasion.  GO BACK!"  I demand.

Sure enough, the technologist found the pertinent parts and pointed them out to my satisfaction.  And then I had her re-point them out.  You would think that I was staring at an alien from the dethroned planet of Pluto. I was just so shocked and not ready to start thinking pink.  But there it was in black and white. 
 
I sense a shift in paradigms.  For me and our boys.  I'm bracing myself now for a whole different world of "issues."  Perhaps I'm more ready for it than I think?  After all, I do have some experience with girls.....seeing as how I am one!


But, if truth be known, I had a pang of worry this morning about my world being turned on its navy blue ear.  I awoke to a very cheery and bright eyed Owen two inches from my drowsy, sleep smashed face.  He gently said, "Good morning my prettiest princess!"  Then he gave me a kiss and went on his merry way to play demolition derby (or something of the sort).

I had this very selfish thought......"Am I about to be de-throned?"  Is there room for two prettiest princesses in this testosterone filled palace?  

I'm currently in the process of making room.  (Her's will be in our closet.  But that is another tale for another time.)

Destination.....Destiny

**This was written last March when I was in the throes of First Trimester blahs.  The photo was actually taken the day I found out I was pregnant and finally had an excuse for the grumpiness and lack of patience!

"By prevailing over all obstacles and distractions, one may unfailingly arrive at his chosen goal or destination."  --Christopher Columbus

For Captain Owen and Grandma, the final destination was Salt Lake City to visit Auntie and Uncle Neil.  It was a long day of traveling.  There were long layovers and delays. Captain Owen was hauling a backpack loaded with necessities such as fruit snacks, crayons and Matchbox cars.  Refraining from kicking the seat in front of him (with all his superhero muscles) took great restraint.  Not to mention the exhaustion that comes from keeping track of Grandma!

The wiggles and whining (dreaded enemies of Captain Owen) were getting the better of Owen so Grandma said, "Owen, just a little bit longer.  You are being so patient!"


But the hour was late, the day had been long, and there was a lengthy drive ahead of the weary travelers.  Captain Owen dug deep and took a personal assessment of what strength he had left.  The conclusion was grim.

After some soul searching to make a thorough determination, he had no choice but to respond with an honest and humble (for a superhero) answer:

"It is not my destiny to be patient!!!"

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I guess.  But, oh how I love this answer!  Perhaps I shall frame it and put it on my wall, for it does my weary soul some good....Even superheroes have a vice!

No Fair

There is a famous saying in the Lewis family that originated with my sister.  When someone would dare cross her, correct her, punish her or otherwise look at her with an unpleasant expression, she would spit out her now infamous phrase....

"NO FAIR!  YOU'RE MEAN!"

As an adult, more often than I'd like to admit, I've uttered that very phrase when all other words were inadequate.  The child in me sometimes just wants to burst into tears and fits and spew those words out in succession like an angry erupting volcano.  

And because the phrase is so universally cathartic to say, you can scream it, state it, mumble it, or even whisper it and the outcome is the same.  Try it.  It makes you feel like you have the upper hand, even when you are sitting on a deck chair of the Titanic.  It fits in any and all situations and works equally well when said to an inanimate object.

When our insurance company wouldn't pay for Kai's birth expenses because "we didn't inform them that I had a child" (even though they paid for my C-Section and prenatal care), I may or may not, after exhausting all other adult persuasive arguments, uttered...."No Fair!  You're mean!"

Recently, at my OB appointment, I stepped off the scale and the nurse told me the staggering number that is now my impressive weight, I uttered under my breath, "No fair!  You're mean!"

But when Owen was forced to take a time out while we were at the beach and I heard him mumbling to himself, while sitting on his sand bucket, "No fair.  You're mean.  Nobody likes me." I couldn't help but say to him...."You're right.  This isn't fair.  It isn't fair to ME!"

Could someone please put me in time out, on the beach, where no one is allowed to talk to me and I'm not allowed to do anything?  This is a cruel bit of parental irony, wherein I'm sucked into an alternate universe and I hear my child complaining about an absolute paradise situation.  Par.a.dise.

Wishing you could trade places with a 4 year old?  Not fair.

Not being able to? 

Very mean. 

Unsavory Sayings

 Florida 2010

Drew is a literal sort of fellow.  He likes rules and schedules and routine and thinking (and over-thinking) before he provides an answer. i.e. "Drew, would you like a peanut butter and jam sandwich?"  "Well, let me think, hmmm.....um.....ahhh.....Yes! That would taste nice."  
(Keep in mind that Drew has a PB&J every single day for lunch.  Yet I continue to ask him in hopes that he might like to deviate from his routine.  And he never does.  But I routinely ask anyway.  Life is exciting around these parts.)

So when Drew blurted out this uncharacteristically speak-before-you-think statement I had to record it.  He said, with surprise and disgust in his voice,

"My bottom sucked up my pants!"

Being terribly frightened as to what this event might look like but also needing to satisfy my curiosity like a rubber-necker on the highway, I turned around to see what in the world he could be talking about.  What did I see?  

I saw Drew picking a wedgie.  A simple wedgie.  That was it. 

A common occurrence for an uncommon boy...

Uncommon and routinely wonderful.  That's my Drew.

On a Gender

There is much anticipation when any child comes to a family.  We've been anxious and nervous and excited each time I've been pregnant to find out the gender of our children before they were born.  And given that Jay is the giving sort, he has seen fit to generously pass along his Y chromosome allowing me to experience the joy of having my three sons.  But there is a progression that took place with each pregnancy regarding the gender of our children.

Having Drew was just plain exciting.  Our first child and the first grandchild for the Lewis side and a boy.  Perfect.

When Owen came along I got the first inkling of the curiosity and drama that surrounds the gender.  I was asked a few times, "Do you want a girl?" And I always answered with the benign, "I just want a healthy baby."  But when it was determined that Owen was indeed an Owen and not an Olivia....I got multiple, "Oh!  How nice to have two boys close in age.  They'll be such good friends."

But when Kai was squirming around in my alarmingly protruding belly the question of "What is it?" reached a fevered pitch and was accompanied by..."I hope it is a girl!"  "You need a girl!"  or "Did you try for a girl?" (to which I sweetly replied, "Nope.  I tried for a baby.) And when I said, "We're having our third boy!" The general reply was one of disappointment, "Are you sad you didn't get your girl?"  I just rubbed my belly and said, "I'm happy to have my boy."


There are a range of emotions to feel if I were to have a boy or a girl:


When I look into the future as a mother of 4 boys I feel privileged, special and honored to bring up men who respect women, make an honest living and take care of their Mama when she gets old and cranky (or crankier, as the case may be.)  Four boys who always give her a kiss on the cheek even though their friends are in the room.  I think about how photographers are going to have to say, "Alright.  Just a minute....let me back up so I can get all of you in the shot and not cut off your mother's head in the picture."  (Because they'll likely tower over me like redwoods over an apple tree by the time they are 15.)  I envision my sassy leopard print peep-toe shoes side-by-side with 5 pairs of (including Jay's) stinky, clown sized clod-hoppers in the entryway of our home.


If I have a little girl I anxiously await the time when the rest of the rainbow is opened up to me and I can purchase pink and purple and mint green and patterns beyond stripes and plaid.  I giggle at the nights Jay will spend interrogating gangly, squeaky-voiced teenage boys at the threshold of our house before they take our daughter on a date.  "What are your intentions?  Where do your hands go?  Where do you hands NOT go?  When will you be back?"  And I pray that I eventually get phone calls from her when she has a question about her newborn or when her toddler channels Picasso with her red nail polish on her newly purchased bedspread. (To which I suppress a giggle, just as my Mom does.)

I've made a trip to the inner recesses of my soul and searched long and hard to see how I would feel if this is a girl or a boy.  I do not care one way or the other.  Honestly and truly.  Events of the past few years have taught me a lot about the preciousness of a child and how they are on loan to us to teach and nurture and love the best we can while we have them.  

What I want is a healthy baby.  Yes.  Most definitely.   I want my child.  However he/she comes to me.  I'll have the privilege to get to know his/her spirit no matter what type of package/body it is wrapped up in.  However.....


I have one teeny-tiny little wish.  Can he/she be calm and quiet and content to sit still instead of relentlessly making mischief and wreaking havoc and calamity?  Can he/she not really have an opinion until they are at least 8 years old?  


I'm not asking much.

Another Somebody

I've plopped down in front of my computer no less than a dozen times to write this entry and I just can't seem to find the right words to say.  This is probably because most intelligible language leaves my brain after dinner when I've already had to come up with about 325 thousand different words to try and get Owen to take a bite of his cantaloupe.  Cantaloupe!  The candy of the fruit family.  (My knowledge of the English language can't help me today....there is still a lonely piece of cantaloupe sitting on his plate downstairs in the kitchen.  His dinner now becomes his breakfast.  And the circle of my life continues.)

When words fail me I need not look too far for assistance.  Drew is always ready to fill in the blank when I can't seem to say it right.  In a rare moment this week, when I wasn't wrangling Kai or drowning in the piles of little boy clothes that seem to lurk around every corner, I took a walk with my boys that was actually peaceful.  And right then and there Drew said what I've not been able to say for 17 weeks (at least on this blog).

"I'm really glad we have another somebody coming to be in our family."


There.

I said it.  (Or Drew did, if I'm being accurate.)


Another somebody.

The final piece of our puzzle.


Another little hand to hold.  Another personality to get to know.  Another sibling for my boys.  Another voice to add to the already deafeningly loud chorus of opinions.  Another solid reason why we humbled ourselves and purchased a mini-van almost 2 years ago.  (Go Honda!)


I'm anxious and excited and nervous for a billion different reasons.  (Most of which I'll chronicle here at a later date....for posterity's sake.)  Mostly I want 10 fingers and 10 toes and all little baby bits and pieces in the right places, functioning the way they should, ready to be kissed and cuddled by me.


Another somebody.  I like the sound of that.

Why Everyone Should Take a Toddler to the Grocery Store....

You can't possibly have lived a full life until you are perusing the produce section and your toddler shouts....

"Boobies!!!!"

And when their eyes light up as you get closer to the lovely display of blueberries (said toddler's favorite fruit) they exclaim.....

"Big boobies!!!!"

 As strangers don't even try and suppress the judging glances,  you know that you've reached full adult status because you refrain from saying.....

"I guess he's not a leg-man."

(Thanks to Kai for calling blueberries the same thing as Drew once did and reminding me of this event that took place when Drew was two years old.)
Kai circa 2009 with his cheeks stuffed full of blueberries right off the bush and looking a lot like Elmer Fudd.

Drew as a two year old playing in our yard in Greenwich, CT.

Kai Turns Two (Last March 12)

I can't say for sure what exactly it is that my newly inaugurated 2 year old thinks of as he explores the exciting and sometimes scary landscape of life.  But I have some guesses........

Kai doesn't see the big wheel as merely a three-wheeled vehicle to leisurely scoot himself around on.  He sees it as a way to test his Mama's sprinting abilities.  He sees it as a rocket to sit on as he lifts his feet up to barrel down the steep driveway headed dangerously for the road below. 

Kai's glass isn't half-empty.  It is always half-full....because it is more satisfying to dump juice out of a half-full glass.

There is no problem (or barricade) that is insurmountable for Kai.  Any object can become Mt. Everest which was meant to be scaled.  And this Mt. Everest (and all others in the house) have been taken to the dump. (pardon the blurry image)

Kai does not see placed before him the world's ugliest cake with two candles to blow out.  He views the sad looking birthday monument as a way to practice his fire eating technique so that he can run away with the circus....where he belongs.

I can tell you what I see.  I see a boy who runs like a fugitive from the hounds when he sees a Kleenex in my hand.  But he has no qualms about wiping his snoobers all over my pants.


He is a boy who loves to give hugs and kisses.....after he has walloped you with an unforgiving blunt object or one of his stumpy limbs.  The kiss is accompanied by a surprised look on his face as if, "Did I do that?" and then the obligatory "...k?" (Kai speak for, "Are you okay?")

He is the spittin' image of Jay and has his Daddy's hands:  meaty, thick, capable, caring and strong.

His favorite person on the green earth is "Oh-wee" (Owen).  Coming in at a strong second, possibly even a tie, is his Daddy. If Jay so much as sniffles or sneezes, Kai comes out of the woodwork and says, "Daddy....k?" and gives him a rare gentle pat.

His two favorite possessions are his thumb and his "bankee;" which we use like a sheet over a bird's cage to calm him and soothe him when it is time for bed.  Generally, it works like a charm.

Kai isn't a "wait and see" kind of guy.  He is an "I'm going to make it happen at all costs" kind of guy.  The kind of person you would want on your side if you were stranded on a desert island.  But NOT the kind of person you would want on your side if you wanted to go watch a chess tournament or take a  leisurely stroll through a museum of rare artwork.  For that matter, he isn't the kind of guy you want on your lap at church, either. 


If I can only learn to try and see the world through Kai's eyes I might see a world full of endless possibilities instead of insurmountable challenges.  I would understand the full meaning behind "carpe diem" instead of wondering "what exactly did I accomplish today?"  And I might also learn that wearing your food on your face is better than wearing extra calories on your thighs!


Whatever it is that Kai is supposed to teach me, I'm grateful for it.  And I'm trying to be a willing student.  I'm grateful that he has been entrusted to my care and I can only hope and pray that I don't dampen his enthusiasm for life or damage his drive to explore and understand the world.