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.