Little Broken Hearts Club Man

(Written on January 10, 2010....Don't know why I never published it.)

Oh the tragedies, the insults, the grievances, the injustices that must be endured by a beleaguered and embattled four-year-old! It is all just, well....UNJUST!

We required that Owen take ONE little bite of lasagna. Only one. Apparently, that was just too much to ask a kid who can smell a bread crumb being dropped on the floor after tea in England.  Of course, he was forced to take immediate action.

 He wails, "DADDY! YOU ARE FIRED!"

I DO NOT LIKE IT WHEN YOU BEES (THAT IS AN EXACT QUOTE) SO MEAN TO ME!!

I JUST CANNOT TAKE IT ANY MORN (ANOTHER VERBATIM QUOTE)
.
.
.
.
I GIVE UP!"
(and then he falls ceremoniously to the floor)

So up to his room he was banished with much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth (that were free of cavities on Monday, by the way).  He was hauled up there, stiff as a board, grasping desperately for anything he could reach to delay his ascent to his place of exile.

The battle lines have been drawn and we're not backing down. Little boys cannot exist on nachos, pizza, and honey nut cheerios alone! Who knew that food could be such a formidable foe?  (I, personally, like food.  Too much.)

But, oh! The gut wrenching sobs and deep-from-the-soul crying that erupted from Owen are enough for me to wave the white flag! Are the tears and night spent in his room worth one lousy bite of lasagna?

Alas, I won't back down over a request as small as one bite. It wasn't liver pate or fish eyeballs.  It was simple, delicious lasagna.  So for now he remains holed up in his room, hopefully thinking about how much easier it would've been to try just one bite.

As the day came to a close and the wails of injustice quieted to a whimper, I made my way into his room to soothe the savage beast and calm his lasagna tortured soul.  I cuddled up with him on his bed and stroked his back and told him happy things like, "We'll build a clubhouse tomorrow.  But you need to remember that it is important to eat so your bones will be strong and your muscles can grow big. When you have a healthy body it is easy to do so many fun things!"  (hint, hint, wink, wink)

And then I asked him if he has any happy things he wants to say to me.  I'm trying desperately to turn a disastrous evening into something positive so that I can once again be his prettiest princess (still without backing down)!  I even try coaxing him into an apology for acting like a raving lunatic over a measly mouthful of lasagna.  

He takes some deep and dramatic breaths, looks at me with huge tears and tells me, "I am not supposed to tell you happy things.  I am the kid.  You are the grown up.  You're supposed to make me happy!"  

I haven't been put in my place in a long time.  And I think I was just put in my place.  


And it started with lasagna.


I won't make that for a loooooong time.

Mother's Day

You know you're a mother when.....

You google "eyelash serum" and "steam mop" within minutes of each other.  When you discover they are both the same price, you realize that your dream of fuller, longer lashes is trumped by the need for your newly crawling baby to have a sanitized floor to drag her belly around on.

You have a conversation with your spouse that starts like this, "Do you think we've ruined him?"

You have another conversation with your spouse that goes a little like this, "Do you think we'll survive them?"

You feel guilty about a million and one things and then feel guilty for feeling guilty.

You cringe (and wish you could pull out your soapbox) every time you have to say "No" when asked "Do you work?"

During your relaxing Mother's Day shower you look over and discover you are bathing with 2 giraffes, one green dinosaur and a Night Fury dragon with optional flapping wings.

On your relaxing Mother's Day you....write a child's Primary talk, go to 3 hours of church, change a child's sheets who had an accident, make pancakes for dinner, fold laundry and give a laundry folding lesson at the same time, run to the store for milk and juice because you forgot them when you went to the store yesterday (ironically so you wouldn't have to go on Sunday), yell a few times at a few children, and then feel guilty about it AND the going to the store part (see above), dispense medicines, vacuum, give yourself a pedicure, and refuse to share your strawberry Hagan Daas.

The pain of a botched c-section and subsequent recoveries pale in comparison to the pain you feel when your child has a heartache, or worse, you've caused the heartache while trying to navigate your way through this parenting obstacle course.

You don't care one bit about the scar snaking up your abdomen because it means you have a happy and healthy baby.

You can't remember the last time you had 8 hours of sleep.

You drive a mini-van but pretend you are back in your convertible Mustang GT by opening the sun roof (which you promptly have to close because a shortling in a car seat complains about the sun in his eyes).

Some days you feel like Mother of the Year and other days you grasp desperately for the Easy button or wish you had a do-over.


And you know you've fully arrived to the motherhood party when someone asks you, "Are all those your's?"

Cutie

She still bewitches us all.  

Her fuzzy bald head is a culinary map of our day, with traces of syrup from breakfast, salty pretzels from lunch and chocolate from our tasty treats.  You see, her little baby head sees more smooches from three handsome boys than a daytime soap opera queen ever dreamed of.  She's a collector of kisses, crumbs and all.

Next to the leftovers on her noggin is the whisker rash from her Daddy.  Snuggling under his coarse chin is a favorite resting place after his long day of work.  A symbiotic relationship where relaxation and contentment is shared.  The only casualty is his lapel that shows the signs of a drooling baby drifting off to sleep.

Dishes remain dirty, extra pounds unshed, projects undone and dinners uninspired, all in the name of a new baby that isn't as new anymore. 

Stop, time!

What's the rush? 

The Plague

I like excitement and I like the unexpected.  These days, I find myself unexpectedly unexciting.  Gone are the days of late night dinners out with friends.  Gone are the days of after-show parties and false eyelashes.  Gone are the flowers wilting underneath the heat of my dressing room lights.  

Enter Act II of my life, where late night dinners are replaced with late night barf bowls.  After-show parties replaced with potty training parties.  False eyelashes?  Nope.  Undereye puffiness reducer cream (which is proving to be a waste of my money).  No more fresh flowers, just fresh packages of wet wipes.  

Because I've complained of boredom, I suppose I was blessed this week with a little bit of excitement.  In the form of the dreaded plague(s).  Our story reads like a case study in a manual at the CDC.

I started the week with Jay and Drew going on an unscheduled body cleanse.  The stomach flu hit them hard.  Poor guys.   

Meanwhile, I had the brilliant idea that this was the week for Kai to potty train.  After several wet pants, some misses at the toilet and one very unfortunate incident involving our carpet and poop (all hail the expensive carpet extractor!)....I am happy to report that Kai has now joined the older boys in the "unna"pants parade.  He's now so "trained" that when he has to go to the bathroom he says, "Oh, no!  Not again!"


Next on the agenda was Owen's ear infection that had him begging in agony to go to the doctor's office so he could get some medicine.  Since we've never had an ear infection in this house, I was unaware that I could've put him out of his misery sooner by giving him Motrin.  

Don't worry, he got me back later by getting the stomach bug.


And not to be outdone, Kai brushed his teeth.... with a tube of hydracortisone cream. 

He stood on the counter, moved aside the actual toothpaste, and extracted the faux paste.  (I have now Kai proofed that area.)  After a quick and pleasant call to my friends at the Poison Control Center (we've chatted about Kai a time or two), we sent him to bed, only to be woken up several hours later to his barking cough.

Kai got pneumonia.  I have a sneaking suspicion that the pneumonia could quite possibly be due to the Great Goodwill Pole Licking Incident (see post below).  I'm digging deep into my motherly treasure box of feelings to extract the appropriate amount of restraint needed to not dance around him saying, "That's what you get for licking that pole in Dirty Old Goodwill!"

Cora, in an effort to show solidarity, got an ear infection, bronchitis and pink eye.  (I actually think the doctor is wrong on the pink eye part.)  Poor little precious baby looks innocent and sweet but she sounds like she was born with a cigarette in her mouth.

The really good news is that Drew didn't start getting an earache until Friday night after Jay was home and we'd already learned the trick about the Motrin.  The stomach bug didn't bite me until Saturday and I was afforded some much needed time in my bed writhing and moaning while Jay dispensed breathing treatments and antibiotics like a pro. 

Happily, we're on the mend.  Thanks, in part, to the fact that we cleaned out CVS Pharmacy (and our bank account with co-pays and antibiotics).  I think we'll survive the Spencer Plague of 2011 with a little help from some Clorox Bleach.

The Tooth Fairy, however, apparently lost her mind during the germ fest.  Drew lost a tooth on Monday and that germaphobic Fairy didn't make her under pillow deposit until Wednesday.  There was much speculation about the reason she skipped Drew's pillow.  One such explanation was offered up by a very serious Owen when he speculated that the ice storm affected her wings.

The second night's snub was met with less forgiveness.  I simply told the boys that she was busy.  Drew said, with a skeptical look, "I don't know about that.  I'll believe you.....this time."  He's been let down one too many times.  (see here and here)

The events of the last week have left us all a little bit edgy, I guess. 

  *Kai passing along the dread diseases from Goodwill to Cora.  Good will, indeed.

Kai

*I wrote this early last week.

The local jail is readying its starkest cell and warning the guards to be on alert.  Kai is being sent to a lock-up where he can't pillage, plunder or otherwise wreak havoc.  

Several little items in the household are missing and we've narrowed the culprit down to one very grubby little (or not so much little) two year old scoundrel.  What in the world Kai wants with my measuring spoons is beyond me, but he sure does have them squirrelled away somewhere.  

And then there was the big one.  He's been casing the joint for weeks now.  There have been several failed attempts at the heist that ended in tears and apologies and empty promises to "not take Owen's fings eber 'gin."  

While I was busy falling for his pleas of innocence with his disarming grin and talk of me being "boo-veal", he was busy making a more sophisticated plan of attack.

He is a master of trickery and thievery.  While Owen and I were otherwise occupied, Kai sneaked in and snatched Owen's video game and cartridges (an item he's been eyeballing since Christmas) and took the contraband somewhere only a little thief knows.  (Maybe with my measuring spoons?)  

Now that his master plan has succeeded, he's been banished to his room to "think about what he's done" or, better yet, fall asleep and wake up not a thief. 

When he's not busy lifting valuables, he's busy makes messes.  With no rhyme or reason, he goes about the house and leaves a trail of disaster in his wake.  

Cora's neatly stacked diaper bin?  Strewn from one wall of my bedroom to the other.

Cereal?  Leaving a very conspicuous trail from the kitchen, down the stairs to the toy room below.

My neatly folded laundry?  Now it isn't so neat.

And this is all before noon!

Baby-proofing is a joke.  I'm going to have to resort to Kai-proofing, which requires steel, padlocks, and booby traps.

I don't want to give off the impression that Kai doesn't have a softer side.  He does.

His lips are mighty soft and shiny.  My brand new minty lip gloss is now half gone and covering the sheets on my bed and the cheeks of his face.  The other tube has so many bite marks on it that I have several dispensing options. 

He is a crafty little bugger.  He knows that as soon as I sit down to feed Cora is the time to make a break for it.  He raids the pantry searching for the perfect snack to go with his "juicy:" that he tries to pour himself!

That never ends well.  (Cue outfit number four for the day.)


Speaking of ending, his good health and vigor might be coming to a screeching halt after a little stunt he pulled yesterday. 


I look over and he's having a moment with a pole in Goodwill.  That child is busy trying to figure out how many licks it takes to get every dread disease in Northern Virginia.


He's licking the pole!!!


In dirty old Goodwill!!!


I have no more words.  I have no more tricks up my sleeve.  I have only a wing and a prayer that I will survive him. 

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."