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."

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.