Understanding »

If that doesn’t scare you, this should:

These two pictures are before and after pictures of the penny lodged.  And then dislodged.

This is a souvenir of our 7 hour adventure at Arkansas Children’s Hospital Sunday evening.

I told you my baby-est was gonna be the end of me.  Then end of me.  And what was I saying about lettin’ ‘em be and then just scoopin’ ‘em up and takin’ ‘em to the E.R.?  Yeah, well, I only meant that when I fully expect to go to the E.R., right?  Not when I think my 18 month old maybe had something in his mouth.  And then he didn’t.  I swept his mouth as I’ve been trained.  Nothing.  And then he gagged, threw up, cried.  And repeat.  About 8 times.  In about 10 minutes.  And when he started drooling along with it, life sped up.  And slowed down.  We began making split-second decisions.  Who was going?  In what vehicle?  What about the other children?  If I go alone, I’m holdin’ the baby in my lap as I drive, in order to handle whatever comes next - immediately.  Not acceptable to my honey.  We load everyone in the van.  As is.  My girl had dressed herself after church in pink tights (showing her flower undies) and a not matching shirt - no shoes, no pants.  The baby - in a diaper and throw up.  Me - shorts, tank top, no bra, and the dress shoes I wore to church - slipped on as I ran out the door.  And the throw up.  Don’t forget my throw up covered shirt.

It was the longest 90 mph ride of my life.

My other babies were alternately saying,”Go faster Daddy” and “Is he gonna live, Mama?”

I ran in the door of the hospital with a sleepy, lethargic, drooling baby.  But his color and breathing were normal.  I clung to that.

They streamlined me like I’ve never seen.  “Come on through.”  “Come on back here.”  “Tell us what’s going on.”  “Let’s have a listen.”  “We’ll take you straight back to a holding room and get the doctor right here.”

Many professional listeners and they all agreed.  His breathing sounded great.  But something’s going on.  Scheduled for an X-Ray.  They explain this contraption.  It won’t hurt him.  It just holds him still.  It’s kind of cold and a tad uncomfortable.  He’ll just be scared.

“Do whatever you need.  Just fix my baby.”

My sweetie in a raspy voice calling for me, facing away from me, more skinny-looking than before (is he always this small?) “Mommmmy.  Mommmy.”  I stood as close as they’d let me and from the next doorway spoke so he could hear my voice.  My comforts that didn’t comfort.  And the nurses that gasped and said,”Oh, there it is!  Mom, we’ll have to do a second X-ray.”  I looked.  I shouldn’t have.  Seeing his tiny little grainy image on the screen and this bold bright white circle right in the middle of it.  It was just too much.

I was relieved to know what it was.  And that it was fixable.  I was devasted that my baby was enduring all this.  I was scared - what comes next?  I was pressured to get it together for my other three children that were waiting for my reassuring stability in the holding room.  I was overwhelmed with guilt.  Why did I keep such a messy house?

More doctors.  More questions.  “When was the last time he ate?”  “I’ve consulted with the surgeon and I’m not comfortable with the risks of anesthetizing him within 6 hours of eating.  The ENT surgeon is certain that he’s stable enough to wait.  We’ll schedule your general anesthesia and removal procedure for 8:30pm.  Try to relax and make him comfortable.”

My honey leaves with the others and finds Nana to rescue some very stressed, very little people.  Daddy made it back to us by 8:24pm.  We are catered to while he was away.  Warm blankets.  Toys, trucks, music makers, books, Toy Story on video in our dimly lit holding area.  “A coke for you, Mom?”  A baby that is tired, worn-out, hurting, hooked to machines, with bracelets on his wrist and ankle.  And a Mama that won’t nurse him in his hour of need.

A procedure that’s delayed until 10pm.  A baby taken from me crying.  Both of us.  I have no one to hold up anymore and my honey catches me.

I feel crushed.  By my ineptness.  By the hour.  By my hunger (when did I eat last?  did I really go to church today?).  By my guilt.  By my doubts (if I just cleaned better, watched better, parented better.  if I didn’t have four children..) By the hospital at night.  By the mom that I talked to in holding.  Her fear.  Her tiredness.  The other baby in holding that kept pulling his IV out.  By the weight of a beautiful facility that would be the dreams of any child, the sweetest night nurses, the most competent doctors, and the inevitable pain and fear behind each door we passed.  The realization of how common our predicament is.  How mundane.  How run of the mill.  How simple the procedure for our child.  How inconsequential.

And yet.  Not.

“He came through it great.”  “Here’s your culprit.”  “They’ll call you when he wakes up.”

More waiting.  More praying.  More pacing.  My arms are empty.

“Come this way, Mama, and just listen for him.  He’s calling you.”

“mama.  mommy.” Such sweet words.  Such sweet relieving words.

Holding.  Cuddling.  Nursing.  Relief.

The baby-est diapered, dressed and cooed over by strangers right there in my lap.  Funny “We’ve been there too” stories.  Ice-breakers.  A “puh-ple” popsicle.  A warm blanket wrapped around not only my baby but me as well.  Burritoed together against the newly cool weather and buckled into our safe familiar van.

We spend the next day “licking our wounds” as my honey says.

The thoughts still swirling.  I can’t help but think of Christian “Dozer” Drews.  I can’t help but ask “Why?” on Marsha’s behalf.  I marvel at her faith.  I struggle with the desire to clean my house like it’s never been cleaned and the pull to just sit with my children and love them more.  I’m so torn.  Which one is right?  I can’t do it all.  I can’t do enough.  I can’t be enough.  And all the circles of thoughts come to rest each time at the same place of comfort.  I can’t.  I’m not asked to.  He does.  He holds our days.  He has them numbered before there is even one.  And nothing I ultimately do or don’t do changes that.  He has us.  He has my baby-est.  And I’m so glad the pressure’s off me.

TheBaby-est woke the next morning dancing.  Laughing.  Squealing with all his siblings hovering over him.  Checking out his unusual markings from the night before.  So much giggling and tickling and loving.  So much relief. So many new mercies.

Understanding »

While trying to bake a birthday cake (with the birthday boy himself), and cook his special-ordered dinner, with 4 small people (who “help” so much), 2 cats, and a dog are battling for the best spot at my feet, my 17 month old dropped two of my glass casserole dishes to the floor.  Which brought about my so sensored, calm, perfect response of, “SHHH*#”  But I didn’t say the whole bad word.  Nope, I stopped short with a gritted teeth “stop!”

To which my middlest immediately said, “Why did you say “shtop” when you’re supposed to say “stop”?  Why did you say the “sh”?”

And then my almost-indescretion was flaunted in my face with all four children sing-songing “Mama said shtop!  Shtop!  Shhhh—top!  SHHH - TOP!!”

Good.  That’s good.

Tips & Tricks »

Due to lack of funds, and an oldest child who used to scream throughout the haircutting process (and sometimes still does) - I have learned how to cut hair.  Kind of.  Like everything I attempt I kinda get it right.  Sometimes.

The 2 older boys have been the actual hairdresser maybe a total of 5 times.  Combined.  And everytime I left there I was exhausted, more broke, and thought “surely, I could do this.”

So I set out to figure it out.  One mistake at a time.  I did take my Middlest to the hairdresser when he decided he didn’t want to be my baby anymore and wanted dinosaur hair.  Remember? Heart-breaker.  On so many levels!

After that first cut, though, I’ve maintained it on my own.

Haircutting day is a loud, not always joyous, messy day.  One that I start preparing the boys (and myself) for, verbally, for days.  Many warnings “Boy, y’all need a trim.”  “In a couple days I’m gonna cut y’all’s hair.”  “Tomorrow is haircuttin’ day.”  “Prepare your brains for a haircut today.”

And then I line ‘em up, and snip away.  Over the years I’ve trimmed just the ends, maintained a sweet little boy bowl cut, a high and tight, a long and shaggy “like the big boys”, a surfer/dinosaur/spiky number, a current “Troy Bolton” (if you don’t know that’s a High School Musical reference - well, then shame on you), and now adding to my portfolio - the cutesy girl “bob”.  Yep, I did it.  I succumbed to the gentle asking of a little girl “Mommy, you cut my hair now?”  And since I could take no more of the girl-mullet - I snipped away.

The baby hasn’t had a trim yet.  Still tryin’ to grow that stuff in.  Chikezie got a new shaved-do a couple months ago too, but he managed to miss the scissor-happiness that occurred this day.

Oh, while I was at it, I cut my locks off too.  And then I went to a real hairdresser and asked her to make me cute, not just choppy.  I don’t have a post-hairdresser pic yet.  Stay tuned.

Understanding »

You think I would learn…

…to put the baby powder out of reach when I have climbing toddlers.  Good grief.

For my newer readers - a year and a half ago my girl did this:

Somehow, though, this keeps me from screaming and instead makes me smile.  These little feet won’t always be this size.

Tips & Tricks »

I have to admit, since my youngest has been mobile - laundry around here has kicked my butt.  That’s right.  I said it.  Kickin’ my butt.  I used to have it under control.  Wash a load, dry a load, fold a load, put away a load.  Now, I wasn’t always perfect at it, but generally speaking that’s how it went.  Then about a year ago, things changed.  I couldn’t get it together.  I couldn’t ever get caught up (and what does that even mean anymore anyway?).  But we’re talkin’ mounds of clothes.  Nobody could ever find anything.  I had a huge pile in the laundry room of dirty clothes, dirty laundry strewn about the house, and the ever-looming pile of clean-to-be-folded.  I began asking around for advice.  Something had to be done.  Maury said her kids did laundry.  Really?  Imagine that!  And Brandy said she ditched all her towels and bought color-coded towels for each child - it’s immediately obvious who left their towel lying on the floor and it’s some serious cutting down on washing when each child only has one towel for several days. 

Step one in taking back the laundry power:  minimize.  I sorted all the play clothes and told each of the older children (ages 6, 5, and 3) to pick 3 pairs of “around the house” shorts, 2 pairs of jeans, 5 shirts, 2 sets of jammies, all the underwear and socks that actually fit them.  They actually liked doing this.  They kept their favorites and had no problem giving up all the others. 

I have managed to keep our clothes clean - I run a fairly constant load of wash almost daily.  But the folding and putting away has been very difficult for me.  So until I master each load as it comes out again, I just let the clean clothes pile up and we have “laundry day” once a week.  That’s the time that we all go in and fold together while the baby’s sleeping (he destroys everything we’re working on, if not).  And then I started throwing clothes, towels, and washcloths in the 3 bigger kids’ directions.  I tossed all bigger-boy looking clothes at the bigger boys, I tossed all girl clothes at the girl.  I seperated all bath towels and rags into piles.  I instructed the girl to sort her undies and socks into one pile and all other play clothes into a pile.  She is not required to fold them - just put them in the appropriate drawers - all crumpled for all I care, at least they’re put away.  And she digs through the drawers approximately 50 times a day for “just the right outfit” anyway.  Why fold?, I say.  When this is completed she is to fold the wash cloths and hand towels.  I do the putting away on those.

The boys, being a little older, have a little more responsibility.  They must sort the big combined boy-clothes pile into which clothes belong to which boy.  Then they are to put them away.  I still don’t care if they’re folded or not, just put away.  They’re the ones wearing them and they are only worn around the house.  Who cares, I have other battles I have to win.  Amazingly, so far, they have opted, on their own, to fold each item of clothing.  Once that’s done they move onto folding bath towels.  They even came up with games of racing each other and counting down to see who could fold the most the quickest.  Beautiful, I’ll take it! 

So, last week I went bold and as the clean towels were folded I put them in the back of my closet.  I found some brightly colored towels on sale and the kid’s each picked their favorite.  Since my kiddos are still so small they have a hard time getting them onto the rack or hooks.  So I bought 2 pairs of hooks, hung them within reach of their little arms, and then sewed ribbon on the edge of the middle of their towels so it would be easier to hang. 

While they are sorting, folding, and putting away I’m sorting the baby’s, mine, and my honey’s clothes, and hanging up all “go to town” clothes.  And I’ve found they really like doing this.  We’re all together working on a common goal and usually laughing about who’s winning with the towels and talking about upcoming events and things they’ve enjoyed (or not so much) lately.

It’s working for us and I feel so good about it.  But since much of this is new to us, I’ll keep you updated if this continues to go so well.

Happy folding, folks!

Understanding »

• the garbage torn up outside
• an ant invasion on the front porch
• that Raid made my bathroom smell better
• a naked boy in a crib, with pee and poop as his companions
• myself contemplating putting my baby, that’s dropping his second nap, in his carseat in front of the tv
• that the above carseat is buckled into the van that my husband has at work with him
• a Build-A-Bear bunny that had been completely washed in Germ-X
• my patience are not as enduring as my children’s inventive abilities
• the unflushed potty accompianied by my toddler with wet hands
• i really need my toddler to take that second nap
• that i’m too tired to tackle laundry day
• that i really need it to be quitting time for one of the 6 somebodies around here
• that a close cuddle in a cool dark room brings about the nap my screaming 3 year old thought she didn’t need

• that i’m jealous of the above picture

Understanding »

my oldest son’s been reading a Bible on his own, to himself (his idea) for a few days. 

i was havin’ a day the other day.  i know, not uncommon for our household.  but it was one of those that were the level of this kind of day. 

and in the midst of my frustration-crying-snapping-at-everybody fits, i looked over and he was quietly, diligently working on something.    a little unusual for this child at such a time.  i asked him what he was doin’ and he held this up.

i’d like to say that it changed my whole day.  that i was new person.  but i wasn’t.  i still cried.  i still snapped.  but it definitely made me pause.  and consider the real issues.  the things that are important.  the things that are eternal.

Thank you, Lord for your still, small voice when I so needed to hear it. 

Understanding »

and started watching jon & kate + 8.  many of you have asked me if i watch it.  no, not really, i’ve seen it once, kinda. 

so, i cried “uncle” and recorded it.  yep, i love it, just like y’all thought i would. 

except i can’t watch it at night like i normally watch my shows.  here’s the catch.  although my chaos is still no where near their chaos, it is eerily close.  and, in all honesty, i can’t take one more second of crying, screaming kids once mine have gone quietly to their beds.  no mas. 

so, to solve this conundrum?  watch with my kids.  that’s right, my 3 olders love it.  beg to watch it.  maybe there’s comfort in knowing there are other little people that are as mistreated as they are.  maybe there is comfort in numbers. 

then, again, maybe it’s because they get to see that mama may be crazy as a betsy bug, but, oh, look, there’s another mom as insane as mine.

case in point, my oldest just told me, “that mama said, ‘today i may very well lose my mind’ - that’s why i think she’s like you.”

Tips & Tricks »

A friend of mine recently told me how he gets gum off his children when they just happen to accidentally string it all over themselves.  Including hair.  Spray that gunk with some Pam Cooking Spray (or if you’re cheap like me, the off-brand wal-mart kind works just as well.)  It’ll just ball up and come right out in little greasy pieces.  I’m not kidding.  And, of course, we’ve had opportunity to try it out.  Ah.mazing. 

(And yes, I did say, he.  He is a single dad raising his 2 girls.  With tips on stuff like getting gum outta his children’s hair.  Ladies?)

Understanding »

(The background story:  All these random items will fall neatly into place, just hang in there.  We got paid last Friday.  I haven’t cooked a dinner since I can remember.  We keep a wooden bar in the back sliding door to prevent criminals from lifting the door off it’s track.  We already have a window that was cracked [by the monkeys around here - how else?])

When…

It’s Monday.

The baby smears chocolate poptart on Daddy’s work shirt.

Your day starts out with a fight with your honey.

You scream at your kids.  And I don’t mean a little yellin’, I mean all out screamin’ like an idiot.

It’s Monday and your honey got paid on Friday.  Your honey comes in from work saying that he had gone to the gas station and the debit card is declined.

…and you determine at this point to try to make the evening better…

So you tell the kids that just as soon as you get dinner started (actually cooking dinner for the first time since you can remember) you’ll go swimming (again) with them, your honey says he’ll come join you.

You turn the spaghetti sauce on low, leave the potatoes in the oven to bake, and go out to turn the day around.

While swimming, your middlest says he can’t get in the house.

You realize the bar you keep in the sliding door has slid back down.  Locking you out.

The front and side doors - dead bolted.

All the windows - carefully locked.

The extra key kept for such times?  Sitting on the back counter inside the house to be put back outside after the last time we locked ourselves out.

That cool waterproof phone to call the locksmith (which would’ve been useless since the debit card was declined)?  On the base inside the house.

The keys to the van to go to the in-laws for suggestions?  Inside the house.

So after wandering around the house barefoot, wet, and clueless for approximately 45 minutes with the children saying things like, “My baked potatoes are gonna burn!”  “What happens if the spaghetti catches on fire?”  “Are we gonna get to spend the night outside?”  “Can we camp out tonight?”  “Are we gonna die out here?”

We decide that the best solution, the best now, is to go on and fully break that already cracked window in the bedroom.  With a heavy heart I slammed it with a gardening tool, reached inside, unlocked the window, and became the hero to excited exclamations such as, “You did it!!”

Realizing then that the window was directly above our bed.  The bed that I would be drifting off to sleep in approximately 3 hours was covered in shards of glass. 

Dinner was salvaged.  The children were fed, bathed, and put to bed.  Our bed was vacuumed out, sheets changed, and the window blocked with a sheet of wood and ironically, the wooden bar that started the whole thing.

And with the daylight of the next day came a new perspective.  The wood in the window makes it nice and dark for snoozing.  Our elderly neighbors bought a new computer and wanted my honey to help them with it - and insisted on giving us $50 cash.  The window was already gonna have to be replaced.  The sheets were in desperate need of washing.  At least the non-secured window is in our room now - just makes me feel better that it’s no longer the kids’ room. 

And we know that our feeble attempts at keeping the house secure are effective.  At least for non-criminal types like ourselves.