Understanding ~
A little laughter - A little encouragement
Understanding »
My mom called the other day while we were painting a craft outside for Christmas presents and while I had them out there I decided to get some of my spray painting projects done that I’ve had sitting around. My mom asked what we were doing and I told her the two older boys (bigger as in 7 and 5, remember?!) were spray painting with black paint and she said laughing, “You are so brave, I don’t know how you do it day in and day out!” Around here painting is not a quiet sweet adventure like I always envision happens at her house . Around here crafts are a contact sport.
Case in point:
It’s been a long time since we’ve played with cornstarch. And last time I was smart enough to do it outside on a warm day. We tried to go outside, but it was just too darn cold. And by then, I was way in over my head in promises (blasted Time Warp put the idea back into our heads to play with it!) So, I threw caution to the wind and let them loose at the table. I tried to grab back my caution a few times and even found myself saying through gritted teeth at one point, “Can you imagine how Kate from Jon & Kate would be handling this right now?! That’s how I feel, people!”
And if I thought the actual mess making merriment was stressful, when I sent them all off to baths and stood looking at the aftermath, I really realized I was in deep. How do you propose to clean up a non-newtonian fluid? My fun-weary head could only come up with more water. That at least makes it fluid enough to wipe. So I poured a gallon of water on my table and floor, oh, yes, I did. And then I used towels to wipe. As you can imagine, by this time my children were wandering in dripping wet themselves from their recent cleanings and I was in a rush to at least get the bulk of the mess up. I gave up when I got the puddles clean. When my husband got home from work there was a big ol’ ring around the table where I quit wiping and drips from one end of the house to the other. He said, “It looks like flour blew up in here.” Yeah, something like that.
While cleaning (if you can call it that) my mom’s words from the day before came back to me and I thought, “Brave, maybe. Stupid, for sure.”
TheRidiculous, Understanding »
Lovin’ this ~ that I discovered from Brandy. Click on the image below to see where this carnival originated and to read a bunch of other people who are being brutally honest and living to tell about it. As for me, I would never blog about my failures as a mom. Not me. Never.
I did not get up Friday and decide to go to town with everybody. I would never put my children in the van buckled up to keep them from destroying everything in sight, and then proceed to call a friend while desperately searching for the shut-off bills I had to pay and haphazardly applying make-up. Not me. I so was not surprised to hear them yelling at each other in the van. I did not neglect to feed my children before leaving the house on the justification that I could stop and get some food since there was little to nothing in the house to eat anyway. I then did not leave the house 3 1/2 hours after getting up which, for us, equals naptime. I did not contemplate whether their first meal of the day would be Little Caesar’s or the gas station buffet. Little Caesar’s so did not win out. I did not count pennies to the bill paying center to cover the $0.75 fee. I do not line my children up by age behind me and make them walk like a little line of ducks when they’re being rambunctious in the store. I did not have a cashier explain to me how she used to have her grandchildren put their hands behind their backs when they were in line and how it worked like a charm with them. I did not want to say, “Really? Huh, That’s a novel idea.” and yet just sweetly smile and nod. While I was discussing spices with a small shop tender, my toddler did not dig around in my ear and then say for all to hear, “I yike… EARS!” I did not impulsively buy $21.00 worth of spices. I would never take all of them into the material department of WalMart and expect them to be still and quiet while I peruse all the lovely colors for 40 minutes. I did not melt into an embarrassed puddle in the check-out line while my almost 2 year old flopped himself sideways in my arms, aiming for my boobs (I would never say that word on the internet) and yelled “NUHRSE! I ONNA NUHRSE!” We did not then end our day with the gas station leftovers anyway, finished off with ice cream cones and fudge poptarts. I then would never question why my children were still running around like crazy people an hour after their bedtimes while I used a circular saw inside.my.bedroom to try to make a shelf for my closet.
Whew. That was so not me!
Understanding »
That came and stole the baby I once knew?
I knew he was growing up. Really, I did. I mean, he started kindergarten this year, for goodness’ sakes. And he can read Dr. Seuss to me. I saw it coming. Really, I didn’t blink. Not once. And when he told me he had two wiggly teeth I rejoiced and begged him to let me “mess” with ‘em. He was so determined to bask in the glory of being “the one” to be doing something that got everyone’s attention for once. Oh, my Middlest, he wouldn’t “just pull them.” He was determined to ride it out in all it’s loose-tooth-ed glory. And now that he’s lost 2 teeth in 24 hours he looks like the different child that he was already becoming. It’s just visible now. More evident. Such a reminder.
This was to be a funny follow-up post to the last. I was going to post the cute pictures and tell Brenda that was the greatest idea I’ve heard yet. And post his sweet hand-written letter that he asked me to spell each and every word on.
I was gonna dog on the tooth fairy again and let y’all know she came through. Just before she started those dirty dishes and sat down at my computer. But as I sat here looking at his picture and contemplating a title, I realized I was struck solemn.
My sweet Middlest. My athletic, arms swinging, “watch this”, treaty-bird, cute talker, late walker, snaggle-toothed, surfer-dude, blue-eyed baby.
May the song of your heart for this short season be wonderfully “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.”
HeSays, Understanding »
Well, our Tooth Fairy did it again.
(And, yes, that crooked tooth there is about to fall right out, too.)
When our Middlest lost his first tooth on his own yesterday (you know, as opposed to the way he lost his very first tooth), and then put it under his pillow last night, she didn’t show. Again. She has a habit of being unreliable. And then my honey tried to, first, defend her by saying since she works nights and weekends that she probably has to have her 2 days off in the middle of the week. (Since we pulled the “She only gets paid every two weeks and this wasn’t her week for payday, so she was broke” line before.) And then he moved on to “Why don’t you write a note, a nice one, tonight, and if she still doesn’t show, I’ll sit up the next night all night long by your bed waiting for her and give her a punch right in the kisser.”
She better get her act together. Because our poor kids are gonna be so warped it won’t even be funny. At least to them, anyway.
Or we better come clean. That’s all I’m sayin’.
Understanding »
Ah. It’s that time again. What an age, what an age, what an age. This is the age that always gives me pause. Remember a short 2 years ago when my girl was 20 months and I made a note to myself? However, I must say, this one has been puttin’ me through the wringer so much already that I think this phase will just blend in with the ones prior.
A newness of this age for me is that I’m still nursing. Who knew nursing a toddler would be such fun and not weird and completely natural? Who knew? I don’t know how long I’ll continue. I don’t know if I’ll allow him to self-ween. I don’t have any definite plans except that I’m fairly certain I won’t be nursing him til he’s eight, like that girl I saw on the news not too long ago. That’s a little much. Even for me. I do know I don’t have an agenda, I’m not on a mission to convert the world, I’m just enjoyin’ feedin’ my toddler and accommodating the cutest, “I onna nuuuhhhhse.”
And on a kinda related note, my husband said this morning while we were kissin’ on this boy and talkin’ about how we’re back around to 19 months he noted that this is the longest I’ve gone not pregnant since we started having kiddos. Indeed. I have no sadness about this. Or stress. Or pressure to do anything about it. Also, for the first time since beginning this awesome chapter of my life, I just have peace. Maybe it’s the constant rescuing of the current baby from imminent danger. Maybe it’s that I’m fully homeschooling 3 kiddos. Maybe it’s that I’ve not been around enough of my currently pregnant friends or my other friends’ sweet babies. Maybe it’s that my hands really are full.
Maybe it’s that I’m older and maybe just a tad wiser and all those prayers for contentment are taking root. Or maybe it’s the discussions I’ve had with my Father about His timing, His will, and not mine. Whatever it is, I like it. This contentment thing. Oh, the babies too. Even this trying age. And the possibility that he is the last. And definitely the chance that he’s not. I like trusting this to Somebody other than me.
Understanding »
I should probably clean a little more when in one week I hear both these things..
While my husband was mopping the floor (yes, he did) my children stuck their heads in the house and my girl asked,”What’s that smell Daddy?” That would be PineSol. That she didn’t recognise, because, really, how often has she actually smelled it in her three and a half years?
And last night, I did the dishes after dinner, as opposed to before, novel concept, eh? And instead of leaving some pans “to soak” (my code for “I don’t handwash dishes anymore. ever.”) I washed every. single. dish. And wiped out the sink. Another novel idea. And my Middlest, who’s accustomed to the sink always looking like this:
said,”Wow, Mama, there’s nothing in the sink!”
And to think, I didn’t take a picture of the clean version. Should have. Won’t happen again for a very long time.
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.
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.
