This boy is too funny!  As I’ve said before, I could swear he does stuff developmentally just to give me more worry wrinkles on my face.  Like the baby that would not roll over (at all) until he was 6 months old.  And then was running by 9 months.  Turns out his speech patterns are identical.  This child wouldn’t say “mama” or “dada” until just recently.  While everyone else’s babies were saying “bye-bye” and lots of other cute, normal baby things, he just yelled.  And cried.  And laughed.  And said “ooh”.  And now at 18 months he’s speaking in complete, coherent, meaningful sentences.  “I ont wadee”  (I want water),  “It hurt” (pointing to his ant bites), “I onna pay” (I wanna play [with his siblings]), you can ask him about any question and get an answer that is appropriate and definite.  Do you like this show?  And you get an emphatic head nod or an absolute “no” head shake.  Offer him 2 different popsicles and he’ll always choose “puh-ple”  (purple).  And he means it - don’t try to give him another color.  Who is this child?

Lately, his two cutest habits are “nuhse.  nuhse.  i onna nuhse.  nuhse.  NUHSE!”  (need i really tell you what he’s demanding with this one?!)

And, “watch.  watch.  watch.  watch.  watch.  WATCH.”  While waiting for us to watch him do whatever trick he’s come up with now.  Usually something daring, dangerous, and so cute that it makes everybody laugh.  Of course.  Like just before he does head over heels flips on our bed.  Or off the back of the couch.  Or while daddy and all the others wrestle on the floor, jumping from his daddy’s back and landing on daddy’s head - “watch.  watch.  watch.  watch.  watch.  watch  WATCH.”

His daddy and I were discussing this newest phase the other night laughing about how he never just says, “Watch.”  We can be looking straight at him the first time and even say, “Ok, go.”  But he must say it at least 3 more times.  Because his siblings feel the need to say “Watch” or “Mama” or “Daddy” 15 million times in a row.  Because, of course, we’re always busy and distracted.  And they think they aren’t being paid attention to even when they are.  And my honey said, “You know, it takes at least a 3rd baby in a family to be a ‘watch-watch baby.’”  Your first child has your undivided attention.  They don’t say “watch” at all because you’re analyzing their every move.  Your second child has to say “Watch” but you can turn your attention fairly quickly to which ever child is requesting it.  Have a third child talking age and you get a chance at a “watch-watch” baby.  He hears the first two vying for attention with repetition.  oh the repetition.  And he thinks that’s just what you say to get everyone to stop and look at you.

“watch.  watch.  watch.  watch.  watch.  WATCH.”

This is me jumping!  We are in the pool.  I am jumping into the pool.  I liked swimming in the pool.

(Edited by Mama to add:  This was from Labor day - our last swim of the year.)

Come play with us again soon.

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.

Why, yes, I am still alive.  We did, however, had to choose to let the phone/internet/dish go whilest we paid other bills.  And, now, I see that sweet little green light on my modem that tells me y’all are here waitin’ on me.  Howdy!  How are y’all?  I sure missed you these last few days.

On to a few of the random things on my mind..

In our paid-tv-free days we discovered that there was a new free channel.  It’s the Obama channel.  Have you seen this?  It’s not the content of the channel, it’s the fact that each time I turned on the tv there he was talking quietly, peacefully, non-stop.  It’s a little reminiscent of Orwell’s 1984.  Do you remember the telescreens?  It’s a little comical.  If it’s not a little frightening.  Just sayin’.

As my children were mocking my rearranging they were pushing stuff around the room.  TheOldest (who so rarely gets a word wrong) started yelling, “He Ho!  Push, you guys, He Ho!  He Ho!”  (and no, I didn’t correct him, I was too busy laughing.)

Speaking of rearranging…

My husband said today that he was thinking about putting little velcro strips on the walls in the living room in different places and then putting the matching pieces on the backs of all my picture frames.  He said then I could move my pictures around as much as I wanted and not worry about holes in the wall.  I think he just wants me to not touch the furniture (or his sock drawer!).

Oh, and speaking of the things my honey says…

The other day we light-heartedly asked the kiddos if they would like to have more babies in the house (I know, we’re crazy like that) and as they were excitedly saying yes and asking when, my husband says, “I don’t know but we better start workin’ on it.”  I cringed and thought, “WHAT?!  Do you know the door you’re opening?!”  And as though right on cue my Middlest said, “How do you work on it?”  And without missing a beat my husband said, “By rubbing on Mama’s belly and saying to it whether you want a boy or a girl.”  Good.  That’s good.  Remind me to not hand over health class to the coach.

And segueing with the health topic…

We have now discussed that we’re going to have to start a separate medical fund just for TheBaby-est.  Yesterday, while I sat outside with my kiddos, in clear view of all of them, my Baby-est stepped in an ant pile and then decided to dig in it.  By the time he screamed and I realized what was happening, they had bitten a few times one foot, all over one hand, and a few on the other hand that we was using to get them off.  Benadryl, Tylenol, a bath, and Hydrocortisone later and we started to breathe easy.  Until this morning when I realized that I was dealing with an 18 month old who would dig at the sores relentlessly.  So off to the doctor for some good antibiotic ointment and even some oral medicine.  I was so thankful for no crazy breathing reaction and it not being any worse than it was.  But.. Oh.  My.  Goodness.  I’m tellin’ ya, gonna be the end of me.

Thankfulness…

This morning on the way to drop my honey off at work down our winding, narrow road, we were hit by the vehicle coming our direction.  They crossed the line and hit us.  Amazingly, they only hit our side view mirror.  I was holding my coffee and only about a tablespoon spilled on me.  Really.  Unreal.  We were so thankful.  SO thankful.  How are we so blessed?  It really puts everything else in perspective.  The vehicle didn’t stop.  Just kept on going.  Hit and run.  How is that even possible?  I cannot believe how blessed we were.  Are.  Thank you, Father.

What are you thankful for this week?

My wall hanging made the cut for the art show and sale and you can see it in real life starting this Saturday.  Follow this link to see dates and times.  It’s free.  And amazing.  To see the soul of all these artists and how Luke 15 has affected them is striking.  Come.  Bring somebody that is still a long way off.  That needs to know He’s waiting at the end of the long road home.  Someone that may need to know that all is forgiven.  Buy something.  Vote for me, I could use the money.  (did i just say that?) Bring your children.  It’s a great way to teach them a Bible story.  That is our story.  That may be their story someday.  I hope to see you there.

For that sweet girl on the right, well, she has another long year before she can join the fun.  It’s so hard to wait.

TheOldest.  His confidence level is unbelievable this year.

TheMiddlest.  I’m amazed how much he retained from last year.  Oh, and he scored 2, count them t.w.o., goals in the game!

After the games, when they were told to “stand together and hug like you like each other.”  It worked well, don’t ya think?

Look, I’m a Soccer Mom with a cuddly future soccer player.

]]> http://www.thejoyfulchaos.com/its-been-a-long-year-of-waiting/feed/ http://www.thejoyfulchaos.com/happy-7th-birthday-my-oldest/ http://www.thejoyfulchaos.com/happy-7th-birthday-my-oldest/#comments Sat, 20 Sep 2008 05:23:02 +0000 SillyMe http://www.thejoyfulchaos.com/?p=2358

Last week we celebrated our oldest’s 7th Birthday.  (Two days before the penny crisis derailed all thoughts for the rest of this week.)  It was the birthday without a party.  The first of it’s kind around here.  You know the kind of party, the kind that involves balloons, lots of people focused just on this one child and lots of unneeded presents.  Full of meltdowns and tired kids.  Not to mention my inability to spend two real minutes with my birthday child.  The thought of eliminating these events has been kicked around for awhile, but we just weren’t sure.  We jumped off our party wagon and had our own version of a party.  With just our family.  Where we baked a cake and only the Birthday-Boy got to help.  He also designed our menu for the special evening.  Macaroni with Cheese (original not shells), Sweet Potato Casserole, and of course, Bacon.  Really.  We cooked and ate these things.  Together.  On one plate.  With smiles on our faces.  The cake is a basketball (that he decorated himself).  You know, because Troy Bolton of High School Musical (hello, people, get your head in the game) plays basketball, duh.  I loved it.  The quiet evening (quiet, you know for us - remember this is the point that I yelled “ssshhhh….top!”), the $2 roller skates that were bought at a garage sale, the gold fish (hey, did you know they’re all of 28 cents?!  “Sure, everyone can have their own goldfish!” TheBaby-est got one - who knows what he would name it if he could - probably something like “Penny”, TheMiddlest named his “Fish”, TheBirthdayBoy named his “Oliver”, and ThePrincess named hers “Pirates of the Carribean Enemy.”  Really.)  We have video of TheBaby-est singing his heart out to his oldest brother.  So sweet.  And I had real time with my baby.  That is growing up.  You can’t help but blink, can you?

(A funny aside - I went looking for a picture of these two together especially a silly one.  Not a one.  I’m not kidding.  You can’t get these two together unless they’re fighting.  And then I came across this one that my honey took not too long ago.  Ah, the family bed, the only place TheMiddlest and ThePrincess can be found not trying to kill each other.)

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.