Four Mothers

This house has four mothers.


This house also has four kids.


This is not a coincidence.





I have always said and felt that mothering this many children requires many different levels of skill.


The fact is this: each one of my kids are so different from one another that after trying uselessly to mother the twins the same, I decided to be a different mom to each one of my kids.


It works. Why? I don't know..I'm sure all mothers with several children do the same kind of thing, whether consciously or unconsciously.


The 'dad' doesn't really have to do this quite as much, but 'dads' are generally more fun, nor do they take the time to self reflect as much as mothers do. Not to take away from dads..no way. But I know for a fact my own husband doesn't lay awake at night worrying that he has, in some way, &%#@ed up his kid, while I do that regularly.





Nick's mom, she is easy. Because Nick is easy. Nick's mom brought him home from the hospital and realized he was going to be a good boy. He is so easy going and non-confrontational. Even as a baby, he would eat and sit up and burp and poop and be A-OK! "No prob MOM!"


Nick's mom would put him in the older, creakier swing because Nick was happy anywhere. He would get the hand me down car seat, the hand me down super saucer. Nick was happy! He made my job very, very easy. Nick slept. Nick smiled. Now, Nick is growing up and yes he goes through some tough times, where asthma plagued us night and day..yet the child never complained and he plodded through. Nick grows and grows and whoops! We notice that poor Nick has probably grown a little 'too much' and he is a smidgen overweight. Ok, Nick's mom decides to put Nick on an exercise program and VIOLA the kid produces! Nick works hard. Nick is good. Nick is just like his father. He, while being my most easy going child, also is my most 'air headed' and frustrates me constantly with his vague questions.


I don't worry about him. Nick is constant and good and kind. He works hard and is smart and he wants to be with us forever.





Nate's mom was stressed out. Same mom. Same time frame as Nick, as obviously, they are twins. Think parenting twins the same is possible? Try it. Let me know how it goes for you.


Nate comes home from the hospital and is miserable. He cries. A lot. He cries for six months. He has colic. A milk allergy. He has problems digesting. He has stomach cramps and his little legs come right up to his belly and he screams in pain. Nate's mom did not sleep. Nate did not sleep..and any little noise set him off. Any stimulation made him cry. Loud noises, creaky swings. Nate got all the new flashy baby stuff. It rode smoother. Nate is still my most 'type A' personality. He is the most like me. We argue. We yell. He can fight as good as me. He can shatter his nicer twin with two or three well thought out sentences and he means it. But all of this is part of him. He is not meant to be here. I know his path is for bigger places. He reads, he studies, he wants to travel. He sees things outside the box.


These twins mom, she did it all by the book. After all, she read all the books on parenting. She boiled dropped pacifiers for 10 minutes. She cried over the decision to stop pretending to nurse them and bottle feed them. She co-slept them until they bopped one another one the heads. This mom planned birthday parties. This mom went to all the nursery school parties and provided the snack. This mom, one year, decided to buy all the children at nursery school a pumpkin, and carved each child's name into it, after gutting it and filling it with candy.


This mom color coded their Christmas gifts. She had specific spoons, forks, plates and cups for each child. She had play dates. She never, ever let them out of her sight. They didn't use public water fountains.





Joel's mom is a touch clingy. Joel's mom had a hard time getting Joel here, as in, out of her. He was born and latched onto her for dear life. After he nursed for 18 months he promptly moved onto my leg and sometimes I still find him hanging on. I feel such empathy for whatever young girl this young Oedipus brings home, because Joel's mom will foil it. Trust me. I don't feel sorry for the girl, because there will be many, and the girl who finally gets him will deserve him..because getting him away from me will be one difficult task. He's mine. Mine. Mine. Joel came into the world the very CLONE of his father, right down to the weight and black, black hair. The newborn pictures the hospital take, when compared, were indistinguishable even to the grandmother's. I was ready to be this child's mother. It was my dream to have A CHILD. The twins' mother was so exhausted and overwhelmed and stressed and obsessive compulsive that she never enjoyed them. This child was mine and I planned on enjoying HIM.


This was a mistake as young Joel, in turn, hated every human on earth except his mother. Nursery school=nightmare. Crying. Sobbing. And that was the mom..Joel was doing his fair share two miles away at nursery school. Joel grows into a stoic and serious little boy..the black hair is now blond and he bears zero resemblance to his father. He looks like his mother. Joel had limited vocal capacity due to an accident, so his mom had to make his friends for him. He keeps those same friends close to his heart. He, at 9 years old, is my worst risk taker. He is the child that I fear. Not him, himself. But for. His mom lets him do 'his thing' while sneakily watching him. His mom is thankful for older brothers to include him. Joel's mom is smiling at her sleeping boy while holding her cup of coffee in the morning, dreading waking him out of his peace.





Finally, prayers were answered, a little later in life..when Baby Girl arrives. Isabel had it different from day one, as she was born in the easiest delivery and she took her cue from that. She was the easiest baby. She was a delight and a pleasure and a gift. Of course, Isabel's mom was 32 years old and extremely laid back. Isabel's mom would come downstairs, turn on Sesame St and throw a handful of cheerios on the FLOOR while she read the paper. Yeah, that's pretty laid back. Isabel grows and becomes the 'community baby', she is the mascot for all her brothers athletic events. She plays with every single kid at the playground. She shares juice boxes and tissues and know why? Because Isabel's mom is probably asleep under a book somewhere near that playground or baseball game. She's no worse for wear. In fact, I would say she is my most confident child. She is, by far, my most intelligent. Isabel has about 5 mothers who take care of her at various events. She will ask any one of these amazing women to go with her to the bathroom or get her a snack. She will, actually, order her own food and pay for it with whatever money she has either found on the ground or asked her grandfather for. Isabel's mom didn't make any friends for her. She didn't need her to. Isabel, just last week, got a ride to nursery school from her grandma, and said "Oh grammie, you don't have to get out, I'm ok!" and away she goes..hops out with her backpack and waves goodbye, in she goes!


Isabel's mom is very, very grateful for such an amazing little girl. While my mind is often taxed because of her endless questions and adventures and stories and singing~my heart is so full because I know that she is product of herself. She is her. She is wonderful.


And yes, those who know Isabel, know she is built like a Peterbilt. She is built like a linebacker. She is not one of those fluffy, sweet, dainty puffballs. She is NOTHING like her mother as a little girl..she is SO MUCH BETTER. She is not a poster child for 'beauty'. But she IS beautiful.


Isabel's mother sees young girls who dress like prostitutes. She sees 12 year old girls trying to be 21. And she would much rather see her daughter grow up and be one ass kickin', bitchin' cool, freakin' so smart and amazing WOMAN than one of the 'beautiful' girls who want nothing more than to be an Abercrombie and Fitch model.


If any one of Isabel's brothers come home with a girl half as cool as she is going to be..this mother will be pretty happy.





See, I don't have multiple personalities. Just multiple kids. And they all have such different qualities~that the gift is trying to figure them out. Sometimes, I don't like what I discover. Sometimes, I am disappointed in them or even myself.


But the journey of walking their own map is my gift.

Hey Kid..

My kids are the epitome of embarrassment. They are.




I should have known that my life was going to be in a constant state of humiliation when I opened my eyes during labor and delivery of the twins and saw ELEVEN other people in the room, all totally enamored of my uterus.




"2,4,6,8! Who do you humiliate?! Mom! Momma! Mother!"









There are basic humiliations that accompany being a mother..such as the days that you don't actually brush your teeth or hair. Or wear the same sweat pants for three days straight. The worst part of this is that once humbled, the same mother will even be seen OUT in public like this.




The fact that your body may never be the same is also quite a shock to most women. Obvious social pressure makes women more inclined to be in shape, to work to regain their 'pre-baby' shape.




Yeah, good luck with that.









The shape of mom herself is often overlooked because we as mothers spend so much time making our children into the little pristine angels we desire.




Dressing my daughter is like dressing up a little piggie.




My friend and I always say "You can always tell when it's the beginning of the year, because our kids are so clean and pressed and look so good. By the end of the year, they could wear the same damn clothes every day for a week and we wouldn't care!"









All the above is small in comparison to the big one. The big one.




The big one is when the children begin to speak.




Out of their mouths.









Dear sweet Jesus, someone shoot me.




When my twins were just about three years old, I was checking out of the grocery store and my son stood up and announced "My daddy doesn't wear underwear to bed!!"




My eyes got really bug like..and he smiled smugly like 'I dare you Mom, I dare you to hit me in a public place'.




That was ten years ago.




I have NO PRIDE left for them to annihilate, they have humiliated it out of me!









My children have yelled during church. They have farted in prayer. My children have said 'my parents don't like you' to visiting priests. In particular, 'my dad says you shake hands like wet lettuce'.




Yes.




My third son came into the world without a conscience. He says very little, but by God, when he says it..he means it.




Imagine my anxiety when he learned how to talk. By some hidden grace, this child had his teeth knocked out so he COULDN'T talk for two years. This, I have to believe now, was a gift! I could only imagine him saying 'you suck' or 'i have itchy balls' to some random passerby as a young child. This is a kid who will go upstairs, get a bar of soap from the shower, bring it to me..then proceed to call his brother every swear word he knows. He then takes the soap, puts it in his mouth and sits at the kitchen table until I call 'time out!'. This sweet, beautiful child got into a fight last year and after pummeling a child, wipes off his mouth and says "who's the girl now, bitch?"..while his grandfather turns his head in laughter.
And to think that my husband and I do not swear (often) in front of them! WHERE does it come from??
Yes, my kids embarrass me. Daily.





Yesterday, my daughter was having speech therapy to correct some of her sounds. As they were working, she announces "I hate baboons. They don't have hair on their BUTTS."




Gosh, thanks for sharing.






I didn't even flinch. The therapist looked up at me in surprise when I doubled over in laughter. Seriously, this is mild in the cornucopia that is my life as a mother.
And yes, I am a mother who sometimes wears sweats to the grocery store.
That I slept in.

Calm in the Storm

I think that sometimes when people are married for a time, that it becomes 'mundane' or 'boring'.
I think this is why it is a proven trend that many couples divorce at the ten year mark.
It's not fun anymore.
It's not sexy anymore.

That's not an excuse. Because it's true.
At the ten year mark, more than likely, a child or possibly two has entered into the scenario. Nothing is ever the same.
Ever.

It will never cease to amaze me how a crying baby or a coughing toddler will stop me dead in my tracks. The coughing, especially, will make me break out in a cold sweat.

But back to marriage. Adding a baby brings a whole new dimension.
The level of exhaustion associated with child rearing is astronomical. HUGE.
I like to sleep.

I used to say I had three favorite things.
The third was FOOD, the second was SLEEP, and the first was SEX.
My, how times have changed!
Just ask my husband. Or any husband for that matter.

I just found this quote.."Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired."
That can be perceived in two ways.
Don't fool yourself into thinking that it will always be 'extraordinary', because as I have said before, sometimes it is barely passable.
Don't 'tire' of yourself. Don't 'tire' of your love for that person.

I can remember getting butterflies in my stomach when I heard my husband's vehicle coming in the drive. I can remember snowy afternoons never leaving our bedroom. I can remember trying to cook his favorite meals and watching his face. Or laughing for hours over nothing. And hiking. And talking. And sleeping on the floor in front of our fireplace.

On the fateful fall day that I peed on the stick and drank a gallon of water only to pee on another stick...I changed.
I was a mother that very minute.

Being a mother changes your love. It doesn't diminish your feelings for your husband. But it does indeed change.
The very instant I felt the baby (BABIES) move inside me, I knew that I loved them wholly and completely without abandon. No fear. No reserve.

After they were born, and we followed suit with the other two installments..I knew that my husband and I had moved into this very easy, day to day..place.

I didn't like it.
I felt bored. Isolated. Unloved. Unspecial.
Blah, blah, blahblahblah.
This lasted for months.
Four kids. FOUR KIDS! I didn't have time for 'food, sleep, sex'..are you kidding me?!
I haven't taken a shower ALONE since they were born. I haven't slept in twelve years.

But as we plodded through this strange time frame in our marriage, I started to see him.

See him differently.
He is my partner, yes. He is my friend, yes.
He is my shade and my hand to hold and my hold to sanity. He bridges my gaps.

I believe I love him more today than I did before.
The ride isn't nearly as exciting, there are very few unexpected turns with him. He isn't full of surprises.
The kids, however, are FULL of surprises.
What makes me the happiest is that he is now standing with me enjoying all that our life has to offer..and I realize that our journey may not be a roller coaster full of passion and excitement.
But we have joy, and the trust that comes between two people who share the common joy of life multiplies into the best parts of a relationship.

If I had to rate it today.
Sleep. Sex. Family.

It's extraordinary.

chances

What are the chances?





Of.


Happiness. Grief. Love. Fear.





Forgive me, for I have indulged in a favorite tonight, music and wine. Bad combo for my morning but good for the creative process. I draw from a place that no one can feel, that George hasn't even seen.


He has seen almost all of ME and still wants more. He is the best chance I ever took.


This I write for a dear friend who may be embarking on a new journey into love. She has faced so many fears in her life.





I was her babysitter. I started as an 'employee' to her mother, and ended up loving her and her brother. They became a part of my life, and she was this sweet, good natured little joy who I found in my back pocket for the better part of six years. She was emulating me. I knew she was. I watched her every day. I was flattered that this creature would even want to be like me.


My flaws were numerous.


To me.





She would ask me questions. Hundreds of questions. She wanted her hair cut like mine. I would scold her little brother (he was this adorable critter, naughty by nature, but adorable none the less) and she would soon follow suit. In the same tone of voice and with the same look on her face.


I grew up. Went to college.


One night, I came home from a date and found this young girl at my doorstep..in tears, upset over circumstances that were beyond her control. Upset at choices that had nothing to do with her, but in a grown up world, choices become chapters in children's stories.


That night, I sat with her and took her upstairs to my room. We talked and fell asleep and in the morning, I hugged her..told her I loved her and she would be fine.


That experience was so humbling to me.


I will never forget that at my young age, possibly 19 or 20 years ago..I made an impact on a girl's life. She came to ME when she felt like she had no other choice.


It was a chance that I was her babysitter.


It was a choice that she became a sister.





This young woman today is like what I had EXPECTED my mirror to be. She is beautiful, she is kind. She travels and expands herself.


She is educated, she is independent and amazing and most of all, she is kind.


She gives.





I do not feel 'shorted' in my life. I took a chance with my husband. He was the best chance I ever took. Safe bet.


I have these amazing, crazy, whacked out kids. They laugh, they fight, they are loud and messy. I gave up all my education and dreams for them.


They became my dream. Evolution.





This young woman channeled everything she had into becoming what she already was..an amazing human being.


And she now has a chance at love herself.


With someone who may be a safe bet.





Someone who may not have been torn out of a Brooks Brothers ad. Someone who knows how to build a motor or who has hands that are dirty with work.


Someone who is the shadow of my husband. Who has worked beside him and learned from the man I love.





The two are cut from the same cloth. They can work from dawn till dusk. They have hands that are calloused with work.


Those hands can build a home.


Those hands can build a dream.





Take a chance.

Close your eyes. Remember the pain. Remember the joy.

'you gotta cry before you sing'

'chances are hopes torn out pages'

Fall.

Relative Happiness.

My best friend and I have this theory:


Happiness isn't just a GIFT. You have to make it yourself. It's a present to give yourself and your family.


Because sometimes the day-week-month isn't HAPPY.


Sometimes it sucks.

When I was young, 'child young', I wrapped myself up in my 'happy thought blanket' and saw everything with my child eyes.


When I was a teen, I foolishly based my happiness on a boy.


Boys don't make happiness.


As I aged, went to college, gained new insight on education, liberation. I started to kind of 'like myself'. I decided that I certainly didn't need a boy to make me happy.


Exit boy.



I liked to read. I read a lot during college. I wrote a lot. I liked being alone. I liked having solitary time to myself. I enjoyed working all summer at the pool, working second shift in a factory, waitressing on weekends.

I freed myself up to be 'available' to new experiences. I tried new foods. I tried to cook said foods. I tried new books. I talked with my parents. I walked the 88 steps up the sidewalk to my grandmother's house and sat on her front porch swing with her.


I tried to love. A few times. I tried to walk beside someone, instead of in front of behind him.


I had to admit that I was wrong. That love was a slippery slope.




I knew that I had to find some kind of balance within myself before I could be any good for anyone else.


Alone again.


Sometimes the best kind of happiness cannot be created. The best kind of happiness comes when you are least expecting it.



Sometimes it is a surprise~take a chance, step out of the bubble.



I will not wrap my happiness up in my children. I cannot hang that on them, it isn't their burden. Do they bring me happiness? ABSOLUTELY.


Do they bring me pain? FOR SURE.


But they didn't dial up and order it. The stress and anxiety that come with motherhood is not something that the child does..it's how we, as parents, react to the circumstances surrounding the child.



My happiness cannot be created, taken, shaken or dictated by the actions of others. Because it's mine. I earned it.


I walked the path and took my hits.

My children will have to learn this on their own.

Each person has to create his/her own space.


My husband makes me happy, but not everyday. What kind of husband makes a wife happy everyday? That is not real.


The reality of our relationship is that I am 100% responsible for making my own smile.




I definitely can attest to not making him happy every day! I make him CRAZY at least 5 days of the week.


If you want to be happy. Stop trying so hard.


Breathe.

Be alone and like it.

Read.

Listen.

Listen, again.


Find things in life that make you happy without having someone else to carry it.




That load gets very heavy.

Laugh Today~so called drama.

Fire ant in the pants.
Yup. No lie. Today my husband was working in the yard, while I casually watched him from the porch with a cup or coffee. Imagine my surprise when he began jumping and hitting himself, finally ripping off his jeans, trying to pull them over his work boots while jumping around.

Ants in the pants.

Understand, this is something that would happen to me, not him. Not the 'king of the yard'!! Oh how I delight in writing this passage because he never humiliates himself (he has ME to do that for him) and for me to be just a spectator in this and not have a main role just pleases me to no end.
Yeah, it's sadistic. But it's funny.

I often laugh at inappropriate times. In fact, I almost always laugh at inappropriate times..not just sometimes. It's some kind of defense mechanism, I have read enough psychology text to know this. It doesn't sit well, usually, with the social medium.
I laugh at funerals. I laugh at baptisms. I almost, always, without fail..laugh during Mass. I don't know WHY this is but I just can't seem to stand the overabundance of solemnity..my mind breaks and I just roar with laughter. I will laugh until tears roll down my face, I usually excuse myself. Sometimes I laugh until I literally can't breathe or have to use the ladies room. There have been times where I actually pretend to be crying in order to hide the laughing.
I find humor in the very basic and boring. I find humor in the drama.

I remember sitting in the formal living room after my father's viewing, and laughing until my sides were sore. Who LAUGHS at the end of the worst day ever? Me. And a few close friends. Because only the real ones get why the release of laughter is the equivelent of the release of tears.
It's all an emotional retribution.
And I would rather laugh than cry.

I am an emotional person. My kids will vouch for seeing every emotion played out to award winning perfection, from their own mother. They have seen me cry..they themselves have driven me to tears at times, and I let them see it. I want them to see it, it's healthy for them to know that I am not above showing the basic feelings that they have. I have laughed with them, and at them. I laugh at myself mostly. I have yelled, swore and slammed doors. I have apologized and meant it. I have been wrong, right, and confused. They have seen me love their father and watched us dance in the kitchen. They have seen my frustration with my mother, they have seen me cry on Father's Day. They have seen me apologize to my mother, and watched me laugh at old home movies.
They have seen me come out of my seat in defense of something I believe in. They have seen me tear into someone who would dare say anything unkind about their father. They have seen me sit beside a hospital bed with my head in my hands praying. My kids have seen me at my strongest and at my most vulnerable.
And all the in between.

Maybe I am wrong in showing them this. Maybe my honesty with them has left them scarred or somehow hesitant themselves to show emotion. (it should be noted that their father barely has a pulse and never shows emotion)

I want them to know that I already forgive them for their flaws. I love them regardless of flaws. I have huge, gaping flaws and they have seen almost all of them! I want them to come to me and know that while I may be upset in their actions, I understand the need to have to make their own mistakes and recover from them.
I cannot put them in the 'bubble wrap'..I want to, trust me.

But life is full of emotion. It is full of questions, mistakes and really, really painful hurts.
And it's full of faith, forgiveness and laughter.
I can't map it for them. I can't make their choices, I can't choose for them.
I can laugh at their triumphs. I can cry for their wounds.

And I will teach them, above all, that laughing at inappropriate moments may be the thing that saves them.

Shades of Grey

The truth is humanity is not black and white. I have struggled with this for several months, perhaps years in the making.


The very core of ourselves isn't a block or square or even oval shape. It's complicated and twisty and dark and shaded.


It's grey.



I have good intentions. I have the best intentions for my children, for my husband. I try to set realistic goals for me as a mother and wife. I try to laugh every day with them.



But I have forgotten that I am a daughter.


The first and foremost feeling in my heart is that I love my children. And yet, I let myself get so caught up in that, that I forget that my mother loved me the same way, every day, forever.




My life began with her and she sustained me in the high and low tides of our lives with my father. She has never painted a poor picture of him to me. Various people can tell me of what outsiders 'saw' or presumed to 'see' in our family~but she never, to this day, says an unkind word about him. She still loves him. She dreams about him. She misses him.


What can I learn from her? Everything.


Here is a woman who has clung to life for the past 5 years, and in her dementia, I have become hard and cynical. I get easily frustrated and impatient. I blame HER for changing and becoming weaker and making ME be the strong one.


Well, I guess it's time to grow up.



I am ashamed of how I treat her. I am disgusted at my impatience. I HAVE GOT to pull back and step away from the situation and look at it objectively, no matter how hard that is.

I have spent the past week awake in my bed, wondering how to make amends with her and myself. How to show her that I was wrong.


I admit it honestly to her. I don't even know if she will understand me. I am fearful that the meaning of my words will be lost on her.


I am wrong.


Because as a mother myself, I should know that of all things, the connection we share is constant and we will always forgive one another.


I look at my children and know that they are a gift. They are not mine forever, and the time we share together has to be made as special as possible. I have said all along that I hope my children 'soar', and in today's world, that implies that I want more for them than I have.


But I have everything. I want as much happiness in their hearts as I have.



I want them to fall in love forever and laugh and share their lives with me and their father.


I want them to understand their grandmother as someone who yes, forgets things. And yes, wakes up at night, a lot. And she gets confused. And she is weak, and she can't hear. It's hard for her to 'be' a grandmother. It is my privilege to teach them that 'being' a grandmother is about 'loving', and she has given them that in spades. And she wasn't always confused, or weak. I have to draw them the pictures of our story before now. It wasn't a perfect story. But it was ours. Before today's ending. Their grandmother is my tie to this world. One rope was already cut, and I will hang on to her until it's her choice to let go.


My choice to share this isn't to make anyone feel sorry for us, or me specifically. I have had ENOUGH of self-pity. I want people to know that I was wrong. I was wrong to feel this way.


It's better to know it and own it and admit it, then try to pretend to be something else.


I share this as part of my apology to her.


She is the tether to my life.



As an child, she said she would kiss me and say 'No man will ever kiss you more than I will.'


I say the same exact thing to my daughter. Every night.

Mother's Day.

This mother has some requests.

Dear Kids,

Please, please, please shut up. Please stop fighting with one another. Get yourselves ready for school without a fist fight. Eat the dinner I prepared without complaining that it isn't what any of you wanted. Put the food in your mouth and chew it. With your mouth closed, preferably. Pick up your dirty clothes and put them in the laundry room. Take a shower without arguing that you took one yesterday. Let your brother(s) take a shower alone without busting into the bathroom and then teasing him about penis size, ensuing another fist fight. Go to bed. Sleep all night. Get up nicely.

Please do not wear your muddy ball cleats in the house. Please shut the fridge door and please stop drinking out of the milk container, even though your father does. Please turn off a light when you leave a room. Please do not hold me responsible for your missing ball glove or bat. Along with this, remember to shut up, because all the needless banter is slowly killing me. Try to think about what you are saying before you say it. Think about whether or not it makes sense. Please help your sister find her pink baby. Please push her on the swing when she sits there for 10 minutes waiting for someone, anyone to push her. Don't pick on her, don't tease her. Don't make her scream, as I am looking for quiet, hence all the requests to shut up.

Please don't move the chair right in front of the tv. No one needs to sit four inches in front of the tv. And since I mentioned tv, please find something to watch that isn't some lame, mindless, brain sucking show about twin boys, wizards, igirl with obnoxious friends or a yellow sponge. Watch Animal Planet or Discovery Channel. Try to learn something.

Dear Husband,

Please stop being so nice. It's hard being married to freakin' Jesus. Stand up for yourself and for me. Please let me take a bath ALONE and do not assume I want your company, either in the tub itself or on the toilet next to the tub. There are three other toilets in this house.

Please pick up your socks. The black Under Armour ones. You know what ones I'm referring to. Just pick them up and put them in the laundry room. Take the initiative to leave the house with the children in tow. Take them for a hike. Please sit down on weekends and stop making me feel like all we can do all weekend is work, work, work. Please let me finish landscaping the front yard and stop saying "No one sees the front yard." because I see the front yard.

Please, if you see I am reading a book, do not bother me. Do not start a conversation about your lack of pitchers on the little league team, because..my love, I do not give a shit. Please, for once in your life, put a roll of toilet paper on the holder. Just try it.

Please SHAVE. Your face. I understand you are bald and any hair is a gift, but the scrubble on your face hurts my face and your daughter's face. We don't like.

I don't want fancy gifts or flowers. I just want my sanity back.

Love,

Mom

The Middle Son

This is about a son. A son and a mother. A son and a father. A son and his brothers. And finally, a boy and his friends.

Every family has THIS story. In varied stages, absolutely. Every family has a child in the family who needs more than the others. It is NOT about loving that child more than the others. It's not human to love one of your kids more than the others. If that were the case, for God's sake, people would have only had one child or live in China. (thankfully my parents knew that I didn't share well with others, hence being an only child worked very well for me..snap!)

My twins were the happiest, most well adjusted babies and toddlers. They went to school and made friends (who I love)..they get beautiful grades. They have glowing reports from teachers, from coaches. They play sports because they love the comradery of the team. They are team players. Over the past weekend, they had friends here and I smiled quietly and laughed later with my husband as the conversation revolved around baseball and girls. They are so free with us and they talk in front of us and with us.

Third son is not like that. Not quite.

He was, as I have wrote before, the most stoic of babies. People would get in his face, as a baby, and coo and babble at him trying to extract a smile. He would look at them, right in the eyes, and not only NOT smile, he would stare at them like "WTF is WRONG with you? Dummy." One eyebrow raised. I would kind of laugh nervously, almost like trying to cover up this strange child's random disposition.

"Why does he act like this?" I would ask my husband. "Why doesn't he like anyone?"

As he grew, we noticed he was far more willing to take risks than the twins. He had no problem walking UP the slide at 14 mos while his 4 yr old brothers were still half afraid to slide DOWN it. We had a 'zip line' hooked to the slide that went to a tree (one of my husbands many superfundangerous ideas that all kids LOVE)..he grabbed onto that sucker when he was 2 years old and away he went, right into the tree. Blood pouring, wiped his with his sleeve, he climbed right back up that slide and did it again. No emotional reaction.

We bought the twins ATV's when they were 8 yrs old, helmets, pads, the whole nine yards. We have enough property that they have free reign over it and have made their own trails. Well, guess who decides he is going to ride that ATV? You know it. Husband had to pull out spark plugs so it wouldn't be able to go as fast. Guess who figured out how to fix that problem? You know it. Four years later, he not only has his own ATV, he rarely rides sitting down, he builds ramps and can kick start his father's standard transmission four wheeler. He not only rarely rides sitting down, he rarely even wears a shirt. Jeans, boots and a helmet.

The end.

This kid has gone through hell. He knocked his teeth out. He can't talk. He can grunt. I drag him to pediatric dentists. Orthodontists. Speech pathologists. Hospitals.

This kid walked around for three days with a ruptured appendix.

He doesn't complain. He puts his nose to the grind and gets it done.

All through this, my husband and I have laughed and marvelled at how incredible stoic he has remained. He rarely says "I love you."

This is a kid who silently has made his mind up to reach his goals. His way.

He doesn't 'love' someone because society says he must. He has just started telling his grandparents that he loves them. They had to earn it.

I think this is my main idea. This is probably the one, single thing that I love about this child.

He owns himself.

He owes no one any thanks for ANYTHING he can and/or will accomplish, because he is doing it all on his own time and terms. He trusts no one, until proven.

Once gained, it is unbreakable.

Our kids lay in bed and visit before bed, and because I am the type of mother who listens in the doorway, I take what he says and sit on it.

"You know who I love?" he'll say. "I love Dad because he is so awesome. He plays catch with me every day and he lets me work on my fourwheeler with his good tools."

"I love Mom because she's mom. She makes me sausage and she doesn't make me eat the broccoli. I hate broccoli, Nick. Hate it. And mom never makes me eat it. She makes you eat it though!" (laughing usually follows when the boys compare food intake and what I will and will not force)

He will list off his friends, and because of privacy, I will not name them. But if their mother's read this blog, they will know without a doubt which kid he is talking about.

"I love ____ because he knows me the best. He doesn't care if I'm wrong or right or if I had a strange way of talking. He just is my best friend because we're supposed to be that way.He hugged me when that bee stung me at Miss Linda's. I never have to wonder if we are friends."

"I love ____ because he makes me laugh. He is my best friend because he knows exactly how to act to make the whole class laugh. And he makes every sport so fun, he makes me laugh so hard and he falls and rolls and makes every day like a movie."

"I love ____ because he is so smart. He is such a better reader than I am, I hope he's in my classes forever because he always can help me with reading, and he has really good video games and a room in his house ONLY for FOOD. And his mom is super pretty."

"I love __ because he's the only kid I know who wants to win as bad as I do. He makes me try harder to win. He makes me run faster and hit harder. Before we were friends I didn't know how to win as good. He made me feel good about trying harder. And he never gets mad at me for tackling him."

Know this, fellow mothers: this kid is strange. He's for real. There is no false reality about him..your sons have earned this.

I am going to write a tribute to my husband.

In no way am I planning on embarrassing him, as he has been with me long enough to know that nine times out of ten, if I do embarrass him, it's for a good reason.

I have known him almost my whole life. We went to the same small school. He was two grades ahead of me.

We went to a school populated with about 600-700 students, seventh through twelfth grade. Everyone knew everyone. He also lived three houses away from my grandparents on Lake Hill, and was friends with my older cousin, who lived three houses in the other direction from my grandparents. Farm community, where the two friends would race up and down the road on their atv's and my grandad would sit on the front porch and yell at them to slow down even though they of course couldn't hear them.

He was very good looking. He was very quiet and very polite. He was the type of guy that none of us thought we had a chance with, so why bother? Ironically, I was flattered (and slightly annoyed) to find out that he thought the same of me.

He played football. (in our town, at this time..playing football was the mecca of manhood).

In my next to last semester at college, he approached me at a local dive bar we all frequented. I had never spoken more than four words to him in my life. He had on a burgandy ball hat with a suede brim and a plaid shirt. He was drinking Yuengling out of a bottle. He sat down at my table and began this conversation that made zero sense to me because I was looking at his eyes and they sucked me in like wet cement. After about a half hour, he asked for my number and I left the bar with friends.

He didn't call the next day. Or the next.

Oh well. I had a lot of options at this point in my life..and to be honest, my father was in the final stages of cancer and I truly didn't know if I had it in me to start up something new.

Then one afternoon a few weeks later, I saw a birth announcement in the local paper about his sister having her first baby, a daughter. It was the first grandchild in the family and I knew that her birth would be a special, special event. So I called him to congratulate him 'on being an uncle'.

(please note: I HATE calling boys. Hate it. I was of the confident crowd, if a guy doesn't call me, fine, I have a waiting list, trust me)

That's all it took. He asked me that night if I would like to go out sometime, and if so..perhaps he could stop down sometime and we could visit before hand.

He came on a Thursday night. He wore a navy blue zip up fleece, jeans and boots. No hat. I had on the baggiest jeans I owned and a man's button up dress shirt from the Gap. I was so nervous I ate an entire jar of cinnamon jelly beans.

While we sat and visited in my parents den, my father wandered in. He was weeks away from dying and in an immense amount of pain. He was having morphine constantly for the pain. He was using a walker, as the cancer had spread to his bones and his hips hurt unbearably. But he walked into the den, unassisted (I am now really popping the ole' jelly beans, thinking 'holy crap what do we have here?') and sat in his favorite chair, crossed his legs and said (smirking, his trademark Harry Potter glasses on..jelly bean, jelly bean) "Well, well, well. Mr. Schoonover, you have showed up a little late for this party, now haven't you?"

My husband reached out his hand and said "I hear that, Mr. Johnson. I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

They shook hands and talked for about 4 minutes before my mother came in with the liquid morphine, which my father took through a baby medicine dispenser, some rolled down his chin as his motor control was failing.

George never even blinked. He kept talking and acted as though this was the most natural situation ever.

When he left that night, I expected him to tell me that our date wasn't going to work out, that something had come up. Young men and cancer grieving girl don't mix well, as I had found out a few months before.

He said, "I'll see you Saturday, and I'll call you tomorrow."

Kiss on cheek.

Three weeks later, after several evenings together and phone calls, we had gone to the grocery store for my mother (HOT DATE here people) and I knew my father was close. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't hold his spoon, and he couldn't talk anymore. I was getting to that emotional point of no return and I said "If you want out, it's fine. I understand. I totally, 100% understand that I am an emotional basket case..I have all this baggage and I'm sad and my family is strange and sad. So, if you want out, do it now because I won't be able to take it later."

He pulled the vehicle over. (I was like "Oh crap! He's going to make me get out and walk!") Leans over and says, "I am in love with you. I am not leaving you ever. No matter how sad you are, how miserable you are. Got it? I'm in."

That was a Friday. My father died the following Monday morning.

Five months later we were engaged. Thirteen months later we were married. Ten months later we had twins. Three and a half years later we had another son.

Two years later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. One year later we had a daughter.

My tribute is this.

My husband is without a doubt, without one shred of doubt, the kindest man I've ever known. He is patient (anyone who knows ME will attest to this being a true test). He is calm. He is smart. He worships our children. He tolerates my mother. And he still looks at me sometimes and I feel like I'm standing in wet cement.

He makes me believe in God. Every. Single. Day.

I haven't written in six months. I am not inspired.
A friend recently asked me what inspires me and I answered "grief". So I guess it's a good thing I am not inspired to blog right now. I do not have a lot of sadness.

But I am restless. I feel a need to release whatever pent up mid-life pre-menopausal issues are building.

I have been racking my brain about to write about. I can write about my kids, obviously. I can write about my friends, and the shifting dynamic that comes along with friendship in ones thirties. I can write about cancer and it's impact on my life, or dementia, as it currently impacts my life daily as I struggle with my mother.

What I have concluded is that it all intertwines, but how to weave it with words is the challenge.
What is the glue? What holds it together?
(I am also afraid of repetition. I hate when someone repeats something to me. Like I didn't hear it the first time.)

So, in an effort to un-stifle my creative talent, I will try to write..while completely exhausted and fully uninspired.

It's winter in Pennsylvania. We have had a very full winter. Full of kids, holidays, and one hospital trip.

Yes. And no, it was not asthma twin. It was my eight year old son, who since has had a birthday so at the time of the crisis, was only seven or "almost eight MOTHER!".

There is a fine line when a child is sick that all parents have gone through. Whether or not to go to the ER. If there is parent out there reading this that has not ever once considered rushing their child to the local ER when all common sense fails, then I am amazed.

Our son, the day after Thanksgiving, started complaining of a stomach ache. He is not usually a complainer, and definitely not a whiner, so I gave him some motrin and encouraged him to lay low until he felt better. At this time, I'm thinking either over indulgence at Thanksgiving dinner or stomach flu. He gets through the day, and that night comes in our room in the very early hours of the morning, probably 2am. "Mom, my belly hurts again." I give him some motrin and a glass of water, back to bed.
The next day we have more of the same, the 'belly ache' and some mild vomiting. I am sure he has the stomach flu and keep assuring him he would be fine by tomorrow. The night proves to be more of the same, and he has a hard time finding a comfortable place. He finally ends up on the couch with his dad, sleeping fetal on stomach, rear end in the air, knees tucked up under belly.
By Sunday mid-morning, he can't even straighten his right leg and I say to my husband, "I think we should take him to the ER for hydration. He needs a bag of saline."
My husband hems and haws..no one likes going to the ER, all the waiting and not knowing, and then some more waiting.
We go to the ER, where we wait for over an hour to see the physician on call. After deciding that perhaps a bag of saline would rehydrate him (didn't I already say this?) the doctor ran blood work. His counts came back very high. Obviously an infection. A cat-scan was ordered and he had to drink 16 oz of apple juice with contrast in it over a hour and a half.
Proceed to cat-scan, and escorted back to gurney.
Things started happening very fast after that.

His appendix had burst, had been ruptured and there was an ambulance on the way to get him to a bigger hospital.

That feeling is indescribable. If you want the worst feeling of fear, of not knowing, and of looking in the eyes of a scared child, this is your trip.

The ambulance arrives and my husband and I separate, I drive the car and he goes in the ambulance. We arrive at the larger hospital within twenty minutes and are met in that ER by a family friend, who is the mother of one of appendix-boy's best friends, and an OR nurse. She had put herself on the case to keep our child reassured that he was safe. As a mother I may never be able to thank her enough, because she made the experience bearable.
All this time, our son was completely stoic. No tears, no emotion, just focus on getting through the pain. He did not want to ride in the ambulance. He did not want to be put in a wheelchair and he did not want to be on a gurney. In the time frame of him being in the ER, and drinking all the contrast and being nervous, he signaled to his father and I that he needed to use the bathroom. A different nurse, who was doing his paperwork in the ER, brought him a bedpan and explained to him how to use it. Seven year old child, appendix burst, looked in her eyes and said "I don't do that."
He rolled off the gurney and walked/stumbled to the bathroom.
I am telling this for the people who know my son, his extreme stoic behavior and the fact that there was no way in hell was he using a bedpan. Ever.
As he lay in the ER, there was a woman in the next exam area, curtained off. My husband and I catch a glimpse of her through the curtain, she is suffering from what my husband calls 'carbuncles' (! please understand that I have no idea if this is even a medical term!) or open, huge sores all over her legs. She is moaning and groaning, yelling and vomiting as well. My son just lays on his gurney with his eyes as wide as pie plates. Next rolls in a man via wheelchair who begins vomiting FULL THROTTLE heaving and LOUDLY.
My son is literally in a state of shock at this point.
We meet the surgeon, we discuss what will happen, explain it to son.
At 12:02am he is wheeled into surgery with his surrogate 'mom'/nurse by his side. My husband leans in, kisses his forehead and tells him to be tough.
I lean in and in the four seconds it takes for me to put my cheek to his cheek and his left arm over my shoulder, his entire life to date floods to my head. I put my face in his neck and breathed his smell and kissed him goodbye.
He was a huge baby, all shoulders. I just wanted him OUT OF MY BODY at delivery and didn't heed my midwife's warning to 'slow down'..he had a purple head. Black hair and no sign of a neck anywhere. All shoulders.
He was a serious baby. Not overly smiley. He did a lot of staring and studying. He didn't talk or coo to himself.
When he was 18mos, he came off a swing onto pavement. Not having the best defense reaction yet, his face, namely his teeth suffered the consequences. Top four front teeth were knocked up in under his nasal cavity. We couldn't even see the actual teeth, just four big, bloody holes.
X-rays confirmed the teeth were there, and it would take almost a year for those teeth to fall back into place, only to find out the nerve damage was so severe that all teeth were removed before his third birthday.
The loss of the teeth did little to improve on his already serious personality.
Or his speech development.
Or his self esteem.
It is hard to learn to talk when first of all, it hurts. Secondly, without the teeth there, it's even worse to try to enunciate.
So he didn't even try. He talked to his father and myself. We were the only people on earth that could understand him.
He goes to kindergarten and struggles. Struggles at school work, the confined space of a room. He is insecure and it's hard for him to make friends. He has two. They understand his 'language' and serve as interpreters.
I begin the process of speech at age three, so by school age, he has an IEP. Constant paperwork, vigilant therapies. He hates it. He hates being different.
I take him to private therapy twice a week in a hospital 30 miles away, the very hospital where is appendix will be removed.
He loves the outdoors. He loves to ride four wheelers, he loves his dog. He loves to ride bike and play catch.
Two years later, child has amazing friends. He speaks very well. He has overcome huge obstacles to trust his environment. He is funny, articulate. He is athletic and has found his place on a football and baseball field. He loves his teacher. He loves his friends.
He laughs constantly.
He has long blond curly hair that he grows out because 'the chicks dig it MOM!' and 'Shaun White the snowboarder has smokin' cool hair MOM!'..his hair hangs out from under his helmet and everyone fusses over him.
He basks. And his father and I fall in love all over with this new and happier child.

After surgery, the doctor and our nurse/friend come to tell us he is fine. That the rupture was severe and there is much infection. He will have at least a one week stay to recover.

That night, at 3:30am, my husband leaves for home and I lay down in the hospital bed next to him. He is lulled into a drugged sleep, he is warm. There is an IV in the crook of his arm. His belly and beyond is covered with iodine and he smells sick to me.

(I should probably mention that at this time, I notice that not only have I not showered since Thanksgiving. I also am not wearing a bra. While this is not a big deal, I have failed to notice either of those things until the whole ordeal was over. What the doctors must have thought of me, I can only wonder. And shudder.)

The next week, my husband and I take turns staying 24/7 with our son. Thankfully, my in laws were more than willing to take over care of my other three children, as we basically forgot they existed. Our daughter even had her birthday during this time and we were not a part of the festivities, so my sister in law provided all the love and laughter and care she needed during this time
He couldn't sit up without pain. He absolutely froze in fear if he felt a cough coming. He had to learn to walk again, and would push his IV pole down the hall, dragging his right leg and foot along, as those muscles just wouldn't engage. He cried in fear that he would never be able to 'run the sideline' again with his speed. He blew through two IV's in three days. His hands were black and blue with bruises from the IV. His arms were bruised from the IV and tape.
On the second day, as he labored out of bed, slowly, so so slowly to the bathroom on his own. I sat outside the door (he is big on privacy) and all of a sudden he bellows "MOM! MOTHER! WHERE ARE MY UNDERPANTS?!"
The sudden understanding that his friend's mother had to take off his underwear set in. "Mom. We will not ever talk about this again, OK. Tell Becky, OK?"
(Not only have I not mentioned it again, but friend's mom/nurse Becky and I decided that perhaps telling him she had to run a catheter is also not a fact he needs to know about!)

He returned home after a week, then spent the next week at home resting, and the following week he returned to school half days.
He lost 9 lbs total, and now, after two months, has still not gotten it all back.

But there is laughter, and he is tackling his brothers and sisters and riding snowmobiles and going to wrestling tournaments.

He is eating mounds of food and had his birthday party at a hockey game.

He is fine.

But the smell of his hair still lingers on me. The feeling of helplessness and fear hasn't left.
I sat and thought of all the time we have invested in this kid. Of the countless hours of speech therapy. Of the hours his father threw balls to him to get him confident. Teaching him how to swim, how to water ski. I think of his father telling him to 'drop a shoulder' when he goes in for a tackle.
I wonder will his whole life be a struggle? Will he always have to 'drop his shoulder'.

Then I stop and know he'll be fine.

After all, he was all shoulders.