Mother of a Job Description

The word 'mom' can be pronounced in many different ways depending on the day, the hour and the situation.  Sometimes it's with an incredibly long o; and based on the circumstance it can sound like a wail or a foghorn, but both are a form of tattling.  Sometimes it's got more than one syllable with an upturned lilt on the last, like it's more of a question.  Other times it turns down on the last m, like the user has suffered an extreme disappointment.  When it's used in conjunction with variances of itself, as in "Mom-Mommy-Mom" it's has more of a desperate quality in the sound.  But the one thing all of these pronunciations have in common is that it is said like it was printed in caps lock.  The only person who says the word mom like it's all in lower case letters is the mom herself, and then it's with a tired acceptance as in: "Yes, I'm his mom(sigh)."  Why are we the only ones who don't comprehend how vastly important this fact is?  All others say the word at high volume and with feeling, because anything less would convey an entirely different meaning, but the mom herself is the only one who needs convincing of her own worth.  The word mom means so much more to the world than the word's definition.  The Oxford Dictionary's version really leaves a lot to the imagination:

NOUN:

-informal for mother

   a. a woman in relation to a child or children to whom she has given birth.

VERB:

   a. bring up (a child) with care and affection.

Wow.  When I looked this up I expected to see pages of words describing a mom, at the very least an entire paragraph, but was amazed at what I found.  It's pathetic how little this actually describes in the life of a mother.

Being a wife and mother is the hardest job any woman could ever undertake.  It's down in the trenches, pushing through the exhaustion, hard.  The level of dedication that women show in devoting their entire life to their mate and offspring could be used to teach CIA operatives how to study their next target.  We know things about our husband and children that no ones else will ever take the time to know.  For instance, I know that my husband freaks out if he gets lotion on his hands and will start to gag if he hears the word vomit.  I know that early in the morning my 2 year old likes to lick the windows because the glass is cold and it feels nice.  I know how many minutes I have in order to find a bathroom, based on how high the knee comes up when my 5 year old starts to prance.  I know exactly which nightmare my 7 year old has had before I even get to his bedside, based solely on the tone of voice when my name was called out at 2am.  There are stalkers out there that don't exhibit 1/2 of the passion that a dedicated mother will show in one hour of her chaotic day.

So, why do I still sometimes feel like I'm not doing enough, that I'm not contributing to the world in any way that will make a lasting difference?  My biggest weakness is that I compare myself to others.  I look around during church and think that the other ladies couldn't possibly have just lost 10 minutes of their lives that morning yelling at the kids for using their pantyhose to play bank robber ninja with the result that one leg is about 18 inches longer than the other.  I tell myself that I'm the only one who thinks that trading my pajama pants in for yoga pants counts as getting dressed in the morning.  That surely I am the only one who is thinking of buying stock in hot dogs because it seems to be the only thing the kids will eat no matter what I cook.  And of course I am the only one who struggles with my weight.  Everyone around me is perfect.  Right?

 I also compare myself to the old me of my time before kids when I lived in what I innocently thought of as my fast paced life.  The thin me that wore a bra everyday.  The one who had time to wrap elaborate gifts for co-workers with color coordinating paper.  The me that never forgot birthday or thank you cards and who was a regular member of a charity league.  The me that I really don't have a thing in common with today.  And If I'm completely honest with myself about, the me that I most likely wouldn't even like if I had to spend any amount of time with.
Thankfully the times that I fall into this line of thinking are few.  And when I do feel myself start to doubt my worth as a wife and mother, I can call one of my sisters, girlfriends, or a sister in the ward to tell them:
"You've got to help me.  I'm a terrible mom.  The kids are hanging from the rafters like devious little monkeys and all I've done today is yell at them.  The house is trashed, we are all wearing pajamas because there are no clean clothes and I haven't showered since Tuesday."

Do you know what the response always is?  No matter who I call in my darkest hour, I am reassured to hear something along the lines of:

"I was just about to call you actually.  I wanted to know if you would adopt my 4 year old because if I don't re-home her, I'm going to kill her. I let the kids eat popcorn for dinner because I just couldn't face the kitchen and mountain of dishes.  I did get a shower today, but because I haven't shaved my legs since September, I'm not sure it really counts as good grooming."

No one is perfect.  There isn't a mother out there who we could justify in raising onto a pedestal.  Our goal as a wife and mother shouldn't be to be just like so and so.  I try really hard to remind myself that my goal in life is to be the best ME.  Because I am good enough, smart enough, and dedicated enough to be the mom and wife that my family needs.  I am enough, just as I am.  And I know that my Father in Heaven is proud of me every day that I do my best.  That's exactly what He expects of me.  My best.  And I have to think that He understands when some days my best turns out to be hot dogs and jammies all day.

In my personal life I am a simple, God fearing woman who likes long walks in the park and who's searching for an honest, hardworking marzipan recipe.  Unfortunately for that side of my life, I'm also the personal assistant to three very demanding and narcissistic slave drivers.  A child's view of the world is very 'me' oriented, therefore their definition of mom encompasses their entire life.  It means that they have their very own personal mediator/referee and good will ambassador willing to step in the middle of any uprising in order to restore peace.  They have a temperamental chef who feeds them 3 times a day, and if they're lucky... cookies.  They have a toy-nazi harridan who is freakishly obsessed with how many items they've spread all over their house, a maid who requires them to make their own beds and pick up their own clothes.  A bathroom attendant, chauffeur, activities director, EMT, and lego specialist.  A secretary to coordinate school and church attendance, healthcare appointments and social engagements.  A pack horse, monster banisher, midnight errand runner, and comfortable pillow.   They get deliveries of new clothes and toys on a regular basis and a person to see to the basic maintenance of those things.

Any one of those jobs can mean pretty good money out in the real world, and there are plenty of people who only do ONE of those things for their entire 9-5.  But a MOM does all of these things and more for free.  How can that not be enough???

I am on call 24/7/365.  I work graveyards, overtime and holidays for beautiful little tyrants.  They pay me in quick hugs, kisses from peanut butter smeared faces and original works of art to cover my fridge.  I consider it a fair trade for the services I provide, because I am a MOM.

WHAT could he POSSIBLY be thinking?

Having a child who is creative, brilliant, imaginative and fearless- but who also doesn't speak makes you walk around with a confused expression on your face for most of your life.  My eyebrows seem to be permanently drawn together, my eyes are squinted and my mouth is always slightly open.  It's the exact same face I have when I'm trying to do a math problem in my head.  Mitch is the x in every equation and no matter how much scratch paper I'm given, I can never figure him out.  In fact, if he ever turns to a life of crime, I'm going to suggest the villain name of Variable.  At least three times a day I end up asking him what he's doing, or I mutter to no one in particular that I just don't know what is going on in that head of his.

Our green bathroom has two doors leading into it from different rooms, which seems to cause Mitch some confusion at times.  Yesterday the boys seemed absorbed in what they were doing so I didn't bother to lock the door behind me as I entered that bathroom.  However, the gentle latching of the door must have sounded like a gunshot to Mitch, who ran across the house to throw the door wide in order to observe.  "Mitch!  Close the door.  Mommy is going potty right now. Give me 30 seconds alone, please."  He did shut the door, bless him, but he immediately ran around through his room and opened the opposite door instead.  He honestly seemed surprised to see me there, like maybe he thought we had two green bathrooms?  Or maybe one door opened into the same bathroom just different dimensions, one in which it wasn't in use?  I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror as I was washing my hands and I had my higher math expression on again.

Yesterday he came to me with his underwear pulled up, but his pants around his ankles and carrying my hairbrush.  Where are we in the scenario?  Are we in the process of going potty and he only got the first layer on before he was distracted by the need to comb Mommy's hair?  Or was it the simple need for more corporal punishment in his life?

An alarm went off in a parked car in front of our house this morning and Mitch went nuts with needing to go out on the porch.  It was rather cold and windy out there, so I made an effort in trying to distract him at first, but the longer it went on the more disturbed he got.  I eventually shrugged and opened the door to have him run past me in a desperate blur.  He raised his fists in the air like he was at the baddest rock concert in the world and started jumping up and down in time to the honking.  When the alarm's beat changed to the siren wail he started wiggling his skinny rear end back and forth and up and down, like a toddler version of pop, drop and lock it.  As soon as our neighbor turned off the alarm, Mitch pumped a fist, yelled "Yeah!" and went running back into the house.  Was that a personal rock concert delivered straight to his house?

During the Veteran's Day Parade he was both adorable and frustrating at the same time.  He was running out into the street when there wasn't candy then refused to go out when there was.  If he DID go out to pick some up he'd only grab one, then raise the fructose sacrifice high with both hands in thanks to the parade gods.  After the ceremonial tribute he would meander back my way to put the candy in the stroller before running/jumping a lap around us and back out into the street.  He almost got hit by a shriner car once, and almost caused a pile up of the tiny cars another time.  Thankfully the brakes were good and the old guy driving almost went over the windshield in stopping it.  Trying to keep track of Mitch in a public venue is obviously exhausting physically, but it's also draining emotionally because you can't outsmart a vortex.  Maybe that should be his villain name; Variable Vortex.  It's catchy and frightening all at the same time.  Just like my little angel.   

Things only a five year old can say with a straight face

The following are things that Jack has said over the last few weeks that I've actually had the time to write down.  There have been countless little gems that are lost for all time because I have the memory span of a nat these days and if there isn't a pen and paper nearby, I've forgotten it as soon as it is said.  In fact, my memory is so bad that I actually put a notebook in my purse just so I can document these things the boys do/say... but the problem is that I keep forgetting that it's in there.


The last few days have been stormy and overcast, and on those days I inevitably get a mother bear of a headache.  Yesterday Jack was helping me make some chocolate chip cookies when he saw me rubbing my temple while reading the recipe:
"What's wrong, Mama?"
"Oh, I just have a headache."
"Come 'ere.  Let me see." (takes my face in his little hands and scrutinizes my forehead from inches away) "Oooh!  THAT'S a good one!  But... I think you're going to be okay."
"Thanks, doc."


During the month of October the happy meals at Mcdonald's were given out in small buckets to be used for trick or treating.  I saved two of these buckets to be used for something far different.  I put them in the cargo space of the car in case someone starts puking when we are out and about.  It's a new car and Jack already christened it in September, at which time I was desperate for a small bucket- thus the travel chucket bucket was born.  The other day I was getting groceries out of the back of the car and Jack saw the chucket buckets and wanted to take them inside to play with.  I told him that those stay in the car and that he had other buckets, jars, bins, etc. in the house for entertainment.  He started warming up for his "the world is ending" speech when I cut him off and told him to just go in the house.  Now.
Between getting Henry out of his car seat, helping Mitch go potty and putting the groceries away I completely forgot about the bucket situation, so when Jack stood in front of me with his big brown eyes swimming with unshed tears, I was confused.  I asked him what the matter was and he replied with his head held high and a good deal of lip quivering:  "Here I am, Mama(sniff).  With no bucket."  Way to pull out all the stops with the poor, brave little orphan routine.  I ALMOST caved, but I'm afraid my heart is hardened and calloused.  Instead, I handed him his Halloween bucket that still had some candy in it as a diversionary tactic.


There is a restaurant in Bisbee called Jimmy's Hot Dog's that is SO FREAKIN' GOOD it's embarrassing.  I made a fool of myself there last week when I couldn't stop myself from moaning and rolling my eyes with every bite of my fish & chips.  I was so into it that Jack kept asking me what was wrong.  He hasn't quite grasped the subtlety between pain and extreme joy for deep fried goodness(according to the child development charts that won't happen for at least 2 more years).  While we were eating, the place started to fill up with the lunch crowd and since it's a small establishment to begin with it quickly became wall to wall people.  With a name like Jimmy's Hot Dog's I feel they are targeting certain types of people, so within minutes we were surrounded by large groups of construction workers, geriatrics and based on the pamphlets they were carrying- Jehovah Witnesses.  The geriatrics settled in at a table directly behind me and were in an excited state as they visited and waited for their processed meats.  There was one particular woman who just couldn't sit still, she was flitting around the room chatting with and hugging her friends while going back and forth to the condiment table to stock up.  At one point she was right behind me, and when I say this I mean that her behind was right on me.  She stood with her backside firmly pressed against the back of my skull so that her every movement caused my head to shake like I was the one with Parkinson's.  I was afraid to pull my chair away from her though since it felt as though I was her stability post for the moment.  What if I pulled forward 2 inches and sent her toppling forward onto her friends?  I closed my eyes at the horrors of at least 5 broken hips along with some good old fashioned bone fractures.  The guy with the oxygen who needed 3 people to help him sit down might not even survive.  So I sat as still as I could and waited for her to find her seat, hopefully somewhere on a chair.  Just as I shift my eyes to meet Jordan's (who is looking at me like he doesn't know if he should cut the blue wire or the green), Jack pipes up in his best 5 year old outdoor voice and brings conversation all around us to a screeching halt.  "Mom!  There's a grandma behind you!"  I know, buddy.  Trust me.  I know.


This morning as I filled up the back of the car to bursting with a million things to donate at St. Vincent's, Jack started throwing up while belted into his car seat.  Since I had buried the afore mentioned chucket buckets underneath the donations, I was stuck with grabbing some old blankets off the top of the pile for him to use instead.  Too bad my great ideas never work out.  As I was wiping his poor little face he looked at me with the most tragic expression he has in his repertoire and said "Mom, I feel like a human sacrifice."  Wow.  That's pretty crappy, alright.

I'm sure if I sit here at the computer long enough, he will come up with something else brilliantly hilarious, but I have to go make a human sacrifice out of Mitch.  He just dumped an entire bottle of Orange Glo out on the kitchen floor and ran through it so that there are a thousand little shiny footprints all over the house.  It's like an ice rink in here and I'm tempted to just put socks on the kids for a good laugh.  My luck is that I'm the one who will fall, though.

Speak-Easy

I know that every parent experiences times of frustration when trying to figure out what in the world their child is telling them, but it seems like we have more than our fair share of them.  I have a constant headache these days from banging my head against the proverbial brick wall of Jack's reason.  The problem is, he has none.  Or maybe what's wrong is that his reasoning is so far removed from the norm that I just automatically turn towards the brick wall because it's more familiar than what he's offering.  He was speech delayed in his early development, and now it seems as though he's working overtime to make up for all the words he lost in being silent.  He throws words in our direction at a machine gun pace and in no particular order, then leaves us to decipher and construe them into meaningful conversations.

For instance, hours of my life were wasted the other morning while I tried to decode what "orange toes" meant.  He followed me in and out of every room in our house.  He even tracked me down to my closet where I was seeking solace by pretending to sort my shirts.  He stood outside the bathroom door as I was taking care of personal business.  He stood in front of me while I folded laundry and next to me as I swept the floor.  He was impossible to ignore and difficult to sidetrack.  This persistence was in the effort to obtain orange toes, and as the day progressed the want turned into a burning need.  I asked him to repeat the phrase countless times.  I asked him to draw what orange toes were.  Not surprisingly, I received a picture of oranges toe looking objects.   I even offered to color his own toes orange(this last one caused him pause while he had a brief internal struggle with himself), all to no avail.  It wasn't until around lunch time when I asked him what he wanted to eat that I figured it out.  He replied that he wanted a dead dog (this is translated into a hot dog in our world) and... ORANGE TOES!  My poor, tired brain flinched when the proverbial light bulb went on.  Granted, it was only a 20 watt bulb but that's plenty bright in a head that doesn't have much exposure.  It's more than enough to reveal cobwebs and startled things scurrying to hide from the glare.  What Jack had spent so much energy trying to get out of his dim-witted mother were Cheetos.  Are you groaning with the obvious simplicity of it all yet?  Just to be sure I had it right, I held up a bag of Fritos and asked him what they were, to which he answered with a haughty confidence that they were yellow toes.

I'm grateful that Jack at least tries to tell me what he wants however, because I also have Mitch to help through the day.  Bless his loving heart, but there are monkeys that communicate more effectively than he does.  He doesn't indicate that he wants any color of toes let alone what he wants to eat, he instead starts crying and I immediately begin a game of high stakes charades.  After I do an EMT assessment on his little body to make sure nothing is broken or bleeding, I start acting out his favorite scenarios to see if anything makes the crying stop.  Sometimes I'm sure he's stopped crying not because I've nailed down what he wants, but because I'm highly amusing pretending to ride a bike, dribble a ball and take a bath all at the same time.  You find out rather quickly that you don't have the ability to be embarrassed after you've had kids.

This is how I keep mentally fit.  There are scholars out in the world working in ancient or dead languages who don't tax their brains as much as I do on a daily basis just trying to survive the day.  

Welcome Baby Hendry!

Henry Thomas Everett was born on July 2nd, 2012- 15 days before his original due date, but he weighed 8 lbs. 2 oz. and was 19 in. long.  I guess that explains my waistline being similar to that of a small planet.  

Jack pronounces his baby brother's name as Hendry and unfortunately it just trips off the tongue, so we all end up calling him that as well.  Everyone but Mitch, that is.  He just maniacally tickles him, presses his forehead to Hendry's and squeals his catch phrase "diddle-diddle-do!" then runs away to Henry's laughter.  Henry adores his older brothers.  Mitch is the most exciting person he's ever met (now that I think about it, I think he's the most exciting that I've ever met too.), and Jack is so kind and helpful.  He hands Henry toys to play with, helps him with his binky and covers him up when it's chilly.  Together with a mom and dad who adore him, what more does a baby need?  Not a thing, baby Hendry has it all and is the happiest of people.

Life here in the Everett household has pretty much gone back to normal since the upheaval of Henry's almost premature arrival.  I've gone right back to being completely obsessive about house cleaning and organizing.  I thought that maybe I had turned a new leaf with having to let things go for the 20 weeks of bed rest that we all endured.  I pretty much stopped thinking about scrubbing the floors and tiny fingerprints on the windows.  It didn't bother me at all to know that the baseboards hadn't been washed in 4 months, in fact it didn't even cross my mind.  It was somewhat liberating to just take one day at a time with the feeling of gratitude for everyone involved in helping us get through that day.  Now?  Hahaha!  I'm insane.  It's like I've got all this pent up OCD madness fighting to break loose every day.  The baseboards drive me up the wall (no pun intended), the fingerprints on the windows are a never ending drama and don't even get me started on the ceiling fans!  Thursday I spent the day hauling every single thing out of the shed and repacking and organizing the boxes.  Why, you ask?  Because it was dirty.  Ugh.  I KNOW!  I can't control myself.  

I am a lot more relaxed about what the boys do now.  Before Baby Hendry, I jumped up and ran to whatever sounds of destruction I heard.  Now, at most I cock an ear to listen for broken glass or life threatening screams.  Occasionally I yell something dumb like "Be careful!" in their general direction then mentally check 'safety control' off my to-do list for the day.  The only purpose those words serve is to act as a disclaimer for parents everywhere who want to distance themselves from the mayhem. The children don't have a clue what I could possibly mean and thus continue to try to kill themselves and each other.  If things get out of hand and I hear crying I will stop what I'm doing for 30 seconds to see if they come to me for comfort.  If they don't, I am free to carry on with my day.  If they do come running to me I'm on full time duty and because I was alert enough to get the disclaimer out in time for this incident, I feel comfortable in rubbing their tear streaked faces in their misfortune.  I gather the little turkey(s) into my arms to snuggle and kiss and tickle- all the while telling them that it's their own fault they got hurt when jumping off the bed onto their brother when Mommy TOLD you to be careful.  Sometimes I think that the only reason I can sleep at night is because I'm just too exhausted to stay up wallowing in my own guilt.  That, and the fact that the kids seem to be alright.  

As I wrote this last sentence, Mitch was running/hopping on the hardwood and ending up slamming his face into the floor. I try not to remind them that they weren't being careful when there's blood involved. I do have lines I won't cross, just so you know.

There is no rest in bed rest.

Laying around all day is HARD.  When you are a mother of two little boys under the age of 4 you never get a moment to just sit and enjoy life passing you by.  You begin to crave solitude and the thought of a lazy day can leave you weeping with longing.  Your first thought when told that you MUST lie down and let others do what needs to be done is "hallelujah- finally!"  But that feeling of relief is quickly gone, only to be replaced with anxiety, guilt, frustration and anger.  Anxiety because you start to think about all the things that need to be done, and 'how is it all going to be accomplished while I lay here?'  Guilt comes in when you see how things are going to be accomplished- people who love you drop everything and rush in to help.  It's incredibly difficult to let go and allow others to wash your floor, cook you food and fold your underwear.  Do you know how much I struggle every time I ask someone to get me a drink of water?  It's such a simple thing, and my brain tells me that I am perfectly capable of getting my own drink, so what in the world am I doing making someone else get up for me?  I've had long talks with myself about my need for independence and also about acceptance.  I'm not sure yet if I'm listening or not, but I've learned to relax and prioritize a lot more.  I think.

The frustration and anger come into play because I am the mother of two boys under the age of 4 who have realized that mommy can't chase them down and beat them anymore.  The first couple weeks I was still able to intimidate them with looks and voice, but recently that has lost it's impact.  They now stand just out of my arm's reach, hitting each other over the head with t-ball bats while making eye contact with me, like they are daring me to do something about it.  You should have seen Mitch's face the first time I threw the nearest thing (a stuffed bear) at his head.  I think I also screamed something inane like "Stop hitting!".  Unfortunately that only worked for a few days before they caught on that they could duck and weave their way through mayhem with minimal injuries.  It turns out that Mitch is actually a natural runner in the serpentine fashion.

I've had to re-evaluate what's important for long term child development to get into a disciplinary frame of mind.  For instance: is it vital to their upbringing that I get up to stop Mitch from taking a swing at his brother's head with a 2 ft rubber shark as Jack continuously rides his bike past the doorway where Mitch is lurking?  Since they are both laughing I decide that no, it's not.  Now I only move for screams and property damage, and honestly the kids seem to be thriving.  Maybe I'll have to employ this reasoning after I'm allowed back into the fray.  Actually, it might not even be up to me.  We will be outnumbered since there will be three of the little monkey's running around and I might just be tucked into a defensive position until they leave for college.

Dads in the Playplace

Have you ever observed a dad with his children at the McDonald's play-place?  The difference from that of a mom taking her kids to play is truly unbelievable.  Last week I was lucky enough to watch a couple of dads in action, and the experience was one to enjoy.

We were in Sierra Vista's McDonald's, so the customer base is primarily military and it shows.  On this particular day there was at least one father present who had the army mentality, and bless his heart he was being overrun by the enemy.  I know he was probably there to give the mom some much needed alone time to 1. relax, 2. run errands or 3. run away to Fiji, but it will probably be awhile before this dad braves the torture of the hamster like tunnels alone again.

This young father had two little girls, both under the age of 3 and both were delicate, tiny and sweet little things.  They were so fragile and beautiful that I wanted to cradle them in my arms and kiss their tiny faces.  But that was a mom's reaction, not a dad's.  Dad's don't coddle, they instruct, motivate and encourage.

After the girls finished their food, the older of them made it up to the top of the play-place only to get trapped in a corner that was too deep for her to crawl out of.  The well she fell into was conveniently located next to a Plexiglas window, thus ensuring that everyone seated below got a front and center ticket to watch her tear stained face plead with her daddy for assistance.  Her loving but distracted father told her she was fine and to just come down the slide, not knowing that she was trapped.  The more he told her she was fine the harder she cried, pressing her tiny distressed face into the window and asking for mommy.  I know she was thinking "Mommy would have been up here by now, and I really would be fine.  This yahoo is going to get me killed."  While dad yelled obscure instructions, another family's little girl went to the aid of the trapped princess but soon realized rescue was beyond her 4 year old capabilities and told the dad flat out that he needed to come up.  I had to admire the guy's go get 'em attitude when he realized that there was no getting out of it.  He asked one more time "I really need to come up?" and when confronted with two scared little faces nodding down at him, he took one last deep breath of fresh air and ascended into hell.  As soon as he disappeared from view, his younger daughter let out a frantic wail and tried to follow.  However, she was just over a year old and wasn't capable of negotiating the ladder, so she started up the steps on the opposite end of the gym, yelling for daddy all the while.  This poor dad was trying to yell encouragement to the trapped princess in the tower, as well as soothing platitudes to the abandoned sweetheart at the bottom.  Neither daughter was swallowing the lines he was feeding them and both grew ever more panicked and vocal.

When the overwhelmed dad lost sight of the smaller girl and couldn't get a reassuring response from her, my husband took pity on him and started yelling out directions that only another dad would understand.  "You've got a bogie coming in hot on your six" was answered hollowly with a "Copy that" from somewhere in the labyrinth of the plastic tunnels overhead.  Jordan turned to me and said that you know that the outing has reached it's conclusion when you need someone to vector you in on your kids, and sure enough- as soon as the weeping and sweaty little family was all safe on the ground, dad announced that it was time to go find mommy.  Both girls seemed relieved with the news, and I imagine the reunion with their mother was all the sweeter for their near death experience at McDonald's.  I'm sure dad was probably pretty relieved to have mom around again too.

Planetary Vacation

It's official.  I've reached the level of pregnancy that makes me think I'm as big as a small planet.  It's happened far sooner this time around than with my other pregnancies, and I think the reason for this is because of the early bed rest.  All I do all day is lay around and get bigger.  Not good for my self esteem, or the furniture.  Trying to get into and out of bed becomes a routine that would headline successfully in any circus, and I often hum the classic "circus tune" while gasping and rolling around, struggling with pillows.  The truly awful part of the ritual is that as soon as I'm finally comfortable, heaving a huge relieved sigh, I suddenly realize that I need to use the restroom.  Now.  Or, I need to sit up because of heartburn.  And thus, the night progresses.

I am 27 weeks into my pregnancy and cannot see my feet.  I am sure they are there because I use them to ferret out small toys and random legos, but I'm not sure anymore what they look like.  Sometimes someone will tell me that they are swollen, and I nod like I already had this bit of information, but truthfully I'm just relieved to hear they are still visible and recognizable as feet.  If they itch, I am doomed.  They might as well be on the moon for all the good it does me trying to scratch.  I roll around, rubbing my feet together like some sort of mad cricket, wishing for shorter legs or monkey arms in order to reach the sole of my foot.

Every time there's a knock at the door I think there is a very good chance that it's scientists with truckloads of equipment in order to document the all the seismic activity originating from this location.  I'm prepared to show them how difficult it is to get in and out of a bed on risers when you don't know where your feet are, but I just don't know how I'll feel when I'm asked to become someone's thesis.  Or maybe NASA will have a request to send me into orbit as a planetary stand-in for Pluto while it goes in for repairs for a faulty axis.  I might even be a natural disaster waiting to happen and measures need to be taken to get me off planet before I shift the Earth's gravitational pull beyond what's safe.  Here's a friendly warning: If one day soon, you are going about your daily life and the entire world seems to tilt crazily, I don't want you to have to wonder what's going on.  Your first thought can now be "She's reached critical mass!" and make life saving decisions accordingly.

I have 9 more weeks at minimum, before Henry arrives (personal goal, anyway) and there's no telling how much bigger I will get.  I'm hoping it won't get to the point of calling the National Guard to get me out of the house when it's time to go to the hospital, but I'm not going to be surprised if the doctors ask me if they can document the last few months "for science".  Sometimes I worry about trying to get in shape after Henry is here, but then I remember I have Mitch and I realize that if I just shadow him every day, I will be rail thin in weeks.  I'm pretty sure he'd be a fat child if he had a different personality, so I think it's a solid work out plan to just mimic his movements until I reach my goal weight again.  That's what I'm banking on, anyway.  However, I try not to think that far in advance right now, or I'll go nuts.  Day by day, pound by pound, is the strategy and it's working so far.

One of those days

Today was one of those days that I can't believe we are all alive and relatively sane by the time bedtime rolled around.  At two o'clock this afternoon I was certain that by dinner time the kids would be in protective custody and I'd have taken up drinking.

The boys were sick all week, and I think the strain of being cooped up in the house together for days on end was the reason behind the total mayhem that was today.  I knew they were starting to feel better when they tried to kill each other first thing this morning.   The first sign of trouble was a small argument over who got to lay next to me in bed this morning at 7 a.m. the end result was the sound of Mitch's body thumping to the floor, followed closely by the sound of his indignant wail and Jack's snicker of delight.  Things escalated quickly into fist fights over who got the lion cup for their chocolate milk and then an all out death match when Jack's cereal was spilled on the floor and smashed into the carpet by Mitch on his tricycle.

More than once during the interminable day I heard myself screaming in a voice eerily like Brian Johnson that "if you boys don't stop hitting each other, I will spank you!" or my personal favorite: "Be kind or I will beat you!"  What??  I open my mouth to be the voice of reason, and this is what comes out?  Good thing I was talking to a 3 and 4 year old, otherwise I would've felt like an idiot.  As it was, they both looked at me like I had just grown another head and tried to sell them a timeshare in Kansas.  In fact, they were so unified in their aversion to me that they bonded together for safety, and for whole moments forgot to torture, maim and kill each other.

As I write this, I'm watching the little darlings attempt to make a liar out of me by sitting together like cherubs, heads together over a coloring book, sharing crayons and giggles.  They are beautiful in their love for each other, and my love for them is all encompassing.  Just as my heart begins to thaw a bit and I start to feel guilty for all the yelling and spanking that went into the making of today, Jack digs his elbow into Mitch's side and Mitch retaliates with a straight jab to Jack's eye and they both start screaming.  And I'm back to the cold hearted harridan.    

Ruler of the Household

We recently found out that our upcoming bundle of joy is going to be a boy.  That makes a total of three boys for the Everett family, which constitutes renaming us as a gang by old west standards.  Depending on the boys' deeds in the next fews years, we may even graduate to posse.  There's already been some practice runs for a prison break.

We've decided on the name Henry for our newest member, and when I looked up the meaning of the name I groaned out loud.  It's a german name that means 'ruler of the household'.  Just great.  I guess we have the leader of our gang now.  Actually, I was thinking about it this afternoon and I believe we nailed the name of our youngest.   Little Henry is already controlling things around here; when we eat, what we eat and even how we eat it.  The little dictator decides if the house gets cleaned, if the boys get a bath every night and if I make it to the post office this week or next.  I've pretty much lost all control over my own household, because I'm pregnant with an incredibly strong willed tiny outlaw.

We (Jordan and I) decided to get a pizza for lunch, but Hank had other ideas.  I didn't even realize that I wasn't going to be joining my family for lunch until I heard myself yelling at the speaker in the drive thru of McDonald's that I wanted a southwestern chicken salad.  One minute I was in control, the next I was on autopilot while that scamp made his own choices.  He was right, though.  It was perfect and I ate every bite.

The way I see life in the Everett house unfolding is that Henry will be the instigator, Mitch will be the willing guinea pig and Jack will be the one to fine-tune the details while Jordan and I desperately try to keep them all alive and out of jail.  Sounds fun, doesn't it?

Terminal Motherhood

I realized today that this is it.  This is how I'm going to die.  I'm going to be a mother until I expire from this world and pass on to that great big playground in the sky.  Hopefully I won't always be trying to make dinner with someone's arms wrapped around my legs while their face screams into my rear end in desperation for a cookie.  I'm praying that someday they figure out how to transform their own transformers, there-by freeing up years of my life.  But I know that one day I'll look back while they are rolling their eyes and sighing at having me speak to them in public and I'll miss the simplicity of hearing them say "Mom. Mom. Mom..." continuously for 15 minutes straight.   No matter what stage of life we enter, I will always be mothering them.  Forever.

Days like today, I start to think about the consequences of my actions.  Things I do today will forever alter the future of dozens of people.  What if I'm too lenient and I end up with sons who are lazy, shiftless hobo's?  Or worse yet, what if I'm too strict with the result of pushing them away until they rebel against all reason and wind up in prison?  It keeps me up at night, trying to figure the balance required in raising well adjusted humans fit for society.  There are some behaviors that I'm not sure I can ever alter in our boys, no matter the degrees of discipline or leniency.  For instance; I wonder if Jack will always chant what he wants until he beats down the very spirit of the person opposing him.  Someday I'll probably get a phone call from the future Mrs. Jack Everett that begins with "I'm going to kill him if he doesn't stop saying 'chocolate cake and a trip to Maui' ".  It takes a high level of patience and a good imagination to withstand 45 minutes of hearing nothing but "dead dog and chips, dead dog and chips, dead dog..." (dead dog means hot dog in Jack-ese, in case you hadn't guessed. We do not eat dead dogs at our house. Just hot ones.) and I spend a lot of time on a deserted island in my head when he goes into one of his rants.
And then there's Mitch.  Oh, Mitch.  Will he always think boxing is a form of endearment?  Will we be required to wear protective gear at his wedding?  I picture his bride as a solid girl who can take a hit, and whose father is a dentist willing to do on the spot repair work.  One of the Everett catch phrases is: "Hit him back!", but no one ever does.  People are squeamish about hitting a baby for some reason.  They wouldn't be if they lived with a two foot Sugar Ray.

When I think of my children as adults, I realize that even when they are over 6 ft. tall and have children of their own, I will still be worrying about them, praying for them and loving them day and night.  I will probably find myself laying in bed at 4 am, wondering if Jack has made his yearly appointment for a physical, or if Mitch has found his wallet yet.  I will be doing what I'm doing now until the moment I die, which will be a lot sooner than the 90 years I had envisioned if Mitch doesn't stop riding his tricycle down the porch stairs.  That kid is going to give me a heart attack.

What did you just say to me?

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Oddly enough, I had titled this blog BEFORE Jack decided to tell his side of the story.  I chose to keep it because it was just too good of a coincidence.  When I came back to my computer to continue blogging, he pointed and exclaimed proudly "Look Mommy! Nine horses!".  It's a good thing he told me what it was about, because there was no way I was going to guess the story he had written was equine in nature.

Two weeks ago a candle fell off the mantle suspiciously.  I say suspiciously because when asked, all the children who had been present at the time said that "no one" had broke it.  Jack had not been in the room when the candle was broken by no one, but the sound of glass shattering had his little feet pounding the floorboards to get to the scene as quickly as possible.  He came screeching around the corner yelling "What happen?" and I threw my hand in the air like a traffic cop, causing him to stop mid-stride.  His expression said that he fully expected me to place blame for no one's crimes on his tiny shoulders, and he took a step towards me as if to seek reassurance that I wasn't mad at him for today's mayhem.  I gave him a kind, but stern look and told him to "Stay where you are, pumpkin." until I could get the glass cleaned up.  The incident was quickly forgotten, at least by me.  It must have stuck with my little guy however, because a few days ago I was folding laundry in the back of the house and heard an odd crashing sound coming from the front room.  On a destruction scale, it didn't sound massive- more like slight, so I yelled "Jack!  What are you doing?" and got the instant reply: "Stay where you are, pumpkin!".  Nothing else would have been so successful in making me run the length of the house faster, but when I got to him I saw that he had only dropped a tote bag full of hot wheel cars.  As I drew in a shaky breath and moved forward to help him, he stopped me in my tracks with the hand in the air, traffic cop style and I full on belly laughed.  Apparently this was not a mess that I needed to get involved in, and I left my little mime to it.
These young people are always watching, aren't they?  It makes me feel... amazed, scared, pressured and more than a little creeped out that my every move is under scrutiny and could be repeated at any time.  Probably at church.  I thought I had been doing a really good job of watching what I say, but I guess not.  Yesterday, Mitch kept bringing items to me that had been on top of the fridge.  At first I didn't realize what he was doing, and I would take an object while muttering to myself "I thought this was on the fridge?  Hmmm."  I was sufficiently distracted in that it took me three times before I caught on to him, but in my defense he was being more covert than any two year old has a right to be.  He was moving the barstool back along the wall before he would bring me his prize.  Sneaky, right?  I thought so too.  Once I caught on, I belatedly started trying to assert myself with discipline.  Do I have to tell you that it didn't work?  Probably not.  He would give me his vacant stare with a charming half smile and a big eye blink, then run away to play and bide his time.  Some time would pass to find us in the same positions once again, with the same results.  On one occasion I caught him in the act and exclaimed "Damn it, Mitch!  I told you NO!".  I didn't even realize what I had said until an hour later when Jack came running to find me, yelling "MOM!  Damn it, Mitch!".  Sigh.   Now when Mitch starts doing anything that might be deemed inappropriate, Jack tattles by saying those three little words.  Mitch is going to start thinking that's his full name soon.  Other children get middle named when in trouble, not my kid.

Phone Calls From The Edge

This morning I took a call from a dear friend who was so hungry for conversation with anyone who remembered her real name was not "Mommy-can-I?", that she was huddled in her frozen garage with the lights off in the hopes that the children wouldn't find her.  When she whispered where she was I couldn't help but be a little jealous that I don't have a garage; it would be the perfect place to have a kid free phone call.  Mothers everywhere know exactly what I'm taking about, sometimes you desperately need to talk to someone without having a little person stand in front of you crying, tattling, begging or babbling.  My personal goal is to be able to call someone without having to also wipe someone's bum at the same time.  I'm not sure what kind of radar Jack has, but if he hears me talking on the phone he runs to the bathroom and minutes later starts yelling for assistance.  I guess I shouldn't complain about that because it's actually worse when he comes to me, turns around with a full moon, saying "Mommy, wipe."  And no matter how casual I try to be, there's always an awkward pause from the person on the other end of the phone call when I murmur "bend over and stop wiggling."  I HAVE to explain what I'm doing at this point and unless I'm on the phone with another mother, I sense a sad wave of pity rolling over the line.  I know.  I try not to think about it too much or I'll go mad.

So, this morning we spoke about everyday things; a mutual friend's health, grocery shopping, what to make for dinner, and where to get a dress altered for an upcoming wedding.  But you would have thought we were passing along state secrets by the way we were acting.  I say we because of course I was whispering back to her, have you ever tried to talk normally to someone who is hiding?  It cannot be done.  You may start out with the intention of remaining aloof, but eventually you will realize that you are speaking in hushed tones too.  The simple fear of exposure is contagious and I couldn't help but hold my breath along with her when she hissed "SHH! They're getting close...".

When enough time had passed that she was confident of retaining her sanity if she returned to the fray, she emerged from the darkness of her cell, hand shielding her eyes from the sudden glare of a beautiful Saturday morning to find that her 2 year old had given himself full sleeves of permanent sharpie ink.  Was this worth the 15 minutes of self imposed exile to speak with someone who understands how she just needed to hear a friendly voice in the midst of chaos?  Absolutely.  Besides, it was a lifesaving measure.  The kid was eventually going to draw on himself anyway and by taking the time-out she was calm enough that she didn't kill him.  I'm probably going to save my children's lives next week when I call my friend from the suffocating darkness of my closet to ask for her mother's russian tea cakes recipe.