Popcorn Fantasies

Does anyone else have impossible Christmas fantasies that involve their family getting along for an entire evening, sharing goodies without crying, or singing carols with no one stomping away in anger because some people refuse to sing Frosty The Snowman more than 6 times in a row?  Or am I the only one who has a vision of Christmas as an episode of Leave It To Beaver?

I think that for me, Christmas is a little like childbirth and by the time I'm ready to go through the rigors of the holidays, I've forgotten entirely the level of misery that made me take a solemn oath to never put myself through that particular torture.  Every Thanksgiving I'm astounded to hear myself say things like "This year I want to pull out all the stops and do it right." or "This Christmas is going to be just perfect!".   What am I thinking??  I'm not, actually.  I'm caught up in the Yule tide and barely able to keep my head above eggnog.  Every year I start out with great expectations, but inevitably I reach a moment that reminds me that we are most definitely not the Cleavers.  We are the Everett's and that means we do Christmas our way.  

I may have visions of our family sitting around stringing popcorn while telling Christmas stories and singing songs.  However, Mitch hasn't sat in one place for more than 15 minutes in all of his 4 years on earth, the kids don't listen to any story that doesn't have a dragon or a dinosaur in it, no one knows all of the words to any one song, and popcorn is not meant to be strung.  Ever.  It's horribly fragile and disappointing without butter, therefore it's not worth eating the broken pieces.  So what actually happens is this; Jordan and I end up sending the kids to bed early because stringing popcorn makes us curse like sailors and we are way too exhausted to invent non-expletives.  Instead, we start a swear jar to help pay for therapy and throw away popcorn garlands that are tangled into the physical embodiment of bah-humbug.

We make Christmas goodies, then eat them or throw them away after a week of not being able to find the time to deliver them to friends and neighbors.  We shamelessly use the idea of Santa as a bargaining tool to keep the kids compliant and in line.  We don't decorate the tree because we are tired of yelling at the baby.  We make up elaborate lies to explain why Bill (our elf on the shelf) never seems to move, because we find it impossible to remember to change his hiding place at night.  We hang Christmas lights, then forget to plug them in all month and leave them up until March.

I'm grateful that even though it seems like we, as parents, are doing everything possible to sabotage the season, our children have somehow managed to find a shred of magic to celebrate.  They swallow our elf lies and Santa blackmail with smiles and nods of encouragement.  They exclaim with breathless wonder at the beauty of the bare tree when we remember to plug in the lights.  They delight at the prospect of never ending dessert plates and their hearts are full with the spirit of Christmas.  Children have a way of reminding us of what's important, don't they?

I suppose that the lesson would be that every Christmas is the perfect Christmas, if our hearts are full of joy and good will towards men.  If we have love for our fellow man as well as every living creature, we can ignite a spark of peace that will carry us through the Christmas season and beyond.  I'm going to try, really try, to keep my heart open to the magic of Christmas, instead of focusing on the details of a 'perfect Christmas'.  From now on, I won't stress over the details- I'll focus on joy and love.  No matter what.  Even if the knot slips and the strung cranberries go bouncing to all corners of the house so that the dog finds them, only to barf them up on the living room rug in the dead of night...  God bless us, everyone.

Henry and the Holidays

Christmas through the eyes of a child:

Mom and Dad have put a tree in the living room and covered it with shiny, sparkling things- but if you touch it, they yell at you.

Under the tree are brightly wrapped boxes with bows and curly ribbons that were meant to be pulled.  But you will get yelled at if you touch them.

There are lights hanging from the mantel, but if you pull on the cord- Mom and Dad scream your name and point aggressive fingers at you while saying "NO!"

There are all kinds of wonderful treats and cookies in the kitchen, but if you climb on the counters to sample... you will be scolded and physically removed.

If you pull on the pretty tablecloth with the red flowers on it, and all the dishes land on the floor; you will get yelled at and possibly a spanking.  Mommy will also cry.

If you try to put the red tree decorations in the fireplace, you will most definitely get yelled at.

If you dump out the powdered sugar on the floor, then lay down in it to make a sugar angel, you will get yelled at.  And a bath.

If you throw a pine cone in the toilet... Mommy will use her berserker voice, and while it's difficult to make out the words, it's pretty evident that it's you she is yelling at.

If you smear your Christmas cookie onto the window, Mom will say your name in a resigned martyred tone of voice, then throw away the rest of your cookie.

The train that goes around the bottom of the tree has wonderfully neat toys on it, but if you break one of them off to play with, you will get yelled at.  And you won't get to keep the toy.



For a one year old, there isn't a lot to look forward to with the holidays approaching.  In fact, it seems that if I were Henry's age, I'd boycott the whole thing too so I'm not really surprised that he's thumbing his cute button nose at the magic of Christmas.

As far as he's concerned, there are more spankings involved with Christmas than there is magic.  Hopefully he will discover the magic next year when we can blackmail him with the thought of Santa watching...

The Secrets To Letting Go

Jack had a field trip last Friday to travel an hour away to attend the Fair.  I thought that I was cool with it, but apparently I was deluding myself.  It appears as though I was not ready for the next phase of parenting; letting go.

The morning of the field trip dawned chilly and overcast, and I found myself hoping that the weather would give me an excuse to keep Jack home.  I sighed in frustration when the clouds parted and the sun came out.  Then there was the meltdown he had over which shirt he wore. The permission slip was very specific in that he needed to wear a blue shirt on field trip day.  Jack was of a different opinion and was desperate to wear a black one.  I told him in no uncertain terms that he "will wear the blue shirt or he'd have to stay home!".  Imagine my disappointment when he capitulated and chose the blue shirt.  I had to restrain myself from stomping my foot in a reversal of roles.

  

Giving up on finding an excuse to keep him home and little forever, I shamelessly used scare tactics instead.  All the way to school I told him horrible things such as: "You stay with your teacher all day; if you wander away then you will be lost and you'll never come home." and "Do not talk to strangers.  They will steal you."  Here you go, Mrs. Hodgeson.  Now that he's sufficiently terrified, I'll turn him over into your capable hands.  She probably stepped on him all day because he was glued to her side in panic.  The entire time that I was filling his head with my fears, there was a very tiny part of my brain that was still somewhat rational telling me to 'throttle back'.  But I just couldn't.  Every time I opened my mouth something terrible would come out, so I finally just stopped talking.  When I looked in the back seat, Jack's eyes were huge and the expression on his face said that he couldn't wait to get to school and away from the scary woman his mother had become.  So, I ended the ride on the crazy train by telling him that I was sure that he was going to have a great time, that he was a smart and wonderful boy who would be amazing today and that I was so very proud of him.  Do you know how hard it was for me to drive in the opposite direction of his school bus, instead of following behind to stalk him?  

In my defense, this kid is freaking adorable and to top it off, he has absolutely no sense of self preservation when it comes to keeping personal information personal.  Last Wednesday we were at Wal-Mart loading our groceries onto the conveyor belt when the checker asked Jack: "And how are you today, young man?"  Well, that opened the floodgates on the cache of information he had stored... 

"I'm fine.  My name is Jack and I'm five.  I'm very strong.  I go to Palominas School and my teacher is Mrs. Hodgeson.  We live in the lellow house on the mountain in Hereford.  This is my mom and dad.  My dad doesn't have any hair, but my mom has purple hair and a tattoo on her bum."  

My husband mumbled something about never letting Jack know what his social security and bank account numbers were, and I was grateful that he didn't draw a map of how to get to our house.  Every time he opens his mouth I cringe, thinking that Jack has just ensured that if he is talking to a kidnapper, at least they'll know exactly where to pick him up.  There are no such things as secrets when you are five, and the idea that anyone wouldn't want to have every detail of their lives shouted out to passersby is just unheard of.  

How do I teach him to show restraint without killing his hope for humanity?  How do I protect him without smothering him?  It is such a fragile line between caution and full blown hysteria that finding the delicate balance ensuring my children's safety without damaging their psyche will be harder than I first thought.  I'll probably end up in therapy trying to keep my kids from needing it.   

Unraveled

Have you ever watched someone completely unravel from sanity?  No?  Well, let me tell you about it.  It's not unlike pulling on that one tiny end of yarn at your waistline thinking it's just a bit of lint, when in all actuality it's the beginning of the end of your sweater.  One sharp tug is all it takes to start the process.  If you keep pulling on the thread, the sweater will only last a matter of minutes.  If you leave it alone and try smoothing over what you've started, the sweater will last a bit longer.  It might even make it through a few washings before it becomes just one incredibly long piece of nothing.  Either way, you'll never wear it with confidence again.

If you could see me right now, you'd know that whatever remained of my mind up until this morning is now nothing more than a tangled mass of yarn pooling at my feet.  My sweater of sanity has unraveled, leaving me exposed and vulnerable to the people who pulled the string.  I need a dark room with soothing music and a metric ton of chocolate in order to rally.  Maybe then I can think about making a poncho out of the scraps I have left.

Anyway, the events that led me to total mental destruction this morning were thus:

1) Henry is teething.  Really, do I need to say anything more?  I don't, but I'm going to.  My pain is now yours as well.
Along with fever, drooling and general grumpiness, one of the most common symptoms of a teething baby is the terrific diarrhea and subsequent diaper rash.  Poor Henry is suffering terribly in this particular area, therefore so are we.  Every few hours you will find us performing the same horrific tasks, like some sort of hellish re-enactment of Groundhog Day.
This morning I actually made myself a hot breakfast.  Melt in your mouth bacon, crispy hashbrowns and eggs, over medium.  My tummy was rumbling at the thought of real food (yesterday I had a handful of carrots in between packing boxes until Jordan came home and cooked dinner) and I grinned in anticipation of the savory delights that awaited me.  As I put the first bite of food into my mouth however, I heard Henry yell from the kitchen and I ran to see what trouble he'd gotten himself into.  It turns out that he was trapped in some awful yoga position in one of the kitchen cabinets and had been straining so hard to get free that his already taxed bowels released themselves... upside down.  Gravity took over with the result of poop coming out of the neckline of his shirt.  By the time I got him undressed (WHY do they only make baby clothes that go on over the head???), a bath was vital.  For both of us.

2) Because I've been busy packing and haven't been as vigilant with rationing, Mitch has eaten a LOT of popcorn and apricot leather in the last few days.  So, while I was bathing Henry, Mitch came at a run to use the facilities.  He kind of made it... mostly.  Needless to say, he got to use the other tub while I disinfected the bathroom.

3) Everyone finally washed, bathroom clean and myself practically dipped in bleach, I sit down to my now very cold hot breakfast to take a bite of congealed, rubbery eggs and sigh in self pity.  That was my mistake.  I let down my guard for an instant.  A moment. A nanosecond of time that was the last tug on my sweater.  Henry reached his tiny hand up and quick as a snake, grabbed my plate to fling it backward, over his head in a rather impressive arc that covered floor, wall, tv and table.  I can attest that ketchup has a splatter pattern not unlike those I've seen of crime scene photos and egg yolk will harden in seconds.  The next 30 minutes were spent scraping and washing the living room, including a brief but violent struggle with Henry over a piece of bacon.  Tears were shed on both sides.

4) Jordan called as I was finishing the last of the scrubbing, to tell me that the lenders working on our home loan have asked for a new document to prove that he was in the Army.  The Army was very helpful and said that it's no problem at all to get us that particular document... in approximately 30 days.    So, we won't be moving this Friday as we had originally thought.  We have no idea when that will happen now that I've got most of our household in boxes in the front room.

All of these events have led me to where I am right now, eating heath bar ice cream in my pajamas at 10 o'clock in the morning, watching the kids make a ramp out of the couch cushions to roll their baby brother down.  I threw a couple of pillows at the bottom of the ramp, but that's all I have in me at the moment.  I am currently unraveled.   

Happy Birthday, Baby!

Henry is ONE!  I can't believe how quickly the past year has gone by.  I miss the sweet scent of a newborn and the soft coo of an infant.  Now we ask each other questions such as "Why does the baby smell like meat?" and we hear the ear splitting trill of 'daDAdadada!'.  He is the sweetest baby I've ever met but, like all babies, he is a lot of work.  I truly think that the high pitched chipmunk chatter I hear coming from his crib in the pre-dawn stillness is a motivational speech he gives himself in order to keep up the fast paced activities throughout the day.  He goes over the checklist, sometimes twice, just to make sure he doesn't forget anything.

 I long for the days when he was still immobile and content to stay so.  Wasn't it wonderful when he just laid there sucking on his toes?   Now, he is everywhere and into everything.  He methodically and systematically works his way through the house checking items off of his to-do list:

Pull on the curtains to bend the rod?  Check.
Dump out my brother's water bottle in the recliner?  Check.  Check.
Splash in toilets?  Check. Check.  Check.

He empties drawers in the kitchen, he climbs in cupboards, he tips over the trash can.  The floor is piled high with the rubble of his passing.  One must negotiate rather carefully in order to survive crossing the wasteland that used to be our living room.

Sitting from the (relative) safety of the desk, I can survey the extent of the damage and the need to document the destruction is overwhelming.  There are smashed graham crackers in the rug and a piece of wet, limp turkey jerky under the couch.  I guess that explains why the baby smells like meat.  Large sized Legos and stuffed animals are spread out as far as the eye can see.  My turkey baster and someone's toothbrush are under the television table and all the bottom shelves have been emptied of their books.  Because the floor is so obviously Henry's domain, the older boys have taken to spreading their toys out on the higher surfaces.  Therefore the piano is covered in pirate and firefighter figurines frozen in the midst of battle.  The mantel is a display for the smaller sized Lego sculptures and one very odd arrangement of used sucker sticks built into a teepee.  As I type all of this, I watch Henry slide into the room doing that army low crawl he's so famous for, and it looks like he's swimming through a sea of Legos as he pushes them out of his way to cut a path.  When he looks up and meets my gaze, his face lights up, squishing into the most heartwarming and contagious smile I've ever seen and he squeals out a greeting: "Hiiii!".  Sigh.  He is forgiven.  How can I begrudge the happy devastation of his surroundings when he does it with such uncensored joy?  That sweet little guy is perfect just as he is, and I wouldn't change a thing.  I am, however, counting down the minutes until nap time.

It's A Date

Jordan and I celebrated our 6 year anniversary recently and were lucky enough to know someone who was willing to put her life on the line in order to babysit for us while we spent the day together.  My friend is a loving, courageous woman whom the boys all adore, but she will probably need counseling after a full day spent with my little angels.  In fact, when we arrived to pick them up that afternoon, she was a shell of the woman we had left behind earlier that morning.  I pray for her full and speedy recovery and hope that she will someday be able to see my children without a full body shudder and hasty backward steps to keep out of range.  Time will tell.

I can't remember the last time that I was able to leave the kids behind in order to spend time with my husband.   I reminded Jordan that the only time I've ever been away from the kids for more than a few hours at a time, was when I went to the hospital to have another one.  He looked at me in horror and pity, then announced that I needed to get out more.  Believe you me, mister, you aren't telling me anything I don't already know.

It felt surreal as we drove away from the house at 7-am without the little cherubs chirping in the back seat, and I was filled with excitement at the thought of being able to actually go INTO the gas station.  Jordan encouraged me to take my time since we were ahead of schedule for the septic inspection (Aren't we the pair of romantics? We also scheduled a meeting with the lender and made a trip to the bank for copies of statements. It was heavenly.), and I skipped across the asphalt in downright giddiness.  I didn't necessarily want or need anything, but that didn't curb my desire to browse.  Imagine my pleasure when I realized that they were still selling Snickers!  I bought one out of a sense of nostalgia, earning another look from my husband.  He was certain I'd reached the point he'd been dreading for awhile now and steps would need to be taken to put me into some kind of long term care facility.  In the meantime, I was treated like a queen.  A fragile, slightly batty and eccentric queen, but royalty none the less.  He took me to a bookstore, to which I reacted with childlike wonder.  Imagine being able to read again!  I hope I remember how when the time comes.  They say it's just like riding a bike however, and that once you do it you'll always know how.  Hmmm.  I wonder if I can still ride a bike...

We had lunch together.  Such a simple statement, but so powerful in the meaning.  What it means to us is that we were able to eat while the food was hot.  We didn't have to cut up or remove undesirable parts of anyone's food but our own.  We conversed in full sentences without raising our voices to be heard over the din of small people banging spoons against the table.  No one complained that their ketchup was too red or their noodles too short.  At the end of the meal, we weren't required to spend 2 minutes under the table picking up stray bits of food, the baby's sippy cup and a most beloved pet rock.  For the first time in a long time, I was able to hold my head high as we walked out of a restaurant, and not scurry out the door quickly, leaving a rather large tip for the unfortunate individual having to clean up after our pack of wild hyenas.

We saw a movie that was not animated and I didn't have to share my popcorn and coke during it.  I was able to eat my candy out in the open, instead of surreptitiously dipping my head into my purse during all the action parts when everyone's attention is on the screen.

I wasn't ready for the fun to end, but I was most definitely missing the boys, so we headed home.  I have to admit though, I was exhausted from the thrill of being alone with the love of my life.  My heart can only pitter patter so much before I need a healthy dose of reality.  I think dating is like a muscle, and if you don't use it, it atrophies.  Which means that I am dreadfully out of shape and could probably use the practice of a nice second date, but I also like my friends sane and not drooling.

 Jordan won bonus level extra credit points on the way home when he melted my heart with the comment "Even though we don't get to go out like this very often, I have fun with you every day.".  I suppose that could be one of the best compliments of my life, that even in the midst of the mundane day to day routine called life, I am enjoyable to be around.  Either that or he's trying to lull me into signing papers that admit me somewhere nice and quiet.

Funny Bones

Two little monkeys were jumping on the bed, one fell off and broke his... elbow.  I know it doesn't rhyme, but sometimes life has a way of just... well, not rhyming.  The other day( I forget which, they all tend to blur together into a kaleidoscope of popsicles, ibuprofen and corn-dogs), Jack and Mitch were jumping on Jack's bed.  Now, you all know from my previous blogs that I am a hands-on mother who considers safety control one of the most important aspects of my day, so I just don't know how Jack could've possibly gotten hurt!
Okay.  That was a blatant lie, and I already feel guilty.  Hmm, maybe guilty isn't quite right.  More like disappointed?  Nope, that's not it, either.  Hungry?

Regardless of my emotional state, I need to set the record straight (THAT rhymed!), I spent the first half of the day ready to open a can on either one of the boys for jumping on EVERYTHING!  They jumped on the couch, the chair, the bed and each other while I turned blue in the face from yelling.  I was a seething, wild-eyed woman twitching on the edge of a meltdown.  I had actually gotten to the point of purposefully ignoring them just to save their lives.  They had several near death experiences that they weren't even aware of, so I went to the back bedroom to iron their church clothes and meditate on the condition of my soul.  I was so angry that I didn't even put the iron down when I heard a tremendously loud thump followed by a scream.  In my defense, I was on the last sleeve and seconds away from being completely done.  I remember thinking, I need to finish this before I walk away or else I'll leave the iron on all night and burn the house down.  Plus, I was giving the injured party a chance to come up with a likely story that would melt the ice around my cold, cold heart.

Jack came into the kitchen at the same time as I came out of the back room, and I could tell right away that it wasn't good.  He was pasty white, panting and guarding his arm and as soon as he saw me he said he was going to be sick.  So, I laid him on the couch and started a movie while I got ibuprofen and band aids.  The band aids were a last ditch effort to calm him down, kind of like a sugar pill to someone with a headache.  Sometimes it really works; he thinks he's dying but as soon as you put a band aid on the "injury", he has a miraculous recovery and all is well.  Needless to say, it didn't work this time.  He went glassy eyed and said he was freezing instead of running off to jump on something else.  That was my cue to call Jordan home from work.  We were going to the E.R.!

The doctor at the hospital was very cool, he spoke to Jack about the consequences of not heeding a mother's warning, he made Jack sing the song about the monkeys on the bed, and he brought us to his office to show Jack all of his x-rays and explain exactly how he was injured.  Jack was somewhat bummed out that there weren't any pictures of his skull, and when the doctor explained that since he hadn't hurt his head they couldn't order any, Jack offer to hit himself in the old noggin just to comply.  No pain is too great to pass up the opportunity for a skull x-ray to hang on the wall.

That night was one of the longest in history.  I barely made it to the pharmacy in time to fill the prescription for Jack's pain medication, and I cannot imagine how much worse off we'd be if we hadn't of gotten it.  He was in misery trying to find a comfortable position in which to sleep and he always woke up crying at least an hour before he could have his next dose.  But when the drugs kicked in... whoa.  Good stuff, man.  People tell me that Jack is a funny kid, and I can honestly say that he is even funnier when he's high.  If there is anything more entertaining than watching Jack watch Avenger's when he's on codeine, I haven't found it yet.  He kept saying things like "What the shmeow?" and "I don't remember that part!".  When the movie couldn't hold his attention, I watched him blow raspberries for 3 full minutes.  That's a long time for someone over the age of 2, so I think he was feeling pretty good.

Bedtime was awful, however.  I was up with him from midnight, trying to keep him calm and quiet, until 2:00 a.m. when I could give another dose of tylenol with codeine.  I could see the exact moment when it worked it's magic, though.  He stopped crying and immediately became completely absorbed in watching the hand on his uninjured arm slowly open and close.  Suddenly, he blurts out in his best 5 year old quiet voice "Whoa! Wook at that, Mommy! My arm isn't broken!" to which I replied in my best quietly chortling voice "Yes, dear. It's your OTHER arm that is broken.".  That poor, sweet, stoned baby boy looked down at the arm in the sling and said "Huh. Oh yeah." and instantly fell asleep.  Drugs so good, you forget that you have TWO arms.

The next morning the top of my head almost exploded in a fiery mess of insanity when I walked around the corner to see Mitch jumping on Jack's bed.  I wasn't even sure I spoke English when I told him to get down, I think it was more the language of basic rage.  Jack innocently and patiently explained the situation thusly; "Mom.  He just jumping on the bed.  Mitch is more careful than me."  Whaa?  How did Mitch come away looking like the careful one???   All I can think is that Jack had been through a traumatic experience and had drugs in his system.  There's no other reason he would say such a thing.

Packing Heat

I am trying to pack our house so that we will be able to move in a month.  Wow.  I just read that sentence 6 times and went into shock.  It looks so simple typed out like that.  As far as mission statements go, this one is pretty straightforward.  The problem is that I am packing our house while 3 boys under the age of five "HELP" me.  And because I just typed out that last sentence, I need to go lay down for a minute...

I'm back.  Sort of.  I'm afraid that part of me will never come back from this experience.  I'm going to leave a piece of me behind, probably one of the more stable ones I have left.

There isn't enough chocolate in the world to save my kids right now.  I TRY to pack.  Everyday, I try.  As soon as I get a box down and start putting things into it, all three of the little buggers come from all points of the house to gather around the glorious box full of untold treasures.  They are certain the things that I'm packing are worth fighting for. Sometimes to the death.  They have lived with these same items in their field of vision, literally their entire lives and have never batted an eye.  But put those things into a box... and you have temptations they just can't resist.  They unpack each box as fast as I can pack it, then wind up rolling around on the floor, wrestling with each other to see who gets to play with a seashell/desk clock/needlepoint pillow.
I cleaned off the top of the fridge yesterday and I was sure that I'd have to call child protective services and turn myself in before the day was through.  Either that, or become an alcoholic by dinnertime.  For years now, we've used the top of the fridge as a sort of catch-all for broken and annoying toys.  Or toys that we've confiscated because the kids can't control their homicidal tendencies when playing with them. So you can imagine the maniacal glee that filled the air as I stood on a chair lifting down their contraband and the ensuing mayhem that occurred.  They danced around with their arms outstretched, whooping and squealing at the chance to bop each other on the head one more time with a bubble wand.  It took 3 hours of hard work and a healthy fear of prison to clean that fridge top, as well as a lot of blood, sweat and tears.  Not all of which was mine.

I have to give Jordan points for tact because by the time he got home last night, I was NOT the woman he married.  I was an eye twitching, lip snarling harridan who couldn't focus on anything he said.  In fact, he mentioned something about "all of us packing", and my only thought was that we are most definitely NOT all packing.  I don't have a gun, and where did the kids get a gun?  Jordan was the only one of us packing and that was only for work, but now that I think about it I probably shouldn't be packing... wait.  "What did you say, dear?"

I'm seriously thinking of just walking away from everything we own to start fresh in the new house.  We can rough it for awhile and buy more junk later.  Mmmmm.  I just thought of going book shopping and I smiled for the first time all day.

Un-Reasoning Crazy

"Jack, I'm not going to tell you again to stop unrolling the toilet paper roll all over the back seat of the car."
"Buttt... The werewolves are fighting in the mountain, and there's Dr. Phil with a mask on because we need ropes and bandages.  Get it together, Dad!  And I'm not talking about this."

Did you see what he just did?  Mythical creatures, some misinformation (Dr. Phil was added for the element of confusion), and a lot of 5 year old rage means it's impossible to argue any further.  Game over.  Child: 1; Parents: left stammering and gesturing.  You can't reason with the unreasonable.

Unfortunately, this was just a moment in our day.  This kind of dialog seems to be the norm for the Everett family for the foreseeable future as we can't get the kid to make any kind of sense.  Ever.  There are dragons that keep him from taking his clothes to the laundry, tiny bones in his ears that make his brain hurt so bad that he can't hear me say that I want him to eat his chicken and pirates pop up in the strangest places to entice him to hit his brother for no discern-able reason.  My favorite is when he tells us that Miss Uta (his teacher) told him to tell us that it's okay for him to have ice cream and popcorn for dinner and Optimus Prime decided that we are supposed to let him play Angry Birds on our phones until the battery dies.  Why am I never included in these major decisions?  Why aren't the parents invited to sit in on the council meeting that holds a vote on what he wears, eats, plays and does?  I'll tell you why.  Because we haven't got it together, that's why.  We are un-hip, not cool and totally lame.  We are completely mainstream people who are trying to raise little people who are the exact opposite of mainstream.  We eat chicken and fish while he craves green eggs and ham.

Jordan and I are walking a fine line between letting him have a little room to explore the worlds that are possible to only him and losing ourselves in his crazy.  I heard my husband ask Jack for some condiments to go with the order of delusions that Jack was feeding him and realized that we are both sometimes very close to falling off the CLIFFS OF INSANITY!  Is there an eventual end to the madness of trying to find new and inventive ways to exclude a diaper box named Whisper Dan from family activities without hurting Jack's feelings?  Or am I going to have to make room for WD at next year's Thanksgiving table?  Is this why my mom is slightly fuzzy?  Because it's a vicious cycle that repeats itself with every child/parent relationship?  If that is the case, I whole-heartedly apologize to you, Mom.  I'm thankful that after raising four of us to adulthood you are still able to even tie your shoes without drooling on the floor.  Something that I wasn't even capable of this morning.  How long can I tread water in a 5 year olds subconscious before I go under forever?  I need to get away from the tiny John Nash for a little bit each week before I stop thinking like me, and start thinking like him.   I need to get a hobby that isn't kid related.  Maybe macrame.  In the meantime... "Put a little mustard on mine, Captain Crazy!"

Light it up, people!

Having children with autism can be challenging.  And terrifying... overwhelming, lonely, heartbreaking, frustrating, stressful and maddening.  I've never really talked to anyone about how autism has affected our family because it's really hard sometimes to not just fall apart in the telling.  I lose sleep with worrying about my boys, but especially about little Mitch.

Everything that I've read about children who grow up having autism describes lonely people who never had any friends, not because they didn't want them- but because they didn't know how to reach out and make them.  Or because they were so hard to communicate with that people didn't make the effort to get to know them.  Is this what my son has to look forward to?  The thought has me crying quietly into my pillow some nights.  I see him try in his own way to make a connection with other kids, and I watch the kids look at him funny because they can't figure out what he's doing.  Then they go on with their own games, leaving Mitch alone to mimic their movements from the sidelines.  I know he thinks he is now playing with them, because he's doing what they are doing, but he won't be fooled for much longer.  He's growing up, and soon he will begin to realize that he is so different, the other kids won't play with him.  I have no ill feelings towards these other children, they aren't doing anything deliberately hurtful.  They are just normal children immersed in play.  They aren't behaving meanly or in a bullying manner, they just don't see what I see.  A little boy who wants a friend.  How do I protect my child from this hurt that I see on his horizon?  How do I provide a way for him to be fulfilled with meaningful relationships?

Other worries include things like: Will he be able to hold down a job after he's grown, or do I need to be putting money aside now in order to make sure he's provided for in his later years?  Can he go to a regular public school, or will he get kicked out as so many kids with autism are?  How do I make sure he doesn't take that as another rejection of his not being good enough for society's standards?  How do I know how much he comprehends when he keeps everything so bottled up?  I'm scared that he will be hurt by something one of us does and we won't ever know to fix it so he lives in grief forever.

Along with all of this heartache and worry, there are moments of such incredible sweetness and joy that it drives away every doubt I have about my own ability to raise these children accordingly.  In the midst of the chaos and destruction that is everyday life at our house, Mitch will astound us with the sweet sound of his untried voice saying my name for the first time in his 4 years of life.  I was beginning the process of coming to terms with the possibility of never hearing it when he finally looked right at me and called it out in a squeaky mumble that moved me to tears.
He's making great strides in the language development area in the last few weeks.  He's been working so hard every day to get farther along in his communication.  Yesterday I was showing him different facial expressions and teaching him the word for each.  His favorite was "happy" and he said "I'm happy" all afternoon.  When I tucked him into bed a few hours later I told him to have happy dreams and as he tried to repeat it back to me, his little face was so frightened because he realized he had lost the word happy.  I can't begin to describe the pride I felt as I watched him gather his courage to start from the beginning, slowly repeating it again and again until he remembered it.  The look of relief on his face when he realized he could still say the word was something to see.  A few minutes after I had shut the door to the boys' room, Jordan and I could hear a sound on the baby monitor.  Our little guy was laying in the dark while the other boys were sleeping, softly practicing "happy dreams" over and over again.

Living where we do, it's hard to feel like we aren't alone in our struggles.  I think it's hard for even a normal family to feel like they aren't alone here, let alone a family that needs special services.  I read about support groups in big cities where parents of children with autism can get together and brainstorm, get/give advice or just chat.  Every time I hear of something like this, I can't help feeling a bit jealous.  I personally do not know anyone else with a child diagnosed with autism.  I have no one to bounce ideas off of other than my husband, and basically we are just winging it.  We read books and articles, and through a lot of trial and error we somehow make it through each day.

The reason I wrote all of this down wasn't to complain or make anyone feel sorry for us.  That's the last thing I want.  What I wanted was to give you an idea of how much of a difference it has made for us to see the world's support of what we do on a daily basis and to thank you.  All of you.  Everyone out there who has been lighting things up blue for Autism Awareness Month, you just got a great big cyber kiss on the cheek from the Everett family.  It has meant so much to my husband and me to see all the blue out there in the world in support of people like Mitch.  It gives us hope that not everyone will look at him differently, that someday he will have a best friend, and that he will be accepted into society with open arms.  From the Eiffel Tower to the church down the street with a blue ribbon tied around the tree, each and every sighting is a gift; a visible prayer, hug and pat on the back all rolled into one.  Every time I see another picture of a building lit up with blue lights in some place in Hungary or get a text saying that the tree trunks in Seattle have been painted blue, my heart grins and I feel encouraged and loved.  What's more important, is that I feel like Mitch is loved too.  That's an amazing feeling for someone who was feeling so alone just a few days ago, so keep it up, people!  Bring on the BLUE!

Growth Spurts

I know instinctively that all parents have had that moment when you look at your child/children and are shocked at how insanely HUGE they suddenly are.  Most of the time you actually say it out loud with an affronted tone to your voice: "WHEN did you get to be so BIG???".  The child then looks back at you with an innocent and concerned expression that basically calls you an old crazy person without saying a word.  Children of every age are particularly skilled in this area.  I believe it's something they are born with.

I think that it's even more shocking to a parent's psyche when you realize that not only are the children growing physically, but emotionally as well.  When you look for your five year old and realize that he is hiding in his room listening to and singing along to Deftones (with Maynard), your jaw drops and your mind actually boggles a bit.  I say this with hard won experience because Jack has sent me spinning this week.  He's hit this emotional developmental milestone that is the equivalent of an angst ridden pre-teen, while still being obsessed with a five year old little boy's topics.  He steals the scotch tape to cordon off the doorways to the office so that he can play "Crime Scene".  He makes a family out of Legos whom he wants to spend the quality time with each day, rather than his real family.  He emits deep sighs when asked to do his chores, when just last week he was running and jumping at the opportunity to help Mommy.  He's convinced that he's a vampire and that his real vampire parents are desperate to find him.  I'm not sure at which moment he left a very large chunk of his baby-hood behind, but sometime in the last few days he's had a growth spurt that's pushed him farther into the realm of boy and (gasp) eventually man.

I can't help but be amazed at how fast he's growing and it seems as though time has sped up to lightning speed since having children.  Before I had kids I was completely blase about the subject of time.  I'd say things like "time flies" without really understanding that it actually DOES.  Now when I think of the time when Jack was a tiny baby, my arms are confused at the large boy that I am holding and my eyes search his face for some tell-tale sign of that cherub-like infant.  

At the same time that I am mourning the loss of my baby, I am thrilled at his development.  The discoveries being made everyday by my son are leading me to some discoveries of my own.  I want him to learn and grow and become independent, just as I want to hold him tight awhile longer.  However, the more he achieves the easier it is for me to let him go because I'm having the time of my life watching him become his own person.  I get excited with him when he figures things out for himself and there is nothing that makes me prouder than when he tries to do something that has stumped him 100 times before.  The sheer guts a five year old has to pick himself up every time he fails, just to try again, is inspiring.  And when he finally succeeds... victory is incredibly sweet for us all.  Yesterday he snapped his own pants for the first time and I'm not sure who smiled bigger - him, Daddy or me.  At night when I can't sleep, I try to envision the man he will someday be and I am thrilled that I get to know that person.  I can't wait to meet my son in 20 years, I know he will be amazing because he already is.  I can see him so clearly... he will be a delightfully funny and brilliantly accomplished vampire CSI with a degree in architecture and who sings in a band on the weekends.  And I will probably still be wondering how he got to be so big.

On the other hand, I am greatly relieved that he is still young enough to be suddenly reduced to tears at the thought of Lego Henry spending the night outside in the dirt.  Watching him stand at the kitchen window with worry in his giant brown eyes as Daddy searches the backyard with a flashlight warms my wretched and selfish soul.  He's still my little guy for a while longer.