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.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
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!"
"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!"
Monday, April 8, 2013
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!
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!
Monday, February 4, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, November 12, 2012
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:
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.
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. 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.
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.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
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.
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