My Little Boy is Growing Up (and getting on my last nerve)

Well, the day finally came that our older son Christopher moved to a big boy bed. It didn't come without a fight; I didn't think he would be okay with it. But he was apparently more than ready. Not that he had a choice, anyway. The night before he had jumped so high in his crib that the springs broke and he couldn't sleep in it anymore.

So we went to a second-hand children's store and lo and behold, there it was: a fire truck bed. Christopher ran to it and threw his self on top of it, as if he were marking his territory. It was a moot point; there was only one other person in the store, and she looked old enough to be my mom.

He begged and pleaded, which was pointless because we were going to get it for him anyway. It was only $80 and in really good shape.

I ended up calling my dad to come with me later that day and help pick up the bed. It was able to disassemble into pieces, but the pieces were still too big for my car. So he went with me, and after picking it up, I went to pick up the boys to go home. As soon as Christopher knew his bed was in the back of Paw Paw's van, he wanted to go with Paw Paw, but we had to take the seats out to make room for the bed.

I called my husband to meet us in town after he got off of work to transfer the bed to the back of his truck. As soon as Christopher knew his bed was in the back of the truck, he wanted to go with Daddy. He didn't want his bed getting lost, and being out of sight of it, if only for fifteen minutes, would have broken the (already broken) chain of custody. He screamed all the way home.

The first night he only got out of bed three times, the second night, once. Last night, however, he was doing all he could to stay awake, and kept jumping up and out of bed. The last time he got out of bed was as he was attempting to climb on the "roof" of the truck and fell off, hitting his head on the carpeted floor. He was fine, but he was mad at his bed for "throwing him off".

However, that hasn't stopped him from practically living on it since it came home. It's his bed, his truck, and when he drapes his VeggieTales quilt over it, it becomes his secret fort, where he can look out the windshield and watch people go by. I watch him play and I'm glad he has the imagination to play for hours with a molded piece of plastic that is his bed. He giggles as people walk by his secret fort and he touches their legs, his little arm a flash as he pulls it back into his fort. As he grows, I hope he still has a little mischief in his blood, because even as an adult, I yearn for the days when I could build my fort and just ignore the world.

Things that Take on a Different Meaning Once You Have Kids

I was thinking about how much my life has changed since having kids. Even conversations and phrases have taken on different meanings since becoming "mommy". For instance..

Wet T-Shirt Contest
Before children: Usually beautiful, scantily clad women being hosed down as people cheer
As a mommy: the wet spots your boobs make when you've skipped a feeding, or after a feeding when the baby spits up on you.

Power Struggle
Before Children: Sometimes made in business while attempting to take over the competitor
As a mommy: the fights while trying to get your toddler to sleep, eat, or use the big boy potty in a vain attempt to prevent accidents.

Accidents
Before children: it usually involves a motor vehicle
As a mommy: a puddle of pee on the floor or even better, poop in the bed of a potty training two and a half year old.

Foreplay
Before children:the prelude to lovemaking.
As a mommy: four family members playing Chutes and Ladders.

Pain
Before children: a paper cut
As a mommy: labor and delivery after the epidural wore off

Love
Before children: used to describe everything from your husband the cup of coffee you just had
As a mommy: the word used exclusively to describe everything about your children (and only your children)

As Far as Moms Go, Mine is Pretty Cool

For as long as I can remember, my mom was always the "Cool Mom". She was the one person in the room who could walk among strangers and walk out with friends.

I yearned to be like her, to be confident in myself no matter what. I didn't succeed in high school, where I longed to stay blended into the walls to avoid detection. I never saw my mom without her self-assurance.

Not to say we didn't have our arguments or fights. My teenage years with her were mostly locking horns and trying to pin each other down to be the dominant one, but after I got married, she and I became more like friends. She told me she had always wanted our relationship to be that of friends, but growing up I needed a parent more than I needed a friend. So once she was sure she had done her job of raising me, she became my friend. She gave me marriage advice, friend advice, work advice. We can joke around together, like in the above picture. (The one in the purple is my sister Kelie, and the one holding the toy guitar is my mom...I'm the one in the glasses.)

But even in high school, between the fights and screaming matches, I realized she WAS pretty cool. She never tried to be cool, like most parents did. She was just her usual, chatty, friendly self. She knew the latest dirty jokes, had stories from her bowling trips, and we just enjoyed hanging out, whether at home or at the mall. I was never ashamed she was my mom. I didn't care who knew it. She was the greatest. She overcame so much, and turned into a strong, wonderful woman.

Even now, I know I can always turn to her for parenting advice, and she's always done really well with not overstepping my rules or boundries. She's turned into the world's greatest grandma, but I'll be honest...I'm always worried I won't be as good a mother as she was and is.

But beware....what happens at grandma's...stays at grandma's. :)

Spring is Here, and my Son is in the Mud....At least I hope it's Mud

Christopher has always been a "boy's boy". He loves what his daddy loves, which would be touching if it didn't make him smarter than me. He loves tractors and trucks, and when compelled, can tell you the difference between a combine and a tractor, or the difference between a cow and a steer. Most children his age don't know the difference of either of those scenarios, but he's got farming blood running through his veins.

From the time he was born, my husband was "grooming" him for the farming life, and a part of me died. I've loved music all my life: I sang with a professional choir for nine years and with it, traveled to eight different countries. I have the radio on more than the TV, and we entertain ourselves by dancing around the kitchen as I cook or clean. I had precious moments with him as an infant, dancing with him in the living room and humming in his ear because it was the only thing to settle the middle-of-the-night crying. And yet, as he grows older, he's leaning more toward dad's side.

When he has a choice now, he would prefer to leave my side and go with daddy to the barn. That's where the trouble starts, and that's where I come in to clean him up. He's usually covered in mud. At least, I hope it's mud. As much mischief as he gets into, I wouldn't be surprised if he came in covered in cow poo. Or, if his dad has things to work on, he'll strap on his toy tool belt and follow daddy down to the shop to "help" work on machinery or a random car or two.

In a way, I mourn. I had always hoped my son would excel in the arts, but alas, I doubt it will ever be. But I hope that my son knows he's loved every second of every day by both of us, regardless of what he does or says. I know there will come a time when he will decide what is best for him, and I encourage him no matter what his choices are. But deep down, I know that more than likely, he'll live and die on daddy's farm, just like daddy, and in the meantime, he'll play in the (what I hope is) mud.

When in Doubt, Assume the Worst: A Mommy's Guide to Neuroses

I've always been neurotic. But having kids just made my neuroses worse, and added new ones to the list. I just figured I'd share them with you, and determine one of two things will happen: you'll either relate or laugh your butt off.

Street fairs: I like the elephant ears. That's about it. The rides I refuse to let my boys ride on, with the theory that it makes me nervous these machines can be put together in three hours or less, but still considered safe enough. The live bands are okay, as long as you sit back far enough, otherwise I freak out that my boys could go deaf.

TV: as long as it's on PBS Kids, life is good. I also like the lineup on CBS on Monday nights. You can never go wrong with the Big Bang Theory. But I'm also drawn to shows like Dateline NBC and 20/20 like a passer-by is drawn to a car wreck, often causing a three-car pileup fifteen feet away from the original crash scene. How the world is able to function and people are able to survive, I'll never know. Viruses, child predator, feces in our drinking water...I'm still waiting for the medication commercial that lists "Could turn into a lemur" as one of its side effects. I swear every week I'll never watch those shows again, but it's like an addiction.

Clowns: Saw Stephen King's IT when I was four....'nough said.

Beaches: Not so much scared of sharks...surprising, huh? Actually, I've never swam in anything other than a pool or lake, and not by choice. I've never been in a state next to an ocean. :) But I'm a mommy of two. I wear my stretch marks like badges of honor, but they don't look good with a "mummy tummy" in a bathing suit. I wonder if the bathing suits that really look like suits will come back into style?

Super Moms: the moms that make me look or feel bad by implying I'm a bad mother because (shock) I choose to work to keep food in my and my children's stomach and a roof over their head. I'm one of many who swallowed their pride and got a job for the well-being of my family. I also believe it's not child abuse to give my child pre-processed foods, or by swinging through the drive-thru when it's been a long day and I know my son will be asleep by the time we get home. I believe they think they have to treat their children like a giant sign to advertise what wonderful moms they are.

As neurotic as I am, I'm not overly concerned with me or my children constantly washing their hands. Don't get me wrong. It's a mandatory when it should be, like after using the bathroom or before eating, but my family's motto has always been "A little dirt don't hurt." But it became painfully obvious the rest of the world doesn't agree with our mantra, because after toddler time at the library, my son gave a little girl in the group a goodbye hug, which was recipricated with joy. But no sooner had they disengaged from each other, her mother practically bathed her in Germ-X. I was dumbfounded. My son wasn't dirty. He has a bath every night, and his clothes were clean. So why does she automatically assume the worst? She must watch Dateline and 20/20 like I do.

And just the other day, I felt the icy stab of irony. Two of my cousins had babies in their teens. I never thought it would happen in my family, and though they were and still are two of the best moms I know, I swore I would never do the same.

Yet, as I stood in line in the grocery store checkout line, thumbing through the newest copy of Cosmo, I felt that weird overwhelming sense that I was being watched. I looked up to find a mother and her daughter who looked about fifteen. The mother was looking at Christopher, who was sound asleep in the basket of the cart, and Timothy, dozing in his car seat, a lazy smile grazing his lips every so often.

"How old?" she asked.

"Almost three and almost three months," not realizing that she was most likely asking my age, because she turned to her daughter and I heard her tell her daughter if she got pregnant like I did at my age, she would disown her.

Woah. It was like a sucker punch, as I had been married to Ben for almost two years when I had Christopher at 23, and still married to Ben when I had Timothy at 25. I look young, but I thought it was a stretch to assume I was a teenager. So I fought fire with fire.

"Excuse me."

She turned to me with a smile, oblivious that I had heard her. "Yes?"

"How old do you think I am?"

She froze like a deer in the headlights of my car, and stammered, finally muttering "Too young."

"As a matter of fact, I'm 26, and I've been married almost five years."

She blushed, finally realizing that I heard her. "I was just telling my daughter..."

"Get your facts before you judge." I was furious, though I had really no reason, but I felt compelled to stick up for my cousins, who probably felt judging eyes on them at all times. One of my cousins had her daughter at 16. She's worked hard to succeed as a woman and as a mom. She'd do anything for her daughters, and I doubt an "older mom" could make her look inferior. Though she's admitted the timing wasn't right, it was right because it saved her from her own self-destruction, and I strive to be the same loving mother she is.

As long as you love your child, nothing else matters. Except clowns....clowns are scary. :)

When did Rude become Commonplace?

During the course of my lifetime, my parents taught me right from wrong. Share your toys, don't hit, don't point, don't stare (not to mention "Say 'are we there yet?' one more time and you're walking").

My sister Kelie is a Special Needs Student. She graduated at the age of 19 from high school in 2005. Since then, she's stayed involved with her old class, participating in dances, social events, and the Mount Everest: Special Olympics.

Special Olympics has always been special, not just to her, but to my family. She was dragged to my cross country and track meets, forced to sit through school and outside choir practices and concerts. She could never be part of it because everyone viewed her as "different". Our family just always saw her as Kelie. But for her, this was her day to shine; where not only her parents and siblings, but her aunts and uncles, cousins and friends came to see her compete. She relished in the attention, even taking all of us over to meet her teachers. Her teacher commented that she must be really loved if everyone came to see her, and Kelie beamed.

I was her protector. Her freshman year of high school I would race across the school so I could be there to take her from class to class so she wouldn't get lost in the shuffle and miss her room. I walked ahead of her, feeling her hand on my backpack, leading her through the masses of students so she wouldn't get hurt. She was everyone's favorite. No matter what her day was like, she always smiled. She was happy.

And one day, my world and the way I viewed others was changed dramatically. While walking down a back hallway, her arm linked in mine, trying to avoid the crowds, I heard a football player say the forbidden word: retard.

I turned to face him. "What?" I asked.

"You heard me."

"Apologize." I, a lowly outcast, was trying to force a football player three times my size and surrounded by fellow players to apologize. But I was resilient. After the third time of asking, and three times he defied me, I became Super Sister. With the strength moms get to lift a car off their child, I lifted this football player an inch off the ground and pinned him to the locker.

He apologized, I put him down, and continued to weave my sister through the hazards as I heard his buddies say, "Dude, you got your butt kicked by a girl." An hour later, I was called down to the office and was almost suspended. I was just defending her, and saw nothing wrong with it.

Since then, we've both grown up a lot, mainly just because of time itself. I now have children of my own, and defend them with the same love and sensitivity I did for Kelie. But I fear that the rudeness of society is just beginning, and my boys will have so much more to go up against when they get to be that age. I hope that they have the same resilience, but that they go about it differently than I handled my own issues.

I was an outcast. I didn't have the right hair, the right clothes; I couldn't even speak correctly. I enjoyed reading and writing, learning new things and refused to drink, do drugs or have sex. I had too much on my plate as it was. I was teased mercilessly by pretty much everyone, to the point I developed anxiety attacks, couldn't see straight, and had to run out of the room at least once during every class to throw up. Finally one night, I overdosed on pain pills and waited for death. But my mom found the empty bottle, found me, and asked me if I took them. The moment I saw the fear, concern and pain on her face, I realized I didn't want to die. I had my stomach pumped and was kept overnight for observation.

I hope my boys don't have to go through all that pain on their own. I hope they can depend on me to help fight the battles that are too big to handle alone. But most of all, I hope society can change.

Brothers For Life: Some Days it's a Blessing, The Others it's a Sentence

Our journey began quite simply: a slimy, squirmy baby screaming on my still swollen stomach. My husband Ben was standing next to me, his hand on my shoulder and tears streaming down his face. It would have been touching except for the fact the epidural had stopped working when I started pushing, and the doctor was still between my legs stitching up god knows what. After fourteen hours of labor, two and a half hours of pushing, and threat of a C-Section, our son Christopher was here, one week early: Mother's Day and Mommy's Birthday. Countless friends and family streamed in and out that day to see the baby under the pretense they wanted to see how I was doing. It wasn't until 11:00 that night that my sister called me, apologizing profusely for forgetting to wish me happy birthday while she had been up there. Up until that moment, I was fuming because everyone forgot, but the moment she apologized, I realized I didn't care. She came not to celebrate MY birthday, but the birth of my first born child, and to me that mattered more.

Christopher was our joy that we never thought we'd have. After four miscarriages, the pregnancy with him was non-eventful in terms of medical issues, but psychologically I was fried. Every time I felt a twinge of pain or discomfort, no matter how normal, my heart would race and adrenaline would pump through my body. My heart would tailspin into my stomach. It got worse after I could feel the baby kicking; if I hadn't felt him kick in a while, I would panic. After poking and prodding in the lump in my stomach I assumed was his rear end, I would see a giant lump roll across my taut and stretched belly and a firm kick in the kidneys, and I could breathe again (as well as a six month pregnant woman can breathe with feet in her kidneys). How I lived through nine and a half months of these moments I'll never know. But we settled in as a family at home. I relished in watching him grow, learning to smile and crawl. My husband and I had always wanted two children, and we thought we wanted them close together in age, so we started trying again shortly after his first birthday.

But again fate was dealing us crappy cards, and we were going all in. After four more miscarriages, we were sent in for testing, and our dreams were shattered: I was diagnosed with Factor V(five) Leiden and Lupus Anticoagulating Antibodies (not affiliated with Lupus in the slightest). Long story short: I shouldn't have been able to have Christopher, I should have died giving birth to him, the chances for having another were slim to none, and he was shocked I hadn't had a stroke. I was dumbstruck, and my heart was breaking. I was sitting in the doctor's exam room alone, wrapping my brain around the very real possibility Christopher would be an only child, when he explained that the disorders were causing my blood to clot more frequently than normal, and my body was rejecting my babies. So there it was: my husband was normal and I felt like a freak, incapable of doing what my body should have been doing naturally. I went home with a prescription for a blood thinner and strict instructions to start taking it immediately. I never filled the prescription.

Three months later, I'm standing in my bathroom, wide-eyed and staring at a pregnancy test with a positive sign staring back at me. I immediately called my doc, who put me on Lovenox shots that day, to keep me alive and the baby gestating. I stayed on the Lovenox for the whole pregnancy, injecting twice a day into my stomach, until my stomach was so tight that I couldn't pinch any more fat pockets to inject into, in which case I switched to injecting into my upper legs. They burned like fire, but I had to do this to save me and my unborn child.

My pregnancy started out uneventful, but as it progressed, I started going to the office twice a week, ultrasounds once a week, and non-stress tests once a week. The day after Thanksgiving, two months before my due date, I started having contractions, and had to be admitted to stop them with shots. I was then ordered on bedrest and told he was going to induce to control the blood thinners. He hadn't decided yet on the day of induction, but wanted to keep the baby cooking.

The day before New Year's Eve was my last appointment with him. He told me to check in that night to be prepared for induction January 1st. I was shocked. I hadn't expected him to choose a date so close.

New Year's Eve around 2 a.m. I started feeling contractions. I wasn't to be induced until 6 a.m. so I relaxed, breathed through the contractions. They were manageable, so I never thought anything of it. Before I knew it, it was 4:30 and I wanted to get into the whirlpool to relax, still having contractions. I was waiting for my husband to arrive at 6 before getting drugs. He was still at home with Christopher, getting a last night of sleep before D-Day. At 5:30, I felt funny, and at 5:45 I told them I felt like pushing. They called the doctor, and my husband was called and informed to come in. After dragging me out of the tub (it felt too good to get out), and wheeling me to my room, I was in my bed, still pushing as the nurses carted a warming table and supplies for my doctor into the room. As they yelled at me to stop pushing (which is as effective as telling a toddler to sit still for a picture), I felt his head pop out and before the nurses could get their gloves on, he slid out and I caught him. It was so unreal and so unlike Christopher's birth, I started laughing. With Christopher it was an epidural and so much pain. With Timothy it was calm (except for screaming nurses) and painless, even without drugs. Timothy Leo was born at 6:09 a.m. New Year's Eve. The only thing my boys had in common was they looked like twins at birth, and they were born on holidays and a family member's birthday. With Christopher, it was Mother's Day and my birthday, and Timothy's birthday partner was my cousin Cher's husband Dwayne.

I regret my husband wasn't there for Timothy's birth; to see him born, and cut his cord. He arrived thirty minutes after his birth, and despite his happy face, I could see the disappointment that he couldn't be there for the baby or for me, knowing very well I could have died during birthing.

Ben was sitting in the rocking chair, holding the baby when my in-laws walked in, my Christopher in tow. Now, to give you an idea as to why I shuddered, imagine Marie Barone from Everybody Loves Raymond as your mother in law. I know. I live it. And they only live 5 MINUTES AWAY. This is a mother in law that makes a key to your home, waits until you leave to go to work, then lets herself in and rearranges the kitchen (cabinets and all) because it didn't look efficient (true story). I laugh because the only other option is to cry.

Anyway, Christopher walks over to Ben, and Ben puts Timothy back into his bassinet to spend time with the older, more attention-deprived Christopher. But Christopher bounds onto the bed and peers into the bassinet at his new little brother. I never thought my son, the little 2 1/2 year old that can sing the VeggieTales song by memory, can sing Jesus Loves Me with such joy, and can tell you the name of every character on Bob the Builder (even machines), could be so profound as he put his chubby little hand on his baby brother's sleeping head and say, "I'm your brother. We'll be brothers for life." And in my hormone-crashing state, I cried.

Now we're settling in as four. I only look forward to the same things that I did with Christopher, but I'll be more laid back, and not try to push through one milestone just to get to the next one. I cringe at what Christopher will teach Timothy, whether it's throwing his toy boats in the toilet to see them get sucked in by the whirlpool, or to climb the book case to see what's on top. I hope he remembers, though little, that they are brothers for life; that he'll try to protect his little brother and teach him right from wrong. I know there will be fights, and they won't always get along, but in the end, I know my boys love each other, and when it comes down to it, that's all that matters when I kiss the boys good night, the lights go down in the bedroom, a Thomas the Tank Engine nightlight shining, basking the room in a pale glow, and I hear Christopher say to his brother, "Good night, Tim-fy. I love you." and my love for them is so deep the tears catch in my throat.

Be Safe...Sleep with a Fireman :)

My husband wasn't always a firefighter. In fact, when we first started dating, he was just a farmer with a side job as a farmhand.

But one day shortly after we got engaged, he told me he was planning on joining the township's volunteer fire department. "My brother's been on for a few years, and he could get me on the department without any problems." I thought he was joking; who would run into a burning building for free?

Apparently, my husband.

After all we had been through, he decided to join. I was okay with it at first; but after his first run, I knew I'd be changed for life, whether it be good or bad. The tones dropped in the middle of the night. I was half asleep, groggy and confused. It didn't sound like a smoke alarm. When I felt my husband roll out of bed and put on his shoes, it dawned on me, and my heart matched the tones, dropping into my stomach. It was a 10-70 field, a grass fire, he told me, and kissed me and told me to go back to sleep. At that point, I couldn't go to sleep. My adrenaline was pumping, and I was freaking out that he'd be hurt.

Three hours later, he came home, exhausted and smelling like sweat and smoke. He rolled into bed, and despite the odor, I rolled right next to him, wrapped my arms around him, and begged him never to go again. He patted my hand like a parent would a child and told me it was alright; I could go to sleep. I slept fitfully.

Six years later, my heart still skips a beat when the tones drop. I've memorized the codes, and I've memorized the numbers for all the guys. My husband is 932. So when I'm listening to the scanner during a late night breastfeeding session, I can keep track of my husband. As long as I hear him say something over the scanner occasionally, I can breathe a sigh of relief. But I still fear the day I hear something over the scanner that lets on my husband is in trouble. That's why every time he gets toned out and rolls out of bed or gets off the couch to leave, he tells me he loves me, and I tell him to love me enough to come home safe. It's been condensed over time to "Love me enough" and he knows. His brother, my brother-in-law and another brother to me, is also on the department and always his partner going into a burning structure, so I know he's in good hands.

Over the years, I've come to realize that in his own special way, my husband is a hero. He may not have gone overseas to fight the war on terror, but he's been the first face a person sees after a car wreck; he's been a saver of priceless memories from a fire; and he's been a protector for small children watching their house, their bedroom and their toys go up in flames. And if that isn't a hero, I don't know what is.

Potty Training 101: Have Hose Ready for Cleanups

My son Christopher is learning the joys of potty training, and I have to say, so far this round is going much better. This is our fourth excursion, apparently because no one else wanted to make the effort. We originally got him a foam seat to place directly on the toilet. That was my desperate attempt at skipping the mess of a potty chair. No go. He would refuse to get on it, and I even stooped to begging, pleading, and bribing with M&Ms and Dum-Dum suckers, only to find out both Grandpas and Grandmas wouldn't make him get on the potty. The pee wasn't flowing, but the M&Ms and Dum-Dums were. Then he completely disengaged from the potty. I don't blame him; why get on the potty when I'm already getting the candy?

This time we got him a froggy potty chair, and got him big boy underwear with his option of Cars, Diego, and Thomas the Train Engine. We decided on the sticker rewards. When he finished filling up his sticker chart, he would get a toy from the store. Within a week, the sticker chart was filled, and he only had six accidents, most of them being in his Cars underwear because, in my son's words, "Daddy said it was normal for cars to leave skid marks". Since his favorite show at the moment is Super Why, he decided to get magnetic letters for the fridge to play with when I was cooking dinner, and called them his "super letters". I'm waiting for the novelty to end in about a week, when his second chart is filled up.

I prepared this time, getting potty training hints and tips from magazines, books, family, friends...I even was willing to take advice from complete strangers; they were moms like me and I viewed them as comrades in the war on poop. We decided first on letting him put a sticker on his foam seat every time he peed; if he pooped he got two. We got the idea from a parenting book, but it didn't mention how to talk down a toddler after he saw you peeling Bob the Builder off because he got pooped on and just couldn't be saved. Whether he was traumatized or not, he refused to get back on the foam seat and we had to get the frog.

Now my biggest fight is not with a strong willed toddler, but rather with my husband Ben, who is a farmhand and a farmer. He's shoveled poop all his life; saw Christopher being born, as well as birthing more farm animals than I can count; and yet the idea of cleaning poop out of a potty seat has him refusing to be a part of it. I only cringe at how this will work out with our younger of the two, Timothy, who is only a few months old and just looks at Ben with a blank stare when he gags at what's in the diaper.

I also believed the books when it told me to prepare for a "slight mess" the first few weeks. Yeah right. If by "slight mess" you mean poop running down his legs as he plays jump the puddle with the pee puddle in the kitchen, then yes, it's a slight mess. I plan on finding the person who wrote that comment in the book, dragging them out in the street and kicking an apology out of them. :) In the meantime, all I can do is cross my fingers and hope my son will be potty trained by the time his third birthday rolls around in a few months. If not, oh well. Poop happens. :)