I love these feet!

There's just something about his chubby little 'foots' that I love. After changing a diaper today, I was kissing and tickling his feet, listening to him giggle, and I was suddenly carried away by my thoughts.

I began to think of how he loves mostly to go barefoot around the house because he likes to be able to see his "toesies." But how on occasion he wants to wear his socks because he enjoys sliding on the floors, and will squeal, "Wook at me. I'm 'skatering.'"

I then thought about how quickly he has grown from that tiny newborn foot that could barely hold a sock to a very active toddler who loves to jump and dance and twirl to any music that finds its way to his ears. He's almost helpless to sit still when the music starts. It transports him to his own little world. We just stand back and watch. And enjoy.

I thought about all the places that his feet will one day take him. How sometimes the path will be stony and rough, and the journey will require extra effort. And that there will be thorny patches when he will have to determine in his heart if the destination is worth the pain the journey will cause. Times of running through tall grass (probably in our yard) and carefree jumping into puddles.

Before I even realized it, my thoughts had turned into a prayer for him, that God would make a way for this child of mine. That He would even now be carving a way through the rocky roads of his future, that He would make the grass a little greener and would teach him how to rise above the muck and the mire that this world is so full of by teaching him to set his feet on a rock. The Rock.

My heart felt so heavy for the few short moments that I had been carried away by my thoughts. But as I poured out my heart to God, I was comforted by His astoundingly great love for us. This scripture came to mind. "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope." (Jeremiah 29:11) I love how The Message says "I know what I'm doing. I have it all planned out--plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for." WOW! I just love that God has it all worked out already. I can stop worrying. I know as a parent we can't choose the path our kids will follow, but hopefully we lead by an example worthy to be followed. Follow me as I follow Christ...

Amen.

Give me my crown already!

So this morning Wild Man decided he no longer likes one of his favorite breakfasts ever...the "op tart," and I found myself a little frustrated because it was one of those mornings that frequently happens after the holidays. The kind where you hover in that sort of limbo between the holiday itself actually being over and not really knowing what to do next, what with it being a brand new year and all. And having had a little person sneezing and coughing and showering a whole myriad of bodily fluids in my direction for over a week now, I was feeling a little under the weather and quite frankly was looking forward to a no-brainer breakfast this morning. One that involves nothing more than ripping it open, as Wild Man does not require that his tarts actually be popped.



Well.



In the kindest, most patient tone I could muster, I asked His Royal Hiney, if not a pop tart, then what would he be having for breakfast this morning?

"Peanut Budder pweeze."

Peanut Butter? Are you kidding me? The thought of it first thing in the morning, I must admit, made me gag a little, but he does love it. And he asked so politely. And well, you know, I aim to please.

So here was his breakfast.



Yes, those are "cookies." You got a problem with that? I figured as long as I was racing toward a "Mother of the Year" award what with serving my 2 year old peanut butter for breakfast, I might as well seal the nomination with some cookies a la carte. Besides, I didn't have the energy or the stomach to actually spread that stuff on bread that early in the morning and have to endure the smell. In fact I actually considered just handing him the jar, but being nominated and all, I took the extra loving and motherly step and actually spooned a glob of it into a bowl so he could dip his "treks" cookies into it.


While watching a little t.v.


I know! Am I gonna win or what? Then I decided that while he was occupied with what those health and fitness kooks experts might possibly consider THE MOST NUTRITIOUS BREAKFAST EVER, I could quickly check my email in the next room.

And came back to find this.



and this



and I swear I couldn't have been gone for more than 5 or 10 minutes...tops (in dog years).

But it's o.k. As long as I am in the running for M.O.T.Y., I will not only indulge him with the best breakfast ever, I will also let him participate in another of his very favorite activities.



The boy does love a good shower. A good long shower. Almost as much as he likes getting mucked up with food and dirt. If only the hot water would last, I could go do my shopping for the week and drop by Roe's for a quick trim. Oh heck, and highlights.

Oh I kid. You know I wouldn't have time for the trim. That's just silly.

So let's recap.

I fed my son peanut butter for breakfast.

With cookies.

While unattended.

And watching t.v.

Then stuck him in the shower.

A nice looonnnggg shower.

I don't mean to brag, but I seriously think I'm a shoe-in for this award.

By the way, how do you like my hair?

All he got for Christmas

wuz his two front teeth.

A fever.

RSV.

An ear infection.

Bronchiolitis.

A viral rash.

A trip to the walk-in clinic.

A breathing treatment.

A near-miss on a hospital stay.

Antibiotics, steroids and Albuterol.

Lots of naps and liquids.


Yeah.

Poor baby.


You know what's worse than having a sick baby on his first Christmas?

Having a sick baby on his first Christmas while traveling out of town.

He was a real trouper even though he was sick for our entire visit home. He is so good-natured that he still tried to be happy when he, I'm sure, felt like one of his poopy diapers. I am just so thankful that we took him in and that the RSV was only in the beginning stages. It can be so dangerous for babies.

Anyway, he's on the mend thanks to prayers and medicine, and we'll follow up with his pediatrician here at home this week to make sure nothing further needs to be done.

Here he is enjoying some "liquids." Get a load of those eyes, would ya? Yummy!

Toddler Talk

Conversations this week with my little parrot 2 year old.


while sitting on the stairs playing with toys...

Wild Man: "I hate this toy!"

Me: (a little surprised at *hate*) "What sweetie?"

Wild Man: "I HATE this toy!"

Me: "Aw, that's not very nice. I thought you liked that toy."

Wild Man: "Yeah, I wike it. See my belly button?"

I believe in giving credit where credit is due. This one falls squarely in the hands of older siblings. Ex: "I HATE doing dishes!"


later that day...


Me: "Are you ready for lunch?"

Wild Man: "I want pizza."

Me: "I don't have pizza. I'm making you a sandwich. Want some goldfish too?"

Wild Man: "No. You being mean to me."

Me: whuh? "I'm being nice to you by making your lunch, silly."

Wild Man: "I want pizza."

Me: "You're having a sandwich today."

Wild Man: (slightly under his breath) "Meany."

Again, credit here to big brother and sister who when asked to clean their room, do a chore, ANYTHING they don't want to do, usually reply, "You're SO mean!"


*Yeah, then why don't you cook your own meals and wash your own laundry you ingrates?! Your room looks like you share it with a herd of wild boars. And theirs is the clean side! And while you're in there changing your clothes, see if you can change your attitude!*


I'm sorry, I was daydreaming for a minute. I'm back.


Wild Man: "What's 'Wijah' eating?"

Me: "Baby food. Let's see, garden vegetables and bananas."

Wild Man: "Wemme twy it."

Me: "Ok. Here ya go." (making sure to give him a good taste of it)

while swallowing hard and squinting

Wild Man: "That's nasty!"

Me: "Elijah likes it."

Wild Man: "That's uh-scust-ing!" (disgusting)

Again, credit goes to 'Bubba' and 'Sissy'


That's it for today. Tune in next time for more Toddler Talk.

i should be packing...

...but i don't wanna. i know. i know. just enjoy the pics and stop looking at me like that. i'll pack tomorrow.

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wordless wednesday

faith like a child...

Joseph, Mary, a Shepherd, and Baby Jesus (played by a puffalump)

"...you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger." Luke 2:12

mad mad dancin' skillz

Rather than bring you the usual posts of spiritual enlightenment, political prowess, cutting-edge journalism and meaningful insights...

Wait, that's not my blog That writer, whomever she is, doesn't exist is on hiatus.

Instead, we bring you the usual something completely new...

Mindless drivel! Or in our house dribble.

Check out our Christmas elves!

things i would never have known if it weren't for my kids

that silence for longer than .08 seconds means somebody's into something

that a 2 year old can find and then carry an almost full container of liquid detergent from the laundry room to the kitchen

that he can then open and empty an almost full container of detergent all over the floor without any accomplices his older siblings seeing or hearing anything

that a 2 year old boy drenched in liquid laundry detergent is slippery

that after a thirty minute shower, a 2 year old will remain sticky to the touch

that towels used to soak up gooey mess cannot be washed in a single load without a volcanic type eruption of bubbles cascading out of the washing machine

that each sock of a two year old boy sitting in a puddle of liquid laundry detergent harbors enough cleaning power to do one load each (this would have been good to know before washing the stupid towels)

that the kitchen floor remains a hazard up to several weeks after said incident

that in order to slide like a monkey on a banana peel glide across the floor with all the panache of an Olympic figure skater, all you do is add water

that he's lucky he's cute...it makes it easier to let him live another day

wassup spidey?

Happy 8 months li'l man!

It's hard to believe we are cruising at warp speed toward one year with you. You are such a joy! Your big brothers and sister love you so much, and it's so sweet to see the way you light up when they come in the room or talk to you.

Mommy and Daddy think you are the cutest, sweetest, and the most intelligent by far, eight month old we hang out with. Thank you for making our days brighter, more fun, and infinitely more meaningful just because you grace us with your presence.

And sorry about the prunes, little buddy. Somebody said it would help.

Locks of Love

Emily has been growing her hair out for a long time now with the intention of cutting it and then donating it to either Locks of Love or Wigs for Kids. Well, yesterday was the big day! Our good friend and stylist, Rosemary, made it less painful. Honestly, I think she was ready.

BEFORE:


BANDED UP & READY TO GO:


This is our good friend (and sometimes babysitter) who just happens to be here too. We love Kasia! She's really sweet, and Elijah "luhs him some Kasia."


AFTER: VOILA!

This is not the best after pic, but it's all we have for right now. This style actually looks really cute on her...we've done it before. I think she was a little in shock, having had long hair for such a long time.

FYI: This morning she LOVES it!

toofs and fairies

So "Rufus" is still losing "toofs." Will it never end? This is the same kid, who once he realized that cash was involved, would actually wiggle not-yet-loose teeth until they surrendered and vacated his mouth...simply for the promised bounty. I guess I thought that he'd run out of stuff to pull. Alas, not yet.

This is a picture of "Rufus" during one of his not-so-bright ideas. He has tied dental floss around the dangling tooth, anchored by one lonely, yet stubborn little root, to the door knob. See?



I think he may be rethinking his decision. Ahhh, don't we love teaching moments?



And this is "Rufus" when the family gathered around him, all biding their time and awaiting their chance to yank that little sucker out. Can you see the panic?



Ok. So it's getting to be lunchtime, and this has been going on for approximately 30 minutes, from the couch to the door. Enough drama, already. Here is how the rest played out...good Mother that I am.

"Pull that stupid tooth or you're not eating lunch!"

I promise you, not 2 minutes later, somehow, mysteriously the tooth just came out. A little incentive never hurt anyone...especially a pre-teen with the appetite of a rhinoceros.

Yep! We're done!

Ok, so if there were even the slightest molecule of doubt still lingering (like the smell of fish in the garbage can two days after you've consumed it for dinner) concerning my child-bearing possibilities, this morning certainly quenched it for me.

You see, I have this theory that the number of children I've given birth to unequivocally corresponds to the number of brain cells I have left. This whole "after-birth" thing is just code for brain matter. No one told me that I'd get exponentially 'stupider' after each kid. I'm not sure it would have changed my choices, but come on people! A little warning would not have hurt. Perhaps I could have braced myself.

I woke everyone this morning at 7:00. To fully grasp the painfulness of this feat, please remember that we are also on break from school. Anyway, I fed and changed the baby, (who comfortably remained in his cute little jammies), dressed the toddler, dragged the big kids out of bed saying, "Let's go, let's go, let's go! Get dressed, brush your hair, grab some breakfast, leaving at 7:30!" I threw on clothes and tried to recycle yesterday's hair because I didn't even have time to shower yet. Make-up, shmake-up. I've never been more thankful for relatively good skin. Grab some gloss and let's go. Everyone is dragged to the van, kicking and screaming (actually just the big kids who wished they were still sleeping), buckled in and away we went.

"Where are we going?" you ask. Well, we're off to the lab for a TB test. Don't worry; everyone's fine. It's just protocol before beginning a new med for my RA. So we go be-bopping (more like careening) into the parking lot and parked right in front of the door. I jump out, leaving everyone buckled in to go see how long it will be. There is no need to drag four sleepy kids (actually just two are sleepy) into a medical office if it is only going to take ten minutes. I know what you are thinking. Please don't go there. I would never, ever, leave the little ones alone in the van. "Rufus" who is now 12 is perfectly capable to take the helm for a few minutes every now and then. He was in charge of helping the toddler with his breakfast (dry cereal thrown into a snack bag and a sippy-cup of juice) and "Princess" kept an eye on the already fed baby just to keep him happy.

I had been told if I arrived at 8:00 when they opened, I would most likely be seen right away and that it would not take very long. So I enter the office, brandishing my order for the test and my insurance card in front of me like a maniac so they'll know that I, more than the other goons in the chairs, am in a hurry. Sign in, sit down, watch my van out the window, tap foot, try not to appear perturbed or insane. When my name is called, I quickly walk to the window and chatter,

"Good morning. Yesterday, the nice lady in the third window (whose chair is currently empty) scheduled my appointment for 9:30, but told me if I arrived first thing that I could be seen."

"Um, just a minute..." and then she taps furiously on her little keyboard, "Yes, I see. That is for Wednesday...tomorrow."

"Whuh?"

"If you want to come in early tomorrow, we'll be glad to do your test. (Apparently sensing my confusion, she points to the paper that the nice lady in the third window had given me yesterday that I never even looked at because all I heard was come in early, blah blah blah, which clearly says Wednesday!) Now, which doctor placed this order?"

"Oh, um, Dr, Quinet. Yeah, I'm sorry. I thought she said today. I can, um, maybe come back in the morning. Yeah, ok, have a good day."

I turn around to leave and can almost feel the drool hanging from my lip, and I try not to drag my leg behind me as I exit the building, and I am hoping I can find my van (which remember is practically on the sidewalk) and am suddenly concernced about remembering the way home. Yep, that's how stupid I felt.

As I climbed back in the van, approximately six minutes later, "Rufus" said, "That didn't take long." Trying not to give myself away, I said, "Yeah, well, they want to do it tomorrow because the results have to be read in 48 hours, and what's 48 hours from now? --trying to sound excited-- "Oh, yeah, Thanksgiving," he replied and went back to reading his book after a long stare. I smile nervously. I think he's on to me.

So we head home. I didn't talk much, maybe because I was concentrating on remembering the way. Nah, I think I was rehashing the morning and how utterly ridiculous it all has been. The kids were all quiet, in their sleepy little stupors, when all of the sudden, I take a turn too close and whack my tire against the curb. Well, that woke 'em all up! "Rufus", in the passenger seat next to me, looks up slowly from his book with "that look" on his face as if to say, "Dang! Just let me drive, would you?" And the rest of them can't help chiming in. All I'm thinking, barely three minutes from home is, "Good Lord in Heaven, please just get us home, and I promise not to leave the house again...well, except for haircuts at 12:30, but other than that, I promise, and please, oh, please, don't let me have burst a tire."

Well, obviously, we made it home because I'm sharing my stupid story with you. And so far, so good on the tire situation. Self-reflection can be a real kill-joy, but in the midst of it all, and through tears from laughter, I think this morning can actually be a learning experience.

Oh, who am I kidding? What I learned today is that yep, we're done. I cannot spare anymore brain cells. And, please don't get me wrong. I am by no means saying that parents of large families are somehow deficient in the mental arena. I know plenty of them who are quite functional and bright. I am saying, that in my case, my theory is proving more and more true and on a daily basis, and that I am becoming what my son calls a motard. That's ok. I am just glad we figured out the correlation before it was entirely too late, and that I have not yet been reduced to periods of drooling and/or the "sit and stare." I can, however, sometimes be found rocking...sometimes in the chair, and sometimes with the baby...and sometimes all by myself. That's ok, right?

#*@% !!!

I received this email the other day. Read it; then we'll "chat."

A few months before I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our small Tennessee town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around to welcome me into the world a few months later.

As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me the word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it. But the stranger, he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.

If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the first major league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.

Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to her room and read her books (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.)

Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home... not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our longtime visitor, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush.

My Dad was a teetotaler who didn't permit alcohol in the home, not even for cooking. But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely!)about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing.

I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked... and NEVER asked to leave. More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you were to walk into my parent's den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures. His name?....

We just call him, "TV."

OK, so this is not a tv debate. We totally watch too much at our house. I know it, I've confessed it, but I'm not ready to repent yet. I know way too much about Suite Life, Hannah Montana, Drake & Josh and High School Musical than I should or ever wanted to at this stage in my life, mainly because the kids' shows are better and cleaner to watch than anything else. But I've also learned a lot about "flipping" houses and decorating on a stingy, I mean meager budget, which I think is going to come in handy very soon. (that's another post...stay tuned)

My point is that it's easy to change the channel when someone is expressing their opinion with "colorful" language that you don't want to hear, and you certainly don't want your kids to hear (or repeat), but what about real life? What if someone decides to exhibit their colorful, though apparently limited, vocabulary in front of your children? What then? Do you call them on it? Do you ignore it, and then explain to your kids that "it's not nice to speak that way and if I ever hear you say anything like that, I will a) wash your mouth out with soap (that seems to be an old-time favorite) or b) sew your lips together with stuff from Dad's tackle box."

Really, what do you do? This is not a rhetorical question, people. I'm really asking.

Oh, about the tv thing...I'm feeling convicted. As much as we all love to read, maybe we'll have another tv "fast" and just read or play a game together. Sounds like a good idea to me.

spin this

Ok. So today I washed what I swear must be the four-hundred-and-thirty-seventh load of laundry for what feels like the tenth day this week...and what do I find? Paper...washed, dried, and now shredded into a bazillion tiny pieces that cascade out of the dryer when I open it. The rest of the statically charged pieces are stuck to every other piece of freshly laundered clothing. ARGH! I just grumble to myself and continue unloading the dryer. What else do I find? A pocket knife, hair ribbon, ponytail holder, action figure, faded receipts and money. YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME! Well, at least it wasn't the ENTIRE WALLET this time!

I'VE HAD IT! I've washed jeans that somehow have one leg normal and the other inside-out. How do you do it? Am I living with contortionists? Socks wadded into a ball, one packed tightly inside the other. Do we not supply you little people with enough toys? Must you make baseballs out of your dirty socks? Shirts with one arm dangling and the other one mysteriously tucked inside. Am I missing something? Are you trying to make me crazy? And now a plethora of the most random things comes tumbling out of the dryer!

THIS IS IT! CONSIDER YOURSELVES WARNED! From this day forward, you bring it down, I'll wash it. Pretty simple, eh? I WILL NOT, however: empty your pockets, turn your socks right-side-out or your shirts or boxers or jeans or tighty-whities or whatever else you seem to mangle while placing in the laundry basket. I spend what amounts to an entire wash cycle detangling, turning around, shaking out, and otherwise "preparing" clothes to be washed. NO MORE! My clothes somehow seem to make it to the laundry just fine. What's wrong with the rest of you, I humbly ask? Is it so hard to check your pockets? Is it too difficult to place your garments right side out in the basket? This is not brain-surgery people!

AND ANOTHER THING...finders keepers. If I find anything of value that I wish to keep that you have carelessly left in your pockets, I will consider it your generous tip to the laundress who daily scales Mt. Washmore on your behalf. Thank you in advance for your undoubted contribution to my cause.

the toeses knowses

We have actually had a few chilly nights here in Louisiana, but I guess it's about time since it's almost the middle of November already. We found Wyatt's one remaining pair of jammies with the feet in them (we really don't need super-warm pajamas very often down here), and got him dressed for bed. When he woke up the next morning, this is what we found.

When we questioned his near-nakedness (the cowboy hat was really just a secondary issue at the time) and why he had removed his pajamas, Wyatt answered, very seriously, "I hadda wiggle my toesies."

Well, you can't really argue with that logic, can you? Even grown-ups like to stick a foot out to "breathe." 'Nuff said.

'dips' in the gene pool...I mean into

Ok. So this is our eldest (about ten years ago). Look at that face. Cute, huh? He was such a funny, bright little kid. He loved dinosaurs, building with blocks and was working 200 piece puzzles by the time he was three years old. As with most first children, we had high hopes for this one. I remember talking with my husband and having discussions like...

"I wonder what he'll be when he grows up," I'd say dreamily.


"Oh, it's hard to say," my husband would reply smugly, "a rocket scientist, a Nobel prize winner, the President...yep, hard to say."



Flash forward ten years...

"Rufus" as we lovingly refer to him is still very smart. The boy loves to read and is rarely without some big book in his hand. He also loves t.v. He is extremely proficient at kicking our rumps at most video games. And then gloating. He's taking guitar lessons and beginning to show all the signs of becoming a teenager. He could get along better with his sister, but all in all, he's a great kid.

You see, there are some attributes that I would run to the front of the line to try and claim proudly that I've passed down to him...things like his musical ability, intellect and quick wit. (Who wouldn't want to take credit for those things!) He gets jokes, though he's not great at telling them, and he can be king of the comeback (which if not used carefully can get him into trouble). You see, he can make me laugh, and the bad thing is he knows it. For instance, he thinks it is endlessly funny while I'm trying to correct him or discuss something in school to gesture to me by patting his chest and saying in his silliest voice, "Bring it on, old lady." Well, the first time it's really funny. But when you are REALLY trying to get him to do something, it can be extremely annoying. It makes me want to "bring it!"

That being said, there are other traits he possesses that scientifically cannot be linked to my DNA, that make me worry about his future and wonder what happened to my sweet child in the picture...and must therefore be attributed to his father. Like...the boy could belch the entire Bill of Rights if I did not interrupt him by shrieking, "Stop that! That is so gross! Don't you want to date some day?! EWWW!!!" His response? "So...rry." (sometimes burped) And then he falls out in the floor laughing. Seriously, is this just a guy thing? When was the last time you saw a girl behaving like this? I think there must be something attached to the y-chromosome related to belching and flatulence. It's the only plausible explanation.

Please do not write to me and try to explain that I'm being too hard on him and that it's "a part of nature" and he can't help it. I'm not buying it. It is not natural or normal to be able to belch long documents at will. I cannot be convinced otherwise. Don't waste your time.

Well, luckily for us, his good qualities overshadow (most of the time) these anomalies, again attributed to the paternal side of the ol' gene pool, and "Rufus" is a keeper. He really is a fantastic big brother, at least to the little boys. I think it's because on some level, he knows he will be able to "pass on" all these things that right now he thinks are fabulously funny. Elijah is a little young yet, but he's already started with Wyatt...you should hear him belch the preamble...

**********************************************************

DISCLAIMER: Lest anyone think Rufus actually knows the Bill of Rights, I simply meant the boy can burp, and at superhuman, unnatural lengths and volumes. He cannot literally or otherwise quote the Bill of Rights. It was the first lengthy document which came to mind while blogging about the boy and his unusual "talent." My apologies for any misunderstandings.

Migraine Mama and the Monday Meltdown

I love my kids. And I would die for them. And it's a good darn thing because they are killing me. Slowly. Yesterday, parenting felt like being pecked to death by a horde of broke-beak chickens. (Sorry. I'm practicing for when we move to Possum Hollow Lane.) It was like being stabbed to death with a butter knife. Yes, that's how it felt yesterday.

I woke up not feeling so great. It happens. But since moms can't call in sick, usually you just try to do what you can to make yourself feel better and then get on with your day. Or on the rare occasion when your husband is home, you milk it for all it's worth by telling him it's something mysterious and "female" (which guarantees you'll be left alone for fear you'll explain in great detail what is ailing you). Or you tell him that you feel all "woozy" and that if you have to stand up, you are certain that you'll experience an episode of vertigo or syncope that will cause you to fall and hit your head and then he'll have to watch the kids for 3 days instead of just today. If he buys it, you've done your job. If he is still skeptical, perhaps it will at least buy you some time on the couch where you can parent from the supervisory position, instead of the usual hands-on one. Anyway, I knew it was going to be a tough day, and no, Jay was not at home.

I just didn't feel right. We tried to go ahead with our usual "stuff," but as the day progressed, I regressed. Then I realized why. I was getting a migraine. And it just happened to be on a day when no one could seem to get along, that breathing the same air caused weeping and wailing, and the mere suggestion of doing chores and picking up toys caused unbelievable hissy fits and rivers of tears. (I hate it when the kids boss me around.)

I used to hear people complain about having a headache, and I'd think to myself, take a Tylenol and be quiet already. Then sometime in my early twenties, I experienced my first migraine. Clearly neither Merriam nor Webster who defined migraine as an intense, periodic headache, usually limited to one side of the head, have ever actually had one themselves. They didn't even mention the nausea, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, absolute desperation to find quiet, and the propensity to think and/or say irrational things. Nope, I don't think they've ever had one. You factor in four kids, and things can get interesting.

You see, ideally, when one of these headaches from Hades hits, you pop whatever medication you normally take, lie down in a dark, quiet room and just sleep that baby off. And while mixing a cocktail of Benadryl and Nyquil certainly crossed my mind yesterday...on more than one occasion, so did hitting myself in the head with a hammer and lying down with my head underneath the garage door while the kids took turns opening and closing it, that way maybe they could just knock me out and be entertained at the same time. As tempting as these options were at times, I declined. Thankfully, two of the four kids are self-sufficient and also very helpful with the younger ones.

By the time dinner rolled around, I was seriously doubting my capabilities, and it occurred to me that perhaps I should have kept those squishy little orange ear plugs from my MRI. Not just for the noise reduction of the jackhammer in my head or to silence my offspring, but because I became convinced that this searing pain in my cranium must surely be melting my brain and that those plugs could quite possibly hold my now liquefied brains in place until I reach medical help...they'll know what to do; I also was careful not to blow my nose for fear of losing gray matter. I am so thankful I taught Ryan to cook grilled cheese sandwiches, which he does quite capably. It came in handy. About the time the kids sat down to eat their dinner, I told Ryan and Emily, "If I pass out, check for breathing and a pulse. If you find that I am breathing and my heart is beating, just put a pillow under my head, cover me up and call Daddy at his meeting. Everything will be fine." Then I felt the need to reiterate, put the pillow UNDER my head, because unfortunately my eldest son has inherited my husband's sense of humor. I did not want to be inadvertantly smothered just because I suffered from a terrible headache.

Well, somehow we made it through our day. No one got hurt, everyone got fed, some were even bathed, baby napped, toddler played, big kids schooled, and Mama 'hanged on' like a possum in a tree...for dear life and seemingly upside down for most of the day. I finally made it to that dark room sans the Benadryl or Nyquil and just slept. And just as I thought, today was a brand-new day, a chance to begin again. God is good like that. "Morning by morning new mercies I see..."

While cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I noticed the hammer on the kitchen counter. Maybe I was more irrational than I realized...

spring forward, fall...over!

I don't know about you, but I used to enjoy that time of year when we got to change the clocks. I have never been a huge fan of the "springing forward" because I'm a gal who likes... and needs her sleep, and frankly, to lose an hour hurts my feelings. I must admit, however, I do enjoy more hours of sunlight. But the "fall back" part of this whole scenario I used to really look forward to. Though most people I know don't like it getting dark so early, who couldn't use an extra hour of shut-eye? I used to await the changing of the clocks with the same anticipation and gusto that a kid awaits Christmas. Okay, maybe not that much, but close. I remember so loving that extra hour curled up between the sheets, snuggled up with my favorite pillow, relishing the silence of the postponed alarm clock, almost jeering at it in my twilight sleep, "Neener, neener! You can't wake me yet" and thoroughly enjoying my extra snooze time...THEN I HAD KIDS.

This whole Daylight Saving Time thing is lost on people with young children. You see, they arrive on the planet with this sort of built in body clock and yes, their own alarm, and they can't tell time so it really doesn't matter what the stupid clock says. We even try keeping them up later, hoping that we can "trick" them into sleeping later the next morning. Well, the trick's on us. The little toots still wake up when their internal "alarm" sounds and thus we start our day, mumbling and grumbling about the would-be extra hour and how we can't believe we are missing out, and holy cow! Look at the clock! Look how early it is! What is wrong with you little people?! Don't you know that sleep is good?! Blah Blah...yaaawwwnnn...Blah Blah Blah.

Well, while we're (I'm) complaining, they are just ready to get on with it. Ready to shed what we call the "squishy pants" and don a new diaper. After all, it's a brand new day. They are probably thinking...Wake up! Look at the clock! Let's go, let's go, let's go! What's wrong with you big people anyway?! Sun's up...time to get crack-a-lackin'!

I guess my point is...okay, maybe I don't have one, but this post has made me very sleepy. I think I need a nap.

Mother's Day Out

Jay enrolled Wyatt in Mother's Day Out a few weeks ago. Honestly, I was not sure how it would go. He can be so sweet and loving...and such a handful. I think Jay could sense my apprehension, and proceeded to explain to me, rapidly, that it was only one day per week, and we could see how it goes, and that everything will be fine, and...Okay. Okay. "We'll try it," I said. Still, I couldn't help this nagging feeling inside.

I envisioned phone calls from The Early Learning Center at an area church, during which the nice teachers would tell me in the calmest, most reassuring tone they could muster that little Wyatt, while extremely cute and uncharacteristically bright for his age (you know how they always try to soften you up before the big blow), had...and then my mind went crazy...had what? Colored on the wall? Eaten the other kids' lunches? Unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper from one end of the school to the other...without breaking it? Wrapped himself in scotch tape? What?! Then, I snapped out of it. Silly me. He already did all that at home during the big kids' first week of homeschool. He won't do it there.

As the day approached for his first day of "school," we tried to explain to Wyatt what it would be like. I told him he would meet new friends, play with toys, eat lunch out of his brand-new Spiderman lunchbox, and then I said, "and take a nap." I said it super-fast and sounded a little like when you fast-forward a song to your favorite part, a little high-pitched and garbled. He totally heard me. He looked at me with "that look" he gets sometimes, and I thought to myself, here we go.

You see, Wyatt is a busy little guy. From the time he wakes up, he is basically non-stop. But, yes, I still make him take a nap here at home. I'm the grown-up; he's just 2, and he still needs a rest in the middle of the day (as do I)...besides, most of our neighbors work during the day so they can't hear the head-banging on the crib and the screaming from the upstairs bedroom..."I NOT LAY DOWN!!! I NOT GO SLEEP!!!" Of course, after a few minutes, he does. Either he knocks himself out (literally) or he passes out from sheer exhaustion, but either way, he naps for 2-3 hours every afternoon.

This picture shows him "practicing" taking a nap on his kinder-mat. I think he realized he had the rest of the proposed school day down-pat, but this nap thing might need a little work. He is lying down with "Blue" his bear blanket. (Wyatt's a little like Linus. "Blue" is a seasoned traveler and goes with us almost everywhere. You never know when you might have to sleep.) He also sleeps with "Ducky" a blanket with, you guessed it, little yellow ducks all over it. It's a little much sometimes, dragging these things around, but they seem to do the trick when it comes to nap/bedtime.

Well, like most things we worry about for no reason, "school" has worked out great. The only time Wyatt cried a little was on the first day. Of course when I picked him up I had a thousand questions as I buckled him into his carseat. Poor kid. What did you do at school today? " I pway." Did you meet new friends? "Yes ma'am." Did you eat your lunch? "I eat wunch." Did you take a nap? "I take nap." What else did you do? "I cwy a wittle bit." I knew this already from the teachers, but to hear him say it was different. I took his chubby little toddler hands in mine and looked him in the eye and asked, "Why did you cry, Sweetie?" His little lip started to tremble just a bit, and he said, "I neena Mama." I could feel my eyes begin to well up. For such a rough-and-tumble little guy, he really has a very tender heart, and is still in many ways just a baby himself. I hugged him tight and reassured him that I will always be here and that I will always come to pick him up from school. (He was probably thinking, Geez...I just wanted you there to tuck me in for naptime.) But that's okay. In the midst of all the "I do it myself!"...it's nice to know you're still needed.

There have not been any calls, and Wyatt's teachers tell me every Wednesday afternoon when I pick him up how sweet he is and what a good day he has had. He likes school. He likes to play with his "fins." And he even has a handle on rest time. His teachers tell me that sometimes he naps, and sometimes he doesn't, but he always lays quietly on his mat. (I'd like to know how they do that.)

This growing up thing is hard work. There are new things like school and teachers, lunchboxes and kindermats, friends and unfamiliar toys. How's a parent supposed to cope?

Happy Fall-o-ween!

For those of you who know us well, you know that Halloween is one of those 'holidays' that if given the choice to 'take it or leave it,' we'd probably leave it. I won't get into all the whys. We celebrated it as kids and dressed up and knocked on the doors of neighbors and took candy from people and were told not to eat the apples and don't stay out too late and watch for cars and stay together...and we turned out reasonably well. I mean, Halloween didn't cause any issues for us and we were not scared or scarred for life. Yep, it was all pretty innocent back then.

But as a parent, you wonder if you should let your kids dress up, and if they do, should it be scary or cute, do you trick-or-treat or trunk-or-treat or do you stay home with all the lights off and watch a movie and be really quiet when all the costumed little buggers come-a-knockin' at your door wanting sweets or do you go to a church-sponsored activity that serves as an alternative???? Wait...did I just say be quiet? Hahahaha. Okay, that's not a viable option for our family. Maybe for yours.

To be honest, this is an issue I revisit every year. What are we going to do? Do the kids even want to dress up? Can't we just skip the pumpkins and move on to the turkey? So this year, I decided not to stress. To just take it all in stride and hope that I am not screwing up my kids, that one day when they are lying on the couch of some highly educated, well-meaning, I'm sure, psychiatrist, psychologist, counselor, etc., to trust that they won't be saying, "...and my mom would/wouldn't let me be a superhero, ballerina, vampire...and I...didn't get to have candy or I had a horrible stomachache and false teeth by the time I started junior high... You get the point. They will no doubt have many more important things to discuss. I'm sure of it. I understand that there are those who believe we shouldn't even be celebrating such a 'holiday' in the first place and those on the other side that say, "just let 'em be kids for goodness' sake!"

With all that being said, I'd just like to give a shout out to Judith and a big "thank you" to everyone at Northshore Church who organized a Fall Festival and gave our kids a chance to dress up if they wanted to, have candy, play games, and overall enjoy a fun, safe time with their friends. THANK YOU!

And the winner is.....RYAN VICTORY!

Ryan won the costume contest for the youth. It's a little hard to see at this angle. He was a baby riding on Granny's back, complete with old lady stockings and shoes. We went shopping at Good Will and found this lovely floral number that as an unexpected bonus even smelled old. No wonder he won!

And here's EMILY!

She was a puppy. The sign says "FREE to good home." She definitely would have won for cute and original. This was a perfect costume for her because she still loves dogs and horses. Besides, a box full of horses would have been heavy and just plain odd.

And here's Wyatt. His expression pretty much sums it up. What is he, you ask? A basketball player, of course. (thank goodness he'll be too young to remember he got the un-costume). But he had his face painted. It's a spider. He was SOOOO tired by the time we got there, he ate a hotdog, played a few games and had a meltdown upon departure. A normal night for him.

"Hey, wait! Don't they have 4 kids now? Oh my goodness, maybe they forgot one!" Gimme a break. We didn't forget Elijah. He just got swooped up the minute I walked in the door, and I had to ask for him back when it was time to go. No, he was not in Halloween get-up. But he was still very cute. We don't have a picture from last night because we couldn't keep up with who had him, but here's a recent pic anyway.

YES! He is this happy all the time. Elijah is almost seven months old now. He has decided in the past two weeks to grow up all at once. He has two teeth now on the bottom and doesn't mind showing you that he is learning how to use them. He is sitting up almost unassisted (you actually have to be left alone to practice this skill, and somebody is almost always holding him). He will nearly rip your arm off to get to his bottle which he has decided to hold by himself; he's ninja-like. Oh yeah, and he's saying, "Dada." Whatever. He is rocking on his hands and knees as if his life depended on his getting somewhere...and fast. But since he's the last addition to this Victory clan, I smile and gently push him over and say, "Not yet." I know I can't stop him forever, but perhaps I can postpone his mobility and the subsequent insanity that I know will ensue once he starts crawling. I know what you're thinking. One day when he joins the others in the supine position on "the couch" (because he hasn't learned to sit up yet) he'll be saying, "...and she kept pushing me over and saying, "Not yet." It was really embarrassing when I had friends over..." Oh well, a mom just can't win. As my friend Kirsten always says, in lieu of a college fund, we are saving for therapy.