How Has This Never Happened Before?

Head wounds bleed a lot.  

My brother cracked his head wide open in our driveway when he was about three.  My sister and I heard him screaming from the park behind our house and ran home to see what was going on.  Bloody towels everywhere and hurried instructions from Mom to clean up the stain in the driveway as she and Dad chucked Joel into the van and rushed him to the hospital to get stapled back together.  

So I had a few flashbacks when I heard that same kind of foreboding, maniacal scream from Cameron yesterday morning.  He had just gone out to check the mail, and he was really excited because Netflix was supposed to have shipped Star Wars The Clone Wars right to our very own house and isn't the world a marvelous place?  He slipped on a patch of ice and his feet went right out from under him and he landed head first on the concrete.  And then all the blood.  I was putting pressure on it and blood was streaming down my arm like something out of a horror film from the seventies.  All good fun.  I kept telling Cameron that he was going to be okay, everything would be fine, and all the while I am trying to figure out how to get him to the hospital for stitches.  (Stupid Volkswagen!!)

Turns out that he didn't need stitches, but it's still fun to wrap your kid in gauze and pretend that your life is more exciting than it really is.  And this way nobody wakes up with their pillow caked in ooze and gore.  

As for the crossed eyes, we just figure they'll go back to normal the next time he takes a hit to the head.

Trying To Make Sense Of It

There are moments in parenthood that break my heart. Most of those moments have come from Cameron. The first time that he told me that he plays by himself at recess, I was crushed. When he told me that a kid at school called him ugly, I wanted to march to that kid's house and punch him right in the face. And the times that Cameron calls and asks if he can come home from a friend's house because there's another kid there who isn't nice to him, I just want to wrap my arms around Cameron and tell him that life won't always be this way.

I had another one of those heart-breaking moments earlier this week when Ethan came bursting in the front door after school and breathlessly told me that Cameron had done something really bad. As it turns out, Cameron had been picking on a tiny, little first grade girl. Ethan told me what had happened during their walk home from school, and Cameron didn't deny it.

Cameron and I talked about it, about what it means to be a gentleman, a good guy, a defender and protector, or a bully. We talked about why girls need to be treated gently and with respect. We talked about why this had happened. Cameron didn't know. It just did.

I walked him to this little girl's home and he apologized for his behavior and told her it would never happen again. And then her father said that it has happened from time to time and they appreciated our coming over.

It had happened before.

I know that Andrew and I have taught Cameron better...or have we? I never imagined that we would have to sit down with Cameron and tell him that it's not okay to hit little girls with his backpack or knock them down and make them cry. I thought that in trying to teach our kids to be kind to everyone that we had covered our bases.

On the walk back home with Cameron, I told him how sad it made me that he would do something so cruel. And I thought about why we were there in that situation. Cameron is not the type of kid to physically hurt others, or wound their feelings intentionally. Why this little girl?

I wondered if growing up with three brothers has taught him that everything in life can be handled with a touch of violence and then we're all friends again.

I wondered if all those times that kids have picked on Cameron and teased him have left him feeling like he needs to unleash his pain by bullying someone smaller than him. And I was angry that other children's behavior had possibly affected my child's emotional health.

I thought about the world we live in and how every interaction and observation that my kids have is going to influence them for good or bad, and how few of those influences will be good.

And I felt helpless for just a moment. How can I beat out all those forces and be Cameron's lighthouse in a stormy sea? It is overwhelming.

But I know I'm not alone. My kids are all going to face things that make my skin crawl, make my heart sink and make my mind whirl, but I don't have to hold them in safety by myself. I have help. And that makes it just a little less scary.

Another Example of Excellent Parenting

Yesterday I had a few minutes that weren't sucked up by doing the dinner dishes or bathing toddlers, so I sat down to watch a news special about Haiti. (And the dinner dishes are still sitting in the kitchen sink and the toddlers didn't get bathed last night.)

Before long, Cameron and Ethan wandered in and watched with me. And this is when I had to start pausing the program every 90 seconds to answer the kids' questions, explain why the affected area needed soldiers, discuss malnutrition and infection, etc.

My kids have always been very interested in world events and I do my best to give them the explanations that they need in order to understand what's going on, and I've always been impressed with their understanding and maturity. But last night I suppose I gave too much information when Ethan asked, "But an earthquake could never happen here, right?"

Oh, contraire! Our house pretty much stradles a fault line, and tempts fate daily. I explained the science of an earthquake as best I could, pulling out of my dusty mind what tidbits had stuck with me from fifth grade. Then we went back to watching the latest reports from Haiti and The Dominican Republic.

Ethan laid his head on my shoulder and quietly began to cry. The guilt and remorse that then overtook me was pretty intense. I felt horrible for dishing out more reality than my six year old could handle. I rushed in with hugs and "don't worry"'s and tried to reassure him that if anything like that happened here, it would not be nearly as bad because we have food and water and doctors and plenty of medicine and our buildings are stronger and Daddy and I are here to protect you... It helped a little.

I looked over at Cameron to make sure he was ok. He was. But that was what I expected from the kid who checks out library books about frostbite and then wants to debate what tools might be used for amputation.

I sent both boys back to my room to watch cartoons, like normal kids should, and I made a mental note that when Ethan asks if we can watch something else, it might be for reasons other than his love of Star Wars.



While we're on the parenting subject, if you haven't already, peek over at my other place and leave a comment on the subject of replacement parents. It's really making me think!

Thanks for taking some of the blame, Nick Jr.

Drew does not normally watch Ni Hao, Kai-lan, which is a show on Nick Jr. He occasionally watches Diego or Dora, but learning Chinese from Kai-lan has apparently never been as exciting as learning Spanish from Dora. Until today.

Today, Kai-lan is filling in holes in a hillside with snow so that she and her animal friends can sled down it. Whenever they find a patch of dirt, they ask the kids in Reality Land to help them fill it in by saying the Chinese word for snow. Well, guess what? The Chinese word for snow sounds quite a bit like the English word for poop, except in it's more exclamatory form. Cameron heard this profanity repeatedly coming from the television and kept looking over at me with a, "Are they serious?" kind of look on his face. And now we can't wait for Drew to go outside and shout "SNOW!" in Chinese for the neighbor's enjoyment.

These are the moments that make parenting so worth it.

False Alarm

I send the kiddos off to school every morning with a kiss, an "I love you, have a great day", and a reminder to call me from their phone when they get to school. This morning, I got the anticipated call, but it was not quite the conversation that I was expecting.

About 10 minutes after sending the boys out the door, my phone rang, it was Cameron, and after I said hello, I could only hear some rustling and then Cameron grunt into the phone, "...attacking me!..."

I soiled myself and had a heart attack at the same time.

I could still hear the jostling and the grunts, but Cameron didn't make another sound other than his huffed breathing into the phone. I tried to stay calm as I said into my phone, "Being attacked by what? Are you ok? Where are you?"

More jostling, grunts, I can hear Ethan yelling...

Are they being mauled by dogs? Is someone trying to stuff them into a nondescript van with no windows? What is going on??

"Cameron!!"

And then it all became clear. Cameron told me that Ethan was hitting him and wouldn't stop, and Ethan was yelling so that he could be heard too, that Cameron ran ahead of him and didn't stay together.

They had made it to the school, but apparently Ethan was intent on punishing Cameron for breaking the cardinal rule of walking to school - running ahead and leaving Ethan behind.

First I felt relief that they were ok. Then I felt rage that they had scared me so badly. Next came embarrassment at the mental picture of my children chasing after each other through the neighborhood and then brawling in the school yard. And finally, I had a small sense of satisfaction that I had scared Ethan enough about the dangers of walking to school alone, that he was terrified to be without his brother. Score one for me.

Good stuff.

Every now and then there are things that happen to make all the tough parts of being a parent worthwhile. Maybe none of these are a huge deal to most people, but they made my day.

Today, Drew asked for peanut butter and jelly. It sounded like "bee-bah and za-wee", but I didn't even have to ask him to repeat it; I knew exactly what he said. Huge victory!! (Say it out loud, and you'll be able to understand it too.)

Ethan, for the third week in a row, has used the "Bulldog Coins" he earns in class to buy presents for me and his brothers, not himself. What a sweet kid!

Cameron has struggled to keep up with all his work in third grade this year, and he's starting to keep his head above water now. He is required to take a certain number of AR Tests every quarter, (if you don't know what that is, don't worry about it - I'm still somewhat confused about some aspects of it), and he was WAY behind. So he started taking tests on books that he hasn't even finished reading yet. And he's passing them. I'll take it!

And as for Trent, he drooled directly into my mouth when I was playing with him today. I did not throw up. You have to love the little things.

Last, but not least, there's Andrew. He's looking forward to a guy's night tonight. He'll be wrangling all 4 boys while I'm gone, and he's actually looking forward to it. I think he's the one who passed on all the good genes to our kids. Except for Drew's evil streak - that came directly from me.

Maybe it would help if we moved to Philadelphia.

Brothers are a wondrous thing. Quarrels between them never last, wounds of both the physical and emotional kind heal with lightening speed, and there is always someone who will laugh rather than scowl when you fart.

For brothers, tattling seems to come with unspoken guidelines. It's perfectly acceptable to tell on your brother when he does something to harm or annoy you, but to rat on your bro for jumping on his bed after "lights out" will bring you no satisfaction, but rather shame and dishonor. Unfortunately, boys are rough, and most of the tattling in our home comes from a wrestling match getting out of hand. One child will cross the line between playful jabs and malicious wallops, and then everything is fair game, including intentional knees to the groin or running to mom and crying foul.

Drew has a capacious vocabulary in a language that we have yet to identify. We're thinking it might be a combination of German and Mandarin Chinese. While we don't understand the majority of what he says, he jabbers along at a rapid pace, fully expecting an intelligent reply to whatever nonsense to which he is informing us. We usually reply with an, "Uh-huh," and then wonder if we told him that he could, in fact, take the car keys and practice his parallel parking. There is one phrase that we understand enough of to know how to respond. It goes something like this:

"Maa-oom? Eee-tah hitted meanowhytosaw!" Which means: "Mom, Ethan hit me and I want you to punish him!" ("Ethan" being either Cameron or Ethan, because Drew hasn't mastered the tongue and voice maneuvers required to form the word "Cameron" so he simply refers to both of his brothers as "E-tah".) My standard response to Drew's jumbled tattling is to give him the go-ahead to run and tell his brothers to be nice. I never know if they have actually committed a "rough-housing foul" or not, but figure that they could always use a reminder to be cordial in their daily bashing matches.

I once got tired of hearing the complaints of who smacked who first and whether someone hit on purpose or too hard, so I removed myself from the equation with the regrettable words, "I don't want to hear it. You two deal with it yourselves." Cameron and Ethan were six and four at the time and "dealing with it themselves" was wholly beyond their capabilities, and I would surely pay for suggesting it. Five minutes later, I heard a ruckus from upstairs followed by crying, then a shrill scream, and then more crying. My reward for excellent parenting had arrived sooner than I'd anticipated. I called the boys back downstairs.

"What is going on?" I demanded in my most exasperated mother voice.

Cameron whined, "Ethan hit me in the face with a baseball bat!"

There was only a plastic bat upstairs so, despite the blood slowly running from his nose, I wasn't overly alarmed. "And so what did you do to him?" I asked.

"I threw a hanger at him."

I looked at Ethan's face, and sure enough, there was a small scratch on the surface of a bruise that was already forming under his left eye.

Tattling then became the mom-endorsed form of retaliation.

Blunt honesty is also a trademark of brotherhood. A boy can tell his brother anything and know that he cannot be demoted to the status of a mere friend or acquaintance. Brothers they will remain. I have noticed that in our house, the boys tend to listen to each other's words of advice more than they will mine or Andrew's. They have an ability to reason with one another that we, their parents, will always be left to envy.

It was a few years ago that I was in my bathroom getting ready to go shopping with my mom, (something that happens only when someone is getting married and Mom needs either a gift or a new dress to wear), and I heard the following exchange between Cameron and Ethan, who were bickering loudly over something completely ridiculous, I'm sure:

Ethan: Just relax, Dude! (He was three at the time.)

Cameron: What?!?!?

Ethan: It means, Don't be grumpy.

Cameron: (telling Ethan off for bossing him around, which lasted long enough for me to remove 8 curlers from my hair...and was finally interrupted by Ethan shouting...)

Ethan: Don't be an ASS!

Cameron immediately stopped being an ass. Problem solved. Ethan's vocabulary, however, has been undergoing constant therapy ever since.

Ethan was able to enjoy four years of being the youngest of just two children before he became a big brother himself. Drew was loved by Ethan unabashedly for almost an entire year. In his first days of life, Drew would sometimes be left at our home with my mother while Ethan and I took Cameron to school. As we were leaving one day, Ethan shouted back to my mom, "Take good care of my bebe!", and then slammed the door behind him. Proclamations that Drew was the cutest baby ever were made by Ethan on an hourly basis, and holding the tiny guy was the greatest pleasure his older brother could be given. Ethan was protective in a way that showed he truly grasped the responsibility that came with being a mentor to a younger brother.

And then Drew learned to walk, and overnight he became the biggest pain in the butt that Ethan had ever encountered. "Cute" no longer held value, and holding Drew was a bothersome chore which gave no excitement or joy whatsoever.

I have never understood it, but Ethan's favored form of entertainment is to put on a movie, grab an action figure that somehow goes along with that movie, and then skip, hop and run back and forth from one corner of the living room to another acting out the scenes in the movie and making one kind of bizarre sound effect after another; an ability which seems to be coded in the male DNA.

About two months ago, and much to Ethan's horror, Drew began to mimic Ethan. He would find an action figure of his own and follow the odd room-crossing procession right on Ethan's heels. Ethan has been very distressed by this new development in Drew's interests, and told me one day that I needed to make Drew stop following him.

"Why do you care if he follows you?", I asked. "What's the big deal?"

"He's making me feel like an idiot!", came Ethan's frantic reply.

I just laughed and told Ethan that Drew follows him and copies him because he loves him and wants to be like him. Ethan was neither flattered nor gracious about my explanation, but now stops his scene reenacting whenever Drew joins ranks. Too bad, really, because Ethan did look a bit like an idiot when he did it, and I really enjoyed watching him.

I think that I am not alone in looking forward to the day when Trent becomes a viable playmate for Drew and the older boys can occasionally be left in peace. In a house filled to the brim with active, boisterous male-type children, I fancy myself an expert in the field of brotherly love, but I know that they have more tricks up their sleeves, and I will continually be taught by them. Like it, or not.

It was a good, good day.

Until last Friday, I thought that the thing I loved best about my oldest two sons was that nine times out of ten, they are able to urinate into the toilet without getting so much as a drop on the floor.  A close second to that would be their solid grasp of sarcasm, without which, most of our conversations would end in confused looks or hurt feelings.


On Friday, I drove, (hallelujah), to pick up the boys from school so we could go pick out snacks to take to the ball game that night in Salt Lake.  I asked them how their days were, and boy, was I a proud Mama when they told me.  


Ethan had used all his Bull Dog Coins* at the Bull Dog Store to purchase me a necklace.  He handed me that red-beaded Mardi Gras necklace with a radient smile plastered on his cute, little mug, and I wore it all day with as much pleasure as if it had been a string of genuine pearls.  Ethan also told me that there was a little boy at recess who had no one to play with because his legs don't work very well, and that he had asked that boy if he would like to play with him, and together they played tag, until the "outside duty" came and told them that tag was not allowed.  (Seriously?  No swings, no tag...what's next?  And I know it sounds odd for Ethan to ask the boy who's legs don't work well to play tag with him, but it's the thought that counts.  I hope the recess aid caught them quickly, or that poor boy might have spent his entire recess hopefully chasing my 6-year-old all over the playground and never gotten close to catching him.)  


Cameron beamed when he got in the van and told me that he had passed his math facts and moved onto subtraction.  I was just as proud as he was, because the kids have 2 minutes to get all 36 addition facts correct, and, as of a week ago, Cameron was taking 2 minutes and thirty seconds to pass all 36.  On Friday, he got them all right in one minute, thirty-two seconds.  He has worked his tail off to complete that, and now he is one of very few in his class that has moved on to the next level.  I am extra pleased with his success, because I went to his class and tested 8 kids, and only one of them passed, while the others were struggling to get 15 correct in the two minute period.  I'm not saying he's better than the others, I'm just very happy that he doesn't have to struggle with math while he's having to struggle with reading.  It was a painfully happy moment to find that he had passed, and his confidence is taking off!  He then told me that he had played four-square with 6 other kids at recess, and I almost cried.  Every day I ask Cameron who he played with at recess, and his answer is always the same:  "I mostly played by myself."  That is agony to a mother.  So to hear that he had been involved in a game with his classmates was the best news I could have gotten that day.


Today, I am a very proud mother, indeed.  And it has nothing to do with bathroom cleanliness.

*Bulldog coins are pieces of paper they earn in Ethan's class to be spent every other Friday in their classroom store, where they can choose from an array of trinkets and prizes.  

The Disgraceful, Uncut Truth

Almost a year and a half ago I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child. It was the first unplanned pregnancy that Andrew and I had experienced, and it took me several weeks to get used to the idea. Once I had accepted that we would be bringing home another baby in December, my thoughts turned to the gender. This was it, my last chance for a girl. I had known since I was young that I didn't want more than four children, so now or never. I knew that it was pointless to wish or pray for a girl; the deed was done and what would be, would be. But I hoped. I hoped all the while that I would be blessed with a daughter. We all know how the story plays out, so I'll spare you the suspense.

We found out in late July that we were to have another boy. I was laying there on a table in the ultrasound room desperately trying not to cry. I had to turn my mind to other things so that I wouldn't lose my composure in front of the ultrasound tech. In her line of work, she must have seen that situation daily, and I didn't want to be one of the ridiculous women that cries over being blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby just because the gender wasn't what they wanted. I held it together until she left the room and then Andrew looked at me and apologized. I let just a few tears fall, and then I was angry. Angry at him, angry at God, but mostly angry at myself. I knew that, scientifically speaking, it was Andrew's biology determining the sex of our baby, so this boy baby's existence should have been entirely his fault. We shouldn't even have been expecting a baby; we had a one-year-old at home!

I held my emotions in check until we got to the car, and then I sobbed. Self-loathing came from so many places. I hated myself for having let my hopes get so high. I hated myself for being so immature, but I couldn't help how I felt. And I hated that God surely thought me to be unfit to raise a daughter. I cried until Andrew became frustrated with me, and then I cried some more. I wept from my very soul.

Then there was the matter of telling family. Everyone from Utah to Washington knew that we were going in for the ultrasound that day and they were all waiting to hear the news. I didn't want to speak to any of them. Not even my mother. So I sent a text to my sister-in-law in Vancouver, asked her to spread the word, and then turned off my phone. I don't know if I told anyone on my side of the family. I wanted no one's pity. I didn't want to hear anyone say that they were so excited for me to have another boy, or that I was such a good, "boy mom", or that I must be needed to raise good missionaries, or even that they were sorry that I was disappointed. It was all crap. Just a bunch of shallow words and thoughts trying to make me feel better. I didn't want to feel better, I wanted to feel sad. The truth was, I knew that when I held that baby boy in my arms, I would love him more than life itself. I was not upset to be having another son - I was devastated to know that I would never have a daughter.

At home, I curled up on my bed and tried to become numb. It felt ridiculous to be this upset over something that could have so easily been good news, if only I could let it. Our baby had a beating heart and arms and toes. That should have been enough, but I kept playing in my mind scenes from a future that would never be. Braiding hair, shopping for small, pink shoes, watching a dance recital, helping an excited, teenage girl pick out a prom dress, and then a wedding dress. Watching Andrew dance with a beautiful bride on her wedding day. Being called to help my daughter care for her own first, newborn child. A million crushed possibilities were played out before me. My heart was more than broken; it felt as though it had been torn from my chest and stomped upon. I mourned for all the could-have-beens and the never-woulds.

It was months before I could talk out loud about it without suffering pain. I spent the days after the ultrasound trying to distract myself and avoiding the telephone. A couple of weeks later, I got a package from my older sister, Natalie. I opened it up and found inside, a "Happy-Gram". All kinds of things to enjoy, just for myself. Chocolates, a movie, nail polish, a picture frame with four spaces - one for each of my kids, a few other things... And a letter. The beauty of Natalie's letter was that it came after I had settled a bit and could appreciate that her words were sincere, not hollow reassurances. (I'm not saying that anyone's words to me were insincere, just that I couldn't accept them for what they were in the beginning.) Natalie said:

"Life is funny. Just when you think you've found a comfortable spot to sit and take a rest, a rain cloud comes along and drenches your hopes. I know it seems like your life is a little soggy right now, but I've been doing some thinking about that. I remembered when you guys were trying for little Drew, and that it wasn't an easy road. There were doctor visits and prescriptions, and several months of waiting, and then we got the news that there was a baby on the way. Now there is this new little one on the way. He was definitely a surprise, but he came without all the hardships you had before. Heavenly Father knows you and he knows your children better than you know yourselves. He must have something very special in store for your family to send you another little soul so quickly, and he must have great confidence in you as a mother of these children. My point is, I know you are overwhelmed and maybe a little disappointed, and that's okay. But try not to despair because Heavenly Father has a plan for you. Put your trust in Him. And remember that you have a lot of people who love you very much and will always be there for you and all of your boys!
All my love,
Natalie"

With bitter sweetness washing over me, I was reminded what a wonderful thing a sister is.

The day drew closer when Trent, my fourth son, was to be born. Peace had settled over me, so that by the time Andrew drove us to the hospital in the darkness of that December 7th morning, my scars had healed, and I was anxious to welcome my sweet, perfect child. From the moment that I first held him in my arms and saw his pouty lower lip sticking out, I knew that what Natalie had said was true. My Heavenly Father knew me well enough to send me that particular boy to be the final touch to our incredible family.

I love all my boys more than I can put into words. I may occasionally feel aches of sadness when I see little girls with curly pigtails, or open the mail to find a wedding announcement sent by a bride's proud parents, but I will never consider Trent, or his brothers, a disappointment. Maybe it's true, maybe we do choose our families in the pre-existent world. I know now, that given the chance, I would never choose anyone else to be my children.

Now that I've put everything on the table, let me say that I realize that there are people in the world who are unable to have children. Some children are born, and then taken away all too quickly. Nearly every person in the world, including myself, will experience greater heartache than what I have described here. I wrote this hoping for neither pity or praise. I wrote this because it was honest. It was my real emotion, raw and truthful, even though it may have seemed to be a selfish or inappropriate feeling. I am sure that I am not the only person in this world to feel these same feelings - Longing for something that is not meant to be. I hope that I now have a better appreciation for how unique a person's feelings are. One's past, present, and hopes for the future all make up what they feel and how they interpret life and dreams. We all take different roads in life, endure individual journeys. Maybe from here on out, I will be a person who can sympathize without assumptions, and love with understanding.

Another Life Lesson

My boys are not hard workers. They complain and whine and act as though whatever task I have given them is going to cause massive bodily harm or depression and ruin their lives. I am going to remedy this. This summer I plan to host an a.m. work camp every day. We will wake up and make our beds, brush our teeth and get dressed before we are allowed to have breakfast. We will then spend time reading and practicing math and writing skills. Then, ooohhhh, then, we will have death chores. Weeding for hours, scrubbing toilets, doing our own laundry, raking the grass, washing windows...whatever I can come up with that will make them thoroughly miserable until they get an idea of how easy they really have it and learn not to fall apart when I ask them to take out the garbage or pick up their toys outside. And all of this will take place before lunch. Every stinking day. I can hardly wait to see their first blisters... I will, of course, give them the afternoon to recover so they are all set for the next day's slave labor. Aren't I a nice Mom?

There's One On Every Team

I have come to enjoy watching my kids play soccer and baseball. I love to see them have fun, try hard and sometimes succeed. Ethan's emotions on the soccer field are far more adult than I would have expected. He shows frustration, support for team members, elation and superb concentration. Cameron is less intense on the baseball diamond, but no less entertaining. He jumps up and down for a whole slew of reasons; from impatience to excitement. He gracefully runs like a bounding deer. And I have started to feel more comfortable cheering from the sidelines. I try to remember to cheer for my son's teams as well as their opponent's victories, and encourage anyone who seems to be in need of some boosting. These kids are 5 and 8, after all, and the score is hardly the most important part of their games. I have even started to do all of this in a voice loud enough to be heard by the people next to me! A great improvement! But today in Cameron's baseball practice I again encountered the dreaded and ugly Sideline Parent Monster. Why do some parents have such trouble with impulsively shouting out pointers to their child, correcting mistakes, and rejoicing at other players failures? Sitting about 5 feet from me on the bleachers was a woman who had remained completely silent until her son was up to bat in the team's practice game. He stood up there and got ready to swing...listened to the coach give some encouraging suggestions and was then ripped from his mental focus by the sound of his mother yelling, "Bend your knees!!!" So he did, and took a swing at the ball that was pitched by the very unpredictable machine. Missed. Mom yelling again, "Keep your eye on the ball, no matter what!!!" (Thanks, Mom, that's what I was trying to do before you screamed and scared the crud out of me...) Swung and missed again. Mom adds to her rant, "You had a great swing, but you need to keep your eye on that ball all the way through!" Coach at this point has given up trying to help the child at all because the kid can hardly keep his head pointed towards the pitching mound with his mother's constant interruptions going on behind him. So after a few more misses and a few more irritating shouts from his mom, the poor kid finally hits the ball and makes it to first base, but not before the baseman has caught the ball and tagged him out. So now the kid is in the outfield and is waiting for the ball to come his way... He didn't have to wait long, and finally his mother had some positive things to say. Too bad she didn't extend that praise to the batter as well. Her response to her son's catch and tag of the batter was this: "Great job! That was an awesome catch, and you got that kid out!! It was great! Good job!" Hmmm. Maybe she forgot that that poor batter, who had done his best and was excited to have hit the ball, was on her son's team and that it would have been kind and considerate of her to cheer for that child's great hit and her son's catch. Instead, she tore the smile off the batter's face with one swift and prideful remark. I don't know which of these three people to feel the most sorry for. The mother, who will no doubt be the recipient of many disgusted glances from other parents and who seems oblivious to her own stupidity; her son, who will one one day realize what a dope his mother is and will have to survive the embarrassment of her for years; or the poor batter boy , who had the wind snatched from his sails by someone who should have been on his side. Such a shame. Maybe some day, parents like that will experience having their losses or failures pointed out to anyone in earshot, and they will realize how much fun it must be for a young child to be on the receiving end of that. It makes me stop and think about how the things I say might effect my children's self esteem, and while I do well in the sporting arena, I am not guiltless in other areas. So I will resolve to build my children up, and never, ever tear them down.

Why Can't I Be a Neat-Freak?

I really find it unfair that some people have no trouble keeping a house clean and orderly. They just seem to always have it together. Then there's me. I can clean from morning til night and at the end of the day, there is no evidence of my labor. Now I like to blame the husband and the children for messing up the joint, but the truth is, other people have husbands and children. And I doubt that every time someone comes over they have to grab armloads of crap and dump it in the bedroom and then shut the door and pray the kids don't rat them out. Nothing gets me in a fury quite like having someone drop by unannounced and see my house looking like a hurricane blew threw. Whenever that happens, which is not completely uncommon, the children who are home at the time get a tongue lashing from me while I feverishly tidy up. (Which is stupid, because by then it's too late.) "This house is a disgusting mess, and I am sick of living in squalor! I will no longer tolerate toys being brought out here to the living room! If you want to play with toys, you play in your bedroom! That's what it's for! And you are not allowed to eat in the living room so I don't understand why there are crumbs all over the floor! Andrew, if you leave one more cup in here, I will kill you! Why are there toys all over the kitchen counter?? How am I supposed to work in here? Who didn't clear their dishes?? If you don't have clean pants to wear, that's your fault, because you don't put your clothes away and then they end up in the dirty laundry..." It goes on and on. So if other people have children and husbands, why is it only my house that is continually unfit for visitors? It can only be one of two things... One, I have the absolute messiest and slovenly children and husband in the world, or two, I don't follow through with all those rules that I yell out in frustration. I think it must be number two. If I don't allow toys in the living room, I ought to be firm and consistent to make sure it doesn't happen.
Another thing I do is let my kids' friends and cousins come over and play, but not make them help clean up. And then I end up with this:







The best part of that mess was separating the popcorn from the Battleship pegs. So...two new resolutions for me. I will enforce the no toys in the living room or kitchen rule. And I will make my kid's guests help clean up before they leave. And I will beat anyone who leaves a mess for me to clean up. Oh, that's three things. That's ok, they're all good.

Time To Up My Game

I've never put a whole lot of genius into my holiday hiding places. The shelf in my closet and under my bed have long been my primary locations to stash Christmas gifts, Easter goodies and birthday presents. I just shove the various items in the places they fit best, stick a box or bag in front of it, and I'm off. Well, today I made my boys scrub the kitchen floor to pay restitution for frying my nerves all day with their constant bickering and kick fights. I couldn't find the bucket that I usually use to put the water and deadly chemicals in, so Ethan piped up with a good suggestion..."Mom, there are Easter buckets in your closet. We could use those." Well, crap. What choice did I have? I used one of the Easter buckets that was meant to be filled with grass and candy as a mop bucket because my brain couldn't quickly enough come up with a reason not to. So now what? Do I use the buckets anyway and just explain that the Easter Bunny must have stolen mine, or that the Easter Bunny must also be a patron of Wal-Mart? Or do I scrap them and go buy different ones? Either way, I've learned my lesson. I will no longer count on my children's ignorance and lack of observation skills to keep my hiding places secret. I will now be forced to use every bit of my gray matter and find a place in the garage to stash things. Or maybe next time they ruin my day I'll just tell them there is no Santa Claus. That would be sufficent payback. I can mop the floor myself.

It was all so sudden

On Friday night I had one of those things that I think people call an epiphany. Looking around at my house and taking inventory of my life I realized that I had lost myself. For the last who knows how many years I have felt sad, ashamed and embarrassed that when someone asked me what my hobbies or interests were, I had no answer. I used to like a lot of things. I haven't pursued a hobby in years, it seems like. Whoever it was that first said you have to take time for yourself or you have nothing to give, they meant it. I always thought that was a lovely tid-bit of wisdom, but I never applied it, obviously. So that night when I first realized that I lacked a personality and had nothing left to give, I broke out a canvas and some paint and I went to town, just releasing years of pent up creativity and emotion, and I felt better almost immediately. I am by no means a talented painter, but I enjoyed it. And I enjoy photography, so I intend to learn more about how to do that right. And I'm going to buy more paint. And I'm going to get up earlier in the morning and get a hold of my day before the bog of tedious responsibility steals it from me! I'm going to take my whole life back because being a mother and wife shouldn't mean I have no self. I'm going to love my life again, and it's bound to make me a better person, better wife and a better mother. Woooo! Here I go....