Fever

He lays here, still. 

My usually active two-year old baby.

Now, watching his favorite Thomas episode.

Feverish and sick.

His head's on my pillow and he's covered with my blankets.

I sit next to him. 

It breaks my heart a little to see him feeling so bad. 

It heightens my anxiety, too - this 104 degree fever.

Fifteen minutes ago, he clung to me saying "Hot, Mom, Hot" over and over again. He was burrowing into my arms, just wanting to be held.

Giving him the Motrin was just as hard for him as it was for me. 

Giving him hugs much easier.

So I held him close after, wishing my hug, like magic would just heal him, and he fell asleep in my arms.



He's beginning to squirm a little, kicking his feet.

Good, the Motrin must be working.

A gleam of light in the midst of anxiety.

But being the Mama I am, I continue to sit by his side.

When The Words Are Short

When the words are short.

Impatient. Full of frustration.

When the attitude is strong. Harsh. Unrelenting.

And the cracks in The Mommy show through.


Thank goodness for apologies.

And hugs.

And kid-like short-term memories.

Forgiveness.

And love.

Pure.

Unadulterated. Unconditional.

Love.

I'm a Mechanical Toy

Me, to my almost 6 and 1/2 year old: "Put your shorts on."

Five minutes later, "Put your shorts on."

Two minutes after that, "Put your shorts on."

Two more minutes after that, "Dude [Yes, I call my son "Dude"], really? Put those on.  What did I say? Are you listening?"

Sigh.

*

Me, to my newly 4 year old: "Go potty"

Five minutes later, "Did you go potty?  No?  Go potty."

Two minutes after that, "Now.  You need to go potty.  Now. Todaaay. [There's the impatient New Yorker in me coming out]"

A minute later...

Sigh 

*

Me, to the 16 month old: "No, no.  No, touch."

A minute later: "No, no, no.  No, touch.  Come over here and play with the school bus."

Two minutes later, a sigh from me: "Baby.  No, touch, I said.  No, no....okay, okay, okay... [because he's screaming and crying in protest at this point, so I'm rocking him] would you like a ball.  Look, ball!"

Five minutes later:  "Oh, baby.  No, touch!  I think it's time for nap."  It definitely is for Mommy. 

And the above is everyday, throughout the day, several times a day times three. 

I'm not complaining.  

I'm just a mechanical toy. 

Automatic.  In a constant state of verbal repetition.  That's me.  I feel like you just need to push that button located on my back and off I go.  Uh huh. 

Out come the same words, several times in one cycle, in a matter of several minutes.

Like now, as I type - me, to the almost 6 and 1/2 year old: "Sssh, not so loud.  The baby's sleeping."

Hmmm... Uh, here it comes again: "Sssh...Dude...the baby's sleeping."

Yep.

Moms and Dads out there, do you ever feel like this?  Please share.  I'm hoping I'm not the only one...Uh oh, if I am...

To Playdate or Not Playdate?

There's a boy who is a friend to my 6 year old who has been mean to him and physically picking on him for the last year and a half. I saw the effects of it today and it gave me pause to think.


We were at this boy's birthday party today.  Before we left, my husband said to me: "If he (our 6 year old) begins to feel uncomfortable and wants to go home, you should go home."


I nodded, agreeing, thinking this is what I will do but not believing it would come to this.


Well, halfway into the party the 6 year old came to me, stating just that: he wanted to go home.  The boy was being mean to him again.  He had stated the latter to me twice before this time.

I rubbed his shoulder and nodded.  We would go, soon.

The next moment the boy came out of his house and stared at my 6 year old.  He was holding a toy up in front of him - innocuous toy - and just staring at my boy.  By the way my 6 year old starting getting agitated, you would've thought he was being threatened by the toy.  My son was intimidated.

I've witnessed this kind of interaction between them before in their classroom, once before.  Unbelievable but real.    I felt the vibe off this kid, even though he wasn't doing anything but staring at my son and holding up a toy.  Intimidation was present.


"Stop it," he told the boy. "Stop it!"


I started soothing my son, who responded, "He's being mean to me, again."  The boy kept staring and then he walked away.

"Ignore him," I said.  "Don't let him get to you."


It's this boy's way.  He's been called out several times for his mean behavior towards other kids at school.  Even at his own birthday party, a few kids, including my son, were getting annoyed by his behavior.  His mother's aware of it.  I'm sure his father is - somewhat.


And yet this boy and my son have had their sweet moments.  They play well together.  However, more often than not, he's been aggressive towards my 6 year old.  It's been a year and a half, and I can now see the effects through the way my boy reacts around him.  Like a person who has been traumatized.  It hurts my heart to witness this and even write about it.  I wish it wasn't so but it is.


At the end of the party, this boy's parents were suggesting playdates between our boys.  I could even leave my son at their house for a few hours so the boys can play.  They are being kind and reaching out. In moments, I believe the boy sincerely wants to play with my son.


But I hesitate.


If being in the same space with this boy causes my boy to become agitated after awhile, is it even a good idea?  Even if I embraced the other mom's thought that if these two play together more often outside of school, she could help her boy not be so mean to mine's, is it wise?  Or should I push past my doubts?


In moments, my 6 year old is up for it and other moments, not so much.  He wants to be friends with this boy and enjoys the friendship when things are good but then he gets picked on physically most times when they are together.   I get it because I've seen this boy be really sweet to my boy and after they play for awhile, just reach out and hit him behind the knee or push him to the ground without provocation from my son.


So there's my dilemma.  Playdate or no playdate?


What do you think?  What would you do?  Have you experienced this before with your kids?  Please share, because I'm still not sure which direction to go with this.  

Can I Come Out Now?

It is 6:08p and I'm waiting for The Husband to get home.

My 3 year old has been screaming for the last three minutes, repeatedly, "Mom, can I come out now? Can I come out now?"

No, I think.  Not until your father comes home.  More for my sanity than for your punishment.  I can't handle two tackling boys who refuse to obey right now.  I'm thinking I'll handle that better when your father gets home.  Or at least he can handle it.  Even though he is sick.  Poor thing.  


So in your room is where you will stay.  It's safe.  It's quiet.  I know it's without your brother - which is like punishment to you - but so be it.  You'll see him in about ten minutes when your father gets home.  

There's a minute of silence from the 3 year old, and then he begins again, "Can I come out now?"

I shake my head.

No, I think.  Don't think I can do it.  These feet aren't moving.  I am sure they will move when your father gets home.  Right now they will remain still. 


Look, see.  You're quiet again.  Your brother is too.  


This is good. 


"Can I come out now?  Can I come out now?"  It begins again.

Ahh...now the baby is screeching, joining in your intense chorus.  Lovely.

Just lovely.

Daddy walks in, closing the front door behind him. 

"Daddy!  Can I come out now?"

Awesome.  

Sans Kids

In a couple of weeks, the Husband and I will take a trip to Atlanta, Georgia.   Without kids.  He's speaking at a conference there.  It will be for three days.  This will be the first time ever both of us will be away from our Butterscotch Babies.     Their Grandma who is flying into town will be watching them.  

We haven't told the kids yet.  When we do, I'm sure there will be lots of whining and fussing and crying,  especially from the 6 year old.  So not looking forward to that.  He emotes like his mother.  If the weather were controlled by his feelings, we'll be standing in the middle of a thunderstorm in a few days.

But a little separation is good for them, no?  And us.  Especially me.

It will be strange.   To be out of their lives completely for three days.

Though I wholeheartedly trust The Grandma, I wonder what details she will forget.  Hopefully, she won't forget any of the kids in the flurry of school pickups and drop-offs.  She will be juggling three after all.  Honestly, I doubt she will forget any of the kids.

I hope.

I have major prepping to do - getting her familiar with our daily routine.  Just thinking about that exhausts me.   I don't normally think about how my day goes, it just goes.

I worry too that some incident will happen with one of the kids at school, mainly the 6 year old, and I won't be there to handle it.  I won't know if The Grandma would be able to do something about it.

When I tell people about my trip, I usually get "Ooh, days alone with your husband.  Nice!"  I nod but that part hasn't hit me yet.  I'm worried about being so far away from the baby.  My sweet - and lately, fussy baby.

I'm worried that I will be worried for the three days I'm away and therefore won't fully be able to enjoy this time that I will be completely alone with my husband (first time in seven years)  and visiting my family (whom I haven't seen in about eight years) in Atlanta.  

I guess this is the part where I need to trust.   Trust that things will be fine.

I'm sure when I return The Grandma will have it together more than I normally do and I'll have worried for naught.

I hope.

What I Lack...

What I lack...


...is the will to let go.  I hold onto things so tightly like ideas and principles.


...is the will to give in.   I will go after things.  I just will, if it's a book I left behind or a wrong that deserves to be righted.


...is the ability to not feel.  To cover my heart over with a hard shell.  I just can't do it.  So you will see a myriad of emotions cross my face at any given time.


...is the ability to keep quiet about how I feel in the moment.  I just express and if I am not vocal, I emote.  So you will hear me blurt out my anger at the injustices in life.  Or you will feel me as I shake in anger or excitement in my seat.


...is the ability to be blase.   Lacking passion is not my strength.  So I will wave my arms as I express my displeasure or outrage.  My speech will be infused with fire as I speak strongly of a cause that I believe in.


...is the ability to not defend and protect the ones I love.  I can't help but speak up and ask that kid at the playground why he won't include you boys in his games.


...is the ability to not care.  I can't help but care even in moments when I say "I don't care."  So I will observe you on the playground, during recess just to see how you guys are doing that day because I care.  Deeply.


...is the ability to leave God out of the equation of my life.   So I will continue to pray to him before meals (and expect you guys to do so too) and just thank him for the little and big things in our life.  I will cry out to him and even almost hate him when I am stressed out or struggling with the tough moments that crop up but I will always, always revere him.




So, my dear sons, this is me.  Your mother.  Who you live with and will be living with for the next decade and more so you'll most likely get used to me.  But know, with all my personality traits, the one I lack the least...


...is my love for you.

50/50: A Mother's Role?

One Sunday morning while riding in the car on the way to church with our visiting Grandmas, my husband asks me if I brought something of one of the boys.  I hadn't.  I left it home.  Was I supposed to bring it?  Apparently, I was.  He had asked me to get it before we left.  Really?  I didn't hear it. 


"Amongst the other five things I was doing this morning?" I responded to his question, sarcasm dripping through my words.  My bad.  Apparently.  I wanted him to know that I didn't purposely not hear him and I had other things that I was focused on like getting all three boys dressed and fed and ready to go within a 45 minute time period.


It was then I heard one Grandma mutter under her breath, "You're a mother."  


Oh.  Okay.   I don't think she realized I heard her but the message was clear.  I am a mother and I am supposed to be doing the multiple things at once and remembering the extra requests from the husband during those crazy moments.    


I was stung.  So I'm supposed to just bite the bullet and take the strife of kid responsibility on my own?  


I bristled.  No, the husband is in it with me.  Raising and taking care of these children are both our responsibilities - equally.  50/50.  Or 100/100, I'd like to think because I believe we should put our whole hearts into raising our bambinos.   Her remark implied that me, as a mother, should expect to take the brunt of child-rearing and be happy about it while for my husband, it is not expected.  


Of course, she comes from a time when that was the case.  The father was the provider and often, playmate, for the kids while the mother was the main one who took care of the kids, the home and all the details that come with it.  


But this is today, right? Isn't it different?   No animosity against the Grandma.  I was just shocked at her response.   The response that now makes me wonder about my role as a mother.    




Am I skewered in my thinking?  Maybe I am supposed to take on 90% of the responsibility when it comes to the kids, and not expect my other half to take on the same - to share with me equally in the duties.   I don't mind doing most of the work if the situation calls for it but I do expect the husband to do the same.  I do expect him to help me with the "motherhood" duties: changing diapers, dressing the kids, making them meals, etc.  I don't just expect him to come home and settle in his big easy chair and watch t.v. while I make the dinner and keep after the kids. 


This is 50/50. 


Luckily I have an amazing husband who actually thinks this way and steps up to help me.  I am blessed that it is 50/50 (100/100) in our household, with each of us picking up more responsibility when needed.  Even that question that morning from him came more from a  -- "you didn't hear my request?" place than from a "woman, you should've heard me and done what I said" kind of place. 


But maybe I'm putting undue pressure and expectation on him as a father?  


I wonder.  Am I getting it wrong?




Honestly, what do you think?  What is parenting like in your household?  Is it 50-50 (100-100), more on your end or less?  How much responsibility is a mother or father expected to take on?  Please feel free to share as I would love to hear your take on it.




Disclaimer: There aren't any bad feeling towards the Grandmas by yours truly.  I love them dearly and truly with my entire heart and soul.  Big, huge kisses to them (if they should happen to read this).  

The Resident Grouch

I hesitate to write this.  Even to admit to this.  Okay, here goes. 

Every day at around 4:30p, the resident grouch comes to visit me.  Actually, it takes over my body and stays until about 6:30p/7:00p or until the children go to bed.  Its visits are pretty consistent these days, especially after a long day of driving (2 kid pick-ups) and time out and about with the kids.  

Funny thing is, I'm fine throughout the day.  A mostly perfect Zen Mama is who I am.  Milk spills, I'm cool.  The cheese crackers fall on the ground, I'm fine.  The baby is screaming at the top of his lungs while driving back to pick up my oldest from school, I'm good.  Even the mini-tantrum that my 5 year old might try to pull after school to get his way.  I'm calm as I reach out my hand to take his, and speak soothingly to him about not always getting his way all the time.

 

Then once I'm home and have sat down for about fifteen minutes the grouch comes to visit. She's cranky and snippish and selfish.  She's tired of serving her hungry boys snacks and growls that this is absolutely the last helping of cheese crackers they are going to have before dinner. She's quick to send one son or the other to his bedroom, the second they gripe or complain or scream in protest.   She gripes at her husband (via email) when he mentions he has to work later than his usual time (this scenario is pretty much an every day thing this week).  She lets the baby cry and fuss just a bit longer than usual because she doesn't feel like picking him up and holding him in the moment.  This resident grouch pulls no punches.  

I'm not proud of the grouch.  I sometimes wish she would just not show up.  No visits, please.   I want to be peaceful, loving and kind all the time throughout the trials and tribulations of family and life.  But, with a consistency that matches the rising of the sun everyday, the grouch comes to visit.   The grouch wants nothing to do with anyone in the moment.  Sometimes the grouch just wants to curl up in a comforter and sleep.  Worst of all, it's not hard to see the grouch.  It at times makes itself crystal clear to the husband and kiddos.  Not my finest moments, I tell you.  

When the husband is finally home and the house is quiet and the older boys have been put to bed, then, only then, does the grouch decide to leave.  The zen mother sort of returns.  You see, the grouch doesn't really thrive in quiet, calm, non-stimulating places.  It rears its ugly head only during times of loudness and stress, after a long day, when the demands from the kids seem to supercede my quota of patience (not that there should be one, ever).  Ahhh...

The grouch is kind of hanging around now yet not so grouchy as I write this.  As my baby fusses in the other room and my middle son asks me to read him a book,  there's a war going on within me: resident grouch vs. zen mother.  The grouch is taking a stand - doesn't want to be bothered; needs to not do anything but meet her own needs.  Yet the zen mother is pushing back harder.  After a few minutes of fighting, zen mother has won this battle as I go to end this post and see to my crying baby.

The resident grouch concedes.  For now...  

  

Stuck In the Land of P (For Strong Stomachs Only)

I'm surrounded.  All around me, I am truly in the land of P.  There are two things that start with the letter P that surround me all the time: pee and poop.  Both have been a constant since I gave birth to my first son over five years ago with the addition of my middle son three years ago and now with my latest son who was born this past March.  It's not like this surprises me.  I've surrendered to the fact that I'm going to have deal with these two elements for a good seven years, at least.  It just that these days I really feel it because both have taken on various different forms and its just so constant.   

With my 5 month old, I've got the usual baby pee and poop in which the poop ranges from every shade of green and yellow, from the seedy to the clay varieties.  And depending on what the baby takes in whether it be breastmilk or formula, it's anyone's guess what will come out of him, though I've notice the poop stench is much stronger when he drinks in formula.  

Then there's my 3 year old whose pee is pretty standard, though his poop is pretty intense and atrocious, most times.  Not to mention, the amount of it just astounds me and my hubby and anyone who has ever changed a poopy diaper of his in the past.  The amount of waste he ejects can rival that of any adult male.  I'm not kidding.   Now he's potty training and so the pee and poop are no longer in his diaper but in other places as well.  When it ends up in the potty, it's a truly joyous moment.  Especially the poop.  He gets 2 cookies if he poops in the potty, 3 if he doesn't need me to prod him to go and goes all on his own.  Not only as a form of encouragement to say "please, please, continue to poop in the potty like a big boy" but also as a form of gratitude to say "thank you for sparing me the job of having to clean up the floor or bed after you."  However, there are those moments when I am on my knees wiping up the floor or pulling off the latest bedsheet. Like at least once every other day.

I'm surrounded. 

Then there's my 5 year old whose pee and poop, I technically shouldn't have to face anymore since he is using the toilet in the standard way.  However, many a time, in his haste to get back to the latest road he's built out of tracks and blocks or the show he was watching on t.v., he forgets to flush the potty.   Hence I end up walking into the bathroom, a good two hours later and smelling the most horrible of  stenches.  Looking in the toilet bowl, I find the culprit: my kid's latest dump which has been "stewing" so to speak.  Not to mention the countless times I'm pulling off or drying bedsheets from his latest nighttime overflow.  He still hasn't mastered staying dry at night consistently.   And that's okay.  I'm here for him and will be until he does, whenever that will be. 

I really am surrounded.  

Throwing away a diaper or trainers (i.e. pull-ups) at least once/twice every other hour.  I looked in my trash can the other day and these items made up most of the trash.  Not to mention the baby wipes I use to wipe those precious bottoms. 

What's amazing, though there are still those yuck moments where I get really grossed out by what I see, is how much I can tolerate the constant pee and poop.  Now honestly I couldn't tolerate it if I had to do it for a living.  I truly admire nurses and caretakers.   And I definitely couldn't tolerate the sight of pee along the wall of a building or poop on the sidewalk or in grassy, weedy places (as you well know about me from my previous post).  Yet somehow, I can tolerate it when it comes out of my children.  Unlike my hubby, who gags pretty much every other time he has to change a diaper or deal with an "accident", I face the Ps head on with a cool, almost professional-like detachment.  Is it because, though the waste product can be nasty and downright horrendous, my little creatures who emit them are so amazingly adorable (a mother's bias of course)?  How can I stop my heart from melting from the sweet smile that crosses my 3 year old's face as the pee shoots out of him or the toothless grin from my 5 month old as the last of the poop leaves his bottom during a diaper change?

Besides, with every pee and poop I face, am I not building character or at least fortifying an already strong stomach?  Hey, if I can stare down the sometimes green-black goo that comes pouring out of the bottom of my 3 year old (what did he eat??), I can face just about anything gross can't I?  Except, fungus/mold, maggots, slugs, pink vomit...anyway...

I'm not complaining.  I embrace my duty.   I'm just amazed at the endless pees and poops that I'm experiencing in every way shape and fashion these days.  I know someday this will all be a thing of the past that I will look back on with fondness, right? 

As I'm typing this, I look up and see a huge stream of pee coming from my potty-training 3 year old, spraying out like a fountain and covering an area of my dining room the size of a standard welcome mat as he stands staring in amazement.  He looks just as stunned as I feel.  And then I just sigh, quickly getting up. 

It really is like 24/7. 

"Potty!" I say.  "Potty. Go to potty now.  Sit.  Sit!" as I point him over to the little red potty seat by our fireplace.  He runs his little wet feet over to the potty as I inwardly cringe at the footprints he's made.  As I side step the huge puddle of pee, I notice he even got some on the play mat.   Okay.  Such is my world...

All I can say is, thank goodness for hardwood floors, heavy duty paper towels, sweet smelling antibacterial soap, and silly after-pee/poop smiles as I brace myself (yet again) to face the pee head on.