An Update

About two and a half months ago I wrote about my son's anxiety (read HERE).  It was hugely cathartic for me, and I hope someday it will be cathartic and reassuring for him. In some ways it feels like his diagnosis was a lifetime ago. And like most things in life, it also feels like it happened yesterday. To be blunt, we have come a long way. To be honest, we have a long way to go.



When we finally arrived, after seeing a therapist for a few weeks, at the point where we knew we needed to loop in our pediatrician and talk about medication, I felt both a deep sense of relief and an intensified fear of the unknown. I could not wait to start his medication, and I was terrified of starting his medication. Researching side effects, and overall effectiveness of a medication, particularly in children, is a scary thing.

My son was ultimately put on a common selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI), and forever more I will stand by the effectiveness of this drug, for him...for now. He started on a very low dose, and his pediatrician and I hoped and were optimistic that we would be able to keep him at that dose. While we were warned that the drug could take weeks to have any significant effect, I maintain that we saw a difference in him immediately. Perhaps a placebo effect, but my gut tells me it was more than that. I think the biggest and most immediate change was that he began sleeping. My eight year old child was finally starting to sleep through most nights. Bless. It. My heart broke for him and all of the sleepless nights we had struggled through, when he woke up after taking his very first pill and was so excited that he had slept. He was excited to have simply slept. He was proud of himself for having simply slept. He was relieved to have slept, but was skeptical too, as he should have been, since we had tried (and failed with) so many sleep remedies before.

Also, his "tantrums" ceased almost immediately. He smiled and became a hugger reborn. We witnessed tiny but more frequent glimpses of the little boy we had once been so familiar with. We continued with weekly therapy and talked some good talks. And while life was immeasurably improved I still can't shake the guilt.

I remember sitting in front of the doctor in tears quietly whispering that I wished we had done something sooner for my child. Even now there are times when I can not shake the images of his anger, his tantrums, the terror and sadness and frustration in his eyes. Sometimes I can not get out of my head the sound of my shrill voice screaming at him. Sometimes I can feel his sister's frightened tears as I wipe them from her tiny cheeks. And I think to myself...three, nearly four years. We struggled. He struggled. But it took years to finally get him the help he truly needed.

And yet, as things go when cruising through life, before we knew it he hit a wall, plateaued if you will. It was amazing, disheartening and eye opening to watch the medicine decrease in effectiveness. The pediatrician had anticipated that this might happen, and we were scheduled for frequent (and I mean frequent) med checks. In the beginning I was unsure how long he would take the medication, but once I saw the glimmer of hope that this SSRI brought, I became desperate to continue with it. At every med check my heart beat faster, wondering if we had arrived at the point where the doctor would recommend not continuing with medication. Thankfully just before our eleven day road trip vacation extravaganza his dose was doubled and prescription refills granted for the next few months. I was so hopeful that we had found "the answer". I was so naïve to think it was so.

I have to say I signed a tremendous sigh of relief when I knew that we would have a higher dose of medicine for our great family getaway. Because my pre-medicated son would have hated everything about our vacation. He would have hated the uncertainty of the drive. He would have hated the lack of schedule (in fact, he would have hated summer in general for the lack of schedule alone). He would have hated going to restaurants. He would have been paralyzed by the thought of which rides to ride at amusement parks. Tears would have been shed. Hearts would have been wounded. He would have tried to control each of our decisions. He would have missed home and the cat and he would have been miserable. My husband and I counted our blessings, and then watched as we saw anxiety try to push through the medicine and pull my son under again.

We arrived in South Carolina the day after Hurricane Arthur vacated. We were lucky. But Rip Tides remained, and they terrified my son. The girls...not so much. But him...he spent every second that he was in the ocean, not jumping waves or body surfing, but instead pulling his little sister "to safety." He demanded we spend our days at the pool. And honestly, it was easier there anyway because holy wind...so we did. Once the threat of being sucked out to sea diminished, we ventured back to the ocean. After all...we drove umpteen miles and so many hours to play ocean-side...not pool-side. We had one good morning, and then during an evening stroll met a man who had hooked a baby Black Tip Shark. Or Black Finned Shark. Or Some Kind of Shark (perhaps the evening stroll along the beach had been preceded by many Coral Reef Splash drinks??) Either way the next morning was met with more demands for the pool. Because, and we should have seen this coming, the kind fisherman who let my kids pet the Something-Something Shark also casually mentioned that "if there are babies out there, there are also mamas out there." Plans finalized. Pool vacation it was.

Since we have been back we have had another med check and it took all I had in me not to bring up how I felt my son was once again spiraling downwards. I really do not want to entertain the thought of an increased dose yet. But there are times where I feel him slipping. Succumbing. And I'm scared and sad.

While his medication initially allowed my husband, oldest daughter and I to spend two days and one night away from home hiking Mt. Katahdin, even the higher dose is no longer able to usher him through sleepovers at his grandparents.

Where his medication has provided him with a more sound sleep and I can now kiss him goodnight and not wake him up, (before the slightest touch would cause him to wake), he still wakes in the middle of the night roughly four times a week. Thankfully the medication has him in a place where he is able to fall back to sleep with relative ease (provided his father or I are next to him).

While his medication has allowed us to breathe again as parents, and as a family, we are learning that any sort of discussion regarding change...or me taking a vacation, or him going to college, or his sister going to college, or his cousin going to college is enough to allow anxiety to regain control of my child.

While his medication has not protected him from hurt feelings or feeling intensely inadequate in comparison to his friends, or those he looks up to, I am so thankful that medication has allowed the relationship between my son and his older sister to re-blossom. They used to be so close. So. Close. For years I chalked their increasing distance up to a boy/girl dichotomy. They could not find common ground because they were so inherently different is what I told myself. But since being on medication, I am in awe of the change between those two. They do have common ground. They can have a conversation.  They do like spending time with each other, and value each other's friendship and trust. Years of hurt feelings have been repaired in just a couple of months. And while I am so thankful, when I catch them playing together, or chatting over Harry Potter, or asking the other's opinion, I can't help but kick my own ass for not pressing therapists and advocating for bigger interventions years ago.  Yes, bickering and yelling and tattling still happens. And there are times when I want to throttle them both, but I can clearly see their love again. And for a while it was so one-sided. My son has always idolized his big sister, but for far too long she had a hard time...I don't even know what the word is. But she had a hard time with him too.

Ultimately we have learned that we can never let our guard down. We have learned that he takes the safety of his little sister as a threat. We know that when he begins to amass an arsenal of Nerf guns and plastic swords in his bedroom, or when he insists on sleeping with a "weapon," that we better figure out what he is thinking about, or what he has been exposed to. He struggles still to articulate his feelings, and we know that when he starts to unravel at any given time in a day, we need to quickly backtrack and try to eradicate the source of stress (be it a conversation, an activity, a show, a chapter in a book, a news clip).

As parents we have to be intuitive and smart and calculating about what we say in front of him, because we do not want to exacerbate his level of stress. We can not talk about moving. Or my husband's tenuous job situation. Or celebrating my 40th year and our 15th anniversary via an adult only weekend getaway. We can not talk about maybe taking the same weekend hike with him when he is in fifth grade. We can not talk about school. We have had to make a plan for school that includes homeschooling this year, if the first thirty days don't work out for him. We do not expect completely restful nights. We are very, very careful about what responsibilities we give him.

While his medication has allowed us to restock our patience and breathe easier, the wounds are still so fresh that when he has a bad day I immediately think the worst. Immediately I am in the place of "worst case scenario," telling my husband that this isn't working. None of it...the medicine, the therapy, the bazillion hugs that he requires in a day...none of it is really working. I can not ever pull myself from thinking of his future self. I worry about how bad this could get for him.

This learning curve is steep. It is fluid. It is not fun and can be exhausting and frustrating. There is no stopping anxiety. There is only a pause. Perhaps a mute for a couple of days or weeks. There is only coping. Not a cure.  

Two For One

Weeks Twenty-Three and Twenty-Four/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2014"

This week and last have proven to be incredibly busy, and bruisy, for the little man. Last week he took a tumble off of my bed smack dab in the middle of the night. Miraculously I'm not even sure if he woke up. And surprisingly I did wake up. He has been sleeping extra-shitty lately, and I'm extra tired because of it. Combine old age, sleep deprivation, and the end of school year cluster and I'm pretty much toast.

Needless to say, I missed week twenty-three's post. And to be honest...this is the best I got: half a selfie. Or I guess it's really half a him-selfie.

Intertwined with the lack of sleep, increased activity, and yes, old age, my husband and I are also raising money for St. Baldrick's. We're shaving our heads in about a week and a half, and while I am super excited, and pretty super proud, I'm also obsessed with checking our fundraising page....which coincidentally you can find HERE should you find yourself inclined to donate. Checking the fundraising page, and posting updates to Facebook and braving a tweet or two, seems to consume A LOT of my online/writing time. Hence...the blog has suffered. Add to all of this the fact that I really have nothing to say...it's been crickets around here.

 

Yet I am trying to force myself to sit down and write. Just because I committed to doing so, which brings me back to my boy. After months and months of yelling at the older kids to make sure the gate at the top of the stairs was closed, I left it open. And he fell down the stairs. And I aged 17.5 years. Holy hell. He is fine. I mean, I keep finding tiny bruises (his cheek, his back, his forearm, his fat rolls around his knee) that I attribute to his tumble, but overall he is just fine. Me...not so much.

 

When I asked my oldest daughter what she saw when it happened in order to try and better understand whether or not he came down feet first or head first, she said "Mom, all I saw was a flying ball of skin." We are lucky. He is lucky. I curse my bad luck all of the time...but when it matters. I am lucky.

 





I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity  http://www.practisingsimplicity.com  

My Anxious Child

Honestly we had had such a difficult time with him, starting around the age of five, that I was beginning to both fear and remain hopeful that there was something diagnosably wrong with him. It was bizarre. I almost wish that someone would tell me that he had X and to fix him we needed to give him Y. Problem solved.

But of course it is not ever that easy.

Today:
This post is one that I have started to write for almost four years now…almost every day I write this story, his story, at least in part, in my head. The beginning, the middle, the end…they beat on in my heart day after day after day. And while writing is therapeutic and organizational for me; while venting through words allows me to focus, telling my son's story could be detrimental for him. I am hyper-aware that ultimately his story is not mine to tell, and I will hold close to my heart the most private of details.

But I have decided to share what he struggles with because I now more than ever I believe we need to talk about the force that anxiety can be. How anxiety for a child, and his or her family, can be all consuming. How anxiety can rob a kid of large chunks of his or her childhood. How anxiety can spark the disconnect that can become a family's touchstone when one member is struggling. How we're not alone; how I don't want to feel alone. How I love my son.
 
A few weeks ago:
The day I decided to actively seek out a therapist for my son, again, was a day mired in physical pain. Perhaps a touch of it was the flu, perhaps most of it was a symptom of the depression I felt I was surely sinking into as a result of my child's behavior. To be honest I wanted so badly to write down what I was feeling that day, and the days that immediately followed, because I knew I wouldn't be able to adequately capture with words what I was feeling; to document what was happening to my mama heart, a few days or weeks removed. But I was too tired. Too defeated. Too emotionally drained. Parts of me had truly given up, let go, and given in once again to the chaos that my oldest middle child could so easily craft.

But I knew my son needed help. I knew I was not able to parent him the way he needed to be parented. In fact, I realize now that without intervention nothing we did as parents would work. And recognizing that, coming to the realization that I could not help him, was hard in part because I see him as a love-bug, a true sensitive soul. A little boy who wakes up in the night and wants to be rocked back to sleep. A kid terrified of sleep-overs. A young man trapped in an eight year old body. A kid who so intensely feels the pressure, even at such a young age, to fit in with his friends. And even with help I worry that I can never be the kind of mother that he needs. I worry about his future self. His adolescent self, and I realize that it is likely that this anxiety, his anxiety, will always be an undercurrent for him. Something waiting to grip him and pull him under. And I wonder if he can feel that I wonder if he worries about that too.
  
A couple of years ago:
For the past year or so I’ve been describing my now almost seven year old son as a boy stuck between two worlds. On one hand, he is still such a little boy. He has anxiety at bedtime; he does not like to play alone. My son, my middle child, would never think to storm off to his room and slam his door in an attempt to escape the horror of boundaries or punishment. He would rather sit in the kitchen while I prepare dinner and listen to me rant and rave, imploring him to leave his little sister alone. He still holds my hand whenever we find ourselves walking side by side. He loves to cuddle, and his hugs before bedtime, his complete devotion to squeezing his arms around my neck and burying his face in my shoulder, are something worth struggling through the day for. He sleeps with a blanket that he has had since birth. And the tantrums he can pull off would rival those of any two-year old.

And yet, paradoxically he’s a bit of a punk. He struggles with big-boy-ness and wants so badly to BE a big kid, a tween, or pre-tween, or pre-pre-tween. He wants his independence, embarrasses in front of anyone, and will retaliate with a harsh tongue. Sometimes when he’s angry I close my eyes and picture him as a sullen teenager who has just had the car keys revoked for a week. He wants to move forward, to be bigger, to grow older and mature quickly. He will challenge many of my decisions and does not like to be told no. He has dealt with a smidgen of being made fun of at school. He has gotten into a smidgen of trouble at school, but has also received awards for kindness. He hears things on the playground and listens to the big kids on the bus. Yes, he can be a little brute when he wants to. He’s sometimes cunning and can beautifully twist his words (or mine!), and tell half-truths. And in his young life he’s dealt with some pretty big boy issues, which oftentimes simmer just under the surface for him. Most days I have difficulty deducing who he is going to be…the big kid, or my little boy. The first grader or the going on sixteen year old.

This child of mine. This little boy. He hugs with his whole body. Clinging to friends and those he loves with such force sometimes it knocks them down. He loves. And then there are times...times when it feels like he is not himself, like he cannot control himself. Times when we were on vacation and he had such a catastrophic meltdown that we left him on the floor of the hotel bathroom, thrashing and screaming. The rest of us waited outside for his storm to pass, tears silently streaming, little sisters quietly gripping hands and asking if he was ok. Praying other guests weren't disturbed, or worse alarmed and frightened for him. Imagine the feeling. Imagine being a mother. So helpless that you are standing there, on vacation, clinging to your other children, wiping tears from your eyes, weighing the pros and cons of your child being removed from your care.
 
Today:
It has been many months of anger and sadness and frustration; weeks on end spent walking on eggshells around my son. Far too little laughter, and far too many tears. Too many instances watching my little boy try to hurt himself; too many times listening to him talk about dying, or how he wished we would give him away. He has spent too many days after school paralyzed by little decisions about homework. Watching his sisters completely pull away from him. Spending my afternoons yelling and crying and looking for him when he takes off, terrified of the mood he will be in when he gets off the bus. Forcing smiles when I leave the house. Sitting up with him for hours in the middle of the night so many times in a week.

It has been all of this, and so...here we are again.  I truly feel as though our family has been thrown into a constant sense of chaos. I feel as though we are falling apart and some days? Some days I am too tired to try to put us back together again. Some days I want to do nothing more than run. My anxious child...he makes me want to run. Far away.

For my son, his anxiety can stew inside his little body for the sum of his school day. Or it can burst forth in an instant on a weekend morning. Sometimes he snaps in an instant and sometimes he can steep in his anxiety for the entirety of a day, teetering on the edge of control for hours. The unpredictability of his emotions and his ability to contain his anxiety, express it appropriately or lose control completely, is nothing short of exhausting. My nerves are shot. And he is tired.

Sometimes the lack of a schedule, and the unknown can set him off. Sometimes it is excitement or anticipation. Sometimes it is not getting his way, not fitting in or not having what other kids have. We have noticed recently that if he is faced with feeling out of control of a situation (i.e. something is unpredictable or sprung upon him) a coping mechanism is to demand we purchase something for him. A new wallet. New mesh for his lacrosse stick. A game for his DS, a new handheld gaming system. A game on his iPod. It could be anything. Unfortunately all of these demands are met with a solid no, and the situation, and his helplessness, spiral further out of control. Thankfully through CBT we have devised a management plan for his “needs” that seems to be working for now.

Sadly my child’s anxiety almost always manifests as anger, and for a long time…for too long, I did not realize how closely tied the two were. I am realizing now that I was punishing my son for behavior that he could not articulate, for emotions he was unable to harness. For stress that turned to near rage and always an intense anger and frustration with himself. He knows what happens is not acceptable nor normal behavior for a maturing boy. He recognizes that there is work to be done and he has been trying so hard to reign himself in. He also experiences extreme sadness when he is having a “tantrum” for lack of a better word. He cries. He expresses regret. He apologizes. He is up and he is down. He is a little boy in the grips of anxiety.

Since starting therapy we have seen his anxiety heighten. We have seen some highs and lows emerge that make us wonder about depression. He is now under the direction of a pediatrician as well as a therapist and has started medication in conjunction with his therapy. I feel like I am limping towards the end of school, because what happens at school is a stressor for him. I feel like I am dragging his exhausted body behind me as we work towards mid-June and the freedom that summer brings.

I am only recently able to fall asleep without laying awake waiting for him to wake up in the middle of the night upset. I am terrified of our upcoming vacation. What should be a fun and exciting time for our family has the potential to be a disastrous twelve days for my kiddo, and by default the rest of us. Because for him, the unknown, the lack of a definite schedule or the pressure to choose the “right” ride at the amusement parks may be too much to handle.

Always:
And yet what I desperately want you to know, and what I try so hard to remember, is that my son is a good boy. He is a kind boy. He loves his family. He is an amazing big brother. He is an amazing friend. He is an amazing student, school citizen and teammate. He is responsible and smart. He loves with his whole heart. He is an amazing son.

I am praying that the combination of continued therapy and the right medication will provide some relief for my son. For my family. But I also pray that people will not look at my son differently going forward. I know those who love my boy won’t. Those that matter will continue to love and support and listen to me vent (thank you so much to those of you who have listened to me vent!). You’d never know the turmoil my boy faces on a pretty regular basis just by looking at him. And in telling this story I’m hoping that your mind and heart will be opened up to others, both children and adults, who may be privately suffering with anxiety or other mental health challenges.

Today:

There is still an underlying tension. Things are far from perfect and so, so far from easy or predictable. More times than not I am still forcing that smile on my face, and to some degree, I think so is he. And because of that, and for all of this, I am sad.

We are trying. Every day is an attempt to get better. To laugh more and cry less.

 

 

 

Field Trip Fun

The other day was field trip day for my preschooler. We went to a farm. In the seemingly never ending drizzle.

My daughter loved the field trip. A real live field trip like the ones she has seen her older brother and sister go on. So really, to her, that’s all that mattered. A field trip complete with a water bottle and a picnic lunch and a day away from the school she loves doing something with the friends she adores under the direction of the teacher she idolizes. So to her it was all good. And to me it was mostly good too. It would have been way better if I had been able to feel my toes, but feeling all parts of ones feet is such a minor detail when you kid is having fun. (Cough-bullshit-cough).

The farm was adorable, if not a wee bit…boring. Situated on beautiful grounds (by farm standards) there was a gorgeous English (or was it French?) barn strung with globe lights and full of rustic tables. The chickens were perfectly clucky, the rooster appropriately aggressive and loud. There were even soft chicks to be held and petted. Near the picnicking spot there was an idyllic cast iron tub nestled under majestic trees. Even the outhouses were adorable; the soap for washing salmonella off of our hands smelled divine.

I mean, yes, the sheep looked ratty, like fleece falling off ratty. And the cows, all two of them…they were in the most run down, cobwebby, rusty nailed barn that a pack of four year olds were ever allowed to trod through. And there was a “protector” dog the kids weren’t allowed to touch. And in all honesty some chickens, two cows, a sheep, some piglets and a pair of dogs, in the grand scheme of things, does not in my mind equate a bustling farm. But I am an adult, so I had to find my own fun.

For example, I thoroughly enjoyed the guy driving the tractor who talked to the kids about compost while showing them the 150 degree pile of shit. There was a chorus of oohing and ahhhing when he talked worms and bugs and how you could cook a hard-boiled egg in the pile of compost. There were screams of shock and awe when he actually moved a hunk of the pile and the steam rose from the ground like…like something holy. Yes, that was good. So good because that guy…man did he know his shit. And boy did he love his shit too. And that right there is the kind of shit that I can appreciate. For real.

Another highlight for me, which I am embarrassed to admit because it paints me in a much crueler light than I like to think of myself, is when the farm dog, who was driving me INSANE with her happiness, her enthusiasm for life and her incessant need to herd children, got a leeetle too close to the live electric fence. Man did that dog yelp when she got zapped, and sorry, but man did I giggle. Take that you happy fucking dog. The kids were appropriately horrified and worried for the dog, and then distracted by the piglets. Apparently through a child’s eyes, squealing piglets trump electrocuted dog. Good to know I think.

Finally and not surprisingly on these field trips to farms in the rain, the parents get to talking while the kids take turns holding freshly laid eggs. And sometimes the talking turns from crazy sports schedules to sons deciding underwear are non-essential.  And sometimes when you’re ambling about you find yourself talking fifth grade health class at about the time the field trip turns toward discussing whether or not there are baby chicks inside the eggs the children are holding. And sometimes as a parent your mind consequently conversation, automatically shifts to discussing how ten year old girls gag when talking about having to diagram gross “boy parts” for health class.

So when your mind is on “the puberty talk”, and gagging little girls horrified by what they have been subjected to through the fifth grade health,  sometimes after  joking with parents about all of these things, you end up holding a chicken. And you’re holding that sweet little ten weeker, and you crouch over, hoping you neither pee nor split your pants in the process, and encourage your daughter and her friends to gently pat the back of the chicken. And it pecks at a kid. So you take your finger and push the chicken’s neck towards your body to gently keep its beak from tiny little hands. And in doing so, your chicken loving daughter (who frigging knew?) says in her most condescending voice…”Momma, stop it. You’re choking the chicken.”  And you say, “No sweetie, I’m not. I’m holding his head away from you so he won’t bite you.” But she insists that I’m choking the chicken. And because you’re crouched down in front of a bunch of kids, praying your kegel exercises don’t fail you now, shallowly breathing so that you’re fat pants don’t fail you either, and perhaps a tiny part of your subconscious is replaying the puberty talk you bark, “I AM NOT CHOKING THE CHICKEN.”

And you’ll hear distant laughter. And you’ll think, why yes, yes I did. And thank you very much. And you’ll save your pants peeing for when you get back into the car and start sneezing…from the cold.

 

Not a chicken, but in fact a cat about to be choked.

My Unraveling

Week Seventeen/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my child(ren) once a week, every week, in 2014"

 

I call this series of photographs (taken with my phone, unfortunately,) My Unraveling.

 

They are messy and blurry and crazy and chaotic and completely mirror everyday life in our house lately.

 

 They are the result of seven minutes of peace and quiet.

 

They are part of a larger project titled, but not photographically documented, How the Baby Destroyed the House in One Morning. (Think an entire box of diapers strewn about the living room. A dish full of cat food scattered across the bathroom floor. Cooking utensils and toys and folded laundry accosted and left for dead.)

 

And it was only Monday.

 

And yet...it was A Monday.

 

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity  http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 



 

It Sucks.

Week Twelve/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my child(ren) once a week every week in 2014"

 



You guys. This is not right. This can’t be happening. My baby, my little ten month old chunk of chub is taking steps. He. Is. Taking. Steps. And I’m not nearly ready to have a walker. He is my baby. My serenity, the peace maker and happiness bringer, and glue that currently most strongly binds the family (save for at nap and bedtime of course).

 

He is still tiny enough where I willingly smell him, burying my nose into the sticky crevices of his neck rolls. I still carry him around and snuggle him and think his farts are adorable and blow raspberries on his belly and the bottoms of his tiny, sweaty, stinky feet. He still seeks my fingers when he nurses. He still sticks his fingers in my mouth. He tries to feed whoever is sitting next to him at the dinner table. He giggles. He gurgles. He drools. He is my baby. And he is taking steps.

I didn’t believe it at first. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen a step here and there over the past couple of days, but really, a step, or half a step, hardly qualifies. And I was in denial. Then on Saturday my husband insisted he counted four. Four steps. And the kids are watching him like a hawk. Stalking him with the camera. Screaming when he even so much as leans in to move in the upright position. This of course startles the crap out of him and he falls, which I secretly love.

But last night, March 29^th it happened. I saw it with my own tired and teary eyes. Three steps. My little guy. The one who needs me most right now; the one who needs me for virtually everything still, is rapidly becoming a walker. And I hate it. I don’t know why…but I do.

(He has been practicing by pushing this toy & anything that isn't bolted to the floor all over the house...including any one of his siblings)

 

I really don’t want to concede that he’s my last baby, especially here…because my husband reads and watches and jumps on ANY chance to remind me that I SAID that our current baby is our last baby. I’m beginning to think that he pays attention to the posts where I claim we’re done, and flat out ignores the posts where I proclaim that there’s room for just one more.

But I digress. I’m late in including this post, these pictures, in The 52 Project, as they’re onto next week already. But I had to take a minute to write down how I feel about this new found skill…and really it’s quite simple. It sucks. I feel like it sucks. It sucks because of everything walking symbolizes, and it sucks because I’m going to seriously miss the way this little bugger crawls.  I’ve got to get the crawl on video before he abandons it all together. And I’ve tried to snap some pictures of it here and there, but I always fail in capturing the true essence of his plump bum in the air, legs wide and angular, whizzing around on his toes like a little sand crab.

And to my sweet, patient, quiet and strong husband. This is your fair warning. It’s only going to get worse for you from here. With each big boy thing the baby boy accomplishes…I’m ramping up the ‘nother baby nag. Except on those days when I want to rip out my fingernails, set my eyebrows on fire, eat toenails or…even take some glow stick goo to the eye (read about that fun here). On those days I’ll be perfectly content with four. For now, I suggest you start helping me push the baby down whenever he tries to take a step.

 

(For now, we savor the moments he's not taking steps!)

 

(Do you know how hard it is to photograph a crawling, or newly walking baby)

 

(Love how he's on all fours here!)
 

And here's the video proof. Though I refuse to watch it. Cause what I don't see isn't real!

 

 

(My) Parenting Truth: It Burns. A Lot

Let’s just say it’s Saturday night. You’re down one kid to a weekend sleepover, and it is a couple days into Spring. You thought it was supposed to snow today, but really…it was rather lovely instead. You lolled around all day, putting off groceries and strangely enough, when five o’clock rolled around you had beer, but not anything to make for dinner.

The request for tacos for dinner finds you at Chipolte, which no one eight and under enjoyed (surprisingly, even their tortilla chips are “spicy”). A quick run to Dairy Queen, and several brain freezes later you’re back home, riding the kind of high moms ride when an outing goes unexpectedly well.  

You decide to up the ante a little bit, perhaps ease the sting of a no-movie-night, and hang a glow stick from the shower head while your boy showers. Showering in the dark with a pink glow stick dangling above his head is right up his ally. Unfortunately earlier in the day you prematurely activated the glow stick, so it loses its glowiness by showers end.

Yet there’s your daughter. She wants in on the glowing tub action. Of course. And she’s not happy with only a half glowing glow stick. Still, you’ve got your “outing-went-well-mom-high” going on, and you fill the tub with water remembering that there are leftover glow bracelets in the cabinet. Leftover, from like three camping seasons ago.

Squeals of excitement and crack-shake-crack-shake. Crack. Holy EFFING shit. Crack and the mother-effing-poisony, juicy, goopy glow shit squirts out and penetrates your helpless eyes. You saw the light. And it was frigging purple. And it was frigging shooting straight towards your face.

So there’s screaming. There is lots of screaming: “Marc! Marc!! Maaaarrrrrc!!!” And “Gills get out of the tub baby. Get out of the poison water in the tub.” Because in all of your confused pain you, like a good and protective Mama, you throw the broken glow stick into the bathtub. With. Your. Daughter. She’s not emotionally scarred for life at all. Nope.  So the screaming. It’s coupled with rubbing. And spitting. Because spitting always helps.

Instinctively you throw your head under the faucet and start flushing your eyes. Pleading with your stunned and maybe-not-so-good-in-a-crisis husband to find the empty container and read what it says to do in case this mother-flucking-shit gets in your eyes.

You know what it says? It says one may experience “temporary discomfort.” You know what. That’s bullshit. Discomfort doesn’t cover it. Temporary…as in my eyes still sting almost three hours later.

And the truth? Parenting highs are fricking stupid. And dangerous. At least for me. Tonight reminded me that when I am on a parenting high, I do stupid things. Like remember some fancy idea from Pinterest (I assume) on how to make bathwater glow in the dark. If only one of the kids had thrown a tantrum while we were out. Bath time would have been so much less painful.

(Pure, burning, evil)

 

(Mother frickers are STILL glowing in the trash)



Baby Steps

Week Eleven/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my child(ren) once a week, every week, in 2014"

 

Here we are again. This project surely does highlight how quickly the weeks do in fact pass. I feel like I was just here posting an entry! And now, it's time to post another one.

(So curious about everything!)

 

I feel like this has been a big week for the little man. I can feel him ready to walk. I feel like he feels ready to walk. He's taking bigger risks with standing alone. Stretching his little arms to the max to get from one object to the next. I will be incredibly sad when he takes his first steps. I should be joyful, but this will definitely be bitter sweet for me. Do I say that every week?

(He's perfected the squat)

 

This week is also the week we think he may have uttered his first word. I'm not ready to make it official just yet...cause it's kinda not the word Mumma...which is what I really want his first word to be. But we hear "up" from him all the time. We say it, he says it. With extra emphasis on the "p". It is adorable.

 

Screeching and maxing out the high pitchy-ness of his voice has also been high on his list of things to master this week. He certainly loves the sound of his own voice...yet don't we all?

 

And of course....more teeth, less sleep.

You are a happy, growing baby. You are moving towards toddler status faster than is acceptable. Of course I am so thankful for the happy part, and have resigned myself, once again...and one week at a time...to the growing part.

 

Also...first pair of sneaks!

 

 I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 



Stand Alone

Week Ten/Fifty-Two

 "A portrait of my child(ren), once a week, every week, in 2014" 

 

Okay, so I'll concede. This whole picture taking, with my big girl camera, thing is proving more difficult than I had ever imagined it would be. I remember thinking, how difficult can it be to take a minute to snap a few (good) photos of my kids? As it turns out...very. Part of the problem is that my primary subject is constantly on the move these days. Part of the problem is that I am sick of photographing said subject in the same spot (read: indoors because Maine in February. And now because Maine in March). Part of the problem is that every single time I think to snap a photo, my subject is wearing the same thing that he was wearing the last time I posted a 52 Week Project picture. So you see...several problems.

 

And already I've missed the Week Ten deadline, but I definitely wanted to document the following. Even though I took the pictures on my phone. But for some reason, this is a big deal to me. I've been denying my baby's growing up. But now. Now he stands. Which means soon he walks. Which means...it's over. Done. Babyhood is gone and I've lost the battle to keep him snugly and tiny and babyish forever. And since I know my husband will dutifully read this post, I'll dare to say...standing means it's time for another. What's one more when you've already got four?

 

My baby turned ten months old on Friday. The same day that my oldest daughter and I lost our minds and subsequently forgot to get the dslr out to take real pictures of THIS:

 

  I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 

Spring Please

Week Nine/Fifty-Two

 "A portrait of my child(ren), once a week, every week, in 2014"
 

 Even this guy knows. It is March. It needs to warm up. The snow needs to melt. We are even anxiously awaiting Mud Season. This winter has been way too long. Way to cold. We want to get outside, instead of smearing grimy hands on doors and windows...we want to make mud pies.

 

 Loving this stage with my little one, who is growing up so fast. He is getting closer and closer to walking. He has worked up the courage this week to let go of whatever he is holding on to and stand unassisted for a few seconds. Of course usually we clap and make a fuss and scare him and he falls to the ground...but still. I feel as though he'll be walking sooner rather than later.

 

I think he's working on cutting more teeth as well. We've had a bit of a sleep regression...if there's even a way to regress from already crappy sleep. He has made huge strides in eating though. This boy who gagged and spit out and avoided food at all costs has discovered chicken, and ham steak, and carrots, and homemade chicken and rice soup, (and part of a McDonald's chicken nugget that his sister snuck him) just this week. Yay!

In other news. I attended a Kindergarten orientation for this love bug this week. We are both so excited for fall. Praying for all day K to finally be approved in our district.
 I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 

This One's Trouble

Week Eight/Fifty-Two

 "A portrait of my child(ren), once a week, every week, in 2014"

 

This guy. This week. Exhausting.

 

He ate toilet paper. He climbed stairs. He broke a vase. He toppled over a plant and broke everything. He ate wood. He played in the trash. He chewed on wires. He gagged on applesauce and threw up. He pulled down a table lamp. 

 

He is on a naughty baby roll, and I had forgotten, until this week, how much baby-proofing really needs to take place in order for me to sit on my ass for more than five minutes at a time. And I've baby-proofed three times before him! Thankfully this little bugger loves his pack n' play. And boy do I love this little bugger.  

 

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 



Happy, Happy, Happy

Happy Valentine’s-three kids woke up before 6am-school is closed again-the snow blower broke-one kid is sick but refuses to take his morning nap-the kids were supposed to go to my parents for the weekend but my dad is sick-we ran out of beer last night-the baby is nine months old-and did I mention school is closed-Day!

On the very, very, very bright side, my husband fixed the snow blower by adding gas (which coincidentally rhymes with he’s an ass).

There’s this “kiss face”

 

And he spent the morning trying to say Mummma. I believe that’s what those trendy types call a “heart explosion.”

Kids Say the Meanest Things (to their Moms)

Sometimes I think I've got it together. Perhaps I’ve just survived five days with 4 kids while my husband is halfway across the world on business. Maybe I’ve taken a shower two, or better yet three, days in a row. It could be that I’ve cleaned more than one room in my house in a month. Or I’ve been able to get the baby to sleep in his crib for more than twenty minutes at night. Possibly I’ve dedicated a good thirty minutes to playing with my little girl. Or I have managed not to make it through a school morning without losing my temper with my oldest two children, whom both seem hell bent on destroying me emotionally.  So on occasion, yes, I feel like I’m a pretty damn good parent. On occasion I think; Sweet Jesus I’ve got this whole motherhood thing figured out. Parenting is No. Big. Deal.

And then sometimes, while sitting at dinner, my 8 year old son will say something like “mom when I think of you, I think of three things: friendly, funny and swearing.” And that is when I can physically feel myself shrinking to a child-sized being; I feel myself being put in place by my kid. In front of my mother no less, who is quite obviously smirking, and quietly vowing to tell my father all about THIS. To be fair to myself, my son’s outburst of honesty came amidst husband’s said international business trip, and a seemingly endless snowy and bone chilling winter. I have had extra swears to say these past few days, cause there have been extra reasons to say them.

Regardless, it was in that moment that I finally felt as though I need to make a concerted effort to tone down my profanity. Clean my language up, and keep it classy for the sake of my kids. This of course will be a tremendous challenge for me because swearing is what I do. In fact, I used to do it just to drive my father crazy. He would tell me I was too creative to swear, whatever the farting dog that means, and I would tell him swears were just words and storm off swearing under my breath.  

Until now I’ve not worried about my kids picking up on my bad habit, and unlike my father I’m not sure it would irritate me. Thankfully my oldest daughter would never dream of swearing, out loud or under her breath. My son is a little more brazen, but for the most part keeps his swearing to “crap” and “fricking” and for times when he’s really, really mad. Like when his little sister tries to talk to him while he plays Minecraft. And my three year old; she is far more likely to test the waters. And holy shit…she’s actually four. Anyhow, my FOUR year old could hold her own in a bar, at a football game, or with the commercial fishermen at the pier if she needed to. But she’s just a little sprite…you know, around three or four, and it is still endearing when she drops a swear or two. And the baby, who knows? I suppose his first word could very well be shit. Or damn. Or stop driving like an asshole!

 

Yes, I will surrender and admit that swearing is not one of my more endearing qualities. I will make a deal with my son, and promise him that I will try to stop ruining his childhood with my vulgarity. But being the parenting guru that I am; a mom who has her shit together, I will also remind my kid that of late, it is he and his siblings who 99.9% of the time have driven me to cuss and curse and say bad words. Really, it’s his own effing fault.