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.  

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.

 

 

 

Rain Baby

Week Nineteen/Fifty-Two

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

The week he turned one. I'm sure several years down the road I'll write about how it felt when my last baby turned one. But for now...for now I just want to remember this. I don't want to think about all of the "lasts" (i.e. milestones) we've achieved in the past year. I don't want to think about him growing into a more independent toddler. Because what I want to do, when it rains and the baby loves the outdoors, is this.

Happy Birthday to my sweet, funny, loving, adorable, chubby, curious, heart-melting, little man. What a year it has been.

 

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

(Well, not this week I'm not. Cause I missed the deadline AGAIN. Who frickin' knew?)



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)



Man-ish

While I realize my little guy still has a vast amount of “growing up” to do (don’t they all really?), I’ve noticed recently that there are a few things that indicate he’s well on his way to becoming a man. For better or worse.

Don’t get me wrong; I love men. I married a good natured one who thankfully doesn’t mind the occasional blog post portraying him in slightly unfavorable light. Also, I’m tasked with raising two. And while I feel ultimately I’ll do a pretty good job, transforming my baby boys into men is also a undertaking that scares me to death. Cause God forbid either of them end up with a wife like me.

At the ripe old age of nine months my little baby boy-cub is becoming more man-ish. For instance:

1.   We don't nurse snuggled up and cozy belly to belly anymore. No. Now he sprawls out like a man on the couch. Feet up, arms askew, slugging a beer...straight from the tap.

2.   He whines. Of course all babies do. My girls did too. Still do in fact. But this little dude turns on the whiny voice. Just for effect and a little bit of attention. I hope he figures out that whiny men are never endearing to women. Neither are men that fake cough, drool excessively, or crap their pants. But for now, we’ll focus on the whine.

 

3.   He flips me off. A lot.

 

      

4.   His feet stink. Holy hell baby boy. I shudder thinking about future sneakers and gym socks and boy specific sports equipment.

 

5.   He tries to make himself fart (and is alarmingly successful). And he laughs when he succeeds. Actually he laughs even if he doesn’t fart on demand…cause farts are just funny. For a while now he’s been trying to make himself poop when he nurses, but he’s definitely upped his game with the flatulence.

6.   He sweats. Ick. And there goes the sweet smell of a newborn baby. Right. Out. The Window.

7.   He has attitude. And according to his pediatrician, he is a sleep manipulator. Apparently because I will do anything to get and keep my little to sleep, said little is a manipulator. Perhaps this is why I am the Mom, and not the pediatrician.

 

8.   He has a favorite chair, and likes to push it from room to room with him.

 

      9.  He is a terrible driver. It is inevitable I suppose.  Zero hands on the wheel. Looking around. Talking to himself. Drooling. Utterly unable to parallel park. Or get from Point A to Point B without me reminding him how to get there.

 

 (Can we pause for a sec and admire the chub!)

  

    10. He has no idea what to do with the laundry.

    11.  I don't even want to tell you what his favorite tub toy is...(hint: he's looking for it!)

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.

One Little Word For You. And You. And You. And You.

The other day I wrote a little bit about the idea of One Little Word for 2014. While I have decided that I will forego choosing OLW for myself, I have elected to go ahead and chose one for my kids. Who better to determine their focus for this New Year than their mother, right?

 

Some will see the following words as harsh. Please. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children with a fierceness only a mother knows. And if we weren’t in the midst of a hellish school cancellation scenario, I would have inserted more warm and fuzzy accolades with a side of mush throughout this post. But I’m not feeling it today. And honestly…if a kid can’t take a little constructive criticism and focus…well then, they’re screwed for life. So really, by giving these OLWs to my kids, I’m doing them a favor.

 

My first born. Her word is FORGET. I want her to FORGET she ever heard that frigging "Cups" song by the lovely Anna Kendrick. I swear to all that is good and holy if I see or hear my daughter try to drum it out on her chest, head, thighs or stomach One. More. Time. I am going to lose my fractured marbles and will saw her hands off myself. Granted, removing an appendage may sound a bit harsh, but honestly. This "Cups" thing? IT. HAS. TO. STOP.

My middle: His word is FLEXIBILITY. Good land boy. It is okay if you don’t sit in the green chair every single time your scrawny ass needs a place to settle. It is okay if you do not hold your baby brother first every single morning, or chose the first cartoon before school. You will survive if I show you a different way to complete your math homework. You will survive if you are not third to brush your teeth at night. You will survive if we deviate off schedule by just a little bit. I promise. Please do not clutch your head, jump up and down in sheer frustration, and scream a slew of nastiness when something, anything, does not go as you think it should.  You are exhausting yourself and you are exhausting the rest of us. Seriously. Flexibility. Look into it.

 

My other middle: I’m actually breaking the rules and giving her one little acronym: CTFD. Calm the F*ck Down child. Just calm down. I know you have been displaced by your baby brother. I know that you were the baby, my baby, for almost four years. But honey, it’s time to let it go. Get over it. You are not the baby anymore, your brother is nearly eight months old and you have had enough time to adjust. The drama. The crying. The (mostly negative) attention getting. The trying to crawl up into my shirt. The not getting the frig out of my business for just a few minutes. It’s old. I’m done. I know you know I still love you as much as ever…but get this…I may even love you a teensy bit more if you just, you know, CTFD.

My baby: His word is PACIFIER. Baby. Dear, sweet, adorable, squishy little baby. A pacifier is a tiny little silicone gift from the heavens. They come in beautiful colors, and some even come with witticisms! In general they can up the cuteness factor for the average baby. And get this, you can bite it and it won’t bleed! You can clamp your teeth around it and shake your head all over hell and it won’t scream. You can suck it in and spit it out of your mouth a million times over (even in the MIDDLE of the night) and it won’t ever become chaffed or exhausted. You can pinch it, scratch it, and stick it in your eye or your ear. It could be your new breast best friend. I’ll even let you keep it as long as you want! I’ll lie to the dentist about you having one. I’ll scoff at the dirty looks we get when you’re happily sucking away on one at the age of 12. (People are so judgmental). And, I know you love the real thing. I get that. But for the love of Christmas give me a break. You don’t know what you’re missing. Let 2014 be the Year of the Pacifier. Please.

Opening Day

Game one for the Cubs is in the books…

 

As Opening Day commenced, I had every intention of capturing just one snapshot of father and son together on the field, as this is the first time my husband has coached one of our kids. I dutifully clutched my phone for the first ten minutes of warm ups. Well, no, that is a lie. For the first ten minutes of warm ups I spread blankets, positioned a stroller, a chair and a shade umbrella. I readied toys, rattled off available snacks and started to sweat. Like a lot. Looking back I realize I should have called it a day when my shins started sweating. Damn capris.

 

So, let’s say that for the next 10 minutes after the first ten minutes, I diligently clutched my phone waiting for the perfect shot: Dad and son side by side. One learning from the other; each searing these moments into their infinitely inadequate man-child memory. But in those first few minutes, as shin sweat puddled at my feet and back sweat zinged down my spine, their smiling faces, pats on the back, and all that camaraderie crap blurred.

It coulda been the sweat dripping into my eyes. Or it coulda been that I began bouncing a fussy baby. And then attempted to discreetly nurse a screaming baby.  Surely the realization that I had to put my phone down had nothing to do with an awkward mixture of exposed breast, squawking baby and uncontrolled milk spillage.

The game hadn’t even started and I had already changed two poopy diapers, sopped gobs of spit up out of my tank top, bought a stroller full of snacks and water for the girls (even though I brought from home a van full of snacks and waters for the girls), made at least one pilgrimage to the van to feed a baby, and changed said baby’s outfit cause he peed on himself.

To be fair to the baby, the part where he peed on himself was totally my fault.  I had been hot-shotting the diaper change and momentarily forgot that the baby was in fact a boy with a pretty solid track record of peeing or pooping all over the van, not to mention his impressive range-of-stream. Temporarily forgetting that I was not in fact at the game to say...enjoy myself...I took my eyes off the diaper region to chat, and was swiftly put back in my place by my three month old.

New outfit for baby, myself soiled from boobs to ankles; I mustered all my strength and dragged my soggy self, the girls and the baby back to the field. And I left my phone alone, giving up hope of making any moment a Kodak/Facebook/Instagram one. But I watched (and doled out quarters for sugar, and bounced a baby, and chatted a little with myself). I focused on my boy and my husband and the fun they were having.  And I will remember. Their smiles. The pats on the back. And all that camaraderie crap.

And if I worried about missing a moment of the game, I shouldn’t have. Because in the cool tranquility of the van on the ride home…I got the play by play. In great detail. Twice.

I volunteered my husband as a Coach this season. And even though I had clearly been drinking heavily when that idea seeped into my pickled brain, I am happy for them. They will remember. 

The First Ten Weeks

The First Ten Weeks: #newbornproblems

I have written the ever popular birth story for each of my children. This is not one of them. Having given birth to my fourth almost twelve weeks ago, it is clear that a birth story is not happening. I have come up with this instead.

 

Week One: #feedingdiaperingburpingbutitsallgood

This could possibly be the most sparkly, dreamy week you’ll experience postpartum. Partly because that load you’ve been toting around on the inside has finally made his or her, (or holy hell their,) appearance. Labor sucks. Delivery hurts like a Mutha. But Sweet Jesus the last few days of pregnancy feel like a living hell.  

This first week also rocks because for part of it you and your little nugget will likely be in the hospital. Unless you’re a special kind of brave and delivered at home. Either way, those first few days are magical. You are treated like the Queen you know you are. People bring you food. You have a chaperone when walking to the potty, or anywhere really. Friends, family and even the occasional rock star nurse, will jump at the chance to change diapers, refill water, sweep floors, empty trash, fluff pillows and just generally pay you more attention than you can expect to see for the next several years. Or at least until you give birth again.

During week one even the middle of the night feeding/diapering/burping/feeding/burping/diapering dance seems euphoric, cause holy crap you just had a baby! Sadly during week one you may be fooled into thinking, “yeah I got this. I just might not lose my ever loving postpartum mind this time.”

 

Week Two: #fatbabyproblems

This week may be the week the onslaught of meals brought to your home drops off dramatically. This is unfortunate, given the fact that you’ll be ravenous. So much so that the cliché “he is so adorable I could eat him up” becomes horrifyingly possible. Fat babies are especially at risk during week two.

 

Week Three: #thereaintnovillageat2AM

Your baby is gorgeous and adorable. And people love him. And they will tell you every chance they get how gorgeous and adorable he is. And you will agree. Although, you will also know baby’s dirty little secret. This baby becomes a little less gorgeous and adorable at 2AM. So you say to the people…”isn’t he gorgeous and adorable? You should see him at 2AM.” And the people will chuckle and nod. And you’ll say…”no, seriously. Come over, I’ll be up. Bring coffee and donuts and bacon. And a roast chicken… you can hold the baby.” But no one will come. Long about week three your husband will likely tire of getting up and helping with feeding/burping/changing. You’re on your own at 2AM sister.

 

Week Four: #holyshititseverywhere

By this week you may be hitting your groove. Your baby is a miracle. Surviving thus far as a parent is a miracle. But this week baby may shake things up a bit. This week could be a game changer. Perhaps you’ve dropped a kid at summer camp, and promised the other kids you’d visit the library. And getting screaming baby out of car seat (see week six) you realize he’s pooped. A lot. No problem for this veteran Momma.

 

You rearrange bags and flip seats down. With a flick of your wrist the changing pad is laying on the front seat of the car and you get after that poopy diaper. Somehow all of your car doors end up open, and children numbers two and three are all up in your face, which is dangerously close to baby’s ass. And you hear it coming.

This will be the week; baby’s legs held high in the air, he produces a poop of astronomical proportions. Yes, you jump mostly out of the way, but you are startled. And your big kids are startled. And so you all scream. Like a lot. And the poop…holy lord the poop. It grazes your thigh, dribbling down your shorts and onto your leg. And because you were bent in half, your face all up in some cute baby ass, parts of it land on the inside of your rain coat, penetrating the mesh and gathering in an inside pocket. Which has your phone in it.

But it doesn’t stop there. This poop keeps going. It hits the open car door. And trickles into the speaker. And it keeps going. Onto the running boards; and you’d swear it could have shot clear across the parking lot had the air not been so freakishly thick and humid.

 It is an unbelievable spectacle. And there’s the screaming. And now the baby is crying because his astronomical poop scared the shit out of him. As did your screaming. And you are hotly reminded that this is a busy parking lot. And you’re attracting attention. And you all are still screaming. And doing a funny little dance.

Finally getting things in order you begin to feel as though this nightmare is over. Then you go into the library and your three year old recounts the drama in vivid detail. To Every. Single. Person.

Week Five: #bladdercontrolfail

Around week five you may be done with the physical recovery from giving birth. You may think you have regained control over your bladder this week. You may be nursing your baby at 3AM and have to sneeze. And you try to do so quietly and without jostling baby off the boob, but it’s convoluted. And you full on pee your pants. And you just don’t care, cause it’s 3AM.

 

Week Six: #jesustakethewheelforreal

This will be the week that you curse enrolling your older kids in any sort of Summer Camp/after school activity/sports-type program. You realize this because your baby hates to ride in the car and has the most horrifyingly hysterical shriek that he saves only for car rides. Shrieking baby helps you realize you never should have anticipated leaving the house ever again. Baby’s shrieks sound disturbingly like “you should have avoided Summer Camps and bought each of the kids $500 worth of iTunes gift cards and told them you’d see them after Labor Day”.

 

Week Seven: #nuffsaid

Two words: Boob Sweat

 

Week Eight: #wardrobemalfunction

Yup. You will forget to refasten your nursing tank. Many times. You may also hear the doorbell ring, and forget you’re not wearing pants. And even though it’s just a quick peek to see who dares ring the doorbell when there’s a goddamned newborn sleeping in the house, the neighborhood boys will see. And their eyes will burn.

 

Week Nine: #milkflowproblems

Family day trip week. And you’re going to make the most of it damnit. Bags are packed. And no lie, so are the ear plugs. Cause baby still hates the car. You head north and baby screams. You make pit stop after pit stop. Changing diapers, switching seats, and trying to nurse. Finally baby sleeps for the best 20 minutes of the day, but it’s a long ride. Nothing is going right, but you’re almost there. One last stop cause Momma’s gotsta pee and you’ve decided baby needs Tylenol. Customer heavy gas station-slash-sandwich shop-slash-convenience store score.

You can duck into the restroom unnoticed but when you bend over to sit on the potty it’s like the Hoover Dam lets go on your chest. In two places. And you stumble out of the gas station-slash-sandwich shop-slash-convenience store (cause remember slinking is for pumas, and you’re not that,) in horror. You spend the next two hours arms crossed tightly across your chest. You have another shirt to put on, but that gets wet too. So when you reach your destination you are thankful for your Ergo, and hastily put it on and shove baby into it and finally relax. Except baby only likes the carrier for 20 minutes. So then you walk around like an ass with an empty Ergo.

Week Ten: #itsallgood

His cheeks. His eyes. His thighs and toes. His breath. His perfectly round head, and extraordinarily small feet. His coos and smile. His giggle. Oh my, his giggle. His sad lip. His fat rolls…all of them.

 

The way he looks at you. The way his head smells. The way his brother and sisters love him more than anything. The way he feels when he sleeps on your shoulder, or curled into your arm at night.

He holds your finger. He grabs your hair. He buries his face in your neck.

He stares into your eyes and opens your heart every minute of every day. He was meant to be with you. He is perfect. This is all so perfect.