The Game Changer

Kid number three is a complete game changer for me. I've been told that there's always one. He's the one. He tipped the scales so we can no longer play man on man. Instead it's zone defense and that one kid single handedly has the best offense. He shuts down our defense regularly. Last night, Troy was helping the older two boys with homework. As he and Garrett worked on updating a science fair project so that it'd be ready to compete at the district level, he also read off spelling words to Matthew. I twisted and turned in the kitchen, making school lunches (which Garrett forgot this morning anyway) and sauteing, frying, and scrambling dinner. Will was repeatedly underfoot, trying to grab at the hot skillet, throwing Ziploc bags around like confetti, and screaming because dinner wasn't ready RIGHT WHEN HE WANTED IT.

Game changer.

I thought I had advice to offer young moms. I've been asked many times exactly how I'd instructed my children to be polite, what I'd done to make them eat everything on their plate, how we'd instilled respect into them. And then came the third. He's basically Animal from the Muppets.

DON'T GET ME WRONG HERE. HE IS JOY AND LIFE AND LIGHT AND I LOVE HIM INTENSELY AND IMMENSELY. FOR EVER AND ALWAYS. AMEN. AND I HABITUALLY WATCH HIM SLEEP AND LITERALLY WEEP AT HOW WONDERFUL HE IS AND HOW BLESSED I AM. (But it must be written down so that, one day, when he is--hopefully--respectful and calm and raising children of his own, and he is calling me and saying, "My toddler, McKenadielee*, won't stop trying to take apart the television set," I can direct him to this very post and assure him that it will get better.)

It's just that he's a game changer. And game changers will one day rule the world.

We have gotten two children to the ages of 11 and nearly 9 with certain parenting tactics and a whole lot of prayer. We parented a toddler and a newborn during an incredibly stressful contested adoption while living more than 700 miles from our nearest relative. And it's not that I would have ever said that I knew what I was doing because that's incredibly foolish and also, I didn't. But, for the most part, our combination of stern consistency mixed with grace and love seemed to be on point. I can remember wanting to call my mommy to come bail me out many times, of course. There was the head lice situation, more vomit than I care to even chronicle, and poop. So much poop. And, yes, I have called my mother on MANY occasions to basically be like, "What the heck, man? What do I even do with this child who has lost his dadgum mind?" She's talked me off ledges and encouraged me when I needed it and doled out advice when asked. But, for the majority of the most part, my husband and I have gotten through two toddler stages, two preschoolers, two early elementary schoolers and are smack in the middle of getting two kids through mid-late elementary school. I think I got a little cocky. I think I thought, "Well, ok. Brace yourself for the teenage years because these first 12 have been pretty alright. Hold on tight, y'all, the real parenting is about to happen."

This game changer though? WHOA BOY. I can't even see beyond two with him.

BECAUSE WHATEVER I DO I CANNOT GET HIM TO STOP THROWING HIS FOOD.

I thought he would grow out of this by, oh, fourteen months or so. However, I still find myself whirling through parenting tactics to stop the food from flying. Grace and a steady voice of reason? Stern face with a raised voice? Making him clean it up? Taking it away? NOTHING WORKS. (Well, taking it away DOES work but only temporarily--until the next meal. God and the Division of Child and Family Services frown on purposely starving your children so I do have to feed him. Three times daily, in fact.)

When this kid doesn't want something anymore--or at all--he just chucks it as far as he can. Side note: The game changer has a wicked good arm. I sit right next to him so, more often than not, I'm in his direct line of fire. You guys, I have to believe this will stop. I have to because my very sanity depends on it. I don't know ANY kindergartners who routinely throw their food but, the thing is, I also do not know many 20 month olds who routinely throw their food either.

SO WHAT THE HECK, MAN? WHAT DO I EVEN DO WITH THIS CHILD WHO HAS LOST HIS DADGUM MIND?

I'm serious. I'll take your advice.


*I just assume that my children will follow current trends and give their children stupid names. I'm trying to prepare myself now so that when they put little LaTorkleson and his twin brother, Mt. Rainier, in my arms I can smile, knowing I got past those names decades ago.

I Couldn't See My Fifth Grader When He Was Five

Can I just tell you all that one of the best decisions we've made as parents was the one where we didn't send our barely five-year-old to kindergarten? Oh how we struggled to make that choice. He'd been in preschool for two years already and was doing just fine. He wasn't the smartest kid but he certainly wasn't the dumbest. He had a vocabulary that rivaled some second graders and enough self-confidence to insure success at the next level. And so, as I've written about before, we struggled with the decision.

We talked. We examined all angles. We waffled. I might have even agonized a bit over the choice. He certainly wasn't unready. In fact, by all measurables, he was ready. Something stopped us though. Something (or Someone) made us decide to wait--a decision that a large number of teachers have since validated, not just for our child but for almost every late summer* born child, especially boys.

We weren't actually thinking about kindergarten or first grade or even fourth grade. We were thinking about middle school and high school. We were thinking of the kid who wouldn't be eligible to get his driver's license until the rest of his grade had long been behind the wheel. We were thinking of giving every advantage to the kid who might want to play sports. We were thinking of the guy who would--with our decision--be a year older before he had to take the SATs or decide where he wanted to go to college.

We weren't thinking about our fifth grader.

I didn't know that the class one year ahead of him would loom over him with a great deal of height and general largeness. Granted, my husband is vertically challenged so I assumed Garrett wouldn't be tall, but I didn't think about all the other kids who would be. I didn't know he'd be so slight in stature so that, even having one of the very earliest birthdays in his entire grade level, he'd stand roughly average with the rest of them.

I didn't know that Troy and I would sit around one night, discussing Garrett's confidence, talking about how he is a leader in his grade level. We would also be talking about how he appears to fit in fine with the grade ahead of him as well. He's not shy around them and doesn't defer to their maturity because he's the same exact age as some of them. We didn't realize, when we made this choice, that we were setting him up for social success.

That's not at all meant to toot our horns in the slightest. We beat a dead horse with discussion. We prayed through this decision and felt led to the one we made. I know not everyone will make the same choice and that's okay. Maybe your barely five year old is ready and will always be ready and will never struggle with not being ready. Personally, I am already lamenting Will's unfortunate early June birthday. If it was May, of course I'd start him at five. If it was July, I wouldn't.

But I do think, regardless of what you might decide for your own child, that when to start school should be well thought out. It shouldn't be something you just do because, by golly, they turned five. Consider your child. Consider where they might be in ten years. I'm only one voice but I wouldn't change my decision if I could. The only thing I'd do differently is that I would forget about worrying about it. 

I imagine that the time could come where I'd wish I could go back and start him at five, but in five years of living with this choice, I've never regretted it once. Instead, I have seen (and many teachers have given me) validation upon validation that we made the right choice.

So that's my two cents. In case anyone was struggling with what to do with their late summer birthday baby.

*I realize that July 20 is not actually late summer. But it was when our school was on year round and 3/4 of the school was going to start on July 25.

Mooners and Flashers

When the boys were little, it was so easy to find things to blog about. They were hysterical little people whose toddler shenanigans were almost always blog worthy. And then they grew up. They're hardly grown, of course, but I don't have hilarious poop stories to regale you with anymore.

THAT'S WHY WE HAD ANOTHER KID.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

I mean, I'm glad that he'll soon enter the stage where everything that comes out of his mouth is funny as heck. He's not there yet. Where he is right now is throwing food, yelling at the tip top of his lungs, and refusing to say any words except, "Ah-duh," which translates directly to, "All done."

My older boys are playing sports and doing homework and generally living life in that stage between little kid and teenager. In some ways, it's the sweet spot. The place where they don't throw food anymore but all the testosterone hasn't flooded their cute brains and turned them into raging hormone monsters. But the sweet spot doesn't lend itself to funny blogging stories very often.

You might not know it. You may not even believe me when I tell you, but I spend a great deal of time trying to make sure my kids don't turn into ax murderers or juvenile delinquents. Consistency is my number one parenting goal and I strive--full force--to be stable and steady in my mothering. They'll make their own choices and their own mistakes but by golly I'm going to do everything in my power to shape them. I want their reputation to precede them in only positive ways.

Which is why I stormed up to the door of a neighbor I'd never met two days ago to give him the WHAT FOR.

There isn't a confrontational bone in my body, actually. So the fact that I was hammering this dude's door with my fist is astonishing. 

See, Garrett had come in from playing outside and he was laughing about how a neighbor of ours thought he had mooned him. HOLD THE PHONE. WAIT ONE SECOND. WHAT, NOW?

"So, he was getting his mail and he asked me if I was the one who showed him my butt a few days ago. I said I wasn't and he asked me which house I lived in. I pointed and he said, 'It was you then.' I told him it wasn't. He said, 'Well, he looked JUST like you.'"

Showing his rump to a random neighbor is about the last thing I can think of Garrett doing. So, off I stormed to inform this guy that my child absolutely was not the one who had mooned him. First, we were out of town until Sunday. Second, our Sundays are very busy and the boys rarely get a chance to play out front and I knew they were never out on Sunday. Third, Monday they were at a church soccer camp in the morning and then running errands and doing chores until evening when we went out to dinner to finally celebrate Father's Day.

Up I marched to the neighbor's door. Garrett, at this point, was hot on my heels and in tears because he was so mortified about whatever I was about to do. I was concerned that his tears were a confession which is ridiculous because, as I've just mentioned, he hadn't been out front. Did I assume he sneaked outside in the middle of his chores for a good ole fashion mooning? "You better tell me right now if it was you."

"It wasn't me! I'm just nervous about whatever you're going to say," he answered. I'm sure that inside he was thinking, MY MOM HAS STRAIGHT UP LOST HER MIND! Bang! Bang! Bang! I rapped on the door. Now, I had absolutely no idea what this guy looked like. He lives down around the corner and I was taking the word of my eight-year-old neighbor--who looks and, occasionally, acts exactly like Dennis the Menace--that this is where the man even lived. The door opened.

"Hi," I said. "Did you just get your mail?"

"Yes," he replied slowly.

"Okay..." I started. And then I built my defense. My kids weren't out. It wasn't my son. I raise my children with a certain level of integrity and I didn't want anyone in the neighborhood thinking they were little miscreants. 

The thing is, my kids will find enough trouble on their own. They will be punished for it. I definitely don't want them getting a reputation for something they didn't even do. 

The neighbor told me that he simply asked my son if it was him and then informed him that he needed to tell his friend that behavior like that was going to land him in jail. Apparently, said neighbor was on his way to church when said miscreant pulled down his pants and wiggled his goods before spinning around and shaking his rump. Unprompted. Unwarranted. 

Now, Garrett hadn't told me that the burden of lecturing this kid (who we believe is our next door neighbor's nephew) had been passed on to him. It's not his friend. Garrett wasn't part of the situation at all. I'm still unclear as to why he needed to be the one to pass this information on. I also think it might be a stretch to assume that this kid is headed straight for the slammer because of a mooning.

"I just wanted to make sure you knew it wasn't my son," I said.

"Oh, sure. He said it wasn't him. He looks like a good kid." Sure. Except five minutes ago, he looked like someone who would flap his business at strangers.

"Alright, thanks. Have a nice day," I said and I headed off.

I do not normally go all Mama Bear freak out. I basically always believe an adult who tells me that my kid did something. They are not sinless little angels. But, when I am 99.99% sure they didn't do something, you're darn right I'm going to defend them. And thank goodness, as of yet, they are not the town flashers.

Hot Pink Puker

My middle child is very introverted. Not once he's very comfortable, mind you, but if you're a stranger or an acquaintance or even a casual friend, you can forget about cracking Matt's shell. He's a tough nut. He hates to have attention on him unless he's specifically gone looking for it. As his former kindergarten teacher recently said to me, Matthew needs to feel safe or he shuts down.

I tell you all of this as a preface--a little background--into why I have leaped so far ahead of all the rest of you in our race for Worst Mother of the Year. I'm so far ahead, in fact, that the committee is just going to give me my award now. In April. I don't have to wait until the end of the year.

Last Thursday, Matthew woke up and told me he had a stomach ache. He has also been loudly and frequently telling me how much he hates school. (This baffles me because he's brilliant, he likes his teacher, and he promises me that he's not having trouble with any kids.) So...I assumed his stomach ailment had a direct correlation to his detestation of education. I told him to get ready for school.

He didn't want to eat.

In addition to being a brilliant introvert, Matthew's eating skills are legit. No joke, the kid eats like he's the next champion of that Coney Island hot dog challenge. So the life choice to not eat breakfast on Thursday morning gave me pause.

I offered him Pepto Bismal the way you offer a toddler a band-aid. "This will help!"

And off he went to school because if there isn't a fever and/or some kind of bodily fluid coming out of my kid (i.e. vomit, explosive poo, eye goop) they're going.

Twenty minutes later, unbeknownst to me, my poor kid (read: my poor Do-Not-Look-At-Me-Unless-I-Invite-You-To-Do-So-Because-I-Am-Shy-And-Embarrass-Easily kid) threw up a hot pink mess all over his desk, all over his clothes, and all over a packet he'd been working on all year. My cell phone rang, "Hi, Lori. It's Jennifer." It doesn't bode well when the office is calling you twenty minutes after school starts. It either means there's an unfilled sub job in a class with a bunch of trouble makers or a sick kid. "I have Matthew. He threw up ALL OVER THE PLACE."

Oh goody.

Matthew is super smart. He is super funny. He is super athletic. You know what he isn't? A super barfer. He just, rarely throws up. On the other hand, I am a champion vomiter. A class act puker, if you will. Garrett is proudly being raised up in his mother's tradition. When we throw up, it is every 15-30 minutes for no less than 4 hours. We throw up what we've eaten and then, hours later, we receive visual confirmation that there are greens, yellows, and phelgmy reds existing in the deep pits of our stomach. Acid. Bile. Lining, perhaps? We barf big, y'all. Garrett, by age three, was throwing up without assistance. Now, to be fair, his first chuck would usually begin while he slept and, thus, cover himself and all of his bedding. However, all subsequent trips would involve him trekking to the toilet himself, throwing up, and then crawling back into his sleeping bag on my floor. AT THREE.

And lest you think that I should have won Worst Mother of the Year for THAT, I was always awake, always asked him if he needed me, and always received the answer that, no, in fact, he did not.

Matthew, at 8 years old, repeatedly hurled onto his desk, never thinking that getting over to a trash can would be ideal. He, apparently, has the barfing aptitude of a three-year-old. Poor kid. So he threw up Pepto Bismal all over his desk and then went to the office where I picked up his sad, vomit covered self. I apologized profusely to the office staff and his teacher. "He told me he didn't feel well," I said. "But, there was no outward evidence of his stomach ache."

Not to worry, they all said. Except that we do. We second guess all of our parenting choices. If only I'd found it even more weird that my champion eater didn't want to have breakfast, he'd have thrown up in the safety of his own home, all over the carpet. I'd have cleaned it up instead of poor Josh, the custodian. When we got home, I sent him upstairs to change his clothes. He stopped on the stairs and, with his eyes welling up with tears, said quietly, "I told you my tummy hurt."

Knife. Heart. Twist.

Yep. He'd told me alright. But he never throws up! I can count on two hands the number of times he's thrown up in his whole entire life. If it was me, I'd need my hands, feet, and a whole bunch of neighbors to lend me their fingers. How was I to know that this particular stomach ache was going to be the one that ended in a fountain of regurgitated Pepto Bismal?

Still, I subjected my shy, introverted 8 year old to public vomiting. I'm terrified that, in high school, he'll be known as the Hot Pink Puker. It is for this reason that the committee has awarded me the Worst Mom Trophy. I've knocked you all out of the running.

You're welcome.

Arizona

I had grand plans to visit multiple national parks this year. My kid is in the 4th grade and, as part of an effort to get Every Kid in a Park, 4th graders get their vehicle in for free. It is, as my son says, "Boss."

This was also the year that my kids (ever so thankfully and PRAISE the LORD!) switched from a year round schedule to a traditional one. People told me I would desperately miss the track system. People told me to be careful what I wished for. People were wrong. I've loved every second of the traditional year and am SO excited that my kids are getting out in early June and aren't going back until mid August. More than 7 weeks of summer? Yes, please!

But, with the absence of those pesky and disruptive year round breaks (okay, okay, the January one sure was nice because I got to go to San Diego to thaw out), came the absence of the ability to visit all the parks I'd planned to see. Sure, we still have summer, but our summer plans are already shaped.

With spring break looming, we decided to jaunt down to Arizona and see the sights and the grandest of canyons.

We spent the first full day of our visit just hanging around in Arizona. Driving in new places, soaking in new sights, experiencing new destinations.

Then we drove through places like this, which seemed like we had put ourselves directly into the Cars movie.

Perhaps Radiator Springs was just around the bend in the road. If our boys saw something they deemed an adventure, we let them get out and explore it. They scampered up this big boulder in no time flat. Their father went after them. I stayed in the car with the crying baby who does not understand his own inability to climb.

It was a relaxing time of, "You want a mocha from McDonald's?" "Yeah, I could go for one of those right now." And, "Hey, can we pull over and look at that?" "Sure!" 

On Sunday we took the boys to see Bearizona Wildlife Park in Williams, AZ. Everyone absolutely loved it.

The first part of our trip was driving through the wildlife without fences or barriers. The animals just walked beside you or lounged just off the road. It was incredible. We saw bears, wolves, burros, bighorn sheep, and so much more.

This burro stuck his head right up to the car window. Garrett pleaded for his dad to pet the guy but we weren't sure that was something we were allowed to do. So Troy tried to make it move along while I rattled a plastic bag to continue attracting it. We work well that way, me undoing all his hard work. It's payback for when I clean the house and he builds a pile on the counter only moments later.

After the amazing drive through portion, they have a small zoo. We watched a fun bird show and then visited the various animals. One of our favorite parts was watching this little guy show off for us. He kept swimming up to the glass where Will was standing, pushing off, doing a flip, and then coming back to do it again.

They also had a petting zoo, foxes, javelinas, a jaguar, and so much more. It was really a fun place to see and I highly recommend it if you're ever in the Williams area.

The rest of our trip was spent visiting the Grand Canyon. We got our 4th grader his free pass and off we went.

I'd been to the canyon once, as a nine-year-old, but I was the only one in my family who had seen it. The pictures simply do not do it justice. I would snap a shot, glance at my phone, glance back at the canyon, and shake my head. You simply cannot capture the grandeur. 

The older boys and I did a little rock climbing out to the edge. Of course, it looks like the edge until you look down and see another ledge and then another. Garrett begged me to let him "stage" this picture. It's a fine line, I always say, between keeping them alive and letting them live.

We want to shelter them, to get them to adulthood in one piece and as unscathed as humanly possible, but what is life if not to be lived and lived fully? What is exploration without adventure?

So many men I have been blessed with. They will grow up and leave me (well, except for the tallest one, I hope) and forge lives of their own. But I want them to say of their mother that she instilled a great faith in them, that she taught them to experience life and not to sit on the sidelines, afraid to live, and that she gave them an opportunity to blaze their own trails.

I am learning, slowly and by the grace of God, that it takes a dedicated person to mother only the wild man. This trip gave me a glimpse into what is required of me. It is allowing them to satisfy their craving for scrambling up the face of a rock just because it is there. It is accepting their passionate plea to climb to the very edge of a canyon just to say they looked down. It is taking their outstretched hand because there is just a small amount of fear and mama would never let them fall. It is knowing that the world needs a few good men, a few brave men, a few wild men and that those good, brave and wild must first be boys of endless curiosity. 

I have learned to let them sit on the edge.

It was a good trip.

"The Grand Canyon is carven deep by the master hand; it is the gulf of silence, widened in the desert; it is all time inscribing the naked rock; it is the book of earth." -Donald C. Peattie

The Unimaginable

Sometimes I write with the intention to never share. Often I think about Kate and don't form a circle of my closest friends to cry. Life moves on. I don't want the world to look at me and say, "Wow. Girlfriend really can't process her grief, can she?" Lesser still, do I want the world to question how I could still be so deeply sad.

And I don't know, is the thing.

My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus's blood and righteousness. I dare not trust the sweetest thing, but wholly trust in Jesus name.

Why then, the grief?

Why do I wonder if I might wake to find that it was all but a dream? Perhaps, one day, I will see that losing her was just a passing nightmare. And I'll have both Kate and her brother.

My eight year old wept the other night. Through angry tears he exploded, "She should be asleep in her bedroom right now." And she should. How can you argue with that? Grief, as my mom said to me today, is a weird thing.

I wrote this last month and posted it to a writer's page that I'm a part of on Facebook. I never intended to post it here. But I'm not sure why. Because transparency is painful? Because I don't want the rest of the world to have access to my grief? Because she'll never be here the way I want her to be?

But he is. And he deserves every piece of my broken heart.

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

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
-Lin Manuel Miranda

I held him, curly hair sticking out from his head in loose spiraling staircases. He looks like a man cub. His legs squeezed my hip, foot resting on the womb that held neither of them. A chubby hand clutched my shirt just above the heart that holds them both. “This is your sister,” I said.

His eyes locked on the giraffe caged in the shadow box. The soft, stuffed toy sits, staring, for always. Plump arms never snuggled the animal, sticky fingers never dragged it by the neck, soft baby breath never exhaled over it. The antithesis of a Velveteen Rabbit, the giraffe will never be real. She was never here to love it enough. I stare at the tiny footprints pressed into plaster. My eyes shift to his tiny toes. They wiggle slightly. I look back at her frozen ones and try to imagine them pushing against the walls of their mother. One minute they pressed and stretched. The next moment they fell limp—forever. My gaze lands on her picture. Black and white lines that form the image of my daughter, his sister.

“She was inside your other mommy before you were.” I was stoic. “She went straight to Jesus when she was born. And then we got you.”

I can’t tell him that his stillborn sister wrecked me. I can’t explain that while I walk without a limp, my heart beats erratic and broken. Our great God used the man cub to heal so much of that bloody wound left by her absence, but he can’t fix it all. An 8 month old cannot bear that burden.

He will not know the way I startle whenever I hear her name belonging to someone else or the way I choke back dreams when I see a little girl holding tight to her mama. He can’t know that when I stand in front of that shadow box, I imagine what she would have been. So much more than the cold corpse I held tightly in my arms before we buried her.

He is amazing life, incredible and indescribable joy. I will tell him about the sister who came before. I will share all the miracles. He will know her.

But I will not tie my albatross of grief around his neck. He will walk freely and hear only the ways my life is made infinitely better by his presence. I will shield him from the moments when, weeping, I succumb to the excruciating thump of my still cracked heart.

Ax Murderers and Exploding Eyes

Somewhere around 1:00 am, my middle man came wandering into our room. I didn't know he was there. My children have become stealth sneaker uppers and it is VERY disturbing to me. I used to wake at the slightest sound. Now, my eyes will fly open to discover one of them standing over me and it's enough to cause momentary cardiac arrest. I'm completely terrified that one of these days it won't be one of my kids standing over me but an ax murderer instead. My eyes will open and the last thing I'll see is the image of some horrendous evildoer just before he slaughters me.

I'm dramatic.

But, honestly, who goes to bed at night and thinks, "I'll probably be murdered by a serial killer tonight?" No one. That's who.

So I didn't know my 8 year old was in my room until my husband suddenly startled in the spot next to me and, groggily, started muttering something about Matthew being in our room. I bolted upright (because I do weird things when I'm awoken from sleep to find that, once again, the children have crept in like silent little ax murderers) and stared at my kid.

"I had a bad dream," he whispered. I told him he could sleep on my floor and that is when the real fun began. See, we've been sharing the Great Plague Cold of 2017 and at least one person in our family has been sick for five weeks. Will's had it twice. Troy's had it twice. Apparently, as was evidenced by last night's shenanigans, Matthew is now on his second round because the kid proceeded to sniff and snort ALL NIGHT LONG. Then, downstairs, the cat flipped his lid in the wee hours of the morning and meowed at the top of his feline lungs.

In my exhausted state, I was powerless to do anything about any of this. Remember being a kid and wanting to pull your covers up but being way too tired to do anything about it? That was me last night. I wanted to tell Matthew to blow his nose. I wanted to call in an ax murderer for the cat. But all I managed to do was wake up every two seconds and resent ALL THE NOISE.

So this morning, when the world (a.k.a. Will) woke up at 6:45, I was not prepared for life. I fed him and then proceeded to fall back to sleep. Troy got up with the boys to make sure they didn't engage in an epic wrestling match or punch each other's lights out when they were really supposed to be getting ready for school. He took care of Will but, at some point, he went downstairs and closed the gate behind him. Will lost his mind with all the abandonment and bawled like a six month old instead of the sophisticated nine month old that he is. 

I called him over to me and lifted him onto the bed. Lying flat on my back, I raised him up into the air over my face. It was immediate. And so strange. I managed to feel it before my brain registered that it had seen it coming. And, in a way, it happened so fast that I can't remember truly seeing anything, really. One second, Will was thinking about smiling at me and the next second, I felt warm liquid spreading throughout my eye. For the shortest of milliseconds, I thought that, perhaps, my eye had spontaneously exploded. Quickly though, I dismissed that idea because there was a real lack of pain. I was pretty sure that spontaneous eye explosion would cause significant and debilitating pain. 

I sat up.

"HELP!" I yelled. I had my eyes tightly shut but I knew there was spit up in my hair and on my neck and I wasn't sure how truly bad it was and I needed something to wipe my face with and the troops needed to rally around me RIGHT then.

It took them longer than I would have expected given my distress cry. But they are men and they generally think that, because I am the lone woman around here, I have the entire world under control. They also live with me and know that my distress cries tend to be more, "There is a really big spider watching me from the corner," and less, "There's an ax murderer actively murdering me right at this very murderous moment."

This, as you will see, fell somewhere between help, spider and help me I'm being killed.

They arrived on the scene and Troy immediately began a waffling dance of laughter and oh no's. The boys were vacillating between hysterics and groans. Troy then started saying, "Wait! Just wait!" as he grabbed my phone to take a picture. Will, meanwhile, sat in my lap. I had no idea if it was on him although, in retrospect, the gravity would have taken all the puke down. We do not live in a world in which vomit defies the natural order of things. As I waited for the picture to be taken, the warm, regurgitated formula began to drip down my face. Troy snapped the picture, handed me a wash cloth, took Will, and said, "You just, uh, need to get right into the shower. Just go straight to the shower." This picture doesn't do justice to the amount that was in my hair, clumped behind my ear, but my response was basically, "Oh. You think?"

I remain infinitely glad that I didn't lose my eye in what would have been the first ever documented case of Exploded Eyeball.

Okay. I just googled Exploding Eye to make sure there wasn't actually such a thing and OH MY BLESSED STARS THERE IS!!! No, but seriously. Now, not only do I have to worry about ax murderers sneaking into my house at night, I have to worry about my eyeballs spontaneously exploding. Knowledge is not always power, y'all.

Make Them Eat

It's important for me to acknowledge that there are children with actual food related issues. There are kids with food sensory aversion, allergies, intolerance, etc. This post isn't about them. If you're the parent of a child who struggles with diagnosed food related issues, work with your pediatrician to keep your kid healthy and ignore this post.

Once upon a time, my husband and my oldest son engaged in an epic battle of wills. The Great Battle of Foodmageddon. Garrett's Last Stand. The Siege of Kitchentown.

For a short time, Garrett was an overly picky toddler, refusing to eat nearly everything we put in front of him. I'd heard of a tactic whereby you make your child choose between what is being served and a peanut butter sandwich. If they eat neither, they go hungry. We decided to employ this system. Our kid ate peanut butter for a week.

I had visions of our child eating only peanut butter for the rest of his life. He'd be the kid at the birthday party turning his nose up at the pizza and insisting that the host slap some creamed peanuts between two pieces of bread for him. He'd be the husband insisting on sandwiches at the wedding. Not to mention the scurvy I was certain was right around the corner.

"This is dumb," I said. "He eats what we eat or he doesn't eat."

I can remember sitting on the porch, waiting for Troy to get home from work. I was starved for adult conversation and my toddler was legit refusing to eat, choosing, instead, to spit everything at me. Troy pulled in the driveway, sensed my impending meltdown, and took over.

The evening culminated in Troy pressing Garrett's lips together so he couldn't spit out whatever it was he refused to swallow. They faced off. Stubborn father against the son who inherited his flair for being unwilling to back down. Garrett refused to swallow. Troy refused to be spit on. In the end, the adult won the battle and the war and our child ate from then on.

Nine years later, there are still tons of things he doesn't like. There are things he once liked but has now decided he doesn't. But, there are so many more things that he once hated that he now enjoys.

Do you want your child to eat? Here are some practical tips.

1. Make them try things. Once they're old enough to reason, explain that they will have a courtesy bite of everything. They must have a small portion of everything you've set on the table. Garrett hated potatoes for the longest time. I would make him have one bite of potato every time we had them. Eventually, he found that he liked them with ranch dressing. If they don't eat their dinner, they don't get dessert. Period. END OF DISCUSSION. Wait, what, you hadn't planned anything for dessert because it's not 1950 and we don't bake a cake every day? Break out two animal crackers or a graham cracker or a tiny dish with one scoop of frozen yogurt or WHATEVER because it will straight up be an incentive to finish that bite of broccoli. The older they get the less they'll need an incentive. And they'll start to find that they like things they didn't think they liked.

2. Make them try things you don't like. This is especially easy to do at a buffet. They may end up loving something you detest and the broader a kid's palate, the better. We don't actually want them to hate food, do we? Garrett loves beets because he ate them at a salad bar. Never saw that one coming.

3. NEVER tell your small child that you hate a particular food. This gives them a pass to refuse to try things because, "Dad doesn't have to." I have tried and tried and TRIED to love oatmeal. But I just HATE it and have since I was a kid. Apparently, I loved it as a baby but, for as long as I can remember I've detested it. It's not the taste. It's the texture. It's like eating vomit. But I completely recognize the nutritional value and ease of oatmeal so I have encouraged a love for oatmeal in all my children. My older kids are definitely old enough to know that there are foods we both hate. They're not dumb. They've never seen me eat oatmeal and they've never seen Troy eat an olive. Of course we've had discussions with them about foods we don't like--now. But when they were tiny and in the process of developing good eating habits, we PRETENDED to like everything. The more a kid eats when he's little, the more things he'll like later in life.

4. Sauces and dips. Or no sauces and dips. Whatever works. Garrett hated tomato sauce for years. It was bizarre because he LOVED tomatoes. When we had spaghetti, I would give him plain noodles with a little butter. Yes, I was catering to him, but he was basically still eating what we were eating. He wasn't eating peanut butter. Eventually, I started giving him buttery noodles with meatballs. The meatballs were cooked in our sauce so some sauce ended up on his plate. Initially, this was the end of his world. But he liked the meatballs and realized that a little bit of sauce wasn't going to kill him. Now, he eats spaghetti like a normal human. Ranch dressing or BBQ sauce or soy sauce are great for making foods that seem bland to kid's tongue, well, less bland. When Matthew was a baby, I told people that his favorite foods were condiments. Dipping made things fun and yummy. The doctor assures me my kids are healthy so I stand by this tip. Especially because I'd rather have my kids eating carrots with ranch than no carrots at all.

5. No seconds of the things they love until the things they hate are gone. Period. If they're still hungry after their plate is clean, they can fill up with more of the things they like.

6. Make sure they don't hate the entire meal. A few years ago, if I'd served spaghetti with potatoes and avocado, Garrett would have died on the spot. (Not to mention I would have needed my own head examined for such a bizarre combination.) But serve him up spaghetti with Caesar salad and a huge chunk of bread and suddenly there's only one thing on his plate he's not excited about. Double portion of bread and salad and a tiny amount of spaghetti? Sure. The end goal is to broaden their tastes, not make them hate their parents.

7. Reward them when they're little for being good eaters. Tell them how proud you are. One thing I do that I know other people find weird is I let them eat their food in whatever order they want. If it's breakfast and we're having eggs, bacon, fruit and a danish, they can absolutely eat the danish first if they'd like to. But they know that the very first time they don't finish the rest of their breakfast after polishing off that danish, they will lose that privilege. It has never once been a problem.

8. If they just legitimately hate something after repeated tries, don't torture them. Especially if they'll eat a wide variety of other things and they're eating a balanced diet. Garrett cannot handle spices or excessive amounts of fried foods. He gets physically sick to his stomach. Obviously, I don't force feed him fried chicken until he throws up.

I'm sure there are many more tips I could come up with but those stand out in my mind. I was blessed with an amazing eater in Matthew. That kid will try anything and he likes everything. Including fish eyes. Although, when he was little he tried avocado and hated it. He looked, mournfully, at my brother (who loves avocado) and moaned, "I can't yike it." Guess what though? He loves it now. Currently, Will will eat anything. Of course, we haven't reached that terrible toddler stage so we shall see. I'm sure I'll be revisiting my own advice soon enough. Garrett (with the exception of his natural bent toward anything from the ocean) was molded and crafted into a good eater with a great deal of intention and diligence on our part. He's still much more picky than his brother but he's learned to be polite, to eat what is put in front of him here and ESPECIALLY somewhere else, and he has discovered a love for so many foods because he was introduced to a wide variety young and often.

Your child can be a good eater. It just takes consistency. Good luck. You can do it.

Because This Is Us

Back in September, when all the new television shows were playing their promos, Troy and I kept seeing commercials for This is Us. Somehow, I thought it was only about one woman's weight loss journey. It was intriguing, to be sure, and I knew it had potential but I try to be really intentional about which shows I add to my lineup. We really only watch a few and it takes a lot of great acting and an intriguing story line to make the cut.

Throughout the fall, I kept seeing Facebook posts that said, "Adoptive parents must watch!" and articles with titles like The Show That Gets Adoption Right. And so, over Christmas break, after telling Troy several times that we really needed to watch it, we binged the first 10 episodes. I mean, it started with a casual, "Hey, let's watch the pilot and see what we think," and ended with us wondering how we'll ever make it until Tuesday when the show comes back after its winter break.

The soundtrack.

The storytelling.

The relationships.

I feel so completely invested in the characters.

This show has so many story lines that people can relate to for one reason or another but, of course, for Troy and me, it's the transracial adoption plot that keeps us coming back.

I'm sure there are people watching who relate to Kate and her journey with her weight. I'm sure others identify with Jack setting aside his dreams to provide for his family. Some might relate to Toby or Kevin or Beth or William.

If you have ever wondered what it might be like to be me, watch this show.

Because Mandy Moore as Rebecca Pearson is pretty much my spirit animal.

That is NOT to say that I agree with some of the choices she made to keep certain secrets. Intellectually, with the benefit of 30 years between her adoption of Randall and mine of Matthew, I know and believe that our kids are better off with knowledge and relationships--when either of those things are at all possible. They are better off knowing and they are certainly better off when we allow them to talk about adoption like it isn't a giant elephant in the room.

But what I love about this show is that it isn't afraid to expose our secrets. I try so hard to make sure that Matthew and Will know I'm not threatened by the fact that I'm only one of their moms. And I'm not. Because this world is big enough, Matt's world is big enough, Will's world is big enough, for both of us. But, I'd be lying if I said I didn't love them so very much that I wish I could be enough, the way that I'm enough for Garrett.



I don't know if the story line will continue in such a way that I will always feel this camaraderie with Mandy's portrayal of Rebecca, but as for the first ten episodes, well, like I said, spirit animal.

It's personal. It's thought provoking. The credits roll and we talk about what to do and what not to do. Or what Jack or Rebecca should or shouldn't have said. Or done. It makes me infinitely thankful for these three decades of growth and awareness that separate me from Rebecca. It makes me thankful for the portrayal of their relationship now--that we might see one writer's spin on an adult transracial adoptee and his mother. I love that we see the things done right mixed with the mistakes made.

I am cheering for Rebecca every moment. She is me. We don't make the same choices. No one experience is ever the same as another. Sometimes we're right and sometimes we're wrong. She opens herself up to us, showing her flaws, bruises, and struggles. She navigates loving these three children with their unique needs. She tries to do right by them. She fails and she succeeds.

She doesn't apologize for the fierceness of her love.

My children have two moms.

I am one of them. And I love them fierce.

Upon Seeing a Beautiful Picture

I see it time and time again, beautiful pictures of an adoptive mother seeing her child for the very first time. She's covered her mouth with a hand and tears are filling her eyes. It's caught forever, that incredible moment of love, joy, amazement and instant motherhood.

I don't have a picture like that of me.

I guess I could have faked it. I could have used every dime of my theatre degree to glaze my eyes over with tears. I could have reacted the way 90% of moms do which is exactly the way I imagine I should respond. And, truth be told, I feel sad and sorry because that wasn't my reaction with either of the children who have come to me through someone else's womb. But, in all honesty, it wasn't how I reacted to the son I carried either.

Of my four children, I only sobbed the first time I held one of them and that was because her heart was still. The ones that were breathing and moving and peering at me through eyes I'd longed to gaze into for forever, caused no immediate or intense emotional reaction.

In part, I suppose it's denial. I'd waited for each of them in painful ways and, once they got here, I think there was a part of me that was holding back, afraid to have that instant and overwhelming bond. Most of it is that people are always looking at me. If you'd put me in a room alone with each of my boys, I'm certain the tears would have flowed freely just as they did when the door closed and it was just Kate, me, and a flood of wounded grief--except in place of grief would be relief and joy. But there have always been doctors, nurses, and adoption coordinators standing by, watching that intensely personal moment.

The robot in me can't share the space. Because of that, none of my boys have a picture of their mother in awe, overcome by emotion. And so, they may forever think that their entrance into my life was without fanfare. They may wonder if I felt any kind of sudden attachment to them. There is, after all, no proof.

I just recently saw a beautiful picture of an adoptive mother seeing her boy for the very first time. I stared at it, wishing there was a picture of me looking that very same way. Instead, there are pictures of me holding them with stoicism written boldly across my face.

There aren't pictures of Garrett waking me in the middle of the night when he was six hours old, my newfound maternal instinct pulling me from a deep sleep as I flew into motion with that first cry. There's no picture of him, cradled against my body an hour later, as silent tears of joy dampened his head in the dark.

No one was there to take a picture of me staring through the window at Matthew before I was allowed to hold him. He wailed and I wiped tears from my eyes. All I could think about was getting to him so that I could hold him and make it stop, a non-biological maternal instinct that I found to be both surprising and beautiful.

There weren't hidden cameras when it was finally just Will and me and he snuggled into my body like we were always meant to be together. There were so many emotions, so much surprise that he was mine, so much to do to get him home, that my tears for him came later, in the privacy of my own bedroom, staring into his eyes and realizing the full weight of the miracle.

I wish I was a lovely person with lovely pictures to tell my story. Instead, these boys will have to settle for the words I splatter onto a page. Words about how they each came into my life and, behind the veil of privacy, I was finally able to really see them. And what I saw was glorious, miraculous, and life changing. What I saw were souls and smiles and blessings. What I saw were my babies. And I put my hand over my mouth and tears sprung to my eyes because they were perfect.

Dear Teacher on the First Day of School

Dear Teacher,

As we stare down these next nine months--good grief, we're going to be together long enough to gestate an entire human being--there are a few things I'd like for you to know.

1. I think you're underpaid, undervalued, and underappreciated. If I could afford to bring you a Starbucks each morning as a token of my love and affection for what you're doing, I would. (Although, yes, I am aware that in this particular state, chances are you'd find that highly offensive. You should know that coffee gift cards are my first thought EVERY time teacher appreciation week rolls around. But, never fear, I always settle for Expo pens or Kleenex or a bag of chocolates.) Your lunch break is too short, you should never have to have recess duty, and neither should you ever have to stand outside wearing that hideous yellow-green vest after school--especially in January.

2. My children are FAR from perfect. They have, in their lifetimes, lied, been disrespectful, and even lost their minds for no apparent reason. They're typically very well behaved at school but, should something happen, the benefit of the doubt will ALWAYS start out on your side. My first response will be, "What did my son do?" not,  "What is wrong with you?" And that's a promise. We're raising fallen kids in a fallen world. We're trying to do it right and I hope you'll see that, but I will never pretend they're incapable of being at fault.

3. Need a hand? I have two. I want to help out wherever and whenever I can. It allows me to see how my child is doing in your environment and it helps you get to something you might not have been able to get to otherwise. Think win-win. Amiright?

4. My children will do their work. They will do their homework. They will pay attention and focus on what you've given them. They will be respectful and kind to you and to others. OR ELSE. Yes, they are 2nd and 4th graders, but they are also tiny versions of the men we are hoping and praying they become. Our expectations for them are high and we hope yours are too.

THAT SAID. I have just one request of you.

These boys are just bigger versions of the babies I begged God for. I know they are one of so very many that will pass through your classroom between now and retirement. I know they are just one in your world of dozens. But, if you could just remember that, for me, they are one of a kind, it would do my heart good. They are not perfect, but they are mine and I love them. Remember, please, that when I hand them over to you each morning, I'm handing you my own heart, and trusting you with it.

Good luck. Chin up. After all, June is just three seasons away.

#keepitreal

In life--and in ministry--I strive to be real, to be relatable, to be authentic. I think it's the driving force behind why I love the theatre and literature so very much. Because these mediums of art expression take a slice out of someone's life or experience and present it, no apologies, no excuses. We don't have to agree with the playwright's world view. We don't have to burn the book because it doesn't represent the little corner of the world from whence we came. Instead, we can walk boldly into that stage world or that novel and see life from another perspective. But, let that perspective be authentic. Let it not be a sham.

I have spoken about and written on the subject of perfection--and how it's utterly unattainable. Maybe I gravitated toward the topic because I'm such a hot mess. But there it is. I'm tired of trying to live up to some standard dictated by someone else, somewhere else, who probably has a whole lot of money and a team of people who make her look beautiful. I'm tired of the pristine home in Good Housekeeping that looks like only one old person without cats lives there but they're saying it's the humble abode of a family of six that includes at least two elementary aged boys. I'm fed up with pictures of flawless children happily eating organic edamame. I'm sick of images of clean kids on the beach because that is a lie. No kid is clean on a beach. I'm over everyone pretending.

The truth is, I don't have time to read parenting advice from someone who lives in the Hamptons and acts like she doesn't have a nanny. That's not my reality. We don't wake up in a bed of 5,000 thread count Egyptian cotton white sheets with our breath smelling minty fresh and our hair smooth. I'll be honest, some days even the Listerine can't help our situation and most mornings I straight up look like Princess Anna on Coronation Day, drooling and all bird nesty up on top. I'm not saying that isn't someone's reality. Of course it is.

Some people don't drool. Some people have beautiful homes. Some people are amazing stylists or decorators. Some people just happen to have perfect hair that is never out of place. Maybe we all have that one thing that makes us seem perfect. And if that's the thing we photograph, we might come across seeming, well, perfect. If I took 11,249 selfies, chances are, I'd look pretty good in one of them. But those other 11,248 are where the real life is happening.

Real life is that zit on the side of my face that I can hide if I turn my head just a bit and snap the shot.

Real life is not editing the picture of my black child who looks gray because I straight up forgot to put lotion on him that day.

Real life is mismatched clothes and exercise pants even though I probably didn't exercise.

I feel like we're so busy wishing our real life into something Better Homes and Gardens worthy that we forget to be thankful for our Passable Rentals and Spotty Green Lawns. We want to be Beverly Hillsy. We want to live on a beach in Florida. We forget to be thankful that we're not living in a hut and walking three miles to find clean water.

Let's be real. If your reality actually is a clean kid on a beach, embrace it, girlfriend. (But, maybe, also show us a picture of your messy house--everyone has at least one flaw, no?) If your reality is a kid who's filthy head to toe despite the fact that it's only 9:00 am and there's no beach in sight, embrace it. That's what the bathtub is for!

I haven't got a single thing figured out. JUST SO YOU KNOW. I can't tell you how to keep a toddler happy on a plane or how to get them to eat their vegetables. Seriously. My advice on the latter is to just smush their lips shut until they swallow or die from starvation three weeks later. But, that maybe isn't the best way to avoid a visit from Child Protective Services. I know nothing. I just never want it said of me that I faked it all and acted like something other than what I truly was.

In short, I just want to keep it real. Ever. Always.

To that end, here are some things...

1. I thought I was a Baby Whisperer when it came to sleeping the through night and was totally planning to write a book on exactly how to do it. Then we had Will. He might go on his honeymoon never having reached this goal.

2. Not long ago at all, I cried in a bathroom stall because I miss Kate so much. I'm well aware of all the people who think that's just ridiculous and I legit DO NOT CARE.

3. I just ate way too many chips. They were Mesquite BBQ flavored. So, basically, tomorrow morning I'm waking up with BBQ breath in my 10 thread count Walmart cotton sheets.

I'm lauching a new Instagram account. (always_authentic_and_real) It'll be real. Unedited and unposed. Tag #alwaysauthenticandreal for a chance to be featured. Send me really dirty kids on the beach, pictures where your stylist didn't work on you for two hours before you were Instaready, blooper shots. Anything that's real and authentic and unstaged. They can be breathtakingly beautiful shots of nature that turned out great the first time. They can be an amazing picture of your beautiful baby. Just don't stage them. It's about to get REAL. #alwaysauthenticandreal

The Great Poop Shoot

I wish I had seen it happen.

I wish I had taken a picture of the aftermath. Although, to be fair, few people would actually want to look at images of fecal matter.

This is not my maiden voyage into parenting. It's my third go around. My third rodeo. Filthy diapers are not a new thing to me or to my husband. Still, this particular episode was something neither of us had ever seen before.

After arriving home from California with the biggest baby loot of all time (between the baby shower my best friend gave me here in Utah and the one my mom and sister-in-law gave me in San Diego, I have roughly 6,000 baby wipes. It should also be noted that I have approximately as many onesies. This kid will be well cleaned and well dressed.) I spent the better part of two afternoons organizing Will's bedroom. It was on the second of these afternoons that I handed off the baby to his daddy and got to work.

At one point, I walked into my bedroom to get something--I cannot remember what because the events that transpired immediately after were so monumental that my brain couldn't retain such trivial information. Troy walked in and laid Will on the little changing table on our pack n play. He asked Will if he was all done. I walked out of my own room, across the hall, and into Will's room. In all, I'd journeyed about ten paces.

Suddenly, I heard what can only be described as a howl coming from my husband. Now, we've been watered/sprayed/doused by the urine of not one, not even two, but three little boys and their uncontrollable watering hoses many times over the course of ten years. Oh sure, we let out a little squeal or an, "Oh no!" This was not that kind of an exclamation. Something had gone wrong.

I yelled, "What happened?" from the other room and quickly walked back into my own. My husband stood, his white shirt covered in poop. There was poop on the floor. There was poop all over the changing table and on both of Will's feet. It was like a war zone of poop. I couldn't make sense of it on account of the fact that not ten seconds before, all had been well.

"He shot poop!" my husband exclaimed. He went on to tell me that he was holding Will's legs up, wiping the tender bum of our sweet little boy when he heard said boy's tummy rumble. Before he could do anything (seek shelter), poop erupted from the depths of the child. It shot out onto my husband who, with his cat like reflexes and desire to not be covered in waste, quickly turned his body to avoid taking the full attack. In doing this, the carpet took a major hit. There were several squishy mounds sitting several feet away from the launch zone.

Troy went to change his clothes while I attempted to clean the baby who was happily writhing around, using his feet to create a Jackson Pollock of poo. Then, while diaperless, he added urine to the mix. By that point, I was holding up his fecal covered legs and feet. But he was so happy that he just wiggled his bum all around in that poopypotty swamp. He was a disaster.

I just handed him to his dad who promptly took him into the shower and I set to cleaning up the crime scene.

An hour or so later, I noticed a brown splatter on my dresser, about 8 feet from the changing table. "Is THAT poop?"

"No," Troy answered. "It can't be."

I walked over, stuck my nose right up to the biggest of the spots in question and sniffed. It was, surely, poop. I don't even know how it was all possible. How does a ten week old shoot poop and hit a target eight feet away? He's like a pooping super hero. Poopman.

If I hadn't seen the evidence with my own eyes, I'd never believe it.

Kid 1, 2, 3

The difference between a first, second, and third time mom of a newborn is appalling. And I wasn't anything close to a stereotypical first time mom. But this poor kid. I guess we'll just have to wait and see how he turns out...

Kid 1: I will record your every milestone in this well kept baby book the moment it happens. First smile? Check. First steps? Check.

Kid 2: I will have every intention of recording your every milestone in this baby book but will, in fact, fail to record anything beyond the first few months. First smile? Check. First steps? Thank goodness it was Christmas Eve and they're recorded in my memory.

Kid 3: I should probably think about getting a baby book. First smile? Eh. It's too hard to tell the first real smile from the reflex smiles anyway. Let's just say, "Hooray! You couldn't smile and then...YOU COULD!" First steps? I totally have time to buy a baby book before that happens...

Kid 1: I am doing everything in my own power to get you sleeping through the night. After all, every mom knows that a well rested baby is a well adjusted baby. Nine weeks! BOOM!

Kid 2: We've got this sleeping through the night record in the bag! We're going to implement Kid 1 strategies AND IMPROVE ON THEM. It's an art form. I will reign supreme. Eight weeks! MIC DROP! Maybe I'll write a book outlining the important points of my technique.

Kid 3: I mean, as long as you're sleeping through the night by the time you go to kindergarten you'll be fine, right? You're certainly well off Bassham Family Record pace. No big deal.

Kid 1: I've created this quiet and peaceful environment where we snuggle together on the couch all afternoon. My single objective in life is to keep you alive. I will strive to do this in a peaceful and quiet environment that is both peaceful and quiet.

Kid 2: "Someone get the toddler before he kills himself! Wait! I'm the only adult here! Sorry, Baby, take a spin in your swing, your brother's about to scale the entertainment unit and leap off in an attempt to disprove gravity! Oh, you fell asleep. Enjoy your nap which you will take for approximately ten minutes before your two and a half year old brother wakes you up by running through the house screaming something about a goldfish cracker emergency."

Kid 3: You have a pack and play and a crib and a swing and a bouncer but there are too many hands in this house and you never get put down. When you do, it's for five minutes before the almost ten year old, seven year old, and all the neighbor boys come tearing through the house howling something about how the Battle of All Epic Ages is afoot. You wake up, scream, and display a bewildered look that says, "What the heck am I doing on my back? This is not okay. Where are all the people who hold me? Chop chop. Somebody pick me up before I realize I'm not royalty."

Kid 1: The yellow line on the newborn diaper has a dot of blue. Bust out a new one. This little love cannot be expected to float in his own waste.

Kid 2: The yellow line on the newborn diaper is half blue. Eh. He's okay. He's got another half a diaper to go.

Kid 3: The yellow line on the newborn diaper has darkened to a sort of blue/black color*. But, like, how squishy is it? I mean, it's probably not at max capacity yet.

Kid 1: Praise and worship. Exclusively. For the first year. Then mix in some educational juvenile songs.

Kid 2: Obnoxious kiddie songs the toddler requested. Ah well, he's learning about how wheels on buses go 'round and 'round.

Kid 3: Broadway show tunes haven't killed the older two. "I am not throwin' away my shot. I am not throwin' away my shot. You know I'm just like my country. I'm young, scrappy, and hungry and I'm not throwin' away my shot..."

Kid 1: Well, I have a newborn so I'm not sure I can commit to that...

Kid 2: I have a newborn and a toddler so it might take me a couple days to get to it...

Kid 3: What do you need me to do? I'll be right there.

Kid 1: Your pacifier fell on the ground. Ten second rule. (Like I said, I wasn't your typical first time mom.)

Kid 2: Your pacifier fell on the ground. Twenty second rule.

Kid 3: Your pacifier fell on the ground in the middle of the NICU and I picked it up and put it back in your mouth without even thinking about how there were nurses and social workers and adoption coordinators watching me and maybe that could have been a deal breaker.

To all my boys: I love you each more than life itself and I dedicate all that I am to raising you right. Each of your stories will be different because you are unique and because your birth order is unique. But I'm trying my hardest to keep you all alive and to show you that raising you is my joy and my passion. Kid 1, Kid 2, and Kid 3, you are my whole world--germy pacifiers and all.


*Please know I'm kidding. About the black in color part. Not about the squishy diaper part. Because that part is totally true.

Never Tell a Girl...

Even though our weather is in the 80's and it's June and gardens are blooming (not mine, I can't grow anything outside of a pot. A pot. Important A there. I do not grow marijuana in my spare time.) and pools are open and summer has begun, my children are in school until July. But my best friend's children (who happen to be my children's best friends) got out yesterday. In honor of this splendid occasion, she invited us to the pool at their clubhouse for an afternoon swim.

It should be said that the seven-year-old and the eight-year-old swam pretty much non stop for nearly two hours. This story is not about them.

The nine-year-old and the ten-year-old did not. This is because Garrett, the nine-year-old, decided to hurt his leg at school. He was dramatically limping and complaining about how terribly his wounded leg hurt. I was growing increasingly concerned because my child does not miss an opportunity to play in the pool. Yet, there he was, lying on the deck, being surly and emotional. I should point out that, later in the day, after an Ibuprofen and some ice, he rallied and it looks like he'll live after all.

The ten-year-old, hers, as I do not yet have one, was acting like a teenage girl with PMS. I'm not judging. My older child often displays the same behavior. He was getting worked up over every little thing the baby brothers were doing and it finally landed him in a time out chair. There they sat, the best friends, the boys who have been involved in an intense bromance since they were three, lumps on the pool deck.

Eventually, when their hormonal and/or injured moping became too much for us, we pulled out all the stops. I called Garrett up onto my lounge chair and began rubbing his muscle, which, it turns out, was probably just sore from track practice. His best buddy sat on the end of his mom's chair. He was a grump. I tried to make him laugh. Nothing. We teased them about growing up to be Felix and Oscar where they would live together forever in their bachelor pad until they decided to get married. And then, they must find girls who would not mind spending their lifetimes living in an apartment with the other boy and his wife.

Finally, we asked the ten-year-old if he had PMS. He shot us a death--but curious--look. "What's that?"

I scrambled. "Um. Pre. Macho. Syndrome."

Garrett looked at us, blinking.

"But what is it really?" the ten-year-old asked.

My friend scrambled. She mumbled something about when girls are grumpy.

"But never tell a girl she has PMS," she finished.

Words of wisdom to my almost preteen son. NEVER TELL A GIRL SHE HAS PMS. But, apparently, we can tease our sons that they do.

Love Languages

I've always been a sort of love language naysayer. It's not that I don't believe we have a way in which we prefer to give and receive love. It's just that I find it hard to believe there are only five. For example, I'm convinced that my love language is a good back rub. Sure, you might say this falls into the "Touch" category but I could really care less if someone is snuggling me or holding my hand. So, at the very least, these love languages have to have sub categories.

"What's your love language?"

"Touch. Sub category: Massage."

Another love language of mine--I totally have more than one--is chocolate.

All that said, I see elements of the whole love language phenomenon that are completely accurate and I try to give love the way I know my family needs to receive it.

I'm actually Acts of Service. Troy could buy me gifts, kiss me, spend time with me, and tell me he loves me until he's blue in the face but when that man gets down on the floor and scrubs it clean, my heart goes all a flutter.

I recently found an online quiz for kids. Matthew is technically too young but we did it anyway. The results were shocking to me. Troy and I would have bet the farm--if we had a farm to bet which we do not--that Garrett was Quality Time and Matthew was Touch. From the time he was a very little tyke, Garrett has just wanted to spend time with people. As much time as he possibly can. It's obnoxious because regardless of how much time you give that kid, he wants more. And, when he was little, Matthew may as well have climbed into my body because he simply couldn't get close enough to me to satisfy his need for physical touch.

I hadn't really thought about the fact that, as he's gotten older, Matthew's need to be held/snuggled/hugged constantly has waned. Garrett still wants to spend every waking moment with people and, when I tested them, Quality Time was high on his list. But, I was pretty surprised to see that...my boys were flipped.

Garrett's top love language was Touch. I suppose I should have seen it. He's nearly ten and still wants me to snuggle him every night. He'll still kiss both of his parents in public. He wants hugs. He'll reach over and take my hand and just hang onto it. He likes to be near people. Don't get me wrong, Quality Time is incredibly important to him and I think I need to do a better job of balancing both of these languages when I'm communicating love to him.

Matthew's love language came out as Quality Time. He's a different bird. Garrett's personality is a lot like mine and it's not terribly difficult for me to parent that--on most days. Matthew is the oil to my water. He's very different from me and I have to take a lot of steps back to figure out what works in parenting him. When I asked him to choose between the two choices in each scenario, he favored the Quality Time answer almost every time.

Initially, I was just doing it for fun, but I've decided that I can really use this new information--especially with Matthew. So, while I don't think the Five Love Languages are gospel truth or anything, they're definitely a tool to be used.

Especially when I need the floors cleaned.

Take a Look. It's in a Book!

Awhile back, I bought a book for Garrett. It's over 400 pages long but it seemed like something he'd enjoy. He's always been at least a year above reading grade level and I was getting tired of his reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid over and over and over. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem at all with him reading the wimpy kid series, it's just that I'd like him to branch out and read something else instead of reading the same book 72 times. I'm a hypocrite. I've read The Awakening and To Kill a Mockingbird more than once twice I can count.

He read the first page and put it away.

Months later he read the first page again and put it away.

Last week I informed him that I wanted him to read it. I knew it wasn't too hard. I really thought he'd like it. If he read fifty pages and hated it, he didn't have to finish it. But I didn't tell him that.

He read page one. And two and three and on and on and on.

He reads 30 minutes a day for school. Usually he asks me after 10 or 11 or 12 minutes just how long it's been. Then again at the 17 minute mark. Again at 26 minutes. He's a good reader and he loves being read to. He just never really much liked independent reading. Unless, like I said, it was a book about Greg Heffley and his wimpy antics. One day last week, he asked if he could keep reading after I told him his 30 minutes were up.

Monday he had a 102.8 temperature when he woke up and he had to stay home from school. I was working so his dad stayed with him and worked from home. When I got back in the afternoon, I discovered that he'd been reading for a major portion of the day.

Last night, at 9:52 (well past bedtime), I went into the boys' room. I'm obsessive compulsive about checking on my kids to make sure they're breathing. This started when they were two minutes old and hasn't stopped. It's a problem because, well, when they go off to college or get their own place or get married, I am not going to have nightly access to their breathing habits. I don't know what I'll do. I'm looking in to a support group.

I bent down to check Matthew. He sighed loudly. Then I reached up to the top bunk. Garrett was heaped up under his blanket and I couldn't figure out where his head even was. Assuming he was asleep and buried under his blanket, I hoisted myself onto Matthew's bed so that I could better investigate whether Garrett was, indeed, still alive. I lifted it and discovered my nine year old, that book, and a flashlight.

"Garrett! It's 10:00 at night. You are not supposed to be reading. You're supposed to be sleeping!"

He looked at me like I was a moron. "But, Mom, I want to read. They just got sucked into a storybook! Please can I keep reading?"

"No. You may not. It's time to sleep."

I went down and told my husband that our boy's late night reading disobedience was maybe our greatest parenting win. I made him put the book away for the night but I couldn't be more proud of the fact that I found him ignoring his bed time.

He's reading the first book in the series. There are more. And I'm a happy mama. Bonus: he was still breathing.