Beware the sick and sleep-deprived Ethan

We have all been very spoiled to have Sam at home with us the last two weeks of the year.  While many people have been praying for school to start up again, I was excited to have the kids at home for three weeks and nowhere to be at any particular time.  It has been absolute bliss to have my little family at home, waking up late, sauntering downstairs for breakfast whenever the spirit (or one of the kids) would move us, and then go about the rest of our day.  Ethan has been especially happy to have his Daddy at home.  He gets to play games that I would never entertain; you know the type--basketball, football, or anything that might require coordination or worse, for me to exert some energy.    

It's amazing how much a little boy, who barely speaks, can convey using only his eyes and facial expressions.  For the last couple of weeks, he has gotten even more animated when trying to get us to play with him.  No, he doesn't flap his arms like an injured bird trying to take flight.  His excitement is expressed more with his eyes lighting up, excitedly yelling at what he must believe to be coherent speech to tell us to get up and moving, and then when all else fails, he gets a running start and tackles us and falls over laughing at our pain.  Except for his five days of fever and chills, he has been a very happy and funny kid, which made for a peaceful (albeit a little bruised) existence for all of us.

So, you'd think we'd have enough sense to do whatever we can to avoid situations that aggravate him, but it's not so easy.  There are days where he wakes up, mad at the world and ready to duke it out with whomever or whatever crosses his path.  And it's exponentially worse if he's been sick and thus, sleep-deprived.  Sometimes, it's poor Ally who is on the receiving end of his wrath.  Fortunately, she is an exceptionally kind and patient sister, and is able to defuse the Ethan-bomb rather quickly.  When that happens, Sam and I stand in the corner, chewing our fingers (we have one functional knuckle remaining on each finger) and hope and pray she can work her magic.  Most of the time, she is successful and we are able to resume breathing right before one of us collapses from lack of oxygen.  Unfortunately, some days, she refuses to cater to his psychotic rages and simply avoids him.  On those days, we live in abject fear.

One of those days, we decided we were no longer going to be held  hostage by a non-speaking, still poops in his pants two year-old, no matter how cute he is.  We were going to stand our ground and let this boy know, once and for all, that WE are the bosses.  And furthermore, we are NOT afraid of HIM.  Yeah, that's right.  We drugged him up (he had a fever), took him out, and strapped him into his car seat, tightening the belt just a little more than usual to make sure he would not fly out of it and shred us to pieces.

Not even out of our subdivision, I apprehensively peeked in the backseat to make sure both kids were still okay (more concerned for Ally than Ethan, to be honest).  The look I got from Ethan expressed so much disgust with us, my immediate reaction was "Sam, you'd better sleep with one eye open tonight.  He is going to crawl out of his crib, grab his noise-making car, and run your face over and over until you are no longer recognizable.  He is furious."  I could tell he was desperately searching for a half-eaten bag of cheezits to crush and flail all over the car to watch his mother twitch uncontrollably and progress to a full grand mal seizure.  Then he was going to rip off one of his shoes and beat his father into oblivion in the back of the head.  He'd spare his sister, because she'd at least have the sense to hide in the third row of seats.  Yes.  I got all that from the expression on his face.

Needless to say, we turned around and fetched all the basketballs, baseballs, footballs and bouncy balls we could find to appease The Little Man.  And completely chewed off one finger from each hand.

Dreaded anticipation

Do you ever have those moments of anticipated dread, or dreaded anticipation?  You know the feeling--when you know something has to happen, but you don't want it to happen.  At least not on your watch, but if you're the only one on watch, you're it.  And as bad as it is, if it doesn't happen, the consequences would be far worse.

So, you try your best to prepare.  And you wait.  With tremendous dread.  At the same time, you worry that it won't come, and then what?  Ugh, you don't even want to consider the alternative.  You have this tightness in your chest as your worry when and if it'll come, yet not thrilled that it's coming.  Your chest gets tight, your stomach knots up, and you even feel a little nauseous as you wait.  And when it does come, those feelings wash over you all over again.  They don't call those wrinkles on your forehead "worry lines" for nothing.

This happens in our family every single day.  During the week, the concern is not just if it's going to come, but where?  At home?  In public?  On the weekends, it's compounded because now it's not just me that has ants crawling in my brain as I wonder when and if it'll come; Sam is right there with me.

Then it happens.  It washes over everything like a tsunami.

Ethan poops.

A honeybee chicken and a chicken pig

Either I've become very busy with the kids' and families' schedules, gotten extremely lazy, or we have been caught in a time warp where I lost all track of time.  Here is my first attempt at a return to normalcy by updating this blog.

Ally is six years old now.  We put her in a costume when she was 2 months old, but did not force her to try to beg for candy.  No, we had the decency to wait until she was 14 months old, lest people would accuse us (rightfully) of abusing our child in an attempt to get candy.  If my math is correct, this year marks the 5th time we've put her into a costume and escorted her outside to get some goods.

The first year, she was a ladybug, and since she did not make it past one house before losing it, I failed to capture her in action.  However, I did capture her in costume on a very cold Halloween:

The second year wasn't much better.  Undeterred, we took her out again when she was three.  Well, that did not work so well either.  Finally, when she was four, she was Ariel the mermaid and went out with a neighbor while Sam stayed at home with Ethan (then only 6 months old).  That year, she actually made it around the block and got a respectable amount of candy.

Last year, Ethan, although sick, went out for the first time with his sister.  We started at Sam's office:

Success at the office!  Later that night,I figured they were super cute and would get loads of candy.  Right?  Wrong.  After 5 houses, Ally reasoned "Why should I walk when I have so much candy at home?"  So, she ruined Halloween for me and went home.  Ethan, on the other hand, realized he could get candy just by knocking on doors!  So, with a fever, he marched on.  Halloween saved for mommy!

Do we even want to talk about this year?  I put Ally into a honeybee costume she picked out at the Halloween store.  The very same store that sells adult costumes, which scared the living daylights out of her. She ran in, eyes barely open, picked out the first costume in her size, and called it good.  

She did so well at Sam's office, and with a gorgeous night, I thought she'd make up for years past and haul in the loot!  Wrong again.  Five houses later, she lost it when a group of teenagers made too much noise.  So, she turned in for the night, and in fact, hid in the corner every time other trick-or-treaters rang the doorbell.  

Ethan, on the other hand, wanted absolutely nothing to do with his chicken costume.  The best we got at Sam's office was a very angry half chicken:

Later that night, we accomplished a headless chicken that ate the candy almost as fast as he could get it:

At least the headless chicken said "bok bok" on cue to bring in a respectable amount of candy.  To sum up this year, we had a chicken for a honeybee and a pig for chicken.  No matter--I consider it a success!

Round 1 with The Big Guy

Dear God,

No, my name is not Margaret, and I am not wondering if You're here.  Honestly, I hold the belief not only are You here, You get Your giggles at my expense.  I'm not saying I'm the only person that provides You with humor; I'm just saying I'm onto You.

Today, I'm writing about Your running joke, my daughter.  Quite obviously, You heard me pray and plead for a healthy child during my pregnancy, and I thank You again and again.  Ok, maybe just on Sundays, and only if Your other jokey gift, my son, gives me a tiny moment to reflect rather than chase him around the church (By the way, I know You are taking bets, despite the fact You have an unfair advantage, on how many curse words I will unleash during mass.  Like I said, I'm onto You.).  But anyway, I also know You heard my very quiet plea that I never voiced to anyone else that she please be smart, because God, You know how I feel about academics.  And the thought of having a child without a love for education was horrifying to the point I simply could not contemplate. 

I don't want You to think I'm not grateful for a very healthy daughter (we'll disregard the 3-day hospital stay when she was 12 months old, and the epic vomiting over spring break).  But seriously, this child has the handwriting of a horse.  And I'm not talking about the animated animals that have Palmer script.  I am talking about a horse at the end of the Kentucky derby that has broken its leg and ready to be put down.  It is that bad, and I don't see it getting any better.  Recently, while struggling with what I believed to be her writing, I grasped for hope that she would love to read and have the same obsession for proper spelling as myself. 

Har har.  Very funny.  Despite her love for books (thank You for making sure she got my genes for that one), You gave her her father's sheer hatred for spelling.  It would appear these two share a unique dictionary that has yet to be shared with the public.  Or anyone on this planet for that matter.  I'm guessing, however, that YOU provided them with the sole copy.  Any chance I might get a decoded version?  I didn't think so.

I'll tell You what I don't find amusing--the fact that You gave her her father's aptitude for math, when You knew perfectly well it would be I who would have to help her with her math homework.  Don't act like You didn't know I was going to inevitably quit my job and stay at home, and thus, take on that responsibility.  After all, You are omni-whatever that word is that means You know everything.  I appreciate the irony of the fact that despite my love for reading, I simply cannot master word problems in math.  I mean, how can I possibly decipher what I'm supposed to solve?  What do I care how long it would take Ted to reach Fred if Ted were traveling by train at 50mph, broke down 30 minutes later, caught a plane whilst Fred biked on a one-speed in the opposite direction for 3 hours, turned around by Vespa and then caught in a tornado?  Seriously, I don't care.  Beyond my lack of respect for algebra and trigonometry, why are first graders being asked to solve word problems in math?!!!!  HOW HARD ARE YOU LAUGHING EVERY DAY AT 4pm?!!!!!  Because let me tell You, as much as I disrespect math, the lack of faith my child has in me is becoming more and more obvious every day when we sit down to tackle her math assignment.  Perhaps I should audit her class...

In closing, thank You for giving me such a beautiful gift that is my daughter.  Feel free to take away the sass, drama and daily rolling of the eyes first in the morning when I pick out her clothes, and in the afternoon during homework time.  I'm not sure how to close out a letter to You, so for now, let's just leave it at peace out. 

What in the....???

By this time, I should not be surprised by much. However, people still manage to shock me, and that is saying a lot. 

Random things as of late:

1. When a person who never calls you suddenly does, it's not to say "hello". Before answering that call, be prepared to throw away any plans you had that day.

2. Getting an email out of nowhere with the pretense of interest in my family's and my well-being, but really looking for gossip, still surprises and annoys me. It would be so much easier, and I'd respect it a lot more, if the person would just directly ask about that gossip.

3. It does not matter how far I went in my education. Ally will always think I cannot possibly understand the material she is studying at that point in time. Right now, I am apparently having issues with first grade.

4. I am convinced Ethan can poop on demand. Like right before I have to head out the door.

5. Virtually all disputes are due to silly misunderstandings, and that's actually very funny if you're not in the middle of the dispute. But that does not mean I will forgive my death-wishing neighbor for setting off fireworks last July 29 after 9pm when Ethan was trying to sleep. I think the kid is still suffering from PTSD from that incident.

6. After 17 years, I still don't know what Sam does at work. I'm pretty sure it involves fantasy football, rotisserie baseball, eating at Johnny's on Thursdays because it's 2-for-1 burgers, and the occasional trip out of town because "the client needs attention".

7. People are so much nicer to you when you give them a genuine smile and say "hello", and it also makes your day a lot nicer as well. This does NOT mean a kinder and nicer Anh because YOU should know better.

8. When someone complains about the price of gas or how much it cost to fill up their car, do they think they are alone? Do they feel like I got my gas for free or something???

This does not conclude the list by any means, because I am spending increasingly more time each day with "head-scratching" moments. I mean, really--am I in the Twilight Zone?!

I think I'm starting to understand my children. Gasp!

I often wonder what goes through my chidren's minds when I am talking to them.  I remember a "Far Side" cartoon where the dog only recognizes her name in a slew of reprimands from her owner, and lately, I have started to believe I can identify that expression in my chidren's faces.  

In my professional/previous life, I dealt with possibly thousands of people from all over the world, all with different personalities and bringing unique flavors into my life.  At one point in time, I lectured to 500 freshmen in a semester, once without a microphone.  I could walk into a room, and command the attention and silence of a full auditorium.  This is not a boast, but a simple fact.  But never in my life did I dream that I would utter any of the following:
"Please do not step on your sister's head."
"I don't care that he hit you in the head with a bat.  It is NOT okay to throw him to the ground."
"If you do not stop screaming, I will put you into the corner until Mardi Gras."
"No, we do not eat rubber bands, silly bands, or erasers."
"Whatever it is that you are thinking, don't."

And today, I almost heard my two year-old son say, after looking me square in the eye because I forbade him to roll them at me "Look woman, I will pretend to hear you because that is the only way to get you off of my back.  But make no mistake.  Someday, vengeance will be mine".  I'm not sure what form that vengeance will take, but I have come to conclude that I will be spending the rest of my life sleeping with one eye open.

But you know what? I would not change it for the world. Because although I have been sleep-deprived for over six years, I feel I have been more acutely aware of my many blessings. And although I sound like a complete lunatic to many passersby at the store, I know in my heart that I am not alone amongst so many other parents. And although these little blessings appear to want to do me in, I will never forget to be grateful for them coming into our lives.

One day when Dad was 35 years old.

It's so hot, and the humidity is even worse.  But he doesn't notice it.  He can't notice it.  He doesn't want to, but he has to leave his oldest daughter and son in the hands of his aunt.  His aunt with the constant scowl on her face every time she looks at his kids, sneering because their family is so poor and taking every opportunity to ridicule them.  His heart torn, but his mind pulled in so many places he has to struggle to keep his thoughts straight, he looks at his kids.

Their eyes are wide, faces dirty from the ever-present red clay that sticks to their little faces, their mouths clamped shut to hold back their fear and sadness.  They are trying so hard to be brave, but they know exactly what is not being said: He is leaving, and may not come back.

"I promise I'll be back.  Just stay here, mind your great-aunt, and I'll be back.  I promise.  Take care of each other.  I PROMISE I WILL COME BACK."

As he leaves, it is his unreal sense of survival and purpose that forces him forward, away from his children.  The promise that he will retrieve his wife and other four children, the youngest only a few months old.

It's chaos.  Everywhere.  No break from the rushing, running, pushing, and always, the frantic look that there is not enough time.  Not enough time to get everything and get away.  Get away to where?  It doesn't matter.  Just away from HERE.  Away from the constant roar of the jets flying overhead, the hum of Agent Orange spraying, the sudden drop of all the leaves, leaving all the trees naked, stripping away the coverage and only break from the merciless beating from the relentless sun.  Away from the whistle that very shortly precedes the drop of a bomb, one of which intentionally or not, hit their neighbor a few months ago and obliterated him and his home right before their eyes, scattering his body parts without regard.  And above all, away from the Viet Cong who show up out of nowhere, and people disappear.  Or worse, taken away, beaten, and returned unrecognizable.

He runs as fast as he can back to his home to get what he can.  He already knows, even though nobody will admit it, that the South will fall to the North.  And he knows that having served with the secret police, he will be targeted, and his family will suffer even more than they already have.  There is no other choice.  They must leave.  He runs, dodging people, motorcycles, bicyclists, and falling limbs and leaves.  He ignores the screams that pierce the already loud chaotic din, signaling another person has been shot and killed.  He can't breathe, but he keeps running.

After what seems like years, not hours, he is reunited with his wife and all six of their children.  But there is no time to celebrate a reunion.  They scramble onto one of many boats, all taking on far more people than they should.  There is no room for personal belongings, but it doesn't matter because there are no worldly goods to speak of.  He gets all six kids on the boat, and holds on tightly to their birth certificates and slim photo album.  Because no matter where they end up, he wants them to be able to see pictures of the rest of their family who may not make it out.  They are so hurried, frantic, but there is no fear.  There is no time for fear.

The ship pulls away, and for the first time, he can breathe.  When was the last time he took a breath?  He can't remember.  It seems every time they turn, a disaster or bad fortune befalls them.  A brother killed, another brother dead from illness, children born every two years, the constant threat of being ripped from his family.  And never enough to eat.  Never enough to take away the constant look of hunger in his wife and children's faces, whose faces are sunken, dark, but know better than to complain about what can't be fixed.  Constantly worrying if a wayward bomb or bullet doesn't take them, or the nasty beast, Starvation, will.

He breathes.  He takes a deep breath, and looks back at his homeland.  Despite the constant defoliage, the land is green and still quite beautiful.  He looks back, sees the smoke, hears the tat-tat-tat of bullets, the screams and yells from the scurrying people, and he takes it in.  Takes it in with a combined sense of relief and sadness that it is gone.  Not certain what will happen next, but he knows it will not be the same.  He takes that luxurious deep breath, and suddenly, they are all rocked with a violent explosion that knocks that precious breath he had just taken, ringing his ears, burning his face, and searing his eyes.  Instinctively, he blinks and looks back at his wife and counts his children, and for one glorious second, revels in the fact they are all there.  They are alive.  Even though he knows he put them on the boat, it is reassuring to know they are there and not on the hill that just shattered.

No time to breathe.  The boat is pulling up next to another filled with supplies.  He looks at his family, realizing nobody has eaten since when?  It's impressive how far the survival instinct will take you over the threshold of gripping hunger, or perhaps it is because they have become so accustomed to the emptiness.  But here's a chance to fix that, even if only momentarily.

"Stay here.  I will get us some food.  Remember I promised I'd come back?  It's the same, but this time, I'll have food."

He leaps onto the supply boat, fighting others for the scant supplies, shoving others to get what his family needs to survive just another day.  Holding what he can in his arms, he shoves his way through the immovable crowd to get back to the other boat and to his family.  The boat lurches, and his heart lurches with it.  He falls backward, and the fear and desperate sadness that grips him now is more real than anything he has ever felt.  Worse than when he was three feet away from hundreds of Viet Cong marching by his hiding spot.  Worse than finding his brother's mutilated and rotting body and bringing it home to bury.  Worse than anything he ever imagined or dreamed.

When the boat lurched, it took his heart, mind and senses with it.  He tried to get to the front, but could only see the matching fear in his wife's and children's eyes as the boat he was in pulled away.  Away from his family he loves so much, for whom he lived, for whom he worked until he could not move.  Without whom, there is no sense to try and survive.  Somehow, when this boat pulls away and rips him from his family and his will to continue, it pulls away with tremendous speed and force.  No chance to say goodbye.  No chance to say the simple "I love you."  Only the broken promise. 

Night falls and brings with it a storm.  There is no calm, only emptiness.  He can only hope and pray his family is safe.  From his perspective, this boat is floating aimlessly, and there is no telling what will happen when the sun rises.  And it doesn't matter.  His family is gone.  He tries very hard to not remember, because it hurts too much.  But the images of his youngest, a darling little girl who has not been touched by the hideous realities of life, is just learning to babble and smile, keeps shoving into his mind.  His oldest, a daughter only 10 years of age, but already cooking and taking care of her younger siblings like a little mother hen.  The other four, each so special, so unique, so loved by him.  And now, they are gone.

He is only 35 years old.

This is my Dad's story.  My Dad whom I feel I only really got to know in recent years.  My father, whose story is not so different from many refugees who escaped that horrible day in April 1975, but unique because he's my Dad.  When he told me this story, his usual stoic expression was broken by the memories of that horrible day that he thought he'd lost all of us.  My father, who has suffered so much at the hands of so many people, but has always held so strongly to his faith and his love for his family.  I grew up, thinking he was the biggest, strongest man on this earth.  After I left home, I realized that at 5'2", he wasn't so tall, and having barely tipped the scales over 100 pounds, not so big.  But he's my Dad.  My Dad whose quiet courage, strength, resolve and fierce love for his family will never be matched.  In my heart and mind, he is the biggest, strongest and most admirable man that will ever live.

I love my schizophrenic husband

The pleas for baby #3 have now become ridiculous. Sides have been formed: Ally and Sam vs. Anh. No Ethan because all he cares about is, well, I don't really know because he still isn't talking (not to worry--progress is being made, and I now live in constant dread that soon, he will tell me off and NOT stop talking).

Ally is vying for a sister. Apparently, Ethan is too much for her to handle as well. I told her that we could not possibly guarantee a girl, and then what? "Mommy, don't you know? You just have to pray and pray and God will send us a baby sister." How do you explain reproductive roulette to a 5 year-old, even if that 5 year-old is a newly minted Kindergarten graduate? "Ally, sometimes God gets too busy and makes mistakes (mosquitoes and tomatoes are perfect examples of God's imperfection). Exasperated, she insisted "Just don't worry about that now. Let's just have a baby girl and we'll call her 'Cutie'!"

Ally is the only one on this planet (Sorry, Sam) that could change my once-firm position against having another baby. Defeated, I let Sam discuss the topic again without decapitating him. Yes, I am fully aware the cutting should be elsewhere to put an end to this discussion. But anyway, he was completely on Ally's side and helped her launch a full campaign to have (sob) another baby.

So, I proposed a plan: I will go away for a weekend without him and the kids. Upon my return on Sunday, if the house is clean, the kids are fed, clean and clothed, I will seriously consider having a (gulp) third child. I will give serious thought to the possibility of children out-numbering adults, and try to disregard all the pains of pregnancy and the newborn phase. Sigh. Very deep, sad and defeated sigh.

And then, Memorial Day weekend came upon us! Three days of non-stop company and fun with the kids!!!

Tuesday night, Sam had the appearance of a beaten man. Tired, worn-out, and at a complete loss as to what was causing such distress in his children's young lives. I took this opportunity to ask when I should plan my getaway?

"No more kids, Anh. We are done."

Uh huh! I thought I could make him see reason. It takes some manipulation, but nobody will ever accuse me of giving up easily.

My mother can see with vivid clarity. Everything.

It has been a crazy week, which makes for plenty of fodder for this blog.

Everyone who knows me knows I believe my mother is a living saint. A saint for having lived through what she has, and still maintain her sweet, kind, and patient disposition toward her family. Her fierce protection of her grandchildren, children and husband (probably in that order) are to be simultaneously admired and feared.

And you also know that I am not anything close to being a saint. So as much as I love my mother, I do get impatient with her and lose my temper too often. Enough that I live in dread that when I lose her, I will not be able to move forward with my life. That when that horrible day comes, my children will also lose their mother because I am certain I will not be able to recover from such a tremendous loss. So, that keeps me going, trying to be a better person. Be more patient. Be more like my mother.

For most of my life, I remember my mother's vision to be poor. Finally, when I was in junior high and in the throes of teenaged acne, she got glasses. At the table one afternoon, she put on her glasses and marveled at what she could see. Then she turned to me, and her brows furrowed. Then she stated "My goodness, you have a lot of zits on your forehead." End of commentary, and never commented on again. Until now.

Earlier this year, my mother was diagnosed with cataracts. After much discussion and convincing, she agreed to have surgery. Before her surgery, her vision was 20/125, which means she can see at 20 feet what a normal person can see at 125 feet. Pretty bad. Finally, she had the surgery on Wednesday with much trepidation on her part, my part, my sister's part, and just about everyone else we knew got the pleasure of hearing of our apprehensions. It was the first time she had had an IV, much less be admitted into a hospital, stripped down, and wheeled away on a bed.

But as we all know, the surgery is really quick and relatively simple. Not 24 hours post-surgery, her vision had improved to 20/40! She was so excited at the clarity of everything around her. She, and truth be told, and I were so pleased at how well she could see and navigate her way through everything. It really was like a new beginning for her--seeing the world through new eyes, the way God intended for her to appreciate all the colors to go with all the sounds and smells.

Then, she turned to me. Her brows furrowed. Again. "What is THAT on your FACE?!!!" Huh? What? What's on my face? "It's on your cheek, over your nose, and over your other cheek!" Ah, that would be my freckles. You know, the ones I've been sporting for about 30 years or so. Her response? "Oh. Well, that's not good."

And to think, that's just one eye. I just can't wait to see what other imperfections are revealed when BOTH eyes get to explore this "new" world.

My baby boy is growing up so fast. Too fast.

Was it really a little over two years ago that Ethan came home to us, so tiny?

 Ally was so thrilled to have her baby brother at home, and we would have to watch to make sure she would not smother him with her affection.

At six months, he was a very happy and slobbery baby with two teeth. 

A few months after he turned one, Sam brought his mini-me to the company picnic, who was not impressed.

The boy has been addicted to TV since he was a tiny infant.  We call it his altar.

A big boy now, he tackled his trike while playing with bubbles this spring.

Although Ethan is two years old, he still does not speak intelligible words beyond "mama", "dada", and "uh oh".  Rather, he makes a noise that seems to substitute for everything.  We decided to enlist the help of Infant and Toddler Services of Johnson County, and he now works once a week with a speech therapist.  In addition, we decided to send him to school once a week, hoping peer modeling would encourage his speech development.  This past Tuesday was his first day; he was very happy and proud to show he's a big boy and can navigate the stairs to his classroom.

Then he realized Mommy and Ally may not stick around...

We snuck out of the classroom, and there were absolutely no tears from him.  I immediately went back to the office, where they called his teacher to make sure he was still fine.  Yes, he was fine.  No, he did not cry.

Ally and I had no choice but to leave.  On the drive back, I held it together.  Then Ally whimpered "Mommy, I miss Ethan!" and the tears started streaming down her face.  At this point, I should clarify that I cry on an average of once a year.  It has been justifiably argued that I am much like the Tin Man, except I have no special desire to find a heart.  When one of the kids cry, I ask them to re-evaluate the situation to determine the justification for their tears.  From my perspective, there is generally very little reason for them to shed tears.

But seeing my sweet, compassionate little girl cry because she missed her baby brother was too much.  I, too, started tearing up, and I did not reprimand her.  How did our baby boy grow up so fast?  How did my sweet little Ally get to be such a big girl?  WHERE IN THE THE HELL DID THIS HEART COME FROM, AND WHO SNUCK IT IN?!!! 



What's on your sandwich?

This past school year was momentous for our family, as Ally started Kindergarten and I was left to fend for myself against Ethan (this could explain why at almost 2 years of age, he still is not speaking, but that's another entry). I have learned so much this year as I journey through kindergarten with her.

When school started, Ally's class had a small presentation with Happy Bear, who talked about welcome and unwelcome touches. The powers of the school district felt 5 was the prime age to discuss this issue, and introduce the proper verbage for body parts. You know--penis, vagina, and breasts. I am not debating the timing of this lesson, nor am I arguing the wisdom in presenting this information, but I did get a laugh from one of the kids saying another word for "penis" is "hotdog". This lesson went virtually unnoticed until last week.

Ally spent an afternoon at my sister's house, and all the neighborhood kids were out. This is Suburbia. The kids find one house, congregate, and play until dinnertime, they are called home, or my sister chases them out of her yard and/or home. In short, it's almost an idyllic childhood all of us are inordinately proud to be able to offer the kids. On this particular "halcyon" day, Ally was heard first telling her cousin, Alex, "My bottom is actually a vagina", and then instructing the other children "Don't touch my vagina!" This might sound alarming, but the alarm was more from the kids, probably thinking my kid is a freak show because many of them did not get that lovely presentation from Happy Bear.

While my sister and her husband were horrified with Ally's sudden desire to give a lesson in anatomy, they rightfully did not react. But they also did not address the issue, as far as I know. A few days later, during a bath between Alex and his younger sister, Maddie asked "Mommy, what's a vagina?" Stunned, she quickly replied "Uh, it's a sour pickle." Alex perked up, shifted his eyebrows and asked "Wait, so you're telling me if I order a sandwich, I can have a vagina on it?!"

You know, honesty really is the best policy. I wish her luck as the next time they go to Subway, and Alex asks the man at the counter if the vaginas are found in the meats, cheeses or veggies?

Spring Soccer

I am officially a soccer mom.  Ally had her first two soccer games this weekend, and I can't help but ask "Is this how spring soccer really looks?"

When I first signed Ally up for soccer, she pouted, resisted, and finally cried because "In soccer, I will have to run and that makes my legs tired!"  I couldn't hold it against her because the reality is that half of her genes come from me, and everyone knows my athletic ability is...laughable.  If I can walk across the parking lot without tripping, it is considered a success.  The week before her first game was actually hot.  Hot enough that sleeping was uncomfortable without A/C (which was  not turned on because I found that ludicrous at this time of year).  But as Ally's luck would have it, her first game was on a day with high winds and snow.

The kids were bundled up so much, they more closely resembled football players, but they still could not get warm.  This picture was taken right before the snow and ice came blowing in.  The kids could barely see, but they made all of us incredibly proud with their effort.  And in defiance of her genetic composition, Ally scored a goal to help her team win!  No, they do not keep score at this level.  Yes, the parents did, and yes, we really did win.

The next day was not as cold or windy, but it certainly was not balmy.  On this day, the girls were seasoned, prepared.  Or so we thought.  Turns out they were more prepared for halftime when they would get snacks.  It was all any of us heard.  "Can I have my snack now?  When is halftime?  Can I sit in this chair until I get my snack?  Where is my snack?!!!"  But on this day, they were matched against a pro-team.  One of the girls on the other team could not possibly have been 5 or 6 years old.  I wanted them to provide ID, because that "child" was bigger and faster than any one of our kids.  If that child truly is 5 or 6, her parents should seriously consider having her pituitary checked because I am telling you, she could rise to the top in the WWF.  And look, lady luck showed her face again because my Ally was expected to go up against her. 

Ally truly has the sweetest disposition of any child I have ever met.  So we were genuinely concerned for her well-being when we saw this troll come up to our daughter.  Our girls were getting creamed.  Destroyed.  They couldn't even spend more than 30 seconds near their goal before one of the giants came around and flattened our girls.  Finally, during one of her breaks, I assured her "It's okay to be aggressive and take the ball away from the other team.  I don't want you to hit anyone, but if your foot or elbow comes out, I'm okay with that, too.  But remember, that is ONLY okay to do in soccer!"  She gave me a funny look, asked me about snacks again, and went back in. 

This next part makes me proud in a very twisted, parental-rights-should-be-stripped kind of way.  She actually tripped the giant, who looked up at me (and honestly scared me with her expression), and Ally's teammate was able to get the ball and...SCORE!!! 

Our team lost, but I like to think the other coach now knows that WE know there is no way in hell his team is comprised of kindergarteners.  And we're on to him and his team of thugs...

What do you do all day?

This is not a question that any sane person who wants to live would ever pose to a stay-at-home parent. On second thought, that is not a question that should be posed to ANY parent, whether that parent works outside the home or stays at home.

When I retired (yes, I am calling it that because there is no way in hell I'm ever going back to work--this gig is way too good to let go), there were gambles ranging from 20 minutes to 6 months as to how long I'd last before rushing back to work. I don't think I need to tell you how much I love my current position. But, I knew I would get those comments, and I was okay with it. I have never felt compelled to announce what I do, how I do it, or how I feel about my methods as I "stay at home" to care for my family. I think it's a sad attempt at validating my decisions, and I do not feel I need to do that.

Even so, most people understand and know better than to ask The Question. So, why did it come up? Of course, it involves my Dad. My wonderful, loving, amazing, yet sometimes suicidal father.

He tricked his doctor into approving him to get a handicapped license plate. It is true that he and my mother suffer quite a bit from arthritis, but they are on some serious pain meds. And yes, their memory is slipping, but they have always managed to find where they parked their car. And sure, my Mom has osteoporosis and we worry about her falling and breaking a bone, so we're just extra careful with her. But does this warrent handicapped parking?!!! Hmmm...you can make the judgment on that, but I have a strong suspicion it's so he can get good parking without the effort.

There. I said it. On a cloudy day where there's a greater chance I'll get struck by lightening. But back to my story:

To get the handicapped parking, one must go to the DMV with appropriate papers. He had given me the doctor's papers on Monday, but I had not had the chance to go (this is one of the many duties of my new job--run their errands, which is fine for the most part). Yesterday, he asked me...you guessed it...The Question. After I had spent the morning running around like a chicken without its head (looks really silly if you've seen it in real life before).

Dad: What? You haven't gotten my sticker yet? What do you do all day?!
Me: (seething, but not wanting to say something I'll regret, scream, or inflict bodily harm on a senior citizen) Well Dad, I do nothing all day. But sometimes, I get so bored, I go to the casino and bet it all on black.

When I told this story to Sam, he actually sucked in his breath, widened his eyes, and stepped backwards when I got to The Question.

And that is all it takes to make me laugh. That is all I need to appreciate my father, who knows how to push every last one of my buttons at the same time, but understand that he truly loves my family and appreciates all that I do for him, so that I can laugh at the absurdity that is my life.

Most importantly, I remember my husband is the absolute best fit for my personality. As much as I complain about him or make fun of him, he really is an incredible husband and father, and I am so fortunate and blessed to have built this life with him. Because no matter what, he has NEVER asked The Question.

Spring Break

It is Spring Break! Sam took the week off to enjoy the week with the kids, and maybe even me.

I LOVE not having to wake up early in the morning to see Johan off to school. Except thanks to the months of training, my body automatically wakes up at 6:30am. I wake up, try to get back to sleep, but then Mr. Pterodactyl stirs and lets us know very firmly (even though he does not speak) he is ready to get up and destroy our home.

I LOVE not having to rush through the morning with Ally to get as much in as possible before she goes to school (at the perfect time because she hates being too early or late). But as luck would have it, she got violently ill Sunday night and still is not feeling well. However, she has learned how to milk the situation to her advantage very well:
"I want Gatorade."
"I want cold water."
"I want fresh, cold white milk."
"I want ice cold Sprite."
And now that more than 24 hours has passed and she is able to eat, she has added to her repertoire of commands:
"I want yogurt."
"I want bread. Whole-grain bread."
"I want pears. Or maybe a banana."
She was so sick that I have become wound so tight that a mere whimper from her gets me jumping to my feet. I am only able to write this because she is thankfully napping.

I thought I would love having Sam at home for an entire week. But it's only Tuesday, and I'm wondering if it's Friday yet. Spring Break. It might break me.

My amazing parents

I turned 38 this year, a rather uneventful number, as it really is only a number.  I don't know what it is, be it this number or that it's been almost a year since I left my career in science to stay at home and raise my family.  But, something has changed.  No.  A lot has changed.

I have looked more closely at my parents, and really tried to understand things from their perspective.  It's not easy.  I have portions of their genetic makeup, been taught their morals and values, fought against these very same ideals, and watched them change as they raised their children in a foreign country.  And, I've watched them age.  It's not easy.

By the time my mother was my age, she had given birth to six children.  She held her youngest in her arms, and herded the other three as she escaped her war-torn country.  During the escape, as she headed towards China Beach to meet my dad and remaining two kids, she watched other escapees get gunned down by Viet Cong snipers, fall to the ground, get roughly kicked out of the path to make room for others running where everyone else was going, rivers of blood marking the road in a macabre map to safety.  All the while, holding her baby in her arms, keeping a watchful eye over her other children, counting to make sure the number was right: "Yes, yes, they are all here."  

In the midst of the confusion and hysteria of the escape, she was separated from my father, and did not know if she would ever see her country, her husband or her extended family ever again.  As the overly-crowded American ship transported the hundreds of refugees to Guam, a storm brewed around the ship in the night.  My mother, alone with her thoughts that have not been given voice to this day, stood on the deck, gripped the railing, and stared blankly into the night.  The rain and ocean mixed together in a furious fight with the winds, hitting her from every direction, soaking her and whipping her face and long hair.  But she stood, serene, and watched it.  Watched her life as she had known it simply disappear.

She and my father were eventually reunited, and waited months in desperate hopes the remainder of their families would also successfully escape from what was once South Vietnam, but now fallen to the Communist North.  They waited until they realized their family would not arrive, and waited as fate took them here, to the United States.  They were both 35.  Every day since that fateful day in April when they left Vietnam, then reunited and were brought to this country, they have thanked God for His many blessings.  They made it out with all of their children, alive.  

I have watched as my parents age, slowly losing their memory, but unbelievably growing stronger every day in their gratitude for the graces God gave them, and their love for their children and grandchildren.  Their love is boundless.  They are amazing, this little old couple with such a tremendous story.  A story I've been told I should share, but I simply do not have the words.  

I don't know what made me write this entry; I only know I've been wanting to talk about them for a very long time, but the words just would not come.  We sometimes drive each other crazy, but they are the most amazing people I have ever known.  I am so grateful and proud to be their daughter, and as I watch them, I hope that I make them happy.  And I hope that as their memory dims, they don't remember the times I lose my patience.

My home is protected by warriors. Be warned.

Ethan woke this morning, full of fire and energy, as usual.  He wanted to show what would happen to us if we did not respect his power--remote control, dismantled! He bites his lower lip to emphasize the sheer strength he has stored up in his deceptively small arms--GRRRR!!!

This earns him the title of Kung Fu Master Ethan.  When you are a Kung Fu Master, it does not matter that your bandana is light purple.  You can see Ally is really intimidated.

Moving onto other things to destroy...this is now Kung Fu Master Godzuki.

But somehow, Mommy is still the ruler of all things fun.  Kung Fu Godzuki and his sensei resume their duties and clean the house, still in uniform.

Sledding adventures with Daddy

After last week's blizzard, Sam and I insisted the kids get bundled up and out of the house.  Johan was the most reluctant, followed very closely by Ethan.  I do not count myself because my intent was to get all of them outside, lock the door, and enjoy some peace and quiet.  But someone had to capture evidence of attempts to freeze our children, right? 

Ally was very excited to go sledding with her Daddy.  The slope from our front-to-backyard is pretty impressive for a small child, and serves well for sledding.  Turns out it works best if the snow is not knee-deep in some spots.  Here, Ally is assessing the situation as she heads down the "hill" to the backyard:

Poor child kept falling out of the sled, and her Daddy had no idea until she was almost frozen to the ground:

They finally made it to the top (after tipping over several more times), across the front yard, and to the other side...only to have Ally tip over again:

Johan and Ethan would have none of the tipping over.  I think they figured out that it was intentional on Sam's part.

Finally, my babies were allowed back in the house to make a mess and lounge in front of the TV as God intended:

A blizzard brings clarity to our family

I am not blogging about the three consecutive snow days that almost lead to mass hysteria across the nation. Because you, too, experienced it and do not need a recap on that nightmare, nor do you need to be reminded that you came this close to doing what virtually every parent and child thought on the third day: I am going to just walk outside and freeze myself to a slow death because that would be preferable to this unending hell. No, I do not need to talk about that.

I will, however, talk about what happened to Sam's ongoing plea to have a third child as we came upon our third snow day. You see, Sam chose to risk life and limb and go to work, and NOT allow us to meet him for lunch because after 1 1/2 days, he had HAD it. When he got home from work, he found the kids and me in such foul moods with each other. Honestly, it was not because any one of us was misbehaving; we were just TIRED of seeing each other. So as Ethan was screaming like a pterodactyl at everyone and everything in his path, Ally was picking fights with her mini-dinosaur brother and I was offering both of them to go for a nice walk outside in the nude, Sam commented "Ok, I have decided I'm okay with only 2 kids."

Then this morning, the beautiful sound of reason came from none other than my sweet, perfect Ally, age 5. The thought must have been growing in her mind for some time until it finally found voice, out of nowhere:

"Mommy, there is only one me, and I cannot take care of more than one baby. If you guys have another baby, you should wait until Ethan gets older. But you know, if you give Daddy a third child, he'll just want another and then we'll have four children in this family! Let's just get a dog."

That child is perfection.

Kindergarten has changed. A lot.

In celebration of 100 days of school, Ally was asked to put together a "Collection of 100".  I have virtually no artistic or creative ability.  Thank goodness the instructions were to let the child's imagination direct this project.  I imposed my OCD to make sure everything was somewhat aligned, and the following is the result:

This required the use of a hot glue gun, and it is nothing short of a miracle that we both emerged NOT glued to the poster board, nor did we suffer any serious burns.  I was very proud of what we had accomplished together, and thought "I might be able to pass kindergarten after all."  While admiring our work, Ally told me "All the other kids have 100 of the same thing on their projects."

WHAT?!?!

I just know I am going to get a letter from school.  And, I may not pass kindergarten after all.

Valentines, valentines, EVERYWHERE!

"Mommy, could you please buy me these scissors?  They're safe for me, and I broke the other pair."  How can you say no to such a plea/argument in the sweetest tone from the kindest little 5 year-old?  Not to mention the fact I rarely say no to her, but that's for the therapist.  But the therapist may be needed because I am weak, and I caved, and the results are just another argument I should not be allowed to have kids.

She and her brother proceeded to sit for over an hour, drawing hearts and things humans cannot identify with all the red markers they could find.  Ethan even thought it'd be fun to draw a few--all over his hands.  Thank goodness Ally only wanted to cut out the ones drawn on paper, or 'ol Ethan would be a double amputee.  She cut and she cut and she cut.  With every single "masterpiece", she held it to me and said "Mommy, I made this for you because I love you so much."  I was busy assembling yet another purchase (Sam went to the other room to ignore my purchase and hide from the kids), so I kept responding "That's great, honey!" without looking up.

I should learn to never encourage my children.

There were "valentines" and gifts ALL OVER MY HOUSE.  God Almighty, the OCD kicked into over-drive.  I picked them all up, and threw every last one away after she went to bed.  But maybe I should have kept a few.  Or at least one.  Because a child can only sleep for so long.

She got up, looked around, looked in the trash can (yes, I know I should have taken the trash outside) and looked up, horrified.  "Mommy, who threw all my valentines away?!"  Crap.  Damn.  Shit.  How do I get out of this one?  My mind racing, and because I (1) was a debater in high school and HAVE to think fast, and (2) am absolutely diabolic, I raced through my options and responded in the only way that would get us through the day: "Your daddy."

I pray for Sam's survival when he gets home tonight.

Music?

I do not listen to music.  Anyone who knows me, knows this, but nobody understands it.  They don't understand that music, to me, sounds like...noise.  Annoying noise.  Noise that gives me headaches and puts me in a foul mood.  My car stereo is so rarely used, I forget I even have one.  Sam has vowed that my next car will not have a stereo, which is just fine with me. 

This semester, my nephew wanted to try a new school with his family living in Kansas City, and he finally wore his parents down to agree.  So, we have the privilege of having a teenaged boy (13 going on 14) living with us until May.  We are hoping he'll stay longer because I enjoy him so much.  I love pulling pranks on him because he is so darned gullible; perhaps he does not expect his middle-aged aunt to rival him in maturity level.  But with this teenaged boy comes, you guessed it, music. 

I treat him like he's one of my kids.  Almost two years ago, I had a temporary truce with music and went to my first (for both of us) concert with Ally--The Wiggles, and survived.  So, I thought we should take my nephew to a concert as well--Linkin Park.  But somehow, he'd rather miss the concert altogether than go with me.  What the...?!?  When I first told him I'd be going with him, he looked at me with shock and fear and said "You're jacking with me, right?"  Hmph!  the ingrate!!!  Listen here, friend: Going to a Linkin Park concert would be nothing short of torture for me. 

Thank God Sam likes Linkin Park.  And yes, of course I was jacking with him.  And yes, he learned that term from me. 

I have four more months with this kid, and every day with him is like my favorite holiday--April 1.

I am a virgin to this blogging experience

Here by popular request (3 people on facebook indulging my narcissism) is a view into the twisted paths that inhabit my mind.  I have found that simply by watching life proceed, I have become more and more perplexed, amused, and thankful each day that I am who I am, and I am where I am.  Which might be interpreted as "I'm glad I'm not you." 

If you are sensitive, you probably should not read anything I write.  Ever.  Because while I do not go out of my way to offend, I also do not go out of my way to sugar-coat.  Anything.  Just ask my family, especially my husband and two kids (though only the 5 year-old speaks).  Actually, you could probably ask anyone (which means you should already know this) that has ever had any form of interaction with me.  This is my disclaimer that if your feelings get hurt or you lose sleep over something I write, well, don't come after me. 

I warned you.