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.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
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.
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?!!!
Monday, April 18, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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...
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...
Friday, March 25, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
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.
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.
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