All Too Well...

G (8) went to the dentist last week.  I sat alone in the waiting room, paging through magazines designed for housewives and middle aged mothers, calmly thinking how I don't fit into either of these categories.  (Denial.  I haz it.)

Out strolled Dr. B.  Or Jack.  Or Dr. Jack.  I don't know what to call him, so let's go with Jack.  Out strolled Jack.  He looked around and seemed pleased with the fact that we were alone in this media filled waiting room.  And then.  He.  Spoke.

Jack:  How's he brushing?  (Translation:  You're a horrible parent.)

Me:  Oh, well, we remind him to brush twice a day, but I don't hold his hand while he does it.  (Translation:  Dude, I lost a baby in September and I'm pregnant again.  The sheer fact that this kid has a toothbrush is a testament to how much I do NOT suck.)

Jack:  Well, we have some cavities in some baby teeth.  (Cue the dramatic music.)

Me:  Huh.  Well, what're we going to do about that?  (Because clearly, you have the degree, you should have the plans, right?)

Jack:  David is going to bring him in.  *YOU* are not to say the following words to him:  needle, drill, pain, recovery, or trauma.  (In other words, he knows I'm a spaz.  And he's right.  He's the guy who writes my scripts for anti-anxiety meds when I need a filling.)

Me:  Okay.  But when you use the needle to drill into his skull, how much pain will he be in during recovery and will it traumatize him for the rest of his life?  (That took skill, man.  Nailed it.  Hit every single "no" word.)

Jack:  (Smiles and rolls his eyes.)  Seriously, though, this is a Dad thing.

Me:  Sigh.  You guys have all the fun.

Had I had this conversations 18 months ago, it would have been tragic.  I would have probably lamented my failure as a parent.  Oh!  Woe is me!  My darling son has a cavity... or three.  The world is ending.  But strangely, it just isn't that... horrible.  It's life.  It happens.  They're baby teeth and this is a major lesson in his little life.

Plus, I don't have to take him.  Doctor's orders.  Sometimes being a spaz has its perks.

Stuff I've Found to Work

I read another mom blog last night.  I tend to read it because her children are so much younger than mine and it reminds me vividly of what we've gotten though and what we're going to revisit in the coming years.  Her children are bundled together, slightly closer than my three oldest children.  She's currently dealing with what I always called Fibber McGee syndrome and she's Freaking Out Big Time.

Her Freak Out in yesterday's blog got my wheels turning.  We went through that.  We still go through that.  But I've kind of figured it out.  Each kid has a tell.  Typically when confronted and caught in a lie, K can't look me in the eye.  G blushes.  And J is either the greatest liar on the face of the earth or doesn't need to lie because I have no clue what her tell is.  K is the easiest to detect.

So what other tricks have I found over the last 15 years that make life a little easier?  And what do I still struggle with on a regular basis and need to work on?  Hm.

1)  Follow Through.  Don't threaten to do something if you know you can't follow through on it.  For instance, don't threaten to call the school to find out what the homework really is if you know there isn't anyone in the building who can answer that question.  Think before you dole out consequences.  The second a kid detects you're full of BS, you've completely lost the battle.

2)  Ask yourself:  Is this a hill I want to die on?  Only make it a battle if it's truly important.  When J flops herself downstairs wearing what is easily the most ratty, splatter painted, ill-fitting jeans she owns and we're on our way to Mass, it drives me insane.  The easier thing to do would have been to discuss the clothing the night before, but she's 15.  WHY do we have to go through this every week?  So I have to decide - in that very moment - how important is what she's wearing.  I'm probably far too guilty of making this a battle of Devil's Den far more often than I should... at least she's going to Mass, right?

3)  Allow them to fix the problem themselves.  

Kid:  I want a cookie!
Me:  Huh.  Good to know.
Kid:  Cookie!
Me:  I do so enjoy cookies.  (Going about my business.)
Kid:  Can I have a cookie?
Me:  Oh look, your shoe is untied.
Kid:  May I please have a cookie?
Me:  Ooooh, that's what you're making noise about.  (Then either choice A, depending on the kid and the circumstances)  The next time you would like a cookie, you need to remember to ask using your good manners.  You just showed me you have them.  Here's a cookie.  (Or choice B, again, depending on the kid and the circumstances.)  Are you nuts, kid?  You just marched in here and demanded I drop everything I'm doing to give you a cookie?  No, you can't have a cookie, but you can have an apple.  And the next time you want something, start with the decent manners you just proved you have.  It works much better that way.

This allows the kid to recognize the problem and fix it on her own.  I don't have to yell or correct or really get involved at all until they've remedied the situation.  It's important to note, however, that this method has its flaws.  For instance, if you've just gone through this routine 1,346 with one kid and a different kid starts in with the same demand in the same tone, you run the risk of your head exploding.  It's also important to note that you need to spend years 2, 3, and part of 4 starting with the basics and consistently teaching (through modeling) how to ask for something properly.  This method really doesn't work until they're in the late pre-school stages and beyond.


So those are things I think I have a handle on.  Now if I could just figure out how to make K less destructive, G less quick to anger, and J more willing to study, I'd be absolutely perfect.  Oh... and if I could keep my garage clean and the basement from being taken over by laundry and the dishes from piling up and shoes out of the kitchen....

Changes

8 weeks to go.  Eight.  Barring any complications or other surgeries taking my place, I will see my son in fifty six days.

Um.

Yikes.

There's so much to be done between now and then; it feels overwhelming.  The biggest project is almost finished in some ways, but just beginning in others.  We live in a four bedroom house.  It's not huge and it's not really intended for a family of six.  However, we're going to make it work because it's what we have and it's what we're going to have for many years to come.

Once we knew we were having a boy, we had to settle on bedrooms and shuffling the kids between them.  Finally we settled (and by "we", I mean "I" because no one else was willing to commit to making a decision) on putting the girls in the larger bedroom over the garage.  Together.  My daughters.  Oil and Vinegar.  Day and Night.  North and South.

Again.  Yikes.

The early stages of the project.

Bye-bye little girl pink.

The process of getting the room ready was a month long chore.  First, I let them pick colors.  (Okay, first I picked colors and watched them roll their eyes.  I quickly realized I had to give up control if this was going to work.)  They agreed on purple and orange.  It's just paint, right?  And they're 15 and 12, so I couldn't expect them to like the neutral tan I had chosen.  I removed the pink, floral wallpaper border.  Then David patched and sanded the walls.  The ceiling presented a heck of a problem.  J had plastered it with posters and over the years, the tape and become a gummy, gooey, nasty mess and refused to come off the ceiling without  a serious fight.  An entire weekend was spent experimenting with adhesive removal products.  We finally found that wallpaper glue remover was our best bet.

Hello... interesting... combination of colors.

Then up went the orange.  Holy moly.  Orange.  The purple wasn't nearly as shocking in comparison.  The Pepto pink wasn't giving up without a fight and we still had to use two coats for each color even though we'd gone with the more expensive paint with built in primer.

Our Siamese got in on the act... and we didn't paint over it.  It's our Elliot seal of approval.

Finally we tied it all together with a rather colorful boarder:

Channeling our inner hippies.

Now it's done and the beds are moved.  I ordered matching bedding.  We hung bright curtains.  The beds are on risers so we can have plenty of storage.  So it's coming together and looks really cute, despite the interesting color choices.

Tonight is the first night they'll share their "new" room.  The true test will be to see how they sleep.  K is a night owl.  She has been since birth.  We've actually taken her to Johns Hopkins for a sleep study because at 4 years old she would only sleep 7 hours every night.  They said she's fine and this is just the way she's wired. I often wonder if I had given birth to K first if we would have had more children... she's definitely been a challenge since day one.

(As I'm writing, K just bounds through the front door, yelling and taking over all the energy in the house.  She's been away for 2 days.  She spent yesterday in DC with her Girl Scout troop and today was spent with her best friend at the local swimming pool.  Hopefully she's exhausted and will make their first night peaceful.  Although the girls are already arguing because apparently there's a wet bathing suit on J's bed now.)

J is a sleeper.  She always has been.  She was sleeping 8 - 10 hours a night by the time she was 6 months old.  She woke up starving, of course, but she wanted - needed - to sleep.  Where K is chaos, J is calm.  Where K is noise, J is quiet.  And that's not to say J is perfect.  The girl can shriek like nothing I've ever heard and her tendency toward silly is much greater than average .  But across the board, J has always been an easier kid.

I'm trying to set serious expectations for both of them.  J has to allow K to have some say in what happens in the room.  K has to not destroy things or poke holes in the drywall.  (That's another story.)  J has to understand that K owns half the room now and while it's not easy to give up that space, K gave up her entire room without pouting.  Compromise is going to be key... that and remembering that J leaves for college in 3 years.  (And don't even take me down that road.  I don't know quite how I'll manage to let her go.  I like having her here and the thought of her being on her own already makes me cry.  But another day.)

Tomorrow I will - hopefully - start to work toward moving G into his new room (K's old room).  But we also need to clean the fridges, the basement, put away laundry, organize the garage... I'll never get to all of it.

But we got to this and in that I will find some peace.

IVs and Memories

I have the Stomach Bug From Hell.  It's evil.  I landed in the labor hall for a few hours yesterday, tethered to an IV because I was severely dehydrated and all sorts of other unpleasant medical stuff that I pretended not to hear.

It was extremely busy.  I guess we all know what the whole world was up to 9 months ago because there were nurses rushing everywhere and very few beds available.  I ended up waiting in the waiting room with expectant grandparents for 20 minutes or so before they could even get me into an exam room.  Once they'd gotten me changed and the initial exam was over (no signs of labor.  Woo.), they sent me to the antepartum wing... to the same room... and the same bed where we found out we'd lost Andrew.  And in an uncontrollable flood of chaotic emotion, I relived that entire day in about 3.2 seconds.

The nurse was kind enough to hook me up to the monitor as quickly as she could and within a matter of minutes, this baby (who has a name, but we're not telling) was busy making us laugh with hiccups and wicked soccer kicks and occasionally running away from the nurse as she readjusted the belt.  I still felt the sting of our loss, but it faded a bit over the several hours I was there.

I worry about that happening with Andrew.  His little brother will be our focus, changing our family, reshaping it.  And that's good.  I know it is.  But I don't want to forget the little boy who wasn't meant to be; the little boy who still makes me cry.  I don't quite know how to wrap my head around it.

File Under: Things that Piss Me Off

Apparently, Dan Quayle was right:  Single mothers are terrible people who have no right raising children.

ENOUGH with the mother bashing, people.  E-freakin-NOUGH!  If we put as much effort into lifting mothers up and celebrating their accomplishments as we do psychoanalyzing their "poor" choices (many of which they don't control), wouldn't everyone benefit?  I'm certainly not saying we should sweep poor parenting under the rug, but WHY aren't fathers as quickly bad mouthed as mothers?  Why is okay for the tech guy from my church, of all places, to tout this anti-mother nonsense on Facebook without countering it with anti-father crap, too?  When was the last time he posted anything pro-parent or pro-family?  Pro-mother?  Not that I remember seeing.

I'm not a single mother.  I wasn't raised by a single mother.  Until my generation, the women in my family were all married before becoming mothers.  But that didn't prevent them from marrying alcoholics who disappeared on a regular basis, beat them, and abused their children.  Stories exist on both sides of my family - written accounts in railroad documents or newspaper articles - going back 100 years or more, giving detailed accounts of absentee fathers and severe spousal abuse.  HOW is that better than being a single mother?  And don't tell me that it's because the father contributed financially.  It's hard to contribute financially when your primary role in life is to be the drunk who falls asleep on the railroad tracks and is killed by a train or the engineer who is so drunk he causes an train accident.  (How ironic is that? One great-grandfather was killed by the same train company that employed the other great-grandfather who cause a major accident.  No idea of the two events were related... but ironic, none the less.  Poor DL&W.)  Come to think of it, I'm one of only two women in our family to NOT marry an alcoholic since this family came here from Ireland in the 1880s!

So please, let's stop the single mom basing, the helicopter mom bashing, the attachment mom basing.  Let's just all agree that motherhood in any form is a challenge and deserves to be respected and supported, despite flawed and imperfect sociological studies.  We're all human and we're all in this together... like it or not.

I'm watching my little guy sleep in the bed next to me.  His 8 year old body sprawled out, lanky and long.  The smell of little boy wafting from him, despite having just taken a shower.  Sweet snoring sounds and wimpers occasionally come from his side of my bed.

He doesn't usually take naps in the middle of a lazy Sunday afternoon and he never sleeps in my bed.  But he camped with Cub Scouts all weekend and came home happy, filthy, and freckled.  And of course, completely exhausted.  As he snuggled with me before he dozed off, he asked me questions about his new brother.

"Will he be in Cub Scouts?"

"Well, he'll want to be just like you, so I think he'll insist on being in Cub Scouts."

"How old will he be when I'm an Eagle?"

"I'm going to guess he'll be 8, just like you are now.  And a Bear, just like you are now."

"Will you buy him a radio kit?  And take him to camp and wear your mom uniform?"

"Probably, but you know, you can do that stuff with him, too.  You'll already know how, so you can teach him stuff."

He blinked.  "I can teach him stuff?"

"Yep.  You're his big brother.  You're the best teacher he'll ever have."

"Wow."  He yawned and rubbed his eyes.  "Better than Dad?"

"Maybe.  Definitely cooler than Dad."

With that he smiled, rolled over, and snuggled against me.  The baby kicked at his big brother.  The kick was met with a gentle poke.

"Love you, brother."  And he went to sleep.

Juggling

You know those moms?  Their hair is perfect, they're a size 2, and they always have beautiful make up?  And their children are dressed in matching outfits, complete with creases from the hours spent ironing?  Everything is organic and whole grain?  The house is beautifully organized, the car is spotless inside and out, and their pure bred pet never ever sheds?  The moms who could have written that entire paragraph without once saying something like, "Dude!  Do NOT put your underwear covered hiney in the window!  The neighbors don't want to see your skinny buns!"?  Those moms.

Yeah, that's not me.  In my head it is.  In my head I have a garage I'm not embarrassed to open and laundry that isn't pouring out of baskets in the hallway.  In my head, my minivan doesn't spawn empty water bottles and occasionally have "My brother eats buggers" written on the dirty window.  In my head, life is perfect.  Too bad we can't live in my head, eh?

So how do I come to terms with the fact that I am NEVER going to be Martha Freaking Stewart?  There's a big part of me that feels like I should live up to these completely unrealistic expectations.  Then there's part of me who wants to curl up on the couch and watch copious amounts of garbage TV.  Right now it's really easy to use the pregnancy induced exhaustion as an excuse not to be more on the ball, but that's all it is - an excuse.  I could should manage my time more wisely.  I just don't quite know how.

Here's the reality, though:  I am an involved mom.  I know my kids' friends.  I know what they're watching on TV (except the super hero stuff.  That's David's domain.).  I know their teachers, schedules, and homework.  I check up on my teen's Facebook account on a regular basis.  I go on field trips, attend the parent-teacher-committee-association-organization-whatever meetings.  I help with graduation slide shows and vacation Bible school.  If there's a school or Scout function, man, I am there.  (In part because if I am there I don't have to be home... cleaning.)

So maybe I've traded Martha Freaking Stewart for... awareness?  And maybe I'm not wired to be both an uber organized mom and an aware mom?  Is one better than the other?  Hard to say, really.  I'm sure it's less stressful to be a Martha than juggler.

Regardless, I should do the dishes and clean the kitchen and do the laundry and clean the dining room before my husband gets home... we have a First Communion party on Saturday and I've been so busy at school today, I haven't do much of anything to get ready for it!