Offering...

A tiny flower, a gentle heart.

His muddy hand carefully cradles

the delicate lace of purple petals.

My youngest son's eyes eagerly await

the smile that curls my lips.

I  whisper "thank you" to the Universe:

for him and his joyous offering.

Have something to offer?  Visit Melissa and find out more about Six Word Fridays!

Craziness and another 365 days for Joshua...

This is a red alert, folks. For anyone who will read, it is important for you to know that Joshua is four today, and therefore, defying logic and a serious height problem when compared to his older brother, Joshua is big.

The week has been beyond crazy. The following week offers no reprieve. More on that later.

Right now, we will return to regular programming, including another frog birthday cake and the excitement only a four year old can have on his birthday.

Warming my days...

Your little hand within my own.

Your sparkling eyes speak volumes, baby.

Nothing makes me feel more loved

Than the sight of you running;

Arms outstretched, smile radiating, eyes aglow.

The music of your contagious laughter

Hopelessly shames the summer sun's warmth.

You and your brothers; my everything.

You boys, the source of my existence.

I am irrevocably devoted, completely humbled

By the magnitude of this love.

What warms your heart?  Check out Melissa at Making Things Up for more on Six Word Fridays!

Finding inspiration: everyday, all year long

Eager, bright minds

Behind smiling eyes.

 

What's your inspiration these days?

Join Six Word Fridays! Find out more at Making Things Up.

Bed Hopping

After a weekend of physical challenges and a myriad of tasks to be completed, my body was aching for rest this afternoon. After the merry-go-round of the day's afternoon activities and fueling of children, my older boys completed homework and showered and while they did their thing, I ran to get a shower myself, relieving my aching body of the day's stresses and junk.

I put on my oldest most favorite pair of way-too-big, but oh-so-comfy pajamas. I have had these pj's for over 10 years. I bought them on clearance and wore them through each of my three pregnancies. I dug them out Saturday night, after running 9 miles that morning, running all kinds of errands with the three boys, attending Mass, and braving the Saturday night dinner crowd.

I was beat.

I needed an old friend.

This evening, it seemed as though the day had gotten the better of me. I was drained after a long day at work. I had practice for our school's Hispanic Heritage Show, in which the teachers will be performing a semi-traditional Flamenco dance routine. I ran to get Joshua, get milk, get the older boys to their tennis pizza party and awards ceremony.

The comfort of the scalding shower and comfy pj's beckoned me to do something I had not done in a long time. I laid in Joshua's twin bed with him. My littlest boy wrapped his arms around me, his still small hand on the back of my neck, as if to soothe me, his fingers tangled in my long, dark hair. He stroked my hair and I felt his breathing relax, his eyes starting to get heavy with sleep.

My heart ached to know that he is my youngest. That there will be no more sons borne of this woman. No more babes to feed with my body, to nestle and soothe when they are fitful. No new babies to run with arms outstretched, smile as welcoming as those arms, to make me forget about the troubles of my day, to fill my heart with joy. As I rubbed his wavy haired head, I shut my eyes, trying to engrave this moment in my heart and mind, so that I may bring it back when this boy no longer fits in this bed, when he no longer depends on me as much as he does now.

I glanced over to Andrew, laying in his bed, feeling left out, as I imagined he might be. I quietly crept from Joshua's bed and awkwardly folded myself into my middle son's bed. As I held him in my arms, he lay quietly, his big brown eyes searching mine. My boy, who sleeps haphazardly, who fails to catch slumber for an entire night, who has inherited the bitter enemy of insomnia that haunts his mother. I looked at my son, trying to memorize his face.  To recall what his face looked like four years ago, seven years ago, when he was a tiny, hungry babe at my breast; same large brown eyes searching mine, understanding me, knowing me. As I stroked his smooth cheek, I admired that beautiful olive skin. A face unobstructed from creases and lines: evidence of worry and sorrow. I wondered, as sleep overtook him, if he will remember this night, when his tired mother crawled into bed with him, invited sleep into bed with us, and let him have his fill of rest. I wondered what he will remember most of these busy days, often filled with mundane chores and uneventful tasks.

And now, I wait for my oldest. As he showers and prepares for bed, he is the one slipping away from childhood so quickly.

Next week, he will be ten.

Last night, I found a picture of him, when he was six months old. My eyes filled with tears, remembering that chubby miracle. His round face, his bright cheeks and smile. The dimple on his cheek that always reminds me of bright sunny days. As I hold him in his bed, his arms and legs are too large, too lanky for me to envelope like his youngest brother. It reminds me of how quickly time is passing through our lives now, how little time I have to hold on to him in this way. My heart is full to know that he still smiles and enjoys these moments, but, I wonder, for how much longer.

It is hard to be a mother. We give birth to our own hearts, tend to their care and growth as we would a precious garden. We weed, we nurture, we water, we hope. And then, we must harvest. We must part. We pray that all we have done will be good enough.

I am not ready yet. I know that they are growing. I know that it is difficult. There are days when I could walk out and not look back. There are many more days when the ache of this mother's heart is too much. When I know that the work being done is good, regardless of the weeds that threaten.

I want to hold on to these moments forever. Freeze them into photographs in my heart. Keep them, just as they are now.

Faces smooth from worry and sadness.

Under my roof.

Warm and safe in their beds.

A hop away from my own bed.

Running towards base: Intentional Happiness for the week of October 1, 2010

As children, when playing freeze tag or hide and seek, there was always a free zone or home base. Once you reached and touched it, no harm could come to you. Unfortunately, as adults, we don't always have a tangible base to get to when things get tough.

Last night, my night crawler, Joshua, was up to his old tricks. Prior to the nasty cough from two weeks ago that settled into his chest, Joshua was sleeping through the night in his own bed. However, when he is feeling under the weather or has a bad dream, base is right there between Mommy and Daddy.

But he is going to be 3 1/2. When he comes into bed with us, none of us get a decent night sleep. My husband and I closely resemble zombies of the scariest kind: parents with severe sleep deprivation. It also does not help that my head, face and kidneys are his personal target practice for kicking. I am sporting some fierce bruises, people.

So last night, when he came around and my husband attempted to put him in bed with us, I lost it. I sent Daddy back with Joshua, to his room and bed. It did not go well.

For close to 45 minutes, Joshua wailed and approached the bedroom door, but did not come in. It quite literally broke my heart. Finally, he was howling. I got up, and found him. His tear stained face mumbled something about having to go potty. As he went, I stood, waiting, sleeping with my eyes open.

I tucked him in bed. I went back to bed and lay awake, trying to go back to sleep. And the thought of how we each need a base when things go bad came to mind. And how I took that away from him.

And yet, this morning, he awoke with a smile on his face, eyes bright with rest. His little arms pulled me close to him, fierce in his love for me.

As I looked at each of my sons this morning, I thought of how regardless of what messes life throws at us, this is my base. This is where I long to be, with whom I want to be with, when I need everything to be right.

My mother in law got a taste of that this past week. She had what could have been a MAJOR setback. She underwent emergency surgery and when she awoke later on that morning, she was surrounded by the men she loves the most: her husband and sons. The original four. The original base. And that did wonders for her recovery as she begins anew, working towards healing, gearing up for the fight.

And where she has been our base for a LONG time, it is nice to be that for her and my father in law. Because that's what families do. We are the touchstone, the roots, the wind that carries those who cannot.

As my sons grow older and my role changes as their mother, I imagine that they will always be what I most cherish, what brings me comfort when I am sad. I suppose that the image of them I call to mind will differ as they get older. But for now, those lanky legs and arms, wide eyes and smiles are the most welcoming base that I have ever known.

(Somewhat) Finished...for now...and pictures to boot!

After a week of extreme remodeling, I am somewhat done. I have cleaned out three rooms, three respective closets full of the junk of eleven years and three children. I have had painting and a honey-do list completed with the help of a trustworthy handyman, and I have reorganized and decorated.

The only room that is completely finished is Matthew's, my oldest son. It is funny that he is back in the room that he started in almost ten years ago, bunnies not included. He wanted a more sophisticated look, I guess, along with dark green walls. Um, no to green walls, yes to no more bunnies...You be the judge regarding sophistication...

BEFORE:

AFTER:

And on a budget, not counting that I paid for the paint job. Considering what I was covering up, I think it was well worth every penny not to have done it myself.

The younger boys' room is still a work in progress. I am a stickler for keeping things as fair as possible. I had a hard time trying to find something Andrew, middle son, would like, so I kept what they had. Pretty boring, but until I can find something affordable and that we both (actually, all three of us, because Joshua needs to have some kind of say in it, no?) can live with, it will stay this plain. Still, an improvement from having bunk beds which are all kinds of wicked to have to change sheets for a 5' 1" vertically challenged person like me. Don't even get me started on what it's like to clean vomit from the top bunk, using only that little, narrow ladder. Is it pathetic that I am looking forward to changing sheets on these beds?

AFTER:

But the crown jewel is the playroom/boy cave. Andrew, in the negotiations, got to pick what was going in that room since he would still have to share a room with Joshua. There are still some old (as in fifteen year old, they are NEVER going to boot up again) carcasses computers that need to be shucked and miscellaneous slides, old 8mm movies from my childhood (fear not, these have been converted to the 21st century) that need to be stored. Here is what we came up with.

AFTER:

Next up, Mommy and Daddy's closet and the evil fashion disasters that lurk there; disasters that Stacy and Clinton from What Not To Wear would surely crucify me for and the dreaded garage.

But truly, what happiness to see my boys' faces upon their arrival home from their weeklong visit to Grandma and Granddaddy's. To hear their remarks on the items in their rooms, how I had recycled some stuff that we already had, how everything was arranged for them and their enjoyment.

And EXTREME happiness that the bulk trash is coming on Friday, people...and I am going to get my money's worth this month!

Adventures in Potty Training: Part 3

It is time. I cannot justify spending another penny on them and if I were to add up every cent I have spent on them over TEN years, I could have a closet full of Banana Republic clothes AND fabulous shoes to match.

Alas, the time has come.

Joshua has started full blown potty training.

My mother in law, God bless her heart, helped him get a jump start last week while I was still at work. And she used our dearly departed Granny's secret weapon for potty training: leaving a slight trickle of water going on the faucet and slightly closing the door. And for all you naysayers , the woman raised FIVE children in poverty and using cloth diapers (YECH!), with an incredible sense of humor. For you environmentalists, what's a little water running when I am surely responsible for at least one landfill full of disgusting, non-biodegradable diapers.

TEN years, folks.

The running water is a drop in the bucket, literally.

So, Joshua performed admirably with Pull Ups while Grandma was in the house. When Grandma evacuated the premises on Friday afternoon, Saturday was a no go.

But Sunday began a new week.

And new awareness.

I decided to be bold and trade the Pull Ups ('cause dagnabit, those suckers are EXPENSIVE, too!) and dressed Joshua in big boy briefs. And bribed with M&M's. And put him on the potty every hour, on the hour.

And he rose to the occasion.

He even pooped on the potty.  Twice!

And today was no different. When I got back from my 5:30 a.m. spinning class (yes, I am well aware that I am on summer break, however, my waistline needs my immediate attention), I got a desperately needed shower. And then, we went potty.

And he did.

He went to take his brothers to Vacation Bible School in big boy briefs with no accidents. We went to run an errand right after, no accidents. In fact, he spent the better part of today in briefs. When we went out to get Daddy's Father's Day present, he wore a Pull Up. And after a two hour trip and a short nap, the rocket was still there.

The rocket was still there in transferring him from the stroller to the car. He went potty again. And then, he said the words I had been waiting to hear.

"Mama, I need to poop in the potty."

Music to my ears, I tell you.

He sat. He pooped. Mama did a crazy version of the potty dance and song.

And Mama doled out M&M's.

M&M's for keeping the rocket on the Pull Up. For going potty. For pooping in the potty.

And my little boy?

He smiled his delicious smile.

And taught me once again to never underestimate him.

Or myself.

And somewhere, on a big, fluffy cloud, Granny is smiling down at us. Grateful she no longer has to potty train anyone.

Changes...

I have had plenty of time to think over the last few days off (from wage earning professional work versus no payment but plenty of bartering mommymommymommy work) and John and I have been discussing changes around the house.

Okay, I have been talking, John has been nodding in agreement. He is a wise man who will not disagree unless someone's life is in danger, it is going to cost a ton of money, or he is going to be required to exert superhuman strength in completing the task.

Our problem at hand is that we have three children. Giggle if you must, but it presents a myriad of issues when trying to house said children and their stuff in our humble abode. In my thinking, it is easier to throw out stuff and rearrange the home we currently have than to try to sell it, pack up all our stuff and try to find something within our price range. Also, did I mention that I have 8 years left on my mortgage. Yeah, I ain't moving.

Luckily, we have enough rooms for each of the boys to have their own room. I am against it. My sister and I shared a room, and although there were times when we fought like cats and dogs, there was something very comforting about being able to talk with someone until you drifted to sleep. The boys have shared a room since it was feasible to do so. Joshua joined them almost two years ago, and it is sweet to hear them talk to each other. However, I cannot squeeze three twin sized beds into that room. The bunk beds have been useful, but there is no way on Earth I will be able to put another bed in there.

So, after much thought and deliberation, I decided that Matthew will get to have his own room, and Andrew and Joshua will share the room they all sleep in now. Before you start to complain about Andrew getting the short end of the stick, he will be providing creative input to his room AND the boy cave(AKA playroom) that John and I will create for them. Pretty sweet deal for the two older ones, no? Too bad for Joshua. If he wanted input, he needs to potty in the toilet. Consistently.

My relaxing weekend was spent arranging and rearranging furniture in my head, budgeting the amount of money I am willing to spend on all three rooms, and lugging children to the Mecca of cheap furniture: IKEA. Because I am pretty much a miser when I know whatever I bring home will be trashed by the termites disguised as the children I birthed.

The most interesting thing about this whole thing has been the reaction of my two older boys. They were both pretty much in awe that I was willing to split them, although I am not happy about it. Andrew was so excited to have a say in the whole affair and not to have had to whine to get the opportunity to say what he thinks. Matthew feels like a big boy in that he will have his own space.

But the most surprising change is within me. That I am willing to go out on this limb which makes me so uncomfortable.

After reading all those Five for Ten entries on Yes, I have a newfound respect for it. For how it makes me feel. For the joy it brings my boys. For the empowerment it brings to all involved: those who say it, those it affects.

There are so many times that I say no; out of habit or fear. Matthew will turn 10 this fall. He really wanted a cell phone. He really wanted an iTouch. Not happening.

But this unsolicited yes has brought empowerment.

For Matthew, it will mean having his own space that he gets to decorate (with EXTENSIVE help from the resident interior designer, Mom). It will become his haven. Everyone needs one of those. It was a compromise that we both could live with, even though he had no idea that this would be my counter-offer to his electronic dreams.

For Andrew, he will get to decide and be listened to . He will also become the older brother in a room. He will be able to see his ideas come to fruition. Everyone needs to see that when they are young. Although it is unsettling to him to get the top bunk, it will be something to prove to himself. The reward will be to enjoy moving up the ladder, and enjoying the shared space he will help create for himself and his brothers.

For Joshua, although he is too young, he will learn that everyone in this house has a voice worth listening to. As he gets older, he will internalize how each member of this family has the responsibility to listen to others and value the opinions of others. He will learn the art of compromise.

For me, it means letting go of the nursery that my sister so lovingly decorated for my first born son.

 

(Middle Nutbrown Hare shown here, circa 2004)

It is time to see Little Nutbrown Hare go.

Because Big Nutbrown Hare is on his way...

And the change is good.

Are you my mother?

It has been a LONG week. It has been an even longer month. One without breaks, one that began with a sick toddler and included many, MANY nights of an uninvited three year old making his way into our bed. A snoring toddler who likes to kick the crap out of everyone in said bed.

We are on the threshold of a nice, long Memorial Day weekend. I cannot wait. I do not have any plans, but really, I don't require any. All I long for is just ONE full time job that does not require lesson plans, grading or end of year procedures. And I don't care if there is no retirement plan for this particular full time job.

That being said, the past two nights have brought full nights (and I use that term loosely, as full night these days means 5 hours of sleep instead of the standard 8) of sleep. My sister, God bless her, let me borrow her cool mist vaporizer, that, much like Mr. Sandman, has brought me rest, and sleep for my precious little boy. No snoring. No waking up in the middle of the night. No visits.

But more than that, it has brought back my cheerful three year old. Joshua, with no sleep, is less bearable than a full on lobotomy; anesthesia, optional. He has been argumentative, on a hunger strike, unable to rest, and therefore, an evil troll. But, after two nights of sleep, he is back to being himself.

Which is a good thing.

Because I was considering my options.

This evening, after a full day of work, a faculty meeting, a visit to my mother's former condominium, (which my sister and I like to refer to as the money pit), errands, a pharmacy run, dinner and baths, everyone was ready for bed. Matthew was up completing homework. Andrew lay in bed, whining about the noise the vaporizer makes and reading, and Joshua came out to get me.

"I reads to you, momma," he declared as he grabbed my hand. He led me to his bedroom.

"You are going to read to me?" I asked.

"Yes," he exclaimed as he climbed into his tiny toddler bed, and he opened his book.

And he began. "A little egg jumped and jumped and jumped and jumped..."

Are You My Mother? by P.D. Eastman.

And with the quiet roar of the pounding rain as it hit my roof, I sat cross-legged on the floor, next to his bed, my head resting on the bed rail, enthralled. I sat listening to the sweetest little voice in the world, as he "read" his book, with intonation, with pride.

He has undoubtedly heard his teacher read it to the class countless times. He obviously loves it.

I, myself, have read that book hundreds of times, to hundreds of children over a 16 year teaching career. I have heard it read back to me just as many times.

But no other time came close to this.

My baby boy, the youngest of my brood, is growing up.

I sat and listened, with my ears, with my heart.

And my heart was happy.

And I prayed for another restful night for all of us.

So that I can be his mother. And I can be a mother to his brothers...

Here's to a rainy night's sleep.

And I wish the same for all of you...

Lust for Life (...after diapers)

Momalom's Five for Ten: Lust

One of my favorite commercials of all time was one from the Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines where Iggy Pop's Lust for Life blared. It was the perfect soundtrack for all the adventurous activities you could do onboard the ship and on the excursions.

There are people who have an affinity for the finer things in life; travel, gourmet cuisine, finely aged wines, art, music.

I am a WHOLE lot simpler. I have three children. I don't have time for fancy this or that. I often times forget what it was that I was going to do, going from one end of the house to the other. In my case, it is all simpler, except for one tiny, little detail.

My three year old is still in diapers.

I am ashamed to admit this.

When I had my youngest son, I had big dreams relating to potty-training. (Wow, that just might be the saddest sentence I have ever written.) I thought that this child would be the easiest to potty train, having two older brothers with the same kind of plumbing.

But alas, my older sons had different ideas. And in particular, one from The Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

For those of you not familiar with the story line, Greg is the middle child, getting ready to begin middle school. He has a younger brother who, in the midst of potty training, is told that there is a potty monster. Needless to say, the toddler will not go on the porcelain king, and mom is pretty upset.

So is this mom.

I discovered this debauchery when I took my boys to see the movie. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh, because they saw the opportunity and took it; cry, because they saw the opportunity and took it.

Looking at the bright side, they learned to do something from a book, right?

But, on to reality. I have spent a small fortune on diapers and wipes. A small fortune I could have spent on the finer things in life, not poop.

I have purchased diapers for eight out of the last ten years, people. I am done.

There is a life I lust after. Not one that is fancy or complicated. It is very simple wish.

I lust for a life that requires no diaper bags, no refilling the wipes box, no Butt Paste.

I lust for a life where everyone wipes their own ass.

It will mean freedom for me. Of not being tied down to a baby. Of having three independent boys. Of life progressing, evolving.

It will mean that my youngest son will be nearing school age, and we will leave the preschool he attends now, where I send a hefty tuition check the first of every month.

It will mean not having to drive back home if I have forgotten the diaper bag, or harassing the older boys into carrying it to the car, out of the car, into the house, out of the house. It will mean one less thing to have to remember.

It will mean more stops on road trips, accidents while we are out, accidents while we are at home, accidents while we sleep.

And while I cannot wait to unburden myself and Joshua of chasing after him, getting all thirty pounds of him on the changing table and getting down to business, I know I will miss it, just a little.

Because it will mean that I no longer have a baby.

It will mean that I have raised another human being to some sort of independence, regardless of how basic that independence is.

I am starting to see the glimpses of this new and improved Joshua. Last night, he went pee in the potty. Mama did the potty jig and sang the happy Mama song for a good twenty minutes.

Lady Luck was at my house this morning too. He went potty again. Another round of dancing and singing.

But more than that, I saw my littlest boy proud of himself. He was so happy that he did it. He kept telling me he is a big boy. And, he is.

No fear of a potty monster.

And that was good.

Like anything in life, those things that are the most worthwhile never come easy. Not love, not good friendships, not parenting.

Especially not parenting.

But, if you encounter the difficult but worthwhile with a lust for life, then the whole journey is a little more enjoyable, even more worthwhile.

Even in the adventures of potty training.

And especially if you have a particularly good soundtrack playing in the background, even if it's only in your head...

(My version of) TGIF, Happy Hour!

The week has ended, thank goodness. Between a mountain of paperwork, papers to be graded, students drama, the field trip and my motherly responsibilities, I was really looking forward to this afternoon. This afternoon, when I would peel out of the teacher's parking lot, without a care in the world, if you don't count my three children, my spouse and the mountain of laundry that awaits.

But I have a confession to make. I was a bad mommy earlier this week.

In one of his many early morning rendezvous', Joshua awoke on Tuesday with crusty eyes. Only one explanation for this phenomenon: pink eye. Pink eye in schools is the modern day equivalent of the plague in the Middle Ages. No one wants a child that you even have a suspicion of pink eye. So, the drama started early that morning.

Me: I think Joshua has pink eye.

John: What are you talking about? He looks fine. (I think I detected recognition and a quick turn to denial.)

Me: I can't stay home. I have....(here is where I delineated all the things that would surely cause the school, if not the entire school district, to shut down for the day if I failed to show up.)

And this is where we proceeded to play the grown up version of Rocks, Paper, Scissors. I won. There were negotiations and compromises to be made. In the end, we had a plan. In the mean time, I had old eye drops.

I know many of you are wondering how I could diagnose and prescribe without an actual medical degree. If you have more than one child, you can skip to the next paragraph. You know what golden nugget of information I am going to pass on to the newbie's. If you don't, I will only tell you that the fear of going into a pediatrician's office is a magical thing. You will do just about anything not to have to go to the doctor's office, where, inevitably and without fail, you will pick something else up. That will cause yet ANOTHER visit, and so it goes. That is the real reason doctor's offices are always packed with miserable, sick children and even more miserable and broke parents.

I had been to the pediatrician's office on Saturday, for a well visit. My stomach trembled with fear. My husband scoffed at the idea that you could actually pick up something while you were there for a well visit. If you are keeping count: Mommy: 2, Daddy: 0.

So, yes. I had some drops from December. They were not expired. And I most surely opened up my son's eyes, and I put those drops in and marched my body to work. And for a couple of days, my medical band aid worked.

Until this morning.

Yesterday, Joshua had a runny nose when I picked him up from school. As my children seem to have inherited every unattractive trait that has been carried through in a recessive gene for centuries in my family, I naturally attributed this new malady to allergies.

This morning, in his nocturnal travels, Joshua came into our room, carrying his blanket and an accompanying cough. Again, no problem, I thought. He has post nasal drip. (Who needs an MD from Johns Hopkins, right?).

But the time of reckoning was at hand.

In all my years teaching and mothering, I have never seen a fit to the degree, magnitude or length that all of a sudden came upon my child. After assuring myself, and my husband, that there was nothing actually wrong with him, like a fever, I left for work.

And I prayed.

This afternoon, after a thorough ass-kicking, courtesy of long division with remainders, I got a call from school. Joshua apparently had coughed his way through naptime and was running a low grade fever. I felt slightly ashamed of myself, and didn't know whether to be happy or sad that the phone call had come at the end of the day.

I finally caved and called the pediatrician's office. It seemed that my TGIF Happy Hour was going to be spent in parental hell AKA the sick waiting room at the pediatrician's office. The ensuing phone call did little to quell my feelings of guilt.

How long has he had the symptoms?

You mean, the ones I passed off as pink eye or the ones that made the school call me today?

Fortunately, the doctor understood and seemed impressed with my mad diagnosing skills. He prescribed more potent drops (I hope they don't melt his eyeballs), antibiotics and a cough medicine with albuterol for the "slight" wheezing he could hear in Josh's lungs.

Way to go, Dr. Mom!

And for those of you who are not familiar with albuterol, it is the toddler version of crack. It makes kids super agitated. It is so potent, our local national pharmacy will not dispense it.

So yeah, not only did I have to go to the pediatrician's office, I now had to go to the corner family owned crack house, I mean pharmacy, to get the goods. Did I also mention that every imaginable waste of money toy is stocked right under the counter where you leave your prescription and wait for your stuff?

Good times. Know what the pharmacist's advice was as I was leaving with the cough medicine (and an overpriced junky toy for each child, Catholic guilt ups the score for the kids...)? "Don't give it to him right before bedtime. It might rile him up."

Thanks Dr. G! Daddy: 0, Mommy: 3, Kids: 1,000,000!

On the bright side, the kids were incredibly well behaved at the doctor's office AND the pharmacy. I also went to the local national pharmacy to leave off the other prescriptions (really, just because I had to get my stuff didn't mean I was going to leave everything AND get gauged!) and I even got to go to the fancy gourmet market without nary a fight between the children.

I know Joshua will be okay. He will bounce back just fine. The older boys will continue to be amazed that they scored overpriced pharmacy toys WITHOUT EVEN ASKING FOR THEM! Daddy will thank his lucky stars that he was spared the fate of the pediatrician's office on a late Friday afternoon.

And Mommy?

Mommy really wants to be looking at her second, EMPTY Cosmopolitan glass...

Not on this Friday night, though...

Letting them out of the cage...

Today was our class field trip. While this made sound like a fabulous idea; letting children go out of school for a day to learn about different topics and have fun with each other, I assure you that planning or surviving the field trip is no fun if you are the teacher.

When I taught Kindergarten (goodness, that sounds like I was in a Vietnamese prison camp!), I LOATHED field trips. There were several reasons for this, but I will be succinct.

First, the kids always assumed that the rules only applied only to the four walls that made our classroom and school. WRONG. They also assumed that if their mom, dad, grandmother, Jesus Christ was in their midst, the rules would not apply. WRONG.

Then, there was the whole logistics of the field trip. Would they be contained, say, in a children's theatre, glued to their sit for an hour or so, or would we be at Metro Zoo (hell on Earth, I assure you) running after children who were also wearing our school colors.

Worst of all are the bus rides to and from the field trip. When I was pregnant with Matthew, I sat in the back of a school bus early on in my second trimester. In a flash of what would come during labor, I thought I was going to die. The bus driver had obviously bought their license at Kmart, was trying to outrun every other car on the road, had no fear of taking sharp turns on curved, elevated highways in a school bus, and surely had never had the shock absorbers in the back of the twenty five year old bus replaced...How Matthew stayed in my uterus and did not drop out in a pothole hit is definitely an act of God.

But truly, while this may seem bad, it is not the worst part of field trips. The worst is parents acting badly. I am sure you have witnessed this at school functions. The mother who will not sit down while taking pictures of precious Susie, even after the preschool director is ready to tackle her in the Church aisle. Or the parent that brings chocolate covered peanuts for a treat, when the teacher has begged to keep all peanut products out of the thirty mile radius of her classroom because of Johnny's anaphylaxis reaction and the location of that handy Epi-pen. Parents behaving badly on field trips is bad news. It is a power struggle and one that parents in my class have never won.

But you understand why the kids act like they do. You gain perspective, but not in a fun way.

That being said, today's field trip went very smooth. Except that it might have been nice to have an extra bus so that my class would not have been split up. The movie, Disney's Oceans, was phenomenal. However, it would have been nice to have skipped the running commentary of the two nine years olds from another class had sitting behind me.

Lunch was at a local park. The kids brought towels and their lunches and it was great to see them interact with one another, free of the restrictions of the classroom and school. The parent that went with us was super. Secret strategy: I was lucky enough to pull the name of a parent who is a teacher! SCORE!

As I watched my kids play and talk, I was surprised at how fast the school year seems to have gone by. In a few weeks, I will be dismissing these children for the last time. They are confident, happy, intelligent children. I will miss them.

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After school, Matt and Andrew had Chess practice. They are very into Chess and compete for the school (I know, my kids are weird, but then again, so are their parents). I had a friend's daughters with me. I am currently the teacher for the younger one, I had the older one last year. We went to pick up Joshua at school and he looked at me, puzzled, as I walked up to the front entrance and he stood in the playground.

Usually, when I go to pick up Joshua, he comes running with arms flung open, ready to give me a hug and a kiss. Today, he ran under a piece of playground equipment and would not get out. He kept muttering, " I want my brothers, I want my brothers" as he glanced at the girls.

I was confused. I thought he would get a kick of being fawned over by the girls and get a chance to perfect his ladies' man routine.

And then, it hit me.

In his young little mind, he must have thought that Matt and Andrew's day must have been REALLY bad.

Because they had turned into girls.

I tried so hard to not laugh all the way back to the school to pick the boys up. I still had the girls with me. They were cooing and giggling at how cute he was.

But he did not truly smile until he saw his two older brothers, got to hug them, and he saw that there had been no evil, mistaken transformation.

And then, the ladies' man was in full swing!

Four simple things

It doesn't take much to make me happy. The simplest, most spontaneous actions are the ones that make my soul resonate with happiness.

Here are today's samplings:

Andrew slipped his hand into mine when I picked him up from aftercare, as he happily jabbered about his day.

Joshua quietly slipped his hand in mine as we went into a store, just he and I.

Matthew leaned his head against my shoulder, as we stood alone in the garage, while we waited for his father to come and take him to his tennis lesson.

Daddy walked into the door this evening with a smile on his face.

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All too often, we are waiting for the big, elaborate gesture that leaves you feeling kind of empty after all is said and done.

Every once and a while, I like the big brouhaha. 

My ego needs the fuss and frills.

But mostly, I like the smorgasbord of daily life.

And today's feast was good.

After the loving...

After the thrill of Joshua's birthday, there was today; a kind of rest between birthday celebrations in our house.

Andrew will turn 7 tomorrow, and will receive his own birthday post, thank you very much.

But after all that loving yesterday, we had a cranky "fwee" year old today. No shirt met approval, not breakfast choice was satisfactory, and the shininess of three began to very quickly fade this morning. Too much excitement and cake does not make a happy child.

But last night, after everyone was corralled to bed, Joshua came out, in his hand me down pajamas, and laid out on the couch. I quickly went to get a shower myself and get my pajamas on so that I could snuggle with him on the couch.

By the time I got out, he was sound asleep, those beautiful lashes to perfectly curled on those luscious cheeks that are slightly tanned from the sun's brief appearance during our Beach weekend. My heart melted.

This mother held her so big baby boy last night. She tried to accommodate that changing toddler body, with long, strong, sprouting legs and arms, and nestled that sweet head on her chest. Feeling the warmth of his body as she held him tight; knowing that soon, the quickly changing physical attributes of this child will make this very act impossible.

After the loving of a birthday, there is the everyday. The everyday holds its own gifts; the gift of the extraordinary ordinary. It is better than the birthday cake bloat and hangover. It is better than all the birthday gifts that your child can physically open.

It is better because it is 364 days of the best loving there is...the everyday, worm your way into your heart and soul, take your breath away loving...

And there is NOTHING better than that.

The day our family was made complete...

Today, my youngest little love turns three. I cannot imagine that so much time has passed. I am so relieved that we have broken the two year curse of bad stuff on his birthday. I am overjoyed at his very existence.

The truly amazing thing to me is that Matthew was not even this age when Andrew was born. And now, my youngest is truly awake to the world around him; able to verbalize his likes and dislikes, his excitement and his experiences. He is truly awe inspiring.

Joshua was born on Good Friday. I spent the day in labor and cleaning out the boys' closet. I did not bother to call the doctor until I had a good 4 hours of labor under my belt. I was scheduled for my cesarean on the following Wednesday, but he would not wait. Perhaps he sensed that Mama was over being pregnant for the third time and was so anxious to meet him. After a shower for myself , Hubby and the two older boys, we were off to the hospital, ready to rock and roll. I was ready for everything, except the spinal...not so much fun. But the moment I saw him over the blue surgical sheet, I fell in love, hard. And apparently, so did he. His little hand held on to that blue surgical sheet as the doctor held him up for us to behold and my beloved OB/GYN almost dropped him back inside the womb!

As for the yearly curse on his birthday, it started on his first birthday. He got the chicken pox. He was COVERED! My niece was just a few weeks old. He was quarantined. Then Matthew got them. And I prayed to the heavens and all the saints that I would be spared Andrew's contraction of the pox. Blessedly, God took pity on me and decided two with the pox was enough for one mother.

Last year, he fell on his front teeth three days before his second birthday at the barber shop and ended up in the emergency room. My sister's second baby shower was the following day. We were leaving for Disney the day after that. We ended up searching for a pediatric dentist, getting an emergency appointment for x-rays and then heading for Disney, all on his birthday.

With our track record, I was more than a little nervous this year. A few weeks ago, I had every intention of wrapping him up in bubble wrap for the next week until his birthday passed. I said many a little prayer and held my breath. All day today, I have glanced at my cell phone, wondering when the phone call from school would come. Again, we lucked out. After I picked him up from school, we went to the supermarket and picked out the cutest birthday cake ever, a little frog, ready to pounce on good times.

You see, for someone like me, these three boys are walking miracles. And Joshua, the greatest miracle of all. No fertility drugs to conceive him. No neurological disorders in spite of delayed gross motor skill development. No speech issues despite a lapse in speech development due to improvement in gross motor skill development. No brain tumor in spite of numerous photographs clearly showing white spots in his eyes.

Three years and many prayers answered later, I feel as though I can exhale just a bit. I understand how precious life is, what a gift to behold each day is. This gift is not wasted on me.

Three years ago tonight, our family was made complete. I am grateful that my son was born into our family, that he helped complete this labor of love his father and I started. Because, I cannot imagine what our lives would be like if not for him; his joyous, infectious smile and laughter, his running commentary, those big, expressive hazel eyes that could melt the polar caps.

To my Joshua, you are a beautiful reminder of God's love. You have made me look inside myself to become the mother you deserve to have. I love you with all my heart.

Would you like Whine with that?

At my house, whine is something that it served up on a daily basis, and there is no need to wait until Happy Hour, because it never comes...

My children are never without Whine. Whine appears at daybreak, with complaints of waking up too early, of not having anything good to eat for breakfast (code for: why can't we eat a pound of bacon and chocolate chip pancakes with chocolate syrup and whipped cream?), of having to share the bathroom sink, of not finding the water bottle...

Miraculously, Whine disappears at school. Regardless of what is expected of them or assigned for class work, there are no complaints. Why is that the minute we start walking to the car, Whine picks up like a paused movie. It is usually accompanied by its constant companions, Jab and Poke. Jab and Poke are not allowed on the school property, so they hang out in the car all day plotting new games to play while I am driving in congested traffic.

Jab and Poke have taken up a permanent residence in our home. They are constantly on the prowl, and it is nearly impossible to determine who came first, Whine or Jab and Poke. They especially like to come and play at quiet places, like the doctor's office, restaurants and any time I am on the phone on serious grown up business, like fighting with the insurance company.

It used to be that Andrew was the resident interpreter for Whine. Being the middle child, I am sure that it is his God-given right to complain about every blessed thing. Joshua is now very fluent in Whine as well. I know, he is so young, but Andrew has taught him well.

But you know what? I. CAN'T. STAND. IT. ANYMORE. It's all the time, without rhyme or reason, and frankly, Whine needs to move the hell out and find another family in the Exchange Program for Parenting Hell.

Matthew is the keeper of Jab and Poke. These three have become fast friends and are not afraid to prey on Andrew, who will immediately resort to invoking Whine at increasingly higher decibels, depending on how present Jab and Poke are at that particular moment.

Then, the Ghost of Not-Me (of Family Circus cartoon strip fame) claims all responsibility. Wherever Whine and Jab and Poke appear, Not Me is sure to follow. Not Me likes to switch sides fairly often, which makes it incredibly difficult to corner Whine, Jab and Poke. Not Me is by far the worst of The Fab Four, as I like to think of them, and truly needs to move on as well.

Now, I understand that my children are finding their voices. That Whine, Jab, Poke and Not Me appear where they feel safe and secure (although, really, if they knew the visceral reaction I have to The Fab Four they would not come around anymore!) and I should feel as though I am doing something right, because my children invite The Fab Four to come hang out at the house.

But I have a pretty good hunch that the psychologist and behavioral specialists who wrote those theories didn't have these troublemakers as permanent residents in their own homes. And I really am beginning to think that these four have been responsible for many a mother just going off the deep end and ending up in a padded room, quietly whispering to herself for the rest of her life.

So, I guess I have to lay some ground rules here. I can be glad that my home is such an inviting place that The Fab Four have decided to stick around for a while. I guess that it is to be expected, given the amount of testosterone that exudes from my home.

But The Fab Four need to settle down. I can accept that they are going to squat for a while, but they gotta play by my rules. They can only come out to play when we are home, and they need to stay away from the dinner table, no exceptions. When I am doing official grown up stuff, they need to keep a lid on it. NO INTERACTIONS IN THE CAR WHATSOEVER. Just a couple of rules to keep things on the up and up.

But I guess that what really has me so upset is the reality that these four are really here to stay for a while. They had made sporadic appearances for the last couple of years, but nothing really permanent. And now, here they are, a fixture that is truly an eyesore. And a headache.

And another thing. Didn't their mothers teach them any manners? Don't they know that you always bring the hostess a bottle of wine as a gift? Maybe then, after a glass or two of a nice Merlot, The Fab Four and I can become friendly, you think?

A wonderful start to the day…

Olympics be damned, I stayed up until after midnight to watch the women’s ice skating competitions before finally turning in. Exhausted, I lay awake before drifting off into sweet slumber.

At 2 a.m., I awoke and went to see where my dear hubby had collapsed from exhaustion and beckoned him to bed.

At 3:30 a.m., we had an uninvited visitor roam into our room and take a spot between us. The smallest of the bear cubs was surprisingly not in a snuggling kind of mood.

He thrashed and uncovered, twisted and turned. He removed my arm from around his warm little body and I retreated, defeated that my youngest child just wanted a warm bed.

And then, drunk from sleep, he grabbed my arm again. And enveloped himself within the curve of my body. We were nestled like those Russian dolls that I so loved when I was a little girl.

And for the briefest of moments, I thought back to when this child was completely enveloped by my body. Protected, fed, held so close for so long. I remembered how his little fingers and toes would delicately tickle my belly from the inside. I remember the yearning to meet this little person and discover who he was...

This morning, in the wee hours, I felt the warmth of his little body and his need to still be the baby, to still find welcoming arms on a cold night, after a bad dream or loneliness.

When we awoke this morning, my husband and I lovingly gazed our youngest treasure. He lay asleep, his dark long lashes curled on his slightly pink cherub cheeks. I thanked the heavens above for this most perfect gift...and my heart melted as it so often does when I look upon my three sons...

And I wondered, how did this perfect angel come upon us? How have we, in our infinite imperfections, been charged to raise this child, among his precious brothers? How can we become the people he believes us to be already?

And that is my goal for today; to be the person my almost three year old son thinks I already am...