To My Third On His Second

Dear “Little” Wee-man,

On this day two years ago, you came into this world and stole my heart with your pink chubby cheeks and crystal blue eyes. 

I took one look at you and knew you were going to complete our life and our family.  I beam with pride at your growth and progress, and yet I feel a twinge of sadness, because I know with each passing birthday the small baby years for me as a mother come closer to an end.  Oh yes, there will be more years of childish play and boyish laughter that will fill the rooms of our home, and I will cherish every one, but I say goodbye to the tiny boy of yesterday.  As a mom, this is a rite of passage I cannot skip, rewind or replay, and that hurts a little. 

There are so many things I want for you in this world.  And so many things you will miss out on, too.  Like the way your Mema would have bounced you on her knee while singing some little tune, laughing all the while.  The way your Baba would have taught you to pick a guitar or tune an old violin.  The way your Grannie would have sat you right up on her kitchen counter while she baked and baked all day, letting you “help” by licking every bowl clean and telling you in between each one, “I love you, little boy.” 

These are things I wish I could grant you, because these are people that loved you without even knowing you.  They loved you because they loved me, and they knew that someday I would have children of my own and pass on to them the same love and family memories they bestowed on me.  I miss them every day.

But, here is what you will know, my love.  You will know that your Grandma had a dream about you before you were even a glint in my eye, and that when she told me I was going to have a third boy and that he would be named what you are, it was prophecy.  You will know that she was in the room when you were born, and she cried while I cried.  You will know that your father shed tears too, and he did so both out of happiness and because his own mother could not witness such a miracle nor hold you in her arms.  You will know that your big brother loves and protects you and thinks you are amazing. 

You will know that your Aunt Memmie loves you as her own and would risk everything for your well-being.  You will know that your Aunt Lala beams from ear to ear when you run to her with true love and joy on your face.  You will know that your Grandpa and Grandma Pete think you hung the moon and stars and that they would drive across Texas for you in a split second.  And mostly, you will know that you were an absolute blessing and surprise to a mother and father who didn’t think they would have a third little soul to share life with.

But here you are, and I love you.  Thank you for filling my heart and our home with your beautiful presence for as long as I have you as my own.  Someday you will go on to do wonderful things and the ties that bind us will stretch a little, but I know I will always have the memories of today, yesterday, last month, last year.  The ones of a chubby little boy with an outstretched hand and an angelic laugh that is music to my ears, ready to conquer whatever awaits us.  I will hold your hand and I will walk with you however long you let me.

 Happy Birthday, Wee-man. 

I Love you,
Mom



Sunday Night Smile

What a great weekend.  Do you ever go to bed on Sunday night with a smile still lingering on your face from the soul-nourishing events of the past 48 hours?  I love it when one of those weekends sneaks up on you.  It usually takes me by complete surprise, because it's often the days when I don't have all that much planned for us in the way of memory-making.

Today was amazing - I got to recharge my batteries with some fabulous college friends that I can always count on to make me laugh.  The mojitos and margaritas flowed, the stories turned heads at other tables (oops, guess we shouldn't talk about waxing at brunch), mascara was smeared (in a good way) and I enhaled some majorly delicious spinach-cheese enchiladas.  Afterwards I walked over to Starbucks to get my usual and it was perfectly concocted.  I went home refueled.  Sometimes a mama just needs that.

I also got a major case of the giggles Saturday night - I experienced something I never have before, which was accompanying five boys ages 6-7 (along with the birthday boy's parents) to the movies.  We went to see the new Harry Potter flick.  When you get this many little men together for a birthday party, I quickly figured out it can get pretty crazy.  Living with three monkeys of course leaves me fairly comfortable with the crazy factor, but holy cow.  You get five of them the same age and comparable mental/physical capacity, and you have The View on a sugar high meets Gladiator with nerf guns.  If somone wasn't talking or yelling, they were hitting or punching.  I was constantly trying to figure out where to look and who to listen to.

The five of them sat in the row in front of the three of us, and I'm sure everyone thought it was either a) hilarious or b) annoying that we kept having to lean over to tell someone to be quiet, tell another to keep their hands to themselves, or, in one case, settle an argument over whether a snake in the movie was a king cobra or anaconda.

The ride home was just as entertaining.  The five of them sat in the back while my friend drove, and we heard the following conversation topics for 25 minutes:

"Who cut the cheese?"
"OMG, you cut the cheese!"
"Drop it down low, low, low - EVERYBODY dance!"
"Who farted during the movie?  Oh wait, we can't say the F word."
"You wanna hear the entire list of who I'm inviting to my birthday party in a few months?"
"Blah Blah and Blah Blah sittin in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g"
"Guess who cut the cheese?"

Bathroom humor ranks up there as, oh, I'd say number one in their book. 

I won't give anything away, but the movie was a little darker and edgier than the last few - this has been the trend with HP all along.  I was worried something about it might bother Gman, but he didn't seem fazed by any of the scary parts, which is his usual take on stuff he knows is fake.  BUT (and without divulging too much), there is a quick love scene that alludes to nudity without showing any vital body parts.  Nobody mentioned it though, so I assumed it had totally subsided to a subconscious level.

Yeah right.  That would be way too easy.

This evening I walk in Gman's room to tuck him in and say goodnight, and he is madly thumbing through pages in the last book of the HP series. 

I said,"Hey, what are you doing there sport?" 

He turned around and said, "Well, I'm trying to find that part where they're naked.  I know it's got to be in here somewhere.  What stinks is that I can't read most of these words, so I'm gonna need you to look it up and read it to me." 

So much for my assumption.  Luckily he can't read most of HP because it's about 4th grade level minimum, and he's not there yet.  I took the book and did a quick flip through and said, "Well, whaddya know, that part's not actually in the book."

Sue me for the little white lie.  I have no idea if that part is in there or not, but if it is, I have another few years before he figures it out.....I hope.  

Goodnight, friends.  Mama's going to bed with a smile on her face.

Faith, Love and a Dash of Fate

April showers will bring.....a baby girl.    

I just found out that my fifth tour in the Adventures of Auntie-hood will bring only the second girl to a family of nine cousins.  My mom and K-dad have nine grandkids total, and the current boy to girl ratio is 8:1.  You can imagine the rambunctiousness at family gatherings.  My sweet little niece, who is about to turn four, is the absolute epitome of everything the boys are not.  She loves shoes, jewelry, ballerina tutus and glitzy hand bags.  Not to mention she is as quiet as a mouse.  I have to routinely check to see that she's still breathing over in the corner while the boys run circles around her.  I think the noise level and aggressiveness just consume and overwhelm her for the most part.  I am thrilled that a new little being will be joining her side of the turf.  8:2 is still outnumbered, but hey, it's something.  And finally, I can buy cute frilly things on the pink-hued side of the baby universe once more.  This new girl will feel the love, that’s for sure.

On a related note, I've been stewing on this whole boy/girl ratio thing for the past few days, ever since my co-worker told me they are adopting a child from a third-world country.  As if that's not noble enough, this man is bringing a fourth (yes, 4th) daughter into his life to raise.  He and his wife already have three girls of their own - ages 7, 4 and 1.  He said he couldn't imagine having anything other than another girl and that they had prayed about this for a long time and simply felt the calling.  I was just floored and astounded.  This is a man who loves hunting, sports and grew up in a house with all boys.  He plays fantasy football and cooks on the grill and is an avid outdoorsman.  And yet he feels space – no, make that the need - in his heart for another little girl.  Living a life far different from our own, there is a pregnant mother in a pitiful shack or hut right this second who has heard the whisperings of an answered prayer for her unborn child.  I had to suppress tears when he told me the news.

After it sank in I thought, how appropriate, really, their choice of another girl.  To be honest, I have considered the possibility of someday bringing a fourth child into our home, but it would be several years down the road and only if I thought we could handle the tremendous emotional and financial responsibility.  In my conscious thoughts, I have always envisioned a baby girl, because that is what circumstance and genetics did not give us.  When I heard the surprising news that I was expecting my third child, everyone assured me it would be a girl, because what would be the odds of having another boy?  Well, actually they were pretty good.  Turns out if you have two children of the same sex, the percentage of having a third child of the same sex is no longer 50/50 – it’s more like 56/44.  Now, that isn’t a huge jump, but obviously it made it less likely we would be buying anything pink.

But this brings me to my next point.  Maybe some of us are destined to be parents to just boys or just girls.  Maybe what I need to consider, should we ever decide to adopt, is a fourth boy.  It’s what I know.  It’s what I love.  It’s what fate decided I should have.  And, to be honest, a girl would have to possess a lot of moxie to survive our rough and tumble household.  It may sound cliché, but I am one of the many who believe things happen for a reason.  I think there is a greater purpose and calling for most of us; it’s just a matter of figuring out what that is.

My friend discovered his in the eyes of a mother in need, one that conveyed to him the hopes and dreams for a baby who would otherwise be chained to a life of hardship and despair, or possibly even no life at all.  And he answered.  His answer was the one that no one would have guessed, but it was the one that made the most sense.  His choice made it clear that we should appreciate what we’ve already been given.  That we should rejoice in the gifts that are right here, right now, and to put to rest any doubts about what we might be missing out on.  Their family doesn’t need a baby boy to be complete any more than mine needs a baby girl.  I have three amazing, healthy boys with which to share life, and should I feel the calling of a child in need, fate will decide which one speaks to me. 

In the meantime, I am going to be one awesome aunt.  Patent Mary Janes and pink striped stockings await you, little one.

Something's Kinda Fishy

I recently picked up this book at Barnes & Noble called Lies You Learned at School by Michael Powell for the bargain price of $7.  It turns out a bunch of stuff I thought was true really isn't.  For example, Napoleon wasn't actually French-born, George Washington didn't really chop down his father's apple tree, and it turns out that the Great Barrier Reef isn't even the world's largest living organism.  There are about 80 common myths debunked in this little book, and I just thought it was interesting.  

One small entry I overlooked but then revisited after an event in our house this week: 

Lie:  Goldfish have three-second memories.

Truth:  Scientists have proven that fish have quite sophisticated behavior patterns and can remember for up to 2.5 million times longer than previously believed - instead of three seconds, think three months.

Hmm.

We have a fish in our house - not a goldfish - but a very beautiful Betta named Phinneas.  Get it?  FIN-ee-us.  Because he has fins.  Genius, I know.

Anyway, we have to put the bowl that Phinneas calls home up very high, because of previous incidents involving goldfish in our house.  I'll spare you all the gory details, but let's just say that after spending $50 on a pirate ship tank, treasure chest home, cool plastic plants, fish food and two goldfish named Bob and Joe, there was a very nice ceremony involving tears and a porcelain flush just two days post-purchase.  We also had a very valuable (I thought) lesson on how fish don't like to be petted or squeezed, and although they swim, they don't like to do cannonballs back into the tank. 

Apparently this talk went down the pipes when the poor fish did, because if Phinneas is not guarded by the two tall(er) people in this house, he would be subject to the same demise that Bob and Joe were, bless their souls.

So, here is what happened the other day.  B-man (who is a very intelligent and fairly creative three-year-old) waited until Dad was momentarily out of the room, and proceeded to pull a chair over to where Phinneas's fish bowl sits.  Now, B-man often complains that we don't give him enough cookies, candy or chocolate milk, so I'm guessing that he assumed Phinneas is probably just as deprived and in need of a personal culinary savior.

I post Exhibit A below - on the left side is the normal amount of food Phinneas is supposed to consume in one day - three or four pellets.  I know, I know - seems like some sort of animal cruelty, but the pet store expert assured me that any more than that would likely kill him.  On the right, I have displayed the (approximate) amount of food B-man so generously supplied to our fish in one feeding.

Luckily, Dad walked in the room in time to scoop out a large portion of the pellets, but not before Phinneas enjoyed some of the smorgasbord of a buffet sprinkled before him.  Now, you can guess what I figured would happen next.  I assumed that our poor fish would literally explode overnight and that I would have to play mediator when G-man found out what B-man had done and proceeded to strangle him in broad daylight in front of his own mother.

But, I give you Exhibit B.

Two days later, and Phinneas is still chillin' in his posh pad.  Obviously, he can consume more than his weight in food and live to tell about it.  And, since it turns out he has a three-month memory - or more - I'm sure that (for the short-term at least) he has decided that B-man is infinitely much cooler than the grown-ups in this house. 

Maybe he does fit in around here after all.

Midnight Talker

When I was much, much younger, I used to think the words of that song by The Steve Miller Band went something like this:

I'm a joker
I'm a smoker
I'm a midnight TALKER

Of course, I grew up and figured out that Mr. Miller was not, in fact, singing about late night chatting sessions with your best friend during a sleepover.  Too bad, because I'm all for staying up 'til midnight discussing the intricacies of life over a cup of coffee.  In a house full of loud and rowdy boys, I rarely get such a chance unless my husband and I actually find a few minutes here or there to discuss something of importance before someone a) cries b) breaks something or c) invents yet another use for bathroom toiletries (FYI: some shampoos, while seemingly awesome follicular cleansing agents, also masquerade as permanent carpet stainers.  Who knew?)

The thing about having boys is that I almost never get a lengthy or informative conversation out of them during daylight hours.  They are way too busy,  in constant states of motion or physical exertion.  If I were to ask my oldest son a slew of investigative questions on any given day, the answers would range among the following four responses:  yes, no, I don't know and I don't remember.  

However, if you tell a boy it's bedtime, he'll grant you an interview worthy of the top spot on 60 Minutes. 

One of my friends and I have had numerous conversations on how the absolute best time to get useful information out of your child is at bedtime.  Suddenly, the idea of telling you anything and everything you ever wanted to know is highly preferred over the dreadful and boring alternative of sleeping.  I have been privy to all sorts of top secret elementary school information during our "midnight" (code: 8:30 pm) talks, such as who got in a fight at recess, who talked back to the teacher and who (gasp!) cut in the lunch line.  These interesting (and often hilarious) reports are usually prefaced with "Mom, you will not believe this," so that I grasp the significance and/or severity of the information he's about to divulge.  These discussions usually leave me walking away with a big grin on my face.

But then some nights, they turn more serious or inquisitive in nature. 

Our "midnight" talk from Tuesday night went something like this:

Gman:  Mom, when I go to college someday, can I take all of my books with me?  Like, even my Lego book and my Flat Stanley book and my yearbook?

Me:  Of course you can!  I have lots of books from when I was young and they are still on my bookshelf.  If you take care of them, they will last a long, long time.  We'll just pack them up and you can take them wherever you decide to go.

Gman:  Ok wait a minute.  Why would we pack them up?

Me:  Well, if you go to college in a different city or state, you will have to move.

Silence......

Gman:  What college is in our town?  Because I like my room, and my stuff, and I think I just want to stay here.  Forever and ever.

Me:  Gman, college is a long way away, but there are a few around here if you wanted to stay at home.  This will be your room for as long as you want (what am I saying??)

Gman: Well, if I went away, would you just have new kids to stay in my room and use my stuff?  I guess that is okay, but they can't touch my Legos.

Me:  Oh heavens no, honey, your dad and I are done having kids.  But, your brothers will still be here.

Gman:  Yeah.  I guess they could use my stuff.  They can sleep in my room, on the top bunk even.

Me:  Well Gman, that's really sweet, but you know, Bman might be in college the same time you are at some point, so he might not want your Legos anyway.

Gman:  Wait a minute!  They are going to get bigger too?  MOM!  What are you going to do when there are no kids to live here??

I sat there and looked at him and said, I don't know.  Because I don't. 

The idea of not having a child to bathe, dress in dinosaur jammies or read a book to at night is unfathomable.  The thought of no more "midnight" talks with someone who tells me that his bus driver is actually a spy from another planet is just not an option I can consider.  I know there are several years left for blanket tents and hide-n-seek and happy meals and sidewalk chalk, but how many more years will I have of these whimsical and unpredictable bedtime chats?  I figure I've got a good 5 or 6 years left before my first born hits mute on the nightly gab fests, and maybe 10 years total when you combine my younger two, so if you do some math and multiply all that by 365 days in a year, I've got about 3,650 nights left where one of them can tell me another absolutely amazing, incredible story.  That's a lot of nights and a lot of stories, but I have a feeling it will fly right by.

Goodnight, midnight talkers.



 

Once Upon a Birthday

Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham, Field of Dreams:
"You know we just don't recognize the most significant moments of our lives while they're happening."

True words, my friends, true words.  Here I sit on the eve of a 30-something birthday, and I find myself finally embarking on a journey I've wanted to begin for some months now but haven't found the time or conviction to set words to ink, so to speak.  I've been fidgeting at the edge of the diving board, hesitant to dive into the deep end.  There are words at the bottom of the pool, and I figure if I take the plunge, they'll come into focus.  My mom is a fabulous writer, and I inherited the same love of words, not to mention the ability to get lost in a bookstore or library for hours, but does this make me worthy of publishing the constant stream of thoughts swimming through my head on a daily basis?  Maybe it just makes me a literary nerd.  Well, so what.  You love what you love.  And, being 30-something means that I'm totally okay with embracing all sides of myself.  It just means that while enjoying a major league baseball game, I also want to read every inscription at the stadium that might contain some magic link to the past. 

But I digress.  The main reason I'm here, the catalyst for finally embracing this challenge: three small men that reside both in my heart and in my home.  I am starting this blog not so much so that other people read about what goes on in our lives or in my head - although I love the thought of sharing life and ideas - but so that I feel committed to recording moments of everyday significance that are passing us by like cars on the highway.  I would like to put each one in reverse so that I can start from the beginning, but I think that starting now is better than not starting at all.  I want my boys to someday be able to read these (mostly) unedited journal entries of their young lives and their mom's perspective on things - the good, the bad, the funny, the sad - although I will emphasize the comedic, because they are truly miniature versions of the three stooges, and who doesn't need a good laugh these days.  I have mulled over starting this, not starting it, using our names, not using our names, using our photos, not using our photos, and I'm just going to stop thinking and start writing.  What will be will be, and I hope it is something that lives and breathes and continually inspires me.  It's going to take me some time to figure out the myriad of options for settings, photos, color schemes and what the heck a "gadget" is, so please be patient.  I'll (hopefully) get the hang of it.  I actually figured out how to put a music playlist AND a photo on here, so voila.  Progress.  

Thank you Mom - for bringing me into this beautiful world at 8:11 on 11:8 and for inspiring me to blog.  And thanks to my friend and fellow Scorpio Lisa (yes, we are horoscopically matched), who reminded me that the best material I am ever going to get for writing about family life is right here, right now, and that I should embrace it.  I should celebrate it.  And I am going to.  Happy birthday, me.

My awesome WonderWoman coffee mug and Gman's artwork. 
I can do this.