Happy birthday...3 months late

Dear Jack,

I hope one day you will read these posts.  I hope you will get past the title of this blog and past the fact that I chose to write it three months after your actual birthday.  There is a method to my madness (and if not a method, then at least a sort of twisted reasoning).

A few months ago, one of your siblings was observing you.  Said sibling pulled me aside and murmured in low tones, "Mom, Parker is special because he was your first baby, and Maddie is special because she is your only pretty princess, and Caleb is special because he's your last baby, but Jack..." the voice trailed off uncertainly, seemingly sad and concerned that you might not be all that special.  HA!  It made me want to laugh and cry in the same instant.

That assessment, the placing of value on birth order or gender above my love for you and your worth as a person, couldn't be more wrong.  If anything, I have put off writing this post because I'm afraid others will read it one day and assume you are my favorite (which is also not true because, God, in His mercy, somehow made me incapable of having a favorite child).

What that sibling didn't realize is that you are oh-so-dear to my heart and very special, indeed.  You are the first newborn baby I was able to hold without fear.  With Parker I feared for his little, infant life when he stopped growing and was considered "failure to thrive" (until we sorted out his feeding issues).  With Maddie, I feared for her safety from her jealous, 18 month old brother.  With you, I sat in the big green chair, nursing you, smelling your hair, relishing the quiet moments, and reveling in motherhood.  I knew what you would bring.  I knew the sleepless nights ahead.  I was already in the habit of changing diapers and constant chaos.  I was welcoming more with open arms.  We were also living in Kentucky for the first time since starting our family.  We had an array of helpful, doting grandparents who offered respite and [perhaps more importantly] food.  You were and are special in your own right because of who you are and because of the mother you allowed me to become.

But babyhood aside, you continue to be my darling little boy.  You are always surprising me with your crazy antics (e.g. your tendency to cover your appendages and head in underwear and announce the arrival of "Underpants man").   You love to be tickled and have a wonderful sense of humor.  You are always trying to play tricks on daddy.  You love to be held and carried, and I will continue to do so until my back gives out.  You are kind to a fault, often genuinely confused if others are mean to you.  You try so hard at everything - pouring milk, writing, even speaking Chinese.

And you are still little.  And sometimes you mess up.  Sometimes you spill the milk (okay, most times).  Sometimes your marker misses the sheet and makes lines on the floor.  You do your best to make it right.  But sometimes, I am not as patient a parent as you deserve.   It is in those dark moments, the best part of you shines through...

I think every mother who has ever yelled at a child or squeezed that tiny hand just a little too hard and cried tears of agony later wants nothing more than for her child to know deep down in his little soul that his momma loves him.  That no amount of marker on the wall, poop smeared on the toilet seat, or milk spilled on the floor will ever change that fact.  And that's what's best about you, Jacky.  You know.  I am not giving myself permission to mistreat you; I will do my best to do better every day.  But when I do mess up (which is way more often than you), you are quick to forgive.  And when I say, "I love you, Jack."  You say the words I long to hear even more than "I love you, too."  

You say, "I know."

I thank the Lord I was chosen to be your momma.  Thank you, sweet five year (and three month) old boy.  Thank you for knowing how much I love you and for loving me right back.

Love,
Mommy

Just a night in the life

We are still living in Asia.  We've been here for just over 2 years.  It is hot and sticky tonight.  The air con (that's what they call it here) is on the fritz again, so I am sweating as I type.  Maddie is humming to herself in the room across the hall.  Jack is up in my bed, Caleb is in the boys' room, Parker is at a sleepover, and Aaron is traveling [as he does quite frequently in this role].  My only company is the  giant [4 inch], tailless lizard making his rounds, presumably living off the plethora of insects hiding out in one of our million cupboards.  Seriously, the designer of this place was obsessed with cupboards.  But back to tonight...

Tonight we arrived home late after a play date where we left Parker for his sleepover.  As I locked the front door, Caleb whipped around, his little brow furrowed.  "Hey mom!  We fo-got Pahkuh!" he shouted, in a panic.  I assured him it was all part of the plan, and though he cried, he managed to console himself in a bowl of chocolate chip ice-cream.  Why, yes, sugary, fat-laden foods do help to ease the pain of those troubling emotions.  Stuff it down some more, my boy.  (I know what you're thinking, "What an awesome mom!")

Once everyone had a small bowl of ice-cream (the consolation prize for not getting to be at a sleepover themselves), I marched them up the stairs, brushed teeth, said our prayers, and raced for my room without looking back.  I couldn't wait to get into my bed!  So why am I blogging about it and not actually in bed right now?  Because they followed me.

Not at first.  At first, I was congratulating myself on my resolve.  I activated my selective listening skills when Jack started to whine about his toe hurting.  You know, that toe he dropped the glass bowl on this afternoon?  You know, that glass bowl he wasn't supposed to be using?  The one that rolled off his toe and broke?  My compassion levels might have been a little bit low at the moment...Anyway, he tried to convince me he needed to sleep in my "comfy" bed to get rest.
Nope.  Next?  
Caleb chimes in, crying that he wants to join in the [nonexistent] pajama party.
Not tonight.  Love you.  Buh-Bye!
I engaged in the ugliest of sprints as I tripped over all manner of toys and junk on my way out of their room and eeked out just enough self-control to not slam the door.  It was like a horror movie scene where the person in distress has to get away quickly but somewhat quietly, eyes wild, desperate to escape.

What did I need?  Quiet.  In a day filled to the brim with noise, I knew what awaited me in my room...And there it was.  Quiet!  I changed into pajamas, thought for a second about how lame it was to go to bed at 8:30, shrugged, and hopped in bed.  Ahhh.

Then I heard the first sob.  Then the next.  Maddie or Jack?  Oh man.  Scowling, I swung my feet off the bed and ripped open my door, the very picture of motherly concern.  Maddie was at the bottom of the steps, her eyes filled with tears.  "I can't find Dot Blankie."  I know that given it's wildly imaginative name, it might be hard to tell what Dot Blankie is, but let me ruin the surprise: it's a blanket with a dot design.  And at that moment, I didn't care much about it's location.  I cared that Maddie's location was outside of her bed.  We found it in my bed and I sent her back to hers.  I settled back into my pillows.

Then I heard the next cry.  You have got to be kidding me.  Jack entered the room.  "Mommy, my toe rea-wee hurts.  I need to sweep in your bed tonight."  Whatever.  There was plenty of room since Aaron was gone.  "Just get in," I mumbled.

Quiet...

"Mmph....ugh....mmm....mmph."

"Jack?  Are you making those noises because your toe still hurts?"

"Yes, I fink I need an icepack."  At this point my conscience kicks in and I remember the pain of losing a toenail when a heavy item was dropped on my toe.

"Jack, how would you like some medicine that will help with that?"  I get up to get the Tylenol.

As I head down the stairs, I hear a voice, "Daddy...please...(inaudible mumbling)...please...(crying).  I pop my head in Maddie's room.  Her eyes are shut tight, tears shining on her cheeks.  I placed my hand on her head.
"Maddie?"

Her eyes flew open.  "Oh mom, I was just trying to send a message to dad, and then I was praying to God that he would hear it."

"What was the message?"

"That I miss him and want him to come home."

"Mommeeeeeeee??" shouts a voice from above.

"I'm coming with the medicine, Jack!" I call up the stairs.  "Maddie, why don't you try to actually call daddy rather than send him a thought message?  That way he can talk back to you."

I could keep writing because this night goes on and on.  In fact, as I was typing, Caleb awoke to find Parker missing (darn those tricky sleepovers) and began sobbing.  I stopped to pat him back to sleep.  Maddie talked to Aaron, Jack took his medicine, and it is finally QUIET.  Though I know it won't last, that's okay.  This is just a night in the life of our family right now.  Now I'm off to enjoy this [temporary] quiet.  Good night!

A belated birthday wish for my baby boy

Dear Caleb,

I know, I know.  Your birthday was months ago.  Believe me, I have attempted to write this post more than once.  I don't want you to imagine for a second that I think it a chore.  It's not.  It's just that I would prefer to be the proverbial ostrich, with my head stuck in the sands of time.  "What?  A birthday?  My baby?  Surely you can't mean my little blond haired baby!  Well, yes, I know....He's not technically a baby anymore.  Yes, he is potty-trained.  Yes, he can dress himself.  Yes, he can feed himself.  Yes, yes, YES!  I get it.  He's not a baby.  I have no babies!"

I never really understood those parents who babied their youngest.  Until now.  Until you realize that your youngest, your baby, your last baby, is just that.  Your last.  [Gulp!]  Suddenly, you are savoring every moment of babyish behavior.  You stop correcting the grammatical mistakes, because they're just so cute.  You tilt your head and say, "Aw!" when you notice that little thumb slipping into his mouth.  You turn your head away to hide the laughter when he throws a tantrum about something ridiculous.  That same tantrum, had it been thrown by your first child, would have been nipped in the bud.

And herein lies the problem.  There is no good way to keep you a baby, son.  Three year old babies aren't cute.  Four year old babies are even less so.  They morph into annoying, entitled, self-important jerks.  And we just can't have that.

So, we'll start with the sweet birthday post (and we'll deal with the smack down when the online audience is gone)...

Oh, sweet Caleb.  You are the baby that completed our family.  You are smiles and giggles, and devious sideways grins.  You are a thumb-sucking, foot-stomping, belly-laughing, ball of energy.  You are the most tactile of all of our children, constantly seeking a cheek to rub, an elbow to mush, a belly to squish.  You are effusive in your declarations of love..."I LOVE this truck!  I LOVE this house!  I LOVE you!"  You are the darling of Asia with your bright blond hair and easy smile.  People absolutely fawn over you.  I no longer freak out when strangers pick you up.  I am not surprised or offended when crowds ask to take pictures with you.  I fear that when we return to the States you we be confounded at your lack of celebrity status.  Enjoy it now, son.

This year you are my daily side-kick, as all of your older siblings have gone off to school.  We drive dad to work, stopping for coffee on the way.  Then we come home and start the chores.  You help me hang the laundry.  You love to clip the socks and underwear on the line.  When we are finished, it's nothing but play time together.  I delight in our long bike rides.  You sit silently in your seat, watching the world go by, getting out at the quiet park.  It's not quiet for long with you there!  At home, you love books and cars and books about cars and cartoons.  You love to swim and will be starting your first solo swim class soon.  I can't imagine not having to get into the pool for a swim lesson.  It's been nearly 10 years...

You are full of confidence, often introducing yourself to strangers, then informing them, "I'm free years ole."  Your dad and I like to say you "walk around like you own the place."  I love your swagger.  You don't seem to know you are the smallest.  You launch your little body into any fray, tumbling around with your older brothers and their friends like a puppy dog.

I cannot wait to watch you grow, son.  I know I love having you as a baby, but I am truly excited to see what God does with this life of yours.  I'm so excited He's placed us in Asia, where your world view can just explode!  I love that you are in such a diverse environment.  I love that you were surrounded by a bunch of Cambodian kids on your actual birthday and didn't bat an eye when they broke out in song to wish you a happy birthday.  You love riding in the back of tuk tuks and eating hummus [which you call tummus] and watching the traditional Lion dances.  You are leading an amazing little life, sweet boy.  I'm so glad I'm along for the ride!

Love,
Momma

Howdy Neighbors

"If you want a show before bedtime, you have to take a shower first."

I was certain that statement would buy me enough time to clean up the dinner dishes.  Wrong.

They began to shed their clothes like snake skin as they raced up the stairs.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

A few moments of blessed silence, and then the yelling began.  "Mom, is this green stuff soap?"  "Mom, which is the shampoo?"  Ugh!  The older two kids had it down and were finished in no time (thanks to the multiple bathrooms in this place).  However, I guess it's a bit much to ask a three and almost five year old to bathe themselves.  Go figure.  I assumed I would be finished cleaning and able to help before they would actually need me.  Wishful thinking.

After helping Jack determine which products to use and helping Caleb take his shirt off, I headed back to the kitchen to finish up.  That's when the screaming began.

"Mom, I think something's wrong with Jack," Parker said worriedly.

My compassion meter seemed to be broken today.  Maybe it just ran out at about hour 4 at the theme park where I was barraged with questions about buying junk food when I'd spent half the morning packing healthy snacks, or maybe it was when I learned Aaron had to work late, or maybe when I'd burned the chicken while tending a crying child.  Whenever I lost my mommy mojo, it was just GONE.

"Tell him to come down," I said tiredly.  (I was in the basement/walkout level, and the boys were up on the 4th level of our split level home.)

Jack came rushing into the kitchen, naked, of course.  "Mommy, somefings wong wif Cawub...He keeps trying to grab my penis!"

Maddie and Parker started giggling at this point.  My mommy eyes were shooting daggers at them.  "And what did you do?" I asked.

"I shouted 'No!' and ran away."

Parker and Maddie began smiling and marching, "Shout 'No!', Run Away!  Tell Someone today!  Shout 'No!', Run Away!  Tell Someone today!"

Gosh, I hope the new neighbors are listening in.  I promise we're not freaks...at least, not all the time! *sigh*

"That's right, Jack, but remember, Caleb is still really little, and your penis is right in his face.  I'll talk to him."

Maddie chimed in, "Well, it's good he didn't grab a girl's private part.  That would be really bad, right mom."

"Yes, that would be bad."

Jack looked perplexed.  "Why?  Girls have penises."

Maddie burst out laughing.  "No they don't!  Girls have vaginas!"

"No, big girls have giant ones," Jack corrected her.

"No, Jack, she didn't say 'giant ones,' she said, 'VAGINAS!'"

Seriously, I am sure my new neighbors, on their back porch, smelling our burnt chicken, watching my kids running around naked, and hearing me shouting about vaginas just can't wait to come over and spend some quality time at our house.

Happy 9th birthday, Parker

Dear Parker,

As the years rush past, it becomes more and more difficult to write this annual birthday post.  Not for lack of material, mind you.  I am no longer simply recording physical milestones and cute anecdotes.  You are such a complex little/big guy these days.  Your heart and thoughts run deep.  Your questions are thoughtful and hard to answer.  

You are changing every day.  It seems the bend in my elbow when I rest my hand on your head is a little more pronounced each day.  Your legs nearly touch the floor when you sit on my lap.  How is that possible?  You can run and play and sweat in this Singapore heat and humidity for hours on end, launching Nerf attacks, swimming, and exploring with your friends.  

You are into music and video games which we strictly monitor.  There is plenty of junk out there that you will hear and see soon enough.  You've been exposed to bits of it here and there, but for the most part, you maintain a sweet innocence that brings tears to my eyes.

You are a humble leader.  You love to lead a little gang of "troops" around at school and in the neighborhood and are quick to make sure everyone feels included.  You are still my sensitive guy who can be wounded by the unkind words of a peer.  

It is hard being the oldest in the house.  There are times you want to watch shows that your siblings find boring because they aren't animated.  You often have one or two brothers begging to tag along in your war games.  Your Lego creations are unintentionally destroyed by tiny, playful hands when you are at school (and mom is busy).

You are a master negotiator, an experienced fort builder, a young seeker of truth and God, a cunning business man, a loyal friend, a Lego master, a terrible liar, a kind brother, and the best 9 year old son a mom could ask for.   It is my joy and my privilege to be called your momma.

All my love,

Mom

Your last night as an 8 year old 

Your family birthday picture.  Sorry.

Keeping my phone a phone

Hello, my name is Jessie, and I'm addicted to my iPhone.

I resisted smartphones for many years.  I am not technologically savvy.  I didn't want apps.  I didn't need bells and whistles.  However, when it took me twenty minutes to return a text because I had to press the number 7 four times to get to the letter "s," I relented.

I naively thought I would simply use the phone, texting, and maybe the camera, only on special occasions, of course.  Ha!  Four million pictures (and Facebook posts) later, I find myself jumping at every "ding," as texts come through confirming or canceling playdates, doctor appointments pop up, and field trip notifications blare.

Enough, iPhone!  Enough!  Uncle!  I cringe when you are dropped.  My heart skips a beat when you are caught in the rain.  I have lost you more than once, and the panic that ensues may very well be the cause of at least some of my white hairs.  You have been my constant companion for too long.  You follow me on dates (so I can be available if the sitter needs to reach us), and then tempt me with you Facebook notifications while I order.  How many times have I mumbled, "Uh huh," while a sweet little voice prattles on beside me, meanwhile my eyes are trained on a tiny screen and my fingers are tapping to reply to that Evite invitation for so-and-so's birthday party?

I say it again, ''Enough!"  You were designed for me.  Not the other way around.  Somehow in my fear that I would miss something, that the balls I'm juggling would fall, that I would offend someone by not responding quickly enough, I allowed myself to become your slave.  I can no longer justify my continual state of distraction.  No more!  I will be present - with my God, my husband, my kids, and my friends.

And you, iPhone?  You are on probation.  You can stick around for now.  Your new place will be on my desk with the ringer turned up high.  If someone needs me, they can CALL.  If someone texts me, they can WAIT.  (I will take a set amount of time each night to read and respond to texts and emails.)  I'm going old school.  I'm going to carry around a little notebook, and as I think of things I need to do throughout the day (emails to return, gifts to mail, play dates to plan), I will *gasp* WRITE IT DOWN.  It can be entered later.  That calendar hanging on the wall in the kitchen is about to get a lot more attention.

You can join me when I'm out and about...in case the school (or someone else) CALLS.  You can be my camera from time to time, but you can't be my friend anymore.  And if I can't stick to my new rules, who knows?  I may just need to get a flip phone again...

My Beef with Caillou's Mom

I used to watch the same show with Parker every night when he was little.  It's a cartoon on PBS featuring a four year old boy named Caillou (KI-you) who had an unusually high-pitched, whiny voice.  The story lines were simple and positive, and the shows were short.  Parker was allowed only 15 minutes of TV a day because, you know, he was the first child, and I strictly adhered to the American Academy of Pediatrics' recommendations.  (These days our fourth child watches 7+ hours of PG-13 rated shows a day...not really - just 6 1/2....)   

But back to Caillou...For at least one solid year, this was my daily allotment of television.  I didn't have the time or energy for adult shows.  I fell into bed every night, utterly exhausted.  Each day I watched Caillou, I became a bit more bitter.

"Why?" you ask.  It wasn't the annoying boy who was the problem.  It was his mother!  Apparently her name is "Doris."  Well, Dolly, you're on my list.  I'm just going to call a spade a spade and say, "You're a fraud!"  

For years I watched you deal with your whiny son and care for his baby sister all Mary Poppins-like.  Not once did your eyelids droop from exhaustion or annoyance.  Not once did you snap at the kids.  Nope, you bebopped along with a spring in your step and the patience of a saint.   

Doris a.k.a. The Fraud

I think the problem was that I used to buy it.  I used to think I should be Doris.  I should always be cheerful and energetic and sunny.  The problem is, that's just not realistic.  It's great to be positive, but even the most positive mom has a bad day.  

Now, 9 years and a million cartoons and books later, I have a larger sample of fictional moms with whom I can compare myself (because I'm sure that's super-healthy and productive, right?).  I can relate to these ladies.  Why?  Because they look haggard.  They have young kids, and they are tired.  Isn't that what all momma's really have in common?  We love our kids, but we are T.I.R.E.D.  Allow me to share some illustrations of more realistic cartoon moms...

The Family Circus mom...

 

Llama, Llama Red Pajama's Mom...

Arthur's mom...

Phineas and Ferb's mom...

I'm not saying I want all moms to be miserable.  I'm just saying, let's keep it real, people.  No one, but no one can be as chipper as Doris all the time.  So mommas out there, struggling to do everything just right, to keep a smile on your face, to just keep your eyes open, give yourself some grace.  Turn off Caillou, dump some blocks on the floor, and curl up on the rug for a nap next to your little one.  

[End bizarre cartoon rant.]