Location, location, location

With Jack, it's all about location.

Blue marker colored in every line of grout in the bathroom, scribbled on the tile tops and walls.
"Jack!  Where do we draw???"
Head down, huge puppy dog eyes up, voice trembling, "On paper…"

Front yard, pants dropped around ankles, yellow streaming.
"Jack!  Where do we pee???"
"In da bafroom…"

An entire cup of milk overturned on the bedroom floor.
"Jack!  Where do we drink???"
"In da kitchen…"

He's a bright, stubborn little guy.  The most frustrating part is that he always knows the correct location.  Well, almost always.

Teeshirt on top, skinny little legs and a naked tush making a break for the front door.
"Jack!  Where are your pants???"
"…gone?"

Baby Spoons

I just refinished our kitchen table.  The one we've had for the 14 years we've been married.  The one with the water stains, the big patch of rough wood where the paint thinner spilled, the red and blue permanent marker lines, the one with all the nicks.  Now it is shiny and red and looking new.  I'll give it about 48 hours…

Anyway, it is making me realize just how shabby the rest of the kitchen looks.  So of course I decided I needed to clean off not only the outsides of the cabinets but the insides as well.  It's 10 o'clock.  Everyone is sleeping, so it's really the only logical time to tackle such a project.

Problem is, I came across some baby spoons.  I had been easily sorting things in the cabinet: keep/donate/trash.  But then these darn little spoons popped up.  And I'm crying like a baby.  Because my baby doesn't need them anymore.

I promise you I will try to refrain from writing a post every time Caleb outgrows something.  It's just so hard.  These particular spoons represent years of trial and error.  A new mom who naturally used the coated Gerber spoons she'd been given as a shower gift, only to learn they held about one millionth of a gram of baby food which never actually made it into baby's mouth.  Next came the too large toddler spoon that held more food but could never quite get wedged in that little face.  Finally, the perfect spoon…Cue the parting of the clouds and the ray of sunlight descending on the firm but flexible, perfectly cupped, built-in-spoon-rest-included Nuk.

I believe this spoon was unintentionally left at my house by a friend somewhere along the way.  I have to be honest, I never made much effort to determine the friend's identity because, well, I didn't want to part with the awesome spoon. Once Caleb came along, I logged on to Amazon and ordered many more.

And now it's time to let go of these spoons.  To pass them along to some other lucky momma.  I briefly considered keeping them for my grandchildren.  Does that make me crazy?  Is that how my future daughters-in-law would view me?  They won't want some decades old plastic in their precious babe's mouth.

So I'm sad.  I'm not the mom of an infant anymore.  I realize it's not really about the stupid spoons.  Caleb took a step today.  My baby is walking...

Magical

It's a magical summer.  It's a tragic summer.  It's sad and beautiful all mixed up together.

Parker's best friend from kindergarten was run over by a car on Monday.  Monday.  The very first day of summer.  His tiny head beneath the wheel of a huge SUV.  Graham.  Graham with his big horn rimmed glasses and even bigger grin.  The wiry, feisty little boy everyone (and I mean everyone) knows and loves.  Now hooked up to machines in a hospital downtown.  Far from the neighborhood pool.  No longer a bike ride away.  

The last big play date consisted of making a get well banner.  A bunch of sweet, clueless kindergarten graduates carefully printing their names and well wishes.  "It needs more decoration over here.  How about a rainbow?"  All smiles and laughs, while I pictured Graham's sweet momma holding her baby boy's hand under harsh lights far away.

Parker attached a favorite Lego man "with tape mom, not glue…so he can take it off and play with it."  Didn't have the heart to tell him it will be long time before his buddy will have a chance to play with it.  No banners or toys in a sterile environment.

Praise be to God that Graham is a little fighter.  He is making progress in his recovery.  He will have brain surgery next week.

All this sadness and uncertainty is juxtaposed with utter joy.  

Joy at the simplicity of summer.  The hose, a trampoline, some good books.  The pool, a new park, bike rides and s'mores.  Free programs at malls and museums.  You name it, we've done it this week, our very first week of summer.  I am having the absolute best time with my brood.  

Tonight was another joyful night.  Ordinary but special.  We went on a family walk and took along one of our best little buddies in the neighborhood.  Aaron pushed the double stroller, knowing full well that while Jack began the journey on his scooter, he would lose his momentum along the way.  Caleb sat, fat and happy, sucking his thumb and kicking his legs.   Parker and Kane raced along on their scooters while Maddie's shoulders hunched in determination as she pedaled after them on her princess bike.

As we walked, round cheeks turned pink with exertion.  Helmets were adjusted and readjusted.  Something precious about sweaty hair sticking out at crazy angles.  We explored a small park near the entrance of our neighborhood for a bit then continued on our way.  While Parker and Kane waited patiently at the corner for Jack and me to join them, Aaron, Maddie and Caleb headed home early.  It's challenging to make good time with almost three year old Jack setting the pace.  One must stop at every interesting ant hill and rock.  And apparently they are all interesting.

When the exhaustion finally set in, Jack's eyes searched the street.  "Where's da stroller, mommy?" his voice quavered.  He had given up on the scooter and was dragging his feet.  

"Daddy had to take Caleb home to feed him.  Want me to carry your scooter and you can hold my hand?"

Jack, who is typically fiercely independent, held out a chubby hand to me.  Ah, the sweetness of holding that little hand as we ambled down the sidewalk! 

I willed myself to pause and commit the moment to memory.  Standing beneath a big tree, the sun's bright white light slanting through curly puffy clouds, skinny tanned legs racing scooters down the street, the softness of Jack's hand in mine.  Looking down on his round head, I saw his other fingers curled round and his thumb tucked snugly in his mouth.  

We turned on to our street at last.  I saw the gleam return to Jack's eye when he spotted a neighbor's slanted rock retaining wall.

"Momma, peas climb dis and den your [you] can get me down?"

Summoning his last bit of energy, he climbed the wall, walked across the top and held out his arms.  Much to his surprise, I didn't set him down.  "I will carry you home."  Not an offer I typically make, given how heavy he has grown.  But tonight, as I balanced the scooter in one arm and my big baby boy in the other, it was worth every aching muscle.   

Perhaps it is because of Graham's accident that I am so keenly aware of the blessings of my children and their health.  Life is fragile.  It is ever-changing.  It is sweet.  

And I aim to enjoy my darling children and their wonderful dad and give thanks to God every single day.  

Happy birthday Parker

Hey little man,

I'm sorry your birthday post is so late.  I suppose just about every birthday post will begin that way from now on.  That is the nature of managing a large family.  Good intentions, never enough time.

Oh, son.  My heart melts when I think of you.  A sugar consumption negotiator, a master Lego builder, a scientist who captures grasshoppers in plastic soda bottles for observation, a sometimes boyfriend (to a very sweet little girl named Claire), a tenderhearted friend, a precious child of God, and beloved son of mine.

There are times when your feelings are hurt, and your mouth turns down at the corners, as you bravely will the tears to remain in your eyes, and there are times when your joy is so overwhelming you leap and bound around the room.  There are days when you beg me to read just one more chapter of the Hardy Boys mystery and days when you your boundless energy sends you flying down the street on your sparking scooter.  There are moments when you curl into my lap and lay your cheek against mine and moments when your strong will opposes mine and there is fire in your eyes.

When Grammy came in town for your birthday, I had to climb into the back seat and wedge myself between your booster seat and Maddie's.  What I saw made my heart catch in my throat.  Your feet barely dangled off the floor.  If we removed the booster seat, you would most likely reach the floor.  When did your legs grow so long, my boy?  I laid my hand on your knee and turned away before you caught the tears in my eyes.  I am oh-so-happy to see you growing and thriving.  And I am oh-so-sad to  be confronted with the physical evidence that you are growing up.

Up up and away…

So for now, I will snuggle in the chair cheek to cheek with you for as long as you'll allow.  I will read you one more, two more, three more chapters in your book.  I will pray for you every day.  I will thank God for you every day.

Happy seventh birthday, my sweet Parker.

Annual appointment

With three kids, I paid our babysitters anywhere from $12-$14 per hour.  Plus tip.  Now that there are four, let's just say, we don't get out much.  Our date money tends to be eaten up by the babysitting fees.  

So I hoard our babysitting dollars.  I am loathe to use them on anything but a romantic evening away from the kids.  Which is why I schedule my dental and doctor appointments when Aaron is available to meet me at the office.  Generally, he rushes in just in time to make the trade-off, entertains the kids in the waiting room, and leaves the minute I exit the office.  It's a decent system and has served us pretty well…until today.

I had scheduled my annual OBGYN appointment this afternoon.  Aaron blocked out some time in his schedule and met me at the office a few minutes before my appointment.  I was called back into the room, saw the nurse, and was told to strip down and don a glamorous Velcro gown and paper sheet.  I listened closely but didn't hear any wailing from the wait room.  So far so good.

My phone was nearly dead, so I switched it off to save the battery.  I read a magazine.  And then another.  I laid back and closed my eyes.  I fidgeted.  I stuck my head into the hallway.  The little light beside my door was still blinking.  They hadn't forgotten me…

I'm thirty-six, so I've had my fair share of wham, bam, swab-ya-ma'am's.  They usually take all of 5 minutes.  Add 5 more minutes for the ever awkward breast exam, and you're done.  This should have been a very short appointment.  I had told Aaron as much.  Now I was worried he may not have blocked off enough time.  

Switching my phone back on, I realized I'd been waiting in the room for an hour.  Yikes!  I called Aaron and learned he was supposed to be in a meeting 5 minutes ago.  Clutching the gown to my chest and the paper sheet around my derriere, I headed into the hallway in search of a nurse.  I found one quickly, who seemed surprised I had exited my room in such a state.  [After birthing four children in hospitals, some of which were at teaching universities, my sense of modesty is sadly lacking.]  She ushered me back into the room, and I explained Aaron would need to return to work soon.  She went in search of my doctor's nurse and returned with the verdict: another 20 minutes before I would be seen.  

"Should I just reschedule then?  I have to go..."  I reached for my clothes.

  

"Well, could your husband bring your kids back here?" she asked tentatively.  I don't think she realized I had quite so many.  

I weighed the options.  Schlep them all to another excruciatingly long appointment or suffer through the next half hour?  I opted for the latter.  In minutes, the nurse had fetched Aaron and the crew.  

I wish you could have seen this exam room.  It was so small, I literally didn't have enough room to turn the stroller around.  There was just enough room for the table, counter, and a small bench (at the foot of the table).  The three oldest kids piled onto the bench, barely fitting, while I wedged Caleb's stroller between the table and the wall, and it still stuck out.  I was just lecturing the kids about privacy and how they would need to somehow crowd around my head during my exam ("But why, Mommy?"), when the doctor arrived.  

"Oh no, they can stay on the bench.  See how that curtain will pull around it?"

Now before I continue, may I say that I LOVE this doctor.  I really, truly do.  She is awesome.  That is the reason her practice is so stinking busy.  Also, she had just delivered a baby that afternoon, and was covering for two other doctors who were out sick that day.  I get it.  Babies don't exactly operate on our timetables, and her colleagues were sick.  I wasn't mad at her.  It was just a tough situation.  Now back to the drama…

"I wanna see!"  "What's she doing?"  "Why can't we come out?"

You know how there always seems to be a nurse present whenever the doctor makes you drop your pants?  I suppose it's for legal reasons, to ensure there's no monkey business, etc.  Anyway, that nurse comes in, and my doctor sends her right behind the curtain to ensure no one escapes.

My doctor is lightening fast.  It's almost over, and I am so relieved because the curtain is pulsating with curious children and a very busy nurse.  I happen to glance over my toes at Caleb and notice he is not buckled into his car seat/stroller.  He has begun to roll out.  My right foot shoots out to stop him.

So there I am.  On my back, left foot in the stirrup, lower half completely exposed, because, let's face it, who can be worried about keeping a flimsy paper sheet in place when you are trying to pin a rolling baby in a stroller with only your right big toe, and praying for this darned appointment to be OVER ALREADY.

It finally ends.  I drag the kids to the van, buckle everyone in, and head toward the exit.

"Mom, I think I left my library book in there…."

Last Baby's First

There is something special about firsts.  First steps, first words, first teeth.

We are at the end of an era in our home.  We are encountering a number of last firsts.  Caleb is our last baby.  Simply put, he is growing too quickly [for my liking].

He is finally starting to make some noise.  For months he has been busy watching and listening to the circus around him.  Now he screeches and giggles and makes all sorts of noises.  I am making out some "mama" sounds, but I'm not ready for him to be speaking yet, so I try to convince myself it's simply babble.  Surely my baby isn't old enough to talk.

He has begun to stand unassisted.  I know what comes next.  I have seen it three times before.  Those precious, wobbly first steps.  The launching of his tiny body into my open arms.  And I'm not ready.  When he takes his first steps, it will be the last time any of my babies takes a first step.

The strangest and perhaps saddest thing is the teeth.  It's not strange that Caleb's should be appearing.  It's strange to see him smiling alongside his oldest brother.  Parker recently lost some teeth.  Both he and Caleb are now growing in their top two front teeth.   When Parker and Caleb smile together, it's like I'm staring into the future and back at the past at the same time.

It reminds me of my favorite Joni Mitchell song, The Circle Game.

And the seasons, they go round and round.
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on the carousel of time.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came,
And go round and round and round in the circle game.

My feelings are completely mixed as I type this evening.  Tears of joy and sadness stream down my cheeks.  I will choose to cherish these last firsts.  I recognize that the end of the baby era means the beginning of a new era for our family.  Different, but beautiful all the same.

Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to ride on this carousel with my wonderful family.

My Hooptie

I officially own a hooptie.  My 2001 Honda Odyssey is on its last legs.  I lost one key fob, and Jack ate the other one [he didn't actually ingest it; he just gnawed it to death a few years ago], so I have to manually unlock and open the doors.  The kids' door no longer opens with the mere flick of a handle, as in the van's former glory days.  No, now you have to yank and pull with all your might, grinding gears fighting against you.  The faint smell of van stank (click to see previous post) ever lingers in the air despite many cleaning attempts (personal and professional).  The check engine light is constantly aglow, since the transmission is slowly but surely slipping.  There are a myriad of other warning lights illuminated so that the dashboard resembles a Christmas tree.  It's quite festive.

But the real kicker is that the radio doesn't work.  Hasn't for about a year now.  When it first went out, I was distraught.  The radio was my sanity.  Kids screaming in the backseat?  Crank it up a notch or two (or six).  Rough day?  Listen to some praise music.  Long trip?  Pop in a book on CD.  For months after it went out, I found myself constantly reaching for the dial.  It was second nature.

I'm used to its absence now.  In fact, I enjoy it.  Here's why:

1. Silence is golden.  There is very little silence in our world anymore.  In my world, there is next to none.  So an evening drive to Kroger (sans radio) allows me uninterrupted time to think or just be.

2.  Travel conversations with the kids are crucial.  As they age, and school days lengthen, my time with them becomes less and less.  Add in friends and extracurricular activities, and suddenly, my influence in their lives is diminished.  Important, yes, but smaller.  So I cherish our time in the van.  It's a great time to catch up, to hear about their thoughts, joys, concerns, and to [hopefully] impart some wisdom. (Deuteronomy 11:19)

3.  Finally, storytelling!  My own mom is a fantastic storyteller.  When I was little she would weave intricate tales about children (bearing a striking resemblance to my brother and me) or giants or fairies or trolls or forest creatures.  Each story was very detailed, filled with sights, sounds, and smells that made my imagination run wild.  These days, I have the privilege to continue that legacy.

Don't get me wrong, there are many times when the question: "Mommy, can you tell us a story?" makes me groan aloud.  But I'm glad they ask.  I'm glad they listen.  I love to look in the rearview mirror and see the hint of grin playing on their lips and a faraway look in their eyes as they are transported to a magical land and introduced to a fairy.

Today the fairy was a hat maker.  She was quite perturbed with the humans who were stomping around in her bluebonnet patch.  She had grown these flowers specifically for her fairy customers all around the world, and these clumsy, loud, picture-taking giants were destroying her handiwork.  Luckily, with the help of three kind children [Caleb is too young to care about having a role in the stories] she was able to gather the materials necessary to make fairy dresses instead.  The fairy rewarded these sweet children with a magical cloak which allowed them to enter into fairyland whenever they wished.

We didn't miss the radio for a second today!