tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70399871641576385882024-02-19T05:03:17.663-08:00Moments in Mediocre MotherhoodYes, actually, screaming does help. Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.comBlogger317125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-19445796747595294432021-12-17T10:30:00.004-08:002021-12-17T13:36:27.265-08:00<p><br />I wrote this a long time ago....but someone just mentioned it changed their whole Christmas outlook, so I thought I would reshare. Hopefully you find it positive. Also, don't make a drinking game out of finding typos, that will get dangerous. Somethings never change. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Accepting Pink Aluminum Christmas Trees. </i></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ee5e288b-7fff-a3f8-adac-b9d6f438874c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh9t4TBJ6EoaZ-uLcn34rywhP8QjY-ZumajtGVHDOQYi1ow-1EB7l1C9GF_gT0qtjciTgTf0PZCBCHtmA9GxVzdQrHTpEgpdqs12lByE1n_JQxO873XLzjRdivOIaODztwhzu4eEZq7XEtCOgKyPCi4W1WJsIF8Naw-x1HlBxdQlf1n_VN2ePsWA3u=s1680" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1680" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh9t4TBJ6EoaZ-uLcn34rywhP8QjY-ZumajtGVHDOQYi1ow-1EB7l1C9GF_gT0qtjciTgTf0PZCBCHtmA9GxVzdQrHTpEgpdqs12lByE1n_JQxO873XLzjRdivOIaODztwhzu4eEZq7XEtCOgKyPCi4W1WJsIF8Naw-x1HlBxdQlf1n_VN2ePsWA3u=w327-h200" width="327" /></a></p><div style="text-align: left; text-decoration-line: none;"><a href="http://www.christmaslibrary.ca/cbpage03.htm" style="text-decoration-line: none;"></a><a href="http://www.christmaslibrary.ca/cbpage03.htm" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Get the biggest aluminum tree you can find Charlie Brown, maybe painted pink!</span></a> </div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was recently asked to give a brief reflection on the topic Making Christmas Lasting with the focus on celebrating Christmas throughout the year. I admit that when I was first presented with this topic I had to pause and think. Christmas through the year. My first thought was to encourage more viewings of Die Hard. While sipping Baileys. That seems pretty festive to me. Of course this got me thinking about Christmas. About Christmas in today’s society. It’s a crazy time. Hustle and bustle. And it seems to start earlier and earlier. It’s gotten the point I start looking for Christmas trees on the fifth of July. Many of my friends' Thanksgiving photos included pictures of their freshly decorated Christmas trees. Before they had digested their turkey. How they were able to plow through the tryptophan has that knocks me down for several days, I'll never know. And then they embark on massive shopping trips. I envy their energy. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Many people decry this commercialization of Christmas. They see it as loss of the truth behind Christmas. A focus on the wrong thing, taking our minds away from God. I don’t see it that way. The stores, the shopping, the décor, it doesn’t bother me. I enjoy it. You can feel the excitement and anticipation in the air. This makes me happy. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It makes me happy because in the history of the world, there is just one person who has ever been able to produce this kind of excitement and anticipation. This amount of joy and generosity. One birth alone could every produce this kind of reaction two thousand years later. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One man. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And world still stops and celebrates because He was born. So the world rushes and shops and parties. They light up their homes. They feast. They gather with family and friends. But the world also reaches out. There are toy drives, book drives, coat drives. Your grocery store has food drives, red kettles are everywhere. It’s not enough just to celebrate with loved ones, to generously</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> celebrate family and friends. The world reaches out to strangers and those in need. The desire to spread the joy, the hope, the excitement of the season, it extends past those we know, to strangers. Everyone needs to feel Christmas joy. And the community comes together to make sure that all do enjoy it. Not just comes together, but excitedly help one another in secret, a distinct part of the joy coming from knowing others are celebrating, happy, distracted from the daily grind, if just for a moment. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And if we step back and remember what it is we are celebrating, it's that incredible moment of generosity. A generous God giving Himself. What further need of proof as to God’s lavishness upon His children? He gave us the world. Quite literally. All good things come from Him. He gave without concern as to worthiness or appreciation. He just gave. Completely. In that context, the outpouring of gifts and festivities at Christmas doesn’t seem as outlandish. It’s simply imitating what the world experienced that very first Christmas. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So what does that mean for us? Not just the next four weeks but for the next eleven months. How can we celebrate Christmas throughout the year? I think we need to step back to look at the world’s reaction to Christmas. Reaction to the fact that Christ was born. We need to look past what might appear to be crude materialism and see the longing and joy and the desire that is present. What is truly being expressed by the immense reaction to the season. The world still delights at the fact that God was made man. The world still joyfully celebrates His birth. Even though it is harder and harder to see Him through the tinsel and the parties and the brightly colored lights. We all know, something, something is different. This celebration is unlike any other. And that’s where we come in. It’s our job to clear that haze, to nurture that joy and that hope and whisper “</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">yes, yes He is real. He is here.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The world that delights in the season of Christmas, so much so that they share that joy with strangers, is a world that desires the Christ of Christmas. To feel that loved all the year round. That thrill of hope? It’s our job to nurture it. To feed it with truth and witness. Because if anything is clear from society’s reaction to Christmas, it is that we all crave the comfort and joy that comes from knowing truth. We are so greatly loved. So generously blessed. And we crave the presence of God; we want to feel that He is with us. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Leave it to C.S. Lewis to say it better than I. “</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They say Aslan is on the move… And now a very curious thing happened. None of the children knew who Aslan was any more than you do; but the moment the Beaver had spoken these words everyone felt quite different.... At the name of Aslan each one of the children felt something jump in its inside.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” Christmas is that time when the world feels the jump inside. And it falls to us to nurture than, so that their hearts don’t just jump, but soar. Soar to their creator. The weary world wants to rejoice. It's our job to spread those glad tidings. He came upon a midnight clear. He is here. And He will come again.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-24434819866283489312020-08-18T19:25:00.002-07:002020-08-18T19:25:38.369-07:00I had a baby. So now we're moving. This is a pattern for us. Have baby, embark on switching homes, from settled home to a new place, one that always seems to need work. In this case it's primarily paint, but several hundred square feet worth of paint. While "learning" remotely. D'Garebear is on track to start walking right about the time we open the first box.
Preparing to move means purging. Getting rid of things is one of the most enjoyable things I know to do. I spent the first few weeks of quarantine cleaning out everything. Only to realize all my work would have to stay bagged up waiting for donation centers to reopen. No good deed and all that jazz. Despite the angst that seeing bags of donations waiting to go cause me, it was worth the work. The purging is a necessity in a small house in particular, since the Father Figure tends to be a collector. Collector of things, computer parts,comic books, games, tools, cars, children....and everything takes up space. <div><br /></div><div>Space is a valuable commodity so naturally we have very little of it. It's a constant source of stress for me and even with a larger house on the horizon, with plenty of storage it's something I'm worried about. So much so, as I laid on the beach, dozing in the sun, I mentally arranged my future laundry room. The Father Figure side-eyed me hard after hearing that, but it's the mom brain, it just doesn't turn off.</div><div><br /></div><div> And that was part of the emotional challenge of welcoming D'Garebear. It probably sounds silly, but I was overwhelmed at the thought of acquiring baby things again, even though we kept things down to a minimum. I felt a door that I had closed reopen, with diapers and baby toys to try to edge out the soccer cleats and book bags that were already cluttering up my life.
Closing that door, getting rid of all the baby things after X-Man and Cinco was a very emotional time. I cried, much more than I probably should have. I sent cute clothes off to gestating nieces and nephews but it was very bittersweet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Getting rid of D'Garebear's things, which are mostly getting donated until some new baby boy appears on the horizon, isn't emotional at all. I enjoy it. There's a great sense of satisfaction and relief. And this bothered me. Was I really this heartless and frustrated by D'Garebear's disruption of our lives?
I don't think that's it. Sure I'm writing this and watching D'Garebear systematically empty the laundry basket, babbling away to me. Discovering that if he pushes it, he can throw clothes all over the living room. I think I'm not sad to see him outgrow his clothes because each size he goes up is a little victory. He started out as a micro-preemie, so outgrowing clothing for six month olds by his first birthday is a happy accomplishment. Every bag of giveaway is another step in the right direction.
And they have been some massive steps. D'Garebear rests comfortably in the 50th percentile for his birth age, which is quite the accomplishment. Preemies are typically measured according to their "adjusted age" as if they had been born on their due date. But D'Garebear found that too easy for his Italian tummy and he went to town on all food. He's constantly worried that someone somewhere is eating and he's not in on the action. I supposed that's why he's the size he is, all his energy has gone to eating, so much so he forgot to grow hair.</div><div><br /></div><div> So now, I'm not sad to see him outgrow clothing. Everyday we get with him is a surprise. I had shut this door, and was at peace with it being closed. So I'm at peace with D'Garebear growing up. He's a fun surprise and there's something extra comforting about being able to really enjoy every step he takes growing bigger and stronger.
That's not to say that every preemie outfit he has isn't tucked away safely in a keepsake box. I'm not completely heartless. Although I stare at them and wonder how this lug of a baby ever was that small. Those NICU weeks seem a blur these days. I think the quarantine and all those extra hours home, with nowhere to go have become my chief memories of Baby D'Garebear. I just really remember Baby D'Garebear as a healthy infant. And I look forward to seeing him as a healthy toddler. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I look forward passing along his outgrown clothes. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbZSNHe49V2NFP0ltUk2PUiAaP-4pbvsQORSfTsUk9UBnX6U9qbMTNuX1MmqHr6Ygb_CGe_IOLeBQ7d0esTed1eo_PoEYvkcxUmVQQ3PWZl0qa20_Y-ptRxSxY3yl3U8Uxl-HdX6Nam4/s4032/20200816_150618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbZSNHe49V2NFP0ltUk2PUiAaP-4pbvsQORSfTsUk9UBnX6U9qbMTNuX1MmqHr6Ygb_CGe_IOLeBQ7d0esTed1eo_PoEYvkcxUmVQQ3PWZl0qa20_Y-ptRxSxY3yl3U8Uxl-HdX6Nam4/w410-h307/20200816_150618.jpg" width="410" /></a></div></div>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-38838345926819806112020-08-12T12:29:00.002-07:002020-08-12T12:29:31.257-07:00<p> X-Man dotes on D'Garebear. D'Garebear idolizes X-Man. He follows him around and laughs anytime they make eye contact. X-Man enjoys the power that comes with being the adored older brother. He also uses D'Garebear as his excuse to do absurd things for a laugh. </p><p>It got to the point that simply walking across the room elicited a laugh from D'Garebear. X-man decided to exaggerate his actions even more reveling in his power, and the envy of his siblings as D'Garebear ate up everything he did. X-Man broke into a dance, wiggling around, getting uncomfortably close to me as I held the joyous D'Garebear. X-Man shook his rear in my face. </p><p>"Stop please X-Man." </p><p>"But he thinks it's funny."</p><p>"Honey, he's a baby. He doesn't know butts are funny."</p><p>"Everyone knows butts are funny."</p><p>To compliment this argument, D'Garebear squealed with laughter and began to smack his brother's hiney. I fear the next eighteen years. </p><p><br /></p><p>X-Man is dedicated to caring for D'Garebear. He had blossomed into a loving big brother, with a great deal of patience. </p><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRXx4DKRhgQ0aOGgUepPO3OjL7DtJk5zp8AUzEujpqIHHQ6kYghdvgtfgG6Dtbm-42UFDUNAwP7yfgwav1tWYNqDu6VpfWoEqMqd7WJTwQu9LGGuenqy-Ouq3xdTr3SsRS9I4d13ff_lM/w328-h328/01944_appreciated.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="328" /></p></blockquote><p></p><p>"Mom, when I grow up I want to be a babysitter." </p><p>"I'm sure you'll be a very good one" </p><p>X-Man lifts D'Garebear, who is now a fully quarter of X-Man's body weight and loves to go limp as he's lugged around. Huffing he adds "I'm going to be a single dad when I grow up." </p><p>Of all the things to hear from your nine year old, especially as their mother, this was not expected. He catches my perplexed look. </p><p>"I don't want to get married. That's gross." </p><p>So, in the course of thirty seconds, I went from mentally patting myself on the back watching my sons interact with each other to wondering how I had so completely turned my son off the idea of a wife and mother in his future. I mean, maybe I do make it seem gross. If by gross one means organized and clean. His future wife would most likely expect him to brush his teeth and shower occasionally. And wear clean underwear if she's super demanding. </p><p>"and I'm going to live in a 'repartment'." Well, as long as you've thought this through. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><br />"Well how are you going to have a baby without a wife?" I mean, there's going to have to be a gross girl involved in this process at least somewhat. I get we haven't completely walked through the realities of reproduction in toto, but we have discussed how one needs the male and female parts to make a whole. Then again, I've seen how he listens to me so I don't know why I'm surprised. </p><p>"Oh, I'm going to go to the orphanage." </p><p>Well, then. This is a foolproof plan. </p><p>"But, don't you think it would be better to have a mom and a dad? I mean moms and dads are both important for kids right?" </p><p>Rule one of lawyering, and of parenting too, is don't ask a question you don't know the answer to. Or better yet, don't ask a question you don't want to hear the answer to. </p><p>X-Man was tiring of the conversation and walked D'Garebear over to the window. He let out a long sigh. </p><p>"Fine, I'll get him a stepmother." </p><p><br /></p><p>Well then. I guess that's that. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </p>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-3115674329957040192020-08-04T16:45:00.001-07:002020-08-04T16:45:10.389-07:00<div class="separator"><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZAaJpCP4z21_y5QeHksXqcimIrUDEgNgezhT0bvip0c3WyZNiO80bNxTIsTsp7y6SsM5nPHL8wNG_O2IDNBNKlfIvIwmCX-B57dhWTPZ9hBTFmp4iTMXzWOD8f9vdL5Koff1ScbU2fJg/w320-h320/01852_bail.jpg" width="320" /></div></div>One might ask how it is that I spent the entire quarantine not blogging. As there should be a plethora of material. My official line is "well behaved children rarely make for interesting blogging" and I'm sticking with it. <div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In truth, it's been pleasant and fun to have so much downtime. By the end of April the novelty had worn off. But the end of May, both Baby and Baba were demanding to return to soccer. Because I controlled that. X-Man has been fretting about trick or treating already. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The quarantine had clarified how absolutely necessary a larger house is for the sanity of us all. Our pre-quarantine lives were extremely busy. At least twice a month there was a three hour, one way, commute for soccer. Even the "local" games would be an hour away. For the young kids, their activities were much more local, but every weekend had activities. So the father figure and I were gone for the majority of every weekend. During the school day, there would be a good chunk of the day when just Mac and Cinco were home with me. But come shut down, during the rainy spring, we realized we really were living on top of each other. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So of course, the reasonable approach, just months from taking on college tuition payments, is to increase our mortgage payments significantly. Oh and Mac went ahead and jumped on the braces train because.....why not? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So that's quarantine life. Boring and crowded. And spendy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">D'Garebear thrived during quarantine. The lack of activities meant an increase of attention on him. And that suited him just fine. He repaid his fans by increasing his talents and mobility. Cinco turned seven during the lock down, so the experience of watching a newborn grow and mature was a fairly unfamiliar experience for the siblings as a whole. Even Baba and Baby were surprised to see how young D'Garebear was when he figured out how to garner attention, whether it was fake crying or squawking. X-Man and Cinco had precious little baby experience and found each new development fascinating. And also necessary to fight over who saw what first, for whom D'Garebear was performing and who D'Garebear likes more. (hint, it's whoever is giving D'Garebear whatever he wants in the moment.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">D'Garebear has started to object loudly when ever I leave the house. At first I thought it was a long delayed separation anxiety, as I hadn't actually left him much in the previous months. Any sort of jingle of keys and he'd start bellowing, and chasing me down as quickly as one can on all fours. I tried to distract him by taking him upstairs, but he was wise to my ways. He'd stand at the large living room window crying as I left. But, then he started reacting this way when anyone left, not just mom. Even if they were just getting something from the car, or getting the mail. It seemed that D'Garebear had rejected the quarantine that had been imposed on him since birth and become quite the social butterfly. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Indeed, today I finally made the connection. D'Garebear does love the leave the house. Because he misses woman in masks fawning all over him. He had nine weeks of personalized attention and was loath to give it up. When he discovered that leaving the house opens up all sorts of mostly older women, wearing masks, to tell him how cute, smart and wonderful he is....well he's not one to turn adulation down. And he's back to his happy place. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He makes it worth their while. He's friendly until they look, and then he bats his large eyes at them presenting an image of innocent wonder. He's still bald as Buddha which makes him appear to be younger than he is. So then he seems amazingly advanced and that warrants even more cooing and ahhing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meanwhile I'm telling him to stop trying to eat the shopping cart, now flavored with bleach. So of course this is soul crushing for the boy, and his large eyes and protruding lower lip is basically a bat signal to the grandmas out there. He rewards their attention by offering them items from our cart. Often while I am desperately searching for various necessities like Clorox wipes. And ignoring him, which he is not pleased with. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And when I turn to check on him, D'Garebear breaks into his favorite game, and a new one to me. It's called "Pull mom's mask off and shove it in your mouth. Or at least lick as much of it as possible first. And bonus points if you then drop it on the floor." This is a great crowd pleaser. Again, mom is not amused. But I'm not bored that's for sure. </div>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-28022249329446012282020-07-31T21:56:00.000-07:002020-07-31T21:56:30.557-07:00I'm six children in. And still having new experiences. Well done D'Garebear, well done.<br />
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The father figure had surgery and was off for eight weeks. During that time, the dog had surgery as well, just to remain in good standing with the family. She had a tumor on her ear, and a large portion of her ear, removed. The father figure handled all the prep work, and actual surgery but returned to work before her post operative visit. Which left me responsible for getting the doggie stitches out. The dog was ready to exit the cone of shame with which she was wreaking havoc on the Christmas tree ornaments. And I was ready to stop seeing my ornaments break. D'Garebear is still an infant, this is my one bye year when it comes to ornament destruction. Or so I has assumed. Never assume.<br />
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Of course the father figure made the appointment for late in the afternoon, when Baby and Baba were off at martial arts, something the father figure has insisted his little girls learn, insisted from the moment of their births. My point being, this is all the father figure's fault.<br />
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Mac is a responsible young man who is comfortable watching X-Man and Cinco for limited amounts of time. Part of his responsibility is his recognition of his limitations. He has said he doesn't feel ready to watch D'Garebear and I'm quite comfortable with his assessment his abilities. X-Man and Cinco happily sit on the couch and watch movies or play video games while I'm gone, D'Garebear, awesome as he is, is not yet that sort of team player. The point here is that I ended up heading off to the vet with an eighty pound golden retriever and an infant.<br />
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The dog was excited to go, but also perplexed that I was driving her somewhere that didn't involve the other small persons. I couldn't put her in the back of the SUV as I typically do as the father figure decided to stash Christmas presents there. I didn't want her in a confined space with D'Garebear, so I helped her lumber in the passenger seat. I walked around to the driver's side, opened the door and discovered the dog sitting in my seat. She had crawled over the center console, smeared her wet muddy feet all over everything in the front of the car and plopped herself in my seat. So I had to push her back her side, spreading the mud even more. <div><br /></div><div>She was clearly aware something was up and wasn't about to endure it alone. So she finagled her head so she could lay on my lap. Which is exactly what you want when it's dark and rainy. But, having endured surgery just a few months earlier, I indulged her. Also, the dog is really good at not understanding English when she chooses not to. So, like another kid. So there I was, parking in the vet parking lot when I realized I had a dog and a baby to wrestle in. The dog was not interested in going anywhere as she realized we weren't at a park or the river. Not sure how she knew we were at the vet, but the dog who didn't understand English could now read the sign. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGnr6zPUCbvXx5rhiUTG0iZk8wq1moJ12Bkqo5_r2nFYVxIs37dxzTuW7bmNpJGVP-0WIAyFWodcX2slley2_LwWmwiVhFxBZ6mkTdXJ30Lu-e-22nKos2a2B8Gd0sqXs9HpnGpjo6Es/s750/funny-comics-cats-dogs-differences-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGnr6zPUCbvXx5rhiUTG0iZk8wq1moJ12Bkqo5_r2nFYVxIs37dxzTuW7bmNpJGVP-0WIAyFWodcX2slley2_LwWmwiVhFxBZ6mkTdXJ30Lu-e-22nKos2a2B8Gd0sqXs9HpnGpjo6Es/s320/funny-comics-cats-dogs-differences-19.jpg" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I had to make a decision, perhaps not based on the best metrics but based on what I needed to survive. I took D'Garebear, sleeping peacefully in his car seat, out first. covered him and put his on the ground in the parking lot. I then dragged the unwilling literate dog out of the car. And lifted the baby's seat. </div><div><br /></div><div>The dog sat. And refused to move. I don't know if you've ever tried to drag a limp eighty pound dog with a heavy car seat hanging in the crook of your arm. I don't recommend it. It's hard and annoying. Especially when it's man's best friend refusing to cooperate. I'll spare you the details but Santa wasn't happy with my language. </div><div><br /></div><div>We reached the door which presented it's own problems. I had to hold the leash with two hands as the dog was still desperately holding to the Newtonian concept that an object at rest remains at rest. With a large unwieldy car seat swinging back and forth, well it was about comical. Although I wasn't laughing. If you thought someone inside would assist, well you would think. I managed to get my foot in the door, quite literally, my knee played a role as well and pushed my way in. The dog continued to sit, knowing she simply had to out wait the closing door. She didn't think I would sacrifice the child carrier in my battle of wills with her. But I was past caring what anyone else thought. Most especially the dog. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finally entering the clinic, another customer observed "You have your hands full." I gave him my best "nice to meet you Sherlock" look and sat down. The dog followed me sheepishly and laid down. She was freshly wet and muddy due to her antics in the parking lot. The result was a trail of muddy water leading to my chair but I was past caring. We sat catching our breath, well except for D'Garebear who was still sleeping. I had his carrier on the floor so I could rock it with my foot while still grasping the dog's leash with both hands. The dog seemed resigned to her fate. </div><div><br /></div><div>When they called her name, she perked up and decided she still had some fight in her. Or flight. She opted for hide. Behind the baby carrier. She nosed my foot away and firmly believed she was out of sight hiding behind the car seat. I moved the car seat, she moved. She attempted to push herself behind my legs to add a cloak of invisibility to her attempts. At this point, the tech took her leash. The dog gave me a pathetic look realizing the jig was up and shuffled off. </div><div><br /></div><div>She pranced out five minutes later, stitch free and greatly relieved. Leaving was quite uneventful, as we all were happy to get ourselves out of there. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, the dog used a baby as a shield. Because that's our fierce dog. Her bark could shake the walls, but she didn't even have a bite. </div><div>
<br /></div>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-51569297900065503022019-11-26T10:03:00.001-08:002019-11-26T10:03:27.540-08:00Oh yes, Thanksgiving. Oh 2019, my annus horribilis. The year has been so overwhelming and difficult. Thankfulness seems distant right now.<br />
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And yet, there is nothing quite like a difficult year to show you how blessed you are. How many wonderful people are in your life, and part of what makes them so wonderful is the quiet nature of their kindness. It's just a reminder that we're surrounded by wonderful people. From every aspect of our lives.<br />
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My baby sister was diagnosed with Dramatic Miley <span style="font-family: inherit;">Cyrus</span>, otherwise known as dermatomysitis- hence the nickname-last year. It took a heavy toll on her, and her family. So the rest of us jumped in to help her little family. Some, not surprised to find themselves twelve weeks pregnant, were in better moods while assisting. But leaving your family to help another usually comes with burdens others have to carry. So while I was helping my sister, a fellow soccer mom drove Baby the six hours to Spokane for a game, put her up in a hotel and fed her, so the father figure could maintain the weekend schedule for the other kids. The few friends I mentioned my pregnancy to, in text form "The father figure knocked a woman up, and to make it worse, it's me" were supportive and sympathetic and understood and respected the myriad of feelings I was working through.<br />
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During a particularly dark period of my pregnancy, I opened up to a evidence based, faithful science group on Facebook, comprised of women across the globe. The result....my first online shower. The father figure's face as he stumbled over nearly thirty boxes from Amazon was one of panic, until I reassured him I hadn't been engaging in retail therapy. I have a diaper fund on Amazon, waiting for the panicked late night "we're out of diapers" terror. Of course, I haven't had to use it yet, due to the boxes of diapers they sent me. Clothing, blankets, gift cards came pouring in from people I only knew online. In a group I hadn't participated in all that much, as my life was too busy. Ladies saw someone in need a happily jumped in to help. It didn't matter they didn't know me in "real life." The moment my life got very real, they were there, with real help.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRFllsC45MNveJ2wctCt4oyYFX9lwFgyTA-r7KZbDGH6VL1xKK57-2_N4wtodcc6mpsg_SqII-gJwVeJBnEwRTW_uQgYuhEh8XSSNTEk2RJ3P6KBDtZVNJU-9-QPk8BQHp_9j4QiF5wsk/s1600/no-man-is-a-failure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRFllsC45MNveJ2wctCt4oyYFX9lwFgyTA-r7KZbDGH6VL1xKK57-2_N4wtodcc6mpsg_SqII-gJwVeJBnEwRTW_uQgYuhEh8XSSNTEk2RJ3P6KBDtZVNJU-9-QPk8BQHp_9j4QiF5wsk/s320/no-man-is-a-failure.jpg" width="320" /></a>And then D'Garebear arrived. Once people realized that indeed I had partially gestated a child, the help came from everywhere. Friends helped finish the kitchen remodel that had sent me over the edge into lethal blood pressure levels. Friends started meal trains and fed my family for weeks. People I babysat decades ago, gave me baby gear and clothing. Neighbors came and did yard work.<br />
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I grew up in a lovely little neighborhood. The type of neighborhood that leaves happy memories of adventures with neighborhood kids and failure to remember how small the houses were. But the growing and maturing families required most of us to move away. We were able to keep in touch with a couple of families, social media helped us connect with another. And those families who were invited to our birthday parties and we trick-or-treated with, they all brought food. Multiple times. They brought clothes and diapers and baby carriers. They brought gourmet meals. Meals my children wolfed down.<br />
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We're a soccer family. And when I say family, I really do mean it. When I announced D'Garebear's birth on social media, my phone blew up with messages from various soccer teammates. Most of whom had me listed as "Baby's Mom" in their contact lists. This included former teammates as well. They drove meals to our house, met us at various games and practises with food, visited us in the NICU, sent baby gifts and joyfully welcomed D'Garebear to the pitch. There's a reason why current and former teammate families comprise such a significant portion of my Christmas card list.<br />
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People from church, who I barely know, brought meals and gifts. Someone who only knew me from this blog brought dinner, and her own story of struggling with preeclampsia. A priest friend flew up to visit, just to make sure I was really OK and being honest about how serious the situation was. Others sent notes, one writing the kids encouraging them to care for their new brother and me. Clever folks sent grubhub gift cards, to make meals easy for Baba as she held down the fort while the father figure worked and kept the magnificent health insurance which provided excellent care to D'Garebear and peace of mind for me. Family members kept up the encouraging comments on pictures shared, boosting my spirits and helping me to focus on the positive throughout the long haul.<br />
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The Pater Familias, my father, found himself in an interesting position this summer. The Mater Familias was several states away, caring for Grandma the Great. So he was on the parental duty and the Gruber-grandpa uber-position. He made nearly daily visits to the NICU to see his namesake and kept the family updated with multiple pictures. Modern technology made facetiming the Mater Familias and Grandma the Great possible. Baba showed that she is quite the young lady, griping to me that no one cleans the house except her when I'm not home, but she assumed the burden of responsibility for both her siblings and the upkeep of the house. And she did it all while winning a summer soccer tournament, remaining on the varsity soccer team and keeping her 4.0. D'Garebear has no shortage of role models in his home.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptZNKpM0Uieu678GYsVckdJlEo1O3NqkOqcWgsGCWHP8hs1VDd27_FmnJ0sX6KqTMOtZm1hLNJjzci87wKtvNAXrQ1RAsM2ZFv56psgAxjilpdf_IGb80zqR1bjxkQwLS0DNS3fIWr3Y/s1600/20191126_091244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptZNKpM0Uieu678GYsVckdJlEo1O3NqkOqcWgsGCWHP8hs1VDd27_FmnJ0sX6KqTMOtZm1hLNJjzci87wKtvNAXrQ1RAsM2ZFv56psgAxjilpdf_IGb80zqR1bjxkQwLS0DNS3fIWr3Y/s320/20191126_091244.jpg" width="180" /></a>I come from a long line of remarkable and strong women. Women who broke barriers. I am proud to follow in their footsteps. I like to think of myself as competent and capable. I have a crazy life but I like to think I can juggle it all. But I can't. And I shouldn't. It's not that anyone else is responsible for my life or the lives I have welcomed in it. It's just that I shouldn't be afraid to let my facade down, to let people help when the need is there. There's the saying "It takes a village to raise a child." I see the truth in that, every child needs a loving and supportive home. And that home can only be built with a community that supports the family throughout the difficult times. I admit I felt sheepish accepting meals and help from others. It felt like admitting I was weak or I had failed. But I realize now, it takes a certain strength, or at least honesty, to admit you can't do it all. And there might just be times in your life where you shouldn't do it. But only the kindness and compassion of others will allow you to let your guard down. To be surrounded by people who care enough to help you when in your moments of weakness, without needing you to ask, well that's an incredible gift. And a gift no words can properly describe nor justly thank.<br />
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The father figure's Italian grandma used to say "<i>beer makes milk</i>" but she would also say "<i>every baby brings a loaf of bread.</i>" And as with most things she said, she wasn't wrong. D'Garebear's birth literally brought loaves of bread to our door, but it also brought the greater gift, the recognition of how rich our lives are. How wonderful the world he was born into is.<br />
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Thankful isn't strong enough a word.<br />
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<br />Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-38942030492508597202019-11-24T13:19:00.002-08:002019-11-24T13:19:41.962-08:00D'Garebear came home at nine weeks of age. He's been home for nearly two months now, which explains the lack of blogging on my part.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13Z40wNYJDythQB7-pdpRlGGm9n0V3UVw6Vh8JS_QMO5n9_Xc1x2HanwsRHCAFhhvCaCdIJPN-Hm9_UrZWAYreKNYo2io53Swgt1vi0_dQg-I_aNFL75tTBe0zTYRvjXf33-6zsdgsF4/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13Z40wNYJDythQB7-pdpRlGGm9n0V3UVw6Vh8JS_QMO5n9_Xc1x2HanwsRHCAFhhvCaCdIJPN-Hm9_UrZWAYreKNYo2io53Swgt1vi0_dQg-I_aNFL75tTBe0zTYRvjXf33-6zsdgsF4/s1600/download.jpg" /></a></div>
It's an interesting experience. D'Garebear was due on October 27th, so he's not quite a month old. And yet he's been home for six weekish. We're told to treat him as if he was born on his due date, so to expect him to act as a newborn although he is nearly four months old. That's all well and good, but I'm ready for a four month old sleeper. This extended new born thing is for the birds. Young birds at that.<br />
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Molly, our Golden Retriever, has adjusted to the change in the family quite well. Ever the team player, she too had surgery, just last week. As D'Garebear, Father Figure and I managed to max out our family deductible for the year, she kindly went ahead and added vet bills to the mix. Goldens are especially prone to cancer, so we had a mass removed from her. She's recovering well, perhaps regretting her desire for more attention from us.<br />
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I hadn't even lacked for thing for my kids to fight over. They are nothing if not creative when it comes to this. Cinco and X-Man fight over who gets to look at D'Garebear. Baby and Baba fight over who gets to hold D'Garebear. And Mac simply is trying to stay out of the way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3__ZXzqNgc0iEMlrDm7Vr3j5zWUZx9otcNufZNN2wYsqahMESQd8wdzGr8B-eMzf1LipfFB8BuovadhLZTlaUTtEeWFbPbQoyfOEHdPtAyhd63WEjfYTmP0dJg4uIlKWupLW_RnaqaJM/s1600/download+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3__ZXzqNgc0iEMlrDm7Vr3j5zWUZx9otcNufZNN2wYsqahMESQd8wdzGr8B-eMzf1LipfFB8BuovadhLZTlaUTtEeWFbPbQoyfOEHdPtAyhd63WEjfYTmP0dJg4uIlKWupLW_RnaqaJM/s1600/download+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a>Baba stated very clearly, before D'Garebear arrived, that she was uninterested in holding him, or having much to do with him. Her indifference stemmed mostly, I assumed at the time, from her irritation at her parents for creating him in the first place. I told her that was fine, Baby could hold him and she could clear the house while I ran other kids to various activities. Basically the routine we had before. She gladly agreed, we share the same personality trait that clutter causes anxiety. Cleaning is therapeutic. If I was the kind of person who likes to make others eat their words, I'd enjoy pointing out that I do all the cleaning these days as Baba lays on the couch with D'Garebear. If I leave him in his swing, I'm liable to reenter the room to a missing baby, up sleeping on Baba as she does homework. Baby, who was excited for D'Garebear's arrival is slightly irked by this change in plans. I'm mostly amused, but somehow it seems to take both of them to care for D'Garebear. And an amazing amount of cleaning is not getting done.<br />
Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-69242777282827085532019-09-26T09:39:00.000-07:002019-09-26T09:39:02.071-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRKqXnnnLa-cygSk_xGb7Unc06BeSdHqb6ERNQatG7VeQ8qy_HGlAW8dJTtWHt4dfisaNATo9YJaAk-LwNCD53niy73RXYQnJX01EOc0O19Ky_lcWTbjSezc5KuncSE38_YbQ31WqF7Q/s1600/C024200-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRKqXnnnLa-cygSk_xGb7Unc06BeSdHqb6ERNQatG7VeQ8qy_HGlAW8dJTtWHt4dfisaNATo9YJaAk-LwNCD53niy73RXYQnJX01EOc0O19Ky_lcWTbjSezc5KuncSE38_YbQ31WqF7Q/s320/C024200-2.jpg" width="320" /></a>I have been in hospital every day for the last 50 days. The father figure decided to shake things up and go ahead and have his surgery in a different hospital than D'Garebear. In a different state. Well, it wasn't really the father figure's decision but I'm holding him responsible anyway. I'm also not really winning any awards for my sympathetic care giving abilities. The father figure was anxious about getting a spinal as a aide to pain relief after surgery. I rolled my eyes at his nerves, having received three myself, while bringing his children into the world. The last one was just weeks ago. Not to mention, his as administered after he received a sedative, not something they give laboring women. Nor did he have to endure contractions while being jabbed in his spine.I don't really score keep, but I forgot my breast pump at home so my discomfort level will rival his before the day is done.<br />
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Two different hospitals in two different states. If that doesn't sum up 2019 for me, I'm not sure what would.<br />
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D'Garebear is continuing to grow and is remarkably healthy. He's also mastered the all important skill, guilting mom. I visit him consistently, every day. Well except for the days that his father has surgery in another hospital. I keep myself on a very consistent schedule, for his sake. And D'Garebear is putting that consistency to his use. He is awake when I arrive most days, staring pitifully at the open door, waiting for me to arrive. And it does pang my mother's heart to see him waiting. Of course he promptly falls asleep for the next three hours while I am there. He consistently wakes up right as I am getting ready to leave, again staring at me with wide open eyes. To top it off, he decided to forget how to breathe as I was trying to leave the other day. All sorts of alarms and monitors went off and he stayed looking serene and slightly judgmental. When I explained to him that I still had to pick up X-Man from school, oxygen or no, he decided to resume breathing. But he got me to apologize several times.<br />
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D'Garebear seems ready for the real world.<br />
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Cinco was uninterested in losing her position as youngest and tyrant of the family. It's pretty clear that she won't be surrendering the tyrant position to D'Garebear, but she has reconciled herself to his existence. She's moved past resenting him to assuming she knows how best to care for him. She corrects me as I hold him, pushes my hands away because "I know what he wants" and critiques my diaper changing techniques. She's also appointed herself his personal shopper/stylist. I'm enjoying watching her come into her own as older sister, but I do have to admit that I worry for D'Garebear. He's in for a micromanaged life. Cinco is nothing if not imperious when it comes to what she thinks she knows.<br />
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Cinco was convinced she not only knew how to change diapers, she could do it better than I did. This was before D'Garebear gave a master class in how to void your entire body weight worth of poop while your mother changes your diaper. Or diapers as it were. She decided quickly there were somethings she was meant to supervise rather than do.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_cmLDCLC3pxTvj0c3ilU-do9CJ5474mUQzKbLtPynFjOr5vhAtK-Ffrb14ZCv7qUblnpLMSPDSR0vHiEH-8fFQVwn6MRZTUtMSmFbw83tNp3j5Fsw9l7yc3qnF7yTCHcZNFlAivzNbkg/s1600/3475994202_f1be575b2f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="500" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_cmLDCLC3pxTvj0c3ilU-do9CJ5474mUQzKbLtPynFjOr5vhAtK-Ffrb14ZCv7qUblnpLMSPDSR0vHiEH-8fFQVwn6MRZTUtMSmFbw83tNp3j5Fsw9l7yc3qnF7yTCHcZNFlAivzNbkg/s320/3475994202_f1be575b2f.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
So life continues. I'll shuttle between hospitals while hissing threats at the other children to refrain from getting any fancy ideas for attention themselves. Although, once you've knocked the deductible out of the park for the year, is there any reason to just not throw anything else in the mix?<br />
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Geeze, I'm really tempting fate with that one.Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-54674709102099226002019-09-12T13:18:00.004-07:002019-09-12T13:18:41.287-07:00"Mom? Can I have the honor of feeding D'Garebear?"<br />
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I admit, wasn't ready for X-Man's question.<br />
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"Uh, yeah, eventually sure I think you could help him eat."<br />
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"But I wanted the honor of feeding D'Garebear!!! Why can't I feed him?"<br />
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I should have seen Cinco's outburst coming.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFf8bLSX_VdAGQRSWk95sFiWHMeKsIZ77SnBRYPJ4pfUSExuSZo2eJ40s8Meq8m4NY3p5dtKOAntzOU_RMAfW-2wwnNOsiQk_Vi8FRVsUiMB1IUjUmQloK0AWXQkGrpsk1ME0SpqTAW0M/s1600/download+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFf8bLSX_VdAGQRSWk95sFiWHMeKsIZ77SnBRYPJ4pfUSExuSZo2eJ40s8Meq8m4NY3p5dtKOAntzOU_RMAfW-2wwnNOsiQk_Vi8FRVsUiMB1IUjUmQloK0AWXQkGrpsk1ME0SpqTAW0M/s1600/download+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a>"I asked first! It's my honor!" X-Man was irritated.<br />
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"But I want to too! It's no fair!!" Cinco was outraged. A fairly common state of being for her.<br />
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I attempted to play mediator.<br />
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"Well D'Garebear will eat often there will be plenty of opportunities for you both to feed him."<br />
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"NO! I ASKED FIRST!!!"<br />
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Cinco just started to look amazingly forlorn.<br />
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"You're good giving D'Garebear his binky, maybe you can have the honor of giving him his binky."<br />
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Why won't anyone ask for the honor of changing his diaper? Or the honor of getting up with him at two am? Or the honor of making him clean his room....well I can see them jumping on that bandwagon down the road.<br />
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Quivering sigh "But WHY can't I have the honor of feeding him?"<br />
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Where do they get this stuff?<br />
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"D'Garebear isn't even home yet, we'll worry about who feeds him when later. Maybe when we need to feed him."<br />
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X-Man had still been paying attention, despite my hopes "And then I'LL have the honor of feeding him!"<br />
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"BUT MOM!!!!"<br />
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And clearly Cinco and X-Man have adjusted to the newest member of our family.<br />
<br />Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-23390311052315952062019-09-06T10:28:00.004-07:002019-09-06T10:28:43.495-07:00D'Garebear is establishing rolls on his arms. We are swimming along.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_pu4sspdBUgXr0mQhuxhTcMR_TdZZTXPer0Y9-FMMB4mU4wb4zQCFNqxQTts0YFUfvVWHrM5r_MoA19pH0pSBfNuyyXMsZJUPq3-Pm4e4GPLmGueWmpZJzcAEoxJpUStuJpplgEN-bFM/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_pu4sspdBUgXr0mQhuxhTcMR_TdZZTXPer0Y9-FMMB4mU4wb4zQCFNqxQTts0YFUfvVWHrM5r_MoA19pH0pSBfNuyyXMsZJUPq3-Pm4e4GPLmGueWmpZJzcAEoxJpUStuJpplgEN-bFM/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a>Cinco is partaking in NICUschooling. It's like homeschooling, only it's done in the NICU. For those people who just aren't challenged enough by homeschooling. Or, for the parent who feels the need to school in semi-public in order to prevent meltdowns. And by prevent meltdowns, of course that only applies to the mother.<br />
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Cinco has mastered the art of looking forlorn and miserable with a single tear sneaking out of her large brown eyes. I have mastered the art of rolling my eyes at her and saying "suck it up buttercup." Mostly when it comes to reading. Because I make her read and she thinks that's a cruel punishment more befitting a totalitarian regime. Then again, I've read the BOB books, more than once. They are fairly tedious.<br />
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Cinco also doesn't cry, she squeaks. And the weight of the entire world rests on her shoulders as she is forced to read "bat, cat, fog, log." Ok, she might have a point, it is painfully uninteresting. (side note, I just spent 45 seconds trying to delete an errant period, turns out it was a random speck on the screen, no wonder the child doesn't trust me to educate her.) Well it's uninteresting except for seeing how cruelly oppressed Cinco is by the English language.<br />
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X-Man really wants to be homeschooled. I told him once he stops having meltdowns at school, he can be homeschooled. Cinco really wants to go to school. I told her once she stops having meltdowns during homeschooling, we'll talk. I see it as a win-win.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ug_sqsYpBqUX4JOAPLeZyo67MjopaNUPfQD4PRqlDLUJd-1K-Hbg26oa_YE4cZWFCS8oqdJuRjMxBdwLecy9j3DrIceuqizWlrkCRmvwV9oxJ9Tlsh05ATKY2E0D_Y-ZmU3csGUQbA8/s1600/download+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ug_sqsYpBqUX4JOAPLeZyo67MjopaNUPfQD4PRqlDLUJd-1K-Hbg26oa_YE4cZWFCS8oqdJuRjMxBdwLecy9j3DrIceuqizWlrkCRmvwV9oxJ9Tlsh05ATKY2E0D_Y-ZmU3csGUQbA8/s320/download+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>Baba is awash in English lit books. Right now she's reading The Scarlet Letter. Shockingly, I had extremely strong opinions on just about everything I read, especially in high school. And my opinions were so forceful, they alarmed my mother. Well probably more the fact that I was, and still am, incapable of any sort of nuance view. But I never let that stop my rantings about various characters. And one in particular I remember Arthur Dimmesdale, from the Scarlet Letter. First off, his name is Dimmesdale, and boy is he dim. And worthless. I never bought the whole, Hester Prynne, strong independent woman, fell for wimp-head Dimmesdale. The willing suspension of disbelief that required was a bridge too far for me. He was nothing except annoying. Which explains Pearl, who herself was bizarrely irritating too. Hester should have sent her to live with Dimmesdale. Now that would have been a book I enjoyed reading. Since Hester had the time to bedazzle a scarlet A, one does wonder why she never made a pair of man pants for Dimmesdale. Yes yes, he was probably too weak to put them on, but it was worth an effort.<br />
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And why didn't a branch just fall on Chillingsworth's head during one of his walks through the woods? Also, why not Dimmesdale? Seriously, how did those two not set off every hinkey gut feeling of the neighbors? Speaking of the neighbors, they did give me my favorite line every from anything I read in highschool <span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #292c2e; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">“</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="color: #292c2e;">Behold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter; and, of a truth, moreover, there is the likeness of the scarlet letter running along by her side! Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!</i><span style="color: #292c2e;">” </span>WHO TALKS LIKE THAT??? My mother tolerated a larger amount of mockery of that line than she typically did. Which just goes to show you, the whole situation was absurd. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The hard part now, is that in theory, I'm grown up and mature and am supposed to be helping to educate Baba. I've bitten my tongue more than once while going over her study questions with her. But last night I lost all control and blurted out "How much do you hate that pansy Dimmesdale?" She responded "Who?" Apparently her response to fictional characters she doesn't like is to not think about them. A novel approach. </span>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-73730407503196353392019-08-29T17:09:00.002-07:002019-08-29T19:01:34.000-07:00Life's happenings. X-Man has a "special rock." He keeps it in the freezer. Somehow this makes sense to him, which is all that matters. He recently acquired another "special rock." Which he introduced to his "special rock" and its sister rock. Again, this all seems to make sense to him. In case you were wondering, they are both actually rocks.<br />
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I did find him laying on the kitchen floor one summer day with his "special rock" resting on his forehead. After a long satisfied sigh, he returned the rock to the freezer and ran back outside.<br />
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X-Man is nothing if not his own person. In Kindergarten his class wrote a book about their favorite animals. X-Man selected the vampire squid to write about. His teacher had to google if it was a real animal or not, no judgment from me, I had to do the same thing. The book is rather amusing, pages of elephants, horses, dogs and a vampire squid. His teacher said in the twenty years she had been doing that particular project, this was indeed the first appearance of the vampire squid.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbX-8JCiR2QSKDtF2x48lkBKmIGKV-qapeLS7fE-6tRRy3JZP5utGDDrNJ8GNkDxX4oQUJ-CjjA4RBv1GiP17IAOlvaH6pxET5RmFaq8E2xZEgBYMohJnLqkl2LueYLJzvQzTCZyYmb84/s1600/bf646bb8f4d3e0be399f700e8dda2467.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbX-8JCiR2QSKDtF2x48lkBKmIGKV-qapeLS7fE-6tRRy3JZP5utGDDrNJ8GNkDxX4oQUJ-CjjA4RBv1GiP17IAOlvaH6pxET5RmFaq8E2xZEgBYMohJnLqkl2LueYLJzvQzTCZyYmb84/s320/bf646bb8f4d3e0be399f700e8dda2467.jpg" width="227" /></a>X-Man continued his unique streak through to first grade. This time he was working on his own book, in the style of Eric Carle. All the students were supposed to pick an insect or arachnid to write about. X-Man picked......a cockroach. He explained to his teacher that he liked cockroaches because they could eat a lot and sleep during the day. Pretty much his ideal life. And again, his teacher said that in the eighteen years she had been doing this project, this was the first appearance of a cockroach.<br />
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So it really should not have come as a surprise that X-Man had an opinion as to what D'Garebear should be named. He immediately declared that if he was having a little brother he would name him "Robin." Robin because, of course, X-Man would henceforth be referred to as "Batman." He's stayed wedded to this idea as the weeks roll on, correcting himself when he uses his brother's given name. Given the tenacity D'Garebear has already exhibited, I'm not sure how long he'll tolerate being X-Man's sidekick.<br />
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In case you were wondering, X-Man has shown no interest in ever being seen as Mac's sidekick. Both boys kowtow to Cinco's every whim. Which I'm sure led to her sincere opposition to the dynamic being disrupted by one D'Garebear.<br />
<br />Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-71273306767833134802019-08-22T10:50:00.000-07:002019-08-22T14:38:44.688-07:00I tried to be the Perfect Mother. I Almost Died. Part CSo, my attempts to be all things and all places for my children really just resulted in high blood pressure. Really high blood pressure. In all honesty, there really should be a "has children syndrome" to go hand in hand with the "white coat syndrome." That just seems responsible.<br />
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<div>
So, I had an appointment for a geriatric ultrasound. You know, the kind they do when you are old and still having babies. To make sure that as your mind fails you still can grow responsibilities. I was tempted to postpone it, I had a good reason. It was the best day to take the kids to the fair, like I had told them I would. My ultrasound was right at noon, which was a highly inconvenient. The father figure said it was absurd to postpone it. This is important for later. </div>
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Mac, X-Man and Cinco were up at their grandparent's house. Because we had destroyed our kitchen. Our home is nice, but small. It was small before D'Garebear showed up. After he showed up, well it became absurdly small. Even without him being present in the home. So, we decided the best thing to do as I entered my third trimester was to redo the kitchen. We redid the bathroom during my first trimester. Looking back, I think it would have been more bizarre if I hadn't developed blood pressure issues. But anyway, in our attempts to prepare the house for sale or rental, we decided to destroy it, while inviting more children in to live. We thought it through. </div>
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So, three kids were away at grandma's. Baba was off to take care of the house she was house sitting. That left Baby. So I invited her to come see her little brother at my AARPsound. And so we set off.<br />
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The geezersound went well, I thought. D'Garebear mooned us and refused to show his face, but nothing seemed amiss. Then the doctor came in. She said there were some things that she didn't like about me, well get in line lady, and she wanted me to go hang out at the hospital for a little to make sure that all was well. She admitted that she was the "Princess of Darkness" always seeing the worst possible scenario and that she was probably overreacted. I tried to reassure her and she told me everything I was telling her made her even more concerned. Well, I tried.<br />
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So we all headed over, across the street to the hospital. I encouraged the father figure to walk with me in order to lower my blood pressure. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible because I hadn't eaten yet that day. I had visions of the pleasant lunch after all the excitement. By the time I got to triage, I was rocking triple digit blood pressure readings, both systolic and diastolic. After a few of those readings, things got a bit more serious. Blood tests were started, magnesium sulfate was started and they gave me a steroid shot for D'Garebear's lungs.<br />
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When I'm uncomfortable, I resort to humor. The father figure was getting more and more anxious, and visibly so. While I was supposed to be relaxing and thinking low blood pressure thoughts. So I reminded him that there was no way I would die. God wouldn't allow it. Not because I was a wonderful person or anything. But because I would enjoy watching the father figure try to wrangle six children and trying to juggle their schedules. There's no way God would drop that much suffering in the father figure's lap while I enjoyed the spectacle. The theology is solid.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2-RXKeIA0SDKLJa5XBdsagRu1komdK-fQ0VDyLzGSXUejQhqXeVwkPiYdSq9V0f34buvEjYMUoayra5Tt5zSI3PP7_yI1FP-KTt-5K4JV_sHMoAowOh7Z64zQrlXTwhWXuo6KKypSD0/s1600/anne-taintor-memes-luxury-best-20-anne-taintor-ideas-on-pinterest-of-anne-taintor-memes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2-RXKeIA0SDKLJa5XBdsagRu1komdK-fQ0VDyLzGSXUejQhqXeVwkPiYdSq9V0f34buvEjYMUoayra5Tt5zSI3PP7_yI1FP-KTt-5K4JV_sHMoAowOh7Z64zQrlXTwhWXuo6KKypSD0/s320/anne-taintor-memes-luxury-best-20-anne-taintor-ideas-on-pinterest-of-anne-taintor-memes.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
Furthermore, I comforted the father figure by telling him is odds of finding everlasting love on a Christian dating site as a widowed father of six. He was basically a walking twenty first century Von Trapp family. He'd been inundated by starry eyed twenty somethings with visions of matching outfits and melodies. Baby understood the hilarity of the situation as well, and joined in. The father figure got so agitated he actually started pacing. Threatening to haunt the father figure and his new and improved bride, if she was more attractive than me, did not help lower my blood pressure.<br />
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Instead, they announced I was being admitted.<br />
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So the father figure took Baby home and I thought about how I was missing lunch. Those thought morphed into how I was also missing dinner. The father figure returned, with a cell phone charger for me and I expected my blood pressure to immediately lower. It did not. Even with drugs, it did not.<br />
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The "Princess of Darkness" Doctor entered the room around 6:30pm. This is important because my ultrasound was at noon. And I was hungry then. Now, I was hangry.<br />
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She told us in her blunt and straightforward way that I was very sick. Surprisingly sick, for how I looked and how active I was. My kidneys were quitting, my liver was quitting and my blood pressure was begging for a stroke. So, she said, I had an over 50% chance of having an emergency c-section that night. All depended on how my numbers reacted to the medication. And, if I didn't have the baby that night, I would be remaining in the hospital until I did, which best case scenario was at 34 weeks gestation.<br />
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I was at 28 weeks.<br />
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The father figure looked rather ill and I promptly thought, this is my kid. He'll respond well to the treatments and I'm going to end up in hospital arrest for the next six weeks. Crawling the walls. Seriously, I wasn't allowed to walk anywhere, I had the option, if my blood pressure lowered to be pushed places in a wheelchair. More importantly because they didn't know if I would have surgery, I couldn't eat. Pretty much everything was horrible.<br />
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D'Garebear cooperated and there was no c-section that night. The following morning I tried to negotiate a release, I didn't feel all that sick, what's the worst that could happen? Apparently a stroke and/or placental abruption. I was told I'd only be allowed to leave if I signed a form acknowledging I was leaving against medical advice. And I called an Uber because there was no way the father figure was going to bring me home. Meanwhile, the father figure had decided that by shooting down my plan to skip the ultrasound and taking everyone to the fair, he has saved my life. And he became just a wee bit insufferable because of this.<br />
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I stayed for two days, doing better, getting very antsy. But I also managed to get two doses of steroids in me, which caused what they call a "steroid honeymoon." I felt better, my numbers were slightly better and D'Garebear continued on swimmingly. They hoped they could get me twenty four hours past the last steroid dosage. And so, 28 hours after the last round of steroids, things started deteriorating. I got physically very ill, and developed nose bleeds. The OB on duty came in an said if things didn't improve I was most likely going to have a c-section. I was annoyed because it was almost ten pm and I just wanted to go to sleep. I felt like I had every night at home, puking before bed was just a "normal" pregnancy ritual. And then, something happened.<br />
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D'Garebear disappeared from the monitors. They had put them on an hour earlier just to check how he was doing. He had been fine. And now he was gone. Not a slow heart rate, no heart rate. Something was wildly different because three nurses burst into the room joining the OB and nurse who had been hanging out with me. I had just tried to text the father figure, but there were so many people doing things, I couldn't get my hands to work. So I called him. I wasn't sure what was happening but the business indicated something seriously amiss. The father figure answered and I told him "Things are getting interesting, you should come up." And then a nurse put an oxygen mask on me and the conversation was over.<br />
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They had me try differing positions, quickly and yet there seemed no sign of D'Garebear. Honestly, I don't know if his heart rate returned and was just slow, or what. But within three minutes, we were running down the hall. Ok, I wasn't running, I was on the bed and they were running me down. Putting a hair net on me and commenting on how calm I was.<br />
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I was calm because there was nothing else to do. This was happening. I just hoped the father figure would make it up in time because it sounded like I was going to be knocked out. Approaching the OR, D'Garebear's heart rate returned, strong and healthy. This bought time. I got a spinal instead of general. It also bought me time to think. I'd love to say I had beautiful thoughts about my son, determined to make sure he was brought into the world surrounded by peace and love. But no, that's not really what I was thinking. I was thinking "It's cold in here. I'm not wearing much in the way of clothing and there are a lot of people here." Also "this is all surreal."<br />
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The anesthesiologist was wearing a scrub cap with stormtroopers on it. I asked him if I should really accept drugs from someone from the dark side. Apparently this had never been asked of him and he found it hilarious. He repeated it for the father figure when he appeared. And then the c-section began.<br />
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It was unpleasant, but birth isn't ever particularly fun. At 11:30pm D' Garebear was brought into the world. They pulled down the sheet and I laid eyes on my son for the first time, behind a plastic screen. And I thought my little man looked rather simian. And his squeaks added to the monkey resemblance.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0sF9H24hRHyl1-PJXnLlJAjLFWy4OchKlcb03MPsDQo1HWiQQNuGGQ-_pid6xrOmIaIvR_w94aNoJG38O3t2nWJO2M3JvXw_nYRbB5oPOB-3WSkN0WBIB5LLp-ihXzdKfTJOdlFv5jo/s1600/fd459ae4e0cb991aaec35fda6bd90481_1024x1024%25402x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0sF9H24hRHyl1-PJXnLlJAjLFWy4OchKlcb03MPsDQo1HWiQQNuGGQ-_pid6xrOmIaIvR_w94aNoJG38O3t2nWJO2M3JvXw_nYRbB5oPOB-3WSkN0WBIB5LLp-ihXzdKfTJOdlFv5jo/s320/fd459ae4e0cb991aaec35fda6bd90481_1024x1024%25402x.jpg" width="320" /></a>D'Garebear was termed "floppy" when he first arrived, but the nurses said the benefits of the steroids were clear. He was two and a half pounds, micropreemie size, but solid and big for how very young he was. He was fifteen and three quarter inches long. He came ready to fight and he has been. His disapearing heart rate was due to a partial placental abruption, just what the Princess of Darkness had warned us would happen.<br />
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D'Garebear has passed the baby monkey phase and now look more like an old man. As he chubs up, his baby features become more obvious.He's not a fan of the cpap and has pulled it off a couple of times. He needs time, but he's remarkably healthy and strong.<br />
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And I just love him to pieces. </div>
Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-81706454164562425732019-08-19T19:40:00.003-07:002019-08-19T19:40:37.143-07:00I Tried to be the Perfect Mom. And I Almost Died. Part DeuxIf you are reading this to get tips on how to be a perfect mom......well I got you to click so there's that. But don't hold your breath, you'll pass out before you learn any impressive tips.<br />
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So, the thing about being pregnant is eventually you need to admit it to some people. The first people we told were the three older kids. It want something like this.....<br />
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Baba: Unimpressed and slightly annoyed. She had said last year she didn't ever want more siblings because she wouldn't really get to know them before leaving for college. It's a reasonable position. And well, she was less annoyed than me so I didn't really worry.<br />
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Baby: Super excited. Promptly volunteered to babysit "ALL THE TIME." Considering how that worked when it came to the dog, I will taking care of D'Garebear full time within a week.<br />
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Mac: As excited as Baby with less impulse control. We asked them all to not tell anyone else, so he didn't actually tell X-Man and Cinco, he just told them I <i>might</i> be pregnant.<br />
<br />
X-Man: Nearly had a stroke with excitement. Promptly assumed that the whole nine month waiting period was created by me just to annoy him. Announced that he wanted a little brother, who would be named Robin. To complement his Batman-ness, of course.<br />
<br />
Cinco: Wildly annoyed. She was perfectly comfortable in her role of youngest and queen and tyrant. Very aware the strength of the challenge coming at her and put off that she would have to take it on. Furthermore, she was insulted that while she didn't want a younger sibling X-Man wanted a baby brother and was getting what he wanted. Somehow that made everything worse.<br />
<br />
So, there we were. X-Man actually counting down the minutes to the birth, Baba serving as Vice-President to Club Denial.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aTtwRWn1RR1ESEQMFlVpXf2ipdX96ToFY7x0mpBduVIKdLymyn-8BWwtLkUSwanMi8k09-sWgvk_bEWXrOJ2OWPdG0T88uvOAqoyFiKbc4Jc0-a3kqjIpSPqRdLMU1vaQd3TjePQnwY/s1600/01463_multi-tasking-300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aTtwRWn1RR1ESEQMFlVpXf2ipdX96ToFY7x0mpBduVIKdLymyn-8BWwtLkUSwanMi8k09-sWgvk_bEWXrOJ2OWPdG0T88uvOAqoyFiKbc4Jc0-a3kqjIpSPqRdLMU1vaQd3TjePQnwY/s1600/01463_multi-tasking-300x300.jpg" /></a>Early on I knew I had blood pressure issues. I had them with every pregnancy and they were the leading reason why we had decided that Cinco would be our family's final act. And I made the assumption that being active was the best thing to do for my rising blood pressure. If I wasn't pregnant, that actually would have been true. But apparently, that's the exact opposite approach pregnant women should take. Taking the exact wrong approach to parenting has been my modus operandi so far, so at least D'Garebear can rest easy knowing that I cared for him as I had all my other kids. In the worst possible way. I'm consistent.<br />
<br />
So, I just kept life as "normal." Which meant insanity. Sixteen years into parenthood and I'm still trying to figure out how to get the "home" into "stay at home mom." All five kids were in martial arts, which meant six classes a week. We originally enrolled just X-Man and Mac as they both could benefit from the slower moving exercises. But the studio's policy is once you've paid for two students, the rest of the family can attend for free. Well not free, there's a lot of stuff you have to buy, but classes are free. As Baba is driving herself now, I wanted her to be able to beat people up so off they all went. Then all three girls are in soccer, X-Man swims and has his therapies. So, even if I had thought to take it easy, it would have been impossible. I was determined to not drop activities because I didn't want D'Garebear to be blamed for that.<br />
<br />
On top of life, I was trying to make the most of the summer. Our last summer without a baby or toddler crimping our plans. X-Man's birthday is at the end of July, so I decided we should all visit a water park. Because those are good for the blood pressure. Especially if it takes two hours to drive the to the water park. Not to say the drive wasn't fun. I got to introduce the father figure to the classic Paul Anka hit "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFHWl-ZyRAg" target="_blank">Having My Baby</a>." I'm not sure which was more enjoyable for me, watching the father figure fight off an asthma attack while laughing or Baby and Baba's faces while the dulcet sounds of "I love love love what it's doing to me" filled the car. Just in case they weren't disturbed enough by the whole situation. About fifteen minutes from the park, X-Man started wailing that he was missing his entire birthday and we needed to go home.<br />
<br />
Eventually X-Man laid eyes on the water park, realized we weren't just driving for the sake of driving. His tears stopped and the long list of all the slides and rides he had to ride on immediately began. And with his excitement, my plans to spend the day floating along the "lazy river" on an inner tube were shelved. The father figure took Cinco, who viewed all rides involving water with great skepticism. I took X-Man and spent the rest of the day climbing stairs to ridiculously tall slides. Apparently my blood pressure was not impressed.<br />
<br />
The next day I was at a soccer tournament with Cinco. It was her very first and at the end of July so of course it poured rain in the morning and was 87 degrees. It was simple enough, until I had to yell at two other coaches reminding them that they were about to come to blows over a game being played by six year olds and that their use of f-bombs was absurd. I scared them both. Cranky pregnant women serve an important role in society.<br />
<br />
I returned home without my ankles. It took three days for them to find me. Probably because the father figure decided to help me relax at home. It went something like this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWEoP7x_aXM7-h6DvuOjva7b38NGeWy_q5GQfQbv4BUifvABmXipQ9Pq17gdVCAEMOWC0LiwpsvROTJTRi8BL_v6c62JqtVqXJjkUGxHAClr0S3SewFXah66A93U7mGATtudgo_KCsDs/s1600/bf646bb8f4d3e0be399f700e8dda2467.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWEoP7x_aXM7-h6DvuOjva7b38NGeWy_q5GQfQbv4BUifvABmXipQ9Pq17gdVCAEMOWC0LiwpsvROTJTRi8BL_v6c62JqtVqXJjkUGxHAClr0S3SewFXah66A93U7mGATtudgo_KCsDs/s320/bf646bb8f4d3e0be399f700e8dda2467.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>"Lay down. Why haven't you laid down yet? Lay down. Lay down. Lay down!" </i><br />
<br />
Super relaxing.<br />
<br />
<i>"Why aren't you feet up. They need to be above your head. Here have more pillows. Keep your feet above your head. Are you eating? Why are you talking? You need to be resting!"</i><br />
<br />
I think he enjoyed this a little too much.<br />
<br />
Of course wherever I decided to rest, I was found. Inevitably I was tasked with solving a significant issue, such as getting a straw in a juice box, or gluing Mario's arm back on. And of course the father figure would get involved.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Why are you talking to your mother? Shes resting. Come here. I can do it. Leave your mom alone."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"SHE'S FIXING MY TOY! IT'S MY FAVORITE AND CINCO RUINED IT!!!" </i><br />
<i>"I DID NOT! IT'S X-MAN'S FAULT. I NEVER BREAK TOYS!"</i><br />
<br />
In case it's not clear, they were in separate rooms, yelling.<br />
<br />
When you think about it, it's really amazing my blood pressure held it together as long as it did.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-8360397990734643512019-08-16T14:20:00.003-07:002019-08-16T14:20:48.881-07:00I tried to be the perfect mom. I almost died. Part the first. It's been exactly two years and one day since I last blogged. A few things have changed. For one, I'm writing this while sitting in a NICU room.<br />
<br />
A quick update on our lives in the last two years to set the stage.<br />
<br />
Baba and Baby are both in high school now. Baba made the varsity soccer team as a freshman, which then justified the previous ten years of sportsing in my mind. (this matters for explaining my mentality later). Baba is known as "Beast Mode" on the soccer pitch herself and has hopes of making the varsity squad as a freshman herself. Although she likes the option of booku playing time should she make the JV squad.<br />
<br />
Mac is the most sensitive of all my children. He is the most aware of others needs and really is the peacemaker in the family. He's not as aggressive on the sports field, he clearly thinks his moves out and often ends up about half a second behind the action as a result. Which frustrates him, but I kinda enjoy because I can see his mind working away. He's found that martial arts is the best speed for him and he's very invested in it.<br />
<br />
X-Man. X-Man is my little hero who drives me bat guano crazy. X-Man has some sensory challenges which we have been working through in multiple therapies. His schedule is rough and busy as a result of these, but he makes the most of his opportunities. These take up a lot of our time and are the main reason I stopped blogging. His working through his various challenges is his story, not mine and he doesn't need me sharing it all over the internet. But I will say, the boy can swim something fierce.<br />
<br />
Gestated Cinco is seis now. She is basically an anime character in the flesh. She mostly uses the power of her massive brown eyes for good. Mostly. She runs the house. When she grows up, she told me she wants to be a soccer player or a nail person. Not construction, but beautification. She's very girly girl, including when she plays soccer on a boys soccer team. Efficient and to the point. She got tired of having to out run and out muscle six year old boys who REALLY didn't want a girl to out score them. So she perfected her chip shot and just took to shooting it over their heads.<br />
<br />
Oh and we added a dog the the mix. We adopted a golden retriever, who was four years old at the time. She's ideal, except the the shedding. The shedding is......insane. And I say this as mom to Baby who has ten pounds of hair on her head.<br />
<br />
And now there's D'Garebear. Who is kangarooing away as I write. Snuggled up next to my heart. Where he belongs, but where he wasn't always welcomed.<br />
<br />
The Father Figure and I have been married 18 years. We began the year with five children. We have a pretty good idea how all these tax credits ended up in our lives. I'm not the best at biology, but I do know we don't typically reproduce by spores. I say typically because well, I don't know how D'Garebear got here. Medically speaking....he couldn't have. Yet, I'm pretty sure he's real. His dirty diapers are real. I know age can do some interesting things to both the male and female reproductive systems, but spontaneously reproducing shouldn't be one of them. But whatever, the boy is here, warm and snuggly and the spitting image of the Father Figure so we all know who to blame.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWhSm6aoQRs9_BGOM1EaggA-ubKJmc38sNRK0QBLheGAOMfXKARyIsOGEJBIHWKeSMkc7pdZLVSuzM27dGu6FdjWyN7HPkkg6DyFDryycioKMtlF_oZM3W-9CZGeQJXUbF8HnZK33uRk/s1600/download.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWhSm6aoQRs9_BGOM1EaggA-ubKJmc38sNRK0QBLheGAOMfXKARyIsOGEJBIHWKeSMkc7pdZLVSuzM27dGu6FdjWyN7HPkkg6DyFDryycioKMtlF_oZM3W-9CZGeQJXUbF8HnZK33uRk/s1600/download.webp" /></a>I wish I had a better story to tell, one that involved surprise babies and happy cuddly feelings. There's a surprise baby for sure, but lots of tears and despair. Truly despair. My plate was super full, too full and I still don't know how on earth I am going to do this. Love is infinite, but time, energy and life is very finite. And my children need me. X-Man in particular needs me. But they all do. And it's hard with a big family.<br />
<br />
I wanted to be a "different" large family. I did not want my kids to "pay the price" for being one of many. As parents we all want to give our kids the world, and to make the most out of every opportunity, and just because the father figure and I chose multiply the heck out of our fertility, I didn't want our children to pay the price. I wanted them to be able to do the activities they wanted, have the freedom to explore things and in general enjoy growing up. I was determined to not make my girls substitute moms and exploit them for free labor. Considering how they do their chores around the house, this was NEVER going to actually be an issue. I didn't want them to resent or regret anything growing up. I was raised in a large family and I have great memories. I wanted them to have the same and maybe even be open to having a bigger family of their own because it was a positive in their mind.<br />
<br />
But, I have a good grasp of my limitations and I knew five children was stretching my abilities. I wasn't homeschooling all five, X-Man might be the only child in the world who actually does attend public school for the socialization. Which, well....the benefits for him still outweigh the rather alarming things he hears on the playground. But he also returns with such gems as --post a MLK lesson---"I have peach skin. Because my skin is furry like a peach." Baby and Baba take some courses at the local high school too. Because I know my limits. I write this sitting in a NICU with a sixth child. I know my limits and I abide by my limits are two different things.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnMijSpV_f5v2N75SeBWOwx8kldU0nnIGYpk1_1k4KQGbz2hu-H2hg6J_AEAVGHwYxDHONdtgJlPylZUNKN2VwkqxD_ZMqsSI4087x98RwGYv3-9DlnzOH9rXc2_lE6WTGOhconOS2qE/s1600/47694ff6-01f1-4cca-8ef3-ec76636c5922_1.07de7febbc567abb2946b0bbf0c7d1ec.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnMijSpV_f5v2N75SeBWOwx8kldU0nnIGYpk1_1k4KQGbz2hu-H2hg6J_AEAVGHwYxDHONdtgJlPylZUNKN2VwkqxD_ZMqsSI4087x98RwGYv3-9DlnzOH9rXc2_lE6WTGOhconOS2qE/s320/47694ff6-01f1-4cca-8ef3-ec76636c5922_1.07de7febbc567abb2946b0bbf0c7d1ec.jpeg" width="320" /></a><br />
So, in a nutshell, I wanted my children's lives to be perfect because they deserved nothing less. Which is an entirely reasonable life goal.<br />
<br />
So D'Garebear shows up. And I was not just unhappy, I was truly miserable. The father figure, who is not one for exaggeration, told me it was a scary dark place. Now, I realize a large part of this was due to a placenta that was actively poisoning me. Which is a relief in way. But I did not want another child in my life. Because I KNEW I could not give him what I wanted to. And I KNEW I could not give my others what they deserved.<br />
<br />
I've thought a bit about putting these thoughts to "paper" where any of my kiddos, but especially D'Garebear could find them. I've decided I should. Because some day, each and every one of them will hit a crisis in their lives. Something will go wrong. Their plans will be upended. And they will have to make a choice.<br />
<br />
I hope they choose to embrace the unknown, plow through the doubt, ignore the fear. Even if that means refusing to tell anyone they're pregnant because denial keeps the worry at bay. Even if that means forcing themselves to wear non maternity clothes, augmented with rubber bands at the waist, because if you're not in maternity clothes, you're not really pregnant. I hope they do what they need to do to keep putting a foot forward and staying in the moment. Fixing the immediate problem and believing and trusting that those greater looming issues will crest before crushing them.<br />
<br />
I hope they choose to live and love not because some kitchy barn house chic sign says so, but because there really is no other way. Nothing else matters if you can chose to will good for others in your life.<br />
<br />
And D'Garbear, you are not in this family because we needed you or we wanted you. You are in this family because Someone, before the dawn of time, saw you. He saw you, little tiny you struggling to learn to breathe on your own. He saw your frightened and worried mom, holding you in awe. He saw you, big strong man who gives X-Man a run for his money. He saw you and He called you good. And He willed the good that is you into existence. And that, my boy, is why you are here.<br />
<br />
It's not an accident that your name means "full of goodness" even though we didn't know it when we picked it.<br />
<br />
And it's not an accident that we see your presence in our lives as a gift. Not something we needed, not something we thought we were missing. But something good given to us despite our shortcomings.<br />
<br />
You're part of our family because before time, Someone saw all of us together and called it good. What more could anyone want?<br />
<br />Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-56793938474390387462017-08-14T12:55:00.001-07:002017-08-14T13:03:03.220-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
You might have noticed that I don’t really blog anymore. It’s
mostly due to the lack of toddler escapades and constant going. X-Man has a
full schedule of things that are strengthening him and really helping him.
Unfortunately, he can’t yet drive himself. Nor can any of the children drive
themselves anywhere. So that’s why I spent the weekend out of town at another
soccer tournament. I believe it was called the “Out of Our League” games. I can
home in time to be able to drive Baba to 8am conditioning for her future high
school team. So while I was sitting in the car, not exercising like I was
supposed to be, trying to figure out how to get three children to four places
at the same time, I got an email. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKeB0Yxwboio76VNW-Hkm_V38gK1WSLbTw11v-28nG1r9p9COtcCQ9GysrL_w4-JgIgi8QP9Q2RO_9R1VvgX3UwWrehRq7i0qan4BbYSwXO5dJM2cftxkoX4GbuzbART4uRT2NxUpjf8/s1600/thenug-9smVrjN0TS.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKeB0Yxwboio76VNW-Hkm_V38gK1WSLbTw11v-28nG1r9p9COtcCQ9GysrL_w4-JgIgi8QP9Q2RO_9R1VvgX3UwWrehRq7i0qan4BbYSwXO5dJM2cftxkoX4GbuzbART4uRT2NxUpjf8/s1600/thenug-9smVrjN0TS.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have done<span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> this to myself. I know. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t the email I was hoping for. I’ve gone and created
at “storyline” for myself I suppose. I have five children enrolled in fall
soccer. I have all the regrets. There was that fleeting moment where it seemed
like a good idea….I LOVE fall soccer. The weather hovers around 70 degrees, but
there’s a light breeze with just a touch of crispness in it. And who doesn’t
want to watch four year olds chase a ball around? It’s fun and cute….until the
older kids have games an hour away. And practices. Practices are the true challenges because
somehow everyone seems to practice at the exact same time in very different
locations. I have almost everything planned out….but I’m stuck waiting for an
email from X-Man’s team letting me know how big a monkey wrench they’re gonna
throw into this mess. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now I hover on edge, figuring my life is about to
become vastly more complicated but not knowing how. It’s frustrating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that was NOT the email I received. At all. Instead it
was a request from a radio station to do an interview about an article I wrote.
At 4:30am my time tomorrow morning. And I can’t remember this article, which
may or may not be an issue. But I’m assuming if they want to talk to me about “The
Vocation of Motherhood” I should remember what I said. Then again, maybe they
too misread the title and saw it as “The Vacation of Motherhood” which I did at
first and then cried. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m also guessing they are unaware of the fact that my blog
title is “Moments in Mediocre Motherhood.”
I mean, I wouldn’t really take advice from me. But that’s worthwhile
advice I suppose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I still don’t have a clue what next week’s schedule is,
but I have plans for 4am tomorrow. Provided I can find whatever it is that
inspired them to contact me. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08DmTSpaPFKk-MEpSloQRjN8ZjT28bf9U6qhRsycK3EsmfStMR-ACQlrrtQ57qF067hpOeJm3f94WDWtkubreUGOpqP8VvVfQ9vBRMm7i6wFGUOZakJJ70Tzca3Ep7MOGQ1CAZujANK0/s1600/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="480" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08DmTSpaPFKk-MEpSloQRjN8ZjT28bf9U6qhRsycK3EsmfStMR-ACQlrrtQ57qF067hpOeJm3f94WDWtkubreUGOpqP8VvVfQ9vBRMm7i6wFGUOZakJJ70Tzca3Ep7MOGQ1CAZujANK0/s320/giphy.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-61081167336234806342017-04-18T09:35:00.005-07:002017-04-18T12:59:29.120-07:00Well, it appears that the thing de jour is to rant about something current. Bonus points seem to be awarded if it pertains to things feminine. Well, I've never been one to turn down the opportunity to rant so, here's something that's been eating at me for a while.<br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_enfw27OzuGP65jKx4cQsm-zJAqK9GXX7FKRlWSMQqJfZmaf8su_9K35f0NoaEXc2zUMpy297ezelH7nQvcTeYtiDlHIb-P831ap9wPvkwfkeWY7VYY2hIUEpHr_qBSTSzV_6dY4U2E/s1600/download+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_enfw27OzuGP65jKx4cQsm-zJAqK9GXX7FKRlWSMQqJfZmaf8su_9K35f0NoaEXc2zUMpy297ezelH7nQvcTeYtiDlHIb-P831ap9wPvkwfkeWY7VYY2hIUEpHr_qBSTSzV_6dY4U2E/s200/download+%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div>
Motherhood is hard. This really is unnecessary to say. Heck, it's the reason why this blog exists. So yes, we do seem to understand that motherhood is hard. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And nowhere is this better understood than in online groups of women, well mothers anyway. There's plenty of commiseration, venting and reassurance seeki<br />
<br />
<br />
ng. Post after post begins "tell me if I'm a bad mom if I......" which of course, being a civilized (mostly) society, results in the mother be reassured that no she's not a bad mom if she feeds her kids cereal for dinner three times in one week. </div>
<div>
<br />
I admit I've been comforted by knowing that mothers I respect have hit up the drive thru on the way home. That they've allowed their kids to wear shoes with no socks occasionally. I'm reassured knowing that all moms struggle. Because, I hope, it means I'm not doing to so very badly.<br />
<br />
But there's a danger in wanting to constantly be reassured that we're not "bad moms." Maybe, sometimes, out consciences are pricking us for all the right reasons. If we have to seek out comfort, repeatedly, to be reassured that we are indeed doing it right.....maybe we aren't.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12U2Iri9CAihmYA11PCJ67fReSRmJvc2Z9dk10lj0HHvinImReNAAoTnc2_OoL0Emdf8JejrmsA2CURau89QQwJRjNrBYybp02JkpTM1dO0AxcMf-TgsQLm7RqbSflpMSUafb8v-bLiI/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12U2Iri9CAihmYA11PCJ67fReSRmJvc2Z9dk10lj0HHvinImReNAAoTnc2_OoL0Emdf8JejrmsA2CURau89QQwJRjNrBYybp02JkpTM1dO0AxcMf-TgsQLm7RqbSflpMSUafb8v-bLiI/s200/images+%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a>I don't know what it is that makes a good mom. Because I know so many of them. And they are all so different. But there are similarities that unite them all. Giving. Extreme giving. Not slash your wrists and bleed all over the floor or the cross or whatever, but genuine giving spurred on by love. Giving your all. And that looks different family to family. But it's there, always. Parents, not just mom but dad too, giving it all to their family. And not even realizing it.<br />
<br />
When we love, when we invest fully, we don't realize how much we've given. We just give. So the night of cereal dinners in front of the tv doesn't matter. If that's all we have to give. We give it and we keep on. But if we can give more, we ought to. Because we've brought these little people into our lives. They didn't ask for our drama and our insecurities. They ask for unconditional, constant love. They ask that we love them with our love languages, which is why our families look different.<br />
<br />
I know that I am not a "good mom" because I have my son enrolled in speech therapy. I know I'm not a "good mom" because I drive my kids to sports practices. I know I'm not a good mom because I've read my son's IEP. I know I'm not a good mom because I read to my kids.<br />
<br />
I'm just a mom.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjX0fwIv4bmo1HjXaUfLK98M_1cFSTqqGZ978tgqCBJWe1SVGoBiG6cGQl2PRSDgVAw8rXC4BZMBwQnIOqrfUin5hbhyqoAriihVKJkjC3zeNncZ-R80wU5X4ZRZfqVuSqgZKptxP2znY/s1600/d0b488fece041cf9e1e2ab4bda8cb556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjX0fwIv4bmo1HjXaUfLK98M_1cFSTqqGZ978tgqCBJWe1SVGoBiG6cGQl2PRSDgVAw8rXC4BZMBwQnIOqrfUin5hbhyqoAriihVKJkjC3zeNncZ-R80wU5X4ZRZfqVuSqgZKptxP2znY/s200/d0b488fece041cf9e1e2ab4bda8cb556.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
There are responsibilities we take on when we embrace motherhood. There are obligations we assume. That we raise our children in a balanced, secure and consistent environment.<br />
<br />
So sometimes that means we wear yoga pants all week and our kids are three weeks behind in their haircuts. It means that I don't keep up the blog that I loved doing. Because I've given everything I could to my little army of crazy people who are destroying my home as I type.<br />
<br />
It's not about what we do, it's about the love with which we do it.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-5550432061954789692016-12-23T08:54:00.002-08:002016-12-23T08:54:48.613-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvA6aFVQAz869H9d4hWYm-e4zatlGQVXqTd4fqHR76abgU41O3QrRk_BQGL-TWKFrYXoAPzw_r_UCu3xMZ88rsIyasqz6KEpaNW6MWxv5-wSat1NL-aCtTcBDzOkc5VDc7oG5TQqhzhw/s1600/8e410d0f29b4101794f215557b28fcc1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvA6aFVQAz869H9d4hWYm-e4zatlGQVXqTd4fqHR76abgU41O3QrRk_BQGL-TWKFrYXoAPzw_r_UCu3xMZ88rsIyasqz6KEpaNW6MWxv5-wSat1NL-aCtTcBDzOkc5VDc7oG5TQqhzhw/s320/8e410d0f29b4101794f215557b28fcc1.jpg" width="228" /></a>"<i>Mom. I want Santa to bring me a baby sister for Christmas.</i>"<br />
<br />
!!!!!!<br />
<br />
"<i>But X-Man, you already have a baby sister.</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>YEAH. ME!</i>" Cinco is not amused.<br />
<br />
"<i>No, She's not cute. I want a baby sister. Babies are so cute.</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>NO!</i>" Cinco feels strongly on the issue. "<i>I AM CUTE! DADDY SAYS!</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>Cinco is not a baby she's a girl. Maybe that bird can bring me a baby sister.</i>" Yeah keeping trying kid.<br />
<br />
"<i>X-Man, Cinco isn't a baby anymore, you're right. But she will always be your little sister, your baby sister. You don't need another one.</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>I want a baby sister!</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>NO! THERE ARE LOTS OF KIDS IN THIS FAMILY AND I AM THE LAST!</i>" Cinco is now kicking her legs rather hysterically. Baby and Baba are both doubled over in their seats in the car. Somehow Cinco's reaction is both ridiculous and totally predictable.<br />
<br />
"<i>No. I want a cute baby sister, who is so tiny and cute. And I can hold her.</i>" Ah, we're on to something. X-Man's visiting baby cousin is now officially toddling about, and completely uninterested in being held by X-Man.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, Cinco is bordering on hysterical rage. "<i>NO! I AM THE BABY! Daddy wants it that way!</i>" That's probably news to the father figure who was mentioned he would mind another baby or two. Maybe he and X-Man can work something out with Santa. I'm ok not being involved in this go around.<br />
<br />
"<i>NO!</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>YES! SANTA'S BRINGING ME A BABY SISTER!</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!</i>" Cinco is tantruming as completely as her booster seat will allow.<br />
<br />
"<i>YES!</i>" At this point it's clear, X-Man is as interested in poking the beast as he is in actually getting the super cute baby sister.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Pv2Mwz0Sf-HjXACfjcIFQChMceox6wxAlBK8UYY1YqupGmeQN4WvodACpCiXwys_cEtmq7VldcoH7Vnbg_A4HCFFDMRXxN9Rwr_b-EPC0uYJcQTwiaBRvX3dqlJY3iT-QhT2tca45lI/s1600/001_95483-500x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Pv2Mwz0Sf-HjXACfjcIFQChMceox6wxAlBK8UYY1YqupGmeQN4WvodACpCiXwys_cEtmq7VldcoH7Vnbg_A4HCFFDMRXxN9Rwr_b-EPC0uYJcQTwiaBRvX3dqlJY3iT-QhT2tca45lI/s320/001_95483-500x500.jpg" width="320" /></a>There's a fine line to walk here. One that makes clear to X-Man that Santa is not going to be bringing him a baby sister, with or without the assistance of some weird Rudolph/stork hybrid. And also one that makes it clear to Cinco it's high time she gets a grip.<br />
<br />
"<i>Well guys, babies are very special.....</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>Yeah like me!</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>Cinco, please don't interrupt Mommy when I'm talking. Babies are special, and they come to families when God wants them to. And that's why your baby sister Cinco is so special, and that's why you are so special. You came to us when it was the right time for you guys. When you were the right thing for our family. Ok?</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>Mom</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>Yes X-Man?</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>I want Santa to bring me a ukulele for Christmas.</i>"<br />
<br />
I'm not sure that's an improvement.<br />
<br />
<br />Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-75370542162728505272016-12-15T06:47:00.000-08:002016-12-15T06:47:36.356-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCUb6jT75mMcAVYHJ8BOxtG6a-8i1A-YPxij5OIA3xi8RQq7e3I8jCTOjbSYThHyVtbFa1Si9Mh4FWT411uqpVMEYmoOEwGhf_KnMdYGne4kTVNY41fKTnQU7jkh5UdabJ3n5f15OqAc/s1600/santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCUb6jT75mMcAVYHJ8BOxtG6a-8i1A-YPxij5OIA3xi8RQq7e3I8jCTOjbSYThHyVtbFa1Si9Mh4FWT411uqpVMEYmoOEwGhf_KnMdYGne4kTVNY41fKTnQU7jkh5UdabJ3n5f15OqAc/s320/santa.jpg" width="189" /></a>Celebrate with me! Only ten more days until Cinco and X-Man stop asking me every morning "Is it Christmas yet? Can we open presents? Why not? We want to open presents!!!" Insert hysterical tears here.<br />
<br />
From what I can tell, no one is overly impressed with 2016 and everyone is planning on upgrading to a new model year very soon. I certainly fall within this category. It's been a crazy time, there have been moments here and there that I think "<i>oh I should blog this before I forget.</i>" But I've become so efficient in my old age, that I forget things without even blogging them.<br />
<br />
Not that there haven't been highlights. Like within X-Man's first month of school, first month of any of our children's experience in a school, we'd been to the principal's office twice. Cinco has decided that we aren't all hopping to quite as promptly as she belives we should. I believe her exact words "<i>Everyone needs to do what I want always.</i>" Threeanger indeed.<br />
<br />
Around Halloween, it was the traditional Kindergarten field trip to a local pumpkin patch. For X-Man's sake, I accompanied him, he's an intense guy and without someone with five years of experience with him, it can be overwhelming for all the parties. We clambered on the bus and took our seats. I attempted a couple of selfies with my boy, remembered that selfies are dumb and settled back. X-Man looked across the aisle and noticed a row full of girls and yelled "<i>hi duys!!!</i>" (he is still working on making his hard g sounds). He caught himself and tried again "<i>Hello ladies!</i>" He threw in three blown kisses for good measure.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1G5WVPfeMmRZKNajIohueZ17fmZ6-sy6GW70sIG9TS01V5arm8MhU4PwqiQwz0CrHQQWiFl-PVhbPWK5nq0lNl5F66J3UBabTLeEJL_P0my1L9RSEAf_APXEP3tGT9GXJioKfy6Xa5VE/s1600/holiday-blast-image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1G5WVPfeMmRZKNajIohueZ17fmZ6-sy6GW70sIG9TS01V5arm8MhU4PwqiQwz0CrHQQWiFl-PVhbPWK5nq0lNl5F66J3UBabTLeEJL_P0my1L9RSEAf_APXEP3tGT9GXJioKfy6Xa5VE/s320/holiday-blast-image.jpg" width="230" /></a>It did not escape my notice that he deliberately choose words that he could say clearly, or that he was puting the moves several young ladies at once. I admit that my first thought was "dear lord he will be written up for sexual harrassment three weeks into his time at this school." Truly that seemed par for the course. Two of the girls ignored him and one kept giggling and say "<i>hi</i>" back. I kept a lid on the sauve moves much to her disappointment.<br />
<br />
That's my X-Man. Sweet, stubborn, charming and clever. He also has been dealing with several challenges, each of which makes life in today's busy world that much more overwhelming. Recognizing these challenges and determining the best path for him has been a time consuming process. It has also drained me emotionally. Completely. I can't fathom what he goes through daily, physically, mentally and emotionally.<br />
<br />
He has been met with scorn and judgment, by those in positions of authority who should have been caring for him. They were quickly to label, but didn't realize what looks like tantrums in toddlers and non verbal children is often actually panic attacks. He is bright boy. Smart enough to know that he is not understood, that he's not fitting into the world as his peers are and people sometimes don't like him.<br />
<br />
We started out the academic year in a private preschool. I had discussed with them his challenges and they claimed to be welcoming. Interestingly enough, I never felt comfortable leaving him there. For each of the five days that I did. Day six there was a misunderstanding with his "teacher." X-Man wanted to do something, she wanted him to do something else. I had explained that X-Man can get upset and almost hysterical when he thinks he's not being understood. It takes a couple minutes, but simply getting at his eye level and calmly explain to him that while you understand that he wants to do this, we will be doing that instead. What's essential is simply clarifying to him that you know what he is trying to say and that you are not denying it or ignoring it because you don't understand him, but rather because it's not an option at this time.<br />
<br />
X-Man spent four years barely being understood verbally. He had at least two full years of knowing what he wanted to communicate and not being understood. It truly is a trigger for him if he thinks he's not being communicated with. And he panics, which with a non verbal child, often looks like a temper tantrum.<br />
<br />
His "teacher" said she was fine with his needs. But it was clear to me that she disliked him from day one. And he told me his teacher didn't like him. Now X-Man is a hand full and a challenge. But he is a sweet loving kid who just wants to do well. He just struggles with processing what well is, and filtering it out of all the other sensory stimuli that overwhelms his brain. I am fine with structure and discipline when it comes to X-Man, he craves it. But I expect compassion as well. He's walking a much steeper mountain than most of us will ever experience. And I expect the adults I pay to assist him in learning to actually attempt to assist him, and not tell me "<i>I think he has problems.</i>" Because honey, we all do.<br />
<br />
So that's how X-Man ended up in a specialized kindergarten classroom at our local public<br />
school. It was bumpy as he tested the limits and figured out how serious they all were. But, as I told the father figure, these were people legally required to help him. But they are also very invested in helping him. And help him they have. He bounces out of his classroom every day bellowing "<i>I did a gleat job at school today!</i>" (he can't say his g or r yet)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0RNTu4gmqRCktR-viIhA8BERQu_uurV2IGp3MpG3ftRerUyRSbxjOhMx8oq2LUbqTs1lU1AykeX2j0weBOgkB7kbjxmqFdrKT-QTMPa3F-3RBTVmHZV-OsxaA4f7MG3vySvxuEUr7ws/s1600/power.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0RNTu4gmqRCktR-viIhA8BERQu_uurV2IGp3MpG3ftRerUyRSbxjOhMx8oq2LUbqTs1lU1AykeX2j0weBOgkB7kbjxmqFdrKT-QTMPa3F-3RBTVmHZV-OsxaA4f7MG3vySvxuEUr7ws/s320/power.jpg" width="320" /></a>Getting X-Man all the help he deserves, fighting our insurance to cover it, doing all the exercises at home he's suppose to, takes up most of my time. But when you see a little guy so motivated to improve and trying so hard, it's worth every minute. But those are minutes I don't have for blogging anymore. Hence the radio silence.<br />
<br />
And that's fine with me. Because while this takes up so much of my time, it's really not my story. And I feel that it is certainly not my story to tell. X-Man deserves his privacy. I like to encourage others to learn from my mistakes, to seek out the help that is available and to advocate fiercely for their kids. But the details, those are X-Man's. He deserves to be seen for who he is. His challenges are not who he is. The warrior boy who chooses to smile, chooses to joke, chooses to try, deserves to tell his own story. In his own time. In his own words.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, X-Man yelling at me for not driving him to Santa's house....that's a story I'll share. Soon.Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-43918892983680505702016-10-11T21:14:00.003-07:002016-10-11T21:14:21.435-07:00X-Man was disinvited from preschool. Well, I don't know if that's really what happened, but an active little boy who already knew his letters and numbers and therefore got bored quickly, wasn't the right fit for a small room in a small preschool. So, he's off to kindergarten where there are four adults to the seven kids. Which is a better ratio than he would get at home.....so ok.<br />
<br />
It's been an experience. I was worried about the seven hour school day. It seemed.....excessive. And in X-Man's mind it most certainly was. His teacher is sympathetic. Especially when he melt down onto the floor wailing "I'm so sleepy." So, we're doing the whole half day thing.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqIfeUp5wQpW80NRyuIFb3bjUhohQBVXOeIzBOJ3aJo0_Q66gKgm720OPCLYF5Zan706ZtDXr1uhQq3ZY_hv09AO387AxDnS7-SfJzp26-SEWLiNE1DTiN7i1oHZ-eoOtImc7CEOKzR4/s1600/01713_parenting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqIfeUp5wQpW80NRyuIFb3bjUhohQBVXOeIzBOJ3aJo0_Q66gKgm720OPCLYF5Zan706ZtDXr1uhQq3ZY_hv09AO387AxDnS7-SfJzp26-SEWLiNE1DTiN7i1oHZ-eoOtImc7CEOKzR4/s320/01713_parenting.jpg" width="320" /></a>Half days are excellent because they give X-Man the opportunity to eat his heart out. Really. His teacher has started to swipe an extra breakfast for him because he is more than happy to join the class and eat breakfast. Again. Because I've made sure to feed him before school. But he goes ahead and eats second breakfast. But only after selecting his hot lunch option. It's not that I'm too lazy to pack a cold lunch for him. It's just that his cold lunch has become his elevensies. And post recess snack. In the four hours that X-Man is not at school, he's probably packing on a pound an hour. Although his teacher says that he is burning it off at a rapid rate. Which sounds quite plausible.<br />
<br />
Part of the reason for the school's flexibility is the fact that I drop X-Man off and pick him up every day. A necessary part of this equation would be car keys. And this morning I most certainly could not find them. I had them last night. And they were no where to be found. I searched everywhere. I ripped apart the couch, searched the fridge, where I had put the groceries after coming home last night. I called the father figure, convinced he had taken them inadvertently. Because, he's done that before. Under X-Man's bed...nope. In the pockets of coats I haven't worn in the months....nope. In the dryer.....nope. I sent Baby, Baba and Mac out to search the car. Individually. Baby returned saying that X-Man said that the keys were in the rocket that was on the moon. Which was certainly helpful.<br />
<br />
I was holding the phone, getting ready to call the school. It was hard to come up with a delicate way of saying "I lost my car keys....they were right HERE!!!!" But I was working on something as X-Man and Cinco stumbled into the house and announced "here they are!!!" The keys. They were in X-Man's pocket because he wanted to fly to the moon. He had actually explained all of this to Baby when in the car....and she listened as well as well.....my kids do.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSw2nuVq9mUgx2C250LuDlTRakNATAa2w0MbDzg0UjovJDjf52UJjp8Ye6xpUtUtQXMwclpk33epRrUYE9iULbH_qkLpe20TweXLP_BpRXdH5JGQJiVgr145ouQl5gdE7PGAQzpodfOY/s1600/728bd38f67a206f93744ac6a8fc053bf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSw2nuVq9mUgx2C250LuDlTRakNATAa2w0MbDzg0UjovJDjf52UJjp8Ye6xpUtUtQXMwclpk33epRrUYE9iULbH_qkLpe20TweXLP_BpRXdH5JGQJiVgr145ouQl5gdE7PGAQzpodfOY/s1600/728bd38f67a206f93744ac6a8fc053bf.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
We were twenty minutes late.<br />
<br />
So even though I haven't been writing. Rest easy......nothing's actually changed.Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-52375527953343883682016-08-16T12:07:00.004-07:002016-08-16T12:07:55.788-07:00It may have not escape the astute reader's notice that I have not been writing much recently. This is due to many factors. First of all, this blog exists mostly to detail my children's exploits. They have been reigning in the crazy in recent months, dare I say, almost well behaved. Or, which is as plausible, they have determined it is better to be crazy without an audience. Furthermore, it is the summer. I always envision remarkable days of achievement and accomplishment, adventures and memories made. Rather, the summer becomes a long session soccer camps and swimming lessons and soccer tournaments. And the sinking feeling you were supposed to get a lot more done than you have.<br />
<br />
X-Man and Cinco have spent the summer in a soccer camp. It was glorious. Mostly because, for the first time ever, X-Man was not only age appropriate behavior-wise, but he was the best. He was the most physically capable, the fastest and the most confident. All of which was to be expected since he was the oldest in the class. However, Cinco was nipping on his heals. She has definitely made the most of her years, quite literally, of hanging out on the soccer sidelines. She's looking like she should have a bright future on the field. She also paid tribute to her Italian heritage by flopping quite a bit.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydX97In_-P6QMBeZXGZE3KAoPwvqzG6sH61wgzFWth87CTZAeqfAVBjPJn7wz0JXaDsEIMEYjyHY7bf9eNfubBVNShulPlYRUA9Z_6SlGhy4OQ-CN_cZ-ThJ-_7LUhSpxZgO6LgnYjsw/s1600/1240308743_soccer-wtf.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydX97In_-P6QMBeZXGZE3KAoPwvqzG6sH61wgzFWth87CTZAeqfAVBjPJn7wz0JXaDsEIMEYjyHY7bf9eNfubBVNShulPlYRUA9Z_6SlGhy4OQ-CN_cZ-ThJ-_7LUhSpxZgO6LgnYjsw/s1600/1240308743_soccer-wtf.gif" /></a>I didn't think anything of it at first. Cinco fell down, but she's my kid. She's Baby's sister. Falling comes quite naturally. Baby scored a winning goal in a tournament years ago, after running out of her shoe. The ref looked perplexed and as if he thought he should probably blow his whistle, but Baby was on a mission. She scored, much to the chagrin of the opposing team's parents who were certain there was a trick play at work. Rather, it was just poor parenting as Baby explained "My MOM tied my shoes." She hopped back to the ref and held her foot up Cinderella style and then asked him to tie her other one as well. Just in case.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3tfVsAxguefdqTs1ZCSTDOnzQDZD3QBo_lRhn580SLxO4rBXnWguNazOQsC0a0gmuabt8amhf9yA_4yRYh7Jxx0PNmpZcetPrTpdQCku_7PCNhtgUFB3qxHUAIMzH0_xvmGGm25vTxI/s1600/soccer_peekaboo.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3tfVsAxguefdqTs1ZCSTDOnzQDZD3QBo_lRhn580SLxO4rBXnWguNazOQsC0a0gmuabt8amhf9yA_4yRYh7Jxx0PNmpZcetPrTpdQCku_7PCNhtgUFB3qxHUAIMzH0_xvmGGm25vTxI/s320/soccer_peekaboo.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
But two weeks into soccer camp, I noticed that Cinco had a strategy to flopping. It happened only if X-Man beat her to something AND (this is an essential element) her coach was near by. Her coach was a young enthusiastic young man who was very concerned each time she hit the ground. He'd help her up and she'd hold his hand for the next few exercises. If he was paying attention to other students, Cinco would suddenly find herself on the ground. And if he didn't notice, she'd move closer and collapse again. Other girls in the class pick up on this trick as well, collapsing to the group if his hands were holding other students hands.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRHNjGPDXEc3XAFgZNi4MduMrBrpneiAPwCeZPOeQRoVyi_NsPVVm1p-opFys5f_Y4HB1GfE6PyD1LaUKIcS2eKx0gu7Y0dqcrQh5RCua2KG4bPIQhQoCGcEZJx5VlvFIup3tNs2DWBo/s1600/34qjnrd.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRHNjGPDXEc3XAFgZNi4MduMrBrpneiAPwCeZPOeQRoVyi_NsPVVm1p-opFys5f_Y4HB1GfE6PyD1LaUKIcS2eKx0gu7Y0dqcrQh5RCua2KG4bPIQhQoCGcEZJx5VlvFIup3tNs2DWBo/s1600/34qjnrd.gif" /></a>Eventually, I got annoyed with the whole thing and yelled "You're embarrassing yourself! Get up! X-Man's beating you!" This certainly had the desired effect for Cinco, she popped right up and chased down her brother. Then she stole his ball but at least she did it on both feet. Of course my outburst drew some attention from the other parents. They did not approve of my style. Or my dismissiveness towards any potential injury. But I didn't care. I'm a red blooded American who doesn't fall down and most certainly doesn't raise girls to need boys to pick them up thank you very much.<br />
<br />
I was pleased that Mac, Baba and Baby all insisted on coming to watch the soccer camps. It was sweet that after years of being watched, they were all excited to watch X-Man and Cinco. And they did indeed put on a show.<br />
<br />
During the course of typing this, I've had to institute the new, and extra cruel rule, of no tea parties on the stairs. Which apparently is the only plausible location for any festivities in the house. I also<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLT5_xpho92tJfypHQ1Zct9spk6DoaY6Beb0bkpk-4H5Fcs0_tP6ljUiTT1JxriGUamWIsYBccHIlY6CtzNaJZOzZ0sbwoxI2ImQ2PRnG6Id4bBfi_ACjXlQ-iod32pCKUVMlWo8g-_Nc/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLT5_xpho92tJfypHQ1Zct9spk6DoaY6Beb0bkpk-4H5Fcs0_tP6ljUiTT1JxriGUamWIsYBccHIlY6CtzNaJZOzZ0sbwoxI2ImQ2PRnG6Id4bBfi_ACjXlQ-iod32pCKUVMlWo8g-_Nc/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a>nixed the whole cereal and milk at the tea party idea as well. Although honestly, it had moved passed the idea stage and was actually being smuggled to the stairs when I intercepted them. See what I mean about keeping the antics on the down low?Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-33116107206611670672016-07-27T12:48:00.005-07:002016-07-27T12:48:57.190-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHwPbbBjdC_kol9k6Tln4OyUQLFIh5yvOS_NTt3Een7YZAcnkzMfHdccrngbQA3qWNAadDklPN8vjeAikCJbtNxHjeaTRGoMqGeNkrAeEFhRCnPUlcpbTkBjGIWIwdhK_KZhQBm_HojA/s1600/birthday+cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHwPbbBjdC_kol9k6Tln4OyUQLFIh5yvOS_NTt3Een7YZAcnkzMfHdccrngbQA3qWNAadDklPN8vjeAikCJbtNxHjeaTRGoMqGeNkrAeEFhRCnPUlcpbTkBjGIWIwdhK_KZhQBm_HojA/s320/birthday+cake.jpg" width="320" /></a>X-Man and I share a birthday. Of course we do. Because that’s
what X-Man does, chooses a challenging way of announcing his existence. For the
first four years, my little party crasher didn’t bother me. But this year, around
10pm the night before, I found myself annoyed by…..just everything. Mostly
trying to assemble Lego mini machines for a cake that I still needed to bake. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKYJ6NY1FO177pFZHwyKVsFpoZrw4uMsO-XWllUZMsqxniyXCgYQPQWsoIdmYOvgI77EAYj0r1HyAZQveRG2wP6NtIuw_AK5grzH2e8jWqmoMoCaH9VRbHL1UOubhs_5M3Fxlyg8Ym5Oo/s1600/atbirthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKYJ6NY1FO177pFZHwyKVsFpoZrw4uMsO-XWllUZMsqxniyXCgYQPQWsoIdmYOvgI77EAYj0r1HyAZQveRG2wP6NtIuw_AK5grzH2e8jWqmoMoCaH9VRbHL1UOubhs_5M3Fxlyg8Ym5Oo/s320/atbirthday.jpg" width="291" /></a>Followed the next morning with children who chose to air their grievances very
loudly. And, the hardest part of all, I had to deal with a super excited little
boy who was turning five. So clearly, the solution was to spend the day at a
river. Because my children and open water…..how could that go wrong? <o:p></o:p></div>
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And it didn’t….really. It was relaxing and peaceful. It
actually helped settled X-Man down. And he had a fantastic day. It cumulated with
him hugging me and yelling “<i>I LUFF MY BIRFDAY!!!!</i>” after opening all his gifts.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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The father figure took the children shopping for my birthday
gifts. It was fun because they each picked things out for me that I loved and I
see them in. Apparently as they unloaded their wares before the checker, she
asked “<i>Is your mom having a birthday?</i>” So clearly they did quite well. <o:p></o:p></div>
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X-Man too got fun toys. One of his gifts was Candy Land; it
was a mild disappointment when he discovered it wasn’t actually a box full of
candy. But he recovered. He and Cinco have been playing well with each other. But I did cringe when I heard X-Man bellow “<i>Give
me my color people!!!!</i>” Referring of
course to the tradition Candy Land playing pieces. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1d2kFwgF0hncQ1d9cLR_h9gcfNXfA7YB2WDvq7qjeemjED-scSkfrUhbjqwLMBXTUBJOOOzbL_VmKtiLipymEdE2e4gVfMw9VA705YqmbsqfJCu9IYSa8NzA1ttfDA7f9mH6Kcw86ts/s1600/candyland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1d2kFwgF0hncQ1d9cLR_h9gcfNXfA7YB2WDvq7qjeemjED-scSkfrUhbjqwLMBXTUBJOOOzbL_VmKtiLipymEdE2e4gVfMw9VA705YqmbsqfJCu9IYSa8NzA1ttfDA7f9mH6Kcw86ts/s320/candyland.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It’s a new year so I decided to start working out with the
kids. Baby and Baba are serious athletes and need to incorporate some speed and
agility training into their routines. So I decided to participate in their new
drills. So there were Mac, Baba, Baby and me running up a hill, forward and
backwards. Duck walking up a hill, lips not required, bear crawling and frog
jumping. Well, I didn’t frog jump. I’ve had five kids. It was not going to
happen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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X-Man rolled down the hill repeatedly. Cinco simply sat at
the top and every time I jogged up would “Can I watch My Little Pony on your
phone?” Mac kept talking, until I pointed out that if you can talk you aren’t
working hard enough, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Meanwhile, my legs were shaking. Like fall down shaking. I
get that I haven’t been the best about </div>
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working out this summer, although I walk
three to four miles during soccer practices, but this seemed absurd. Also,
impossible to hide from Baba and Baby, who were sweating but not quivering. I
felt just a wee bit judged. Also, I am pretty sure Baba was contemplating how
she would drag me to the car, while keeping X-Man and Cinco in check. She’s a quiet thing but I think she’s been
around long enough to know that she should have an emergency plan in place…..always.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQz2VriCLnXESk49IwFI2NXjmOxtlP_HqOieGiFbQVPQ0pFvW7pTzAbhI5Fl7K_29ATn3TCRtOixiAVjzQ-flm97X-U44DOPMQYCM9iEpktU7CwOlvyw6o9UQFr1GbOTV5PyEmvOFeiw/s1600/images+%252857%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQz2VriCLnXESk49IwFI2NXjmOxtlP_HqOieGiFbQVPQ0pFvW7pTzAbhI5Fl7K_29ATn3TCRtOixiAVjzQ-flm97X-U44DOPMQYCM9iEpktU7CwOlvyw6o9UQFr1GbOTV5PyEmvOFeiw/s1600/images+%252857%2529.jpg" /></a>I didn’t actually die. But my ego is just a wee bit bruised.
I kinda thought I could hang with….MAC at least. Although the boy is on a swim
team now. Apparently my fitness level is equal to X-Man. So I too will join in
just rolling down the hill. This will probably come as a great relief to Baba. <o:p></o:p></div>
Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-8314248872967642362016-07-13T09:47:00.002-07:002017-06-13T15:43:28.282-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<b><i>I wrote this for another site and was recently asked to reshare it.....which I do so happily.</i></b></div>
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We’ve lived in our house now for over a
year. As we wrapped up the renovations, I got to focus on decorating it, making
it our home. I had a vision and that vision included family portraits. Our
fifth baby was old enough now that she looked like herself, still little, but
not so babyish. Above our mantle would hang our family portrait. I knew the
pose I wanted, rather artistic. My husband and I would be in the background,
our five children in the forefront, the focus of our family. </div>
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About the time that I decided I was ready for
family photos, my friend Kristie had a special deal to celebrate her oldest
son’s graduation from high school. I love Kristie and don’t see her nearly
enough, not to mention she has a spectacular eye for light. So it seemed like a
perfect choice to meet up with her and take some lovely family pictures. The theme of the pictures was basically show
up with clean faces. This was accomplished. Yes, my older son had a ripped
shirt on. Yes my younger son was missing a button on his shirt, but over all
they looked fairly cared for. The sun was shining, although it wasn’t as hot as
many of our summer days had been. The breeze was dancing through, giving us all
a gentle windswept look. It seemed ideal, the perfect day. The perfect day, the perfect setting up until
toddlers were added to the mix. In my excitement to have truly special family
pictures taken, I forgot that it involved my family. Namely my strong willed
three year old and a toddler with the attention span of a gnat. It did not go
well. The odds were never really in our favor. If the three year old
cooperated, the baby had to run towards the street. If the baby was sitting
still, the three year old had to climb the tree…..right then. And the older
children kept laughing at the littles’ antics.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmouBw1vc6C1RAr-LiPyNzZH9aMmfqg2sSa2BihCAF5TSpqXeybQNOmppNwK8SG6D5D1ZiLkP0UQBhmtL57CM93A-h1vqp1jxSboJfQIShT_wzaTb-0OCjLTwgKPNsYLv2Ub680X7CLA/s1600/Andrews041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmouBw1vc6C1RAr-LiPyNzZH9aMmfqg2sSa2BihCAF5TSpqXeybQNOmppNwK8SG6D5D1ZiLkP0UQBhmtL57CM93A-h1vqp1jxSboJfQIShT_wzaTb-0OCjLTwgKPNsYLv2Ub680X7CLA/s320/Andrews041.JPG" width="320" /></a>Kristie handled it like the professional she
is. Although I’m certain raising her own four, absolutely sweet children,
helped. She was patient and understanding. She expressed delight in the
absolutely age appropriate behavior of the little ones. She was supportive and
helped me see the situation for what it was.
It is where we are in life. We are a family with little ones. Babies and
toddlers who throw us for a loop. And they are so cute as the wreak havoc
within our plans. And that’s what Kristie captured. Our life, now, frustrating
and hectic and oh so beautiful. It can
be challenging to see the beauty in the moment sometimes. Especially when you
just want them to sit still for a couple minutes. I had a goal, a vision and it
just wasn’t going to come to fruition. And honestly, that’s life right now. My
plans often go awry, just yesterday I was peeling screaming children off the
bookstore floor. They wanted to sit and stare at the Thomas the Tank Engine
toys, I wanted to pick up the book I ordered. But they’re still the size where
I can scoop them up. They still can wrap their arms around my neck as they
wailing in protest. And there’s something precious about that. It’s a special
time, all too brief, just months out a decades long life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7Iu-hLNVfb2eRj9Ey8dR8WV9V7bs8lVj-8WGAP9Qts8KVvG1iY7O3cmWJqurh_MyYl9N1sq4vAaxN2T_DGJcgCUZuDebq7HADzgCcasu-g2EQcR6jznmUQJD8HSeCEvDsCtWnk13t3s/s1600/Andrews235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7Iu-hLNVfb2eRj9Ey8dR8WV9V7bs8lVj-8WGAP9Qts8KVvG1iY7O3cmWJqurh_MyYl9N1sq4vAaxN2T_DGJcgCUZuDebq7HADzgCcasu-g2EQcR6jznmUQJD8HSeCEvDsCtWnk13t3s/s320/Andrews235.JPG" width="320" /></a>These moments are fleeting. And they are
more valuable than can ever be expressed. There, in that moment, I chose to let
go of my plans and simply work with what we had. Because that’s what family
life is about. Embracing your people, where they are in life, and moving
forward. Or sideways, depending on what mood strikes the children in your life.
But in order to have peace, to be able to take joy in the moments that come,
sometimes unexpectedly, I had to make my plans fit my children, not my children
fit my plans. Because these are my moments, my moments to treasure my children,
and that means their personalities as expressed by their little toddler wills.
Too soon they will grow, grow into well behaved children. Children, who don’t
cry because they have to sit on grass, but rather for real pain, true sadness,
hurt. And I dread that time. I’m scared for when they hurt for reasons I can’t
fix. When I can’t dry their eyes by offering them my bracelet. So I chose to
not be frustrated or irritated, at least too much. These are the good times. The
happy times. These are my children, good and naughty. They have my heart. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYGiVj-WTTDNBMrHVxVkvMYe-VG4YSN-4C0OREX_AnaSo55LYd_Fud8fORFr71aOWSIHALhTINRDwMLz1hzgayFerJTrMrI9X2A4bQDc76_u3A6xF62XGa0LY_cMDbDorFCYYXNHw_x0/s1600/Andrews072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYGiVj-WTTDNBMrHVxVkvMYe-VG4YSN-4C0OREX_AnaSo55LYd_Fud8fORFr71aOWSIHALhTINRDwMLz1hzgayFerJTrMrI9X2A4bQDc76_u3A6xF62XGa0LY_cMDbDorFCYYXNHw_x0/s320/Andrews072.JPG" width="320" /></a>This reality was made more poignant by the
presence of Kristie’s eldest son. He helped with the shoot, chatted
comfortably, mostly about college. He was leaving. Moving upward and
onward, as he should. As all children will. Kristie was so proud of her
little boy, now taller than her. And she had every reason to be. And she tried
so hard to hide those tears, as her precious little one spread his wings. Wings
she formed, wings she nurtured, wings she so wanted to see him use. But it
didn’t make it hurt any less. As I
watched the mother and son work together, I glanced over at my own son. He was
trying to remove his shoes. Forcefully and with much passion. And I chose to
accept and treasure. Because too soon, that little boy would be a man. A man
who would take on the world with as much passion as he had for not sitting
still in that moment. And that man would leave my side, and quite possibly
invite another woman to his side. This will be wonderful when it happens, but
it won’t change the fact that his little chubby hand will no longer be in mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I choose to treasure these moments, even
the moments of chaos. It's where our family is right now. We'll have the
perfect family photos later, at graduations and weddings. When my littles are
spreading their wings. I have them for such a brief time, and Kristie captured
this brief time perfectly. In all its chaos....and beauty. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr99ZykputmSCLeW6hXBFiRxPcJkUFoM52mqpl4MpwgVvXsWWFpMjWPFh5PmgpdSy6prVJo1iwNoiswBwv26eeO0PshxDF5aK4jjamoiSGRK3Td2W9j3QrANTx9dRGBwL0W0lSWnbEj74/s1600/10635876_10153090993562923_1048202591336933773_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr99ZykputmSCLeW6hXBFiRxPcJkUFoM52mqpl4MpwgVvXsWWFpMjWPFh5PmgpdSy6prVJo1iwNoiswBwv26eeO0PshxDF5aK4jjamoiSGRK3Td2W9j3QrANTx9dRGBwL0W0lSWnbEj74/s320/10635876_10153090993562923_1048202591336933773_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;">all photos by <a href="http://catchmeifyoucanphotos.com/" target="_blank">Catch Me if You Can photography</a>.<br />
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<!--[endif]--></span>Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-12226793001368214882016-07-13T09:33:00.001-07:002016-07-13T10:05:25.000-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<i>I wrote this two years ago for another site. I was recently asked to share it again......</i></div>
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My head hurts, the kind of ache that comes
from too much coffee and not enough sleep. I should take advantage of this
quiet nap time myself, but there's too much weighing on my heart. A couple of weeks ago, a mother of two little
boys disappeared. Tragically, she was found ten days after her disappearance,
dead. She had committed suicide, to the shock of her family. She left her home,
so that her husband and little boys wouldn't find her, and took the only escape
she saw for herself. It is heart wrenching, disturbing and confusing. Any
suicide, but especially that of a mother to little ones, is horrific. As a
result, we tend not to talk about it. We whisper a prayer for the poor soul and
then continue on to more pleasant things. The result is the pain, the
evil, the darkness that so poisons the mind is allowed to fester away in
private.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Truth is a powerful sunlight. It is frightening, however, to lay your
soul bare, to honestly admit that all's not right in your world. It can lead to
hurt on the part of those who love you. "How can you feel so alone? We are
here for you." For those who don't struggle with depression, understanding
and supporting can be too confusing. Everything seems so good, how can this not
be seen and appreciated? Shake it off, buck up, make your peace with God and
everything will be fine. Life is full of highs and lows. If only it was this simple. Those struggling with depression, already
believing they have failed their loving family, keep their pain inside, so not
to fail or disappoint further. The result, despite best intentions, is that the
darkness and despair continues to fester. The crushing burden increases. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I sat in the sun, mulling this over the other
day. We were at a local theme park and I was watching my older children embark
on a water ride. It was a beautiful day, filled with shrieks of laughter.
Watching my older son, I remembered that he and his younger brother were the
same ages as the little boys who lost their mother. It stabbed my heart. I
could still feel the heat of his growing hand in mine. I could see him waving
excitedly to me. With a catch in my throat, I thought "it could have been
them." They could have been the little boys whose mother was lost to the
darkness. </div>
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<br /></div>
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See, I'm the mom who has
thought, often, that my children would be better off without me. I'm the mom
who has heard those voices telling me I am failing my children, my husband and
all those I love. I'm the mom who felt utterly crushed by what seems like daily
life, and I have heard the voices of despair telling me to quit, it would
be better for everyone. I'm the mom who felt like I could never love my
children as they deserved. I'm a mom who has warred with the darkness and
despair of depression. And I'm a mom who
was given the strength and the grace to seek help. To drown out those voices,
and to know that I could not carry this burden myself. For me, my path to light
was with medication and counseling. Part of that path was recognizing that what
I thought and felt wasn't right, wasn't how it was supposed to be. But it
wasn't because I wasn't trying hard enough; it was because my body was out of
whack. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It's sad that it is uncomfortable to speak about this more openly. It's
unfortunate that so much gets swept up in the term "mental illness."
It seems to me to be an inaccurate term, as depression is often caused by a
chemical imbalance. It's the body not working as it should, a state not
uncommon for most adults at some point. Sleep, diet and exercise can help, but
all of these are often hard for mothers. It wasn't the "real" me that
was "failing" my family. It was a distorted view, caused by some out
of balance hormones. Sounds so simple.
And yet, this has taken me five days to write. I feel vulnerable, exposed, fragile.
I was raised in a private family. We didn't share unpleasant news. We were
discreet, which is a habit I truly appreciate in today's age of oversharing.
But, there is a time to speak up. There is a time to share. There is a time to
say "you are not alone." I struggle with depression. Medications
saved me, and my family. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihzeTeUcvUtzwGurDI6GZGxMbtRBfED7U2mTrfjlcZ0WD031L6QelGNeCXh7vplEMqckLsszZiQoYtzv24qw17Fat6xzy8KXq8fIDTV_wrAtBxZrNZD2DD1CyP2CnuPGMMvs7RU4dv3Gs/s1600/ID-10029271.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihzeTeUcvUtzwGurDI6GZGxMbtRBfED7U2mTrfjlcZ0WD031L6QelGNeCXh7vplEMqckLsszZiQoYtzv24qw17Fat6xzy8KXq8fIDTV_wrAtBxZrNZD2DD1CyP2CnuPGMMvs7RU4dv3Gs/s400/ID-10029271.jpg" width="400" /></a>I refuse to listen to the voices in the darkness that
say no one cares and that I am weak. I refuse to listen to the voices of the
darkness that say I should be ashamed and that others will think less of me. I
refuse to listen to the voices of the darkness. I will speak up. I will stand
up and say "there is hope." I will stand beside and say "judge
me along with her." I will silence those voices of darkness. Because I
heard the Voice of Truth. <br />
<br />
As I sat in
the sun, in the middle of a forested area, I thought about the other mom. I
watched the light dance off of some leaves, and thought of that other garden,
so long ago. The first time the Voice of Truth was drowned out, ignored. Pain and
suffering followed. If we are pursuing our vocations, our paths in the Lord's
light, it isn't unreasonable to think that we will be attacked along the way.
Will the serpent exploit our bodies; use our physical weaknesses to beat us
down? Of course he would, any opportunity to twist our view of ourselves. He
sees us as weak and worthless. And yet the Voice of Truth says we are fearfully
and wonderfully made. All of us. We should be a mirror of the light and an echo
of the Voice of Truth, sharing with each other the truth, fighting through the
darkness. </div>
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The words of a popular hymn replayed in my mind "But the voice
of truth tells me a different story, And the voice of truth says 'Do not be
afraid!'.....Out of all the voices calling out to me, I will choose to listen
and believe the voice of truth." For the person struggling with
depression, it isn't as simple as choosing to believe. But for those of us who
are in the light, we should be sharing the truth, encouraging openness and
honesty. Starting with ourselves, dispelling the darkness that allows despair
to grow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I was roused from my reverie as my children plunged down a steep drop
and created a huge splash. Their faces were split with huge grins. They all
yelled "Hi Mom! Did you see us?" And I was grateful, so grateful,
that I was there, with them, loving them. Grateful for help, grateful for
options, grateful for salvation. And in my gratitude, I resolved to be more
open about my own journey so that there will be more mothers in the sun,
laughing with their children. </div>
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Rest in
peace Jennifer Huston, and all those who were lost in the darkness. May
you hear the Voice of Truth whisper in your ear "Come to me all
who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest."<!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75"
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Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-33237169400580643812016-05-23T10:49:00.000-07:002016-05-23T10:49:02.859-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
I have no one to blame but myself. I’m the one who said he
could push the shopping cart. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOit_1cFKVzLYcrPAhjxPGdxcCFmrzdXxuSfLfWYH7a9pa9PmzkFDq7bmcNZ_1gaC8A2ozJVdfrE0A5WrlYfAKqypt5ZokBURLy7ZviVmda_NoGWBF-G5A3YoJJPJCvvowiXWkNmBeLc/s1600/s-l300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOit_1cFKVzLYcrPAhjxPGdxcCFmrzdXxuSfLfWYH7a9pa9PmzkFDq7bmcNZ_1gaC8A2ozJVdfrE0A5WrlYfAKqypt5ZokBURLy7ZviVmda_NoGWBF-G5A3YoJJPJCvvowiXWkNmBeLc/s1600/s-l300.jpg" /></a>The evening began with a trip to X-Man’s preschool to admire
their year’s worth of art projects. In order to avoid the family movie offering
in the gym, I had told all the children that we would get ice cream afterwards.
So we all admired X-Man’s work, he was able to explain it to us, which I guess
is gauche when it comes to art, but otherwise I would have thought his
footprint duck was a chicken. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The thing about Cold Stone Creamery is that they allow mix
ins, candies mixed with the ice cream to make a delightful treat. And no matter
what, all small people will ask for the bright blue cotton candy ice cream. And
mix in something utterly hideous like m&ms. Not that the chocolate candy is
hideous….but chocolate and cotton candy? Ugh. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Happily, both Cinco and X-Man bucked the trend, X-Man
requesting chocolate ice cream and Cinco asking for….pink. Of course. Both had
gummy bears mixed with their ice cream. And of course, both had to dig the
gummy bears out of the ice cream they just been mixed in to. I was ok with that;
it’s all part of the experience. I drew the line, however, at being introduced
to each individual gummy bear…..followed by the consumption of the bear. X-Man
added in some screams and “<i>help me help me</i>” while Cinco tried extra commentary
but was unable to, due to cracking herself up too much. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We then headed to shop for curtain rods. The babies, as they
are still referred to by their elder siblings, like to play in the elder girls’
closet. They tend to knock the closet doors off their runners, much to the
annoyance of their sisters. So we were off to experiment with a curtain instead
of doors.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We went shopping for curtain rods, so of course we ended up
in the shoe section. But not before X-Man asked to push the shopping cart. He
selected a half cart, and could actually see over the handle, so I acquiesced.
X-Man has worked hard to mature and follow directions and I want to reward his
efforts. Of course Cinco saw that X-man was pushing his own cart. I braced for
the meltdown and demands that she too get her own cart, height requirements
notwithstanding. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But no, Cinco had other plans. She wanted X-Man to push her
in his cart. And X-Man willingly obliged. So we cautious proceeded on. X-man
stayed near me and I began to relax a bit. Over the last few months, X-Man has
been maturing and his behavior is becoming more age appropriate daily. As his
ability to communicate has improved and his understanding of himself in space
has strengthened, he’s able to truly be himself. And himself is delightful. But
also….a four year old boy. A younger brother, with all the mischief that
includes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As we browsed the shoes,
Baba and Baby were helpful. Down to business and no nonsense, they
quickly made their selections. Baba showed the savvy of teenager by pointing
out that a pair of sandals that I was hemming and hawing about would fit her as
well, and since she had outfits they’d go well with, I should but them and we
could share them. Her arguments carried the day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-t_cNF6MpERg83CIeM-CCEZDxAspDrR-eruP5Qj3uMW62OcewbQXzyp0PvgemRVKpgUlrEL0T28vBflOp3h0KcvGjcdviHiEXB7CK00SK4hl6lvyYcKu8o6PDSkPm89e13A11-lwoDE/s1600/images+%252856%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-t_cNF6MpERg83CIeM-CCEZDxAspDrR-eruP5Qj3uMW62OcewbQXzyp0PvgemRVKpgUlrEL0T28vBflOp3h0KcvGjcdviHiEXB7CK00SK4hl6lvyYcKu8o6PDSkPm89e13A11-lwoDE/s1600/images+%252856%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, X-Man and Cinco were chattering away. He was
staying close by, not running amuck, so he lacked my full attention. It wasn’t
until, arms full of shoes, I turned to the cart that I realized how he and
Cinco were passing the time. The half sized cart was filled with shoes. From
what I saw, things were going somewhat like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cinco “<i>I like dose shoes</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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X-Man “<i>Dese? Otay.</i>” Thump in the cart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cinco “<i>and dose. I want does too.</i>” <o:p></o:p></div>
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X-Man “<i>Otay!</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Neither child was interested in returning the six pairs of
shoes they had already selected but grudgingly allowed those who would wear the
shoes to actually select their own. Mac still needed to be shod, so we headed
to the children’s section. On our way, we passed a shelf filled with trinkets
adorned with the ever present Frozen characters. Cinco observed “<i>I like that
Elsa necklace</i>” X-Man, wised up to the situation, said nothing but just handed
it to her. Cinco realized that this was a perfectly acceptable situation. She
pointed to a set of Frozen socks, as into the cart they went. As I tried to
quickly and painlessly find Mac a single part of non-ridiculous shoes in his
size, X-Man found Cinco three pairs of Frozen crocs, in varying sizes, two
necklaces and a set of socks. He also determined that Mac wanted another set of
“cool” socks and threw them into the cart. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave up on my shoe hunt when I
heard Cinco begin to sweet talk X-Man into heading over to the toy section. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>I want to look at the toys please big brother…..</i>” Do people actually fall for that? </div>
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<br /></div>
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As I was subtly
returning all Frozen merchandise, Baby announced she needed to use the
restroom. I took a head count of those who needed to use the facilities and
sent the older girls off while I finished deFrozening the cart. Three seconds
after her sisters left, Cinco announced “I haft ta go potty.” I informed her
that we would head over in just a few seconds. That was not acceptable for
X-Man. He took off running with the cart. I yelled for him to stop and he
shouted over his shoulder “<i>It’s otay. Cinco hassa go potty. I be right back.</i>”
Cinco helpfully added “<i>Don’t worry mom!</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve paid good money to help make him more independent and verbal. I’ve gotten my money’s worth…..so yay….I
guess. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039987164157638588.post-23079401976010168162016-03-21T19:37:00.000-07:002016-03-21T21:19:09.181-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Baby decided to take up lacrosse. She was exposed to the
game before a soccer match. It caught her attention and she decided to take me
up on my offer to expose her to other sports. So we jumped in, as in our area
they are enthusiastically trying to build up a girls’ lacrosse team. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVdZ0LZPyjGEIElxjWmR6XGvhmLa5CvlMwrzYig06K54Y_0GbiQnIvd8w4qNvWBJQexDVHSsGSu-3kqzaM7iSSg4QCqfoojTMsdO6oIR3LeCnrEe9gyIId_Jjv0JAolPXkJzaR9CJsIeg/s1600/fit-2-win-womens-uniforms-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVdZ0LZPyjGEIElxjWmR6XGvhmLa5CvlMwrzYig06K54Y_0GbiQnIvd8w4qNvWBJQexDVHSsGSu-3kqzaM7iSSg4QCqfoojTMsdO6oIR3LeCnrEe9gyIId_Jjv0JAolPXkJzaR9CJsIeg/s320/fit-2-win-womens-uniforms-4.jpg" width="320"></a>Unfortunately, we did not look before we leap. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Baby saw a lacrosse game. She saw a BOYS lacrosse game. She
saw throwing and running and hitting. Oh boy did she see hitting. And THAT’S
what she wanted to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boy lacrosse players wear pads. Girl lacrosse players wear
skirts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Boys can hit each other. Girls can’t even throw the ball
over each other. Which makes you wonder “<i>why
are you running around with that pink stick</i>?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baby is unimpressed. She left the first practice and
announced “<i>IT’S NOT EVEN A SPORT!</i>” <o:p></o:p></div>
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We realized we were in for a bit of a surprise when we first
went to pick up her stick. She had some options…..pink, purple and polka dots.
I believe there might have even been some butterflies. Baby was not impressed. The
boys had black and white sticks. They also had deeper pouches so that they can
hit each other without losing the ball. That’s not an option for the girls.
But, it being Baby, she expressed her lack of satisfaction at check out. The poor
clerk most likely regretted his question “<i>Did
you find everything you need?</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s this spirit that is what makes Baby such an effective
soccer player. After her third face plant, due to be shoved in the back by
another player, her coach pulled her off the field. She passed his protocol and
groused “I’d probably get a foul called if I didn’t get up so fast.” I think
she’s right. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She’s my scrapper. At eight years old she was playing a
soccer game and raised her hand to come out. Her coach pulled her and she took
off running. She made it a respectable distance from the field and then vomited. She then trotted back over to her coach and said “Ok I can play again.”
Her coach was dubious. After a while, and Baby’s nagging, he relented and put
her in. She scored within three minutes but barely made it to the sideline
before vomiting again. Her coach pulled her for good. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Leaving the game, Baby mentioned she didn’t feel well, so we
made a stop at Urgent Care. She had a double ear infection. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s Baby for you. She doesn’t play sports with skirts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Lenorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13411491866591843399noreply@blogger.com2