Poop Fudge

Through the fog of early morning, I spied two large, round eyes and a sweet voice said, “Mama, I’m poopy.” If you’ve been following my parenting escapades long, you know that I do not call myself an expert in potty training. Where’s the magic button that I can push that reboots my three-year-olds to automatically transition from diapers to underwear? I know these buttons exist because it appears that many other mothers have located these devise on their children. (Not all of us, mind you, I do know that I am not alone.) It seems like the world of mothering can be categorized into two groups: those that beam with potty training ease and those that do not.

Normally I enjoy a morning cuddle, but not when my youngest announces that he is poopy. I lifted my comatose body from its warm covers and was immediately filled with horror−and immediately wide awake. A’s pants were poopy, yes, but also his feet! His feet! The trek to my bedroom from his is a long one that includes steep terrain and white carpet. (White carpet, another worthy column.)

I quickly rushed this dangling mess to the bathtub while he cheerily chatted about his morning adventures in poop. The horror grew. What did the house look like? I decided to assess the damage: little brown footprints recounted his journey all the way up the stairs and into the boys’ bathroom. Nightmare. The entire floor of A’s bathroom was covered from toilet to doorway with a fudge-like substance that, unfortunately, did not smell or act like fudge. It was a mirage that I could not deny.

How would I get the older boys to school? This was not a quick clean up, but would require hazmat vigilance. I called my father and begged him to take the older boys for me. I didn’t have to ask twice once I explained the situation. We all went into emergency mode.

After an entire tub of Lysol wipes, several stop-and-gags, and 40 minutes of hand-and-knee-deep-cleaning the bathroom was disinfected. Time for an intervention. After a short, but firm discussion in regards to the nasty nature of poo and that mommy is A’s helper, I felt satisfied that this experience was one we could all learn from.

The next three days were a beautiful thing. A asked for help all day long when it came to the use of the potty. I felt we had turned a key potty-training-corner. He kept telling me, “Poop is messy.” Yes, yes it is. I was starting to think that life’s hard lessons could be learned from, and that if we captured this at a young age our teenage years would be smooth sailing. (Fantasy: perhaps when I become the mother of three teenage boys I can align myself with the mothers whose children do well in school and seem to cause no parenting woes. I’d rather have that than easy potty trainers, right?)

I only shared my success with a few mothers; I am actually getting a bit wiser in my parenting− just a bit. The positive effects of the Floor Fudge Extravaganza only took us from Wednesday to Saturday. Then it was back to business as usual, not floor art, but plenty of messy pants−plenty.

I try and talk myself out of my panic attacks. I know it’ll all come together. I know he won’t still be doing this in a year. I know it has to end. He is my last boy, my last baby, but don’t tell him that. The other night I put him in a pull-up and he looked at me with disgust, “I don’t like those. They make me feel little.” No joke, these were his words and feelings. “Well, maybe if you didn’t have accidents, then mommy would let you wear big-boy-pants all the time.” My passive-aggressive son seemed to comply and let mommy dress him in these safety precautions. But this morning when he came running down the stair, jumping into my happy arms, I could feel that he had put underwear on beneath his pajamas and no longer resided in a pull-up. “Did you put on underwear?” (Knowing my youngest, he did this last night after I was sure he was warm and cozy in his bed.)

“Yes, I am a big boy.” He beamed and was quite pleased. I think I might as well surrender now, the teenage years just might prove to be even trickier for this parent than the toddler years have been.

The Coach's Wife

The coach’s wife, you’ve met her before. She’s the one in those feel-good-sports movies that appears exactly three times. Once in the opening scene, she’s up in the bleachers rooting the team on, and you realize she’s the wife after her husband’s team has lost, disappointingly, and the camera goes from her look of sadness to her husband’s slumped shoulders. The second scene she gets to star in is short, and the only time the writers give her any lines. The coach needs a little pick-me-up, and so the coach’s wife is there to let him know how much she believes in him and his team. The last scene she’s in is at the very end of the movie. Once again she is up in the stands, but this time she is jumping up and down and smiling because her husband has brought the under-dog-team to victory, and of course, they’ve won a championship. If she’s lucky the coach, her husband, looks up into the bleachers and smiles.

I’m the coach’s wife. I’ve been a coach’s wife for eleven of the twelve years of our marriage. And I keep wondering why there aren’t any blockbuster films where the wife is the star and the husband is in the sidelines.

I mean, I am a fairly intriguing and occasionally exciting personality. I’m the constant. I’m always there. I’m there in the preseason, the regular season, and the off-season. I hear all the team drama. I know all the squad secrets. I know what the coach really thinks of all his players: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I know what the coach is like after a win, a victory, a defeat, and an utter failure.
I’m that lady with the three little boys who is often not watching any of the games, but is instead trying to entertain the children: snacks, toys, bathroom runs, concession stand visits, and games of tag and wrestling in the grass. I often wonder if any of his players think, “Wow, what an amazing mom. Look at her wrestling with her three boys. I wish my mom was that developmentally appropriate.”

And I have my dramatic moments too. I have those scenes where the coach talks me out of quitting, convinces me that this is all worth it. That these late nights and no-weekends-with-daddy will all pay off. It’ll all be worth it for that one season when they win the championship. I too dream of glory. I hear the soundtrack running through my mind as I live the sport’s dream.

Fall is but weeks away, and so my friends have started to ask, “So, is Hans busy? Has soccer started?”

I want to yell, “When did it ever end! Do you realize there is no off-season anymore? It is a year-round obsession and commitment.”

But I don’t, “Yeah, daily-doubles start next week. Soccer widowhood here I come.”
They smile and nod and that is the end of it.

And then it hits me, the reason that there is no movie titled The Coach’s Wife is because then the wife would appear to be the true hero, and that would ruin all the other great sports films of history past. And we certainly wouldn’t want to have the mirage come crashing down, now would we.

(I read this out loud to my husband, laughing the whole time. His response, “Wow, a little bitter?” I told him it was necessary therapy, and not to worry. I’d be on the sidelines cheering them on, even during the wet games of November.)

Poop: Not Again

I stomped into the TV room and glared at my husband, "There's poop all over A's bedroom." He grumbled, got out of his chair, and came to help me. We've been through this before, with our first son. We were lucky enough to skip it with number two. At roughly the same age, 2 1/2, our oldest and youngest decided that they no longer liked the feel of poop or pee in their diapers, but instead of seeking us for help, they tried to solve the problem themselves.

This means that last night when A pooped in his diaper, he attempted to changed and clean himself with wipes that were in his bedroom. He also attempted to get himself in a set of new pajamas. (The top ended up twisted around his chest, the arm holes not utilized.) I'm sure you can picture how this went. I'm very irritated because the house we were in with B had hardwood and our current house has carpet.....white carpet that my mom picked out when she no longer had children. I hate this carpet so much and poop stains don't help my loathing. I have big plans to rip the carpet out and put in something one can actually keep clean. Although carpet keeps your feet warm, it is a dirt trap! I'd rather just invest in some nice slippers.

So, in salute of my latest parenting adventure, I decided to post an old column I wrote about Potty Training. Enjoy.

To potty train or not to potty train, not only the ultimate dilemma, but the ultimate parenting adventure. An adventure to me includes new horizons and exploration, forging the unknown with great expectation, and all of these certainly reflect my mental state during the era of potty preparedness/awareness, as we have not dubbed it.

I remember feeling panic rise up in me as my son became acutely aware of his inner workings. Should I gently guide his developmental milestones, vigorously demand skills, or act like nothing is really happening and proceed with the status quo, diapers.

This was like nothing I had encountered in the first two years of my oldest son’s life. Rolling over, jabbering, sitting up, crawling, walking, and scoring soccer goals in our backyard had just happened! It was beautiful. His little self just figured it out, but somehow I knew this would not be the case with potty awareness. Sure, he was letting me know he got the concept of wet and poopy, he’s remove his diapers himself the second either one of these occurred and stash them random corners of his bedroom.

He’s ready. This was the mantra other, experienced mother’s explained. But, isn’t 2 and then a few a bit young for a boy? Right? I was explaining this baffling juxtaposition to a fellow mommy in the local library. Her eyes got big as she noticed the title to a DVD on the shelf, “Here, have him watch this!” She triumphantly handed me a DVD titled Potty Power.

Awesome, a video! I just plop him down in front of the television, place him on the potty, and in no time he’ll be a big boy with his big boy potty. We raced home; I was getting the adrenaline rush, a true symptom of an exciting adventure. We got ourselves comfortable in front of the T.V. and I pushed play. Surely this informative movie would help my son get to the porcelain throne, mesmerizing him into big boy pants. The results: a toddler running naked through the house shouting, “Potty Power” as he sings the lines, “no more diapers for me, no more diapers for me.” The propensity for diaper freedom was only exasperated by his newest DVD loyalty. Major mommy mistake.

I guess new adventures in life lead to making a few mistakes; they are par for the course. However, I think I like the mistakes I make on fun, exotic vacations. You know the kind, where you sign up for a snorkeling tour that should only take the morning, but the tour you’re on takes the whole day, which turns out to be amazing as you end up swimming with dolphins. Yeah, that is the kind of adventure I find myself yearning for during these days of the toddler doldrums.

But instead I had ventured out in uncharted waters with my oldest being the guinea pig. I now know to skip the Potty Power video with any subsequent children.

This was actually just the first of three attempts to toilet train my son. I really shouldn’t have given into the peer pressure to potty train. The diaper flinging was just a phase and was not a true indicator of potty preparedness. It was more of a two-year-old reaction to new-baby-brother.

During the craziness of the power struggle that soon ensued between mother and son, I kept having to remind myself that this all-encompassing activity, potty training, would soon pass, and my child wouldn’t be a young man (someday) and still in diapers. I had to calm myself down, quit comparing my child to other boys who seemed to respond well to parental potty instruction, and just wait.

That is why I did. I waited. I told myself, Christmas. I would wait until he was a few months shy of his 3rd birthday and try again. So I did. And it worked! It didn’t seem nearly as complicated by round three. I sort of knew what to expect and how to react. What rewards would work and which ones wouldn’t. I wasn’t a novice anymore. After all I had attempted this before. By Christmas it was slightly familiar, like a family cabin one returns to for comfort and retreat.

Before the New Year he was wearing big boy underwear and telling us when he had to go, no longer us telling him. It was a beautiful thing. I was relieved. My son would not go to kindergarten in pull ups. Most of all, I was OK. I survived.

Now I’m not quite as scared about training the next one, however as any mother knows, not one child is like other, so I know all my tricks, bells, and whistled won’t necessarily work with number two, and that is why I still claim that potty training is my least favorite developmental marker. Even when I try and remind myself that being a mom is one huge adventure, and potty training just a bigger bump in the road, I guess I’d really just rather swim with the dolphins to get my thrills.

Camping Part 1: Deluge

So, do you love camping? This was the question I asked in Monday's post. For me, it is a love/hate relationship, but when it rained on us this last weekend I was definitely hating it rather than loving it. My spirits were lifted by noon when the rains subsided; this was noted and observed by one of our fellow campers, so I guess I wasn't hiding it too well.

I will call this first pictures post: Deluge

Lucky for us the worst of the rain came at night when we were putting our children to bed. So no adults around the campfire that night. We all just went to bed, and I have to admit that the rain coming down on the tent all night was a bit cozy.

Oh, and you got to love the shot of my hubby: hot, hot, hot!




My husband being proactive just in case night two was as rainy. It wasn't! We actually got a chance to sit around the fire and chat.

Iron Mountain: A Mental Challenge and Victory

He did it! My middle son did it. He fought through his own mental weakness and climbed the whole thing without any help from us, his parents. This is quite impressive, for this is the son who often quits when things get uncomfortable. He's never been a great hiker, something the other four members of his family love. Even the youngest brother shows more hiking aptitude; A has often out walked C on many a family outing.

My husband has been promising the boys that we would climb Iron Mountain, and this last Saturday was perfect for hiking. We got up, quickly dressed in hiking layers, packed food and water, and took off toward the Cascades. We decided to stop off at the ranger station out of Sweet Home and ask about the service road that would cut this hike in half, mainly for our hiking challenged child. I'm glad we did because we were told that that road was still snowed in, in fact the trail still had patches of snow on it. (The total trip is 4.8 miles.)

Hopes were high when we parked at the trail head. C was eager to climb, but I knew this would quickly fade before the first mile was behind us. Iron Mountain is a pretty steep climb and once you are out of the treeline, it is hot sun to the top. My boys hate sun. True Oregonians I guess.

"OK guys, whoever makes it to the top without needing to be carried gets a dollar, and if you make it down you get a quarter."

"I want a dollar! I'm going to be rich!" C announced with a hop, skip, and jump. We were off.

My husband does a good job of making hikes about nature and discovery than pain and fatigue. We stop for each slug and inspect each new flower species. He speaks of fragile ecosystems. He puts moss on his face and become a bearded crazy woodsmen. All these distractions help the boys to keep on. We rested whenever C wanted. We rationed out the peanut and butter sandwiches. There were moments when I thought C was going to give up and disappear into the volcanic soil, but somehow he dug deep, "Am I still getting that dollar?" Yes! Oh yes you are! And on he'd go to the next bend in the trail, the next shady spot.

Maneuvering through the snow patches added to the hike's difficulty and once stopped us completely. Mama and boys rested on a cliff's edge while Hans worked his way around the summit, finding a good path up to the lookout's deck. There was quite a bit of snow covering up any signs of a trail.

But we made it! And it was an adventure. The view was incredible. We could see all Cascade Greats from Mt. Thielsen to Mt. Adams.

Coming down was much easier and spirits rebounded. Every 10 steps C would say, "Didn't I do good Daddy? I am the only four-year-old who has ever climbed Iron Mountain. It was like I was on top of the world and flying. Did I do good Daddy?"

If you are thinking of taking this hike with your children I would wait one or two more weeks so that all the snow is gone and also you'll get to see all the beautiful wild flowers. They will be gorgeous. And if you taking children, find out what motivates them. For my son, a dollar. A small price to pay for a pleasant family outing and a life lesson in perseverance and success. He is so proud of himself.

Vomit Giggles

My husband and I turned to each other and laughed. What else could we do? I actually got the giggles, which is laughter at a different level. These giggles are the kind that makes you feel like a young child in church, trying desperately to suppress the laughter under the irritated eye of Mama.

Why was my laughter so taboo? Our middle son had just barfed all over himself and the backseat, narrowly missing his older brother who shifted in his seat at just the right moment. Safe. A bit did get on the corner of his sandal. Nasty.

We knew it was coming. We were driving over the Coast Range, heading to Tillamook. I would venture to say that even the locals find the route we were on, curvy. C had been gagging and coughing for the last mile or so. We’d passed back the customary bag with instructions to puke into it, please. He often complains of motion sickness, and nothing comes of it.

B was curious. He was fixated on his green brother. I wonder if he thought it would never happen; we were all beginning to think this was becoming the standard for riding in cars with C: complaints with no real outcomes. B kept leaning into the bag, checking it for contents. Still empty. A, our youngest, was just jabbering away, oblivious to the impending doom.

I guess we, the adults, were hoping the road would straighten out soon, and C’s complains would be a distant inconvenience. And then it happened. All of McDonald’s was covering his chest, shorts, legs, car seat, and floor.

I think the part that made me laugh was how instant his joy was after he emptied his stomach, “Oh, I feel much better. I am all better now!” Then he looked down at his mess and started to cry, “It is on my Easter shirt.” I tried to reassure him that it would wash out and that I could save the Easter shirt, this in between giggles of helplessness. Bren was definitely no longer interested in seeing his brother explode and was now struggling against his own reflexes due to the scent of fresh vomit. A, however, was very interested and leaned way over to see what had just happened and caused such stir.

“Well, are you going to pull over?” I asked my husband as we continued to S-curve through the mountains, “I do need to clean him up, you know.”

We kept looking for a good place to pull over and finally chose a slight straight-stretch. Lovely. I had a limited number of baby wipes to do the job with and one newspaper to wrap C’s stinky clothes in. The puke bag was clean and empty, a bright side in our latest adventure. Unfortunately for my husband I wrapped C’s nastiness in the newspaper’s crossword puzzle.

The cars whizzed by. The Oregon drizzle was now coming down. Perhaps the mist might aid my struggle to clean and disinfect.

B and A were now out of the van and playing on the hillside. C was nearly wiped clean and into his pajamas when B, the oldest, started to cry---he was quite upset. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“I peed on myself.”

“What!”

“I peed on myself.” In B’s goofiness and joy at being free from the car and our arduous journey he’d lost his focus while doing his business.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Now I had another boy to clean and put in his pajamas. By now all feelings of car sickness had subsided in C and he was back to his joyful self, “I love vacation! When are we going to be there! I can’t wait! I’m never eating McDonalds again. That made me so sick. That is sick food.”

We loaded up, got everyone strapped back in, and handed C our last plastic sack with the expectation that if he felt like throwing up again he really did need to get it in there and not on everything else.

We pulled around the corner and there was the town of Hebo: a much better spot for changing children and stretching legs. I bet there was even a place for a boy to properly use the facilities. Of course we’d be that close to civilization. I laughed again. More giggles.

When On the Radio...Learn to Laugh

I had my radio blog interview yesterday. I don't think you can tell from my voice how excited and nervous I was. I had my husband practice asking me questions the night before, and it was terrible. My responses really were lacking something, like knowing I was actually on the air? Anyway, once noon hit yesterday I wasn't much good. I was told to call five minuets before 3, and so from noon until three I tried to make myself useful. I worked on the school newsletter, folded laundry, empty the dishwasher, and actually did rest a bit on the couch and mindlessly flip through the newspaper.

I decided to go over to my mom's house to do the interview. Can you imagine trying to conduct a phone interview with three children lurking somewhere near? You must know how that might have sounded in the background. Not sure how your children deal with you on the phone, but it always seems like my boys can sense when I'm on a very important phone call.

I went over for some peace and solitude and to pull myself together. I dialed the number. I was committed.

It went fine. Actually, it went better than fine. After the interview was over, I listened to it again and was quite pleased. For my first live interview ever I think it was smashing! (Don't tell me otherwise, or I'll be crushed.) I do hope I was an encouragement to moms and that I did a good job describing the joy that Just Moms has been for both me and all the contributing writers.

The only real evidence that I was nervous was in my shirt. It was quite stinky from all that sweaty angst, and so I rewarded myself with a change of wardrobe at 4 o'clock.

Also, a little bit of advise for anyone getting a radio interview in the near future: work on your radio laugh. Mine is not so good in this venue. I breathe too much on the first note of my chuckle; it doesn't translate well. I noticed that Maxine and her co-hots had lovely radio laughs that lilted and carried well over the airwaves. Must work on that.

(This picture is of Melanie and me at the Brownsville Reading)

Easter Guilt

My kindergartner noticed the lack of holiday hype revolving around Easter, “How come there aren’t any Easter decorations at school?” We had a good discussion about Easter and what it celebrates, one of my better parenting moments. Then he pointed out that we didn’t have any decorations up at our house either.

Ooops. We do have our wooden cross, fashioned from our Christmas tree, but it has been up since January: I think it blends in with the wall by now. I do have some old-fashioned Easter postcards I’ve been meaning to put up, but just haven’t gotten to it.

We don’t even buy the boys news spiffy outfits for Sunday morning, even though going to church on Sunday is really how we choose to celebrate this holiday. You’d think I’d embrace this concrete example of “new life.” But I find myself thinking, “One more thing we’d have to budget for and plan for and buy for.” No grandparents have stepped up to buy cute Easter outfits (not that I expect this either). I think this has never happened because I have all boys. My mom even admitted that she just didn’t think about it being important to them because they aren’t girls, that buying girls a pretty new Easter dress is way more enticing for the checkbook than slacks and a polo shirt. Growing up, my grandmothers would often sew my sister and me new digs, always made from matching patterns in complementary pastels. I do try and iron a button-up-shirt for the boys on Easter morning, attempting to find one with some springy, bright colors involved.

I feel a twinge of guilt when the ads come in the paper marketing all sorts of Easter basket pleasures that could make waking on Easter morn a bit more significant for my children. But I always resist, not really out of any moral conviction, but out of exhaustion. I find myself done with holiday hoopla around this time of year. Plus, if I start, then the expectation will be there, and I’ll be doing Easter baskets for the next 20-plus-years. I even console myself thinking, “Yeah, I’ll do that as a grandma. I’ll be the Easter-basket-grandma, putting them together with love and hand delivering them on the night before Easter.” I kind of think I will. Right?

With Christmas we have all sorts of celebratory events leading up to the 25th. We do an advent calendar, bake cookies, play Christmas music, shop for presents, go to various parties---it is non-stop Christmas fever. Valentines: we pick our cards out, sit around the kitchen table, and write a note to each classmate. Halloween: we discuss our coming costume choices (starting in about March), we go to the costume aisle, pick them out, wear them for a week or so before Halloween, and then continue to live in them even after October 31st has past. But Easter? I fail in creating anticipation.

The one thing I have put some effort into, the cross made from our Christmas tree, has faded into the clutter of our lives. But wait. Someone still knew it was there.

I was hosting a preschool event at our house. My boys were hyper! Kids were coming. Mommies were here. My oldest was showing off. So, with great exuberance he laid his body across our homemade cross and announced with arms outstretched, “I’m being crucified!” And then he ran around the house screaming at the top of his lungs. I could almost see imaginary blood spouting all over our house, like a bad B-rated movie. The visiting mother’s eyes: wide with shock. Community resolution: stay away from those Schneiter boys.

I found myself apologizing for my son’s brutality. It was embarrassing. I quickly suggested other types of play, “Hey, son, why don’t you show your friends your climbing ladder in your room.” Off they ran. Not one of my better mothering moments.

I guess my oldest hadn’t forgotten about the coming Easter holiday; however I wasn’t totally comfortable with the way he was commemorating it either. Maybe I should just focus on the miraculous bunny that delivers eggs instead. Maybe I should buy Easter baskets full of plastic trinkets and make sure my boys get new handsome shirts for Sunday morning. Maybe instead of a cross I should invest in some bunny decals for the window. Or maybe in the true spirit of Easter, I’m going to release the guilt and forgive myself for not always being the ultimate mother.

(I had major writer's block and just sent this in to The Graphic, but they said I was too slow and couldn't get it in before Easter. Boohoo. So, enjoy.)

Kate Middleton....I Like Her Too

The media is doing its job well, for newstands have me smiling every time I see Kate Middleton on the cover of a magazine. I am curious enough that I flip quickly through to get to the photo spread dedicated to her and Prince William (before it is my turn to start loading my groceries to be scanned). Of course, I felt a bit twitter patted toward the Prince as a much younger woman, so now there is double the curiosity as I wait in the grocery checkout line.

Have you noticed that the information in these glossy spreads is never enough. I always finish the articles thinking, "That was it? That is what I almost spent money on? That didn't tell me anything new, not really."

I guess that is good. Too many people these days are ready to tell way too much about themselves. (Me included when it comes to blogging.) And maybe that is the real appeal for me, that I really don't know that much about Kate, but that Kate seems nice enough, and that if I got lucky enough to run into Kate we'd have a lovely little conversation. Kate, Kate, Kate.

Anyone else finding themselves a bit smitten with the next English royal?

Not That Tune Again!

Sometimes I think I might die if I have to listen to any more songs about elephants and their trunks, or about ducks hatching from classroom incubators. Sometimes I wish I owned an iPod so I could plug myself away from my children’s favorite travel music. I remember being grateful when they loved Paul Simon, but if I have to listen to “diamonds in the soles of her shoes,” one more time I think I might throw my shoes, or myself, out of the moving mini-van. American Girls by Counting Crows is a bit of a breather for me, and for that minor obsession of my oldest I am grateful. I have to agree that it really does have, “Good bass.” But still, I wouldn’t mind listening to the rest of the songs on the CD, all the songs after “American Girls” versus “American Girls” over and over again.. But the three rockers riding behind me have promised to start a riotous mosh pit if I deviate from their music preferences. I believe them.

My husband looked at me on our way home from church and said, “Why don’t they make it so that you can play two different listening selections at once, one for the back and one for the front?” And? I agreed. We miss our Sunday afternoons with Prairie Home Companion. Steve from the Marvelous Day soundtrack isn’t the same as clever ads for catsup.

It could be worse, probably will be. In about eight years I’ll be wishing for these days of sweet Jesus songs when my teenage boys are listening to dark, depressing rants against authority figures or whatever it is they like in their independent, searching-for-self-years. The major difference will be that the boys will probably each own their own personal listening devises, and I will be the one left out. At least now we are all listening together. I’m included, not excluded.

I won’t know all the annoying lyrics to their favorites or know which songs have the best bass unless I force myself into their worlds and subject myself to genres I would never personally enjoy. I remember spending way too much birthday money on a rap CD that I didn’t really like, but thought I should because everyone else my age liked this particular group. I remember my mom not exactly enjoying the bad Christian rap, but I pretended I thought it was brilliant even though deep down I agreed that it was annoying. She allowed us all to be tortured and we listened to the whole thing, her showing her skills at tolerance and me showing my skills at acting.

I supposed that if I could feign interest at 13, I can probably find a way to endure future music choices. I really hope rap is not one of them, or hip hop, or heavy metal. Do you think there is any chance they’ll like folk music? I like folk music. I’m good with Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline. Didn’t Johnny Cash’s last CD do phenomenally well, you know, the one that came out after he died? Wasn’t that because a bunch of teenagers discovered just how cool he really was? Or maybe my boys will discover the grunge music their father listened to? I like that stuff. It’s sort of nostalgic for me now.

Which is probably how I’ll feel about our current music of choice, there will come a day when I’ll miss the innocence and awe of this current musical season. Since being in this mothering thing five years now, I’m learning that all things pass, and when they’re gone there is no going back.

Dog and God

My oldest gasped. I stopped reading. “Mom,” he pointed to the word dog on the page, “if you put the g in the front and the d in back, then the word would be god.”

I was slightly impressed. Then I sighed knowing his daddy must have taught him this trick, his daddy: the crossword enthusiast. I

“Did Daddy show you that?”

“No, I just figured it out,” he informed me.

“Wow honey, I think you’re learning stuff at school!”

“Yeah, I’m getting really smart.”

School, so far, has been a complete hit. He’s eager to go and happy to be home. He anticipates his school friends and is happy to get home to his younger brothers. He doesn’t miss me, but beams when I help out in his classroom.

He’s observing too. He has a challenging classmate with obvious special needs. My son came home after the first day of school to point out that this little boy is still in a pull up. I hear about this child almost everyday: how he can’t keep his hands to himself, how he ends up in the time-out chair...the list goes one. My oldest doesn’t think any less of this wiggly boy. How I wish the innocence of kindergarten lasted a bit longer. This little boy can be a bit frustrating at times....to classmates, teachers, and assistants. I know, I helped out for the first time last week. But I had total empathy for him. He was working really hard to behave properly, and I thought, “Wow, if my son can learn to work with this little boy, that will be a huge social-skill-accomplishment!” And his classmates seem to take it in stride and accept him for who he is.

He’s even encountered a bully on the playground, but not to worry, he was playing with his buddy Ryan and they both figured that the older kid was much bigger and concluded that they didn’t need the ball anyway---they’d just go back to playing vampires and bunnies. Sounds fun to me.

At the Saturday morning breakfast table my middle son shouted for some more juice, “Um, you don’t yell like that when you want something. You raise your hand nice and quiet.” My oldest told his eager-to-please younger brother. Ah, love it! My oldest is passing on his new found knowledge.

I can still remember when my older sister would come home from school and teach me new, amazing things. Like the night that she and I laid on our bedroom floor, and she taught me how to carry and take away. Addition and subtraction appeared, to me, to be the most wonderful magic trick I’d ever encountered.

I feel we are evolving, moving out of the Ice Age, into the Stone Age. But since I still have two more preschoolers at home, I still get to linger in the era of play dates, indoor park, and MOPS, but not as carefree as last year, because we have to remember to pick big brother up from school.

Many moms have asked me if I cried on that first day of school. I didn’t. They did. I feel a bit heartless, but then I realize that while I may not have been tearful I was still full of emotion on that first day, but they were all happy ones: anticipation, eagerness, excitement, and joy. I was ready for him because I knew he was ready. He was ready for the next big thing.

We did it! We did his first five years well. I have absolutely no regrets. We did all the things you do when your child is one, two, three, four, and five. Now we are focusing on doing a bang up job with six.

Each night after I put the boys to bed, I crawl back into the oldest son’s room and lay next to him. I let him talk. He tells me all about his day in the night’s darkness. (Hey, mamas out there, studies show that boys/men will verbally process more in dimly lit rooms.) And it is good. His world is expanding: mine is too. I’m not reliving my childhood through his, but rather watching him start to make his own life choices. I’m glad to be doing this parenting adventure.

Breasts

I was told I had a nice back: I made sure my 8th grade graduation dress had an eyelet between my shoulder blades. This was what I held on to during those scary adolescent years because I had been called many other things, not very confidence-boosting-things: mosquito bites, 2 X 4, and boy chest were others terms to describe the development that seemed to not be happening---but happening to everyone else. This was the problem. (I was a full year younger than everyone else in my class.)

I let my mom know I wanted a bra. Yes, I didn’t need one, but really I totally did if I didn’t want to commit social suicide in the 7th grade locker room Actually it wasn’t suicide I feared, but rather murder by the “popular girl” firing squad. (Most of the popular girls had about the same amount of breast development, but no one bothered to point this out: they managed to make me their whipping boy.)

My mom took me shopping. I was embarrassed. She should have handed me a twenty, let me go into Penny’s myself, and waited in the car. But instead, she walked in with me, talking loudly as she fingered the various styles, “This one has a pretty flower in the center. Now, this bra you’re wanting is more for looks than for function, right.” Mortification. A friend of mine, equally as flat, had been able to persuade her mother into buying her a padded number. This is really what I wanted, but could not vocalize. Then the worst thing happened, my mother ran into one of her friends, “Oh Terry, how are you?” They exchanged pleasantries. Then my mother announced, “Yep, we are buying a bra. Not like she really needs one yet, but you know how it is when you are the only one in the locker room.....” I quickly dove into the dressing room to let my mother broadcast my development issues to anyone who happened to be passing by the lingerie section.

One night at youth group I even attempted to stuff my bra. My sister knew, helped, and said it looked good, natural. But the whole night I couldn’t relax. I was sure tissue was creeping out and crawling on to my neck, exposing me as a boob fraud. I frantically excused myself from the scripture discussion, dove into the bathroom, removed my tissue, and cried.

Well, my dad had said I had a nice back. I’d focus on that. I made sure all my swimsuits had low-backs. Hopefully this feature of mine was so stellar that all eyes would be drawn to that side, and my chest would get upstaged.

I survived junior high and got some breasts somewhere in the middle of high school. I was smart, witty, and feeling even a bit pretty by my senior year. I was in drama and one of the better actresses. The last play of my senior year, the spring play, was days away from opening night. We thespians were taking a break out on the lawn, eating our early dinner before dress rehearsal. A fellow actress, two years younger than me, was staring at me. I found it a bit strange, but kept up with my humorous chatter until she interrupted me with an epiphany, “You know, you’d be pretty if you didn’t have all those freckles.”

Wow, not sure how to respond. As always, the best comebacks came later as I replayed the scene in my mind.

Freckles, I thought, added coloring to my face. I had never been informed they were an uglifier. I knew I had pale skin, and society had told me that was unattractive, but no one had ripped on my freckles before. Luckily I didn’t invest in some strange face cream guaranteed to wash away my facial blemishes, only to turn my skin some strange alien color. But I did try plenty of fake tanning lotions that only made me look orange and always left streaks no matter how closely I followed the instructions. In college I worked at a yogurt shop and one of the male workers let me know that I would have sexy legs if they weren’t so white. This time I did have the confidence to reply on the spot and shut him down.

Still, it wasn’t until my late 20’s that I threw out my last bottle of fake tanner and embraced the white that is me. (While traveling in Italy a local vendor told me that I needed to go to the beach. I flashed him my glowing stomach, and that shut him up. In Hawaii another tourist asked if I’d spent any of the vacation in the sun. I informed him that there are many shades of white and that in fact I had and was quite tan in comparison to the Oregon me....thank you very much.)

I’m very cautious with my own sons. They hear all the comments and observations. My husband and I are careful that we don’t discuss them when they are near. I cringe when someone points out that my oldest is, “So skinny!” He’s not to me. He’s “slender” and “lean”. My middle son isn’t emotional, but “passionate”. My youngest isn’t a handful, but instead extremely “athletic”.

When I hear other parents describe their children as lazy or chunky, I cringe. (Yes, this has happened and the children heard.) Our kids are going to get enough critique without us adding to the mix. I tell me sons how handsome they are. I tell my oldest what a great nose he has. We count their new crops of freckles with great excitement and anticipation. I always let them know that I still have the most, and doesn’t it make mommy pretty? They always agree.

Hopefully, when they are 13 and feeling less-than-perfect, they will remember all the times I gave them affirmation and praise. I know I relied heavily on that “great back” my dad said I had; I think it is how I survived. He probably had no idea how much I needed that compliment.

No, It Couldn't Be...

No, it couldn't be. It was just one of my really blonde ones, right? My husband laughed, mockery and vengeance mixed together. I concentrated on the glare beaming off his chrome dome.

That afternoon I had a hair appointment. We chatted about all the normal things: kids, school the holidays...but the whole time I was thinking, "Can she see it? Was it real? Did he really find one?"

"So my husband thinks he found a white hair. Do you see any?"

Oh, yes, she saw one...then several more. But I was not to worry. I was lucky. It would blend in, somewhat, with my blonde hues. Besides, I was going straight from blonde to white, no graying for me. I smiled, "Yeah, that's better than gray. White is pretty." Secretly I was devastated. My plan was to not see gray or white hair until at least 40. I had always remained young looking, if only in my mind. Surely my hair would cooperate.

When I first started teaching middle school I would intentionally introduce myself to the bus drivers on our field trips so that they wouldn't be wondering where the teacher was.

I was a late bloomer growing up, the shortest in my sixth-grade class. I liked my role of being the youngest. I liked looking youthful. I liked being carded: the best compliment.

My dreams and hopes of retaining my youth were dashed as I sat in that beautician's chair. It was happening. My body was growing older, not younger. And it is not just my hair. I also have this little item dubbed the "muffin top." I keep thinking and hoping it'll go away, but after three babies I think it might become a permanent feature.

Luckily I still feel beautiful...actually more beautiful than I've ever felt before. This says much about my husband.

Still, I find myself moving further and further away from the "ideal" age of beauty and it stings a bit. Yet I would never want to go back. I'm learning to love my new, wider hips; my skin that isn't quite youthful as it once was; and maybe soon I'll even begin to anticipate the new white hairs mixed in with my blonde locks of youth.

I don't really want to fight it. I want to be fully what I am, and for now it is a mom who is not only adored by my husband, but my three little boys. I wouldn't change that for any age.

Cook 4 Hire

Uninspired. Unmotivated. Underwhelmed. Not about Christmas, but about cooking. I calculated that I cook, on average, 1,075 meals a year. (I cook breakfast for my boys most morning: eggs, sausage, toast etc.) I’m not feeling it this month. I usually gear up for my big monthly shopping trip with a bit of vigor. I sit on the couch (with comfy hot drink in hand), spread my cookbooks out, gather up my coupons, lay out my paper, and vigorously plan. I figure on four major meals a week that I then base leftovers and lunches on. Maybe it is the holidays. Maybe Thanksgiving took it all out of me. Not sure, but this time around I was pooped out. I looked at my cookbooks and sighed, “I just can’t do it this month. I need a break.” (Someone suggested that I needed new cookbooks, but I’m pretty sure that is not the root of the problem.)

My solution... I downsized; I just planned five meals, made my grocery list and went small scale. It felt better. I was more at ease. I could actually take all three boys with me; we did all our shopping in under an hour. It all fit nicely in the van, and no one had to straddle milk or eggs on our drive home. Unpacking went pretty fast too. My short list that now hangs on my fridge seems attainable. Maybe I’m trying to simplify due to the craziness of the season?

However, I’m going to have to do this next week, and the week after, and.....that does not sound especially exciting. Now I regret not planning and pushing myself to do my huge, once-a-month grocery trip. I don’t want quality time with my boys to be driving, shopping, and hauling. I’d rather hear them playing in the other room while I spend my extra moments writing and escaping....quality time, right?

I have some newly acquired friends who seem to thrive under their motherly cooking duties. They derive great joy that exudes to all people when they stir and simmer in the kitchen. I just get it done. I like the results of my efforts. I love sitting and eating as a family. I’d rather eat in the relaxed atmosphere of my home than at a restaurant with boys who turn into monkeys and climb the furniture, chat with random people, and are always finished eating before we, the adults, have even begun our soup or salad. But the process of planning, cooking, and cleaning up is not life-giving to me.

I think my husband has it pretty good. (Not that I would trade places with him. I love that he goes off to work, and that I stay here.) However, I can’t help but be a bit jealous watching him come home each evening to sit down to a meal that he didn’t have to prepare. Isn’t that what is the most fun about eating out? Not having to plan it or clean it up? Order, eat, and walk away. I’d love, just for one month, to hire a cook or even a professional shopper. Actually, I’d like a domestic assistant this year for Christmas. I would have plenty for them to do: fold laundry (including the arduous job of matching socks), prepare all meals, clean the kitchen floor after each meal, disinfect the bathrooms, make all the beds, run daily and weekly errands....oh, and a nightly massage. Just for one month. I don’t think I’m asking too much. I’m just asking for another me, right? In your dreams honey.

Pathetic Tree

Pathetic. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t, but it was. It stood, slightly leaning, its limbs too weak to support our ornaments. I kept encouraging my son to push the ornaments up higher on each branch. Soon all our ornaments dangled at the center of the tree. If I squinted it looked like a skinny-headed alien with a fat bottom had invaded our holiday space.

My husband insisted we go back into the woods and find another. But the boys were happy because they weren’t in the woods, cold and crying---the root of our pathetic find. It was getting dark. So in haste I pointed and said, “Let’s get that one,” a decision my husband and I soon regretted. I humored myself by vainly persuading everyone that it didn’t really matter. I watched from a distance as the boys fingered their ornaments and discussed various memories. It was sweet. Surely I could look past the ugliness of our forest fir.

Then some visitors came over. They smiled politely as I told them I knew how bad our tree was. They even tried to tell me they thought it was fine. “No, it really is bad. Look at the star!”

They looked. The star was no longer vertical but horizontal. They laughed. I was anxious for Christmas, not for the gifts and family, but so I could throw out our tree.

My husband and our oldest trudged back into the woods behind our house and found another. It was beautiful and timely: the second they dragged it into the living room our tree-of-no-splendor collapsed on to the floor. Thankfully no ornaments were smashed in its wake.

I called my sister and said, “Well, we got our second tree.”

She oozed holiday cheer, “Oh, I totally want two trees this year.”

“Uh, no, we don’t have two trees. We threw out our first one. It was really bad.”

No, our act wasn’t practical. It wasn’t environmental. It wasn’t altruistic. It was totally an act of Christmas tree pride, and I’m OK with that. In fact, I’m more than OK. I’m great! It looks good. I think it is our best tree yet... a grand fir with plenty of branches, strong limbs, supportive top, and pleasing overall shape.

The Christmas tree is really the focal point of holiday decorating and cheer, and I’ve learned (in a short span of three days), that if you don’t have one you like...you just won’t feel the Ho Ho Ho of Merry Christmas.



Can you see the limbs? See how they are too weak to hold anything up?




After this shot was taken the ornament was smashed and shattered......a kid-friendly Christmas.



Can you tell how pathetic it is from this position?



This is where it all started....cold, dark, crying kids etc.

I discovered my camera is no good for night shots. So, if that is what you want, stay away from a Kodak Easy Share.

Meat Stick Haiku-Christmas Flavor

Christmas Flavor

Red compacted meat
Yummy taste on a cracker
Arg, constipation

Parenting: A Steep Learning Curve

As I drove my son to his first day of preschool I felt the sudden nudge, from within, to remind him, “When you have to go potty, don’t go outside. You need to tell the teacher and use the bathroom.”

These are conversations I could have never anticipated prior to having children. Being a mom has been the most intense learning curve of my life...and I love it. I love growing, learning, and becoming a better person--at least I hope that is what is happening. My sons are the best life-coaches I have ever hired.

I have learned that my wants, desire, and hopes don’t always come true. I’m learning to embrace the scorpions, snakes, and tarantulas. I’m accepting that antlers are a decorating option. I must become familiar with the ways of Optimus Prime and Megatron. I must immerse myself in the language of Star Wars so that the Force will be with us.

I’m learning that I love to be outnumbered. My mother-in-law promised me that I would discover the special bond between mother and son--hard to describe, but real and true. And I get three of these unique and special connections complete with WWF each night on the living room carpet. I’m usually on the bottom of the pile.

I have three little men who adore me. My oldest is always letting me know how beautiful I am, as he strokes my hair and places his hands on my cheeks. My middle is consistently finding me beautiful flowers, and my youngest....well, his looks melt the soul.

I’m already laying plans to scare off the adolescent girls: these boys are mine! My oldest niece is in the 7th grade. I’m getting scared. She is so boy crazy. She reads every look and action from boys in her class as confirmation of their undying love and affection. Great. My boys are doomed. My only hope is that they will find other passions to distract them as they navigate the teenage years.

But for now, I’m loving where we are at. Our kids like us. We are cool. Today my husband and I both visited and volunteered in our four-year-old's preschool class. He loved it, and so did we. Someday he may not, and that is OK. We will take each stage as it comes and enjoy it for what it brings....even if it brings silly girls who giggle too much.

Maybe the antlers will scare them off.

This was first published in The Newberg Graphic.

Quaker Silence?

My world is strangely silent. We are all speaking is whispers. There is a creepy lull; I'm even a bit down...this forced monastery atmosphere is dampening my verbal processing spirit! I have lost my voice.

My sons hate it. "Why are you whispering?" "I can't hear you." "Can you please talk normal." "I don't like you this way."

On day one of no voice they mimicked me and responded in whispers. They did it without really thinking about it, and they didn't seem to notice I was forced to speak this way. It was like some fun game we were all playing together. It wasn't until evening that all their frustration came out. I was frustrated too. Still am.

Each night I go to sleep thinking that tomorrow will be the day that I wake up and my voice has returned to me. I can't help but panic a bit; what if this is the new normal? Freaky.

I need to invest in a white board or post-it notes. My mom and I do charades. Random people will say hello, like the garbage man, and I just smile. Getting gas was tricky. I'm having empathy for the mute. I feel cut off from the world.

My mother-in-law is here this weekend. I have lots of questions and things I'd love to tell her. Nope. I sit in silence. I am thinking I need to invest in an overly talkative friend right now. Someone who will just talk my ear off and visit with me even though all I can do is nod and shake my head.

I asked my husband if he missed my voice. He said, "Oh, this is actually nice!" Ha, ha! He thought it was so very funny. I did not.

I think I might need to have a game night soon where all we do is charades. Anyone?

(Note: On Sunday morning my voice began to regain strength. Now I have smoker's voice.)

Outnumbered

I make running lists of the ways I am outnumbered. I have thoughts, "Wow, this is only happening because I have all boys." I mostly love it. I've always liked feeling special. And I do. Each boy does his part. They all think I'm beautiful. They love my hugs. They depend on my consistency. They yearn for my approval and praise. My oldest told me he wanted to buy me a pretty pink hat, a nice pink shirt, and yellow pajamas. I'm very excited to open my Christmas presents this year.

So, here are some of my random noticings about my current situation:

1. I'm the only one who consistently sits on the potty.
2. I'm the only one who will ever buy a bra, to wear, along with all those other womanly things.
3. I'm the only one in my family who will ever give birth.
4. When I drove my son to him first day of preschool, I had to remind him that he couldn't pee outside. He needed to go inside and use the bathroom.
5. I get to hear my children play and shout, "I'm going to smash your guts!"
6. Potty humor. Just stick poop, pee, bottom, fart, etc. at the end of anything and you've got funny.
7. Boxes routinely become rocket ships.
8. Famous Imaginary Play Duos are: Spiderman and Batman, Chip and Dale, Optimus Prime and Magatron, Darth Vader and Darth Mal.



9. When motivating my boys to clean up the toy room we all became Transformers. I have to be in character the whole time, and am impressed with my Transformer knowledge and verbal skills.
10. I'm the only one not thrilled when Daddy brings home new critters.






11. I don't think decorating with animal heads is decorating.




12. I'm the only one who can't make cool sound effects.
13. If I don't take part in nightly WWF, I miss out on quality touch and affection.

The list continues.....and will morph and change through the developmental stages. And I love it.

A Victim of the Swine Flu?

This might be a bit premature. What if I eat my words? What if it turns out to be really bad? This is a bit how I felt when I doubted the horror of Y2K. My husband and I were the only ones not storing water, rice, and gold. In fact, I was hoping that the computers would crash and erase our student loans. (No such luck.)

My husband got sick on Tuesday. (10 plus days ago now.) Normally I might have typed something on my FB status about him not feeling well, but with all the fear around Swine Flu I decided not to. I did warn my college girlfriends, since we had a beach trip planned. He seemed so sick that I thought I might need to stay home to take care of him. Little did I know I would be voted off the beach-weekend-island. Oh they had every right. One of them was pregnant. Most have young kids at home. It was assumed I was a carrier and was shedding the virus. But was it even Swine Flu?

After some e-mail correspondence and a couple of phone calls, I decided to vote myself out. Besides, I do like my boys, and I do like my husband. We'd have our own fun. By Thursday night he was feeling better, all symptoms of flu were gone. I figured that we were good to live life if all was still well by Saturday, a full 48 hours of good health.

So we did. Our chickens came. We enjoyed them. We went shopping. We enjoyed a birthday party. The boys (dad included) played soccer in our yard amongst the fallen oak leaves. Church. Pizza. It was a good weekend.

Still, when my girlfriends called me to say they missed me, I felt a little cheated. My annual trip had been ripped from me. They asked how I was. "Fine. We are all fine. We've been fine since Thursday." What I wanted to say was, "I totally could have come! Boohoo! I now know what my ancestor Rebecca Nurse felt like when she was hung as a witch in the Salem Witch Trials." (Hyperbole.)

Oh well. There will be another one. I'll look forward to Girls Weekend 2010. I'll insist we gather before the beginning of October to make sure no one misses out due to sickness.

I'm also hoping this is the only disappointment I experience surrounding the Swine Flu. I do read the statistics in the paper, that @80 have died in the last two months; that last year total flu related deaths were @40. I think the Swine Flu is more real than Y2K.

What do you think?

Update: My husband actually relapsed and was super weak. I was single mom for too many days in a row. He was no longer showing flu symptoms, but was just super weak. He finally went in and the doctor confirmed that it was most likely Swine Flu, and that he was experiencing a secondary infection. It was not fun. I'm not sure how none of us got it. Does this mean we are safe? Vaccinated by our daddy? I'm sort of glad to have gotten it over with in October. But maybe we could still get it? I really hope not. It is a bad one. He was wiped out! I can't imagine my 9 month old getting that sick....so sad.

I think my friends had every right to be nervous around me, but I was a bit afraid to post this...afraid that I would be treated like a leper. So, for anyone who is going to see me, be with me, or has been with me...we are totally not contagious. It has been nearly 2 plus weeks since the flu symptoms occurred. Please be our friends. Please play with us.