Back in the Saddle

Today was our first regular day after the winter break, and we made it through the morning by the skin of our teeth....wait, that's a figure of speech, right? Jason would probably call that one of my "Bowdonisms" in honor of the small town from which half of my family hales. Anyway, our pitfall today was a little complication called mismatched socks. I think I could write and produce a hilarious satire on the Mystery of the Missing Sock. I always start with a complete set of matching pairs, and then somehow, I end up with a white wicker basket full of socks with no mates. The dryer has to be stashing them somewhere in an effort to drive me crazy. I bet that pesky appliance cracks up about it with the washing machine whenever I'm not home.

When I came tearing through the house at 2:45 to change into my T-shirt and tennis shoes before darting back out to Wal Mart and then carpool line, I was dismayed at the state of the house. I'm just going to have to accept that as long as I'm working, the house isn't going to look the way I want it to. I've got a good grip on the dirty laundry right now, but to be honest, the clean laundry waiting to be folded is staging a coup. I'm going to try my best to hold the tiny whitey tighties at bay until Saturday, when I plan to clean and fold like a crazy woman in order to get ready for Hudson's 6th birthday on Sunday.

Tomorrow will be Day 2 of sleep deprivation and two minutes showers before work in an effort to make it out the door on time. I really should be making sandwiches right now, but instead I opted for blogging. I'm sure I'll regret that decision around 8:15 tomorrow morning. Thank goodness it's a short week.

Just a Regular Day

There hasn't been anything extraordinary about the past two days with my family. In some ways I think it's what makes the last two days of Christmas vacation so spectacularly lazy and fun. Yesterday we stayed in our pajamas all day long. I literally had to change out of my pajamas from the night before and change into clean ones to climb into bed.

The kids and Jason played Mario Slugger on the Wii, and I unearthed pictures from the boys' infancy and toddlerhood that we didn't know we had. It was so much fun to look back on the photos and watch videos of baby Lawson and tiny Camden and Hudson. I was humbled by how quickly time has passed and sad to realize it's passing by with Scout just as quickly.

On the other hand, I relished the moments with my big boys, and their growing independence is both exciting and sad. I know it will be hard for me when they don't need me as much, but I sense an underlying trust and friendship that is building between us that is both hilarious and touching. Tonight I sat in the bathroom floor laughing so hard I couldn't breathe because my mini-dork forgot to take his socks off before he stepped in the tub and then laughed so hard at himself he farted. It felt so good to let the opportunity to tell him to pay attention to what he's doing pass and just laugh at his dripping wet sock and look of stunned amusement when he picked his foot up out of the water. The fart was just the icing on the cake as it reverberated off the porcelain tub. Ordinarily I would tell him to use his manners, but not this time. The moment was too fun and too genuine to be marred with lectures. I let myself be a kid for a moment and shared a great moment with my son.

I also cut all three boys' hair tonight, and it gave me a few minutes of solo time with each of them. They are so different in their own ways, but there is a genuine passion and a silly zeal for life that unites them. Hudson insisted I tie the cover I used to protect his neck from stray hair around him like a cape, and he bounded around his room like a superhero when I was done. Lawson danced and giggled his way through every snip and then launched himself back into the tub to wash off the "itchies." Camden fretted I was cutting his hair too short until he caught a glimpse in the mirror to check my handiwork. He didn't even get upset when I nicked him with the scissors, and he went so far as to laugh at the joke I made at my own expense.

Sometimes I can laugh with my boys and take pride in the patience I muster in caring for them. Sometimes the pack mentality takes control of them, and I find myself yelling in frustration to deaf little ears who are too far engrossed in goofy wrestling matches to realize I'm even talking. These are the moments I might have to walk away to be able to deal with the situation the right way or when I try and seek out Scout for a cuddle to remind me they are only little once.

Jason and I go back to work tomorrow, and the kids go back to school on Wednesday. As the week grows increasingly hectic, I hope I can hold onto the perspective I have right now to carry me through the stressful moments. My goal is to slow down and see life through their eyes even when our demanding schedule dictates every moment of our lives. Happy New Year to you all, my cohorts in this adventure we call parenting.    

Challenge Accepted

Wednesday night I tried an exercise class as a method of cross-training for my second half marathon coming up in February. I'm sure many of you are familiar with Spin classes. Some of you shudder at the very mention of the name as you see a brief flash of yourself sweating, gasping for breath, and fighting the urge to throw up---much like the image I see in my own head of myself as I attempted to make it through an hour of pedaling against burning muscles.

If I didn't know the instructor is such a godly woman, I'd swear she was a devil on a Spin bike pedaling furiously to the backdrop of heavy metal debauchery. And yes, I do believe that was a wicked smile on her lips as she bellowed at all of her sweaty subjects to turn it to a 7. What?! Seven?! I'm dying here on a 5, woman! At first I at least went through the motions of pretending to turn the evil little tension knob, but as the class progressed, I shamelessly abandoned my quest of maintaining appearances.

Instead, I concentrated on the sweat that plastered my hair to my face and ran down the length of my back and wondered why there was no trash can in the room in case I lost my battle with cycling-induced nausea.

See, here's the deal. I'll be back at that class every week until I can make it a minute and fifty-eight seconds while pedaling at 100% capacity on a 10. As Barney Stinson would say, "challenge accepted." (How I Met Your Mother fans, I salute you.) That Spin bike will not get the best of me. I will not go down without a fight. I'll be there sweating and hyperventilating each week because that sweat reminds me that I'm strong. It reminds me that my body was made to accomplish things other than having four kids. It reminds me that God put a fire in all of us that is meant to burn bright in many different areas of life once it's lit.

So, I'll be back. I just may bring a trash can with me next time.

Doody! Doody!

Okay, I could spend my energy writing about our holiday trip to Carrollton, which was simultaneously a huge blessing and a huge source of stress, but instead I'm opting to start the post Christmas blogging season with a funny little glimpse into the mind of a 22-month-old kid just trying to figure things out.

Before you read on, here is my disclaimer. IF YOU DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN OR ARE EASILY GROSSED OUT BY DISCUSSIONS OF BODILY FUNCTIONS (I'm talking to you, Meghan), STOP READING NOW. If you like a good laugh or a frank discussion on the challenges of potty training, read on. Please forgive my Caddyshack reference in the title, too. I couldn't resist.

A few weeks ago, our daughter pooped on her little tiny toilet thanks to the bribe  promise of chocolate. What Jason and I were unprepared for was her reaction--sheer terror and horror when she saw her deposit (see, I can discuss this without being terribly crass). We've been trying to figure out the problem since and have tossed around numerous theories that include everything from her being afraid of a frog shaped tiny toilet to deeper Freudian musings on the anal stage of development.

We see that she's getting ready to potty train. She loathes being wet and as a result is constantly taking off her Pull Up and leaving it in random places. Who doesn't like a good scavenger hunt for a Pull Up with an occasional bonus of stepping in a puddle of pee? She also informs us when a number two is brewing and frets about it until she completes the job. (Who does number two work for?) What puzzles us is her absolute refusal to set foot near her potty to do any business other than reading a good book or taking a load off after playing.

This morning I think I found my answer. My daughter is scared of turds. I don't know how else to say it. She told me it was coming, so I hurried to bathe her. I left the room to go grab her potty, and I heard a whine that led to a shriek of terror. I dashed back into the room to see her scrambling from one end of the tub to the next trying to escape the floater that was chasing her. I pulled the drain and snatched a towel from under the sink while trying to reassure her that all was well.

"It's just poopy, sweetheart. Everyone poops--it's okay."

She was not buying it. As I reached to scoop her up, she backed away one more time with wide-eyed worry as the object of her anxiety inched its way near her. When she was safely nestled in my arms, she looked down at the tub and said "Bye, poopy." I guess every bathtub turd is less frightening when the two of you are not occupying the same space.

So there you have it. My daughter is scared of turds, and I'm at a loss as to how to handle this problem as we get ready to move on to the next stage of her development. Do we personify the little guys and try to make them seem more friendly to her? This method might get confusing once we tell her to wash the poop germs off her hands when she's done. Do we come up with a little story about how all turds are just looking for a drain to make it back to the ocean/sewer? She is a big fan of Finding Nemo.

We could go very technical and explain the digestive process. This route is what we took with the boys, who in turn made me read the part about how excess food turns into poopy and is pushed out through the rectum OVER and OVER and OVER. I'm sure it will come to us, and I'll be a bit saddened to put potty training behind us for the last time, hopefully without completely traumatizing our daughter. These are the days.

P.S. Honey, I swear one day I'll make a decent living at this writing gig, and all of your shame and embarrassment will be worth it. Don't stop believing, dude.

Here Ya' Go, Santa! Have My Entire Paycheck

I have sticker shock from the layaway receipt at Walmart. Rollback, my tail. Sure, clearly Walmart usually has the lowest prices, but isn't there anyone who can help a gal with four little kids who are still mastering the concept of greed versus humility? My seven-year-old is really starting to grasp the art of giving, but the other three are still little capitalists.

If we were better planners or had extra income we could tuck away each month, we wouldn't be caught looking like deer in headlights the second week of December. Huh? What? Christmas came again this year? What a surprise! I did not see that one coming. Yep, that's me. To borrow a favorite line from Elf, "That's shocking."

Jason and I are still not completely sure of the details of Santa's spread. Gone are the days when we can lay out an arsenal of inexpensive little gifts and see their eyes light up. I'm relishing this Christmas with Scout because it's only a matter of time till she puts "iPad" down on her wish list (which, by the way, I had a pre-k student do). The boys did beg me to select a child from the Angel Tree at the Y, so deep down, I know the lessons life has taught us since we moved here are not completely lost. Good luck shopping, all you fellow Christmas elves! May the force (and a good deal) be with you.

My Kid Can Get Your Kid to Pee on Furniture...and My Other Kid Will Tattle on Him

Last Saturday, my rockstar friend Cindy invited me and three out of my four kids to eat dinner at her house. The plan was to let the kids play and to enjoy some much needed and hard to come by time hanging out with a good girlfriend. God bless her husband, who not only cooked burgers and hotdogs, but also endured a noisy dinner that involved getting up multiple times and chewing our food to the backdrop of fart jokes and fake burps.

After dinner we migrated to the backyard, where a fire pit sat popping and waiting for eager little ones to roast marshmallows. When the kids emptied the first bag and retreated inside to play, the grown ups broke out a second bag along with a pack of graham crackers and the largest chocolate bar I've ever laid eyes upon. I was bulldozing my way through my third s'more when Lawson burst through the screen door and declared his friend had peed on the couch.

What?! As the Pre-K teacher of Cindy's son, this little story seemed highly unlikely. Cindy's husband went upstairs to investigate, and I warily did a mental checklist of which Jones boy might have inspired this new development. When her husband returned, he detailed pee puddles on their couch and chair upstairs. When we asked in shocked voices (well, mine was really mock shock because I had already braced myself for what was coming) why he did it, the explanation was simple: Hudson and Lawson told me to do it.

I took the march of shame into the house to call down my little instigators. When I posed the question, "did you tell you friend to pee on the couch?" Lawson looked me squarely in the eyes and said no. Hudson, on the other hand, looked squarely at the spot on the wall above my right shoulder and answered the same way as his brother. Seeing an opening, I admonished Lawson for telling his friend to do such a thing, to which Hudson adamantly responded, "Lawson didn't say anything!"

Lawson was off the hook, so I posed the same question to Hudson. With wide-eyed indignation and a firm hold on his innocence, he declared, "I didn't tell him to pee on the couch! I told him to pee on the stairs!"

Sigh. Not only did my second born child inspire his buddy to do something totally out of character (which by the way is also totally out of character for Hudson), my third son felt it was his civic duty to march downstairs and totally rat him out. Their buddy got a time-out, and my little man will be working on an apology note to his friend this week. I can't help but find humor in the situation, but I know I do so at the risk of undermining the hilarious inappropriate nature of the offense. Needless to say, I will host the next gathering so that any errant urination is at my expense. It's the least I can do.

It's Just Life, and It's a Good One

The holidays so far have been a hodge podge of meaningful moments, stressful disagreements, and sometimes hilarious plans gone awry. We decided to decorate our Christmas tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but a delay meant that my blaring of holiday music and menagerie of Christmas ornaments directly conflicted with the Georgia game. The perfect, poignant family afternoon I envisioned in my mind was tarnished by my husband's diverted attention, and after my complaints started escalating toward an argument, our decorating was delayed half an hour as a compromise. He finished the game, I turned the cheesy Christmas music back on, and decorating (translation: my favorite annual walk down Memory Lane) resumed.

I'd like to say from the outside looking in that it was a Norman Rockwell painting waiting to happen, but in all actuality, ornaments were broken, Scout wandered off to roll her baby stroller through the house instead of admiring the tree, and I glued two of my fingers to Camden's favorite homemade ornament in an attempt to salvage it after I dropped and broke it. The chaos was ultimately what gave the day its poignancy, and for a moment, I tried to memorize every detail of the excitement on the boys' faces, the concentration in my husband's eyes as he worked to repair his Lincoln Memorial ornament, and the swelling love I felt in my heart for my little zoo crew.

Yesterday we set out to see Santa at Bass Pro Shop, but we were once again delayed by a football game (in his defense, he missed the game the weekend before to watch the parade of boats down River Street). We rolled out of the driveway at 4:20 in an attempt to make it to the south side by 5:00. Seriously, we never stood a chance, but we had to show the kids we tried. My gas light came on before we even made it off the island, but I was determined not to stop. At 5:03, we rolled into the parking lot at Bass Pro Shop with only one, very unhappy kid awake.

We formed a plan to see Santa next weekend and compromised by agreeing to take them to Toys R Us. At that point, gas was a critical factor in the equation, so I found the nearest Parker's. Tension was running high, and as the hubs stood waiting at the pump, I frantically dug for my wallet--which of course was sitting on the kitchen counter back on Wilmington Island. Jason, who almost never leaves home without his wallet and his keys, managed to pull out pocket lint when he reached for his.

So, we sat at the gas station coming up with a third plan with our new goal being simply to find a way out of the south side (no offense, Georgetown friends) and back onto the comforts of our island. Publix! I had a checkbook! As I got out of the car in the Publix parking lot with my checkbook in hand, it suddenly dawned on my I had no I.D. After digging through the car hoping ten bucks would magically materialize from under the seats, I marched determinedly into the store and told a haphazard, funny tale to the kind gentleman behind the counter, who promptly laughed, took pity on me, and let me cash a check for twenty bucks.

As I pulled out of the parking lot in triumph and prepared to head back to the gas station, I hit the cart return with my van. I could only dissolve into giggles at that point, though Jason found it far less entertaining. The one thing I've learned in five years of driving a mama mobile is to let the vanity fly out the window. It's a kid carting machine, and it serves its purpose well. That cart return never stood a chance against my old girl, and she emerged with nary a scratch.

Our life is a series of perfect mishaps and unexpectedly touching moments of chaos. I often wonder if Jason and I will be bored when our tenure bringing up such extraordinary little creatures is complete and our house is quiet. This blog has given me an opportunity to reflect on what it means to be a family and realize that when you're in it for the long haul, there is no such thing as a wrong turn--just opportunities to learn and grow and laugh at yourselves. This Christmas, the imperfection of my life is what makes it the best kind of life to have.

Ode to Mom Guilt

Ah, Mommy Guilt, the most plaguing and underestimated of all the guilts. It starts as a nagging undercurrent of panic and self-doubt the moment the nurse leaves you on the curb with your wrinkled, helpless newborn in your arms as you wait for your husband to bring the car around to go home. The entire ride home from the hospital may as well be the first time you've been a passenger in a car and looked out the window at your surroundings. The whole world looks completely different, and the perspective through which that familiar drive home is filtered has now been forever altered.

You're a mom. You are half of the responsible party for creating life, you've spent forty weeks growing a person, and now you've got to figure out how to raise a tiny human without completely damaging your child's capacity for happiness and self-worth. No pressure.

If I've learned anything in my seven years as a mother, it's that Mom Guilt never disappears. Rather, it undergoes its own unique metamorphosis that parallels every stage of my children's development. When Camden was two weeks old, I felt guilty because I couldn't get him to latch and traded water blisters and tears for baby formula. Now that he's seven and a headstrong, dramatic, hilarious individual, I feel guilty because I get frustrated with his histrionics more quickly than I should. I worry I'm not promoting his self-worth enough because sometimes I'm just so exhausted from fighting the battle that comes with bringing up a strong-willed child.

With Hudson I feel guilty because he's the middle child, and I don't always know the right ways to boost his self-esteem. I worry Lawson will get lost in the shuffle of four children because he is the most laid back and accommodating of all of our children. Surprisingly, I feel pretty confident in my abilities to handle Scout right now, though I know my fair share of juicy, guilty morsels of sleepless nights lie ahead.

I can't completely bash my friend Mom Guilt, though. It's the voice in my head that tells me to take a step back when I need to or the overpowering urge to hug my children out of the blue. It is part of my motivation to pray with my children on the way to school each morning after an inevitable WWF smack down just to get everyone in the car. It's why I roll my window down to call after them that I love them once they pile out of the van each day just so I know they heard at least one positive word from me to take with them. It's behind every napkin note in their lunch boxes and every "I'm sorry" I utter to them when I lose my temper and handle myself in a disappointing fashion.

Mom Guilt is a double-edged sword of inadequacy and accountability. Every mom has experienced it in some fashion, and every mom has considered how to incorporate it into her daily life without feeling consumed by it. Just in case no one reminds you today (because motherhood is by nature a job without immediate positive feedback), know that what you do is important and of great value. To borrow my favorite tag line from Nick Jr. (a very reputable source), "We're not perfect. We're parents."

 

I Stink I Need A Wubbing Tag

Tonight I took a big step in letting go. I emailed Lawson's teacher about having him evaluated for speech. He's my baby boy, and he has the sweetest, wee voice and mischievous smile. His challenges with certain sounds have never phased him, and when we repeat something especially cute that he says, he smiles a sly smile and basks in the attention. I know it's time, though. His vocabulary is growing, and sometimes his words contain more than one sound that he struggles with. There are many occasions I have to ask him to repeat himself and then listen closely because I didn't catch what he said the first time. He needs to work on his "s" sounds, "r" sounds, "j" sounds, "th" sounds, and "l" sounds. It seems like a long list, yet I'm sad about the thought of his losing his sweet little pronunciations.

I've spent the past few years hiding a smile every time he told me something he "stinks" (thinks). He always asks me not to get hand sanitizer on the "stumb" (thumb) he sucks because it tastes so bad. (Clearly he doesn't grasp the way germs work since the thumb he puts in his mouth is the one that needs the most sanitizer.) He loves double looped tags that he can rub together when he's sleepy, and even Jason and I catch ourselves calling it his "wubbing tag."

It feels like if Lawson learns to correct all of his language quirks, he'll seem like more of a big boy to me than my little man. Already it's hard to imagine that Camden was ever as small as Lawson is when he was in pre-k, though pictures from two years ago clearly demonstrate he was. For some reason unknown to me, I have developed a natural inclination to treat Lawson like the baby because he was my baby for so long. He's still my youngest boy, and watching him and Hudson, for that matter, grow in independence this year has been exciting and sad all at the same time.

Bringing up a strong, independent old soul like Camden, our oldest, has made the path somewhat easier, but I feel much more protective of his younger siblings for some reason. Camden came out ready to greet the world and eager to engage in every aspect of life. Hudson has carefully tested the waters of every situation he's been placed in and proceeded with caution and sensitivity at every turn. Lawson is my go-with-the-flow guy, and I worry sometimes he may have gotten lost in the shuffle because he is so laid back. He's in elementary school now, and I see the amount of knowledge he's gaining increasing tremendously each day. His confidence is growing, too, and every week he comes home talking about a new friend. I looked at him today and realized--despite how hard it will be for me-- I need to let him be a big kid.

I shouldn't be afraid of watching my kids grow older (even though sometimes I am), but I know how much I'll miss his little Boston accent r's when they're gone. Maybe Scout will have her own funny little word sounds for me to enjoy for a few short years.    

Onomatopoeia--BLAM!

Somewhere out there I hope there are fellow writers, English nerds, former students, and gatherers of trivial knowledge who appreciate the blog title. It's one of my favorite words to say, and I recently taught it to my kids. Onomatopoeia is a word that imitates the sound it describes, like BAM! and POP! So far the kids just like to say it five times fast and laugh over how funny it comes out when it's strung together, but I couldn't resist defining it for them when we came across it in their children's stories. 

In what I thought was a cute and clever move, I bought plates and napkins for Camden's birthday party that were covered in onomatopoeia words. See, look how appealing and fun:

But, POW! My plan backfired, and I was faced with a crying, disappointed seven-year-old who had his heart set on Pokemon party napkins and plates. I truly underestimated my nerdy mom appeal because I am apparently the only one who thought these were cool. Seriously. I tried telling some of the moms I didn't know yesterday (because making new friends is my favorite) about my funny little conundrum, and you know what I heard in response? Crickets.

To further burst my bubble, Byrd's Karate actually provided me with plates, napkins, and tablecloths, which was in fact a pretty awesome and unexpected surprise that relegated my purchase unnecessary. But you know what? I'm still going to tuck my little plates and napkins away and smile with smug pride at my find because I believe hiding within every mom and dad is a secret nerd gem that should be nurtured.

You may be nerdy about the law (ahem, Jason) or nerdy about grammar (guilty) or nerdy about cooking, scrapbooking, hair products, sports, makeup, bug species, or the proper way to fold a crease in pants (Jason again--he's pretty much a rare hybrid nerd species). Whatever you're nerdy about, embrace it and be proud and passionate about it. It makes you unique, and it will give your kids great stories to laugh about when they roast you at family get-togethers years from now.

Recognize and support your little one's nerdy passions, too, despite the fact they may be as fleeting as the seasons. Right now, my kids are nerdy about Pokemon and bugs (Camden), assembling ANYTHING from puzzles to Bionicles (Hudson), drawing and coloring (Lawson), and garnering as much positive attention as possible through undeniable cuteness (Scout). We try to learn about their interests when we can, even when Hudson shakes his head in disgust at my inability to read the Lego instructions properly. I get to be part of their little worlds, and I get to let them into my dorky little world, too. I already garner eye rolls from them, so I shudder to think of all the ways I will embarrass them during their teenage years. Hopefully I'm cultivating something strong enough to fight the sour attitude of puberty.  

Ultimately, I will probably return the plates and napkins to Wal Mart and get my ten bucks back, but I like to believe I'll think of them fondly every time I see BLAM! written somewhere. Carpe diem, my nerdy friends!