A boy and his . . .Little Mister

Boo has discovered his Little Mister.
Imagine The Man's chagrin when Boo discovered that his Little Mister was perky in the morning and very ticklish.
Being a normal boy, what did he do?
Initially, he panicked.
Then he pondered.
Then he found out it was fun.
And then I got a worried call from The Man requesting help trying to dissuade Boo from petting his pony.
My response? Laughter and a reminder that, when it comes to situations like this, he was the expert, not me. I advised him to step up--and to the side, just in case--and to talk with Boo man to munchkin.
Then I drove to work chuckling about boys and their toys.

Pod heathens

Occasionally, without warning, my heathens are snatched away and replaced with delightful little aliens with good manners and sweet personalities.
This happened last Sunday at church. (Yes, I went for my brother in law to become ordained to do something or other. I'm supportive, even if I'm confused! And the ceiling did not fall down around my ears, although it creaked menacingly a few times!)
My boys were perfect little gentlemen. Complete with please and thank you and waiting their turn and minding.
I was complimented by the teacher, and all I could do was ask her, "You mean my boys? Are you sure it was my boys?"
Sadly enough, the mother ship returned and took the pod heathens out of the back of my van and returned my normal grumpy, whiny, obstinate children.
If I'd just seen the mother ship approaching, I could have thrown myself over the pod heathens and either kept them or been beamed up with them.
Don't get me wrong. I love my heathens. But I love well behaved heathens and those occasional glimmers of Brady-esque peace and bliss. It is those glimpses that gives me the strength to say for the thousandth time, "Because i said so!" or "You didn't eat your breakfast/lunch/dinner, so no snacks!"
It is those moments, although knocking me on my ass in surprise, that puff me up with self righteous mommy pride.
Although my happy balloon gets popped just moments later.

Out of the mouths of heathens

The Man: Boo, would you mind picking up the toys Punk threw out of her crib?
Boo: Holy rap, Daddy! That's a lot of toys. I'm just a little boy, you know!

Show Time!

Bug has entered a new phase.
"SHOW TIME!" he yells as he runs into the living room and strikes a pose.
Then he yells at his brother to get in there and help with the show.
The show consists of a lot of gyrating, flaying, and posing, and the Man and I suitably applaud the effort every five minutes.
It's very cute to watch my future Broadway producer orchestrate dances with hats and spins and sudden stops, all the while looking to us for approval.
He doesn't realize he has no control over his brother, who is supposedly part of the show, and his baby sister, whose determined to steal the show.
It brings back memories for me of being a child and dancing around my yard, imagining myself to be a rock start or a dancer or a singer.
Maybe Bug will be famous one day.
Maybe he will just enjoy dancing around the house in his socks and undies like Tom Cruise.
Maybe he will just look back fondly at his childhood antics as he watched his own offspring dance and flail around to music.
"SHOW TIME!"

Shit happens

Punk has a horrible, yeasty diaper rash.
I have done the baking soda baths,
I have slathered her with fungal creams and diaper creams and cream of tartar and coconut cream pie (sorry, was on a cream tangent there) to ease the pain in her poor hoo hoo. (Yes, we call it a hoo hoo. And the boys have Little Misters and Wingnuts)
So last night, having a moment of brilliance, I let her have naked time to air our her nether regions.
It was going well. She was thrilled to be free and easy. I got more shots of her butt as she hoisted in in the air than I ever needed, but she was happy and that was what mattered.
Until I looked over and saw a stinky prairie dog coming out of my child.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I ran over, grabbed her, and ACTUALLY PUT MY HAND OUT TO CATCH THE OFFENDING NUGGET BEFORE IT FELL.Luckily, it missed my hand. I don't know what I would have done when faced with a handful of shit, but it was reflex.
Leaving the turdling behind, I ran to the changing table to wipe her up and get something to pick up the brown steaming nugget.
When I came back, I found The Man standing there, looking from me to the nugget and glowering.
"It's on my floor."
"Yes."
"That I just mopped."
"Okay." Dangerous ground. The Man sweeps and mops DAILY, and we're not allowed to even wear shoes in our house for fear of angering our own Mr. Clean.
"Put a diaper on her. Now."
"Nope." Then, while clutching the child and hoping I didn't a get peed on, I explained how yeast grows in damp, warm environments and that having Punk run around bare assed would help the yeast not grow any more.
Punk just grin at him. I'm sure she was thinking about dropping another load on his floor, but thankfully, she restrained herself.
He shook his head and stomped off, and I dealt with the offending offal. All the while Punk chattered, "Poo, poo, dada, poo!"
Which were my thoughts exactly.

Bite me!

Punk is teething.
Again
Still
Perpetually.
She's down to the last five teeth she needs and she's determined to milk those suckers for all they are worth.
That means no sleep for mommy. Nope, we're up holding her while she head butts me and stares at me and pokes her mutant monkey toes into my flesh.
In the dark of night, it's reminiscent of being pregnant again, only from the outside, that feeling of not having control of my body due to an invader that won't let you rest. It's the surreal phantom movements that pregnant women experience, and I found myself reliving those while I held Punk to my breast and spooned her to my stomach.
Okay, back to Punk and her chompers.
Teething tabs don't help.
She's getting nothing from Motrin or Tylenol.
I'm getting liver disease from the liquor I'm imbibing to survive.
Teething is a rotten, cruel, ugly business and the Universe's way of giving parents the smack down.
Just when we're feeling like we're in control, in come the pearly whites and your child starts giving Linda Blair a run for her money.
I'm tired. I'm done. I'm thinking about handing her the bottle of liquor--Godiva, just so you know.
She can't be any meaner as a drunk!

The Princess upon her throne

Punk has declared war on diapers.
She's 16 months old, so this isn't terribly convenient or expected.
You'll leave her alone for a minute, and she'll have her diaper off and out of the room/play pen/crib before you can say Jack Sprat. (Why would you want to say that?)
So we've begun to let her play with potty training.
I know she's too young, but her little Lily white butt can sit on her toilet and wait for nature to take its course if it keeps a pee soaked diaper form being thrown at my head. (If she was just hurling it at her dad, I wouldn't really care!)
She spends enough time in the bathroom with the boys--who pee frequently and often arm in arm over the commode. (It's really quite a picture to see two bare butts angled to the toilet, arms wrapped around each other as they drain their lizards.) So I figure she can join in the fun.
We have the plain potty seat, the musical potty seat that scared the poo right out of the boys, and the toilet potty seat, so the girl has choices for her throne.
As my daughter sits upon the loo, it is just another nail in the coffin of her babyhood.
And while I will be eternally glad to get rid of the diapers and their associated expense, I will miss my baby being a baby.
It's going by much too fast.

Batten down the hatches

Mama's back in charge!
The heathens are running scared. Well, the boys are, because they know what's coming, Punk just stands there, thumb in mouth, wide eyed watching me as I bark orders about brushing teeth, stopping that, and getting to bed.
The kids have enjoyed their father's regime of play at bedtime and wild antics.
Now mama's back in charge and the regime is a clean, mean, sleeping machine.
Or so I hope.
Single parenting three active kids means that I have to be on my A game or one of them might successfully cut open a window screen and escape.
I can't let that happen.
Then someone would know that I sprayed my boys with body spray because they stank.
Or that I rewind songs just to make them dance to them over and over and over again for my amusment.
Or that I make them do the laundry, carrying heavy loads to the washer and from the dryer so I can paint my nails.
I'm sure DHS would frown on this if they knew.
My worst transgression? The fact that I will not be making them popcorn as a snack in the evenings. I can't stand the smell and I don't want to deal with it.
So my babies will be saluting me very shortly, standing with military precision and polished jammies and slippers, marching off to bed without a whimper or complaint. Maybe even singing "Goodbye, Farewell".
At least in my imagination.

Pain

Pain is a fact of life.
The pain from stubbing your toes or cutting your finger.
The pain of losing a child.
The pain of childbirth and creation.
The pain of losing a loved one.
The pain caused by a loved one.
Unfortunately, you cannot become numb to any of these pains. You just have to hurt and keep walking. Or you have to lay down and let it wash over you.
But you still have to feel the pain, lightning hot, as it slices through you.
And when it has eased, you have to decided to face it or run.
Some days, I just want to run.
Most days, I stand firm and stare into the face of the beast.
Hoping i don't get eaten alive this time.

Feminine Wiles

My girl knows what she wants and sets out to get it, an admirable trait, certainly.
Sunday, she wanted her uncle's undivided attention.
Upon arrival, she proceeded to demand the choicest bits of his lunch, which he provided, not realizing that she was eating everything on his plate before he could.
I watched her toddle to him, lean down, and stare in his face as he lay on the floor watching TV, totally obscuring his view of everything but her.
Punk followed him around all day, squealing to be picked up, crying when he got out of her sight.
And her uncle would come hurrying back to pick her up. Because the tears were not acceptable.
It was a riot to watch a grown man felled by a baby midget girl.
And none of us volunteered to help him or to rescue him. Truthfully, we sat back and laughed as she sharpened her claws on his tender flesh.
Punk is just practicing her feminine wiles on a safe target.
Look out in a few years though!

Baby vixen

It's no secret Punk has The Man wrapped securely around her little pinky.
He thinks he's stern and authoritative. She just laughs at him.
So do I, so it may be hereditary.
I watch them together. The Man has something she wants, he hands it over.
She does something she shouldn't, he says "No! No!" and she does it anyway.
When she does wrong, she offers up a smile and a kiss and all is forgiven.
And when he does wrong, she yells and cries at him, and he normally caves.
He's a marshmallow and she's in control.
I knew the minute we were told we were having a girl that The Man would succumb.
As much as he wanted our boys, by the time we got to baby three, he wanted a girl more than he wanted his next breath.
Don't get me wrong, is she had turned out to be a he, The Man would have loved our third son as passionately as the first two. But he would have silently longed for a girl--and eventually he would have tried to convince me to try one more time to satisfy his biological clock.
It's been a good exchange. He gave me three children, and I brought them into the world healthy and whole. He made me a mommy, and I made him a daddy.
He has his boys and his baby girl, and I just have my babies.
So while I laugh at him with his daughter, I know that he's just as enamoured with his sons, just for different reasons. Bug fascinates him with his quick wit and the fact that, out of all of our children, he bears the most resemblance to The Man. Boo is the child most like him in temperament and appetite. And Punk is his precious baby girl, capable of doing no wrong.
While I have more realistic views of our heathens, I understand where he's coming from. Bug made me a mommy. Boo made me a better mommy. And Punk let me have fun as a mommy.
So I guess if he dotes on our daughter and adores our boys, that's okay. Because, most days, I do too.

Arms

I have noticed, since birthing my heathens, that some days my arms are too full and some days they ache with emptiness.
As the boys age, it seems like I spend most of my time trying to get a hug as they run by.
They are so fast and so busy and getting so big, they forget that their mom needs a few snuggles to get through the day.
Lats night was a good night. Bug curled up against me on the couch, and Boo laid on me while we watched TV.
I was smothering and uncomfortable, but I let them lay there until they decided to move.
Punk is my last hope of any real affection from my children, and she's outgrowing it far too quickly.
She'll still walk up and back into my arms to stand there, or she'll come over and demand to be picked up, only to demand release a few seconds later.
But she's a busy girl with things to do, and catching her is becoming as hard as trying to catch a fish barehanded.
It's normal. It's part of growing up. It makes me proud to watch them find their independence, safe in the knowledge that the security of our arms are only a step away, but it's sad to realize that I will never have baby snuggles again, never have a wriggling lump rely on me to transport them.
It is a joy and a heartbreak to watch my children grow.
So if you see a woman walking behind three adults, with her arms held out, you'll know its a mother missing her snuggles and sloppy kisses and cold feet pressed into her back.
Hug your kids tighter. Squeeze until they squeal for mercy. And know all too soon, you'll be letting go.

Out of the mouths of heathens

Accompanied by much screaming and crying.

Bug: He bit me, mama! Bubby bit me! Now I'll get ray-vies and die! Will you come see me when I'm dead? Can we have ice cream?

Biting the bullet

After three difficult pregnancies and more face time with doctors than I even want to think about, I have been reluctant to go to the doctor for a check up.
It's been a little over a year since my last check up.
I've been been busy. You know, raising kids, breastfeeding, The Man's hand, new job kind of busy.
I've seen lots of doctors--the kids pediatricians, The Man's surgeons, and i even saw our primary care physician when I made The Man go for his physical.
I just haven't gone for me.
But chronic fatigue and new insurance have spurred me into action. Sort of.
I'll be dragging my weary butt into the doctor today to deflect her questions about my stress level and lifestyle in the hopes of getting some really fine sleeping pills.
I won't admit that I'm stressed beyond all reasoning.
It won't change my stress level and happy pills don't make me happy, just stupidly mean.
I'll get my delicate girl parts poked and prodded so I don't have to for another year.
And then I'll hop off the table and go back to my normal life, content to evade medical detection for another year.
And I'll be happy to stay away from those damned hospital gowns!

June enters the workforce

The Man and I joke that I am Ward Cleaver and he is my June. I go to work and he stays home with Bug, Boo, and Punk. (There will be no Beaver references! Well, unless I just can't help myself!)
The Man returns to work today.
I'm losing my house husband, my cook and dishwasher, my babysitter. I'm losing everything that made my life easier for the past year.
But I'm gaining a paycheck.
Hmmm. Is the trade off worth it?
Is it worth having to make my own meals and clean up after them? Having to bathe the heathens and put them to bed? Having to fold my own laundry?
Is a paycheck really worth it?
Thinking.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Oh hell yes!
Sing with me! "Money, money, money, money!"
Thankfully you can't see me through the computer or you'd see me dancing in my granny panties, sagging and unsupported, rubbing a one dollar bill all over my body. I'm poor. One dollar is all I have.
Unlike Ward, who was content for June to stay home in her housedresses, come the start of his work week, The Man will find my foot on his ass kicking him out the door.
I will happily send him back into the fray. And I will wait for his checks to start coming in.
The 1950's "Leave it To Beaver" Ward might have been too stupid to pimp his June out for money, but my mama didn't raise no fool.
Have a nice day at work, honey!
Smooches!

Mama

Today is Mother's Day, the day we inundate our mom's with cards and flowers and reminders that we do actually care even though we may act like little brown smelly nuggets the rest of the year.
Personally, as a mother, I loathe the day. I don't want presents or accolades or goodies. I'd just like my kids to stop trying to kill each other and to cease their attempts to break the sound barrier for one day.
That would make me ecstatically happy.
It won't happen, but a girl can dream.
Mother's Day has always served as a reminder for me of the woman I'm descended from.
My own mother, who blessed me with boobs, a butt, tear glands, and a backbone made of steel.
Most of my childhood, my father was ill. Heart problems, surgeries, cancer, diabetes--you name it, he had it. Except pregnancy. That he left alone.
My mom had to raise two children and hold down a job and care for my dad most of my life.
She didn't begrudge her lot in life. She loved Daddy and us for some unknown reason, (what's not to love, right?) so she woke up every morning and put one foot in front of the other to get through the day.
She succeeded and she failed in raising her family the way she wanted. She failed because she couldn't protect us from the reality of a dying father. My brother and I bear the scars and always will.
She succeeded because, despite some bumpy patches, my brother and I are standing firm and raising our families and not huddled in a corner doing crack. (My brother does stand in the corner and scratch his crack, but that's another blog all together.)
I occassionally do hard liquor, yes, but I didn't start that until the heathens came along.
We are a testament to her will and her drive. She dragged us along, shielding us as best she could when the world decided to take a big old hairy dump right in our laps. Helping pick off the pieces when she just couldn't shield us enough.
Daddy always said marrying her was the smartest move he ever made.
Good for him. Lucky for us.
The Man's injury and subsequent surgeries have made me realize exactly how much she did to make our lives as easy as possible. And she made it look easy. (Unlike me, who wants everyone to know how much of a PITA my husband is and how rotten our heathens are, just because I find it funny!)
She's one tough broad. And while I don't want to be her when I grow up, I have learned some valuable lessons watching her survive and thrive and laugh her way through things that most of us would have collapsed under the weight of.
She is a strong and brave woman. Hell, she thinks my kids are sweet!
So here's to Mom.
I'll be by with the perfunctory card later, Mama.

Dear Old Lady

Dear Old Lady,

While I understand that old age has its benefits, for the rest of us, your age merely sucks.

I have been stuck behind you in traffic as you sit on your phonebook and peer over the steering wheel, driving 20 in a 40 mph zone. Your Cadillac takes up so much of the road no one can hope to pass you, and, even if we could, we would fear for our safety as you hug the dotted yellow line like its the last life vest on the Titanic.

I have been trapped behind you in stores as you study every bottle of dish soap, your cart in the middle of the aisle, and my polite "excuse me's" falling on ears that severely need Miracle Ear.

I have been behind you in the check out when you haggle over twenty cents difference between an advertised prize and a charged price. I have waited while you have shown clerk and manager your outdated sales ad and tell them your social security check nightmares.

I have tried to be patient. I have tried to resist the urge you run you over in my car or in the store. I have only sighed a handful of times--loudly--while I waited with my ice cream melting and my libido waining (yes, you interfered with that!).

I have reminded myself most firmly that you are old and money is tight. I have reminded myself that one day I will be old and shuffling and driving in a way that disturbs every other driver on the road.

I hope my heathens off me first, but they are cruel monkeys, and may make me live.

I remember my own grandmother and realize that she would have been the same way.

I still want to run you over. But I hesitate, just long enough for you to meander away, safe for another day.

And, in that instant, I feel good.

Until I get stuck behind you on the road again.

And now, in the center ring!

After over a week of trips to the laundromat to hang with the carnies, my dryer is finally fixed.
It has been an interesting experience.
Normally, the people I saw there I would avoid like the plague--which they may very well carry.
But I found myself studying this strange subculture like a modern day Jane Goodall studied the chimps.
One Friday evening, I found myself battling for two dryers with a one toothed yokel. And watched closely by the other pack members. Of course, they were dressed in jammies, slippers, and holey shirts, and I was fresh from work in dress clothes and heels. So I didn't stick out much as I tried to avoid actually touching her, the dryer, the floor, or anything else while loading four loads on clothes into the two dryers I'd valiantly procured.
I observed laundromat mating rituals involving much loud talking about a truck rally's and barbeque's and drinking alcoholic beverages of the painfully cheap and caustic variety.
I watched men in shirts with cut off sleeves preen before women with big hair, tattoos, and in severe need of dental assistance. They were obviously initiating a mating ritual over the vibration of the washing machine and showing their physical prowess pushing the laundry cart.
I observed women in short shorts, cellulite straining out of the waist and the cut off legs, breasts dangling with no undergarment in sight, sashaying in what I'm sure is an enticing manner, making all their rolls sway in a sickeningly vertigo inducing fashion.
And there were the smaller pack members to study as well. Running around, normally barefoot, and begging for scraps of food from a nearby adult whom I assume was a parental figure. Babies were slung on hips, barefoot and clad only in diapers, dropping pacifiers to the floor, only to find it picked up and handed back with little thought to hygiene.
I could hear the sideshow music in my mind every time I dared tread into this subset of human culture.
It was an interesting foray.
I certainly learned a lot.
And I stopped and got an injection of penicillin, just in case.

Rainy Days

It has been raining for one solid week here.
It would be perfect, if I were a single, childless woman.
I'm not, but if I were single, I would be sitting in a comfy chair, sipping hot chai tea with milk and sugar, reading a good book and watching an old MGM musical.
But, I'm not, so instead I spend my time corralling stir crazy heathens and arguing with The Man because I haven't eaten anything but a Slim Fast bar all day and when i get home I'm hungry, damn it!
I love the rain. I love the way it feels on my skin, the way it sounds, the way it smells.
I hate the rain because it's keeping the heathens cooped up in their cage and they are driving me berserk.
So, Mama Nature, if you're reading this, send some sunshine my way.
If not, avert your gaze when I'm digging a couple of holes in my back yard.

Vive la difference!

When I had only boys, I wanted only boys.
Daughters were a mysterious realm of hair do's and dresses and primping and poofing I didn't want to enter.
But the Universe intervened and dropped a baby girl in my lap.
And the return line was too damn long, so I kept her.
Since then, I have been struggling to survive the needs of my daughter--or my imagined needs of my daughter--and I have noticed that girls really are different than boys.
Yes, I know the anatomy is different. Sixteen months later and I am just now able to change a diaper of hers without startling because there is no wing nut.
I'm talking about more subtle differences.
My boys are loud and rough and love bodily functions.
Punk is quieter, more watchful, and also loves bodily functions.
The boys didn't snow The Man over quite as effectively at such a young age.
Punk wants? Watch how fast The Man fetches!
Punk breastfed longer, is smaller in general, and has a much higher pitched voice than my boys did, making her Amzonian war cries much more effective as they shatter glass.
Punk also rules with a chubby iron fist, making the males in her life run for cover or run to serve, I don't know which yet.
My boys ate what they were given, when it was provided. Punk is very particular, especially about her breakfast. She expects a breakfast bar every morning. We handed her a doughnut, she looked at us like we'd lost our minds, threw it to the floor for teh rat dog, and waited for the forthcoming breakfast bar, her hands folded and her eyes glaring.
My daughter knows she is a cute little shit, and, when in public expects to be dressed nicely (watch her preen) and admired. And, somehow, she gets it.
I never realized before I had my only daughter, that boys and girls could be so vastly different.
Or maybe my perception is what is different.

Cosmic Raspberries

Occasionally, no matter how good I have it in with the Universe, I get handed a big steaming pile of something I didn't want.
I'm human, and when it does, I yell, I scream, I curse, and I occasionally break other people's things. (I'm not breaking my own stuff. What are you thinking!)
I cry, I stress eat, and then I lay in bed with a whopper of a migraine and tummy ache.
When that's passed, I pick up my fragrant pile and walk on.
Because it's what is expected of me.
I'm the Martha Stewart of cosmic raspberries. I am adept at turning piles of shat into bouquets of wildflowers.
I believe the Universe will provide what she knows I can handle, and I just have to live up to those expectations.
So here I am, walking uphill, both ways, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers made out of shat, heathens and The Man in tow, singing The Hills are Alive while twirling in my peasant dress.
Just don't get in my way. While I try to be philosophical about the Universe crapping on me, I wouldn't be so blase about anyone else leaving their scat in my path.

Makes you wonder

Sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder at your children.
Wonder how their minds work.
Such as, why would you ever think about putting a children's toilet seat on your head and tug it down around your neck?
Boo did it today, resulting in heart palpitations from The Man and tears from boo and it was unceremoniously pried off his head.
Imagine the 911 call.

"What is your emergency?"
"My son has a toilet seat stuck around his neck."
"Pardon me?"
"You heard me. A toilet seat."
"Okay sir. Can you drive him to the hospital?"
"One, I don't think he'll fit in his car seat with this thing around his neck, and secondly, I think after an hour of pulling on it, I'm having a heart attack. Send two ambulances. Quick!"

Then he was sent to his room so The Man could recover, and once there, he took the hinges out of the closet door and it fell on him.

"What is your emergency?"
"It's me again? The toilet seat dad."
"Is your son still stuck?"
"Not in the toilet seat. He's now under a door."
"Under a door, sir?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is he hurt?"
"No, ma'am."
"Can you lift the door off of him?"
"Yes, I could. But I've decided to leave him under the door."
"Under the door? Why, sir?"
"Because he's bound and determined to kill himself today and I'd rather the ambulance be here before his next accident. How quickly will they be here? He'd like to get out now."

Girlfriend

I have a new beau, a new love, a new boyfriend.
And The Man doesn't even care!
He has gorgous blue eyes, a cleft chin, a great smile, stands just over three feet tall and runs like Charlie Chaplin on crack.
Yep, my Boo baby.
Last weekend, Boo declared, in a very serious and grown up tone, that i was his girlfriend.
In his mind, this involves snuggling close on the couch, petting my face, arms, and belly, and announcing our relationship to teh world.
In fact, he greets me with, "Hey there, girlfriend!" which means he's either channelling his inner woman or he's heard it somewhere.
It's cute, and the extra affection is nice. And he's so serious about it.
We have a date Friday for ice cream. I'm paying, 'cause he likes it that way. Wouldn't want me to turn into a kept woman, I'm sure.

Three years

Babies shouldn't die.
That's just a simple fact.
They should live and grow old and bury our sorry asses when we finally shuffle off this mortal coil.
Sadly enough, babies do die, and for stupid, unknown reasons.
And they leave behind grieving, horror filled parents clinging to the last fragments of their child's life like a life vest.
Why some babies, and not others?
Every mother whose lost a child has asked herself, "Why my baby? Why not hers?"
And every woman faced with a grieving mother has asked, "Why her baby?"
We suffer and strain and fight to bring a precious life into this world, a candle lit from the inside by a new light, only to watch it snuffed out.
These babies, no matter how brief their time, have left us a legacy of love and life and laughter, as well as one of tears and sorrow and pain.
They have given us gifts beyond measure.
I am lucky enough to know a survivor, a mother, a woman who walks this path on a daily basis.
Her beautiful baby, Hayden, was born on the same day as my Boo baby.
And he left us two months later.
Well, his body left us.
Boobs has since had an ornery little girl, Miss Addatude, who I'm sure has a big brother whispering in her ear daily, sharing adventures and experiences.
Sharing their mama's love.


I like to think that some days, as Boo is running around like Charlie Chaplin on crack, he has a playmate who shares his birthday and who can tell him how amazing it is to live in the stars. Who can tell Boo all about his PeePaw and all about the adventures angels have.
I'm sure Hayden is a fantastic invisible friend.
And I know, some nights, when his mom misses him more that she can bear, Hayden curls up with her in bed, running his fingers along her face and through her hair, and tells her not to cry. He's there. He's always there.
I'm sure Hayden is an amazing angel. And I'm sure, if we let ourselves, we can feel him. Perhaps only as a soft touch on our cheeks or a whisper of wind that smells like him. Or maybe just a a briefe instant of happiness.
That is Hayden's legacy to us all.