Three years old and ready to rule the world!

Punk is three today.
It's hard to believe it.
It's hard to believe its been three years since I first held her in my arms.
Now she is as familiar to me as my own skin, as essential to me as breathing.
It astounds me that the child I hadn't wanted right at that moment (I wanted her, but just on my schedule--not hers. I should have known better) is the child who completes our family and my soul so thoroughly.
She is a mini me in almost every way. It seems as though she sprung from my body ready to take over the world and determined to hold me hostage.
Punk has my temper, only worse. She has my stubborness, only worse.
And she has her father's need for affection and touch, only better.
She curls up so sweetly against me to go to sleep, throwing one arm around my neck, pressing kisses to my face, running chubby fingers through my hair until she falls asleep, baby breath blowing softly in my face.
She follows me from room to room, screaming out her rage unitl presented a choice and she decides is in her best interest to stop.
She stands a closed door and yells "I need you, Mommy!" Even when we both know she doesn't.
She is both a gentle wind and raging hurricane in our house.
She is a love song in The Man's heart.
She is the completion of mine.
And I wonder how we ever lived without our little Punkin.

Third child syndrome

I have three children.
It's a bit of surprise to me every time I say it that I do have three, not because they're not under my feet every minute of every day, but because it seems impossible I'm old enough.
But I've done the mama thing for over six years now and I'm noticing something.
With Bug, I was on top of eveyrthing. Pictures especially. We have pictures of every part of his life fron in utero on.
With Boo, still doing good, but a lot of pictures shared with Bug.
But they were still on our walls in a strong showing of mini testosterone pride.
And then there's Punk.
Whose in two pictures.
Two.
Both before she was one.
I suck.
I suck ho ho's.
My boys are now being documented in school photos on my walls.
Punk still has two.
Not because we don't take pictures. We do. With great enthusiasm.
But we don't do anything with them.
They live on our computer.
Until today.
I ordered pictures.
Of Punk.
And several of them have brother bookends, but there are a few solo ones.
I think the child will be pleased that I've finally acknowledged her existence in our family.
But I still suck.
Because I know I've done better. I can do better.
Maybe with my grandchildren?

Old Man Winter

The Man has officially become Old Man Winter.
He complains about it. He bemoans the lack on 100 degree days and the need for sunscreen.
He belly aches about how cold it is when Oklahoma hasn't seen anything yet.
And I keep reminding him that he's lived here steaidly for fifteen plus years, and sporadically off and on before that. I tell him that, as a 42 years old man, he should know that it gets cold in OK in the winter.
I tell him to get over it.
But he continues.
And now my oldest heathen is following suit, so I have the Old Man and the Mini Me version in my house.
I like the cold. I like to turn on the heat, sip hot tea, and snuggle under blankets. I love warmy fuzzy socks and jammies. I like to watch snow fall and feel the quiet it brings with it.
I'll admit, I do not like power outages and icy roads, but I'm a give and take kind of gal, so I take the good and the bad.
I do not like stepping out of my house and immediately breaking into a sweat. I do not like air so thick you can't draw a good breath no matter how hard you try.
I don't like worrying about sunburns and heatstroke and fleas and ticks and all those other problems we have in OK in the summer.
I'm a winter woman married to a summer soldier.
We've agreed we need to move somplace where its always in the 70's.
But even then it still wouldn't be hot enough for him and cold enough for me.

Happy birthday to me!

I hate my birthday.
I truly do.
No, I don't care about the reminder that I'm getting older and closer to the grave.
That doesn't bother me a bit.
Keeling over when I've tortured my family as much as I possibly can will probably be the only vacation I ever get at this rate.
I don't like getting gifts.
I loathe surprises.
And I just don't want people wasting their money on me.
Call and wish me a happy birthday and then leave me alone with a good drink and a good book and I'm a happy camper.
I have sat through birthday parties, gnawing on my cheeks until they bled and I couldn't take any more.
You wanna celebrate that day? Give something to the woman who gave me life and who, so far, hasn't ended it eiether.
The Man and I fight about it every year. My mom and I, who don't fight, intead we have "discussions", discuss it every year.
I'm a grown woman and if I want to stomp my feet and say no to my birthday, I have that right.
I'm sure it's somewhere in the Constitution.
Or some religious tome, buried deep ina desert somewhere.
End result is simple.
"Nana, nana, boo, boo! I don't wanna and you can't make me."
So there.
I think this has been a very adult and mature discourse on the subject and should end all future discusses to wit.

Time and tide

Having lost all of my grandparents and one parent myself, yesterday, I watched my husband as he lost his last grandparent.
I watched as he cursed himself for not making it from our home in Oklahoma to Kansas to see her in the last few years.
You know those years? The ones filled with babies, work, amputations, and other losses, both emotional and financial?
Yeah. Those.
And while I understand his grief and his sadness at never having the chance to say goodbye, I also know, from experience, no amount of goodbyes or I love you's is ever enough.
If I had one more hour with my loved ones, would I be able to say all that I wanted to say as the clock ticks away those precious moments?
Would I be able to put into words my feelings, my gratitude, my everything?
Or would they already know?
I don't say I love you very often. At least not to anyone who hasn't had a time share in my uterus. My kids hear it countless times a day and for no reason other than the words bubble up in my mouth and I am compelled to speak.
The words mean little to me except for those times.
I am quite simply an "actions speak louder than words" kid of gal.
You love me? Show it?
Show it by driving through a snowstorm in March to deliver my child's 3rd birthday cake.
Show it by converging on the hospital and holding my coat while I kick The Man's doctors ass.
Show it by remembering my favorite drink and bringing me one for no apparent reason.
Show it in so many ways that seem inconsequential but are the things I remember years later.
Just show it by being you.
And so I wonder if The Man realizes that his grandma knew, both because grandma's are psychic and know everything and because he showed it in the best way he could.
When he was with her, he showed love.
As an outsider, a spectator, a unknown wife married to a beloved grandson, I was privileged to see that his grandma showed it, too.
May we all be so lucky.

Lax

I've been lax lately.
I know it.
I've been told it.
Repeatedly.
I haven't had the time nor inclination to write anything because this time of year is harder for me than any other.
October was not only my fifteenth wedding anniversary, but the anniversary of my beloved grandpa's death and my miscarriage.
Congrats to me.
November is the anniversary of my daddy's passing, Thanksgiving, and his birthday, all within one rotten week that I endeavor to survive without running down some annoying pedestrian who can't grasp the concept of a Don't Walk sign.
December is my birthday (no biggee there--I ignore it), my husband's birthday (Gods He's getting old!), the holidays, and my daughter's birthday.
From October on, I am at a run and I don't stop dodging shrapnel and well wishes until the new year.
Add to that trying to close on a house, finishing work on the kids rooms, recovery from m wisdom teeth debaucle, a cold that just won't die no matter how many times I try to smother it in Lysol and Nyquil, shopping for my kids, trips to Santa, and field trips, holiday parties, etc. and I'm lucky I haven't collapsed into a whimpering heap.
I realize this is my life now, complete with childhood illnesses, sad reminders of lost loved ones, and an empty pocketbook, but I find myself wishing for the simplicity of childhood. The time when someone would bring me hot tea or soda to sip instead of waiting on me to bring it to them.
I never knew how good I had it until the heathens gave me some not so subtle reminders.
Such as:
My four year old crawling in bed with me and snoring so loudly I can't sleep because he's congested.
My hands smelling of Vick's because I am constantly slathering my kids chest with it.
Trips to see Santa and shelling out a month's mortgage for one 5x7 and four wallets pictures.
Racing to buy a bumble bee pillow pet because that is the only thing Boo wanted only to have him decide he wants a panda instead after I've purchased the stupid thing.
Arguing with The Man, who thinks any toys that don't explode, electrocute, leak, whistle, or honk are boring.
When I was a child, things just happened. Now I'm the one who makes them happen.
So I've been lax. I've been resisting the urge to slip into a coma and have people take care of me.
But knowing my family, I wouldn't get rest, even then.