Love letter to my five year old on the anniversary of his birth

I am in love with a blue eyed boy.
And The Man knows about it.
Even better, he's okay with it.
And he understands completely that I will toss his butt over in a heart beat for this boy.
My beautiful blue eyes Buddha baby.
Who is turning five tomorrow.
It is so hard to believe every birthday that my babies are aging, are growing, are becoming the people that will one day drive me to the nursing home and kick me to the curb.
Buddha is my sandwich child. Literally. He's the middle child, wedged between the baby girl and the oldest boy.
And he's very fond of sandwiches, so both analogies fit perfectly.
In fact, Boo loves any food as long as its given to him frequently.
This year I've taken to calling him a Hobbit due to his voracious appetite. He hits the floor hungry, and wants not only breakfast, but second breakfast, brunch, lunch, midday snack, late afternoon snack, dinner, after dinner snack, and we've caught him in the kitchen in the middle of the night on a bender.
If his toes sprout fur, I'll know I was given a changeling at birth.
Not that I'd give him back.
Once you're mine, you're mine. Just try to escape.
And Buddha B is definitely mine from the top of his fat little head to the toes that I'm anxiously observing.
He is the child who makes me laugh with silly dances and odd expressions.
He is the child I have to chase for a hug and a kiss.
He is 1/3 of my heart, walking outside of my body.
I chuckle at his raspy voice yelling, "Look what I can do!" as he flops on the floor in some bizarre pantamine.
I smile when, every night, far earlier than his siblings, he curls up and goes to sleep with the chickens.
And I curse that early to bed motto every morning when he follows it with early to rise.
He is a soother when his brother simply cannot cope and the protector when his sister might need one. He is a balm to my soul on the hard days.
He is not my most affectionate child and he doesn't routinely stun me with bizarre facts he's learned from Gods knows where, but he is the child who pacifies, who calms, who reminds us that there is joy in life and there is always something to laugh about.
He is perfect in his own way.
Boyishly sweet.
Impossibly bright.
Charming like Clark Gable at his finest.
And he's stopped running like Charlie Chaplin on crack.
He is the filling in my family's oreo cookie--my favorite part.
Happy birthday, Buddha my love. May your day be bright and brilliant, just like you.

Happiness is . . . .

Having your husband go off to work while you are still laying in bed.

Stretching out an putting your feet on the empty while watching a chick flick on TV.

The heathens waking up in their own time, happy and sleep smiling.

Breakfast with no battles.

A cup of hot vanilla laced coffee with froth.

Cold weather an a warm house.

Fuzzy slipper socks.

A curly headed girl that lets me brush her hair with no complaints.

A smiling dog that howls when The Man sings.

The sounds of bare piggies and friendly words filling the house.

Candles that smell like flowers.

A quiet start to A Sunday morning and the peace we find there before the craziness of Monday brings it all back around to reality.

When did I stop being a girl?

"You're not a girl! You're a mom!"
Those words, uttered by my heathen offspring, made me stop to wonder.
When did I stop being a girl?
I remember being a girl. I'm pretty sure I had the passport and knew the secret handshake.
So when did I turn in my papers and join the "Mom's Only" club? Which, I must admit, is universally detested by my offspring, just like brussell sprouts and broccoli.
I look at Punk and wonder, will she too pass from the Girl Club to the Mom Club?
And will I be able to see in her what I missed in myself?
That elusive moment when she ceases to be a girl and becomes a mom?
I'm convinced it was one of the countless forms I signed in the hospital.
Something that read:
"By hereby squeezing an infant the size a watermelon out of your previously intact nether regions or by laying sprawled on an operating table having your previously perfect bikini line irreparably marred, you do hereby acknowledge that you are no longer a girl, can never again be a girl. You accept that your boobs will sagged, your stretch marks will be a permanent road map to your pregnancies, and that the bags under your eyes will only take you to the nursery at 3am, not to any exotic locale.
Furthermore, you understand that your sex drive will drop to nothing, especially when its a choice between that and sleep. You will arrive everywhere rear first to insure your child does not fall out of the car. You will have conversations that involve never meeting anyone's eye because you will be constantly watching your child. You will also become the queen of interruptions as you yell at Little Billy or Betty to stop sticking something up their nose.
By signing this, you hereby sever all ties allegiances, and future dealings with the group known as girlhood.
Kiss your cooch, and your freedom, goodbye."
Or something like that.
So I'm no longer a girl by anyone definition. I'm just a mom, usually said with derision, irritation, whining, and a touch of disgust.

Spring

I can't wait for spring.
Don't get me wrong--I love winter. I love the cold and the snow and the smell of crisp, chilled air. I love hot tea and good books and snuggling down in a blanket. I love mounds of blankets in the bed and scaldingly hot showers to push the chill from your bones.
I love the feel of clean that winetr provides, of home, and hearth, and family.
But this year, for the first time, I feel the nudges of spring fever gripping me.
Since completeing the addition, I have wanted to plant flowers and watch new life spring from the soil at my behest.
I want the smell of roses and gardenias, the soft feel of lamb's ear, the crisp scent of cedar mulch.
I'm nesting, welcoming the new addition to our home like I would any lovely new being.
No, I'm not pregnant. I'm talking about the building addition.
I thill to see my crocuses peeking out, their sweet floral heads a welcome flash of color.
Not that I'm doing any of the planting. I will not ruin my manicure--are you absolutely daft?
Nope, The Man and the heathens are doing the work. I'm just frequenting home supplies stores and garden supplies, bringing home plants and pointing to their new homes.
But I know The Man wants them to bloom where they are planted as much as me.
Maybe that's it.
Maybe that's why I feel like rushing spring along this year.
Maybe I'm rededicating my inner hearth witch, reminding myself that, for now, I should bloom where I am planted.
Because right now, this is good.
Because, right now, this is right.
Right now, we are blooming.

Ache

Last week, I set foot into no woman's land.
At least its no woman's land if you've been spayed and no more babies are possible.
The baby section of a local store.
I was buying for a heathen's teacher, but I ofund myself yearning towards pacifiers, clothes, and toys my babies have long outgrown.
I immediately signed up for a big smacking reality check, but the ache was still there.
You know the one I'm talking about.
Phantom uterus pain.
That feeling deep within that hurts at the thought of no more tiny babies.
That portion of your that remembers the flutter of firts movements and the feel of elbows and knees later on, jabbing you, bruising you, reminding you of the life within your body, held safe, held as a promise of things to come.
I ached. I hated myself, but I ached.
Don't get me wrong, unless I win the lottery, my family is complete. While I have enough love to go around, I don't have enough money and room.
And while I am thrilled to be past diapers and diaper bags and spit up and baby proofing, I still miss that time of life.
I miss baby cries instead of howls of outrage.
I miss putting my heathens in a playpen or crib and knowing they would just stay put.
I miss baby breath and baby skin and baby sighs.
But I love my children's increasing independence and adventurous spirit.
I love having helpers with chores, though they aren't always willing.
I thrill at each new milestone, such as reading, because its a sure step into a new world for them.
But I acknowledge the ache, the unspoken yearning, and I doubt it will ever leave me.
The shop is closed, dusty, and barren, but the heart doesn't accept that.
The heart wants.
The heart yearns.
And so I ran out of that baby section before my heart could convince my head to do something unbelievably stupid.
But not fast enough to avoid that one sharp ache.
That, I still carry with me.

It's done!

Ten years ago, The Man and I bought our first home, owner finance, in need of some love.
Two years later, we moved out and began renting it.
Last October we put it on the market.
One week later we had a cash buyer.
One month later, we found out we couldn't sell the home until it went through probate because of once piece of paper that was done wrong.
Five months we have waited to close on this sale.
Five months our buyer has waited patiently for this home.
Five months, our first home has sat, empty, alone, waiting for new life to be breathed into it.
Five months we have fought and wept and worried over the sale of this house.
And today, it will be done. By 1:30 this afternoon, I will be down to one home, and a very nice man will be up one.
I will bid farewell to the house I sweated and slaved over, the house I lost my baby in.
My life will become infinately simpler today.
And I will breathe a sigh of relief that it is done.
Today, when I found out, I danced behind my desk in three inch heels and miraculously didn't break my neck. If I had, I would have held the pen in my teeth and still signed the closing papers somehow.
Today is a day of such profound financial relief I can't even describe it.
I've learned a very valuable lesson.
There are good people. There are people whose word in their bond. And goo dthings will truly come to you if you are kind to others.
It is a reminder that, after our last renter, I needed.
It is a reminder that, while there are many people out there without morals or concious or any selblemce of honesty in their souls, there are people, who like us, try to do what is best, what is right.
And that feels pretty damned good today.

Things I've learned from my children

There are some things I've learned just by becoming a parent, and I thought I'd share. These are mostly things my children have taught me, from their perspective.

A full diaper is fun--to paint with. Daddy is so excited when he wakes up to see his son's artistry on the walls.

And, yes, you will eventually kiss a child who takes said poop and tastes it. Eventually.

Three toothbrushes and a Pez dispenser makes Daddy very unhappy when flushed down the toilet.

The heart attack mama has when you aren't in your bed first thing in the morning is fun to watch. The gasping, flapping, and flailing as she races through the house in terror is better than a movie. As you watch it from under your brothers bed.

No matter how bad what you did was, mama won't be able to stay mad if you give her puppy dog eyes and murmur "I love you." Daddy won't last past the puppy dog eyes.

Killing a sibling, or even trying to, will get you grounded. Maiming a sibling will get you sent to your room.

When a child gets hurt on daddy's watch, quickly turn on him. Mama will be angry at him and give the child a cookie.

Possession is nine tenths of the law. But everything is owned by mama. Everything. And if you don't think so, just ask her. She'll tell you it is.

Thirty is a magic age. The children can date, drive, marry, finish medical school, move out, and play with sharp objects the minute they turn thirty. Not a second before.

Mostly I've learned to laugh through tears, to hold my babies tightly before I have to let them go, and to enjoy chubby sweaty hands holding my own.

Not perfectly. Not always. No easily.

But I have learned. Invaluable lessons in patience, acceptance, perseverence, and protectiveness.

I have learned how to live with my heart in three other bodies.

And my lessons keep coming.