Labels

The word is full of labels.
Democrat.
Republican.
Christian. Jew. Witch.
Man. Woman.
Mom. Dad.
We all wear dozens of different labels each day.
My oldest son just gained a new label I never wished him to have.
Developmentally delayed.
The school just called to tell us last week, that per testing, bug is behaviorally delayed.
Okay, so the kid has a few attitude and control issues. So do I. but I'm not sporting s nifty new label.
Surprisingly, I'm not mad about the new label. I'm a bit jazzed. Because it puts a word to what we've been battling for 5 1/2 years.
And that word is going to get Bug the help he needs in school.
That word gives me a phrase to advocate for, a battle to fight, and everyone knows how I love a good fight.
That word gives me a goal to work towards. The day when he will retest and that label will be replaced by . . . nothing.
I normally loathe labels. Aside from mom, and maybe wife (on good days) I don't adhere to any labels about myself.
But this label I will embrace as firmly as I would a lover.
And when it is time, I, and my son, will kick it to the curb.

Holiday goodness

Holidays are the time I just want to eat my kids up with spoons.
This is after I stop gritching about the cost, the effort, the time, and the secrecy involved in pulling off a great holiday for my kids.
Those moments, those infinitesimal instants in time when I see the true joy and wonder on my babies face are worth all the headache it causes me.
It's worth all the conversations about what holidays The Man and I will celebrate since we don't have the same beliefs.
It's worth the cost ties three to make sure my children have that early morning surprise.
I promise myself every holiday that it will be worth it.
This morning, it was.
Bug was first, crawling into our bed and weeping because we forgot to leave carrots out for the Easter Bunny and the Bunny was sure to be hungry.
Fast forward to his discovery of his basket and the yelled declaration, "He did come!" followed by excitement over four new books, two new movies, chocolate, and Curious George socks. (The socks were the biggest hit. My sock has a patterned sock fetish, courtesy of his Aunt Chell)
Next was Boo, woken with permission by Bug, who came running as fast as his little sick feet would carry him to immediately fixate on stickers in his basket to the exclusion of all else. The sound of those feet will be with me until the day I die, a auditory reminder of sweet babies who grow up far too fast, a reminder when my children walk when excited, not run, to me.
Then on to Punk, woken by me (because The Man was late for work and had to see his girl open her stuff) who dove straight for the chocolate and wouldn't let go for anything.
Since then, Bug has read all thirteen new books and my children have Siskell and Ebbert'd the movies they received. They are dressed and patiently waiting the ride over to grandma's house, here this afternoon they will eat as much as illness recovering bellies can hold, hunt eggs until they are worn out, and fall down to watch a movie.
And, while I bemoan it all, because hey, that's what I do, I will secretly tucking away moments to treasure when they are too old for plastic eggs and chocolate bunnies and mornings with their mothers snuggles in bed.

Four

My Buddha baby turns four today.
It hardly seems possible that we have survived four years of this parenting relationship with as few scars as we have.
In the last year, I have watched as my Boo baby has grown from toddler to preschooler. He has started school, made friends, and grown by leaps and bounds. It is amazing to watch how he has changed in just one short year. Gone are the chubby baby cheeks and fat little hands, replaced by slim cheeks and sure hands.
Boo now is the family clown, dancing and looking for attention for his wild antics. And he is Punk's protector, a knight in footie jammies ready to defend his sister against all foes.
And the evil little imp has thrown me over for The Man.
"I like sharks. Do you like sharks, Daddy?"
"I love mustard, just like you, right, Daddy?"
"I have green eyes like daddy."
"Daddy, I love you whole bunch."
"Mommy, I love you a little bit."
I ask for a hug and he runs.
And forget about any kisses.
He comes to sit on my lap, just to pass gas and giggle.
And he's only really interested in me when there is food involved.
The Man loves it. A child who prefers him! Finally!
But I am plotting this birthday to reclaim my child.
Boo wants a shark party for his birthday (damn The Man!) so we have having a shark party to end all shark parties.
For which, knowing my son, he will thank his father and ignore me.
My little boy is growing up. And, even though he loves his father best of all, I am honored to share this journey with him.
Happy birthday, Boo baby. I love you like crazycakes.

Oh whiner, where art thou?

Oh yeah! Right there in my almost four year old son.
Boo has become a consummate whiner.
He can't speak normally any longer. Everything is said in whines.
"He's touching me."
"She took my toy."
"I'm hungry." (Said thirty seconds after his feet hit the floor in the morning and always said before he thinks of good morning.)
"I don't like ice cream."
"You are the best mommy in the world for not strangling me as a whine about eight hundred inconsequential things just to drive you batty."
Okay, so he hasn't whined the last one. Yet.
Boo is whiney weiner.
And I'm tired of it.
He used to be a wonderful communicator. sweet, articulate, and non whiney.
Listening to him used to not make my ears bleed and my eyes glaze over.
Now I run from room to room to avoid him.
I do extra laundry to avoid listening to him.
I wait until he's asleep to initiate conversations.
Right now, I can't stand to listen to my whiney, temper tantrum throwing himself down on the floor/ground/road middle child.
And it's sad, because I love my child.
Most days.
When he's not talking to me in that voice.
On those days, all bets are off, and I've placed him at the corner with a sign saying, "Free to a good, deaf home."
So far the deaf are smarter than I am. Even without being able to hear him, they know a whiney weiner when they see one.
Whyyyyyyyyy meeeeeeeeeeeee?

Fear

The Man caused my hear to stop this weak.
And not in the good "oh my Gods great sex" kind of way.
Instead, he made my heart stop in the "my husband is in an ambulance on the way to the hospital because he's having chest pains" kind of way.
After five days of terror and close proximity to my mate (whom I haven't spent that much time with in years and hope never to do again.) we learned its just his body's screwed up way of not handling stress.
Never let it be said The Man does anything the easy way.
But as I drove to the hospital, I had one of those moments.
I couldn't move beyond the fear that he was going to leave me.
And he was leaving me alone with our heathens.
Who I would have to tell that their daddy had bailed on us and high tailed it to the stars.
And whom I would raise alone.
Because no one would ever look twice at a widow with three children and jiggly thighs and stretch marks longer than the Nile River.
I looked at him and all I saw was my babies faces.
I looked at him and saw fifteen damned years of hell, happiness, hell, and hope all slipping from my grasp no matter how tightly I tried to hold on.
I looked at him and saw myself trying to teach my boys how to be men, having to buy them jock straps and having "the talk" with them. *shudder*
I saw my daughter as a young woman.
And I point blank told him he couldn't have a heart attack until I bought Punk her first bra and he realized that boys would soon come to knocking. Or until he was home alone with her and her period starts, a right of passage every daddy should endure.
I forbade him to leave me alone to muddle through raising our children. He impregnated me and signed the dotted line to see it through. I wasn't letting him break our contract.
And, although this time was blessedly a false alarm, I think it has given us both new perspective on our lives.
Neither of us wants to be the lone parent standing between our children and the world.
Because whichever sucker is left won't stand a chance in hell.
But together? I can throw him to the wolves that sprang from my loins while I jiggle my chubby butt to safety.

The bowels of hell and laughing all the way

When Dante envisioned his levels of hell, he didn't picture sports moms.
I'm not talking about the crazy loving it ones.
I'm talking about those of us who sit there because our kids are playing, but who couldn't care less about anything sports related.
I am that mom.
And I'm okay with that.
If the entire sports universe imploded upon itself tomorrow, I'd be okay with that.
Hell, I would be dancing in the streets with joy.
But I have now sat through one wee ball practice, one soccer practice, and one soccer scrimmage like a good and dutiful mother.
And there's not enough Jack and coke in the world to make me enjoy anything remotely associated with the sport.
But I love seeing the smile on my sons faces.
That is why I sat there, freezing, watching my other two heathens, and trying to cheer at the appropriate moments.
That is why I will do it again this week and for countless, endless weeks from now on.
I will hover in my own circle of hell, happy for my heathens, and praying they become band nerds.
Please, let them be band geeks.
Or drama queens.
Even in high heels.

We survived

We survived what has become known in our family and Potty Training Baby Booty Camp 2010.
It has taken me almost two weeks to recover and to feel confident in saying, yes, my daughter is potty trained.
Does that mean there are no accidents? Nope. Getting through the night dry is still iffy. It does mean she understands that she is to pee and poop in the potty and she hasn't worn a diaper in two weeks.
It was--is--one of the hardest things physically I have ever done. By end of day one, I was hobbling like a pregnant lady in her last trimester from grabbing Punk and running to the restroom a thousand times that day. She had fourteen accidents on day one. I doubted my sanity and my wisdom. Daily occurances, but especially disheartening at that time.
Day two was better--four accidents--and I saw a bit of hope.
Day three was exactly as I was told. One accident and she seemed to udnerstand.
Sent her to school on day four, no accidents.
Day five and day six, she pooped her pants at school.
So the following weekend, we had a mini booty camp.
And no accidents since.
But I'm spending a lot more time in bathrooms. Punk loves to check out the facilities everywhere we go, multiple times.
We went to the circus and I took her no less than forty times (at least that is how it felt to me). By the end, she was struggling to force out the droplets required to keep me from going postal.
So it was certainly a successful endeavour. I have no diapers left. The pull ups are being doled out to friends. And I am infinitely grateful that she is my last.
Because I wouldn't survive another go round.