Oh the joys of building! (Also known as the 2m wet t-shirt contest)

We are about at the halfway mark on the addition to our home.
So let me give you a status update.
Walls? Up.
Floor? Down.
Roof? In progress.
Kids? At their heathen finest.
My sanity? Gone.
My marriage? In the crapper.
Homicidal urges? I'm just waiting on the roof to be done and then my sniper rifle and I have a date planned.
For the past week, my dining room wall has been missing. It has been replaced by various construction materials, including tarp, wood, and . . . well, nothing.
It's 90 degrees out and I have and open air floor plan. from my dining room, you see open air.
Hot, saw dust filled air.
And last night was just the cherry on top.
Last night, it rained.
In my house.
At midnight.
The Man went out to scale the roof and throw boards and tarps and saran wrap and children's birthday table cloths over the edge of the old roof and the new addition to try to stop the flood I was out there, turning our night into a debacle that included a wet t-shirt contest.
The neighbors voted. The Man's ta-ta's are perkier in the wet and cold.
Thirty towels and two hours later, we had stemmed the main flow and given up on the rest.
And I was mad because I had just finished all of the laundry and now every towel in our house had to be washed. Again.
All because Mother Nature decided to take a whizz on our house.
The day before we were putting up roofing.

Mommy and her little leach

I love my daughter.
Most of the time.
But since we put a kabash on sucking the thumb, she's found a new obsession to cling to.
Me.
She wont' sleep unless she snuggles me until she finally gives in.
Put her in bed without me, and you hear what I'm listening to right now.
"I'm not sleepy!"
"I want you!"
"Ima mad atch you!"
Followed by blood curdling shrieks.
Since she had an ear infection last week, I was weak.
I succumbed. I snuggled her and kissed her and rubbed her back until she fell asleep.
Now I'm slapping myself for being such a dumb shmuck.
I didn't do this with my boys. No, they like my husband, got my foot up their little butts to get them out of my bed.
I gave no quarter. If the menfolk wanted a snuggle, they could do it someplace else and let me sleep.
But, with Punk, it's different.
Not right. Definitely not sane. But different.
And I'm reaping my rewards. Through earplugs. And a radio blaring. In the car as I drive away from my screaming toddler.
Is it because she's my last? Because she smells sweet and still like a baby while her brothers smell like dirt, and gas, and boy?
Is it because her laugh reminds me of my daddy, or because she is a mini me before I lost the innocence of childhood?
Is it because I see the way The Man and our boys dote on her, like a princess, and I enjoy watching my guys make fools of themselves at her chubby, piggy toes?
I've always believed my first baby, the baby I lost, was a girl. My heart will brook no argument. And a part of me feels like Punk is my chance to love that baby like I love my others. Like maybe I wasn't ready then, and, when I was given Punk, it was the heavens opening up to tell me it was finally my time.
Or, in the universe of the real and sane, it was the heavens opening up to snicker at me and whisper that I was getting paybacks for all I put my own mama through.
So I let my baby get away with more than I should, more than my boys, more than I thought I would. all the while O know that I'm going to have a battle of epic proportions on my hands in, oh, about five seconds when she realizes I am trying to stand firm and not go in for a quick snuggle.
Just until she falls asleep.
As I peer around the doorway and watch her talking to her doll and waiting for me.
Because she knows.
She knows I'm there.
She knows I'm weak.
She knows I'll be scooting her over right . . . .about . . . now.
Hell, I held out longer than I did last night!
Vive la resistance!

Rites of passage

Next Thursday, my boy, my Bug, will be a preschool graduate.
It is a pebble in his academic career, but I find myself feeling both saddened and joyful by this rite of passage.
Not even a year ago, I never imagined the road we would traveling just to get Bug through a school day.
I never dreamed we would be working so closely with teachers, special educators, and principals just to teach him to get through a normal day.
I never thought my child would physically fight his teachers over obeying classroom rules and sharing of toys.
And, now, today, while far from perfect, is a far cry from the dark days before.
I find myself looking back to days of hope, hugs, and heartaches as my son struggled to understand what was expected from him in a world that just doesn't make sense.
I wept tears of frustration and sorrow as I watched him struggle to make friends each day.
And those tears filled with elation when I saw him sitting in a group of children, simply playing like any other child would.
My stomach clenches remembering every days we have gone to the school, studying his teachers face for signs of a good day, hoping for signs it was a good day with every fiber in our being. And being crushed when she shakes her head and tells us Bug got a sad bear.
Is this year an indicator of Bug's entire life? No, but they are wounds that, as a mother, will turn into scars I will carry with me for life.
Because, while I joke through tears about my son being "that kid", the knowledge that he struggles every day for things that come so easily to his peers makes me cheer all the louder for his little successes.
Bug's school does not host a graduation ceremony for them, but the day Bug completes preschool will be a banner day for our family.
And, as he stands proud, I will stand beside him, one hand held out to catch him when he stumbles, because I know he will.
And, just like I tried to do this year, I will not let my boy fall alone.
When he falls, because, assuredly, he will, I will cushion him, wrapping him in my love as securely as I would a blanket.
And I will look forward to each year to come, as he finds his own feet and his own way, through kindergarten and elementary school, high school and college, knowing what we've done here is give him a foundation for his future.
Which will surely be so bright, my boy will have to wear shades.

Mothers Day Gifts

My children are gifts.
And some days, I want to return them.
Yesterday was one of those days.
They fought. They coughed and hacked and snotted over me. They kicked and hit and bit each other. They whined and cried and screamed.
The Man was at work so I was on my own with the chaos.
There was no breakfast in bed, no long, luxurious baths, no nothing but the heathens and I in a death match.
But they redeemed themselves and stopped me from putting them in a box on the corner labeled "FREE TO A GOOD HOME."
They made me Mother's Day gifts, and greeted me with them with excitement and giggles and much pride.
And, as I admired their gifts, I realized, that somewhere, in their demented pea brains, they loved me. Sort of. Maybe. Or they were bribing me in order to insure their survival.
Whatever works.

Firsts and lasts

When I was handed my first child, I knew I was responsible for feeding, clothing, and caring for that wriggly, pink bundle.
And, every day, I have tried to do so.
But I'm noticing now that my children are beginning to not need me as much.
And, while thrilling, it is also sad.
They have begun asserting themselves over little things.
And each milestone I celebrate with a smile and tears.
The first my son buckled his own booster seat.
The first time he made his bed.
The first time Punk put herself to bed without me.
The first time I started to sing "House on Pooh Corner" and Bug stopped me, stating he didn't need me to sing it. He could do it himself.
The first time Boo brushed his own teeth without being told.
The first time I trusted my sons, while watching from the doorway, as my sons opened the driveway gate for me.
The first time my son saw me carrying in groceries and quickly went to help out.
And the only time Bug has said to me, "When I all grown up and a doctor, you can come live with me in my big house. And if my wife doesn't like it, she can just leave!"
And so, I look at my babies and realize one day, one time, it will be the last time for so many things I take for granted now.
Snuggles in my lap.
Running, sloppy kisses.
Kisses to make it better.
And sweaty little hands to hold.
One day, I will reach for them and they will be grown, independent,. and I will know I have done well.
And I will smile through my tears.
Because that first will be my last.

Those days

Last week, my five and a half year old Bug, being the honest child he is, told me I'm fat.
I didn't say he was the brightest bulb in the pack, just honest.
After I picked myself up off the floor and dusted off my hurt feelings, I realized I don't look like I did as a newlywed more than a century ago.
Okay, only fifteen years, but it feels like more than a century. In dog years. So like, 700 years.
Most days, I know I'm a little fluffier than I used to be. I wish I was that skinny chick I was before four pregnancies and life jumped smack on my ass.
But I'm okay with myself.
Sort of.
I walk miles at lunch, try to eat healthy (Oreo Double Stuff Cakesters are healthy, right?) and do some of the right things.
The Man still pants after me. Or maybe that's his bad heart that making him pant . . .hmmm.
I can still run, sort of, if you don't count my thighs slapping together and the ground screaming for mercy with each footfall.
I still have perky boobs. . . with the right push up bra. (Hey, you try having three sharks attached to your nipple for a year and see how perky your knockers are!)
I have a nice road map for my life to study . . .on my stomach.
But I'm not fat. I am well cushioned, have a good center of gravity, and am nice to snuggle up with on a cold winters night.
There's a skinny chick in me dying to get out.
She's suffocating.

Guilt

As a mama, I know how to lay on the guilt.
I am an expert at guilting my kids into submission. And I won't even tell you how easy The Man is guilted.
And, sadly enough, I am also very familiar with another form of mama guilt.
Let me clarify.
You start out your career as a mother staring at a peed on stick and waiting for two lines or a plus or a sign from the gods that your man did his job right and got you knocked up.
From the moment you know, you eat healthy, pop vitamins the size of horse suppositories, and kick on the classical music. You read all the books, take all the classes, and make plans for the perfect birth, the perfect child, the perfect life.
And then your baby is handed to you, and it all goes sideways.
You love your child. You adore your child. You don't understand your child, but you slog through the trenches of poopy diapers, spit up, tantrums, and coos.
And then you face the day when your pediatrician tells you that your darling angel, your mini Einstein, is developmentally delayed.
This isn't the firts time you feel like a failure as a parent, but it is the one that nearly crushes you.
You stare at you child and wonder what went wrong. Not that anything is wrong with your child, but where in the baking process did your little honey bun turn into a blueberry muffin? You love the muffin just the same, but its not quite as easy to digest.
So you go through the testing and the help, and then after a few months, your child begins to catch up and you can return to your normal, white picket fence, Daddy on the lawn mower life.
Until your child starts school. And he's spitting on teachers, hitting other children, screaming, throwing fits, and is labelled "that" kid.
And, with tears in your eyes, you begin to meet with professionals, begin planning, working, adjusting your life and the schools to fit your child's needs.
And the testing shows he is developmentally delayed. Your world slows down a crawl as you curl around your child to protect them from the barbed sting of those words.
The words don't matter to you. They hurt, but that doesn't matter. You will fight tooth and nail (even with a new manicure) for your child to succeed.
The label doesn't matter. This is still the baby you fought to bring into this world healthy and whole.
All you hear is the mama guilt.
"What did I do wrong?"
"How did I make him this way?"
"How could I have screwed up this badly in only 5 years?" (I mean, I know I'm good, but damn! That isn't very long to really mess up a child, is it? I must have set a record there.)
"What if he turns to me one day and realized its all my fault?"
Its hard as a parent not to compare your children. I try, but looking at Heathen 2 and Heathen 3 and knowing they have such an easy time obeying rules, making friends, and socializing. Why is it so much easier for them than it is for their big brother?
You start second guessing yourself. Every decision you made since conception comes into question. Because maybe those Taco Bueno bean burritos warped his little developing mind in utero, or maybe all the meds you had to take to stop from puking up your insides affected him. Or maybe . . . It doesn't matter.
You are smack in the center of a big bowl of mama guilt.
And you are treading water, just trying to stay afloat, knowing that you still have to face your child, knowing apologies won't make any sense because there is nothing wrong with your child.
It's all your fault.
That's where I am. Awash in a sea of guilt, I am mired down by the "what if's". And I love my child with a passion that defies all convention, so, for him, I continue to put one foot in front of the other when all I want to do is cry.
The label doesn't matter.
The work involved doesn't matter.
He is all that matters.
And so I will shove my guilt into a compartment in the back of my mind and, as needed, upgrade from a carry on bag of guilt to a suitcase to a steamer trunk, all the while becoming more and mroe bowed under the weight of the guilt.
And just continue to put one foot in front of the other until I finally succumb to the weight of my failure.
And it still won't matter.
Because that's what mama's do.