training wheels

You turn four in a couple of weeks. Several people have commented that you are taller than you were just a few days ago. Your daddy noticed the step stool is no longer needed for hand-washing and teeth brushing. I can hardly breathe when I think about it too long.

A birthday card and check came early. Those skinny legs are too long for the tricycle that was never quite mastered due to lack of a sidewalk by our house. So we went ahead and purchased a big boy bike. I silently promised to take trips to the park more frequently this summer now that both you and Bugaboo are mobile, and there is a summer break for our family from nursing classes.

At the store today, you of course picked the bike with the name "rattlesnake" in the title. All I can think about each day is how I don't want to open the wagon lid ever again and find your beloved backyard snake, and you picked a bike that reminds me of such a nasty creature.Thankfully the sweetness of your Buzz Lightyear helmet balances out the big boy aspects of the snake-bike.

You were so excited to open the box and help Daddy put your bike together.  I tried to take lots of pictures, but you shooed me away because you had work to do. I hope someday you realize what a gift it is that you had a daddy who patiently let you "help," never getting frustrated or angry at the bike, the directions or you. That is a rare thing, and I hope you inherit that kindness from him.

I sat on the couch while your little brother fell asleep much too late in the day.  I eavesdropped on the kitchen conversation.
"This is gonna be the best bike in the whole world." 
"Why is that?" 
"Because it is."

I remember four years ago we put your crib together - so how is it possible we are assembling your first bike? (And of course by "we" I actually mean your daddy.)  I stressed out back then that nothing matched, and that your nursery would be one of the few that was undecorated. I still stress out about such things, and I know I need to let. it. go. A bedroom theme won't make you a better boy. Or a better man.  I stressed out today that you weren't strong enough or coordinated enough to pedal. I worried that somehow I have failed you.

I shouldn't.

We grabbed pizza after the park, and you drove us almost crazy with your non-stop (and I mean NON-STOP) chatter in the backseat. You inherited that from me, sweet boy.  Your brother joined you in the constant "Daddy. Daddy? Daddy! Daddy," and how could we not laugh along with you both? A perfect day.

I don't know when you will get the hang of pedaling and steering. It really doesn't matter thought, does it? You are doing something new every day,  and you will figure it out soon enough. Too soon most likely.

on Mother's Day

When I think about my mom, I think about her giving spirit and her hard work ethic. I remember her working two jobs - teaching in rough schools and waiting tables on nights/weekends to provide for my brother and me.

I think about when she let me withdraw from high school, when she dropped me off at college, when she drove with me to my first apartment across the country, when she took the phone call that said, "Hey, I'm going to elope." I remember her helping me stop every thirty minutes while we were on a road trip on which I ended up losing my first baby, and her making phone calls for me and letting me cry and scream and cuss.

I remember she made it from the Quad Cities to Springfield in less than six hours the day Bubby was born ten weeks early.  I remember her frequent trips with me to the NICU. I remember texting her one December at three in the morning as I walked the halls of St. John's six weeks before Bugaboo's due date. "The car is packed. I'll be there soon," she said.

She will laugh if she sees someone trip, not because she is evil but because she can't help herself. She can tie shoelaces together like a pro and pinch you with her toes if she needs to get your attention. She never forced me to eat my vegetables (like I make my own kids now), but she did make me go to bed at 8:00 much longer than any of my friends had to. (Apparently I am cranky when I don't get enough sleep.) We spent every evening of a spring break watching two seasons of Downton Abbey, and we have watched every episode of Gilmore Girls together. She has always been okay with my questions, probably because she is a questioner herself, and despite my best efforts, now as a mother myself I find myself breaking into song at the most random times with my boys.

what the last day of school showed me

Sometimes I think life is moving too slowly.

When I compare myself to Facebook status updates, blog entries, or advertisements on television I can start to believe I don't have enough. I don't have everything I want. I am missing out on some grand adventure. My dreams are not coming true the way I thought they would.

It doesn't happen as often as it used to, but in the quiet hours of the night, when The Hubs studies and the boys are finally asleep, I worry. I worry that everyone else is getting ahead, and that I am being left behind. I sometimes fear being stuck. here. forever. In my head I must think that God has limits on what He can do or how He can bless me. There are moments that I believe that if it is not happening right now then it will never happen.

And that is a lie.

This morning I spent the last day of (three year old) preschool with my firstborn. We did the parachute with gusto in the gym, and I marveled at how my child with such sensory issues could spend so much time in the sandbox at recess.  (This was the child who screamed as a baby/toddler when we put him in the grass.)  I listened to his teacher brag on how he knows all of the instruments, how he is a "fact guy," how smart and how kind he is. I sat on a plastic chair made for people two feet shorter than I am, and I wondered how my three-pound-preemie got to be such a remarkable almost-four-year-old so quickly?

So these lies that I hear when I think and compare and worry too much? I will not believe them because today I see truth. Life is moving fast enough, a little too fast sometimes. I see that even in my little north-side house, the house I sometimes feel so "stuck" in, I really do have everything I need and most of what I want, too.

joining with emily and imperfect prose

what baby think it over should do

My mom did a good job teaching me about the birds and the bees. For starters, she never called any of our conversations,"talking about the birds and the bees."  But there are a few things I was unprepared for in terms of pregnancy and child-rearing.

For instance - vomit.  

No one told me how much junk would come out a child's mouth over the years.  As a baby it's mostly spit-up. If you have the challenge of having a child (or two) with acid reflux, then spit-up on steroids is more like it.  Through the early years a child will eat the wrong thing, bounce too much on someone's knee, get the flu, or try to wash down six green beans with 1.5 sippy cups of milk. We have been lucky enough that everything in the path  of projectile had been a fairly easy clean-up.

Until tonight. 

Perhaps "Baby Think It Over" should really be a "Preschooler Suddenly Vomiting All Over The Sofa Think It Over" doll.  That would be a much more effective abstinence strategy.

(Also, this blog is on facebook now. Feel free to go like me.  I promise to go back to writing reflective and sentimental things soon.)

when stop means go

Bugaboo is fascinated with stop signs.

"Ohhhhh. Peeee." he has been saying for weeks now, especially at the one right before we turn onto the main road.  And now he is finding O and P in books with some pretty surprising accuracy. Occasionally he calls out an S and a T. Even if he doesn't get the letter right, he is realizing that these symbols have one of the alphabet names. It is the strangest, most wonderful thing.

Every time we drive by the most favorite ice cream place in town, no matter which one it is of the four locations, he yells out, "I-cree!"  He also sees the Starbucks mermaid (is she a mermaid?) and yells, "Foffee!" There are things turning in his brain, but the way things come out sometimes baffle and confuse us. Sometimes they surprise and delight us.  

On the nights where he's not in my arms fighting sleep for an hour or two, he falls asleep in his crib with a book under his arm, just like his big brother. Bug still doesn't understand taking a bite of a chip or a banana or a piece of toast. When you ask him his name, he gives you his brother's instead. We are still dealing with fits where his lack of communication skills leaves us feeling helpless and sad. He doesn't scream out in pain when something has smashed his finger.  Instead I have to notice something is wrong and help him before he gets seriously hurt. His drooling that had disappeared for a couple weeks has been back recently with a vengeance.

But this S.T.O.P. - this is really a sign of hope for us. A sign that maybe we are going somewhere unexpected.

the power of "I get it."

Special needs.

I don't use that phrase very much unless I have to use it to explain something about my youngest son. Usually I say, "He has developmental delays," or I give some examples of the issues someone may need to be aware of.  Often times I just say, "He's about a year or so behind."

Bugaboo has made a lot of progress lately.  He is walking and even becoming aware of the ground beneath his feet. (This is very important on playgrounds, stairs, grass, and other people's homes.)  He has some words we can understand. He is following some simple directions.

But as he gets older, other things have become more problematic.  Often times when we are out somewhere, like a restaurant (which we don't go to very often), he has these "fits."  We can't figure out what the problem is, but he is obviously frustrated/ticked off.  Containers, plates, silverware, bowls - these trigger these "fits."  I know he has them other places, but restaurants are what come to mind as the obvious.

We had two different meals out with two different church families this weekend, and Bugaboo did really well.   The one fit he seemed to have was diffused quickly.

But tonight at small group he could not settle down. Random things ticked him off. Unknown things ticked him off. The Hubs took a shift at the beginning, and I took a shift at the end, and our small group and the hosts' dog tried to entertain him/keep him happy - which did work for a little bit.  They have prayed for his testing results which we had this spring, but since we are newer they don't know all of Bug's history.  At one point something was asked (kindly) about him or me or something, and I just started to cry.

I hate crying in front of people.

We have only been going to this church for a few months, and this small group even less. The tears wouldn't stop. I wasn't loud. I couldn't really talk. I just cried and said, "I'm sorry." I think I said a few other words.  The more I tried not to cry, the more the tears kept escaping from my eyes.

Tonight as I sat with my youngest in someone else's kitchen, I realized that I have a label.  "Special needs mom."  I'm crying even now as I type it - not out of anger or a sense of unfairness.  My tears are from frustration because I do not know how to always help my child.  I do not always know how to explain my child to others because I do not  understand it all myself.  I do not have a clue what the future looks like for my youngest. I'm crying because this motherhood thing, no matter what, is the hardest thing I've ever done, even if it is the most rewarding.

I went outside. I was doing okay watching the small group kids play kickball, and then the older ones helping the little ones do a few rounds of Simon Says.  No more crying, and Bugaboo was running up and down the length of the deck.  Then one of the ladies of the group came out.

She looked at me and said, "I get it."  Then she hugged me and I cried, "I'm sorry."

She repeated, "You don't have to be sorry.  I get it. I get it."

For a few minutes she shared life with me - she who has grown children just a bit younger than I am. And all I could say was, "Thank you."

As were loading up the car, another mom my age stopped me and gave me a hug and offered to help me one day this week. I tried to apologize again for my tears, but she stopped me and hugged me again.  And all I could say was, "Thank you."

five minute friday - friend

Joining with Lisa-Jo's community to write for five minutes on a topic. This week it is on the word "friend."

Go.

I remember the day I lost my first baby before the first trimester ended. After a long drive from Minnesota, I finally made it to my hometown, and you just happened to be there for a visit, too.  I don't remember if I talked to you on the phone, but I'm pretty sure my mom called you for me.  You drove over to my house that evening.  And we just sat in the living room that used to hold my birthday parties and science projects.  I have no idea what you said, but mostly I know we just sat in the quiet, you letting me grieve the way old friends know how to do. I remember tears, but mostly I remember that you were just there.  The timing of you and I both being in Illinois at that time was a God-thing amidst the event the felt not at all like a God-thing.

We play a lot more phone tag these days than actual conversations because unfortunately that is just life.  I need to do better.  You have been such a true friend for over two decades, and for that I am thankful.

Stop.