A hug is where the heart is

I can't stop thinking about this face.




And how it's lips can charm me and

scorch me all in a matter of minutes.

_______________________________________

Scenario:

Jamis asks for a hug.
I'm bein' a lil' bit goofy and flop on top of him. Arrrrrrg! "There's your huggy hug."

"No, a real hug."

So I sit up properly on the couch and he folds into my arms. Actually, I think we're at the point where I fold into him, because the hugs are less frequent and he tends to offer them not only when he needs one, but when he knows I need one.

In this instance it is he who wants a moment of love, though. The little guys are asleep and we are preparing for another hilarious chapter of Double Fudge.

The hug:

"Thanks mom. I love you. I do."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Even though you have such a hard time listening and following directions?"

"Yeah. It's just my ears.
They need to be pipe cleaned."

We laugh.
We laugh honestly.

And then.
The inevitable.
This comes about each time we share a moment of great humor.
Each time Jamis does or says something funny, impressive or surprising.

"Tell Daddy."




And I almost had the moment all to myself.

Daddy, mind you, is in Virginia for 4 days. Not even around. If he were, Jamis would run to the office and tell him the remarkably funny thing that he just said. Dan would smile and half-heartedly laugh - nothing like my swirl of giggles beside him on the couch.

But it's not my reaction that counts. He knows I love him. He knows I always will. And beyond that, he knows I think he is just GREAT!

It is his father's reaction that warrants all the attention around here. It is so much more important that Daddy think he's GREAT! And he looks for that in every word that's spoken between them. And I tell Dan, "You know, what he thinks you think about him is much more important than what he thinks I think about him." And sadly, I'm sure it always will be.

It's just another reason my heart bleeds for having three boys. Three boys that are always looking toward their father for acceptance and guidance.

I will be the pillar of love and strength, I suppose. But that's an awfully tall order. Maybe I'll just make a point to always give hugs. In quiet times. With no one near. That's when the good stuff comes out.

Tractor Masterpiece

Try not to focus on the melting frosting.
I am especially proud of the hay bale cupcakes, thank you very much.

Tractor Lust

Trading one dream for another. But maybe only temporarily.

With every milestone I find myself looking back, usually wondering HOW did we ever get HERE. B is FIVE already? Holy moly, as he would say. What happened? Wasn't he just born? Weren't we just nuzzled together on the couch, settled in for one of his marathon nursing sessions?

Nope. It's been five years. And two more kids. And I'm nursing again, but there's not a whole lot of nuzzling this time. More like refereeing from the sidelines, breaking up fights between B and S while trying to get a meal in for E. (As I watch the basketball playoffs I find myself wishing I could call fouls on the kids. Make them go to the bench.)

B was conceived days after I returned from my first (and only) semester of a master's degree program in creative writing. After two failed attempts at different graduate programs and finally admitting to myself what it was I really wanted to do, I got myself into a great fiction writing program. And a few weeks after I'd completed my first semester, I found out I was pregnant. I was thrilled. I had always wanted kids. Always pictured myself as a mother.

I had every intention of continuing the program. It was a distance program, after all. I would need to be away for only two 10-day sessions per year. The rest of the program was done from home, online. Perfect. And yet, I found myself with a few things to learn about pregnancy. Within days of learning I was pregnant and fretting about how to tell J, I developed classic hyperemesis gravidarum. Not familiar? Basically, it's the worst "morning sickness" you can imagine. Go ahead, google it. You wouldn't wish this on your worst enemy. I spent weeks throwing up. Constantly. I spent days in the hospital, being rehydrated and sleeping. I spent a little time at work. I spent no time working toward my degree.

No problem, I thought, when I was out of that phase of the pregnancy. I'll just skip the next semester and get back on track next year. Fast forward to the next year: pregnant again. More HG. Then two kids. Two jobs. A lot of juggling. No writing.

And now there are three. And I am tired. And we are financially struggling. And I would absolutely love to get back into the program. But those two 10-day sessions seem impossible now. Paying for them. Leaving my family for that long. Now I wish there were a more traditional program nearby. One that offered classes, maybe in the evenings. Now I look back and see how simple it was to make decisions before kids. And how simple it was to make mistakes, too. I was the only one who had to live with the outcomes, the consequences. The failed attempts at grad school, for instance. It was such a selfish life. In motherhood I can't afford to be selfish, even though most days I crave some "alone time," as S calls it. Time just for me. Time to do whatever I want with. But that is not to be right now. I am five years in, and it already has gone too fast. I can't say if I will get back to school or when, but I can keep writing. And for now, this is it. It's more than I've been doing for years, and it feels good to be in the practice again. I find myself headed in another direction, yet again, this time by motherhood (and sisterhood), and if I have learned anything since becoming a parent, it's to appreciate the now and to be flexible and optimistic. By becoming a mother I have realized the dream I most wanted. I have to believe that someday I'll have the opportunity, the energy and the motivation to dust off my half-finished novel, submerge myself in it and see it to its completion. And I'm hoping that the practice of raising kids will help me to reach that milestone.

Hey, you need your cup. Oh yeah, my cups!

So today was all about sunscreen and baseball. In the morning, an Opening Day parade with a sweet High School gal singin' the national anthem in a quavery, somewhat hollow voice. A melee of parents with strollers and high hopes.

Being a Sunday, there were folks in Church get-up following little girls with chin length hair in flowery dresses and white buckled shoes. There were moms who had clearly taken the opportunity to coordinate their summer attire for the first time - tank tops and tiny tees dug out of attics and closets all over Connecticut. Some were just looking to stay cool and others were playing the whole "Look at me, I'm something to look at, aren't I?" But no matter, cause how comfortable can you be be in 80 degrees at 10 am at a high school football field rubbing elbows with a few thousand eager parents?

We waited forEVA as they all lined up and then happily watched the cleated midgets march in on the track and cluster about in uniformed glory as the announcer announced all kinds of perfectly pertinent and boring information. Max picked dandelions and wandered in a field. Found a man dressed as a dinosaur and shrieked with delight. Found a man dressed as an octopus and gave him a high five. Found a man dressed as a soft and lovable dog with floppy ears and cried Mommy!

The festivities subsided and the parents started their stampede to the parking lot. Jamis wandered away from his team and got lost. But as usual, he just kind of stated as such when he ran into me, without a whole lot of concern for actually being LOST - he was worried he'd missed out on some sort of goody bag he'd seen other team members of OTHER teams toting off the field.

We went home and we had lunch and we had down time. 45 minutes later Jamis was called from the basement to gear up for the actual game. And here comes the totally whacked part. I told him to pee, I laced up his cleats, I filled up his water, I directed him to his hat (which Ethan had wedged under the shopping cart in the dining room, of course), and then I remembered about our new addition to the season's wardrobe - the sports cup. Is that what this thing is called?
The picture I would really love to post here is Jamis's little white butt in these little white undies standing in the kitchen with a big fat grin on his face. The big fat grin that says to mom, crouched on the floor in shock and awe, "I'm growing up, lady, and loving every minute of it."

To quote Jamis as he pulled the briefs up and fingered the fabric, "I didn't think it was going to be..."

And I'm thinking..."Hard, big, tight?"

"I didn't think they were going to be shaped like this. Straight across. I thought they would be more curved."

Now, I'm pretty sure this resembles his choice of words. As he's talking he draws a line in his pubic area where he thought the briefs would have been cut. And I'm like, What? You aren't phased by the fact that you've got this hard 3D triangle pressed against your "weenie"?!

I called Jen the minute Jamis left with his dad for the game.

"Well I guess you opted to stay home?"

"Yeah. (Pause) I just helped Jamis get ready for the game. (Pause) He had to wear a cup. (Pause)"

I think it's fair to say that I realized at that moment, in the moment of Jen's reaction, that my boy is so BOY and growing into Man sooner than I'm ever going to be ready. And I've got to do this three times. Learn how to let go and watch them grow.

What I Learned Today

Swiss meringue buttercream frosting and 90-degree weather do not jibe.

Kids don't give a sh*t about the drippy frosting. 

Or the fact that it was too windy to light the candles.

They just want the hay-bale cupcakes.

You can carve a cake with the non-spoon end of a plastic spoon!

Pinatas are more sturdy than they look.

You can get sunburned in April.

When the cooler is empty of drinks, the ice cubes offer great entertainment (and cooling) value.

No matter what, birthday parties are stressful. On the mom, but also on the kid.

But they are also just about the best thing about being a kid. And about being the kid's mom.

We are so lucky to have so many wonderful friends. (OK, I already knew this, but today was a terrific reminder.)

Winding down with pizza and (root)beer apres party with cousins is the perfect way to end a day.

It's important to have all of your treasured birthday gifts beside your bed, all lined up, while you are sleeping. (I remember doing this, too.)

I will not be counting down the days until the next birthday party.

The (tired) backstory

Is there a mother out there who isn't tired? It's my day to post here (while Sarah watches Heroes), and I was all set to get into it. But I'm so TIRED I can barely breathe without effort. I was just snippy with my Sweetie, for no particular reason other than the fact that I'm SO TIRED. The baby finally went down, but who knows how long she'll sleep before she needs another slurp from me. I want to be utilizing my intellect and writing skills here, but really I'm just typing for the therapy of the sound of my too-long fingernails on the keys. 

Motherhood is just so damn draining. And I went to WORK today. J was doing the harder part—putting in his time in the trenches, home with the kiddoes. Well, two of them. Which is what I was going to write about in the first place. The fact that I have brought all three of my babies to work with me during the first few months of their lives. And now, baby number three is just about finished up with her early office months, and I will once again be separating my working (out of the home) self from my mommy self. And I have very mixed feelings about this. Like, I am looking forward to actually EXERCISING during lunch. Well, maybe. I guess I should take into account the fact that I will also have to PUMP three times each day, so maybe I actually won't get to take a lunch. Damn. I also won't be worrying about the noise level coming from my office, which apparently has been bothering someone in the building, because I had a complaint filed against me with HUMAN RESOURCES. I am in no state of mind to get into the details of this yet. I also won't be able to see Em's sweet face every minute of every day. And when I look in my rearview mirror on the long drive to and from work on those three days that I go in, I won't see her little round head turned to the side, nestled into her car seat and reflected back at me. And I won't be able to have a hug any time I damn well might want one.

I survived leaving the other two at home after their tenure doing the 9-4 gig. And I remember feeling, with B, my first, that I wasn't going to make it. That leaving him at home would be emotionally impossible for me. It wasn't, of course. We all made it. But that feeling of leaving my child. It just took over every part of me. And now, on the eve of B's FIFTH birthday, I can't believe he was such a tiny, tiny baby. That I ever had the courage to leave him in someone else's care. And I can't believe how much he believes in me. That I, the mother, somehow know what I am doing all of the time. Even when I know I am doing the wrong thing, he doesn't doubt it. This child of mine, who started out his life away from home napping under my desk now goes to school, has his own "gang" of friends and sometimes even plays on his own. I am proud of him. And utterly in awe of him. And I know I will get there with Em, too. But I do wish she could stay at work with me a little longer. Need ME for everything every moment of the day (and night). It doesn't make any sense, I am aware, that in one breath I am telling my oldest child that he doesn't need my help (putting on his shoes, finding his juice cup, straightening out the covers on his bed) and in another I am looking at Em and fervently hoping that she doesn't start crawling away from me just yet. I want to just watch her sleep for a while, knowing that only moments after I give in and turn out the light she will push up off of her tummy and start nursing the air before she can even squirm her way over here. But at least I made it this far. A somewhat coherent stream-of-fatigued-consciousness brain dump that maybe will allow me to sleep. Oh, sleep. How I miss you.

Oh Brother, How Art Thou? and other philosophical ramblings

It seems time to mention that we have a brother. Oh, and, yeah, he has three kids, too. What is this? you're asking yourself. Three siblings each with three children now. Weird. Is it, though? Seems like nice symmetry to me. And we really didn't plan on it. No sirree. 

Our brother is the middle child. I suspect he felt and/or tried to be invisible for much of his childhood. Sarah and I, well, we tended to have the attention. Me being the perfect, overachieving oldest, and Sarah being the rule-breaking, boundary-ignoring, creative genius youngest. There was our brother, smack dab in the middle, quiet, understated and probably embarrassed by one or both of us on any given day. The poor, poor kid. But he sure grew up to be one exceptional dude. I only wish he didn't live so damned FAR AWAY. But I digress. 

So once, about, oh, say three-and-a-half years ago (when I was the only one of the three of us with more than one child), he said, "Anyone who has more than two children is crazy." I remember laughing. Because this is just the sort of seemingly-judgmental, absolute thing that our brother says. He's a bit of a math genius. And I can see that the numbers of two parents and three kids do not add up neatly. But I swear, the moment those words left his mouth, he was just asking for those twins of his to start their lives in utero. Yup. The planner of the family had three kids in 20 months. Sarah and I each have two kids who are less than 18 months apart in age, so we know it's HARD. But this time, it's our brother who got himself right into the spotlight. Just where he never wanted to be. 

But here's the thing: Man oh man, is he a great dad. And the three kids have not really changed him that much. I mean, besides the obvious facts of being a dad, he, more than anyone else I know, has maintained his pre-parent lifestyle. And I don't know how in the WORLD he does it. (Well, I know it has a lot to do with his amazing wife.) He exercises regularly, often training for a crazy-ass bike riding competition through the desert, on which he subsequently medals or achieves some ridiculous feat (our sister-in-law runs marathons; people, she ran one WHILE PREGNANT WITH TWINS. Ooh, this will probably make some of you concerned. She didn't know she was pregnant at the time); goes away on weekends with his friends (and so does said wife); is finishing the basement of his house (for the kids); is always taking a class or studying for some career-enhancing test of some sort; and, when I talk to him (which is never often enough) he always sounds just like my little brother. Reasonable. Relaxed. Happy. 

Me, in comparison? OK. Exercise. Um, I used to be an athlete. Even worse, I used to be a COACH of a very competitive sport. Ugh. Remember the bread-dough middle? Well, I haven't gotten into the damn pool yet. I do go to a book group once a month, which I look forward to for approximately 27 days and 22 hours. These women have become intellectual companions, emotional sounding boards, good friends. But a weekend away? Uh, no. Not with the girls. J and I have gotten away from the kids a few times. Ooh, that sounds bad, "Gotten away from..." And forget about home improvement, I can't even keep on top of the daily maintenance. I have PILES upon piles of stuff--laundry, endless children's "art" projects; seasonal clothes to put away in the closet or finally organize in dressers; bills; broken toys that I keep saying I'll fix ... Every day I tell myself, often out loud (!), that I will confront one of these piles. Just one room, one area of one room. But it doesn't happen often enough. The piles multiply faster than I can conquer them. 

Now even this post feels like it's becoming like one of those piles--lost amongst the midst. Well, that's what life with three kids is. Even if you are more high-functioning than I am. I know that it's not fair to really compare my life with three with our brother's life with three. There's the twin aspect, of course. But, also, he's not the mother. And, Sarah, really, isn't that what we spend all of our mobile minutes talking about? Mothering three. MOTHERING.