What if...?

“What if…?”

It’s a question to play with, a question that children like to ask.  

Today, the “What if...?” was about the kids, a sudden thought that struck me as I watched a show about people building their dream homes, either by rehabbing an already established building or from scratch.  

What if I didn’t have kids?

Hmm.

Maybe I’d live with Mom.

Maybe not.  

Probably I would travel more.  I’d have less laundry, fewer dishes, less cleaning.  I’d have fewer expenses, maybe fret a good deal less about paying bills.  Less work at events and fewer costs associated.  I wouldn’t have to plan as far in advance, could pick up and pop off at a moment’s notice.  Lower grocery costs.  Things would stay where and as I’d put them.

I might write more, create more, have fewer distractions.

I wouldn’t be responsible for or to anyone but myself.

I also wouldn’t have constant snuggles, hugs, laughter, runs of puns, heaps of horrible jokes.  There wouldn’t be the endless opportunity to teach and learn, the exhausting, exhilarating privilege of helping shape two extraordinary people into the final framework that will carry their ever-evolving selves through life.  

There wouldn’t be the same sense of wonder at the world, the beautiful rediscovery of life, the universe, and everything, the drive to try all of the things, all of the time, the unceasing why.

It would be different.  It would be emptier.  I’m not one of the mothers who identifies herself only by her children, but they’re certainly a tremendous part of who I am and how I live.  They shape every choice that I make.

So I can imagine with great clarity a life without them, but from a distance, like watching a show about homes in far-off places and wondering what it’d be like to have the resources to build that dream while making the most of and being content with what I have.    

Molehill Into mountain

Oy. I needed to lie down for a bit. While I was not napping, Sprout decided to take her scissors and cut up the lounge cushion, on the side that was still sound, and pull out some of the stuffing.

She has been dealt with, I don't need advice or admonishment about that.

I'm frustrated because she KNOWS not to do that. We all like the lounge, but this may be the death knell for it. I can repair a lot, but this? May be beyond my skill given where the cut is and the use that particular piece of furniture gets.

Sigh.

If I have to toss it, I'm leaving that space empty until I can get something NEW to put there...not a hand-me-down or cast off (mind you, I'm not saying those haven't been grand because if it weren't for hand-me-downs and cast offs I'd have had very little living room furniture and it's been just fine but sometimes a gal wants something new and right now I could USE something new and I'm willing to wait for it and maybe we aren't just talking about furniture here), but something I choose that suits me.

Double sigh.

Can't see that happening any time soon.

And for some reason I just want to cry and curl into a ball and give up.

When I said I wanted to declutter and purge, I didn't mean the things we actually use.

Reflecting

I don't look in the mirror often. I must cop to an aversion to mirrors. I've gone years without knowing if, indeed, I even had a reflection.

It's not as difficult as you might think to go without looking at yourself - I don't use cosmetics and what I do with my hair can hardly be considered "styling". I don't need to see what I'm doing.

From time to time I take a look, just to see what's going on above my ever-lower boobs.

Funny thing...I can't see my eye color. Really. I can look and look, but I can't ever tell what color they are. I have to ask someone else.

Come to think of it, when I bother looking I don't see me. I see my grandfather. I see his eyes staring out into the nowhere, looking at what isn't there, thinking his lonely thoughts, dwelling. I see my grandmother, my Mother's mother, tired smile and high cheeks like the one picture I've seen of her. I see my mother, the set of her mouth, the way the lines form around my eyes when I smile, the stubborn set of her chin. I see a little of my father, mostly in the shape of my body, my shoulders and wrists. I see generations of family, a line back to the beginning, my ancestry looking back at me through eyes that see do much more than what's there.

It's only when I look at my children that I see myself. I see myself in them, characteristics that they can only have gotten from me. I see, in them, bits and pieces of the people I carry with me.

Sometimes people look at Bird or Sprout and tell me they look just like me. Lots of folks voice the opinion that my kids are beautiful. I am biased - of course they are beautiful - they are my mother, my grandmothers, my grandfathers, and on days when I am not too tired or worn in spirit, I'll even own they're a little bit me.

The only mirror I need reflects so much more than my visage...

Sweet Horribles

She's got a fever.

She's been coughing so hard she vomits.

It's been a week. A cold, the pediatrician said.

She has a whine, a sort of coyote howl/wookie noise. Her voice breaks halfway through, and she somehow manages to make two noises at once, a dissonance that grates our ear bones and drives to our cores. We wince, grumble, cringe, sympathize, try to comfort.

Snot running out of her nose, she can't breathe well, so she doesn't sleep well.

Last night it was sleep for fifteen minutes, get up and rock the baby, get her settled, lie back down, repeat. Hours on end. Finally, she threw up in her crib. Too tired to think straight, I didn't wake Someone and have him hold her while I changed the crib sheets; I just cleaned her up and brought her to bed with us where she slept fitfully and I didn't sleep much at all.

She was hot to the touch. Bad Mama, I don't have a working thermometer, but even when I did I relied as much on the kiss-the-neck method of fever detection as any contraption. Yeah, yeah.

She vomited in her sleep again, coughing and choking as I got her up and caught it in my cover sheet, held her until she was quiet again. Later, we went into the living room so Someone could get some rest. I can lie on the couch with her...mostly. My butt sticks out over the edge and I have to balance myself carefully so I don't fall off but she is safe between me and the back of the couch, and as long as I don't move, she sleeps.

Of course, it is Sunday. A holiday weekend, no less. Of course the pediatrician's office is closed. Of course she does not seem sick enough to warrant an ER visit...yet...so it has been a worrying sort of day. What to do...

Late morning, Someone was up - he finally got a few hours of good rest - and I handed her off for the sake of a shower, of washing spit-up residue and snot and fever heat and sweat off of me, clean for a few minutes any way.

I came out of the bathroom to silence. Cautiously crept into the living room.

Nestled in her Papa's arms, limp and warm, she was asleep. Her cheek rested on his shoulder, his cheek rested on her soft little head. His eyes were closed, just being in the moment. I listened to her breath, soft, wet, rapid, almost panting.

I found the infant's ibuprofen. It helped a little - she drank some juice, ate part of a graham cracker, played a little, napped with me.

I am still debating whether we should drive to the ER. She's limp, listless, more than she's active. This child who runs, plays, babbles, laughs, and cries relentlessly through the day has been still and silent. It's the fever - it takes the fizz out of a body. I hate to use the ER as a doctor's office. If she's not much better by later tonight, I'll make the drive.

I hate it when my kids feel puny. I love it when she takes comfort in us, cuddled up close, wet little breaths rattling across our cheeks.

I need to go get more ibuprofen.

And Miss Out On This??

I logged on to check e-mail and was smacked in the eye by some headlines.

First there was the woman who tried to sell her newborn for fifteen-grand o she could go to Disney with her other two kids. Oh, man, if I was Disney, she'd be banned for life.

Then the man who killed his pregnant wife.

And finally the guy who broke his girlfriend's baby's legs.

Y'all, sometimes I miss my time, sleeping in, independence, and sanity. Sometimes I get tired of the whining, crying, constant demands for my attention, laundry, and the smell of poop, pee, and other effluvia. Sometimes, I would give just about anything for some peace, to sleep late, eat something hot or cold rather than tepid. But if I had to trade in one of my children?

No way.

There's nothing on this Earth worth this*:

Or this**:

How 'bout you?

*I practically had to beg him to stand still for a picture. Suddenly he's camera shy. Oy.

**If you look carefully, you can almost see the vestiges of her tooth on the lower left center of her gums.

Say What??

"Don't put dinosaurs up your pants."
"No, the ankylosaurus doesn't go on your penis."
"I'm pretty sure the pteronodon doesn't, either."

My day is complete.

Boys With Toys

Warning: This post will offend anyone who hasn't experienced the joys of raising a small boy, or a teenager, or an adult male for that matter. Read at your own risk - the author takes no responsibility for any emotional scarring or blindness that may occur. It'll help to read this with a sense of humor. You've been warned.

OK, now that the disclaimer's over with...

If you don't have a son, or a small boy, teenager, or adult male in your life, you might not get this. If you grew up in a tribe consisting of only women, you really won't understand.

What is it with boys and their...erm...junque?

Really...the Evil Genius has to be reminded dozens of times a day (sometimes an hour) that he is not to have his penis out in public, most times "public" being defined as anywhere but his bedroom or bathroom (which I have deemed appropriate places for him to have the little feller out for...whatever), especially anywhere other people can see it.

Does he listen? Nope. Seconds later, he's at it again, pulling it out through the flap in his underwear, or out the side through the leg hole, or just walking around clutching the entire package through the fabric with a far away look on his face.

Y'all, he's five-and-a-half. Now, I know they play with in in the womb, and when they figure out their chubby baby hands can be controlled, they start up again once they're out in the world...but honestly, if playing with yourself really could make you go blind, he'd be wearing dark glasses and walking with a cane or a dog or something.

I don't have an issue with him and his favorite pastime - I get it, really. Still, every now and then I want to remind him that that thing is attached, so please quit pulling on it like it's made of rubber, and no, I really am not interested in how many ways you can make it bounce up and down or side to side, thank you, and if you keep doing that it's going to stay that way!

I had no idea they were so...stretchy. I didn't really want to know, to be honest - while I think the male anatomy can be an endless source of amusement for those who consent to get involved with it, I wasn't really game for enduring my son's marathon self-amusement years. Neither is anyone else. Our poor roommate, J, is afraid to look away from the television on the rare occasions he emerges from the troll hole his room to join us for an evening, because the Evil Genius is waving his penis around like a lasso. I swear, the kid's going to tie it in knots one of these days...

Last week, I had to utter a sentence I would never have thought necessary (and before I had my own kid, I spent nearly twenty years raising or teaching other people's children - you'd think this would have come up) - I had to tell my son not to play with his penis and then pick his nose. Unable to leave well enough alone, I went beyond the call of duty (and the bounds of sanity) and explained that was like sticking your penis up your nose. Yeah, he laughed until he nearly wet himself and I realized I'd made a tactical error. Sigh.

When it's just us at home, I'm not all that pressed - but he really needs to learn to keep his hands North of the Mason-Dixon when we have company or are out in the world. I'm considering one of those shock collars they make for dogs...but then he'll end up on the cover of some funky S&M/B&D magazine* when he's twenty, I just know it.

So what's a gal to do?

*Not that there's anything wrong with that if it's what you're into - but do you really think your mother wants to know she's the reason you all done up in a gimp suit?? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Droppin' da bomb

Warrning, warning, warning, danger, danger, danger...foul language ahead!! Read at your own risk. Really. Any ocular sanguination that ensues is your own bloody (hah!) fault!! You were warned...

I was reading something over at Foolery about the things kids say, and it reminded me of Bird and the F-Bomb. Yes, my darling, sweet, ever so well behaved little gentleman has used the F-Bomb. Two years ago. Which would make him three at the time. Let me regale you!

I am, I believe I've mentioned once or a hundred times, in a band. Being in a band requires either a complete lack of commitment and simply enjoying the noise you make or rehearsing to get it right. I'm a fan of the rehearsal route. To facilitate rehearsals so that the fewest people possible are inconvenienced, we meet in town and not out here in Next-To-Nowhere, Georgia. At the time I'm recounting, we met at B's house, where one of our band members lives.

B has a lovely house, with a pool out back that we have often swum in. She would watch Bird for me while we rehearsed, which was easier as he got older...plunk him in the pool with water-wings on and splash around with him. Happy Bird. Also, tired Bird. Swimming wears a body out!

Sometimes, B's front door sticks - it's hard for a grown-up to open, let alone a (then) three-year-old. On the afternoon in question, Bird had been swimming with B and was worn slap out. As I was gathering our things in another room, Bird was trying to get out to the van. He was having a hard time with the door and was making his growling, fierce, angry-Bird noises. I hurried to the foyer and asked what was the matter. There, with an audience of all nine band members and B, he replied "I can't get the fucking door open."

Stunned silence ensued on the part of the other grown people. I wasn't exactly quiet, but I had to contain my mirth for a moment.

I calmly replied as follows, almost verbatim:

"Bird, don't say fuck. Fuck is a grown-up word. You haven't earned fuck. When you earn fuck, you may say fuck, but until then you may not say fuck. Only grown-ups who have earned fuck may say fuck. I'll tell you when you've earned fuck, but until then you aren't allowed to say fuck. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mommy."

The other adults were shocked - eyes widened, mouths hanging open, nothing but the occasional blink to show they weren't statues. Heh. I so rarely say the word myself, they couldn't believe it. I think I stunned them with my carpet F-Bombing.

Bird was just fine and hasn't used the word since. We've since had the same talk about Hell, Ass, and Shit. No one has to watch their language around him, because he knows he hasn't earned some of the words he hears. When one of his friends uses a grown-up word, he tells them they shouldn't because it's a grown-up word that they haven't earned yet, and I have to keep myself from laughing.

More proof that kids were made to amuse us so we don't smother them in their sleep when they've been horrid.

Also, did you know that the word "fuck" gives spell check hives?? It does...

A snapshot in words

Other than writing here, I haven't got a way to make a picture of last night. Dang.

Monday evening is Black Hat Society, when some friends and I get together and craft - crochet, write, sculpt, paint, color, chase small boys around the house and try to keep them from murdering each other with die-cast cars for fun...you know, the usual stuff.

Last night, Kit had Babyman with her, but her two older boys were off with daddy for some trouble fun. That left Bird and Noodle (Michelle's son) to try to kill entertain each other - which, now they're older, can be done without the help of television or us mums intervention.

At some point on the evening, Bird and Noodle decided to play hide-and-seek. Spontaneously. On their own. Bird is five and Noodle is three-and-a-half, so you can just imagine... Nah, you don't have to, I am going to write about it.

First, Noodle counted while Bird hid. It sounded something like "One...two...threefourfiesisseveneightniten" followed by "ReadyornothereIcome!!" and the thud of little feet. Meanwhile, in the two seconds that took, Bird was trying to hide under a couch cushion. Not even one of the big one - it was an accent pillow! Noodle somehow figured out where Bird was hiding - it may have been the feet sticking out, or the giggles, or the fact that Noodle could see him while he hid - in a few seconds, and they traded places. Bird's turn to count at turbo speed, and announce "ReadyornothereIcome!!" He found Noodle in short order because Noodle has only one hiding place, equally useful for escaping angry mommy, or angry me, or bogeymen, or hide-and-seek. He hides under the dining room table where no one could possibly see him between the chairs or anything. Heh. They played for quite a while this way, and us mums sat in the kitchen and recounted how the boys played hide-and-seek when they were even younger.

It seems to be universal - the child will either hide himself and count at the same time and then call out to be "found", or demand that a parent count while they hide and then, when the counting is done, run out from their hiding place and announce their presence with "Here I am!!"

What struck me most was how they were playing cooperatively, interacting, and chatting at normal volume, not simply running and screaming and acting like crazed monkeys. They had grasped the idea of hide-and-seek and were enjoying it enough that Bird was quite angry we had to leave.

He asked if we could stay the night. No, but we could come play again soon. Could we stay a whole week? Umm, no...we don't live all that far away, we can simply drive down or meet somewhere.. He then announced that he wished we could just live there with Michelle and Noodle all the time. Sweet, huh? Maybe when I win the lottery and build a little village for all of us...eh, a gal can dream. For now, though, out weekly semi-potluck get together will have to do.

My word picture: Bird in overalls and a blue shirt, head burried in the arm of Michelle's couch, counting to ten. Noodle crouched under the dining room table, grinning, eyes shining. Bird straightening, "ReadyornothereIcome!!", scampering around the foyer and into the dining room, bending over and peering under the dining room table, butt in the air. "I found you!" Giggles and proclamations of "Now it's your turn!" from both boys. Two boys running from living room to kitchen to dining room to foyer, one big circle, until Bird tells Noodle "We have to stop running now because I'm exhausted." and flopping onto the couch. Noodle running a bit more then throwing himself dejectedly onto the floor. Another round of hide-and-seek, this time Noodle counting and Bird hiding under a sofa cushion. Repeat for an hour or more.

Yes, I still have an indulgent-mum grin on my face.

Phobias, schmobias!

I was reading Pioneer Woman's blog last night, and it started me thinking. Uh-oh, run for the hills! OK, kidding aside, she wrote about a phobia. Her readers (of which there are many) wrote to her about their own phobias and coping mechanisms. There were a number of folks who mentioned cognitive therapy, medication, and alcohol. Many of them mentioned that their fear started when they had kids. Which got me thinking more.

Have I been afraid of anything new since I had Bird? Or more afraid of something old?

Nope. At least, I don't think so. All the old phobias are still in place, and I am still ignoring them except when I'm not, but there are no new bugaboos.

Bird is fearless. Last evening, he was throwing something away at Borders and struck up a conversation with two startled strangers. I think they weren't prepared for a five-year-old evil genius. They cast cautious glances my way, perhaps afraid that the large woman in blue would feel compelled to charge in defense of her young. Hah! I let him chatter, just to see how he would do. When they were done talking and he turned back to me, I gave what I think of as a friendly smile (perhaps fewer teeth, Ms. Whale Shark!!) and explained "No such thing as strangers, for him." The woman smiled back and said she thought that was great.

Well, yeah, it is...although I need to teach him caution. Now how does one do that without instilling fear? Have to work on that. Meanwhile, I just watch him charm the socks off folks and try to make certain he's not being a pest. Some people don't like talking to random kids, can you imagine??

I remember reading once (long, long ago) that we can teach children our fears. We can teach them fears of their very own, too. I believe this - I have seen it happen. So when I had my own little bundle of wriggling poo production, I wanted to be certain I didn't give him anything he wasn't born with. Good thing most of my phobias are internalized things, not easily seen. Agoraphobia, claustrophobia, xenophobia (oh, that's a fun one!) and such are things people can't see...not like jumping and yelling when you see a snake or spider or chicken or something.

Now, I earned my fears the old fashioned way, through experience and hard work. If my kid wants some of his own, he can just go out and get them without my help. It's a growing thing. Like...umm...I dunno, killing a wildebeest with your teeth or something.

I'm not afraid of spiders, so I'm the one who moves them when people get creeped out by one. Pick 'em up and move 'em without a though, even Black Widows and Brown Recluses. To date, I haven't been bitten, but there's always tomorrow. I am not afraid of snakes, although I do have a healthy respect for them. I think they're beautiful, truth be told. Not afraid of bees or other stingy things, so I don't have to worry about passing that along. I have a friend who is afraid of anything with wings...they are all evil chickens that are flapping at her to peck her eyes out. Butterflies, even...she calls them butterchickens. Dragonchickens. Mothchickens. It sounds funny, and she laughs about it, but the day she stood there and took a moth to the face while we were on stage was epic. I had to defend her from the evil interloper, going so far as to endanger my own self to gently cup the poor thing in my hands and contain it in a box until the concert was over. She never stopped singing, even as she ducked, dodged, and nearly cried. I was so proud.

Bird let a bee land on his hand last fall. It was so cool. He ran up to me, excited as only a child that age can be when a stinging insect has chosen them to alight on, and exclaimed "Mommy, look, I caught a bug!!" Silly me, I was expecting a beetle or some other innocuous critter. Nope. Bee. So I explained to him about being careful not to frighten the little sister, that she would sting him if she was afraid but was otherwise quite safe. She crawled all over his hand, while I wracked my brain trying to thing whether he'd recently washed said paw, or if there was anything there to get her excited. He was clean, I think. I told him about how she was checking him out, giving his hand a sniff-taste, and if she decided he wasn't food she'd tag him as "not food" so all the other bees would know and wouldn't waste their time. We examined her quite closely, admiring her glossy wings and furry body and stripes. We could see where her stinger was, and watched her tiny feet as she walked about. I held his sleeve shut so she wouldn't go up there and get smushed or frightened. Eventually, she crawled onto his sleeves and I brushed her off...she didn't seem to unhappy, just flew in a circle and headed off to things-more-edible-and-less-nosy. Another friend watched this five minute experience, and all she could say was "Whoa, that was the coolest thing ever." I guess she's used to people flapping their arms, running around, and the like. Well...now my kid won't be one of them. I did explain about bees stinging, why they do it and what it means for them. He nodded like a wise little four-year-old evil genius does, and I think he got it. Anyway, he still thinks bees are cool, not frightening. Score one for mom.

We learn about things like strange dogs, cats, snakes, and beavers and stuff...you know, the usual critters. He won't be afraid of them. The hardest thing for me is to keep from teaching him fear of the scariest of all creatures on this earth...humans. See, there's noting in nature that concerns me as much as us. Of all the things Nature made, we are the worst, the most hateful, randomly violent, cruel. That's the fear I have the hardest time not passing along. I try to think like my departed grandmother, who once said "Strangers are just friends you haven't made, yet." It's hard, though. People terrify me.

Most fears can be soothed, if not completely removed, by knowledge. It truly is power. To know a thing, to know why it acts as it does and have some measure of predictability, makes it less frightening. No, the bee sting won't hurt any less, but at least it isn't some mysterious pain...there's a reason for it, a logic to it, if only bee-logic.

Knowing what makes you afraid, and why, is a good start. Learning about what scares you takes away the mystery, takes away the power. Remember Dorothy, when she discovered that the Wizard was really the old guy behind the curtain? Kind of like that.

There's so much more that could be said, but I have to go wrestle my son into his clothing so we can go for his regular dental adventure. Whee.