The Wonderful World of Boy

Before I had kids whenever I pictured myself being a mom I pictured myself being surrounded by cute little girls all in dresses, hair in bows and ribbons doing ballet, having tea parties and painting fingernails. Little girl giggles and princess stories and sweet flowery smells painted my senses. Its not that I didn't want boys, nor did I think I wouldn't have any, I just pictured these perfect little cherubs as my offspring. And then I had a boy...and another one....and another one.

My life has never been the same. Instead of dresses my laundry consists of dinosaur shirts and jeans with huge holes in them, even the brand new ones. The hair usually has sand and jelly in it, there is not a bow to be found in my house. Ballet is karate and tea parties have been replaced by food fights. There are, however, plenty of giggles especially at suspicious noises followed by smells that would wilt any flowers.

I must admit I have laughed more and rolled my eyes more and been more thankful than I ever have in my whole life, with these loud, dirty, rowdy treasures filling my home. My boys proudly display their bruises and scars and know exactly what happened to achieve them. They know who can pee the farthest standing at the top of the swing set. They have memorized all of their favorite dinosaur movies and wrestling is inevitable no matter how loud I yell to cut it out. This is one of my favorite descriptions of boys: Boy, n.: a noise with dirt on it. ~Not Your Average Dictionary

My typical day usually includes three spills, minimum, 5 episodes of my heart completely stopping in pure terror as I watch a child jump over the railing at the top of the stairs and pray he makes the 12 feet without breaking anything or as I try to figure out what went up the nose this time, or who is locked in the washing machine. It includes at least 5 lectures on why you can't take your swimming trunks off standing by the pool, on why you can't tell strangers I am not your mommy, on why you can't put anything other than DVD's in the DVD player just to name a few.

But my day always holds 5 or 6 sticky kisses, hugs that sometimes make me worry I won't be able to turn my head for days, and "I love you's" in all shapes and sizes. It includes compliments, like "you look like a princess" and "your just as fun as daddy is!" And when my kid is wearing the goalie jersey and is picking his nose letting the soccer ball fly over his head into the goal I couldn't be prouder or love life more no matter that there are no tutu's or Swan Lake.

True my dreams of shopping trips and pedicures, have been replaced with the rodeo and baseball games, movie night will probably never hold romantic comedies, and I will have to learn how to handle the countless ulcers that come with the amazing daring adventures my boys set out on. I can't wait to see what tomorrow holds! Who knows, there might be bows in my future yet....

Is that a giant octopus in my bathtub?

When I became a mom my goal was to be the best mom ever. Oh and never ever yell. After a while my goal became to be a very good, above average mom and only yell when it was a very serious situation. After I had my second son, my goal became to be a good mom and I left out any and all yelling goals. My goal has evolved into "keep them alive" and it would be a bonus if they left home with all appendages still attached with minimal life long marks on their bodies. Oh and don't lose my voice from yelling more than twice a week.

Every once in a while, I have been accused of being paranoid, but lets face it, these people weren't there the time my then 3-year-old managed to almost drown in swim class, or had to dig french fries, peanuts, or legos from body parts, or been in the urgent care because a toilet caused a lost fingernail, or dancing broke a foot. My children have a unique and uncanny ability to create very reasonable circumstances for paranoia. Even my last unborn child managed to work his cord into a knot which could have created any number of complications, not one productive to my goal of keeping him alive. So I may be guilty of imagining giant caterpillars snatching my children up, or worrying about a meteor shower over my house, or having an exit plan if giant bees suddenly invaded my vehicle while we were in it.

Thankfully I have been lead to or stumbled across countless number of very practical and helpful resources that have given me courses of action or information that I can put to use in my goal of keeping my children alive. There are to many to put into a blog, to many anyway to keep anyone's attention and prevent them from falling asleep and smashing their head into their computer screen, but I have been asked about these resources by my amazing mommy friends who have somehow managed to learn how to lose their voice from screaming much less than I have, and have decided to highlight a few of my favorites here.

The first one is the one that helped ease my fears of an invisible suit being invented and my children being kidnapped before my very eyes by an invisible bad guy. "Protecting the Gift" by Gavin de Becker

I highly recommend this book to all parents. Its very practical and actually helps you eliminate fears instead of creating new ones (a myth that kept me from reading this book for a while). Now I feel confident in having plans if alien lifeforms in the form of my children's friends tried to brainwash them; ok so he doesn't actually cover that exact scenario....

The next one, though somewhat controversial in my circle of friends is still one I think all parents need to read, even if they decide to follow the typical recommended timeline for child vaccinations. I believe its our job to at least stay informed on how to protect our children from illnesses and protecting them from the various forms of protection against illness. The book is "The Vaccine Book" by Dr. Robert W. Sears.

My first two kids had very few side effects from vaccinations, therefore I never thought twice about giving them whatever my doctor recommended. When Caleb was born he had every single side effect. The nurse would tell me, "oh don't worry only like 1 in a gajillion babies has this reaction." and later that day I was calling the nurse to let her know she was safe for the next gajillion kids since my kid was the 1! My doctor has been 100% supportive in letting me choose which vaccines to give when and I am so thankful for that!

The last one that I will talk about here is "The Minds of Boys" by Michael Gurian.

This book is awesome for parents of boys. I tend to believe that my children are rare little geniuses, but I still worry about what might happen if it turns out that the time my husband dropped the baby down the stairs at 2 month old left permanent damage, or if the son that thinks glue sticks can double as suckers can't remember that C always comes after B. This book is awesome in promoting a learning environment as early as in the womb. It has great tips on getting your child in the right schools and institutions, how to handle problems, even what foods are best for breakfast so boys can focus better in the classroom. Again a very practical book that can offer some reasonable information and action plans for making sure your boys succeed in becoming all they can be.

There are so many more wonderful resources out there, and if you have some that you recommend let me know. Currently I am still searching for books on selective hearing, how to be a millionaire as a stay-at-home-mom instead of broke, and any books on remedies for getting your voice back quick. Who knows I might end up writing a book on proper Urgent Care decorum!

How did that Happen?

When I was a kid I had somewhat of a reputation for finding my way to every emergency room in every city I happened to be in. My husband is not unfamiliar with bumps bruises, and holes in his shins that go clear to the bone either.

We have found ourselves parents to three boys who seem to have inherited our ER gravitating genes. In May we found ourselves hauling our 4 year-old to Urgent Care after his brother slammed his finger in the toilet. We were excited to learn that we were the first toilet injury in there that day, even though we couldn't save the nail.

This weekend held adventures of high fevers and diarrhea which allowed us to visit our old friends staffing the Urgent Care yet again.

Settling in for a long and boring week, which I looked forward to with enthusiasm, my plans were thwarted with a fall from our 4 year-old who must of gotten a double dose of our genes and some we didn't know existed. Dancing in the middle of the unusually clean living room he toppled over himself and screamed as if the world had come to an end.

As there may also be a few genes in the drama department residing in one or more of us, we threatened him that if he didn't stop the banshee wails we would send him over to the neighbors yard that has a hound dog that sounds much worse at 5am than any injured 4 year old could, and really has it coming to them.

The next morning the child still wouldn't walk and feeling a little guilty for not listening to his wails that his foot was broken and he would never walk again and he might die, I made my very familiar way back to Urgent Care.

The technician who casted my son's broken foot came into the room, dubbed my son the toilet kid, which said kid found kind of cool, and promised to keep a room open for us for the next bizarre mishap we happened to find ourselves in.

Today I found myself wearing my tires thin as I drove all over the city searching for someone who had a boot the size of my tiny child so I wouldn't have to endure a cast for 6 weeks, but the highlight of my day had to be when I realized they made children's Motrin in 8oz bottles instead of just 4oz. I bought two just to be safe.

Tonight I breathed a sigh of relief as bedtime was less than an hour away when my 5 year-old came to me asked, "Mom, what would happen if you stuck a finger nail up your nose?" That child is sitting with a Kleenex trying to get the fingernail out and bedtime will not happen on time yet again.

Be Fruitful.....

I started this blog so pumped about getting to do two of my most favorite things; write and talk about my crazy offspring. I wrote 3, yes 3 whole blogs! My excuses for my inconsistency included all of the laundry my fabulously curious 4-year-old created in the backyard mud hole, the urgent care visit my accident prone 4-year-old generated, the crazy conversations my 4-year-old started with surprisingly interesting strangers in the grocery store, and then all of the antics of my logical and intelligent 5-year-old, and the mischief of my independent 1-year-old. My biggest excuse, however, became known at the end of April.

My dear husband was woken from a deep sleep by me leaning over him whispering, "I'm pregnant." He didn't believe me, but after he saw the evidence himself, he looked at me and said, "We really need to figure out what keeps causing this!"

So in between craving potatoes and popcorn, and running towards the bathroom if anyone even mentions hamburger, I have answered questions about how daddy really got the seed in there, and have ended fist fights after a tooth became loose, and forced children to eat 8 marshmallows with 1 bite out of each, even if the first bite is the best, and I have run myself ragged chasing an amazingly fast baby who takes for granted that you can jump from the top step and expect someone to be at the bottom of the next 18 to catch you every time.

My youngest will be physically joining us around the 29th of December, already proving that it has a very unique mind of its own whether it fits with my plans of NO CHRISTMAS BABIES or not. Kevin thinks this indicates a girl attitude, but I know just how charming little boys can be and tend to think more testosterone will soon be residing in my already boyfabulous home. Stay tuned to see who will win the gender pot.....

New Friends Are Golden

My pediatrician’s office walls are beige, the pattern of the floor is squares and they have a calendar that has a dog on it still on October. It takes approximately 7 minutes for the doctor to come in and approximately 40 minutes to two days for Walmart to fill a prescription. The nurses who answer the phones now get worried if I haven’t called that day and they are thinking about putting up a parking space with a sign that says “the mother solely responsible for keeping us in business and paying our electricity bill each month, parking.”

Last weekend, I had one child who I had restricted their diet to anything that doesn’t stain on the way back up, one who emptied every Kleenex box in 2 1/2 hours flat, and one on antibiotics for an ear infection. Our goal was to enjoy a nice calm weekend in the mountains since we have been so busy we have forgotten which children are ours and if that cat in the front yard belongs to us or the neighbors.

I must admit to some anxiety at the fact that the little mountain town had no hospital, therefore no ER, since I had visited our fine Emergency establishment only days before leaving and the pediatricians office 4 times after that. But my reasoning was, they have already gotten everything known to man and even discovered new strains of monkey, pig, and squirrel viruses in my children, we should be covered. The second day there my two youngest developed strange rashes, but I took care of that by making sure they always had their clothes on and I could pretend the red pimple looking bumps didn’t exist. I couldn’t ignore, however, the two new teeth my 5 month old to the day, proudly displayed during a particularly painful nursing.

We got home and hit the floor running. It was back to school, and work and timeouts for Legos in the ears. I kept noticing that the bumps weren’t going away on my kids’ backs and legs, and when they began to turn into little sores, I gave up my three day streak with no calls to my doctor and dialed their number by heart. The guy answered the phone and asked me how my meatloaf had turned out the other night, and I asked after his grandmother and we agreed that my van was looking rather dirty on my last visit to the office, exchanged Thanksgiving recipes and travel tips.

He asks me to describe the rash in detail so I do, downplaying it as much as I dared praying that he wouldn’t send me back to the doctors office or heaven forbid Walmart for a prescription thats harder to get than getting your phone service hooked up. “Ma’am its very clear what your children have” which is code for “your an idiot, next please” “OK what is it?” I ask the highly intelligent genius on the other line. “Chickenpox” “Na uh they had their shots” I reply.

Turns out my children had the chickenpox, nurse know-it-all was right. My oldest is sulking today because he doesn’t have cool dots all over his body and I am in an exhausted trance after my midnight grocery shopping trip I made last night. (Turns out your not supposed to take your child to every known public establishment when they have the chickenpox)

But on the upside the nurse and I exchanged chickenpox stories which lead to birthday party stories which lead to thanksgiving stories. As I hung up with her I said “same place and time tomorrow.” Gotta love new friends!

Every Mom's Best Friend

We have had so many cars I have lost count of them. Once day my husband and I started a tally and stopped around 19. I have heard the comment “you change your cars more than you do your underwear” more than once. Start talking about having the same car a year or two from now and my husband breaks out in a sweat.

Last March I was driving home from Castle Rock, when the car died on the side of a 75 mile an hour interstate. My oldest starts yelling that the trucks are going to run us over and the second one starts crying because we are lost and won’t get to eat anymore, and my third, unborn at the time, starts his afternoon aerobics on top of my bladder and I was acutely aware of how far away bathrooms are from the side of the interstate.

A few weeks later I was introduced to my best friend, my minivan. After we signed enough papers to kill three trees we were handed the keys and my anxiety went down as my husbands went up. Some of my fears about having a minivan have happened. For example the twenty something guy in the Camaro see’s right through me, however the 50 year old guy in the sedan will wink at me every now and again. Cars tend to switch lanes the minute they see me, but thats only because they have no clue that having a minivan does not mean you forget where the gas pedal is. Ask the friendly officers of Colorado Springs. They’ll tell you I still know my way around a gas pedal. My four year old’s shouts from the back “Eat my dust” and the three year olds echoing “I am speed” can also testify to the fact that my lead foot is still kicking.

My husband had the minivan last week. I suspect he has a secret bond to our little “Swagger Wagon” even though he tries to cover it up by loudly calling it choice names on the 27th of every month or throwing tools at it when he changes the oil. Anyway, as he pulled up to the mail box, a neighbor out watering his grass, says “great van.” My dear humble husband makes a full circle before looking back at the neighbor and pointing to himself with a confused look on his face. Later he tells me, “he had to have a vision problem.” My response was, “no, he probably has three children, three car seats, a diaper bag, a backpack, a stroller, a stuffed dog, three jackets, a bag of goldfish and 50 bank receipts and had to get groceries in his car.”

So on Tuesday’s when I am sitting in a long line of minivans, and my little four year old comes out of preschool carrying a huge paper painting of a leaf still dripping paint, and my three year old has insisted that every toy he owns wants to come along and my infant son is pulling his socks off and throwing them out the side of his car seat, and the groceries I just got are all nestled securely in the back of my “mommy car” I’m ok with 50 year olds winking at me. Because the mom over from me has a really nice car and may still get the 20 year old winks, but right now her kids are having a fist fight in the really nice backseat and there is wet paint smeared on the really nice window, and three bags of groceries just spilled on the ground.

My “partner in crime” got me to preschool in 8 minutes flat the other day. It held my child in time out at the park after he dumped 3 pounds of sand down his brothers back. It holds a lifetime supply of teddy grahams in the backseat. It rocks my sweet energizer bunnies to sleep as I run my 30 errands a day. I have no worry that I will be out and won’t have a sippie cup or a diaper, or Immodium, because somewhere in there, they are there.

I looked in my rearview mirror today and saw three of the world s cutest tiny faces smiling back at me and I thought, this is what I have always wanted to do and this is what I want to be!

Peanuts and Biology

I’m in school right now, intensely confused about what it is I want to be when I grow up. I thought teaching would be fun, but teaching requires a measure of patience that some women were just not gifted in, and I happen to be the ring leader of that group of women. So my current course of study is headed in the direction of nursing. There is a side road, though, leading off the path of nursing that has been beckoning me and the voice screaming out my name is not one enticing me towards anything in particular, rather, its the voice of my biology teacher yelling her lungs out for me to get OFF her path of biology.

Anyways, I have a whole class with this beautifully screeching get-off-my-path voice instructing my every failing move, and tonight is the night of my second biology exam. My first biology exam ended with a bang; that bang was me hitting the floor as I fainted dead away after realizing my dismal failure in chemistry. Now I am the daughter of a genius. A very intelligently gifted chemist. A chemist who can’t, for the life of him, understand why I wasn’t born with the innate knowledge that if you mix X and A together you come up with D reaction and F product and QRS atomic number. A chemist who sadly shook his head when I dropped out of chemistry class in high school so I could take karate with the cute kid three lockers down from mine. A chemist who, I sometimes suspect, sleeps with his test tubes and periodic table snuggled under his pillow.

All day I crammed for this test, and in between I folded underwear and changed diapers and asked my three year old to stop climbing the refrigerator door three times. I actually studied more than I typically do for tests, meaning I didn’t just open the book, lean back in my chair, wipe my brow and say, “Whew I need some ice cream.” I still didn’t quite understand why some proteins were so much cooler than others or why they could do passive work while others did active work, but I did decide I had more passive proteins in my body than did most normal humans, and I was ok with that.

I called my dear husband around 3 in the afternoon to inform him that he would not be getting dinner from me, and graciously accepted his forced offer to get pizza. After inhaling way to many slices of pizza, still hoping by some miracle that the next wonder diet drug would include pizza ingredients and therefore my baby weight would magically diminish with each slice I ate, I pulled my book out planning to spend the last few minutes before heading off to class, studying and hoped that pizza would also be discovered as an intelligence booster.

I had read three paragraphs and day dreamed about my perfect life where I had a maid and chef for only a few minutes, when my three year old walks up to me. “Honey not right now, mommy has to study,” I said and tried to decide if my chef had made me chocolate cake or cheesecake in my daydream. “But mommy I can’t get it out.” “Uh huh thats nice sweetie.” I murmured. “Mommy it hurts! Get it out!” Realizing that he was not going to go away I looked at my mischievously angelic little boy with his upturned nose for my inspection. “You can’t get what out?” I asked now dreading his answer. “The peanut in my nose!” Sure enough, the little nut winked back at me from inside his nostril and I think it even laughed at me for thinking I had everything under control and a shot at passing this test and living happily ever after. “Why is there a peanut in your nose?” I asked. “Because I put it there.”

Sneezing, nose blowing, and tweezers wouldn’t budge the little guy and the clock is ticking closer and closer to my exam time. I get on the phone with the doctor. “My three year old has a peanut up his nose and I need to get it out fast because I have a test in 40 minutes and my teacher already hates me and I really need to do something different if I am ever going to get my own worlds-best-cheesecake-making chef.” Well Dr. practical’s solution was Urgent Care, and since my husband was totally unwilling to explore the boundaries of his capabilities with three children and a 2 hour wait in a room full of sneezing, vomiting and bleeding strangers by himself, he ventured to every man’s land: the garage. Tools fix everything right?

Funny how long it took him to find that enormous red box in the garage when the back fence broke or when my curtains needed to be hung. It took him 10 seconds flat to wade his way through the fishing gear, bike helmets and strobe light when he had enough pressure. I guess all I need to do in the future is push a peanut up my nose! And so without the use of doctors or Urgent Care’s or $100 copay’s, my handyman fix it husband used an automotive “picker tool” to pluck the peanut from our son’s nostril. I made it to my test on time and knew at least 10 of the answers on the 100 question test, but my chef never did materialize.