Ready or not, here they come.

A long, long time ago, I wanted to adopt.  To be completely honest, I was 14 and I wanted a baby right then, but knew I couldn’t violate the strict chastity laws imposed on me by my parents and have a baby of my own at that age.  So instead I would create elaborate fantasies of finding a child in the woods or on the street, and for some reason I would be the only possible parenting option.  Crazy, of course.  And no, I didn’t explain all this to my husband when I met him—I know how that would have turned out.  But from a young age I knew that one day a baby in need would end up on my doorstep.

A few years back (it just happens to be a coincidence that this began soon after my husband decided he would no longer allow me to steal his manhood and impregnate myself), I started pestering my  husband to allow us to become foster parents.  I’m not quite sure whether I’m an excellent nagger or my husband loves me tremendously, but regardless, he agreed to go through the training and approval process to become foster parents- which was no small feat.  From there, it was paperwork and background checks and his willingness to be available for home studies.  JMahl was a trooper through all of that.  He would roll his eyes every now and then and say “you know this is crazy, right?”—but he kept moving forward and doing what needed to be done.  Occasionally he’d take advantage of the opportunity to remind me of just how much I owed him—or take payment—but he kept moving forward.  

And then we were a certified foster family.  But just because we *could* foster didn’t mean we *would* foster.  JMahl said “just respite care”, “just short term care”.  And I agreed: sure, whatever.  I’d already accomplished my goal of “being able to”.  I didn’t actually expect to ever get the call.  Similar to being pregnant for nine months—you never quite believe you are going to have that baby.  

But when we did get that call, we had 15 minutes to make up our mind.  Yes or No?  There’s a need.  No one else can take this child.  We’ve exhausted all resources.  Will you take a child into your home?  

And then that baby- -and his 11 year old brother—landed on our doorstep.  And our foster parenting saga began.

I’m going to start off by acknowledging that fostering a 4 month old child and fostering an 11 year old child are two completely different things.  Everyone loves a baby.  A baby is easy to care for (exhaustion aside). A baby is pretty simple to feed and clothe and create rules for.  A baby doesn’t really care who his mommy is at the moment, as long as someone is holding him, loving him, and giving him a bottle.  So, suffice it to say, Baby L is just fine and dandy, even though I forgot what sleep deprivation was and formula is so gosh darn expensive and inconvenient that I’m tempted to figure out a way to breast feed this one too.  

But:  an 11 year old who has just pulled from his family and has never met any of you and may have eaten vegetables for the first time (separate from pizza or cheeseburgers) since coming into your home is a very, very different story than a giggling, bouncy, happy baby.  

My Foster Son, “S”, is a very sweet boy.  I’ll start with that.  One night in he was squeezing us and telling us how much he loved us and how grateful he is to be with us and how much he loves fishing and soccer and hiking.

Two nights in he was explaining that he doesn’t eat eggs or peppers, would really like some juice, and doesn’t really like soccer or hiking, but does like video games.

Three nights in he was begging for candy, detested fishing (broken rod to prove it), a keen user of the word “WHY?”, and desperate for a trip to Wendy’s.

JMahl put it pretty succinctly on the fourth day:  “This kid just doesn’t *fit* with our family.”  And no, he doesn’t.  He has very little in common with our kids.  He’s not used to eating what the family eats or family dinner table or no technology time or not questioning every single rule I make.  He’s not used to sports and being outdoors and being active.  He’s not used to interacting as part of a large family.  Mason is immensely disappointed that the addition of a brother did not come with a fishing buddy and soccer competitor installed, but we didn’t put in an order that DSS delivered per our specifications.  

S is definitely not like our kids, but he doesn’t have to be.  We aren’t adopting this child.  Hopefully, his mother will do what is necessary to bring him home, because he misses her immensely.  So I’m not concerned with permanent fit.  All we have to do is give him what he needs now so that he can feel safe, protected, loved.  One day at a time.  

One week in as a Foster Mother and the first thing I’ve learned is this:  It’s not what we want, it’s what this child needs. 

30 Pieces of Unsolicited Parenting Advice I'd Give Other Parents (if I were allowed to give other parents advice)

True story.  I've been banned from giving parenting advice to my family members.  Actually, I've been banned from giving any advice, but "No Parenting Advice" was the primary issue.  I've been *told* that the problem isn't so much my advice, but my way of presenting the advice, as in "You should do THIS".  Personally, I don't know how else to give advice.  Isn't that the definition of the word?  Telling someone what they should do?  So, suffice it to say, certain in-laws won't speak to me anymore every since I suggested that one year may be too young to potty train (I was wrong- my fourth trained at 1), and others have specifically said "Don't tell me ANYTHING- I'd rather figure it out on my own" as soon as I started with "you know, maybe you should...."  So, I will oblige them and bite my tongue-- and use this forum to say all the things that I want to say but can not say to my sisters-in-laws, various other parents in my family, parents of my children's friends, other parents in the community who just happen to sit down next to me at the library, and all Facebook friends who have children and post related comments that I feel compelled to respond to even though I know it's going to p!ss them off.

1.  Immediately post-birth, everyone is going to say "oh, you look great!".  You may look great; but chances are good that, two weeks after having the baby, you will neither feel great NOR look great.  Just say thank you and smile anyhow.  If you point out your flab, the circles under your eyes, and the sweatpants you haven't changed in three days it will just be awkward for everyone.

2.  It's okay to believe that your child is the most beautiful child in the world.  Probably he's not, but you can believe that he is.  Every other mother is going to be believing the same thing about their child, even though they will probably say it about yours, at least for the first few months.  Truth is, very few newborns are beautiful (mine excepted), but you can believe whatever you want.  Which leads me to point #3.

3. No matter what they say, every other mom you know is judging you.  If you are doing a better job of parenting or your child is exceptional in some area, they will be desperately seeking ways to undermine what you or your child is doing in order to feel better about themselves or their child.  If they are doing a better job than you (or their child is exceptional), they will be gleefully pointing this out to whomever they can find who will listen.

4.  No matter what your child tells you, you know the truth.  You are NOT the World's Best Mom.  Chances are, at least.  I guess someone does have to be the world's best mom, so it *could* be you, but I doubt it.  But that's okay.  As long as your kids think you are the World's Best Mom, it's all good.

5. On the flip side, no matter what you think, you are probably not the World's Worst Mom either... although you may feel that way at times.  Luckily, most kids have short memories.  And Popsicles facilitate forgiveness.

6.  When you get frustrated and call your mom and she says something like "just do what you think is best-- you'll do the right thing-- you're the parent, and you know best".  That's bologna.  There's a pretty good chance that you don't know what's best and that you may do the worst possible thing ever; however, the good news is that you have a long long time to figure it out.  So if you do it wrong today, at least you'll know for next time.  Very few dilemmas in parenting happen only once.  Parenting is all about second chances (and forgiveness).

7.  In that vein, when you call your mom and she says "he'll be fine."  Well, I'm sure at sometime Dahmer's mom called her mom and her mom said the same thing.... so, maybe he won't be, but again, parenting is all about second chances. Just try to do better next time... and hope that he IS fine.

8.  Every time you call your mom crying, your mom is quietly gloating that you are getting your comeuppance.

9.  Every time a friend, a cousin, a neighbor, a stranger compares your children and your child comes up lacking (see #3) just tell them that you will revisit the subject when your kids are 40-- then you'll see who is the better/ more successful/ smarter/ etc. child.  If she actually calls you when your child is 40, well, she's crazy.  Concede defeat just to maintain your own sanity.

10.  The easiest way to potty train a child is to let them run around naked.  It may be the only successful way-- if by successful you mean getting your child on the potty before they've gone "all the way".  If by successful you mean keeping a clean house, well, find another method.

11.  Which reminds me-- it's not necessary to have a clean house all the time. Or clean kids all the time.  Some studies have even suggested that kids who play in dirt have higher immunity and fewer allergies. My kids are pretty darn healthy.  Enough said.

12.  Have lots of children.  The more you have, the better your chances of achieving perfection in one of them.  Michael Jordon (probably) didn't make his first basket.  Bill Gates' first computer (probably) didn't work.  I'm not saying not to expect alot from your first child, I'm just saying that the more practice you have at parenting, the better you'll be.  Theorists have theorized that you need 10,000 hours in order to become a pro at any thing (Malcolm Gladwell), which would imply that any mother of a one and a half year old is a pro, but we've all seen other mothers who ruin that hypothosis (#3 again), so I believe that the 10,000 hours actually applies to each *aspect* of parenting-- discipline, bedtime, school conferences, homework-- which means you're going to either need multiple kids in order to become a professional, or you're going to be keeping your only child around longer than the recommended 18 years.  The other aspect of having lots of children is that "Go spend some quality time playing with your sister.  She misses you." sounds a lot better than "Go away, I need five minutes of peace and quiet!"  Another benefit of multiple children is that you have more kids to clean up the more mess that more kids make.

13.  Don't fight with your spouse/ significant other/ baby's other parent in front of your kids.  HAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahaha (while I'm laughing, I'll add "don't yell at your kids" and continue laughing) HAHAHAHAhahahahahaha.  So after your disregard this advice, make up for it with lots of hugs and kisses and "I love you's"-- both to your spouse/ significant other/ baby's other parent AND your kids.   It really does make it all better.

14.  Make out in front of your kids.  Alot.  They think it's absolutely disgusting and may run out of the room screaming, but that could be a very good thing (as long as they don't run back in-- or you'll be the one screaming.)  If they don't run away screaming, it's a good balance for the times you break #13.

15.  Despite all the baby products that you *think* you are going to need, you will get along quite fine without any of them.  You've got everything you need.  Arms.  Boobs.  Okay, maybe you should get a crib and a high chair, but all the bopees, bepoos, bapas, bouncers, and diaper 1-2-3's.... uhm, it's marketing.  It's not necessary; so have fun getting what you want, but don't stress about what you *need* to have in order to be prepared for baby.

16.  Geeze. Let other people hold your baby.  Unless that person is *literally* sneezing on your child, chances are pretty good that they aren't going to get the kid sick.  And there is nothing worse than the mom who says "uhm... she's going to cry if I give her to you" or "I just got her to sleep."  Really? Okay, then.  I'll give her back if she cries, and if she wakes up... well, what's the big deal?  To say no, well... it's insulting and it's rude.  Very few people have actually ever dropped a baby.  And no one is going to try to steal yours-- despite your confidence in #2.

17.  If you call someone and say "I just can't stand my kid today", they will say "I know how you feel.  I've had that day too" (or something like that).  They will think "I can't believe she said that-- what a horrible mother she must be".  I'm just saying.

18.  Try, at least TRY to have a somewhat natural delivery for at least a few minutes.  By this I mean, let yourself feel the pain.  This is for your own good.  First of all, it's interesting to discover what your body can handle and the lengths to which it can go.  Second, it's imperative that you are able, at some point in time, to look at your child and say "I went through the pain of labor for you, and you can't do *this* for me?".  It's also useful ammunition against your husband at some point.  I'm not going to judge you (although you should probably read #3 again) if you can't make it all the way.  I screamed-- no, strike that-- I *whimpered* for drugs through 3 out of the 4 of mine and got those drugs for one of them (just in time to push).  And I only had four hour labors.  So, believe me, I can't be too judgmental. But at least allow yourself to feel some of it.  Besides, it gives you bragging rights.

19.  Breastfeed.  Not just because it's healthy, but because it's easy.  Whether you're a stay at home mom or a working mom, pulling out a breast or pumping milk twice a day at work is a lot easier than making a special trip to the store to buy formula, mixing that formula, getting the bottle the right temperature, cleaning the bottles, finding the bottles, etc.  You get my drift.  The only downside of nursing is a/ your breasts will change, but it's not like they still look 18 years old anyhow; and b/ you can't send your husband to feed the baby in the middle of the night.  But the upside to this is that now you have an excuse to sleep in in the mornings since you were up 2, 3, 4 times last night with the wee-one.  Use this to your advantage.  And yes, the first 2-3 weeks of breastfeeding are going to hurt like a B!t@h.  Deal with it.  Fight through it.  If you choose not to, I won't judge you (see #3), and I will not judge you if you actually have a medical issue that keeps you from nursing-- I'm not that horrid.  But breast-feeding is not just the best way (all doctors agree) and the natural way (you do have breasts for a reason), but it's the one thing that YOU and only you can do for your child... and there's nothing more amazing than the feeling you'll get from giving this form of love to your baby and feeling their little fingers on yours as they look at you, attached to you, part of you. Yes, I'm biased.  This is my blog.  I'm allowed to be.

20.  Hold your baby.  Someone out there has gotten really rich convincing moms that they need to buy strollers and baby carriers in order to hold a baby.  Uhm... You have arms.  Yes, arms.  Those things were made for carrying a baby.  I guess I just don't get it-- why would you NOT want to hold your baby?  Why would you want to spend more time looking elsewhere than looking into those little eyes that *only* want to look at you?  Aside from the psychological benefits and social awareness strengths that holding a child creates-- I'm sure your kid will get that eventually somehow-- and the upper arm strength you will develop, why oh why would you have a child that you don't want to keep in your arms the whole time you can?  There's nothing better than a sweaty damp cheek laying on your neck asleep... it's the most amazing feeling- and soon enough, they won't want you to touch them, so hold them now while you can.  Suck up that "amazing" while you have the opportunity to do so.

21.  Be present.  I'm not saying you have to follow your kids around. That would drive anyone (most people) insane.  But when your child wants to show you an ugly brown stick figure picture of yourself for the thirty-second time today-- take both eyes off the tv/ book/ computer screen/ ipad and LOOK AT IT.  And tell them how beautiful it is.  How amazing it is.   And after they leave it on the floor and run off to make you a thirty-third, throw it away quickly.  But always look at your kids.  There's nothing like the pain in a kids' eyes (or the strength of their rebellion) if they feel they are being ignored-- especially after they've put all that love, effort, and age-appropriate creativity into a really bad piece of art.

22.  If you just can't be present anymore- it's been one of those days that you just can't handle one more second.  Put down the phone (#17) and get out of there quickly before you lose it.  You do NOT want to lose it in front of your kids-- you will then revert to #5, whether in fact or theory.  Go hide in the bathroom, the garage, the back deck, the laundry room (a glass of wine helps) and give yourself a nice little break.  Believe me, the kids are safer unattended for those three minutes than they would be if you didn't remove yourself quickly from the scene.

23.  Parenting is a lot easier in conjunction with a little wine.  Kids are cuter, their songs make more sense, and bedtime is much easier to handle.  It is okay to have a glass of wine or a beer every now and then.  It is not okay for your kids to see you drunk. One of the many reasons this is a bad idea is because they will go to school and tell their teachers and their friends (who will tell their moms) that you were drunk last night and that's why their homework wasn't finished-- and now we're back to #3 again.   And that could make for a very awkward Parent-Teacher conference and may explain why little Johnny isn't allowed to play at your house anymore.

24.  Getting your child a dog will teach responsibility, compassion, etc.  But by the time your child is old enough for a dog you have probably already learned enough about responsibility, compassion, etc., so skip the dog.

25. Let your three year old dress herself sometimes.  And do her own hair.  And tell her she looks beautiful when she does it.  It's good for her self-esteem and independence.  Are you really that worried about how it reflects on you?  Believe me, it will make your life a lot easier if you just go with the flow sometimes.  This is also the time when people will most often look at your child and say "you know how to pick your battles" (take that as a compliment-- even if YOU dressed her this time, just go with it.)

26.  Recognize that while you may believe you have the perfect child, you don't.  And telling other people you have the perfect child is just going to either A/ annoy them, B/ make them think you are delusional or one of "those parents" who refuses to see that their child is the worst kid on the bus or C/ give them a reason to blatantly search for something/ anything to criticize about your child.  So, even if you *think* your child is perfect, no one wants to hear about it. I'm not saying don't brag on your baby.  In fact, I think you should brag on your child-- even occasionally when they don't know that you know that they can hear you-- but just don't tell other parents that yours is perfect.  Yours isn't.  Theirs is.

27.  Don't get offended when other people give unsolicited advice.  They do it because they care.  Take what you want- leave the rest.  It's like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  You're not forced to try everything, but it's always good to have the option.  Two-thirds of the people who read this will probably be offended by some part of it, and three-quarters of those offended will admit to themselves that I'm right, but still be offended--  but hey, it's advice-- you don't HAVE to take it.  Heck, you don't HAVE to read this (but now that you have, finish, please!)

28. Listen to the advice other people give.  I didn't say *follow* their advice, I said LISTEN to it.  No, they aren't experts, but neither are you.  And if they've already been there/ done that, you just *may* learn something from them. See #6.  And remind them of #6. Listen to them, but... #27.

29.  Say I love you.  All the time.  To everyone you love-- but especially your children.  "I love you" should fall out of your mouth so easily and so quickly that you are embarrassed every time you hang up the phone with a telemarketer.  You should, at least once, overhear your children's friends ask "why does your mom say she loves me?".  You should say it in front of teachers, friends, soccer coaches, and other parents.  As a result, you will look like an exceptionally good parent when your son runs past you on the soccer field, mid play, and yells "I love you" over his shoulder.  No one else's son did that.  MINE DID.  (#26, anyone?)

30.  Pray.  A lot.

Who doesn't love shoes?

There is a stereotype out there.  I don't know if it is true, but I definitely fall into it.  I love shoes.  I do.  I look at other women's shoes.  I dream of which shoes to wear with which outfits. I send my husband links to the shoes I love in hopes that he may oblige me.  I lust over pictures in magazines.

But then, well, here's where I guess I break from the stereotype:  I don't wear any of them.  I don't wear shoes.  Not really.  Oh, when I go to work I'll put on a pair of heels-- but typically the same pair all the time.  The comfortable ones with a bit of a heel, a bit of a style, but the ones that aren't going to make it a problem for me to walk across campus and then lecture standing for another two hours.  And when it comes to running errands and doing pretty much anything else it's either my one comfortable pair of sneakers (New Balance, of course) or, occasionally, my brown knit Uggs (gift Christmas of '08).  In summer, it's flipflops-  the $2 ones I picked up on my honeymoon in Cancun, most often, if I bother to put shoes on at all.  (My husband teases me (I think he's teasing) that my feet are blacker than his.)  And sure, I'll occasionally mix it up and throw on a different pair of flip flops or a pair of black leather boots for lectures, but most of the time, well, I'm a comfy shoes only type of girl.  Heck, I even got married barefoot.  My choices at the last minute were to either try not to slip and teeter down the pine needle-coated aisle in three inch white silk sandals (I got married outside-- we did not bring pine needles into the church) or to go shoeless, comfortable, and not have to worry about throwing myself at my husband's feet on our wedding day.  You know which I chose.  I'm not sure if my husband would have married me if he'd known I ditched my shoes last minute (thank goodness for long wedding dresses), but it's too late now.  

The irony is that, like many, if not most, women, I have a lot of shoes.  A LOT of shoes.  You see, not only do I love shoes, but my HUSBAND loves shoes.  Women's shoes, that is.  No, not enough to wear them (perverts), but definitely enough that this is his present to me--every single holiday/ birthday/ gift occasion for the last ten years.  

You see, I love to look at shoes, but knowing that I don't wear shoes, I am logical enough to not buy them for myself.  Prior to meeting my husband, I may have had five pairs of shoes, and most of them were ten years old, since I don't throw shoes away.  I still have a pair of Skechers from back when Skechers were the alternative kid's shoe of choice (one year in college, I think).  I'm saving them for when Kayton can wear a size 8.   

But when I met my husband, well, he decided to capitalize on the "my wife likes shoes, she says; I like shoes... I'll buy her shoes."  And buy me shoes he did.  

I haven't bought myself a pair of shoes in 10 years, and yet I have probably 100 pairs of shoes now. Here's where the problem comes in.  The super hot shoes that my husband and I both love in the magazines are not, well.... let me put this another way:  I can't push a grocery cart, walk a dog, and chase four children in four different directions, run up and down two flights of stairs with full laundry baskets and mow the lawn while wearing five inch platform slingback pumps.  Just not possible.  For me, at least.  Maybe for you, but not for me.  And that's all my husband buys.  The sexy shoe.  The hot shoe. The newest style shoe.  The (dare I say it?) "stripper shoe".  Not the sneaker/flipflop.   Either my husband has A/ forgotten that I am a 33 year old, comfortably dressed mother of four because I'm pretty darn sexy  or B/ is trying desperately to turn me from a 33 year old, comfortably dressed mother of four into something pretty darn sexy.  

And while sometimes I get a little depressed at the lack of surprise in opening gifts from him-- "Happy Anniversary, Honey!  More Shoes?  Yeah!  Oh-- these look SUPER sexy and uncomfortable. I'll definitely wear these next time you and I go out dancing all night like we did back before, well... uhm.... once..."-- other times, I appreciate his consistency.  

So this past Mother's Day I decided to, at least, use the holiday to my advantage.  So about a week before Mother's Day I sent an email to my husband, including a link to a pair of cutesy sandals with a flat heel but a decorative design, saying "these would look great with my jeans this summer".  Be preemptive without ruining the surprise, right?  And I waited.

Mother's Day arrived.  My husband showed his love for me by making me coffee for the first time in our entire relationship.  (I love him for trying.  I didn't love the coffee.)  And after receiving the variety of homemade cards and pictures and I love yous from the children, he presented me with a wrapped box and a sheepish "I got you a little something."  Of course, my kids insisted I close my eyes and guess what it was as I unwrapped the box... took off the lid... and, eyes still closed, felt inside.... hmmm... rope design (good start), strappy (cute),  aaaaannnndddddd...   Yup.  There it is.  The six inch heel.  

So I opened my eyes, thanked my husband effusively for super cute shoes that I absolutely loved, strapped them on, and toddled off to a soccer game, slightly too tall now to hold Micah's hand, unable to balance a cooler and a lawn chair, and convinced that each step would be my last, but looking darn good in my shoes.  My husband said so.    

Work it out.

This weekend I convinced my husband to go to the gym with me.  Believe it or not, we've never been to the gym together in the four weeks I've had a membership, so needless to say, I thought it would be romantic... or at the very least, quality time together, as we sweated and laughed and chatted about our children and how great it felt to work out.
And I admit, I envisioned a scene from an 80's movie as we entered the gym together:  cue bomp-bomp-badow  music, wind machine, and slow motion movement as we enter the gym door... all eyes turning to us "who is this beautiful couple that is entering this place?" But it didn't really work out like that.  
For one, he doesn't like being told what to do.  
Once the kids were properly in place in their daycare, I attempted to start our workout regimen. (side note, I do not like the new daycare person:  what type of woman sits there staring vacantly at a child as they cry with their arms outstretched?  If you don't like kids, get a different job.  If you've got this one, pick up my sobbing baby so I can work out!  That's what I'm paying you for!)


So I lead JMahl over to the ellipticals.  
First, we're going to do this for 20 minutes to work up a sweat and work off some calories.
No, we're not.
Yes, we are.  This is what I do.
Well, I don't like the eliptical.  I'm going to ride the bike.
The bike isn't as good for you as this machine.  
You realize I'm a grown man, right?  You realize I can choose my own workout, right?
Well, Honey, I've been coming here twice a week for the last four weeks, so I do think I know what we should be doing.   (Because, truly, this makes me practically an expert.)


At this point I get the look- the long look up and down my body.  I'm going to choose to believe that this was a look of lust (or at the very least, affection), but chances are good that it was more a look of "if you'd dropped six inches in the last four weeks, I might buy that argument, but since you didn't, I'll stick with my own plan".  And with that, he walked off to the bikes.


The next- and last- I saw of him was his reflection in the wall-length mirror as he lifted weights- and I continued to sweat on the elliptical until the un-helpful daycare provider informed me Micah would not stop crying and needed me.  


So, needless to say, while I didn't get the wind-blowing, giggling experience of running side by side on the treadmills together into some imagined sunset, at least I could ogle him from across the gym, so it wasn't all bad. 


Truth be told, it was a pretty good weekend.  We went roller-skating with the kids.  Another attempt to align my visions with reality that completely fell through.  In the movies, JMahl, the kids and I would all swing effortlessly around the ring, holding hands and smiling beatifically at each other-- no wind machine needed due to our speed and gracefulness on the floor.  In reality, I plodded, bent double, gripping the wall, scared to death of falling while trying to convince Mason, plodding with me, that "there's no need to be afraid!  It won't hurt if you fall!"  (the things we lie to our children about).   Kayton passed me about six times for my every lap around the ring; Mason was surpassing my speed within minutes (he fell alot, but didn't cry once); and Kolbie refused to even set a foot in the rink.  Or put on the skates for more than 30 seconds-- as long as it took for her to realize that this was not going to be the fun I'd promised her it would be.  JMahl sat on the sidelines (other than one sneakered trip into the center of the ring to get Mason on his feet) and held Micah-- who just stared at us as if we'd all lost our marbles-- which maybe we had.


And while Kayton and Mason loved skating, I realized rather quickly that it would be a few years before that was the full-family-fun activity I'd dreamed of it being; so, following the rather frustrated advice from my husband, we regrouped and refocused, and went to Old Navy.


Here, my husband made an almost fatal mistake-- miscalculating the maturity of Kayton's shopping drive.  ie.  Don't ever tell any female-- even an 8 yr old girl-- to "just pick out whatever you want".  It was like a scene from Pretty Woman (minus the 80s music, again... I really need to set up an iPod playlist to accentuate my life.)  Kayton was running around the store, grabbing things off the shelf and throwing them in my arms.  At some point, I don't even think she realized what she was grabbing-- (although, maybe she really loved the white jean jacket and pants ensemble with bright pink sequins, but I choose not to believe that- yes, I, too, am shocked that Old Navy actually had that.)  JMahl was right, though. This was a great family activity, since even Mason and Kolbie got into it.  Mason's technique was a little different, though.  He found one pair of shorts that he liked, and proceeded to bring me every single pattern of that style of shorts (about 12, to my count), then found the $5 t-shirt shelf and thought that one of each would also be perfect.  Kolbie was content to just find one dress, attempt to slip it on over her clothes, then follow me around for the next thirty minutes repeating "can I have this dress, Mommy?  can I  have this dress, Mommy?  can I have this dress, Mommy?".  


At some point my father-in-law showed up- I suppose I told him where we were going, although he has a tendency to just appear wherever the kids are, as though he's got a sixth-sense for grandchildren's where-abouts- and he just sat back with a smile on his face enjoying the bedlam.  If I could read his mind, it probably would have told me something like "glad they're not my problem, but they sure are cute when they're having fun." It didn't help that he started slipping them quarters without my knowledge so they could retrieve bouncing balls from the gum ball machine-- which then meant that I was, Micah in one arm, piles of clothes in the other, attempting to read price tags, send bikinis back to their shelves, hide the overly-graphic graphic tees and grab potentially-deadly bouncing balls before they caused a wipe out-- all the while Granddaddy was just smiling at the fun the kids were having, and JMahl was applauding the kids' choices in clothes.  I think he'd gone into "just make it through without losing your temper" mode-- at which point a parent just gives up trying to maintain any control and just shuts down in order to avoid an over-frying of the brain from the stress of attempting to have well-behaved kids in public.  


We made it out of the store eventually without shoplifting any clothes that Kolbie was trying to wear home, with t-shirts fit for a seven year old, no bikinis, and only one over-priced sweater that managed to fool me into thinking it was part of an ensemble.
But the kids were happy.
The husband was happy.
The granddaddy was very happy.  


And me, well, I was happy that everyone else was happy.  But honestly, I think I was sweating more from stress and balancing/ grabbing acts in that Old Navy than I was on the elliptical at the gym.  So maybe JMahl's right.  Maybe he does know the best way to work out.  

My husband's my hero.

I think the repeat references to my husband in this blog are starting to make him a little nervous.  The first few (many) weeks I was blogging, I had to beg him to read my blogs and, to be honest, this was frustrating and, therefore, inspired me to antagonize him with what I wrote.  Then, about six weeks into my blog, he said, rather offhandedly as he was looking at his FaceBook page, "can you not tag me in your posts anymore?".  I, of course, feigned ignorance.  Why ever not, my dear?  And was informed, ever so kindly, that he didn't need or want his friends or coworkers reading the intimate details of his life. (For the record, the post that day had been in relation to Micah's birth and JMahl's wariness of the soft spot on her head.)  


I was shocked.  Why, dear, I was only ever complimentary!  And besides, why you would be concerned about your coworkers and friends reading that you have a ____ inch ____?  I mean, they're going to somewhat assume anyhow, considering you wear a size 13 shoe and have a 3.5 inch long thumb.  And, we can't avoid the most obvious stereotype of all...  
What's the most obvious stereotype of all, Katryn?
Oh, well, I don't know.  I guess it's your shoe size.  I wouldn't know.  I don't pay attention to stereotypes.
uh. huh.


So, I quit tagging him in my posts... so now only my friends and family can read my posts. (or those of JMahl's friends and family that have friended me on Facebook- isn't FB great? Takes "my friends are your friends and your friends are my friends... the more we get together the happier we'll be" to a whole new level.)  But he's still nervous.  Today I got an email from him: "did you post today?  I didn't see one.  Can I read it?"  
Not yet.  Too bad.  Not until I write it.  But hey, the laundry's done!  


Because, while I definitely respect my husband's privacy and humility, I also have to satisfy my own primal urges to write what is in my head and heart.  And very often, it is my husband (I will not mention his anatomy) that is in my head and heart.  (Honey, that's a sweet comment, so take it as such.)  


But this has also worked well in my favor; because, you see, knowing that there is a great potential for his being the antagonist in my weekly "story", JMahl is attempting to ensure his role as protagonist, and is starting to go above and beyond.  And I like this.  Call me manipulative-- heck, you can even say I'm blackmailing him- but he's now got to make sure that anything I could potentially write about him will be entirely complimentary, since he doesn't have the option of telling me I can no longer write.  Or write about him.  That could be considered too controlling, and he doesn't want to ever be perceived in a negative light.  


In the last few weeks, whenever I've informed him he needs to apologize to me (because that's what I do when I'm tired of fighting:  "just apologize already.  you know you're going to do it eventually, and I'm tired of being mad and I won't apologize until you do.")- I get a heartfelt apology almost immediately.  It used to take a few hours and a small bribe.  He's called before leaving work to ask me if I need wine (I do tonight); he's given me shoulder and neck rubs without me having to ask.  He even brushed my hair for me the other night- something that rarely happens.  And I saw potential here.  Potential for an improved husband (I mean "relationship", of course. Relationship.)  But I still felt the need for a test.  Something to prove that  he was going to do whatever it takes to make me feel good- and, therefore, make him look good to anyone still reading this post.  


So I asked my husband the other night as I climbed into bed- do you see the difference, the tightness, the firmness in my body since I've been working out?  His response was spot on.  YES.
And when I asked him if he thought I could ever get rid of the excess belly as a result of four children.. again, I got a YES.  (the fact that he never took his eyes off his iPad for any of this conversation is not going to figure into this post).
And when I moaned and complained that when I got on the scale it told me I'd gained six pounds over the weekend, he didn't start listing off the entire package of pizza rolls, the excess amount of chinese food, and ho-hos and the ice cream that I'd consumed over the course of the weekend.  Instead he said "The scale's off."  


Baby, you keep this up, and you've got nothing to worry about.  

OH, what a tangled web we weave...

I weighed myself this morning, right after eating three poppyseed muffins and right before stepping into the shower to wash off the crumbs (and two other days accumulation of crumbs... sometimes you just don't have time or energy to shower).  Apparently, I've lost four pounds in the six weeks since I've started to do any form of exercise.  I guess this is progress, but I don't really measure my progress by my weight.  I'm more concerned with minimizing the muffin top that springs up over my jeans which I refuse to replace with a larger size.  But seeing the number did inspire me to try on my skinny jeans (which are size 11- long gone are the days of fitting into the size 4 Arden B's that, yes, are still in my closet).  I couldn't button the size 11, so I went back into my "other" jeans which, oddly enough, are size 8.  Got to love women's sizing.  


Just for the record, I blame my husband for all of this.  


I know all of this squeezing into jeans would not be necessary if we'd followed the advice of my doctor way back when.  And by doctor, I mean my Ob/Gyn.  When I was pregnant with Micah this doctor, who I loved, informed me that my labor and delivery and post-pregnancy weight loss would all go much smoother if I had a lot of sex while pregnant.  She also suggested this in order to speed up my going into labor.  I was well into my third trimester at this point and, dealing with some erratic pregnancy hormones, was ready to do anything to make this baby come on schedule.  Therefore, I thought this was pretty good advice.  My husband, sitting next to me in the examination room, did not.  You see, she said this moments after withdrawing her fingers from my "examination" and exclaiming "I can feel the baby's head!".  The look on JMahl's face said it all:  If she can feel the baby's head with her three inch long fingers, then you better believe I'll be able to feel the baby's head with my ________ inch long _______.


I knew at that point that I wasn't going to be having any sex for the next few months.  Granted, it's probably my own fault.  You see, I took it upon myself after Kolbie was born and JMahl noticed the dent on her head to tell him exactly why that dent was there. (Yes, it was there with the other two- and pretty much all babies the world over, but for some reason he didn't notice it until Kolbie-- maybe because it took him three babies to feel comfortable holding one?)   


And, maybe it was post-partum hormones, or my sick sense of humor, but, well, yes, you can figure out pretty easily exactly what I told him.  


Granted, it's not as though he was dying to have sex with me when I was nine months pregnant with Kolbie-- nor was I dying for that either.  Those women who say they loved sex while pregnant, well, that wasn't me.  And I know there's a big porn base that supports this as well, but again, not me.  My husband did try to convince me that the benefits of sex could be obtained via oral transmission (ahhem), but I'm not quite as gullible as he, so that idea fell through the cracks.  And for those of you who may be offended by that comment, hey, we're married, and it's not like any 9  month pregnant woman is sticking with straight missionary position.  Missionary position while 9 months pregnant is like trying to sink a putt with a yoga ball covering the hole.  But when desperate to try anything to go into labor (which pretty much all women are at 9 months), a pregnant woman will muster up what energy, imagination, and endurance she has and give it a valiant effort.  So, at least with Kolbie, I got "some loving" while pregnant, even if we had to be inventive. But between my (somewhat sick) explanation of Kolbie's fontanel and my doctor's excited discovery of the baby's dropping, well, my chances to get nine month pregnant sex were shot.  


But my joke post-Kolbie's birth completely backfired on me after Micah was born since JMahl, refusing to lay so much as a finger anywhere near where the baby's head may or may not feel it, was not pleased to find a rather large, very soft dent on top of Micah's head.  I had a lot of explaining to do.  Luckily, I had my Doctor nearby to verify that I was, in fact, telling the truth.  


But, long story short, that explains why all of this is my husband's fault.  Or maybe it's mine.  

You may be right... I may be crazy.

"But it just might be a lunatic you're looking for...."  If you're anything like me, you can't say the words "I may be crazy" without breaking into song.  And no, this does not mean you are crazy.  Although it also does not mean you are not crazy.  


My husband thinks I am crazy.  Granted, he has many examples for why this is true, most of which I am not going to share with you today, although I believe I have discussed some in prior postings, but the primary reason he thinks I am crazy is that I like to make up stories in my head.  And no, not the good old bedtime stories that a mother is required to tell her children so they can stay up just a few minutes longer.  But real stories.  Manipulations on life.


Now, I think I come by this trait naturally.  It runs in my family, I do believe.  For example, as a child, the best part of Thanksgiving was all the children (16 in that generation) cramming into a bedroom, lights out, to listen to my Uncle Dan regale us with stories of Jonathon the Great.  Oh, we loved Jonathon the Great (never once, in all the stories, shortened to just "Jonathon".  It was always "Jonathon the Great went to the Tower of Stones" and "Jonathon the Great rescued the Princess" and "Jonathon the Great found the magic feather".)  There's something to be said about consistency, constant affirmation of Jonathon's greatness, and my Uncle's imagination and dedication.  I often wonder now how much he dreaded being roped into these hours long story-telling sessions and if he breathed a sigh of relief when we'd all outgrown the stories, although now we've got a whole new generation of children (19 so far, with only half of the original 16 married and producing) dying to hear Jonathon the Great stories, despite the fact that I don't believe, when eavesdropping, that this generation of stories is anywhere near as great as the ones I was raised on.  


My father is also storyteller.  In some post soon I will share with you his talks with the Elves. He is a story teller with a conscious.  A modern day Grimm brother or Hans Christian Anderson.  His stories have value, purpose, and a moral... not just entertainment, but a higher calling.  But I'll share those stories in a later post.  My father has actually written a book on storytelling within organizations; granted, I haven't actually read his dissertation (yet, Dad, yet), and he would probably define it very differently, but in my head, that's the premise.


Many people in my family write- whether drafting novels, marketing blogs, or weekly news-filled letters and emails-- and I think I've learned that the written word is often more powerful than the spoken word.  (There is also likely to be another post on "Mommy letters"-- our affectionate (?) term for the long tirades my brothers and I (and our spouses) would receive from my Mother when she was not pleased with something we had done.)  And hyperbole is definitely a hereditary trait...just ask my father, my brother's wife, or my husband... but sometimes the details of what happened are just more interesting when you embellish them.  (My husband has picked up on this and when I tell him a story he'll typically follow it with "Now tell me what really happened.")


But it is not the hyperbole or the written word that concerns my husband (except for the times I send him emails he does not want to read at work-- and I'm not talking about the risque ones).  The story telling that concerns him- well, I say "concerns", but I really mean "makes him think I'm crazy"-- are the stories that go on in my head.  The long conversations I have with people-- with strangers in the grocery store, with family members with whom I am having an "issue", with him, with my children's teachers, pediatricians, fellow gym members (typically these conversations revolve around how great I look after only seven visits to the gym and how they wish they could be as svelte, stylish, in shape as I am), therapists (should anyone in my family ever need a therapist, those conversations have already been prepared).   I constantly have a conversation ongoing in my head.  Sometimes I create these conversations out of boredom.  Sometimes they are begun because I have something I want to say and no one has asked me my opinion, so I just tell it to the person in my head who asked me (often a prestigious political A-lister who is then so impressed with my level of understanding of the issues that they offer me a job and I am catapulted to instant success; sometimes Dr. Phil or Oprah- same result of instant success, but also including instant fame and wealth).  Sometimes, I really want to propose a specific theory or brag on my children, so those conversations have to come up somehow.  And sometimes, I'm just tired of talking to children and there are no adults around, so, voila, an adult conversation!  It just so happens to be in my imagination, but at least I'm getting some mature and intelligent discussion going.


I've read articles on interviewing (heck, I've WRITTEN articles on interviewing) and they all say the same thing "prepare for your interview before hand by going over your answers to the questions the interviewer may ask you".  Sound advice.  I do do this.  But I do it even when I don't have an interview scheduled.  I just carry on a full interview in my head while doing the laundry.  And yes, they always offer me the job.  


And sometimes, I need to make some very powerful points to my husband about the things he should or should not be doing.  These conversations can get very intense, and this is where the line (in my husband's opinion) gets crossed from normal to crazy.  Because, while it does not happen often, there have been times-- maybe one or two, three at the most-- that I've sort of, somewhat, kinda forgotten whether or not the conversation was real or in my head.  Now, I know this can not be all that unusual. It can't possibly be.  It's just that my imagination is so vivid and our conversations are so intense, and since I know my husband so well, I can pretty accurately determine what he is going to say in a real conversation and, therefore, recreate it in my head.  So when he tells me "That conversation was all in your head"... sometimes I've had to stop, think, and say "oh, yeah.  You're right"; while other times I vehemently deny it... which leads to one of those fights I discussed in a prior post.  But sometimes I can just say to him, "You know what?  Maybe it was.  But it's something you WOULD have said if we had had that conversation in real life".  At which point he is forced to stop, think, and say "oh, yeah.  You're right."


So he may be right, I may be crazy (cue singing)... or maybe I'm a genius.  And if I ever doubt this, I'll just ask someone.  And if I want to get an intelligent and informative take on my own level of genius versus potential craziness, who better to ask than myself?