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. 

Conditionally titled "Buying a Home in Heaven can be Hell"

Pretty much since the day I had my husband snagged, stapled down with a few babies, and completely and utterly under my thumb, I began to whine and beg to move out of the state of Maryland into the beautiful, utopic state of Anywhere But Maryland.   Now, before Marylanders get all bent out of shape, it's not that I hate Maryland-- I did manage to live there quite happily for 12 years-- it's just that there wasn't really anything that Maryland had that other states didn't have for cheaper and better.  And while I was raised in the Virgina mountains and my husband was raised in Maryland suburbs, one thing we agreed on was that if we did move, we'd want a small, idyllic town, straight out of the Andy Griffith Show, but with the added benefit of diversity, culture, and a good education system.  Sure, we knew it was a long shot, but we also knew that town existed somewhere within the US, it just was going to be a challenge to find a good job in that town.  But my husband is nothing if not excellent in his career, and he also manages to get what he wants (let's be honest, I was the one snagged and bagged).  And this time around, he found the mother lode-- Virginia Tech, based in Blacksburg, Virginia-- that town of which we had always dreamed.

A job being acquired, next step on the list was to find a home.  So with our pre-approval letter in hand, we embarked on three days of seeing dozens of homes with four children tired of the start and stop and "don't touch that!" that accompanies house-hunting.  And, almost too easily to be true, we fell in love with a beautiful house on the outskirts of the city:  great school, great location, great price.  Commence preparation!

We packed up our home in Maryland, waved goodbye to our friends, and moved to Virginia.  (I did not look back once.)  But first, my husband moved into a hotel, since he started work before we closed on our home, and the children and I moved in with my parents, to await settlement.  A week before settlement we got the "All Good!" from our broker.  We cheered, packed up the few belongings scattered around Grandma and Grandpa's house, drove to Blacksburg, and prepared to spend the night (all six of us) in Daddy's hotel room.

The next morning school started for the kids.  From breakfast at the hotel, I got each of them off to their respective schools, waving from my MD registered vehicle with the roof top carrier straining, "We're only drop off today!  Tomorrow the bus will bring them!"

Then we got a  request for another document.  No big deal. So settlement is delayed a day.
Microwave dinners, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made for lunch on the tv table, and another "Just car riders for the day!".

Then another request.  Soup in a bag.  Lunch money to celebrate Last day in the hotel!  Another day of rain on the car carrier, but not worth it to unpack all of *that* into the hotel room for just one more day.

Then...
-- Well, you see, the lender is a little nervous about the new job.
-Uh.... what?

-- And the contract position he had temporarily?  That shows job hopping.
-No... that shows that in between leaving one job and moving to start the next, he did a few weeks of contract work to pick up extra money for the move.  It's called financial responsibility and work ethic.
--Well, ten years with one company, then a new job in the middle of the loan process-- it just seems, well, questionable.
-Uhmmm... when we started the approval process we sent you an offer letter.  We are only moving BECAUSE of the new job.  You KNEW this.  What is the problem?

--Well, the lender.....
And it was One more day.

And we waited.... one more day.  Car rider for "today only!"; microwave dinners; four kids in a bed, the same five pairs of clothes for each of us.  (It's amazing how little you need to live.)

I had to fill out Parent Information sheets with "no address yet".
Kolbie had a school project to "draw a picture of your home".  She drew a seven story tall hotel.  She also told people repeatedly that we had "not one, but TWO swimming pools-- one indoor, one outdoor."  A lot of her new friends asked to come spend the night.
Micah asked if we would have to live in the hotel for ever.
The first question anyone asked me upon seeing me each day was "In yet?".  I answered this with a "no, not yet.... " at least forty times a day.
The cleaning staff knew us by name.
The hotel manager new us by name.
The front desk staff would see us coming and automatically extend our checkout by three days.
I habitually asked for my change in quarters for the laundromat.
We celebrated Kayton's 12th birthday by putting up streamers and balloons and eating at Olive Garden, but at night, after the kids fell asleep, I cried over the first birthday EVER for any of my kids that didn't involve a four layer birthday cake and a home made meal.
My son missed his dog, in exodus at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  He claimed he couldn't sleep without him.
The kids began to refer to the hotel as "home".
Each morning and afternoon in the car pool line I got pitying looks at my sopping wet, mold leaking, supposedly-water proof- but- not roof top carrier packed full of all the earthly belongings we had in our possession.
JMahl and I began to refer to the hotel as "home".
People stopped believing we were getting a home and offered to drive us to the nearest homeless shelter should we get kicked out of the hotel.
We DID get kicked out of the hotel and had to move into a different hotel. (over-booked!!!!  No, our kids are not that bad!)
Occasionally I drove past the house, looking longingly, in case a mistake had somehow been made and there was a big sign on the door "Welcome, Stewarts, to your NEW HOME!!!!"
I stopped driving past the house-- terrified I was building dreams that would be deflated.
The moving company holding our truck full of ALL our earthly belongings told me, as nicely as he could, to please stop rescheduling and not to call back until we were literally IN our new home.

Sometimes my husband and I would look at each other and laugh, but mostly we just reaffirmed to each other, with a confidence bordering on insanity, "it's just a delay!"

It felt like forever.  It was, in all honesty, only sixteen days, but each of those days we heard moans of "she's kicking me!" and "why aren't my clothes clean?"  and "when can we go to our new home?' from our children and we listened to their daydreams of "when we get our new house...!"  and "aren't you excited for when we are in our new house...?".  They spent their evenings designing furniture arrangements for their new rooms and determining the best spots for a tree house in the woods behind the house based on their memory of the home. They adapted to their new environment, with little fighting, despite (or maybe because of) the lack of toys and technology to argue over, but the eagerness to be HOME finally was bordering on desperation.  JMahl and I watched a lot of HDTV.

And finally, finally, we were handed the keys.  All the dots crossed, and we came rushing into our home, and the kids claimed their bedrooms and we ooh-ed and aah'ed over the yard and the space and the trees!!!.  And we decorated and lived and were happy and... wow....

And at night, my husband and I sit on our huge wrap-around sofa and watch the fire in our fireplace and the trees out the window and we say "do you remember when?"  and "all that was worth it".

And my kids come running down the stairs, screaming over boundaries crossed and possessions stolen, and then one quiet sweet child sits in my lap and says "Mommy, when can we go back to our *other* house?".  Which one?  I ask, "The one in Maryland?"
No!  She replies, with what may have been horror, "The one we lived in when we first moved to Virginia Tech.  The one with two swimming pools."

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.

Letting go...

So, Micah turned two on Sunday.  This also happened to be Easter Sunday, which was fine for this year, but I can see becoming a problem down the road.  For one, we got so distracted with Easter dinner with family and friends that I lost track of time and neglected to make Micah a birthday cake.  I rectified this mistake two days after the fact and, safe to say, she didn't notice.  She blew out the candles like a champ- or maybe it was Kolbie... or Kayton... or Mason.... and her presents also got opened as though she'd been doing it for many years more than her two--although, again, she had a lot of assistance.

But birthday cake aside, her two year old birthday was even a bigger milestone for my sweet little girl than either she or I were prepared for.  You see, since her first birthday, I've been promising my husband (and my mother-in-law.... and my friends... and my own parents... and my other three children) that I would wean my dear sweet baby girl.

I am not a crazy nursing fiend. Personally, I can't wait to have my body back to myself and my sleep-time uninterrupted by a 5am nursing call.  Granted, it's been a few months since I've had to get out of bed to retrieve a crying child from her crib.  These days, I typically wake up sometime between 4 and 5 am to a little fuzzy head peeping over the edge of my bed, face even with mine, patting my face, softly saying "Mommy, nurse!  Mommy... 'ake up!  Nurse!"  If I am (and by "I am" I mean "they are") dangling too far off the bed she doesn't bother to wake me and just goes into nursing mode, standing next to my bed, half-asleep, but content--  reminiscent of what you would see if you visited a petting zoo.  Yes, some days I do feel like a cow.

And it's not just me that's ready for the nursing to end.  Many mornings JMahl has complained about Micah's half-awake attempts to find her source of comfort, patting him and pulling his chest hair to determine if... wait.. no, Mommy's not fuzzy right here and there's no milk forth-coming, so I must roll over, and... yes, that's Mommy... ah....  But the damage is already done.  JMahl is already fundamentally (and probably permanently) disturbed by either A/ the patting and groping hands in the early morning hours or B/ his inability to fulfill the needs of his youngest child.

I'm more disturbed by the fact that she's physically strong enough and mentally smart enough to discard any clothing I may have covering her goal, regardless of where we are.  And now she's vocal-- and by vocal, I mean she knows words-- alot of them-- although it's only six that really bother me.  "MOMMY, I WANT TO NURSE NOW!!!!"  Before she spoke, it wasn't such an embarrassing situation to nurse in public.  She'd cry, people would smile sympathetically and nod their heads understandingly when I would ask "you don't mind if I nurse her, do you?".  Now that she speaks, people look at me as though I'm nursing a nine year old.   My husband is concerned that I will be nursing a nine year old.

So, birthday number two was the designated "time to start weaning the baby" day.  And that day has come and gone.  Oh, I try, but weaning is not so easy as I thought it would be.  And yes, I did nurse my previous three, but Kayton and Mason weaned themselves, and Kolbie was easily weaned.  I clearly remember the first time I told Kolbie no.  She was about 22 months old, and I was pregnant with Micah.  She looked at me very solemnly for a moment, then turned around and toddled off to play with one of her siblings.  And that was that.  Weaned.  Micah isn't so easily distracted, although my husband says it's me and not her that is prolonging this issue.

And maybe he's right.  Maybe it is me; or maybe, Micah understands that I'm just not ready.  Physically, I'm ready.  Socially, I'm beyond ready.  Our society really doesn't approve of nursing past a certain point.  It's just "disturbing" to see a child nursing in her mother's arms, then sit up, buckle up the nursing bra, and in a clear voice say "Thank you, Mommy, that was yummy.  I'm going to go use the potty now, and then I'm going to read a book to you."  Yes, Yes.  I am definitely ready to avoid that situation.  But mentally... mentally, am I ready yet?

I have four children, and I know I will not have any more.  Micah is my last baby.  But it's not just about prolonging her baby-hood.  It's about, well, becoming unnecessary.  There is something amazing, magical, and , yes, prideful, in the fact that when I look at this child of mine, I can see that she is 100% the result of me.  She is, lives, and grows because of ME.  Every ounce of her body came from mine-- something that can't be said about children once they no longer nurse.  Then their body is made up of Daddy's sandwiches and Grandpa's cookies and the Cafeteria Lady's tacos and McDonald's chicken nuggets.  But Micah is still me.  And when she ceases to need me in this way, she not only ceases to be such a complete part of me, but I cease to be completely necessary.  Nursing is the one way that I and ONLY I can appease her needs.  Once she weans, she is an independent being, no longer relying solely on me for sustenance and comfort, but able to receive those from anyone who hands her a cookie or offers her a hug.

And maybe that's what this ultimately comes down to--- letting go of ME as the most important part of her life.  Once a child weans, they are independent.  They are their own person.  They steal cookies out of the cookie jar when hungry; they go to school and learn other people's ideas and theories; they listen to their friends' moms more happily than they do their own.  They become their own person.  And while there is something very wonderful about watching your children grow into their own bodies and their own personalities, there is something very heart-breaking in realizing that you are just now an addendum to their life--still an important part of their life, but no longer the Creator and Sustainer of that life.

But isn't this the ultimate goal of parenthood?  To create, to mold, to educate, to support, to love, to encourage, to promote the lives of our children, not our own?  We give birth to our children so that they will, in turn, give birth to progress, creativity, hope, a future.  We create them so they can create a better world, and very few people have been successful in this while still attached to their mothers.  Literally.

And while the desire to prolong this transition from "part of me" to "part of my life" is strong, I recognize it must come some day.  And it probably should come before my husband gives up sleeping in our bed altogether or I am completely ostracized from all polite society.  And I'd like it to come while there is still some chance that I can regain my pre-nursing body.... but that doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn this loss of my "baby", and it doesn't mean it's going to happen overnight; but it will happen, I'm sure of it.  At the very least, by the time Micah decides to run for political office, she'll know that she'll either need to quit on her own or do a darn good job of hiding it from the media.

Just what are they teaching my kids?

One of the many dichotomies of parenthood is that we stress about what we are teaching our children and question whether or not we are raising them the proper way- only to send them off, for eight hours a day, to be taught by people we have never met, a manner of beliefs and texts the content of which we may or may not be aware.  Basically, as much as we talk about "how we raise our children", a good chunk of that raising is being done by someone else.  And we don't really have a choice in the matter-- unless we want to home-school; and I, for one, would rather have the government brain-wash my children a' la 1984 than do it myself.  As much as I love my children, it's all I can do to enforce a 45 minute homework time every night.  There's no way I could extend that another six to seven hours and still maintain what little sanity I have left.

So, my children go to public school.  And we are blessed that Howard County is still ranked among the top public school systems in the country, so I should be able to trust that the education the children are getting is top-notch.  And I shouldn't have to wonder just what is going on behind school walls...  but I do.

No, this post isn't regarding the math homework that is two grade levels above the last math course I took in college.  That's old news.  There's no way I'll ever be able to help middle schoolers with math homework--  I struggle over the second grade requirements.  And fifth grade Language Arts?  Uhm... now, I won't swear that the terminology has changed... I may have just either A/ never learned it or B/ forgotten it.. .but all I can tell Kayton is... "well, did you read it?  ok.... what was it about?  ok.... uhm.... well.... what do YOU think that means?"   And when it comes to Social Studies I'm eagerly learning right along with them, since social studies in small-town VA circa early 80's is very different from social studies in "Hub of Diversity, Maryland, 2012".   But, no, that's not what this post is about.  That stuff I'm all ok with.  I'm proud of it, even.  I LIKE feeling as though my kids may end up smarter than I.  I sure wouldn't want them any dumber.

However, a few weeks ago Mason and I were driving through Baltimore on the way to a doctors appointment.  It was a nice day, so the windows were down as we drove, looking at the sights, listening to NPR Science Friday, and feeling like life was good.  Then, out of the backseat, comes:  "Mom, Am I colored?"

This was one of those moments when I longed for a good old crank window, since the automatic window wasn't going up fast enough for me.  This was not one of those conversations that I wanted drifting on the wind throughout Baltimore.  Plus, I needed time to think this through and giving Mason a "put your window up- it's getting chilly" command bought me a few seconds.  I got a few more seconds by asking Mason to repeat his question.  It never hurts to be safe, since answering the wrong question can be even more dangerous.  I lost moments of my life a few weeks ago trying to figure out how to answer Kolbie when she asked me why I ate Daddy's peanuts.  (Related-- my mother gave JMahl a huge bag of peanuts on our last visit home, and I ate them all.  Unrelated-- I now lock the bedroom door.)

But repetition didn't change the question, and Mason recognizes evasion when he sees it, so he just insisted on an answer. "MOM- am I colored!!????"
We don't say "colored" anymore. We say "black" or "African-American".
They do in school.
Well... wait... what?  They say "colored" in school?
Well, they said that black people were called "colored" in the olden days, so am I colored?

This, of course, led into an explanation of what is now proper to say (does anyone really know anymore?), but Mason would not be deterred.  He kept repeating it over and over-- and who am I to say he can't call himself "colored" if he doesn't want to?  As he pointed out, "colored" is a lot prettier to say than "black".  Since, again, this came from HIM, people aren't BLACK, they are either colored or NOT colored--"like YOU, Mom", says he, "although you're pink, and pinks a color, too, so you're colored, too."

Once we got the semantics out of the way, I still had to answer his question, which was not nearly as hard-- a simple-- "You're both-- lucky you!"  Then we got to what his real point was:  "So, is Kayton colored?"  (Mason, stop saying colored!!!!  Kayton is both, just like you!"
What about Kolbie?  Is she colored?  (I decided at this point that focusing on the word was what was keeping him going, so I just ignored it and answered, if a little annoyed, "Yes.  She's your sister, too.  So she is just like you.)
But not Micah.
Uhm... Micah is half-Daddy and half-Mommy, just like you, Kayton, and Kolbie-- so she's both too.
No, she's not.  She's the same color as you.
Well, her skin may be lighter like mine, but she's still half-both, just like you.
No, she's not, Mom.  Micah is NOT colored.

*big sigh*  Mason, Mason, Mason.  You are completely undoing decades of civil rights with this conversation.  HEY!-- look at that statue!
(diversion accomplished)

But, no, that was not the extent of Mason's public school education.  A few days ago at bedtime, Mason was not happy with having to go to bed, and decided to be in a bad mood.  (Yes, I firmly believe he makes a conscious decision to be grumpy sometimes.)  I had made the conscious decision to remain in a good mood regardless of his mood, so I put my arms around him to hug and kiss him good night and received a
"STOP!  You can't touch me!"

I laughed-- what do you mean I can't touch you?  I'm your Mother.  I can touch you if I want to.

No, you can't.  They said at school that if someone made you uncomfortable and tried to touch you when you didn't want them to, you had to tell them to STOP and tell someone.

Mason, that does NOT apply to mothers trying to hug their sons.

YES, IT DOES.  At school they said NO ONE could touch you unless you wanted them to.

Mason, they were talking about if someone touches you in a private place or if someone hits you.
Well, you hit me.

I did?  When?
You spank me, and that's hitting.

Well, Son, first of all, I don't spank you nearly as often as I probably should; and second, spanking isn't hitting.
Yes, it is. They said so at school.
Really? Well.  I'll spank you if you need a spanking, and I'll hug you whenever I want to, and you tell whoever YOU want to.  I'm your mother.

I"m going to tell my teacher!!!!!
Good.  Then she'll know that I love you and that I'm a good mother.  And I proceeded to hug him for an overly extended, obviously annoying, length of time, just to prove to him that I could.  Hugging making him uncomfortable, bah!!!  Tell THAT to your teacher.

But all jokes aside, I do have to wonder sometimes if the lessons our schools give our children may backfire on our parenting techniques.  I know everything they say and do is for the safety and health and education of  our children.  I do understand this, but I sometimes wonder if the lessons that need to be learned eventually are sometimes learned too soon; or if the safety techniques necessary to protect some children just cause more problems for the parents of others.

I remember as a child being absolutely terrified of my mother when it came to spankings-- I probably got spanked at least once a day, although my memory may not be accurate.  I also know for a fact that had I told a teacher about my spankings they would have assumed I deserved it-- and I'm quite certain I did.  Heck, I got spankings from the teachers in school-- although I'm still not convinced I deserved those, since it was normally Johnny Nichols getting me in trouble and NOT MY FAULT.  And this is not an argument for spanking or not spanking your children.  I'm not going to say "I turned out fine, so spanking's okay."  (although I did turn out fine-- I think).  And to clarify, I seldom spank my children.  I've spanked Kayton a few times, and it worked so well I haven't needed to spank her since.  Mason?  HAH!  I could spank him for three days straight and he'd get up, turn around, and do whatever he did again.  So, what's the point?

And I absolutely recognize that the versions of truth you get from an eight year old boy are not always the way things really were said.  Kids (especially smart kids) distort things according to their desired results; but I do worry about when a supplied education starts to get in the way of good parenting-- or just, well, when we parents don't KNOW what their kids are being taught.

Spankings and Hugs are one thing.  Diversity and Civil Rights education is another.  I firmly agree that our kids need to learn history, but I wonder sometimes if maybe we are starting this education too early.  At this age, kids see kids.  Recognizing differences is something that is learned from other people-- from parents, from teachers, from society.  Well, let me clarify.  In Howard County-- Hub-of-Diversity, Maryland-- kids are so used to seeing kids of different nationalities, races, ethnicity, and mixes of all the above, that they don't look at the differences.  It IS natural to them.  Is it possible that by teaching these "born into diversity" children about the past, about racism, about segregation, about "colored", that we are stripping them of that innocence before it is necessary?  They have the rest of their lives to learn that "sixty years ago people who looked like you (or looked like your friend) weren't allowed to -----".  Do they need to learn that today?

I don't know.  I don't know, so I trust those who claim they do.  I just go with the flow, answering the questions posed, clarifying the lessons as best I can.  But last night, when four year old Kolbie walked into the kitchen with a smile on her face and said "Hey, pretty white Mommy!"  I looked at my husband, said "You handle this one", grabbed my wine, and walked out of the room, smiling as I heard my ultra-diverse-raised-in-the-Hub-Of-Diversity husband trying to explain why it's not nice to call Mommy "white".

Full Hands.

I used to get very annoyed whenever someone said the following phrase to me: "You look great--- for having four kids..."  (yes, those dashes were literary freedom.  I don't *really* think that was ever meant as an insult.) These days, I'd give much- around 20 lbs, at least, to hear that again.  I don't know whether I no longer look good (for having four kids) or if my blog is really that popular (since I frequently complained about that statement).  But now I have a new pet peeve statement.  Or maybe I'm just one of those people who always needs to have something to complain about....

Regardless, "you must have your hands full!" is now on my bad list.  To be honest, I'm not sure why this bothers me so much.  My husband says I just over-think everything and that people just say that to have something to say when they are done counting kids, but what I hear is "Are you crazy? How in the world do you handle four kids?  You must be so busy and so overwhelmed!"

Overwhelmed.  That's the word that really gets me.  A dear friend of mine was trying to explain to someone why she'd given my son a ride somewhere and described me as "she's just overwhelmed".  Oh, boy.  When she relayed this conversation to me, probably not realizing how I'd take it, I exploded "I am NOT overwhelmed!".  Her response:  But you must be!  You have four kids!

So this is my moment to clear the air, and explain to all you mothers and fathers of 1, 2, or even 3 children-- four children, well, it's not that different.  Oh, I get that it may be a little unusual for suburban America.  I recognize that there is a high population of people who believe in one child to replace each parent in order to keep our population from expanding too quickly... but that doesn't really make four kids that hard.  Or that crazy.  Or that overwhelming.

For one, I LIKE my children.  I actually, believe it or not, and despite my occasional under-my-breath grumblings of "oh, please, just go away", ENJOY being around my kids.  I like taking them places with me.  I like grocery shopping with them, going to the library, filing into church together.  Unless they are fighting or just being plain bratty (again, not something I say out loud to them), I really enjoy being around them.  All of them.  That's pretty much why I had them.

There are those people who have a whole lot of "oops" pregnancies.  There are also those who have children for ulterior motives (ie, welfare checks).  Those aren't me.  Well, I did have an oops pregnancy, but it wasn't the last one, so I don't count it as to why I have four children.  And if one more grocery clerk sees my trail of children following me down the aisle and asks me for my food stamps, she may just get some food-stamping that she's not looking for.  I had my four children because-- and here's the hard truth-- I WANTED four children.  I wanted a large family.  And guess what?  Four children later-- I still do!

When it comes down to it, the first child is the hardest.  That's the one that forces you to change your life, juggle your budget, make choices regarding your career and your parenting style, and intrudes on the one-on-one private time you are used to with your spouse.  And the second child-- well, that's the one that introduces fighting, squabbling, and "I'm not touching you!  I'm still not touching you!" into your life.  Numbers three and four are just extra mouths to feed, laundry to do, and hugs to receive.  And to be honest, if you're already cooking for a family of four, what's two more?  How much do little kids eat?  If you're already doing four loads of laundry a week, baby clothes are small, so it's now just four larger loads of laundry.  And, well, you do have to buy a bigger car (unless you already have a huge gas-guzzling, parking spot hogging SUV to cart around your one or two children....), but I needed a new car anyway.  College?  Listen, it WILL get paid for. Somehow, someway.  Student loans, part-time jobs.  No, I'm not worried about that.

I had four children (not three) for a reason.  I can always send one to play with another.  Oh, Mason is playing with Kolbie?  Then you play with Micah.  This may have worked out better if I had two boys/ two girls, but beggars can't be choosers, as my mother always said.  I had four kids because I love the fullness of my house in the evenings, when we're just together as a family.  I love having all six seats at the dining room table sat in. (I should have bought the 8-chair set when we got married.)  I love that when Kayton's off somewhere and Mason's off somewhere else, I still have two little girls playing at my feet.  It's not overwhelming, it's.. well... my idea of family.

Now, I won't say I don't get overwhelmed at times.  If you happen to live in my neighborhood you may or may not have heard me losing my mind at the top of my lungs on occasion.  Sometimes I forget my windows are open.  But being overwhelmed at times is not the same as "being overwhelmed".  And I am not overwhelmed.  I just have four kids. I am not so busy (if I were, this blog wouldn't be written)... I'm just a mom loving her life.

But, you're right, my hands are full.  One of them is always holding either amazingly soft and trusting toddler fingers that reach up to grab mine or a discarded toy or blanket (PLEASE hold this for me, Mommy- for just ONE minute!) from the four year old who always has so much to do.   One of them is always either reaching out to brush the nine year old's wild head of hair or grab the back of my eight year old's neck so that his hands don't fill up with trouble.
My lap is full whenever I sit down- someone always needs a book read, help with math homework, to nurse, or just to cuddle.
My arms are full at night as I go bed to bed to bed to bed saying prayers and kissing goodnight.
And my life is full.  Always full.

So, if when you say "your hands must be full" you mean "you must be overwhelmed".  No, I'm not.  But if you really mean "full of love".  Then yes, yes they are. And thank you for recognizing that.

But whether you are a parent with 1,2,3,4,5,6,7, or 8 children... I pray your hands are as full as mine.  As for those of you with more than 8-- well, you're just plain crazy.

Mid-Drift Crisis and New Year Resolutions

A few days before Christmas, while the kids were still safely in school but my husband was taking a few much-needed days off, he surprised me by volunteering to watch the kids for a few minutes while I ran out to get some coffee.  Starbucks gift cards still tend to be the Christmas present of choice from my husband's boss, despite the fact that he does not/ has never/ most likely will never drink coffee.  Her lack of attention to her employees' needs is my reward, since I can't justify the cost of Starbucks any other time.  The underlying issues of poor management and misguided attempts at employee motivation that are seen here are, selfishly, not my problem.  Well, not as long as my husband continues to go to work each morning.  So, with Starbucks gift card in hand, I ran out the door to enjoy a few minutes of peace, quiet, and rich, creamy mocha latte.  

What was not in my plan was the spontaneous stop by our local tattoo parlor.   Sure, I knew it was there, sitting next to a Mexican restaurant that I've also never frequented, but I'd never paid it much mind.  I mean, I am a 33 year old mother of four.  Some places are not intended for people like me-- well, not since I graduated from college, at least.  You see, I started college in 1996.  In 1996, computers existed, but they still cost a long discussion with the soon-to-be roommate over who would get the computer for the room, an entire summer's work worth of savings, and a special trip to the UVA tech lab to get internet installed so I could check an email that never received any messages since no one else in the world had email.  But I digress.  Computers were just coming into vogue-- and so were belly rings.  Back in 1996, a belly ring wasn't expected on the mid-drifts of sexy young co-eds (which I like to think of myself as back then, despite the fact that pictures will most likely prove otherwise).  A belly ring signified "alternative, different, mysterious, rebellious".  (Which is also what I liked to think of myself as back then-- just like 99% of other college girls.)  And one day, a few months into the semester, my roommate and I decided to do something alternative, different, mysterious, rebellious.... but not a tattoo- no, that was TOO much for us (that trip)-- so we got our navels pierced.  I'd say it was a bonding experience, and it most definitely was, but it was more than that.  It was a permanent scar on my poor stomach that has since then been further abused by the insertion and growth of four children.  Because while I could (and did) remove my piercing when I got pregnant with my first-- which, yes, I turned in to a mental ceremony of sorts-- a shedding of my old life and immaturity in preparation of a new life of wisdom and parenthood-- the scar remained.  

And that scar bugged me.  No, not every day.  I'd go months without even noticing it (I do make a concerted effort to not stare at my navel every day), but then, when I did notice it, it would bug me.  So on this day, with inspiring caffeine in hand and no children in the backseat, I spontaneously swerved into the tattoo parlor, marched inside, begged the piercer not to laugh at me, and had my belly ring reinserted.  Be warned, other nursing mothers who may attempt this, it is practically impossible to suck in your stomach without sticking out your chest, so I almost left there with a pierced nipple.  Regardless, the piercer did get a bit more than he was bargaining for since he had to strategically work around my four-kids worth of belly fat, six years worth of nursing breasts, and my constant verbal justification for why I was doing this while he attempted to insert the needle straight through the remnants of my past rebellion over fifteen years ago.

But my point is this:  that was an idiotic thing to do.  But because I'm stubborn and it cost $60, I refuse to remove it, despite the fact that Micah refused to come near me for a good four hours, pointing and screaming "out! out!" every time she saw it, and Kayton informed me that no "old person" should ever have their navel pierced.  Right on both accounts.

But the New Year is the time to make changes, right?  Time to look back on your life and take charge of the things you want to change-- time to remove the scars or, at least, cover them with something beautiful.  That's what we do this time of year.  We take stock of our mistakes, our lapses in judgement, our laziness, our "things that need to change", and we promise to change them.  While, chances are, we won't be successful, it's an evaluation time.  A time for a new strategy, a plan, an implementation of the new goals we've created for ourselves that we hope will lead to a greater success during this year.  A time to look at our weaknesses and the threats to our success and exchange them for opportunities to grow and ways to strengthen ourselves.  And so, I complied, by analyzing myself (my navel) and making the necessary changes.   

The thing about analyzing yourself is that YOU are only one perspective.  And, personally, while I think my perspective is the only accurate one, I am willing to acknowledge the need for outside consultants on this matter in order to avoid complete bias.  But this is where the real issues come into play.  Any of you that have friends and/or family members (and I hope you all do) know that every one of your friends and/or family members has an opinion on your life.  On your life, your marriage, your parenting skills, your career--that's sort of their job-- to sit back and subtly and surreptitiously critique your life, judge your actions, and then tell you what you should do- to be more like them.  (Something which we want to avoid since we've been sitting back, subtly and surreptitiously critiquing their life and judging their actions).  The problem with other people's opinions (other than the fact that they belong to other people and, therefore, can't be worth as much as my own) is that once you ask someone's opinion, you are obligated by politeness to acknowledge the value in it, then you must either A/ follow that advice (despite the fact that you don't want to) or B/ PRETEND to follow that advice while being careful to completely avoid it and any direct evidence that you have avoided it.  Of course, Option B often results in angry friends who want to know why you didn't just listen to them in the first place and (my favorite): "why ask my opinion if you weren't going to take it?"... uhm... because, well, I was curious?

Now, I'm no stranger to angry friends.  One of my neighbors was angry with me because my dog barked at Santa Claus (although I thought the barking less offensive to Santa than Micah's screams of terror and monkey-climbing to the top of my head to get away from him).  I have a family member who hasn't spoken to me in two years because she's angry at me.  I don't know the reasoning behind that one, and I've quit wondering, to be honest (although I do believe it has something to do with offered opinions).  My husband gets angry with me relatively often (typically when I promise to get out of bed to iron his shirt and then- accidentally- fall back asleep).  And one of my children is always angry with me about something- any given day, feel free to take a poll and see what results you get.  But what I've discovered is that people being angry at you is like an impromptu New Years.  It forces you to look at yourself, question your actions, and determine a course of action to improve in the future.  

Since someone's always angry at me for something, I am always being forced to question my decisions.  There's just something about Parenthood, specifically, that forces you to question every single thing you do, compare yourself to your child's friends parents, to your parents, to those parents you see on tv- specifically in Wife Swap or Super Nanny and, in absentia, on Jersey Shore (okay, we KNOW we have to be better parents than those parents).  But that's okay--because it's by questioning ourselves and seeking new ways to do things to cover those "scars" that we may or may not be inflicting on our children as a result of the things we choose to do as parents that we become better parents.  It's only by recognizing that we may have done something wrong, upset someone, made an error in judgement that we can improve and make changes.  And no, just because someone (spouse, child, parent, sibling, friend) gets angry doesn't mean we've done something wrong.  But it's a signal to evaluate.  And we should always be evaluating ourselves.  Not just at New Years, but on every New Day.  And that is my first New Year Resolution.  

The second is:  the scar on my tongue from the piercing that I had to take out when I started my first real job?  It stays a scar.