Sweet Child of Mine

Maybe I'm not the perfect mother.  Maybe if I were perfect, I'd be successful at accomplishing all those goals that non-parents swear they will achieve post-parenthood (ie. perfect children, always clean, always well-mannered, spotless house).  And although I've never done a survey, I am willing to bet that the majority of parents do fail in at least one small area.  If you're my sister-in-law, that failing is somewhere along the lines of "well, we wanted to create a working solar system that rotated at a similar speed to the actual earth and operated off wind power generated from the windmill we created last weekend... but, alas, we couldn't get the speed proportionate to the size..."*, but if you're me, these failings tend to fall along larger lines-- "you mean I'm supposed to feed AND bathe my children daily?  I thought it was either/ or... whoops..."  


When it comes down to it, it takes a lot of energy and brain power to master a focus on all skills necessary in order to create exceptional children.  It turns out, much to my shock, that kids aren't just born perfect.  They are born with natural desires to take what they want, scream if they don't get it, and leave behind that which they want no more-- for some one else to clean up.  Despite my husband's wishes, children are NOT innately clean and well-behaved.  Or, at least, mine aren't.  


So, taking a page from the management book, I decided to draw up a list of goals for my children, including a SWOT analysis and strategic implementation design.  And then, realizing that attempting to fix all problems simultaneously would make life miserable, I prioritized.


Now, prioritizing is easy, to some extent, when you can rely on a few things happening automatically.  For example, despite my prior post, I have a relatively strong amount of confidence in the public school education here in Howard County-- so basic educational skills are taking care of and out of my hands.  (ie.  If I read to them nightly, that's only a plus on top of what they are already receiving.  If I am too tired to read one night, they will still know algebra by the time they graduate from High School.)


So I really had to determine what was the most important skill to teach my children- the one area in which I absolutely did NOT want to fail as a parent.  Initially I thought it would be good parenting/ marriage skills to include my husband in this project, but when, without even thinking about it, he said "CLEANING", I decided his opinion wasn't worth that much, and went ahead with my own theorizing.


Education is fundamental, but it's not an option in my family; so regardless of whether or not I succeed at teaching them "the importance of education", they are all going to college.  Cleanliness and taking care of self and pride in belongings-- also important-- but is it the MOST important?  (At this point in my musings I had to consciously ignore my husband screaming "YES< YES< YES< YES< YES" in my ear.) And I ultimately came to the determination that Compassion was the most important thing to teach my children.  What I've discovered since then, however, is not that easy to teach.  


Now, I've been told that I have sweet children-- something I directly attribute (for no real reason) to breastfeeding beyond the socially accepted time frame and my abhorrence for strollers and baby carriers, preferring instead to carry my children and look with pity on those poor toddlers sitting complacently (and unhugged) in their rolling 'ignore-mobiles'. (Are you picturing the hippy-mom from the movie "Away We Go"?  "Why would you want to push your children away from you?"  Yup, that's me.)


But sweet children are not the same as compassionate children.  And that is my goal.  After trying to enforce compassion in my children-- You WILL be nice to your brother, or else-- bribe it out of them-- I'll pay you to go read to Mrs. Patel for 10 minutes-- or demonstrate it to them-- see Mommy writing this big check to charity? (ok, not so big... but...), I've come to believe that a natural empathy with or sympathy for another person is something that is simply ingrained in some children and not in others.  I'm not saying that everyone can't be charitable.  That's just an action.  But I think there is a huge chasm between "doing the compassionate deed" and "being compassionate", and I'm not sure how to (or if I can) force my children to cross it.  And a part of me believes that it's not possible to truly have compassion for others until you can understand loss, pain, fear, absence-- something with which, gratefully, my children have no experience.  


So, taking the approach that setting an example is the only way to encourage these actions now and true concern for others down the road, I continued to give a few dollars to the 195 exit couple and the Shell Station Santa Claus each time I saw them.  I was careful to overemphasis my thank yous and pleases, and I took the children with me to visit my elderly neighbors, being sure to acknowledge and praise when they took the initiative to do something kind for someone else; and I continually preached "care for everything-- no matter how big or how small.  Everyone and everything deserves compassion."  


And then it all went out the window.   We got a new pet.  Our pets, I should say.  Many, many, many squeaky, little pets (although I've only seen one, the signs speak to many more.)  And all my "Care for other things.  Be gentle.  Be kind." talk went flying out the window with one of the dead pets as I gleefully jumped up and down screaming "I got one!  I got one!  YOU'RE DEAD, YOU BLOODY MOUSE!  AND I'M GOING TO KILL YOUR MOMMY, YOUR WIFE, AND YOUR LITTLE BABIES TOO!!!!"


My children stared at me.  Open-mouthed. Afraid to move.  Afraid to speak.  And then Kayton, with a tear in her eye, squeaked out "But, Mommy, you said we had to be nice to EVERYTHING!"  I put down the broom I was swinging (a near miss to Mason's head), put my arms around my eldest child, and told her with all the compassion I could muster, "Honey, I love that you care so much for little animals.  That's just wonderful.  But you don't understand.... some things just need to be killed."


Unless, of course, she improves dramatically on her Recorder and can Pied Piper these things out of here.






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*I am always extremely impressed with the sheer skill my sister-in-law (and her children and husband) have when it comes to projects.  I envy her intelligence and ability (and patience).   

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.  

 

Christmas Shopping 101

A few months ago, after much robbing of Peter and paying of Paul, JMahl and I managed to pay off our credit card.  This was cause for celebration, so we immediately splurged (on the credit card) and got Chinese.  And then I had an (almost) completely open credit line with which to enter the Christmas season.  So, like most parents out there, I have spent the last few weeks feverishly purchasing presents that will, most likely, be appreciated for a much shorter time than it takes me to, again, pay off my credit card.  Yes, I realize this is a very negative outlook, but my husband has started to rub off on me and, I must admit, in this matter, he is correct.

Every Christmas I am convinced that THIS Christmas will be THE Christmas that my children will remember forever.  If you take some time to think back, I'm sure you have some of those.  I do, although I'm sure they aren't the ones my parents wanted me to remember.  For example, the year I received a huge box of coal from my brother Ian.  At the very bottom of the box was a wonderful horse poster.  This was the period where, like many little girls, my bedroom walls were decorated with animal pictures.  I loved it!
And the year I begged for the tiny doll with a whole closet full of clothes, page 176 in the Sears Catalog.  Do you remember thumbing through the Sears Catalog that was two inches thick and was ragged and torn by a week before Christmas?  I got an erector set that year.
And the year we waited to open Christmas presents until my mother and new baby brother Trent came home from the hospital.... that was frustrating, only getting to open ONE PRESENT so that Mom could see us open the rest, all because Trent decided to be born the day before.

But isn't that most of the joy of Christmas morning?  Not so much what the kids get-- but seeing their faces when they get it?  At least, for me that's it.  Which is why I keep buying things.  But that thrill and excitement is elusive.

It seems as though no matter what I get for the kids, it's never EXACTLY what they wanted.  Sure, if you ask my husband, he'll tell you that I tend to buy things that I want the kids to want (the hammock swing), not necessarily something they do want (a spy-copter that I know Dugan will destroy by New Years).  But really, as their parent, it is my job to guide them toward wanting the things I want them to want, right?  And there's also the issue of over-presenting.

Unlike when I was a child, and I only got presents on Holidays and Birthdays, my kids get stuff pretty regularly.  I blame this fact primarily on my in-laws, who have a tendency to splurge when it comes to the children, but I'm guilty too.  New shoes don't wait for a present-giving holiday.  New clothes come at the start of a school year.  Little "just because I love you" presents come when I have extra money in my grocery budget.  Maybe JMahl and I have more money than my parents did when we were young... or maybe we're just spoiling  our kids.  I don't know.  But regardless, kids (or my kids, at least) expect more and don't seem as grateful for the things they get anymore. My children have no hesitancy in saying "this isn't what I wanted", while I clearly remember wearing things I hated just because my mother bought them for me and I didn't want to hurt her feelings by telling her how ugly they were.  Although there was one Christmas I do remember being very upset that my parents bought all my brothers new camping gear while I was left with...uhm... I don't remember what I got, but it wasn't camping gear.  I felt left out, but my parents made up for it a few months later when I graduated from college and received- tada!- new camping gear!  And it's been used at least three times since then!  But I honestly never realized how hard it was to shop for children until I became a mother myself.

But I thought I'd solved this problem this year.  A few months ago I had each of the kids post a Christmas list on the mantle (so that Santa would get it).  I promised them that Santa would get them each one thing off the list. This list was posted in September, so when Mason's birthday rolled around at the end of October, I utilized it to make sure he had a fabulous eighth birthday.  Not such a great idea, since he only had one thing on his list:  "an iPod 4th generation 8gb with built in forward/ rear camera and facetime".  He was very specific.  He's lucky that his father jumped on the excuse to shop for that to get himself an iPad 2.  But that left me no chance of early Christmas shopping, until Mason added to his list.  Which, of course, post-Birthday, when he had what he wanted, he did.

The problem is, he (and Kayton, too) have continued to add to their lists.  Every day there is something new tacked on in sloppy penmanship to the bottom of the list.  And I've already hit my Christmas budget.  Last night, after purchasing everything on the lists for both kids (unbeknownst to them, of course), as we sat around the dining room table eating dinner, Mason informed me that he ONLY wants a sled "like Zack's!  Have you seen Zack's?  It's so cool!  That's all I want!  If you get me that, I'll be sooooo happy!!!".   Uhm.... what about the snowboard (hidden in the basement) that you wanted?

Well.... I sort of want that still, but not that much.

Okay....... and Kayton, what do you want?  Well, I know I said I wanted a computer, but all I really want is a squinkie car.  It's only $15- I saw the commercial on tv, and it's really awesome and all my little squinkies can ride around in it.

So you'd rather have a $15 cheap plastic toy than your very own aqua blue netbook with a built in webcam (not that that's already been purchased or anything...)?

YES!!!!

Kolbie is not any easier.  She wants whatever Kayton wants.  So when Kayton wanted an American Girl doll, Kolbie did too.  And when Kayton wants a squinkie car, Kolbie does too.  Kolbie also wants whatever happens to be showing on the most recent commercial:  Mommy!  Mommy!  LOOK!  I want THAT!
What is that, Kolbie?
I don't know, but I WANT it!!!
Of course, to show her true altruism, she occasionally switches it up to:  Mommy!  Mommy!  LOOK!  MICAH wants THAT!   At which Micah will, in verification of this desire, point and jump and yell "Wan AT!"

There's no way I can shop according to every tv advert that pops up on the screen in between Dora and Blues Clues, but bless me, I try.

Christmas Morning would be much more successful if I waited until the kids were climbing into bed on Christmas Eve, preparing to dream of sugar plums and the razor electric scooter that one of the kids at school said they may be getting for Christmas, and then ask each child, as they snuggle onto their pillows and under their blankets in the matching family pajamas I got everyone again this year even though none of the kids wear pajamas to bed, preferring instead to sleep in their underwear, "Okay, tomorrow is Christmas.  What do you want Santa to bring you?"  And, as they relay their last minute Christmas wishes, I will furiously text JMahl, who would be waiting with bated breathe at the Toys-R-Us... "2 lalaloopsy dolls, 1 96-pack of squinkies (make sure there's a fairy in it), a basketball hoop, and, oh, if they have Kenmore mixers, you can pick one up for me..."

Timeline

May, 2011- My son got a bug bite on his leg.  He itched it; he scratched it; he kept picking at it, and I kept yelling at him.  Leave it alone!  Let it heal!  Stop touching it.  I tried everything- bandaids, creams, a huge piece of duct-tape wrapped around his leg.  See if you can get that off, my stubborn child!  Most often, I fluctuated between screaming STOP IT and begging quietly "Please let it heal or it's going to get infected."  Then I just gave up.  Sometimes you choose your battles and, heck, if he wants to pick his disgusting scabs, that's what boys do.

June, 2011-- During a masterful attempt at cutting my son's hair (I was convinced that buying a new razor set would take me from bowl-cut skill levels to the amazing reconstructive techniques that my husband's barber applies to him every two weeks), I managed to cut my son's head. Smooth move, Mom.  In my defense, he was wiggling.  And, again, in my defense, I was quick to inform my husband (who was quick to jump in with a "THAT is why you will never cut MY hair") that I think he had a bump there already, and I just, sort-of, kind-of, shaved the bump off. And then, of course, I spent the next few weeks screaming/ begging/ cajoling my son to stop picking at the new scab on his head.

July, 2011-- My husband (who is a paranoid father, as previously noted) finally insisted I take my son to the doctors.  Despite me telling him multiple times that the scabs would heal if Mason would just stop touching them, he put his foot down.  So I did.  He also insisted that I ask the doctor if it were possible that the dog was causing this.  And post-doctors visit I sneaked in the front door, hiding the prescription bottles in my purse, not wanting to admit that yes, my husband was right.  It was infected and he did need antibiotics, but proud to say that no, it was not the dog.  But with prescriptions in hand, thankfully, my husband swallowed his "I told you so".  Although, maybe I just couldn't hear it through the pillows covering my ears and the loud humming I was doing for the next few hours.

August, 2011-- Back to the doctors, with a snide comment to my husband:  "The antibiotics worked wonders.  They caused a yeast infection-- hurrah!"  To the doctor, I was less snide.  More confused:  6 weeks on antibiotics, coating his body with cream, and all we have to show for it is a yeast infection?  And oh, he's got another sore on his chest.  What's up with that?  Doctor's remedy: New prescriptions.  Thank goodness for good insurance.  (And thank you, honey, for keeping a good job that allows us good insurance.)

September, 2011-- Now I'm sort of frustrated.  The school nurse and Mason's teacher keep sending home notes about the "stuff" in his hair.  The supposed yeast infection hasn't gone away, and the original scab has grown to twice it's original size and has made friends of about four other spots on his body.  New doctors visit.  New prescriptions.  Back home.  My husband has stopped saying "I told you so" and starting saying "Tell me something.  Please."

October, 2011-- The list of prescriptions is now amazingly long.  (Have I said thank goodness for good insurance yet?)  Four oral medications.  (with benedryl and tylenol thrown in for good measure)  Nine different topical solutions slathered on in different combinations at different times of day.  Two medicated shampoos on alternate days.  And vials of good old-fashioned olive oil poured on his head before school every day.  No luck.

Sunday, October 23-- Mason woke up in the morning with a sore on his eye.   This sore makes over 40 spots all over his body. Each one growing bigger every day.  None ever going away.  We do a quick emergency room visit.  New prescription and finally some bloodwork.  Blood was hell to acquire.  Never want to do that again.  But bloodwork told us nothing.

Saturday, October 29-- We go to see a Pediatric Medical Dermatologist.  After reviewing her biography online I suggested to JMahl that he may want to take Mason in.  She was hot.  Happily, he refused, and I took Mason in.  She was not only hot, but she had a hot husband at the office helping her that day.  And she was super sweet.  I loved her immediately.  Mason didn't hate her immediately, which says a lot.
And she immediately had a possible diagnosis.  YEAH!  Finally something!  Wait... What?  Are you sure?  No.  Not sure until we do a biopsy.  But no, the dog is not causing this. (Because JMahl, again, insisted I ask.)

Sunday, October 30-- JMahl is now nervous.  I am nervous.  We've spent the last three days researching the possible diagnosis and getting crazier by the minute.  Interestingly enough, we don't do any research together. We speak to each other in code.  Not really saying the words out loud.  Not really admitting to what we just read on the internet (which is possibly one of the stupidest things a parent can ever do.)  Most of our conversations went like this:  "JMahl, did you know that..." To which he would respond, "Don't you have female friends to talk to about this?  I don't really see the point in discussing something we don't even know for a fact yet."  To which I would get annoyed, shut up, and ignore him for the next few hours until he would contritely roll over to my side of the bed, put his arm around me, and pull me to him.  And I knew that he did care.  Did understand.  Just, well, we have different ways of worrying.

Tuesday, November 1--Today is the day of the biopsy. JMahl took off the afternoon to go with me and Mason.  My mother-in-law, God Bless Her, stayed home with the girls.  Mason refused to get out of bed.  I don't blame him.  I hadn't slept the night before,and that, for me, is highly unusual.  I'm one of those "close my eyes and go to sleep and don't wake up unless a child is screaming bloody murder... and even then, I may not wake up unless my husband kicks me a few times".  But for some reason, after tossing and turning for an hour in bed, I still couldn't sleep, and pulled myself out of bed to go downstairs and do some house-cleaning. Yes.  Midnight housecleaning.  The odd thing was, it was actually enjoyable.  There's something very nice-- very accomplished-- about cleaning your house in the middle of the night.  Not having children running behind you dropping crumbs in your wake.  Not having a dog leaving muddy footprints on the floor, or a husband leaving his socks on the carpet where you just finished picking up three days worth of dirty socks.  The floor got mopped, and the floor stayed spotless for about six hours (until children woke up.)  And around 3:30am I went back to bed, tossed for another hour or so, and finally fell asleep just in time to wake up with the baby.   For the record, midnight house cleaning will not be a regular thing.

Thursday, November 3-- The doctor has said that she should have results by tomorrow.  But I'm nervous.  My stomach won't stop stirring.  Every time the phone rings I jump.  My mind goes from "there's no way this is the diagnosis" to "what if it's not and it's worse????".  Then I calm myself and remind myself that there are both a lot worse things it could be and, most likely, it's something a lot less serious.  But, in a manner reminiscent of early relationships in high school, I check the dial tone on the phone.  Yes, it's working. I check that my volume on my cell phone is turned up.  Yes.  I debate calling the doctor to make sure she didn't loose my phone number... then I remind myself that results aren't due till tomorrow.  Just when I'm somewhat sane, I get a call from my husband asking for the doctors number-- just to check... just in case the results came in early.  I yell at him for his impatience, hang up the phone, then check to make sure I'd hung it up properly and that there was a dial tone.

Friday, November 4--  There is nothing worse than waiting for the phone to ring... or maybe it's jumping every time the phone rings, but it's never the call for which you are waiting.

Sunday, November 6- My 33rd birthday.  The phone rings all day, but it is always well-wishes for a great year.  My daughters made me a birthday cake. My husband decorated the house with bright Birthday signs and balloons.  My son pulled out his ipod and made me a wonderful birthday song with background beats:  You're the best mommy, and I love you.  You're so pretty and the best mom in the world.  For your birthday, I'll be a better boy and not make you mad.  Happy Birthday, Mom.... I loooooovvveeee youuuuuuuuu.....

Monday, November 7-- Still no results. My husband or I come up with excuses at least twice a day to call the doctor's office.  "Can we get a note for school saying he's not contagious?  Oh, and by the way, have you got the results yet?"  And "Is your office open today?  Oh, it is.... well, do you have results yet?"  Both the doctor and the nurse have told me repeatedly-- and kindly-- we will call you when we get the results.... but it's hard to wait. Hard to jump each time the phone rings, carrying my cell phone around in my bra so I can be certain to hear it ring... if it does ring.
But it's even worse for Mason. The kids at school have gotten mean.  "You're gross. That's disgusting.  What's the stuff all over you?  I don't want to sit next to him... I might get what he has."  I don't know what to do.  I offer to let him stay home from school.  He says "I hate school.  My friends are mean.  But I want to go to school-- tomorrow's GYM day!"  I start to cry, hiding it from him.  My boy is in pain.  My boy is being hurt by his friends. But he's my boy.
I can't keep sitting around waiting, so I make another doctor's appt-- this time with the eye doctor.  I'm terrified that the sores surrounding his eyes, covering his eyelids, are going to have an irreversible effect on his site. The optometrist says whatever it is, it's not affecting his sight.  Good news.  That's something. And by the way, says the optometrist, if this is a dog allergy, this is the worse dog allergy I've ever seen.

Tuesday, November 8-- It's surprising the things that you never think to ask your children.  I guess we, as parents, assume our kids are healthy unless they tell us otherwise.  I knew he had headaches occasionally, but I assumed they were from too much sugar, too little water, too much running, too little sleep.  I knew his legs hurt occasionally, but I assumed that was the result of his tendon surgery last year.  My boy has been through a lot, but he's not a complainer, that's for sure.  I had no idea that his fingers went numb so often.  Or that they went numb ever, until he asked "why do my fingers go numb so often?"  I had no answer, just surprise-- they do??? Why didn't you tell me?  His answer, honest enough:  you never asked.  I can't help but wonder, are these symptoms or is this just little boy?  How do I know?

My husband and I jump whenever the phone rings and have started to just give the other a shake of the head- no- when Caller ID doesn't say the doctor's number.  Considering my husband's animosity for the ringing phone, I would find it funny the way he rushes into the room whenever it beckons, but I can't laugh.
I found him today in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, staring.  What's wrong, I ask,not used to seeing him like this.  He started to shake... what if it's fatal? he finally got out.  I just looked at him for a moment before putting my arms around him. I held him up, while he fell apart.
It's not fatal.
But how do you know?
I know, because the day he was born the doctors told me to be prepared for his death.  They didn't think he'd make it.  Four weeks later he was healthy, home, and fine.  I know because he's already been through too much for an eight year old boy.  Four surgeries, twelve weeks in a wheelchair, constant physical therapy.  Too much.  God wouldn't do that to him- to us--too.
But how do you know?

I don't know.  But in every thought is the prayer, "Lord, make it okay.  Make HIM okay.  My boy.  My love.  My heart.  Make him okay.  I'll stop cursing under my breath when the kids push me to the limit.  I'll stop lying in bed in the morning wishing I could just ONCE wake up to something other than squabbling.  I'll stop resenting the constant need-need-need having four children creates.  I'll stop wishing for more money, a better complexion, a more romantic husband.  I'll give up the dog--- if you just make this an allergic reaction-- please!  I'll give up sneaking a cigarette when I've had a rough day or just too much to drink.  I'll give up too much to drink- anything to drink!-- just make my son better.  Please, God.  I try to barter.  Okay, if this is an allergy, I'll give it all up.  If it's just a skin disorder, I'll give up cursing only- and the stolen ciggy.  If it's something curable, fixable, LORD, I will make it worth your while, I PROMISE.  And if that doesn't work, why don't you give this illness to me so my son can have a full, wonderful, pain-free life?  Please, Lord.  PLEASE.

Thursday, November 10, 8:15am-- Mason can't sleep at night because of the pain and itching.  Tylenol and Benadryl only do so much.  Yesterday he woke up with his entire body covered in a light rash, which I can only describe as goosebumps that don't go away.  I don't know if this is something else, or if his skin- his body- is about to completely give up the fight.  I remind myself that he had his flu vaccine last week, and that could very well be the cause of this new symptom.

10:50am-- I call the doctor.  The nurse answers.  Yes, results are in.  The doctor will call to discuss the results with me as soon as she has a moment.  I think this is worse than the waiting.  Knowing that someone KNOWS what is wrong with my son, but it's not me.  I call my husband, am reassured that he will be by the phone waiting for my call.  I reassure him that it's going to be okay... probably not a big deal.
I send a text to my brothers and close friends who have been waiting by the phone with me.  "Results are in.  Waiting for call to discuss them.  PRAY."  Within seconds I receive a text back:  "We are."  The phone beeps again: "Will do".  Another beep: "Praying."  I start to cry.  This is why God gave us families-- so we are not alone when we are scared.  I find myself thinking about when I was a child, sharing a bedroom with my little brothers.  I used to get so scared of the dark- shapes distort themselves at night to be something horrific and scary.  No matter how bad the fear got, I only had to reach out my hand to touch Jared's hand... reaching across the space between our beds.  I only had to whisper a "hey, are you awake?" to hear Trent's giggling response and know that I wasn't alone.  I'll never be alone.  Fear is so much easier to deal with when you're dealing with it with someone.  I feel for my husband in these moments.  He has me, but no siblings to call, to rely on.  No "Will do. We are.  Praying." to help alleviate the terror of the unknown.  I thank God and my husband, silently in my head, for our decision to have four children.  My children will never be alone.

11:27am-- My hands won't stop shaking, and I don't know if it's fear or the extra pot of coffee I just drank.  Probably a combination of both, if I'm honest.  Dugan knows something is wrong.  He's at my heels every time I turn around.  I keep tripping over his feet or getting swatted by his tail.  I call my Mom and let her know that we will have the results today.  She breaks into prayer, ending with "Thy Will Be Done".  I can't help but add silently--but only if it's MY WILL TOO, Lord.  I take it back immediately.  I don't believe in a vengeful, unconcerned, or "relishing in the pain of children and parents" God-- but I don't want to challenge Him either.

12:52-- As the phone continues to not ring, I've convinced myself it's not going to be bad.  That we have been stressed out for nothing.  If it WERE that bad, the doctor wouldn't have waited so long to call.  If it were serious, she would have called immediately, or had us come to her office to talk about it, or sent us to the hospital.  So, it's obviously not that bad.  I read a study a few days ago that said that waiting for biopsy results causes more stress than actually receiving the results.  I believe it. So I'm going to stop stressing.  I'll clean my house, singing along to the radio, content in the knowledge that if it were bad, I'd know by now.  No news is good news.  That's what they've always said, right?

2:08pm-- I've convinced myself of two things:  1/ The doctor will not call until after 4, when her office closes. 2/ The results will rule out all the really bad things and just leave questions.  If she had an answer, she would have called already.
Documenting this is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

2:24pm-- The phone rings.  I check caller id and see a number I recognize.  I take a moment to breathe before I answer the phone.

3:05pm-- I've made the important phone calls, sent the important texts.  My husband first.  He says "I just wish I could hug you right now."  I say "When you get home, I don't think I'll be able to let go of you."  I call my Mom.  My Dad.  Text my brothers, my close friends.  The responses start pouring in.
I was right about one thing.  Wrong about the other.  The doctor called before 4.  It's not what she thought it was. It's not worse.  It's better.  It may be chronic, it may be painful and disfiguring, but it is treatable.  It's just Psoriasis.  A rare pediatric form of psoriasis, but just psoriasis.  I cry in relief.

Two weeks ago-- a week ago, even-- this diagnosis would have been upsetting. But now, after spending a week researching everything from Systemic Lupus to Skin Cancer, terrified that I may loose my child, I am relieved.  It's not going to be easy, but he's going to be okay.  See, honey?  I told you it wasn't fatal.  He's going to be okay.

I've developed a new understanding, a new sympathy, even empathy, for parents who are told their children may have a horrible disease-- the disbelief, the guilt, the fear.  I don't think I- or my husband- or our family-- will ever forget the fear of the last few days.  But I can breathe now.  God answers prayers.

I write all this and share it with you for a number of reasons.  One, to you, my family and friends who read this,  you now know what it is when you see Mason.  You will understand that this is treatable, that he will be okay. No need to worry (it's not contagious-- unless you are related).  And two, to our neighbors and acquaintances who may notice his skin and not want to ask while wondering "what's wrong with him"; and to you who may have a child come home from school and say "there's this boy in my class who's got sores all over him"-- you won't say "see?  this is why I make you bathe every night instead of just two or three times a week (depending on how dirty he is) like his mom." You'll explain to your child, as I must explain to mine, that sometimes things happen.  Sometimes we have things in our body that don't work the way they are supposed to.  And this isn't something wrong or bad with you.  This isn't YOUR fault.  This isn't because you are bad or dirty or God loves you less.  It's just the way things happen sometimes.  And you're going to be okay.  Thank God for this diagnosis.  Thank God for modern medicine.  Thank you, God.

You will be okay.

Runner.

A few days ago, a svelte, fit, hair-brushed, made-up Mom in a cute, well-fitting track suit and shiny clean sneakers asked me, in my baggy sweatpants, unshowered and unbrushed hair, no makeup, and something orange dribbling down the front of my shirt, if I was a runner.  My first response was no, but I didn't want to say that, because I could see in her eyes that being a non-runner was just as bad as not showering before picking up my daughter from pre-school.  So, I sort of told a somewhat half-truth white lie.  "Not really.  Not anymore. I have four kids..."

Because there was this time, once, when I was a runner.  Off and on, that is.  In High School, for about two months out of the year, I ran track.  And then there was that time in college that I ran every night- for about one and a half weeks- before taking just one night off... which led to three years off.
And then again, when I got pregnant with my oldest, I decided to take my dog for a brief run every night in order to stay in shape through my pregnancy... but then bedrest ended that.
And last summer I did get a new pair of running shoes (and a new puppy) and did nightly runs with him for another few weeks... until I took just one night off... which led to now.
So I have sort-of, somewhat, sometimes, been a runner. But I have four kids now, so it's really hard to be a runner.  It would involve having to either A/ get out of bed unrealistically early to take a jog-- which is not going to happen.  I love my bed.  B/ sacrificing my quiet time at the end of the day when I can actually just sit on the couch and read-- again, not going to happen.  I need my fantasy life. or C/ investing in a $600 jogging stroller... uhm... yeah, I'm cheap.  (But I am open to donations!)

So, having four kids justifies my lack of running, I would say... although, I think I could also argue that having four kids makes me more of a runner than anyone else.  That's four different runs to the grocery store on the day that I forget specific items promised to the kids.  Four different runs in four different directions when I hear a scream in one room, followed by a squeal in another, followed by sounds of fists in a third, and then a dreadful silence in a fourth- -that to a mother speaks of only one thing:  some horrible mess is going to need to be cleaned up.  Most days, this is a five-way run, since I can tell the sound of the dog's paws hitting my counter as he goes for my pot roast cooling.  So, yes, daggone it, I am a runner.  I run to keep the cookies from burning; I run to chase down the dog that the 18-month old just let outside; I run to throw a helmet after a quickly-peddling 8 yr old on a bike; and I do the long jump over the loads of laundry that I've left sitting in the middle of the living room floor for three days.  A few weeks ago, three kids and a dog and I even went for a jog around the neighborhood.  They all beat me-- even the three year old-- and I did beg one of them- any of you, I don't care who, just go!- to run back and tell Daddy to bring me the car, but they refused.  But I did run.  So, yes, perfectly coifed and good-smelling mother-runner. I'm a runner, too.

But what's with this new fad of running?  Sure, it's refreshing-- if you're not bent over heaving up your guts.  It's exhilarating-- if you like having your nose frozen and your toes blistered.  And it's good for you.  But so is sleep.  But running is the cool thing to do now.  (Or maybe it always has been, and I've just never been cool.)

But you can't go anywhere around Elkridge without passing someone running.  I don't mind so much in the summer when they (and by they, I mean the men) are shirtless and sweating; but it just annoys me to see people running in the rain.  Don't you know RAIN is God's way of saying "Put on sweatpants and stay in bed... or don't even bother with the sweatpants, it's cool."  And I will never appreciate the sight of sexy, half-naked summer-running females---especially the ones pushing double-jogging strollers.  These I can ignore when I'm alone in the car, but when my husband is with me I tend to get tired of hearing the "Uh, honey, let's get one of those for Christmas.... The JOGGING STROLLER, I Meant the Jogging Stroller, I swear! Please stop hitting me!"


But running does flow through my blood.  Proof positive being my daughter, Kayton, who 
has joined a great organization -- Girls on the Run-- which has her training for 5ks for a whole semester. She loves to run, and she's a real runner.  When she runs, she really looks like she's flying, with her legs perpendicular to her body and her hair a mile behind her.  She reminds me of the Goddess Diana in my old Greek Mythology books-- minus the bows and arrows... and the sex appeal, of course.  Kayton's only nine, for goodness sake, but she's already run four 5ks, and she's prepping for her next one in December.  She'd be much faster if she didn't enjoy it so much and have so much fun doing it, so I happily choose the latter over the former.  I've always, somewhat boastfully, informed Kayton that she got her running gene from me.  She was inclined to believe me (albeit skeptical), since she'd never seen her father run; but then a few days ago JMahl apparently got tired of me getting all the (skeptical) glory and went for a run with her.  She came home glowing and exclaiming "Daddy's fast!  Why didn't you tell me?! He beat me!!!"



I hadn't told her because, honestly, I hadn't known.  I've only ever seen JMahl run twice in our time together.  Once was a few days before our wedding when I caught him going out the back door in the middle of the night wearing a pair of sneakers and a backpack stuffed with his birth certificate, a picture of his Momma, and a pack of Newports.  Apparently, running with a backpack is a great way to get in shape for a wedding, he was told.  The other time was a few weeks ago, right after I asked him if maybe he might consider having another child.  I'm not sure what possessed him to take off across the neighborhood in his boxers, but luckily, the indecent exposure charges were dropped.  Apparently, after the cop had determined he was sober and got his side of the story, he (coincidentally, a father of four) didn't feel inclined to take him to the station and just brought him home with a strict warning to me to not mention pregnancy to him again unless he was fully clothed.

So, apparently, my husband is a runner, too.  Now, all I've got to do is get us both well-fitted track suits, shiny running shoes, and a shower, and maybe someone will believe us when we say so.  Heck, yeah, Mother-Runners!