Harrison:
He calls to me an hour before the alarm would go off. Mama, mama, mama. MAMA! He gets louder the longer I ignore him. What are the chances he’ll go back to sleep if you leave him, Logan asks? Slim to none, I say as I get out of bed.
MAMA, he squeals as I walk in his bedroom. Shhh baby, it’s quiet time. See, the sun isn’t up yet, I say, as I pick him up. (Anymommy, this sun shit doesn’t work. You got a better idea?) As we walk down to the kitchen for a bottle of milk, he jabbers constantly. This boy is a morning person, that I know for sure. Evey forth word is a word I know: milk, sissy, ball, wow, uh oh, goggie, dada. They don’t make sense yet, but he’s showing off his skills.
Mix the formula one handed, as he doesn’t like to be down in the morning. Why don’t we go see daddy, I ask him. Yeah, lets visit daddy. Dada, kak kak, he says back to me. Every morning, it’s the same thing. I get him and make the bottle, we go back to my bedroom and I basically hand him off to his daddy, as I try and hide under the covers for another half hour. They play some odd game involving duck noises as I try unsuccessfully to go back to sleep. When the alarm finally goes off, Logan goes to shower and I take back over. It’s at this point when I pull out the big guns. Namely the matchbox cars that I keep in my bedside table. Two cars, one for each hand and my boy is a happy boy. Soon, it’s time to wake the girls.
Bailey:
I wake her first because she is easy. Simple as that, she is easy to wake. Easy to make get dressed. Bailey, wake up love, it’s time to get ready for school, I say as I sit on their bed (Yes, my girls share a bed. Swear it’s by choice though, as they both have beds.) She wakes up easily, rolls over and sits up. As she hugs me, she says, I get to go to kindergarten again right? Yes, you do. Okay, then. Can I have donuts for breakfast? Uh, no, you can have cereal for breakfast. Oh man, she says, laughing. We do this every day. Her just hoping for the day when I say, yes, we can have donuts for breakfast.
She gets up and heads towards the bathroom. Please wash your face and brush your teeth I tell her. She still needs to be told. When she’s done, she comes and sits on me for a few minutes. I tickle her and laugh at her jokes, play with her hair and then I hand her her clothes. Clothes that we picked out the night before, because I don’t deal with clothes issues in the morning.
She talks a mile a minute about school as we walk down the hallway toward the kitchen. I need coffee, I think to myself. Instead of saying it, I answer her nine million questions. She picks her cereal as I grab the specific Disney bowl she requested. She pours her cereal and I pour the milk. As she eats, she talks constantly. She stops to chew, because she knows better than to talk with her mouth full. Between bites, she tells me again how much she loves school. How she met so many new friends. Where her teacher sits during reading time, what book they read and how many times she had to be reminded that reading time is quiet time. I remind her again that today I’d like that number of reminders, to be a bit less. She agrees.
I make her lunch and then braid her hair. I ask her about ten times to pick her backback up off the floor in her room and put it by the door to the garage. Please find shoes that match I tell her. Strange child, I think as I shake my head.
On the way to school, we sing to every song that comes on the radio. Ooohhhh I like this one mama, turn it up, she says at least three times.
One kiss and a hug good-by at her door and she’s off. She doesn’t even look back to see me leave.
Morgan:
I wake her three times before she even acts awake. One day, I will leave this to her, but seven and a half is too young, right? I think this to myself each time I have to wake her up. She rolls over and glares at me. Mom, I’m tired. Yes, so am I, I tell her. You still have to get up and get ready for school. I’m ready for summer again, she says. Oh it’s going to be a long year, I think.
I wake her last, after her sister is out of the room for two reasons. One, she is a mean morning person and her sister being happy bugs her to no end. Two, she gets ready much quicker.
I poke and prod her. I sing to her. I tickle her. I finally tell her I will dump Harrison on her if she doesn’t get up. He’s too big for that mom, he’ll crush me, she says. Fine, I’m up. Are you happy now? Sure my darling girl, I’m thilled. Please get dressed and come eat breakfast.
I’m not wearing that, she says as she walks to the bathroom. That is the dumbest outfit ever. I have ugly clothes. I’d rather be nekkid than wear that. Whatever Morgan, I tell her. You picked it. At the store and last night you picked it. I don’t care what you wear, as long as you come to the kitchen fully dressed. I am not in the mood for this, I tell her.
We will do this for the next nine months. At some point, I know she will show up in the kitchen with no clothes on, or her PJ’s still on, just to argue with me some more. Today, her clothes are still brand new. They still have tags on them, which makes her happy. It’s no longer new, once the tags have been removed.
She comes into the kitchen fully dressed. Thank you, I say. I appreciate you doing what I asked. No response is given, although I didn’t need one. I hand her a breakfast bar and a glass of juice. I also hand her an Adderall. She drinks the juice and takes the pill and rolls her breakfast bar up in a napkin, to eat later. Like me, she’s not a fan of breakfast. She puts it in her lunch box. I didn’t want a mini-bagel today, she cries. I hate those. Well, you wouldn’t tell me last night, so that is what you got. Trade with Mackenzie (her bff), you know she loves those. Fine, that’s what I’ll do then. Auntie Kate makes better lunches anyway. I’d say something back, but it’s useless. Plus? I know my best friend is having the same arguement at her house right now with Mackenzie. There is a reason they are as good of friends as Kate and I are. Most likely, the girls will switch lunches and both be thrilled with it.
Head band on her head, flip-flops on her feet and she’s ready to go. Her back pack, neatly put by the garage door the night before is in hand.
She pushes Bailey out of the door and I yell at her. Why do you do that, I ask? Because she was in my way, is the response. I should say more, but I know it’s like talking to a brick wall this early in the morning. On the way to school, she warms up a bit. She tells me about her need to find a good book at the library today. She reminds me that I didn’t sign her reading slip from last night. No, I did after you went to bed. I put it in your Hannah Montana folder, I tell her. Oh good, thank you mommy. I smile at her. Might be the only mommy, I get all day.
As I drop her off, I get one quick hug, before she runs off to find her friends.
This is my new normal. I don’t mind it really. It’s comforting.
Me: Girls if you could do one more thing this week, before school starts, what would it be?
Morgan: I’d like to go back to Disneyland.
Bailey: Um, I think I want to play in the sprinklers.
Yep, there it is. Right there in two sentences, the explanation on how completely opposite my daughters are.I adore them for their differences, but this really does make explaining it a bit easier.
On my last post…well the consensus seems to be that I should just delete/block trolls and ignore what they say to me. Get over it, I suppose. I don’t know what to say about that, except I guess I’ll stop talking about it.
Last night I wrote a post where I basically complained about everything. It felt kind of nice to write it down. Get it out, if that makes any sense. Although this morning, I’m glad I didn’t post it. Not because you guys can’t handle it, not because I didn’t need to complain about petty nonsense last night, but mostly because this blog has become so depressing that I’m just thinking that it would have made it worse.
I’m trying. Trying to get it together. Trying to not be so pessimistic all the time. Trying to not be depressed. Trying to not be this complainy (yes, is word), whiney, pain in the ass that I have become lately.
It’s not really working for me so well. But at least I’m working on it.
Instead of whining about things that really don’t matter outside of my head, I thought I’d give positivity a try. See how it works for me today. No guarantees on tomorrow, but it’s worth a shot today.
I love the 4th of July weekend. My husband won’t be working for three whole days. (Truly, I am forgetting what the man looks like, he works so much these days.) We have BBQ’s to go too, swimming to do and tons of great food to eat. I adore fireworks, now that Bailey has stopped being terrified of them.
I found the business cards I am going to get for BlogHer. They are cute and I loves them.
My excitement of BlogHer is starting to out way my fear of it.
Harrison is cute and fun and the best baby I could ever hope to have. Nine months, really is a fun, if not a bit exhausting age. Although his idea of morning being 5am, needs a bit of work.
Bailey is almost five and while it makes me sad, I see the big girl she is becoming and it’s awesome. She’s awesome. The funniest, most honest baby girl I could ever hope to have.
Morgan has decided that she likes clean clothes enough to help me with laundry. Have I told you she’s my favorite today? She is. At least in this moment, when she’s being so dam helpful. Seven is an awesome age.
I love the Internet. Well I love you guys. Yes there are haters, trolls and asshats. But real life has them too. But you guys keep me entertained on a daily basis and I adore each of you for it.
Oh one more thing, my friend, the lovely Anymommy, had a beautiful baby boy on Sunday. Nathaniel. He’s big and squishy and absolutely adorable. He has red hair!!! Squee. Please go and congratulate her.
So, how’d I do? LOL. Don’t need to answer that. Is okay.
I have read about this whole good mother/bad mother/SAHM/WAHM/WOHM thing for weeks now on the Internet. Some of you have discussed it and beautifully, I might add. It all fascinates me, this thought of what a good mother is supposed to be. I’ve pretty much ignored it, because honestly, I know I am a good mom. I also know I am a bad mom. In my world you can be both.
Today, after reading Mom 101′s post about type B mom’s, I can’t seem to get this subject out of my head. I said this in Liz’s comments and it is completely true: On my best day, I am only a B- mother.
But who says that is a bad thing? What makes a mom a perfect mom? Whose opinion matters about that, except your children’s? We all think we are being judged and sometimes we are. I know I’ve been judged, many a time. However, I’m sure I think I am being judged way more than I probably am. Maybe a B- mom isn’t such a horrible thing.
We all share on the Internet what we want too. This was something that Mom 101 was saying in her post. We tell each other what we choose to tell each other. Some are more honest than others. We are given a glimpse at each others lives, because we choose to share about it in this public space. It’s only part of the story really. A small part for most of us.
Let me try this honesty thing for a second.
I, for the record, have never breastfed my children. Not because I see anything wrong with it (in fact, I find it to be beautiful), but because it wasn’t something I felt I could do. I was a young mother, maybe that has something to do with it, maybe not. It just wasn’t something I choose to do.
I sent my daughters to daycare at seven weeks old. I worked fourteen hour days sometimes in the early years of their lives. I know what it’s like to work full time and wish I was at home with my kids. I also now know what it’s like to be at home all the bloody time and wish I was elsewhere. I’m not sure that I’m good at either of it honestly.
My kids watch too much TV; they eat too much junk food; I consider french toast a dinner**; my son hangs out playing with spoons and Tupperware lids on my bed, while I play on the Internet; and some days I go and buy everyone new underwear, just because I don’t want to do laundry.
My kids have ridden their bikes without a helmet a time or two because I got tired of the argument. They have gotten sunburned a few times because I was dumb enough to not put sunscreen on them. We do not have a safety net around our trampoline. I have yelled at them for having meltdowns and then realized I don’t remember the last time they ate. My kids are not friendly when hungry, much less logical.
Somedays I yell at them, because of nothing. I regret those days. Other times they need to be yelled at and I let it go, to try and make up for the days where I yell too much.
My seven year old has way too much knowledge of the Internet and how to use it. My almost five year old can take the parental restriction off of the cable, without even trying. They both have iPods. They know what the menus at most restaurants have on them without needing to look anymore.
My girls are the most unscheduled kids in the neighborhood. In fact the only thing they’ve been scheduled for this summer is swimming and last week, they told me they just wanted to be able to just swim, not learn anything. So? I took them off of the list for the next set of lessons. There is no ballet, no gymnastics and no t-ball this summer. I should do those things, I am sure, but I just can’t seem to make myself sign them up, because truly, then I’d have to get out of the house and take them.
I worry about all of this and much, much more. I wonder what my kids will remember from this time period of their lives. If they will remember that I took them to Disney and the beach this summer; that we slept in, stayed up late and went to the park every few evenings to swing in the dark. Will they remember me reading Harry Potter to them each night? Will they remember Sunday mornings spent in Jammies, having wii bowling and golf tournaments? Or will they remember that this was another summer where I was short with them too often, where I cried too much, where I sent them outside to play too often.
I wonder if they spend too much time at my BFF Kate’s house. I wonder if they will one day prefer her, because she is that mom. The mom who does art projects. The mom who bakes things. The mom with all the patience of a saint. I am not that mom, although I adore that she is. I am thankful for her every single day. Is it okay that my kids spend so much time with my best friend? It has to be, because that’s the way it is right now.
There is no rule book. They didn’t come with an instruction manual. Trust me, I looked. And who says a B- mom is not enough? Who gets to make that judgement call? Who says a C mom isn’t good enough? Because lots of days, I am only a C mom. A solid C even, no plus sign attached.
Some days I think my kids are the amazing people they are despite me. Some days I think it might be in spite of me. On occasion I think, dam I am doing something right.
My girls are kind to friends, strangers, animals and especially their family. They think highly of themselves and each other. Self esteem: they both have it. Self doubt? Yes, they have that too, but a lot less then I did at their ages. They are honest, strong, brave and inquisitive. They are everything I could of hoped for in daughters and everything I hope their brother gets too.
We all have days where we think we are horrible at this parenting gig, right? Those who say other wise are lying threw their over whitened teeth.
I? Am a good mother and also a bad mother. Maybe, I am the good enough mother. But that has to be okay too.
** Okay, here is another thing. We say things on the Internet, then realize that even in a post where we are being brutally honest, we choose to fib a bit. The truth is, my dinner default idea is currently cereal. I stole the french toast thing from my lovely friend Liz (also know as @elizzieh), because it sounded better than saying my family currently lives on cereal. French toast is actually her default dinner, not mine. Liz, who I have to thank for um everything, was kind enough to read this and not yell at me about stealing her idea. In fact had I not brought it up, she is so awesome, that she may never have said a word. See? This honesty thing is hard.
What seems like a zillion years ago, although it was actually around this time five years ago, is where our story begins.
A certain little girl, known here as Morgan used to throw the most magnificent tantrums. If there was an Academy Award for tantrums, this child would have a house full of them. At some point, she, upon being put on her bed, stared slamming the door over and over again. This bugged her mother and father endlessly. One day, the mother made the mistake of asking her teeny tiny crazy ball of joy why she slammed the door so much. You do it, was the childs answer.
Oh. Yeah. Sheet.
Of course the mother had to explain to the father what the kid said. There was then a three slam rule made up on the spot. It went for everyone in the family, because the dad claimed that more than three slams of a door gave him migraines.
The rule was as follows: in a fit of um anger or whatever, said door may be slammed three and only three times. If said door is slammed more than that, the door will be removed from the frame, by the father, for as many days, as their was extra slams.
I’d like to tell you this ends well. That no one ever forgot this rule. But I’d be lying through my teeth. My door has gone missing more than one in the last five years. When he takes mine off, I have no idea where he takes it too. I’ve never been able to find the dam thing.
Somehow the big child and I have the same problem, although through the years we have gotten better about it. (I prefer to throw coffee mugs. Kidding. Sorta.)
Yesterday the middle child took up the reigns. I think she feels that since she is in the last month of being four, she must take full advantage of the four-ness, before it is gone. Also, it pains her that the boy is no longer a lump. Now he is everywhere and yeah, she has brother issues. The tantruming in public, being forced to nap, slamming door reigns. She did manage to only slam it three times in the afternoon.
However last night, at some point, she got pissed off at her father and got sent to bed. Then the door slamming started. Twelve times that door was slammed. Her father is a patient man, more patient than me. He waited until she calmed down and then he went upstairs and removed the door. On the wall next to it, he placed a sign, no door until this day. Which, in case you were wondering is nine days from today.
The big child was PISSED off, since the two girl children share a bedroom. I looked at her and laughed. Come on now, pot, kettle? Ringing any bells? Somehow, I do believe the middle child won’t take five years to figure out this rule.
So that’s my story of the day. Beware of the three door slamming rule.
He crawls away from me, until he gets to the edge of the door which will lead him out of our kitchen and into the den. There he stops, turns around, looks at me and comes back to play with the Tupperware again. He hasn’t found his baby wings yet. He hasn’t realized that we are not one yet. I am still his person. At not yet eight months old, I am his world. He lights up when he sees me in the morning and cries when I walk out of the room without him.
This is the way it should be. Yes, he will get over his separation anxiety soon. Yes, he will one day leave the room I am in on purpose. But not yet. I will savor the time until then.
Logan: Iss, I think we need to eat at home this week. He reaches for another hot wing from the container in the middle of the table.
Bailey: Daddy, we are eating and we are at home.
Logan: Did you coach her to say that?
Me: Nope, she got that one on her own. Babe, I’m doing the best I can. Dinner is still dinner, as long as we all eat together.
Logan: Pause. I never thought of it that way. So, okay, dinner at home, no restaurants this week. But I don’t care where the food comes from. One week, lets just try it for one week, okay?
Me: That sounds like a plan.
Morgan was as sick as a dog last week; food poisoning from some treat at the school. I’ve never seen her that sick in my life. Her long thin body, curled up on the bathroom floor in between retching. I sat with her, me and Harrison hanging with her on the floor until I finally decided to take her to Urgent care. I have been scared in my life; scared of many things. But nothing is scarier than watching your baby go as limp as a noodle from exhaustion and dehydration as you carry her too the car to take her to Urgent Care.
At 2am that next morning, she came into our room and said, mama I can’t go to school today. I know bug, I do. But it’s only 2am, I told her. Then I did something I rarely do, I pulled her into bed with us. She slept curled into me, nestled in between Logan and I for the rest of the night.
When I was in California, she slept with me two nights in a row. The two nights following my losing the baby. Those two nights, I felt guilty for, because she was there to comfort me. Now I know it works both ways. It’s okay for her to be a comfort to me on occasion, just as it is for me to be that for her. That’s what makes us family. Yes, she is seven years old, my first baby. But she is getting so big too. Big enough that we are starting to become friends in some way.
I want that, to be friends with my kids. Their mother first? Always. But friends too.
My Mom: So, Papa** and I are coming out mid-June. We’re hoping to find a house to buy while we are there.
Me: Really? That soon?
Mom: Yeah. I’ve already started working on my book and he’s pretty much finished with the practice. Jordan has a handle on it, he’s been there for nearly two years. The practice runs itself these days. We’re ready for the change. Ready for the new chapter in our lives.
Me: Mom, you know there is a house for sale down the block from us.
Mom: You’d want us to look at that? It wouldn’t be too close?
Me: No, not at all. We’d love it.
Mom: Oh I’m so happy to hear that. Ok, well pull the phone number, so I can call on it, okay?
Me: I will call them for you.
Mom: You know it’s funny, but so many people don’t get to say that their grown daughter is one of their best friends.
Me: I know, that’s just sad. God, I hope the girls and I are like that one day.
Mom: I know it will be like that for you.
**We call my step-dad, papa. Have since they got married when I was eight.
Kate: Are you guys sending the girls to summer day camp?
Me: I don’t know. Maybe? We go back and forth on it. Morgan wants too, but Bailey doesn’t at all.
Kate: Yeah, Aidan doesn’t want to either. If we send him, you know he’ll fight me every single morning. It’s almost not worth the trouble.
Me: Yeah, I know. I want the time with them, the freedom to sleep in. Ha. But the reality is, I don’t know that I want to entertain them, or listen to them fight all day every day for the next 10 weeks.
Kate: Well what if we share the kids? Take turns on certain days? Split them up on certain days and then have a day a week where we all do something together? Then we can both say, have a day a week free and the rest will work itself out.
Me: That is awesome. I’m in for sure. Can I have Friday off?
Kate: I knew you’d ask me that.
Me: At least I’m consistent.
Kate: Um huh. Consistent, pain in the ass maybe.
I wake up late/early one night to the bed shaking. He’s sobbing, all 6’4″ curled up around a pillow, with his hand shoved in his mouth to be quiet. I comfort him and calm him down and then ask why he is so upset. I wanted that baby. I wanted that baby so bad that it hurts. I wanted you to never have to go through this again. I couldn’t fix it and I wanted too. You needed time to grieve, I had to be the one to not fall apart.
Well now it’s your turn I tell him. Babe, we will have another baby, I tell him.
I can’t even tell you how much I wanted to have another baby, he says. That baby, our baby.
We will. That one wasn’t meant to be. But there will be another try, another chance. If not through us, we’ll adopt. We’ll find our baby. The one that is meant to be in this family.
There will be another baby. I know it. I feel it. Not yet, I need time. But sooner than one might think, I’d bet.
It’s a crazy life, it keeps me on my toes, but it’s my life and I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Eight years ago, Logan and I decided to stop using birth control and see what happened. We had grand ideas about being parents. We’d been married two years, we were both on our second to last year of college, we owned a condo and we were ready. Ready to be parents. Ready to change our lives forever and make a family. Really if you think about it, or well, if we think about it, it was an excuse to have lots of unprotected sex. Lots.
More than that though, I always knew I wanted to be a mother. From a very young age, I knew I wanted kids. We argued about how many we’d have, but we both knew we wanted kids.
I’m not exactly sure we thought it would happen so soon; the getting pregnant part. They say a year at the very least when you’ve been on the pill for a while. “They” are morons, whoever they are. I was pregnant within a month.
We planned and organized as we got ready for our baby. Our baby girl who we were so thrilled to be pregnant with. We painted our second bedroom, bought little onesies and sockies, baby proofed our entire condo and went through a name book, name by name. We dreamed big dreams. For her and for us. For our family, the little family we were creating. Huge dreams about what she’d be like. I don’t think this is so out there, I bet there are tons of first time mothers who dream about what their children will be like. We hope for the best and pray for the amazing. We envision perfect lives for them. Lives without fear, hatred, uncertainty or loss. Lives that are full of sunshine and flowers.
I had an idea about what kind of a mom I’d be. That, I’d be spontaneous, fun and never impatient. I didn’t believe being a parent would be all sunshine and roses, but I had a bit of a skewed idea of motherhood. I wouldn’t be big on bedtimes, schedules could be made up as we went along and I’d never force my kid to eat when they didn’t want too. If the food of choice was hot dogs, I’d go with it. The things Logan and I would do with said child, danced in my head. We wanted to travel the world, take our baby with us. Travel the US, see everything and anything. Just get in the car and go. I had great plans for the way my child would be, as well.
Then I was handed this teeny baby. And she was teeny, having been born a month early. She was also nothing like what we’d imagined. Not at all. Don’t get me wrong, she was ours and she was perfect in our eyes. Our beautiful baby girl. God we adored her from the second she came into the world.
She was also great birth control, for tons of other people. Morgan is the kid that makes people go, maybe we’ll start with a fish. She was a screamer, from pretty much birth on. She had colic so bad that we literally had to massage her stomach after every time she ate. She wouldn’t breast feed, so I gave up within a week. It was okay, because I was open to whatever, but also because I needed to be able to give her to other people to feed. She had to be held at all times, non-stop. But only a certain way, which changed often. She wanted her way, all the time, from a very young age. She was a good sleeper at night, I will give her that. She started sleeping though the night at six weeks. She wasn’t a good napper. She was not an easy baby, nor an easy toddler. In fact, nothing about her was or is easy.
My grandiose plans went right out the window. Our ideas of traveling the world with her as a baby, were dashed by the second day of her life. Morgan, even now at, seven and a half years old, is a child that needs a strict schedule. Bedtimes are a must, meals need to be at the same times, changes from the schedule must be explained over and over, for it to go off okay. Even then, it doesn’t always work out for her. She has trouble with transitions, change, deviations from the way she knows it to be. Or wants it to be. We talk about what will happen in her day tomorrow at dinner every night. Over the past few years it has shrunk to: this is the basic plan type of a thing. It used to include great detail: you will wake up, you will eat breakfast, you will get dressed; a full timeline of her day. It wasn’t for us, it was for her. We did it because she needed it.
This is just how my daughter is. It’s a part of her, a part of her that frustrates me to no end some days. I also love it about her. She has changed my views of the world. She has shaped the mother I became. If Bailey had been born first, or even Harrison; I’d be a different mother than I am today. I might be that mother that I thought I’d become. The care free mom.
I am not that mother. I am not the mother I thought I’d be. I am a better mother than I would have been. I know this to be true. I have the rest of my life to travel the world, to see the sites, to live moment to moment. I may not be the mother that I wanted to be. However, I am the mother they need me to be. A mother with rules, who enforces bedtimes, a mother who makes them read half an hour out loud a night, one who makes them eat vegetables and brush their teeth. I don’t make up elaborate art projects, nor do I cook from scratch. But I’ve found people who will do that stuff with them. I am not as patient as I thought I’d be….but I’m more patient than my mom was with us, so that’s an improvement.
I can be spontaneous; the fun mom, who can let rules go for a night. I can run around and play at the park with them, pretending to be a fairy princess; build complex mazes out of pillows on my floor, to avoid the hot lava monster. I can let them go wild in a candy store every now and again. But the next day, I become mom again. Their mom. Morgan, Bailey and Harrison’s mom.
I may not be the mom I thought I’d be, but I’d not give up the mom I am to them in a heart beat. It’s the thing I’m most proud of in this world.
Most of you won’t know this, because it’s been so long that I rarely discuss it, but Morgan was born a month early. Her due date was January 10, 2002. When my water broke on December 7th, 2001, I kinda lost my shit. As we rushed to the hospital, I imagined all of the horrible things that could possibly be wrong with my tiny baby and I just hoped over and over again, that somehow she’d be okay. She was okay. A tiny peanut of a thing, but she was just perfect. I guess she just wanted to do things her way…which is absolutely no different than the way she’s been for the past seven and half years.
We got lucky, this we know. I am thankful every day, when I hear about what others have gone through, that our baby was healthy; that she was only born a month early and not two or three.
Not everyone is so lucky. We all know people. Friends, family, blogging buddies, whose kids needed help early on. Some were born way to early, some born on time, but they all needed medical intervention. Babies who weren’t supposed to make it, but did because of the miracle that is our medical society.
Years ago, a friend of my mothers had a baby boy who was born seven weeks early. He lived until his due date and then passed away. They didn’t know then what they know now. Maybe had he been born today, he’d be alive. No way to know for sure, but it’s definitely a possibility.
A lot of you probably read The Spohrs Are Multiplying. If not, you really should be, because Heather is a freaking crack up. Even funnier than her blog, are her Tweets. The girl regularly makes me shoot wine through my nose. Heather’s little baby girl Maddie was born early. Seriously early. And while she has some lung issues, she’s come a long way. You only have to look at her (and oh hey, you can, see below) to know she’s a miracle baby. Don’t you just kinda want to squish her? Maybe even buy her a pony?
Heather and her husband Mike are raising money for March of Dimes, by participating in a walk for babies in April. Because of Maddie and also because they seem to be nice people in general, they are dedicated to raising money for March of Dimes. To help babies like Maddie everywhere. They are really close to their goal, but I’d love for all of us to maybe help them exceed it. Even ten dollars would help. March of Dimes is a phenomenal charity that helps support parents of preemies, preemie babies and in general is trying to make it where all babies are born healthy. It’s a great cause.
For Maddie, I am not telling you about how I am dying of Strep throat right now. (Possibly for Maura as well, so she doesn’t throw a shoe at my head from California.) For Maddie, I am not telling you how after childbirth, this is the most painful thing I’ve even gone through. For Maddie, I did not post last night when I’d had a vicoden and some wine. Which really is good for all of humanity. I’m also not telling you about how I cried at 2am when Morgan came to me and said her throat hurt.
This post is for Maddie.
Yesterday when I went to pick up Bailey at pre-school I somehow found myself committed to making cupcakes for their Valentines Day party. Back in the day, I used to go and buy cupcakes for my kids school stuff. I even bought the good ones from Sprinkles Cupcakes. Have you ever had sprinkles cupcakes? They are too die for. If you ever have the chance, please try one. But back in those days I had a pay check…man I miss the pay check days….anyhow, I’d go and buy the lovely expensive cupcakes, no problem. Everyone was happy and the world went along just fine. Time has changed though and today I make cupcakes. (Because honestly, there isn’t a Sprinkles Cupcakes around here.) I made 62 cupcakes to be exact. No mix, by hand. With a recipe from Martha Stewart, the Sprinkles Strawberry Cupcakes recipe.
But I am no Martha Stewart. I can bake, in fact I am a better baker than a cook. But still, it’s not something I do often. Unless the slice and bake cookies count, which I doubt they do. These cupcakes are not so easy either. They are very detailed. The frosting is the killer. It has real strawberries in it.
So the girls and I made cupcakes. Loads and loads of cupcakes. There was flour split, eggs dropped and milk somehow missed the bowl about four times. My girls, they love to cook. They get that from their grandmother, because it sure as hell isn’t from me. But they got my absolute inability to use less than every dish in the house while cooking. Also the clean as you go gene, they are missing that one too. Then we made frosting, a gazillion tons of frosting. But the frosting doesn’t really go on the cupcakes easily. Then the red hearts fell off. Then we re-put them on, basically squishing them into the frosting.
After we were done, my BFF Kate had the kids make Valentines at her house, which is great since I am not crafty. The ones in the box would have been more than fine, if I was doing them. In fact I send them to Kate’s house often, specifically so they can do that crap at her house. (I’m not kidding. I’ve banned scissors from my house until Bailey stops cutting up full pieces of paper into shreds and leaving it all over the floor.) While they were gone I sampled a cupcake or two (have to make sure they are not poison) and cleaned frosting off of every surface in my entire freaking kitchen. Also, I’m pretty darn sure that Harrison is not allergic to milk or strawberries, because I’m sure he got a taste of frosting, since he was rolling around the kitchen floor. What can you do? He’s a third kid. He’s lucky we didn’t hand him a BBQ rib the second he was born.
Later that night when Logan came home, he and Bailey had the funniest conversation. I am still laughing my ass off at it. The girls were sitting at the table doing “worksheets”. I put that in parentheses because it’s not real worksheets. Well it is, but not from the school. My kids go to a choice school. Basically they don’t believe worksheets need to be sent home as homework, which I fully agree with. When Morgan gets homework, it’s more hands on, more creative and not mind numbing. However, my kid is um special. I mean that in the best way, really I do. But people, she makes up her own worksheets. For her and for Bailey. Different ones each week. Bailey loves it most days. So anyway they were sitting at the able doing worksheets and I was doing yet another load of dishes when Logan walked in. She said all of this to him, without ever looking up from her sheet.
Logan: Babe, what’s for dinner?
Bailey: Daddy, I think you should buy a new question.
Logan: (laughing) Oh yeah, what question should I have asked?
Bailey: You should say, honey, where am I taking you for dinner.
Logan: Thanks little girl. (Yes we call her little girl. Morgan will answer to big girl and the baby looks up if you say, the boy. They all have numerous nicknames.) Ok, honey, where am I taking you for dinner.
Me: Good question. I’m not sure, but somewhere with wine sounds like a plan.
Bailey: Daddy, that will be two dollars please.
Logan: What, why?
Bailey: Because you bought my question. Now pay up.
Logan: Please.
Bailey: And thank you.
Me: Babe, the girls an extortionist, but you’d better pay her. Because she’s right, you needed to change that question.
Later my BFF Emmy called me and after I’d explained my entire day to her, she said, you know you can buy that mix from Williams-Sonoma right? And you can, you can buy the mix for Sprinkles Cupcakes at Williams-Sonoma. However, as I so nicely told her, that would have been helpful six hours earlier.
By the way, today is not Friday. I didn’t know that until I was completely done. So I have 64, no 58, um 54 cupcakes sitting in my fridge. burp.
Last night, at say two thirty-four ish am (tentatively) Logan and I found ourselves with three sleeping kids, on the bathroom floor. Croup. Oh it’s such a lovely sound. I knew they all had coughs, I’d been listening to it all day, but I didn’t know how bad it was. At 1am, I found out. Bailey and I spent about 45 minutes on the bathroom floor with the shower on at full blast. Then the baby started the seal cough and Logan brought him in the bathroom with us. After another half hour Morgan woke up, came to find us, saw us all on the floor and went and got her blanket and pillow and came in and laid down in between us. All of this without a word. It was almost like she thought it was a slumber party and she was somehow missing out on it. Withing minutes she was asleep. Bailey was asleep in Logan’s arms and Harrison fitfully sleeping in mine. Everyonce in awhile, they’d all start coughing. It was like being in a TB ward or something.
We sat there watching them sleep, listening to them cough for a while without talking. At some point, Logan asked me when it happened? When did what happen, I asked? When did we become the adults?
You know, I just don’t know. I’m not sure when exactly it happened. When Morgan was a toddler and got sick in the middle of the night, I’d still look around for who this mommy of hers was. Why was she looking at me when she said it. I’m not sure when it happened, but I no longer look for her real mommy anymore. I am a grown-up. Logan and I are grown-ups. We have three children, a dog, a mortgage and car payments. In a month, we will have been married for ten years. We save for retirement and our kids colleges. We pay our bills on time and we get our carpets cleaned every now and again. We drink more coffee than alcohol and we enjoy going to bed at a reasonable hour. At some point, we became adults. We’re just not sure when exactly.
I’ll tell you a little secret though. I don’t mind this life. The life of an adult with a family. In fact, I rather enjoy it.
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