You are my favorite because...

Another birthday (erm, only a couple of weeks ago...or so...), another favorite post (which I've been working on for a week!)

Owen, you are my favorite because...

You can't stop giving Mitch your birthday money. Every time you spend a little of it, you hand some over to him because you can't stand to see him disappointed.

Your enthusiasm for maps and geography facts has made me an expert on capital cities, both in the U.S. and abroad.

You share my love of Beverly Cleary, Spencer on iCarly (he totally makes that show watchable), drawing, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and sleeping for five more minutes.

When you asked me, "Are you the tooth fairy?" and I responded, "Are you kidding? I don't have time to fly around the world gathering teeth every night!" that was a good enough answer for you.

I said it last year, and I'll say it again: you laugh at my jokes, and you make jokes that make me laugh.

You have good taste in shoes.

Your performance and behavior in school are absolutely the best a parent could hope for, and you do so well because you love it, like I do.

You are proud of who you are and completely unselfconscious.

You are my first born, and there is something special about a mother's love for her first born. You introduced me to the meaning of life, and every day you are that enlightenment made manifest.

Snowball, I can't believe it's already been 7 years. In the same amount of time from now you'll be 14, and that makes me dizzy. Please don't ever leave behind the smart, funny, quirky boy I love.

Loose teeth and other mysteries

It's that week again. The secret week of bliss. But don't tell. I'm working...remember? If anyone asks, I'm working, and it's hard work.

But truly, the work leading up to the opening day of the workshop is hard, and the first day is, if not hard, then stressful. I have to give a speech to a roomful of strangers and field myriad requests and complaints from the participants and faculty. I'm very good at faking poise and aplomb. Underneath, I'm all sweaty palms and knocking knees.

Last night, my nervousness about opening day bubbled up in a seemingly unrelated anxiety dream. This dream revolved around a current household drama, the drama called "when will Owen's first loose tooth fall out?"

Ever since I told Owen that the tooth fairy makes a very big deal over one's first lost tooth, he has been obsessed with its potential date of loss. He begs me for details, "Will it fall out in one day? Two days? Three days and 4 hours?" He has always required precise answers to his questions; unfortunately, I am not well-versed in the typical behavior of loose baby teeth. So I give vague answers, and he is crazy with anticipation.

In short, the loose tooth is a Very Big Deal.

So in my dream, Owen's tooth came out, and he gave it to me for safe keeping until bedtime. And I lost it. On a beach covered in tiny tooth-sized shells. For hours (in dream time) I crawled on my knees in the sand, frantically sifting and sifting and fretting and fretting. But I failed. I woke up before I found it.

It was one of those dreams that exposes very tender vulnerabilities: not only my fear of forgetting some detail for the workshop, or of failing to do my job in some way, but also the deeper, more penetrating and painful fears of a parent, the fear that I'm going to let my child down, scar him in some way, and, ultimately, lose him.

All of this incoherent rambling is an attempt to purge the uneasiness the dream left in me. I can't stop replaying it, feeling that panic and worry. And I realize that my worst fear, in my professional and my personal life, is letting people down, exposing myself as an impostor, as someone who never should have been given the job.

Keep up the good work

It's good to get a pat on the back every now and then, for your employer to tell you, "Right on. You're doing great. Thanks for your contribution to the company."

Even if that employer is 6 and a half (and don't you dare forget the half).

My quarterly bonus:



Some more things about Owen that have me grinning these days:

He's writing books (I can die a happy woman), and they're pretty good books.

He's spent hours this summer pouring over his children's dictionary. This means he loves words = jubilant English teacher mother.

He won the Character Award for his kindergarten class this year. And if there is anything I want my children to be, above being smart or attractive or popular or funny, it's nice. I'm so glad he's nice.

He cracks up at the "Mahna Mahna" skit on the Muppets

He will do anything to make Paige happy. Except share his dry erase markers (thankfully).

He's grown so much this year and overcome nearly all of his insecurities about loud noises. This is huge for him. Huge.

He takes showers alone. This just blows my mind.

He's counting down the days until we go to the beach. He loves our beach as much as I do, and this makes my heart feel warm.

I'm so proud to be the mommy of this little boy. I hope I'm worthy.

Two reasons to love being a mother

Made at preschool by Mitch (the flowerpot, not the sign) :


Made by Owen after he got in trouble for being rude to me today:


Translation:
To Mom, Love Owen
I am 100% sorry about what happened. It will not happen again!

Heart in a puddle on the floor.

p.s. Don't forget to enter the contest!

Up, up and away

adsfsadfads
I have a "from the heart" entry about Owen up at Momformation today. I wish I could cross post! But I can't, so click over to read it. Sniff sniff.

How well do you know Owen?

Here's a sampling of the quiz about himself that Owen gave me today on the way to school (answers below):

1. What is my favorite dinner?

2. What is my favorite movie?

3. What is my favorite TV show?

4. Where do I like to go after school?

5. Do I know the answer to 12 plus 13?

6. Do I know the answer to 23 plus 39?

7. Once, at Kroger, I saw a hockey game for sale. How much was it?

I got 6 out of 7. Guess which one I missed.


(answers: 1. Spaghetti; 2. The Incredibles; 3. Deal or no Deal; 4. The playground; 5. Yes; 6. No; 7. $15.99)

Happy Easter, happy spring

You are my favorite because

My mom tells a story about my sister Blair once asking her, "Who's your favorite?" The question warmed my mother's heart because she realized that Blair wouldn't have asked unless she thought she was the favorite, and isn't it every mom's wish for each of her children to feel that special?

My favorite part of the story is my mom's answer to the question. She said, "You're my favorite because..." and listed all the reasons Blair was special to her. Then she said, "And Kelly is my favorite because...." and "Neal is my favorite because..." and "Ashley is my favorite because..." And it was an honest answer. She had four favorites, all for different reasons, which was just exactly the right answer and is just exactly how I feel about my own kids.

My very first favorite is turning 6 today, which puts a small lump in my throat. I can still look at him and feel the brand new momma love that filled me to overflowing 6 years ago. The first time I felt that love from head to toe was the morning after Owen was born. I was dozing in my hospital bed, trying to ignore the hot throbbing of my cesarean incision and a bit out of my wits from pain medication. John had spent the night at home and was coming to the hospital early, but he hadn’t arrived yet. I was alone. The room was half-lit with the purple glow of 6:00 AM in November and quiet but for the gasping of some monitor they’d strapped me to. The nurse came in with Owen and told me his body temperature was down. She untied my hospital gown and helped me bear my chest; then she stripped Owen to his diaper and laid him on my breast. “He needs your body heat,” she told me. “I’ll come back in an hour.”

The night before had been long and brutal, a nearly 30 hour labor ending in an unexpected and emotional c-section. I’d been a mess in recovery, shaking and sobbing, and they’d kept me there longer than usual, so I’d had very little time with my baby. The time I did have was bleary and crowded with family who’d come to see. Now the nurse left me alone with this small, warm, breathing boy tucked under my chin. She'd given him to me because I was his mother and it was my body heat he needed. Artificial warming lamps were no match for my blood-warmed body, pulsing with the heat and the love he needed.

I experienced that moment out of time. I’d never felt so exactly in the right place, so content and certain and calm. I think of that hour as my initiation into motherhood. I’d been on the threshold before, but during those minutes alone with Owen for the first time and nurturing him wholly for the first time, I crossed into that realm from which you can never retreat, the realm of mothering and its fulfillment, its love, its fear, its anxiety, its complication, its sadness.

Owen is my favorite because…

He thinks my jokes are funny and he makes jokes that I think are funny.

He loves reading and writing and music.

His dearest birthday wish is a package of dry erase markers.

He hugs his brother and sister goodnight every single day.

He loves school as much as I loved school.

He can’t tell a lie and has the guiltiest conscience of anyone I’ve met.

He taught me to be a mother, and he gave me my first taste of the gorgeous, swooning love of parenthood.

Happy birthday, Snowball!

A week in review

Just catching up on recording the little things I'm likely to forget, which was my purpose for starting this blog anyhow...

Wednesday (Halloween):
I always know my children are sick before I know they are sick. I could tell the minute Owen got into the car last Wednesday. His face was droopy and pale, his eyes dull and sagging. His eyes have always shown sickness clearly.

I left work early to go Trick or Treating and called John on the way home. Owen was asleep--at 6:00. I told John, "Go feel him." Yep, a fever. 102. Poor Owen. He cried and cried when Mitch, Paige and I came home with the loot. But Mitch the Witch crawled up on the couch beside Owen the should-have-been ghost and opened his bag o' loot. "Look at all the candy we got!" Yes, he said "we." Those two fight like bandits all day long, but man do they adore each other. Owen dipped his hand right in and helped himself and Mitch beamed.

Thursday:
Owen woke up acutely aware that it was November, his birthday month. After wracking our brains over what to do for a party without spending an obscene amount of money, we've decided to buck the system and have a very small get together with only 3 of Owen's good friends. I was immediately relieved, and Owen was all for it. How much more fun it will be to have good buddies around to play with rather than a crowd of kids and the chaos of a 15-child party. I'm appalled at how much places want parents to pay for a child's party these days. If we had a bigger house, we'd be pinning tails on donkeys and dropping clothespins in jars right here every year. It's gotten to be too much. So I'm refusing to do it. I'm sick of the excess.

Friday:
My niece's birthday. We went over for cake and presents, and it was fun to see my brother and sister. And the cousins, as always, were giddily gleeful to be together. My niece liked her present, and the only bump in that road was Owen's also liking her present--so much that he didn't want to leave because he hadn't played with it yet.

Saturday:
We went to the fall festival at the neighborhood elementary school (not Owen's school). The weather was amazing, 65 and sunny, and it was more fun spending money (on games and rides) knowing it was going to the school. Our jaws dropped at the difference between the donated items in the silent auction and raffle at this school and the school (in a much more affluent area) festival we went two a couple of weeks ago. Not equal. It made me sad. The DJ played "Staying Alive," and Paige found her calling: disco dancing.

Sunday:
Cleaning and resting and sewing. Fabric shopping with my mom for a bit. Perfect day.

Monday:
Paige cracked me up this morning, holding the phone up to her ear and saying, "Hi." But it's more like "Ha"; "hi" with a bit of a drawl, I suppose. She's got a few words now: hi, mama, dada, nana (banana and all other food), ni ni (night, night). I love love love one year olds. Every day is an adventure. Every day she grows in some new way. She loves to climb and explore. And, of course, every day her adventures wear me out a little bit more.

School was easy tonight. I'm off to sew again since I don't have papers to grade. I had a friend commission me to make a bundle baby for her. I'm excited that someone wants my stuff! And I'm thrilled that my friend's 2 year old loves her own bundle baby.

Here are a few stuffies I've made lately that I'm particularly proud of (I'm still a beginner, though, so forgive the crookedness of these toys):

Bundle Babies #2 and #3

Sock Dogs: Argyle and Brady

Driving me crazy

There is a word for what I do each day on my 25 minute drive home from Owen's school: Endure. I endure it. It is my least favorite part of the day, and it is a wonder I have not left my children somewhere on the side of the road. Yet.

Come, reader, take the ride with me:

2:40 pm: Join the carpool line. Mitch whines that he wants to get out of his car seat and sit up front while we wait.

2:43 pm: Give in and allow Mitch up front. Paige cries at the injustice of being left in her seat.

2:46 pm: Mitch changes the CD for the 4th time, rolls the window up and down, flips on the windshield wipers, turns the heat on full blast, and blares the radio using the stereo remote control's volume button.

2:49 pm: Approach the front of the line and ask Mitch to get buckled into his seat...seven times. Finally hiss, "Get in your seat!"

3:01 pm: Mitch climbs in his seat at the very moment the carpool worker lets Owen into the van. Owen and Mitch get tangled up as Owen tries to push past and get to his own seat. Shoving ensues.

3:03 pm: Reach the main road. Ask Owen how his day was. A mile into the drive, notice that Mitch is in his seat but not buckled.

3:05 pm: Owen asks to stop at McDonald's for a drink. I say no. Owen whines that he's thiiiiiirrrrrsssty! I say no. Owen whines and whine and whines. I turn the radio up a notch.

3:06 pm: Owen says he's car sick.

3:07 pm: Owen says he's "really serious" and needs to get out of his seat to lie in the floor. I say, "Get the bucket."

3:08 pm: Owen argues that he can't throw up in the bucket because we might need it for the beach next summer. He begs to lie on the floor. I tell him, "Get the bucket."

3:09 pm: A groaning, simpering Owen threatens to barf on the seat if he isn't allowed to lie down. I say, "GET. THE. BUCKET."

3:10 pm: Owen says he has to pee sooooo bad. I tell him he has to wait.

3:11 pm: Mitch says he has to pee.

3:12 pm: Paige starts to cry.

3:15 pm: Owen takes his shoes off, props his feet on the back of Mitch's seat and shrieks, "Smell my stiiiiinky feet!" Hilarity ensues.

3:16: Hilarity escalates.

3:17: "Smell my stinky feet" degenerates into "smell my poop." I remain calm. I ask nicely for the boys to tone down the noise.

3:19 pm: Mitch screams at the top of his voice when Owen rubs his stinky feet on Mitch's head. I lay out the first threat: bedroom lock down for half an hour after we get home.

3:21 pm: Mitch screams again to see if I mean it. Punishment imposed. Loud, whiny protests ensue.

3:22 pm: Owen screams when Mitch kicks a shoe backwards into Owen's seat. I turn, glare, and say, "Are you trying to get a time out, too?" The answer, "No," is spoken through a suppressed smile. Seething ensues.

3:24 pm: Mitch screams when Owen throws the shoe back. I lay down second threat: no TV all afternoon.

3:25 pm: Mitch emits a squeal that is just quieter than a scream to annoy me while evading further punishment.

3:27 pm: Ask Owen if he has homework. He answers, "I have one poopy-doopy homework."Mitch cackles. Hilarity reaches epic proportions. Noise level in the car becomes unbearable to anyone over the age of 8.

3:28 pm: At a stoplight, shoot the death-glare over my shoulder and growl, "Guys. I have asked you over and over to calm down. Now DO IT."

3:29 pm: Muffled hilarity ensues.

3:30 pm: Arrive home and ask Owen to carry his book bag inside. Owen whines that his book bag is tooooo heaaaaavy.

3:31 pm: Stand outside the car holding the 25-pound baby while coaxing Mitch out of the driver's seat of the van, where he is flicking the headlights and yanking the seat belts.

3:32 pm: Pee a little when Mitch leans on the horn, scaring the bejeesus out of me.

3:33 pm: Drag Mitch from the car. Notice Owen walking into the house sans book bag.


This is the scenario every single day. In fact, this is a run down of a relatively good day.

So when you happen to look up in the afternoon and notice that it is 2:45 pm (Eastern time), pity me, good readers. Pity me and pray for the lives of my children.

Anxious moms and alpha boys

I have long believed that nerdy, egg-headed kids make the coolest, most interesting grown-ups. I have long believed that the traditional school curriculum undervalues creative and athletic talent. I have long believed that one method of teaching and one teacher cannot possibly speak to the intellects and the abilities of all the children in the class. I have considered these issues carefully. I can make (and have made) fairly solid arguments in defense of these beliefs.

Yet I find myself anxiously hoping that Owen is popular in school. I worry that he doesn't come home gushing about how much fun he had playing with so and so at recess. I find myself feeling smugly satisfied at his good grades, at his ability to excel at the kindergarten curriculum. And I find myself anxious to train, to improve him when I find areas in that curriculum where Owen's performance is mediocre.

I don't think it's unusual for parents to feel worried or proud for these reasons. Not at all. Of course I want him to have friends and do well. But I do wonder how I can believe so strongly that geeky kids are diamonds in the rough and that traditional school is not best for every kid yet hope so vehemently that my own child fits neatly into the mainstream.

Today I joined Owen on his first kindergarten field trip to a farm and pumpkin patch. He was thrilled that I was coming along and even told me on the drive out there, "Mrs. F says we can hold hands with our moms on the field trip." While I was touched by his wish to stay close to me, his comment caused my worry to bubble up again: is he lonely at school? is he unhappy among these new kids? do they accept him? why does he want me there?

My observation of Owen among his classmates today told me that he's not lonely. He does have friends. One boy even seems smitten with him, showing up out of nowhere at odd intervals to call, "Owen!" then smiling and waving. He trailed us at times without striking up any conversation, content just to be near Owen.

Yes, Owen had some friends, most a little less creepy than Lurking Kid; one adorable little boy even asked his mom if Owen could come over for a playdate. At the same time, Owen definitely wasn't one of the rowdy alpha boys, jostling and shoving and poking each other and giggling during the butter making demonstration--the same antics Owen and Mitch engage in every single day at home. I was surprised that my son wasn't drawn to that melee since silliness reigns in our household. Instead, he listened attentively to the farm guides; he followed field trip rules to the letter; he sat quietly, observantly on the hay ride. I even had one of the "lunch moms" tell me, after I'd complained about the noise level at home, that she had always considered Owen one of the quiet kids.

I found myself weighing all of this on the way home and finally asking myself why I was so obsessed with defining Owen's social status at school. I have never worried about this sort of thing before, but I suppose that his hitting school-age and starting out at a school where he'll attend kindergarten through high school makes the stakes seem high. Whatever name he makes for himself now, in his first year, could follow him (at least to some degree) through 12th grade. I don't want any stigma to descend on him, any shyness this first year to mark him as a wallflower.

All the same, I wish I could relax about it.

In grade school, I was pretty middle-of-the-road. I was certainly not one of the most popular kids, but I had my foot in most social circles, even if I was committed only to my very best friend. She and I tended to isolate ourselves somewhat, fancying ourselves too different, too mature, (too good?) to join up with any group in particular (though in reality, any time an invitation was extended to us from one the more popular groups, we jumped at it).

I don't know if I'm sensitive to Owen's social world because I felt inadequate or if my worry comes from the recognition that Owen is a bit of an oddball. In my heart, it's the oddball in him that I adore the most, that endears him to me. But in that part of my me that yearns for the acceptance that we all, to some degree, yearn for, I find myself hoping that my little oddball can fake it enough to survive in the mainstream, to never feel left out or left behind.

I hope the better part of me (and him) will let go of my shallow hope and remember to value what is truly valuable about Owen. I hope the better part of me will let go of my shallow hope before I teach him to subdue those impulses that make him the ingenious, charismatic, funny kid I adore...and I hope it happens before he stops adoring himself.

(Picture of Owen studying a large outdoor sculpture at the Art Museum, 3 years old)

Bon's first question, part two

Owen's birth changed me to the core. Being his source of life, the woman who carried him for 9 months, nurtured him with her own milk, and met his endless, ever-changing needs flipped a switch in me. Suddenly, I knew mother love, a brand new, intoxicating emotion.

When I think back to those early days with Owen, I really do remember them as drunken. I was high on baby, consumed with his every movement, gesture, sigh, burp, yawn. When he was asleep, I journaled about him and organized his pictures. I shot hours of videotape, meticulously recorded his milestones, read parenting book after parenting book. I was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Though I consider Bailey a daughter to me, I am not her mother in the same way I am Owen's mother. Bailey has a mother--a wonderful one--who lives only a few miles from me and John. Bailey sees or talks to her mother every day. When she is sad or excited or upset, she will settle for me if she has to, but her mother is the first place she turns, even when she's with us.

I am Owen's first place to turn, and being that kind of mother changed my life. Everything shifted. All that I'd considered important--career, ambition, travel--was instantly downgraded. Being Owen's mother fulfilled me in a way I'd never imagined. A brand new feeling unfolded in me, and I saw right away there was no going back. Once you experience mother love, you are ever more a mother, and you will always see the world through those eyes.

In November of 2001, when I gazed down at that squirmy, squinting newborn, I knew I was face to face with the meaning of life.

High Fives

Indulge me this evening as I hand out some high fives to my kids for the things they are doing lately that make me proud. Starting with the oldest:

Bailey:
She came home aglow with pride (and sweat) today because she completed a 2 mile run, without walking any of it, at track practice. She joined the cross country team at school only 2 weeks ago, and this her first experience with running. So a 2 mile run was quite an accomplishment for her, especially in 100 degree weather.

Owen:
On the top of the list for Owen is how well he's doing in Kindergarten. Apart from (and in spite of) his noise phobia, he is absolutely thriving at school. His first progress report was outstanding, and he gets into the car every day with so much enthusiasm and zeal. He seems to be forming some real friendships and is taking so much pride in his work. It does a mommy's heart good to see him doing well and feeling good about himself. He's working hard to be better about his fear, too. He told me last week that he managed to get through the start of morning announcements without covering his ears, which I know took a great deal of resolve and even courage.

Mitch:
Sigh. Mitch. He's such the rabble rouser lately, some days I have to work really hard to find positive ways to encourage him. But his big accomplishment this month is potty training, late as it may be (he's 3 and a half). As I have surely mentioned, he's been halfway trained for a year now but had recently been heading backwards rather than forwards, which was frustrating to say the least. So last Sunday night, while changing a particularly disgusting Pull-up, I decreed that, come morning, we were done with the darn things. He'd go commando or wear underwear, but Pull-ups were only for bedtime.

For 2 days we stayed home, and he ran around in a long shirt with nothing on underneath, since I knew he wouldn't go on the floor. And he didn't. After those 2 days were up, he asked to put his pants back on (poor kid) and save a few minor accidents has been doing great ever since. (I guess I should have laid down the law a little sooner, huh?) So I'm proud of him for getting it together before forfeiting the $200 deposit for the preschool class he had to potty trained to enter.

Paige:
That baby is so. darn. patient. Since Owen started school, she has spent a whole lot of time in the car and running errands. Our routine lately has been morning nap for Paige, lunch, errands, and then straight to get Owen (a 25 minute drive each way plus about 20 minutes in the carpool line). So she's out for nearly 4 hours a day, and rarely does she fuss about it. She takes her afternoon nap in the car, wakes up on the way home from school, and happily babbles to her brothers for the rest of the drive. She's an ideal third child in that respect. She's also starting to "talk" a little bit. We've heard her say (or at least very nearly say) "mama" and "melon" and "uh-oh." Smarty pants.

It's been a big year for all of us. Coming up on Paige's first birthday in October feels like a milestone for our family as much as it is for her. Her birth was a shake-up for us, of course, and was the first of many changes in our lives: new baby, new schools, new jobs, new family routines (with John working at home now). I am starting to feel settled in to all of this change, and it feels good. So yay for all of us and high fives all around.

Love, Mom

When I was little, I'd come home from school, go up to my room, and find the bed neatly made with my stuffed animals on it arranged in some silly anthropomorphic way: peeking out from behind pillows, curled up under the blankets with stuffed paws tucked sweetly under stuffed heads, sitting in a circle as if holding a round table. This was my mother's doing, of course, and she admits now that she got tremendous pleasure out of setting those stuffies up in a new way every day, imaging my giggles when I came home and found them.

My thing is lunch box notes. I love writing them. Sometimes my lunch box notes are so elaborate, I'm afraid Owen's teacher will think I'm an obsessive compulsive freak with too much time on her hands. I compose poems, write rebuses, draw illustrations, decorate with stickers. I am endlessly amused at myself over the clever lunch box notes I craft. The best ones I show to John before tucking them away in Owen's bag. John is never as impressed as I'd like him to be.

Like my mother and I about her stuffed animal jamborees, Owen and I don't really discuss the lunch box notes. I don't think he's even mentioned them more than once or twice, and he never comments on them in detail. In some ways, this is disappointing. It makes me wonder if I'm kidding myself to imagine him reaching into his lunch box with giddy anticipation, excited to see what my notes will say every day. I picture him reading and giggling and smiling to himself and feeling my mom-love from 15 miles away. And maybe that is how it goes, but he never tells me so.

I do have one clue, however, that the notes mean something to him after all. Every day, Owen comes home with a tidy lunch box. In true type-A fashion, he is sure to throw away his scraps and trash instead of stuffing them back in the bag for me to deal with later. But he has never, no never, thrown away one of my notes. Every evening, when I unzip the bag to prepare the next day's lunch, today's note flutters out, neatly refolded. He keeps them. While all else is tossed in the trash, he keeps them.

He is His Brother's Keeper. And Maimer. But Mostly His Keeper.

The sibling love runneth deep in this house. That is, it runneth when they aren't hitting, biting, snatching, yelling, pushing, and tackling each other. But I can live with the maiming (even as frequently as it happens) because of what runs beneath that: the very real, very endearing, and very complex love my children have for one another.

Tonight while John, Paige, and I were finishing up dinner, Owen and Mitch were playing tug-o-war with a jump rope in the family room. Of course, eventually, Owen tried the old "let go while the other person is pulling with all his might" trick and Mitch went flying. He fell against the brick hearth, scraping and bruising his side pretty badly. Mitch is usually a stoic little guy, so when we heard his pained howl and Owen's frantic "I'm sorry, Mitch! I'm sorry!" we knew he was really hurt.

Owen looked on, his brow furrowed in sincere concern, as we iced Mitch's bruise and wiped his tears, and he told Mitch he was sorry a few more times. He kept eying us warily, waiting for a punishment, until I finally told him it was okay. We knew it was an accident. We knew he hadn't meant to hurt Mitch.

After calming everyone down, I went about my 7:00 business: dishes, baby bathing, counter wiping, next-day-lunch making. I could see Owen at the kid-sized table in the family room, occupied with drawing (a common sight in our house) and Mitch on the couch with Dee Dee (his beloved blankie), sucking his fingers in post-accident recuperation. A few minutes later I overheard Owen telling Mitch he'd made something for him; then he handed his little brother the notes in the photo above and quietly explained to him what the words said.

The affection my children show for one another is, without a doubt, the best thing about parenting siblings. Nothing is more gratifying than to know that those I love best in the world are cherished nearly as much by other people. Every morning, every single morning, Mitch's chin wobbles when he wakes up and realizes that Owen is already at school. And every day, Mitch asks from about 10:00 on if it's time to pick Owen up yet. On Saturdays, Owen, the early riser, begs to be allowed to wake Mitch up, and if I tell him no, he makes up excuses to go into their room, clearly plotting to "accidentally" wake him.

Tonight Paige walked (well, stumbled) across the family room behind her push toy for the first time. The boys' excitement at this feat and their cheers and hair ruffling congratulations afterward had Paige beaming. I swear I could almost see an aura of love and admiration around her; she was fairly aglow with it. I've posted before about how heartwarming the boys' adoration of Paige is, but every time I witness it, it bowls me over again. At times like those, I imagine that Paige will always hold a special place in the family, in the sibling order. The boys will always dote on her, encourage her, help her along, and she will bask in their affection, thrive in it.

Before sitting down to write this post, I peeked in at Owen and Mitch, asleep their beds--twin beds that they've pushed together so they can sleep next to each other. When I left after putting them to bed tonight, each was on his own side, tucked in neatly with plenty of space left between them. But just now, at 11:30, they had, as they do every night, migrated toward each other as they slept and were sprawled out in the middle of the bed together, limbs entwined, mouths agape, wearing expressions of pure contentment. The contentment of feeling safe and loved and close to someone who is looking out for you. Someone who looks forward to seeing you every day.

Even if it's only so he can pummel you for overstaying your turn on the computer.

Groovy, Man

I peed my pants a little...

Character Flaws

On Friday afternoons, Owen's kindergarten class has "character education," a class about manners, kindness, and, apparently, good hygiene. This week, he brought home a "Character Calendar," a sheet with a grid that contains several deeds of good character for the students to check off as they complete them: "I was kind," "I did not gossip" (do 5 year olds really gossip?), "I did my chores," "I took a bath or shower" etc.

By Friday night, Owen had 75% of the squares checked off after spending Friday afternoon dashing around being full of good character:

"Mommy, you look nice....Wasn't that kind, Mommy?" (Gallops off to mark the "I was kind" square.)

"Mommy, may I please have some milk. That was good manners!" (Scrambles off with pen in hand.)

I finally drew the line with the following exchange:
"I put a cup in the sink, Mom."
"Good! Thanks!"
"Is that kind?"
"Well, actually that's doing a chore."
"But I already have that square marked off...I'll just call it being kind."

So I had to explain to my darling overachiever that it wasn't really in good character to equivocate about your good deeds or do a half-assed job of being kind, or helpful, or polite just so you can be the first one back with your character calendar filled, wildly waving it over your head on Monday morning, calling, "Teacher! Teacher! Do you want our character calendars? I finished mine already" while all the other kids glare at the back of your head.

He of exceedingly good character took the news hard and stalked off in a most impolite and unkind manner, leaving me to wish he'd done his check marks in pencil so I could erase a few of those suckers.

What hasn't occurred to him is that to complete the character calendar, you have to have checked off THREE "I took a bath or shower" spaces, and in this house? With the chaos of our days lately? That could take some time.

Addiction

It has recently come to light that a member of my family is hopelessly addicted to a powerful substance, one that has such a grip on this person that it even disrupts her sleep. She wakes several times a night for a quick fix, though during the day she is able to function normally, if a bit crabbily.

Yes, my boobie milk is that good.

Paige has recently regressed to the newborn stage, where she insists upon waking every hour to have a wee sip of breast milk. I know that her waking is not out of hunger. She eats heartily at dinner, especially now that she's added some table food to her diet. And many nights John puts her to bed with a nice fat bottle of formula. But still, from about 11 o'clock on, she insists on waking and fussing until I let her nurse. She latches on for about 5 minutes and then goes right back out. And it's getting very very old. Very very very old.

I know, I know, I'm a sucker. If I wasn't so wimpy, I'd be a mama with a backbone who makes her too-old-to-nurse-every-hour 9 month old cry it out. But I've always had trouble with that technique. Something in me just won't let me leave my babies bawling and wondering why I'm not coming to the rescue. I have no problem with the technique itself; I just can't seem to follow through.

So I'm walking around rather blearily these days, biting everyone's heads off over the slightest indiscretions.

This hasn't been the best of weeks anyway. We've been casually browsing real estate a nearby town, and I've developed new house fever. Right now it's about a 30 minute drive to and from Owen's school, and since we want all the kids to attend there, it makes sense to move closer, especially since we're past ready for more space anyway. But realistically, we won't be ready, financially or otherwise, to move until at least the spring. I've worked myself into a lather over a couple of perfect houses I've come across in my browsing, lying in bed wracked with angst that we can't do anything about these perfect houses. So I've decided to stop looking for awhile and trust that the right house will appear when we're ready for it. (It will appear, right? RIGHT?)

Another not-so-great part of this week: an email from Owen's teacher asking about his noise sensitivity. She told me that he's been falling apart before the intercom comes on in the morning and in the afternoon, crying and covering his ears. Apparently he also lost it during class, as well, when his reading teacher used an electronic timer during their classwork. We knew that the intercom was bothering him, but he had not shared with us that he'd been as upset as his teacher indicated he was, and it breaks my heart that he has been struggling with this on his own. That he hasn't told us tells how scared he's been shows me that he's trying hard to work through it and that he's a little embarrassed. Poor kid. We do have an appointment set up with a child psych that a friend recommended. I'm hoping it will help. This anxiety is only getting worse, and I'm afraid of what it will grow into if we don't teach Owen to cope now.

And to top it off, it's been over 100 degrees every day this week. Dog days for sure. Yipp-flippin'-ee.

A Sad Milestone

His first at-school meltdown. Oh just rip my heart out and mail it to the top of Kilimanjaro. It did me in. I'm likely to homeschool him from here on out. If only homeschooling didn't require any discipline on my part, I'm sure I could do it.

Many moms of elementary schoolers are probably already familiar with the "stoplight" system of discipline in the lower grades, but in case you're not savvy, here's an overview: Staying on green is the goal. Every kid has a stoplight and a clothespin. The pin starts out on green every day. If a child misbehaves, he gets an "X" on his behavior card. In our school, 4 X's mean the child's pin moves to yellow. Staying on green all week results in the much coveted trip to the treasure box on Friday.

Yesterday John picked Owen up from school. When they got home, Owen blew past me, shirttail out, shoes untied, and went to his room calling back to me, "I gotta unpack my bookbag!" I was puzzled, as he usually stops to say hello and blather about his day for a bit before moving on to anything else. When John passed me, he gave me a dark look. Something was amiss.

Before going back to check on him, I learned from John that Owen had gotten an "X" on his card. Just one. No change to his "green" status, just one little "X." This, apparently, was NOT okay with our little rule Nazi. In fact, it fairly undid him, and, John reported, he bawled all the way home from school. Sigh.

So I had a little chat with Owen, and he told me (after some snuffling and a round of fresh tears) that he'd been playing with his glasses when he was supposed to be doing something else, so the teacher had given him an "X." He got so upset about it, the teacher sent him to the restroom to calm down. I hugged him, wiped his eyes, and explained that everyone makes mistakes, told him that what happened was no big deal and one "X" wasn't the end of the world. I said that know he knew that he needed to listen closely to what the teacher wants him to do. He seemed much better after realizing we weren't disappointed in him.

I'm not sure which part of this is most painful to me. To imagine him feeling ashamed and humiliated and embarrassed with no one to turn to is gut wrenching. That he had to leave the classroom to get himself together is the saddest thing ever. And that he ran past me to unpack his bookbag before I could see any evidence of his "X" bothers me. Did he think we'd be angry about one little mistake? Does he see us as that hard nosed?

My reaction to this relatively small incident is so first-time mom of me, I know. But all of this letting them step into the world alone stuff is hard as hell. What's hardest for me is standing by while he faces moments of sadness or embarrassment or loneliness by himself, without us there to turn to. It's necessary, of course. But he's only 5, and that first push out of the nest is damn hard.

I'm sure I'll feel this way again, as we reach other milestones. Like college. Holy crap, college. Maybe if I start brushing up now, I'll be smart enough to homeschool him to a BA.

Their Lives Flashed Before My Eyes

Two scares this week, and that's enough for me, thank you.

The first one happened on Wednesday. I'd had just about enough of the Bobos ("big brothers"), so I hauled them off to their room for a nap. Naps are rare for the boys these days because if they nap, they don't go to bed until at LEAST 9:00 if not much later, but some days I just can't wait for bedtime to restore my sanity.

We read some books, then I got up to put Paige to bed. Owen started whining that he wasn't tired, didn't want to sleep, needed a snack etc. If he's tired enough to sleep, he doesn't usually argue, so I told him he could go out and quietly watch a movie on the couch. Mitch was already snuggled in and content, so he stayed put. As I left the room, John came in to take a cat nap and have a snuggle with Mitch. I put Paige to bed.

When I came out 20 minutes later, John was back at the computer, and the house was quiet. Really, really quiet. Owen wasn't in the family room, so I checked the playroom. No Owen. I asked John where Owen was, expecting him to tell me he'd come to bed after all, but he didn't know either. As John started calling Owen's name, a flutter of panic passed through my gut, and a gruesome slide show of possibilities--seriously awful scenarios--started up in my brain: kidnapping, freak accident, crossing the street alone, wandering through the neighborhood... I didn't think Owen would leave the house without permission, but we could not find him.

We'd already looked in the bedroom once, but John went back in to check again, and I followed. As I entered the doorway, I noticed, at the same time John did, a spot of blue under the covers: Owen's shirt. And there he was, sprawled on the bed, thumb half out of his mouth, glasses still on, a puddle of drool on his pillow. He'd crawled into bed unnoticed, pulled the covers over his head, and gone to sleep, and John hadn't seen him when he left the room. Oh thank god. Thank god thank god thank god.

Suddenly, the 30 minutes of quiet I was after didn't seem quite so desirable, after having imagined our loud-mouthed, relentlessly needy, sometimes purely obnoxious first born child lost or maimed somewhere out in the world.

The second scare was last night.

We were at the pool and had finally convinced Mitch that he could safely stand in the 2 feet. After finding his footing, he went from deathly afraid of swimming in the big pool (though the 2 feet is in a roped off area that gets no deeper than 3 feet), to exuberantly fearless.

John was standing in the 2 feet with Mitch while pulling Paige around in her floaty, and I was with Owen, who was trying to work up the courage to swim underwater to the other side of the rope. My back was to John and Mitch and Paige. Suddenly, John barked, "Ashley!" in his panicked, do something NOW voice, and I whipped around to see what was happening. But I didn't see anything. Then I spotted him. Mitch, right behind me and nearly completely underwater, his face--blotchy, red and wracked with panic--turned up to keep it above the surface. While John was busy with Paige, Mitch had followed Owen and me from the 2 feet into the 3, and the water had gotten too deep.

I snatched him up, and he started burping and spitting up water, head on my shoulder. I kept him there well after he'd stopped coughing, feeling his furious heart beat against my chest.

That heart beat filled me with a powerful sense of relief and despair. We'd been within a hair's breath of something awful happening, and we hadn't seen it coming. That's the way of tragedy. It does not announce itself. It is sneaky and vile and forever right around the corner.

But we'd kept it at bay one more time. Thank god thank god thank god.