sueeeus

We have had a fabulous Thanksgiving weekend, as evidenced by the lack of blogging. Which is part of the flip side to being fully engaged with family, food, and festivities for several days straight. That, along with an inbox overflowing with spammail, and my google-reader post-count incrementing away, leaving all my favorite blogs sadly neglected. The house also looks like it’s been hit by a cyclone, and now that everyone is gone and I’m left with a finicky husband and child, I may well be eating turkey related leftovers for quite some time. And a weekend with school aged children circulating the germs of the season may be taking it’s toll, as evidenced by the swollen eyes and runny nose my little one greeted me with this morning. Poor little guy. I just hope that none of the babies catch the bug.

Yes, babies! The most squeezable snuggly googly gurgly giggly wonderful babies. I had the pleasure of hosting my sister’s family, along with her aforementioned deliciously squeezable 4-month old son, for nearly five days! We all gathered for Thanksgiving proper at my SIL’s place, home of the other snuggly baby, my 6 month old niece, then I brought two of the children back to my place to spend a long weekend with their cousins. I think it may well be impossible to have four children and a tidy home. One or the other, but not both. What a delight, to have a house full of people! Charades, Pictionary, Sudoku, Play-doh, Legos, squirt guns, bubbles, a jigsaw puzzle, movies, food, popcorn, cappuccino (lots of cappuccino), Wii Sports, Wii Play, Dance Dance Revolution, and Guitar Hero filled our days. The grown ups played. The children played. We all had a great time!

My heart is singing today. I’m smiling from the inside out. I probably can’t put it to words, but suffice it to say that it’s a beautiful thing and I feel very, very happy.

It’s a combination of many things, actually.

Last night, my beloved sang himself to sleep. In his race car bed. “Twink-oh, twink-oh widdow stah, how I wondah (pause) ahhhhh, like a diamond, up the sky, twink-oh twink-oh widdow stah…” My heart just bursts. And better yet? No 3 a.m. wakeup call. The whole night, in his own room. The whole night! Would it be too shocking to admit that I allowed him to stay up until nearly 11 p.m.? Even so, the 3 a.m. wakeup call is independent of such things. So. Smiling inside.

This weekend my grandma turned 90. Such a feat, in itself, and she’s still living independently and has control of her mental faculties. She’s doing remarkably well. She’s been in a relatively steady state of health for the last ten years. It’s quite something. My own selfish longevity goal is to make it to 80, if at all possible. Before I had a child, I didn’t have a longevity goal, but now that he’s here, I want to be here for him and see him to adulthood. She reminded me she was an only child. She produced two, who then produced thirteen, who then produced fourteen, who then produced three. These are the generations.

There has been some family drama of the sort in which things are said to give the impression that the sky is falling. And then, like a ray of sunshine, someone steps in with eloquence, humor, and clarity of mind to set the record straight. The mere fact that the angel gave voice is cause for jubilation. The words that he shared, and the way in which he expressed them, were treasure of priceless value. He helped me see a side of things that I generally don’t see. A side that can only be seen through the eyes of unconditional love. A side that is usually clouded by dark memories. I am humbled by his humility, and inspired. Inspired to rise above the chapters of my life that cloud the sunshine from my own heart. And I am grateful. My heart is bursting.

A certain young man was about to crawl behind a rocking chair, which happens to be a place where a tantalizing (especially to a nearly three year old boy) tangle of various and sundry power cords make their home (take a deep breath, I just love these long and impossible sentences, and there’s oh, so much more coming), when his mother barks in her most stern and commanding voice, “Don’t you go there…”

In a mere blink of an eye, a flash, he twists his body to face her, extends his arm, and webs her. WEBS her.

Oh to have captured the expression on his face (this picture captures the gesture, but not the expression). That picture would paint a thousand words.

Oh to fully grasp the depth of the Spiderman obsession. With that flick of the wrist and glint in his eye, he cast forth his invisible web, using his mighty toddler powers to make his mother stop telling him what not to do. Priceless.

I turned to Mr. Gadget. “Did you see what your son just did? He webbed me.”

If only I could have managed not to laugh, and be visibly impressed by my child’s intelligence, dexterity, and imagination, I might have been able to convey the message that “Mommy means business and no means no and you’d jolly well better listen when I’m talking to you, young man.”

Instead, he was obviously pleased with himself, and amused. And even though he didn’t obey me, I was at least able to distract him away from the nest of cords.

Mondays are sometimes difficult for my little guy. Especially after a weekend loaded with fun and frolic. We had my 7 year old nephew over this weekend, while his sisters and mother spent the weekend unpacking and moving in to their new place. We’re all so happy to have them back in our neck of the woods. Now we can resume our fabulous Sunday family dinner get-togethers, and better yet, the boys can have some boy time together. We shall be having many play dates in the months ahead.

Superman is the hero of the season around these parts. My little man’s super hero senses can detect anything with the Superman emblem from yards and yards away. To don the emblem is to become the superhero. So when I insist that it’s time to put on a clean shirt, in order to wash the Superman shirt that has been worn a full day and night (why not sleep in it, if it’s soft and warm, and works just fine for jammies, and yes, that means he didn’t have a bath last night) –let’s just say there are tears of dissension.

I remember when my niece was his age. She had the most awful pink synthetic nightie with a Cinderella decal ironed on the front. She wore that nightie until it was nothing but tatters, because when she wore it, she was a princess. It’s marketing genius on Disney’s part, but why can’t they make these things less tacky? It could be the coldest winter day, but she’d insist on wearing that whisper of a nightie.

The act of being. To don the emblem is to become the hero or the princess. Maybe becoming a first time mother at the tender age of forty (shy two months, but who’s counting) gave me a bit more wisdom, because we have both heavyweight and lightweight superhero-emblazoned pajamas in this house. We’re prepared for all seasons.

It’s so heart-wrenching, on a rainy Monday as today, to explain through his tears that his cousin is at his own house now. To explain that it’s time for me to go to work, and time for him to go to daycare. And again, once we arrive at the daycare, through a new flood of tears, that it’s time to say goodbye.

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.

Inside Mr. Gadget’s desk.  In the bachelor pad.
I wanted my own office, so he turned one of the spare bedrooms into his own office –and now I call that the bachelor pad.  It’s the place, besides the garage, where all things that I don’t want to see must be stored.  Remote control vehicles, electronics, gadgets, and whatnot.

It’s one of those corner hutch style computer desks with a few shelves and cubbyholes.

They were tucked neatly towards the back of one of the shelves.

Mystery solved.

One pair red suede shoes.

Last seen Tuesday.

I am a creature of habit.  I take my shoes off, generally in the same place.  We have a shoe rack, also.  Which we use.  And my house, although cluttered, what with a young and very energetic boy on premise, is not that cluttered.  I mean, it could be worse.

So where are my red suede shoes?

Red, Red, Red Suede Shoes…

There is a certain young man in the house who likes to wear his mother’s shoes and stomp about the house.  He also likes to hide things.  I’m not saying that he has anything to do with it…

…but they are nowhere to be found.  Not in the closet.  Or the other closet.  Or any closet.  Not on the shoe rack.  Not in the washing machine (I just checked).  Not under the sofa.  Not under the bed.  Not in the dryer.  Not in the trash bin.  Not in the recycle bins.  Not under my desk.  Not under the table.  Not under the rocking chair.  Not in the cedar chest.  Not in the file cabinet.  Not in the laundry baskets.  Not in the toy box.  Not in the pantry.  Not in the oven.  Not in the armoire.  Not on the porch.  Not behind the sofa.  Not in the bathtub.  Not in the garage.  Not in the fridge (yes, I looked).  Not in the sand box.  Not in the garden box.

I LOOKED!  I can’t find them anywhere.

Not under the sink.  The place where I keep the little compost bin.  The one that I keep forgetting to diligently empty outside.  The one that is an impressive breeding ground for fruit flies and mold.  The one that is now in the garbage bin.  Because I can’t bring myself to wash it in all it’s ickiness, and recycle it properly (although I did first empty it in the outside compost bin).  And I’m tired of stalking fruit flies with my inhumane airborne insect electrocution device (compliments of Mr. Gadget).  It’s them or me, and I must prevail, humane or not.  War is waged.

But where are my shoes?  They are my favorite shoes.  It remains a mystery.

If you were, oh, say, a two and three fourths year old boy who has had some scary nights now and again, and you came home to find this in your room, what would you think?

You might think that your mother was a magical genie who could, in the span of a lunch break, and with the help of Craig’s List, a fortuitous recent trip to the ATM, and a gallon of gas in the minivan, manage to find, buy, load, unload, sanitize, and assemble THIS!

Yes, it’s plastic. Which means it’s easy to clean. I know, I know. Carbon footprint, and all that. But it’s recycled. There’s no telling how many parents have encouraged their little ones to make it through the night in their own room with this particular bait. When the novelty fades or he outgrows it, whichever comes first, this item will find its way to another home, to hopefully make another child’s life just a wee bit more magical.

And my precious little boy child will have to manage some impressive somnolent contortions to fall out of this contraption. I’m only a bit concerned that he’s already too big for it. Nevertheless, I think he will be delighted, if only for a moment.

A piercing scream. I rip the breathing apparatus from my face and leap from the bed as my child emits another shrill, piercing scream. It’s 3 a.m. Hearts pounding. Holding him close. Comforting him. A bad dream? A spider on his face? I tear his bedding apart, looking for any creepy crawly evidence. None found. Could it have been the wispy edge of the curtain, brushing against his face? Possibly. He sleeps like a helicopter. His head may be on the pillow when first he falls, but through the night he turns and twists and ends up under the bed, half on, half off, or upside down. There’s no telling. This night his face was at the foot, near where the curtains fall. It could have been the tickle of the wispy light drapes on his face. Or was it truly a night terror?

Such a troubling start to a Monday morning. My heart aches for what could cause him such terror. Driving back from daycare, through the fog in my brain, I catch a moment of the morning radio show. Health clips. The topic? Night terrors. The doctor explains that virtually all children who experience night terrors are well-adjusted, and that it doesn’t indicate issues with their mental and emotional health. Moreover, children seldom remember the night terror after they fall back asleep.

It was like manna from heaven. Perfect words at the perfect time to set an anxious mother’s heart at ease.

And there’s even better news. We’ve been making great strides in the potty training endeavor. At the ripe age of two and three fourths, he’s starting to get it.

Of course we make a big production of it.

First, the announcement.

“Ohhhhhhhh, I have to go POTTTTTTTTT-EEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

And then we spring into action. “Hurry!” “Try to hold it ’til we get there!” “Let’s get those pants off!” “Hurry!”

And the chorus. “Hurry!!! Hurry! Hurry!!!”

Sometimes there’s a struggle over wanting to bring a companion toy along for the event. Then there’s the decision as to whether to use the stool or not. Or which stool to use. Or whether to use the potty seat, or not. Or whether to have the seat up or down. He used to immediately begin unrolling the toilet paper. Because that is SO much fun. But now he just hands me the roll. He’s conditioned, since I’ve taken it away from him so many times. Often he’ll change his mind about the seat and stool configuration, so he will stand up and insist on changing things up. And sometimes, he’ll actually go. He finds it quite intriguing. As it is.

“WOOK!!!”

It’s been two years.

I heard somebody once say that it takes two years to get back to a sense of normalcy. Grieving is a process. A very long process.

I wish I could understand. I wish I knew what he was going through. I wish I could have intervened. I wish I could have made him better. Or at least helped him.

I will always remember him as my bright eyed boy.

I miss him.

There’s really no significance behind the picture, other than I think it’s pretty. I like the way other bloggers post pictures of pretty or interesting or pretty interesting things on their blogs. I don’t have pretty or interesting or pretty interesting things happening in my life, in general, but why not post a pretty picture to add a little flourish to an otherwise dull post?

I’m analyzing the side effects of this Zoloft journey. Objectively and subjectively. The diarrhea was very short-lived, thankfully. Less than one day, really. Today is Day 4.   I feel a little dizzy or loopy, tired, and scattered.  Less anxious, though.  My neck and back are killing me, but that’s probably from my chiroquackery.  Yesterday I had the mother of all migraines. I don’t know if it was Zoloft related or not, but it’s certainly nothing that I want to repeat any time soon. There was less than no appetite, and nausea for sure, but those accompany migraine, so I can’t determine whether one caused another or whether one exacerbated the other, neither, or both. Migraine does a number on blood sugar, I see. No food and elevated glucose. I’d have liked to have taken ibuprofen to help the headache, but recently read that ibuprofen usage at the time of conception dramatically increases the chance of miscarriage. Not that I’ve conceived again, but if it’s at all in the realm of possibility, another miscarriage is the very last thing that I want to experience any time soon. So I took some acetaminophen. It didn’t help. I waited a few hours, did some frantic Google searching on the safety of Vicodin with Zoloft, found nothing concrete, and decided to just take the plunge and hope for the best. I stockpile my Vicodin, if ever I get a prescription, so that I have something for emergencies as this. It helped, in that it kept the pounding at bay so that I could get through the day. I thought the caffeine from some strong coffee might help, but I simply couldn’t stomach the idea of anything.

Did I mention that I was watching five kids this weekend? 15 yog, 11 yog, 7 yob, 2 yob, and 6 mos girl. Sitting on the floor at 3 a.m. holding a teething infant with diarrhea and a blistery red diaper rash, trying to change her diaper without inflicting too much pain, feeding her, comforting her, and trying to get her to go back to sleep, all the while breathing slowly through the pounding in my head, and repeating over and over again, Oh dear God, Oh dear God, why do I think I want another child, Oh dear God my head hurts, please don’t let me throw up. Granted, it’s a big step to go instantly from one child to five, and the migraine made it nearly unbearable. I love my nieces and nephew desperately, but how relieved I was for that day to be over! It takes a full night’s sleep for me to recover from a migraine, for some reason.

It fills my heart to bursting, though, to watch the joy in my son’s face as he plays with his cousin. Two rugged beautiful boys chasing each other in circles, running non-stop through the house, upstairs, downstairs, round and round and round, inside, outside, and back again.

It fills my heart with wonder to watch these beautiful children, and untold gratitude that they belong to us.