My nephew was born today. He came C-section and weighing in at more than nine pounds. It is a hard way to lose weight, but childbirth is such a nice way to start a person. Here is my ode to Xander.
Baby X
Welcome to this sphere.
We're glad to have you here.
You are fresh and pure,
A special cure
For a lonely girl
Like your sister
She'll like you, Mister.
I know for sure I do.
Before I even meet you.
You are your Daddy's son
And Momma's precious one.
A hard journey lies ahead,
So rest your little head.
Welcome to our clan,
Baby X man.
Love, Auntie Insane in the Mom Brain
(Soon your Mom will join the ranks of low brain capacity, over-worked, sleep-deprived, very grateful to raise God's children, "Is that another gray hair?", multiple child joyousness). Right now, maniacal laughter is echoing through the rafters of my padded wall domicile. Tee hee!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Smells Like Chicken, Tastes like...
I specialize in embarrassing myself, whether publicly or privately. It is a natural talent that I possess and can't seem to shake.
I am the star of one of our family's most memorable stories having to do with ordinary baby food. I was feeding my son Benjamin a jar of Organic Blueberry Applesauce. I had him sitting on the kitchen counter, where he couldn't run away. When my son had finished the jar, I lifted him down and he ran off. I saw some of his yummy baby food in a splatter on the counter and swiped it up with my finger. It was neither yummy or applesauce, but organic matter of a deeper, darker and more disgusting origin. Yes, it does taste just like it smells! I used all matter of cleaning fluids to wash out my mouth but felt dirty for days. The joys of motherhood.
All five of my kids have had the ability to make or break an average diaper. I have so many stories of flinging fecal matter and leak-throughs of magnanimous proportions. I could write a book! A great example of bodily functions gone wrong would have to include my oldest son at a Cub Scout meeting where I was the newest Assistant Den Mother. During a prayer, my son passed gas making a man sized blast of sound. A scout turned from the row of chairs in front of me and gave me an accusing look. "It was the baby," I told him. He emphatically said "That was no baby."
This last Sunday at church we were at a special ceremony for our son who just turned twelve and has had many more responsiblities placed upon him. My baby brother came from college to help in my son's ordination and was holding my nine month old son while sitting next to my oldest son. The boy on the other side of him says "Does anyone else smell that? It smells like chicken." After the ceremony, we were leaving the room and as I was handed the baby I discovered the source of the "chicken" smell. It was not a fowl smell, but a foul smell emanating from his diaper.
For the rest of the day, if either boy had a dirty diaper, we would say "It smells like chicken" and it's someone else's turn. That's the pecking order, now isn't it? Get it?
I am the star of one of our family's most memorable stories having to do with ordinary baby food. I was feeding my son Benjamin a jar of Organic Blueberry Applesauce. I had him sitting on the kitchen counter, where he couldn't run away. When my son had finished the jar, I lifted him down and he ran off. I saw some of his yummy baby food in a splatter on the counter and swiped it up with my finger. It was neither yummy or applesauce, but organic matter of a deeper, darker and more disgusting origin. Yes, it does taste just like it smells! I used all matter of cleaning fluids to wash out my mouth but felt dirty for days. The joys of motherhood.
All five of my kids have had the ability to make or break an average diaper. I have so many stories of flinging fecal matter and leak-throughs of magnanimous proportions. I could write a book! A great example of bodily functions gone wrong would have to include my oldest son at a Cub Scout meeting where I was the newest Assistant Den Mother. During a prayer, my son passed gas making a man sized blast of sound. A scout turned from the row of chairs in front of me and gave me an accusing look. "It was the baby," I told him. He emphatically said "That was no baby."
This last Sunday at church we were at a special ceremony for our son who just turned twelve and has had many more responsiblities placed upon him. My baby brother came from college to help in my son's ordination and was holding my nine month old son while sitting next to my oldest son. The boy on the other side of him says "Does anyone else smell that? It smells like chicken." After the ceremony, we were leaving the room and as I was handed the baby I discovered the source of the "chicken" smell. It was not a fowl smell, but a foul smell emanating from his diaper.
For the rest of the day, if either boy had a dirty diaper, we would say "It smells like chicken" and it's someone else's turn. That's the pecking order, now isn't it? Get it?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Fridge Safety
When your child is going through some obnoxious stage, people tell you "Oh, he'll grow out of it." Yeah, right! This will be the death of us first!
Some of the stages that we have had the opportunity to survive are:
(1)Coloring all over the house with crayons, pens, markers, etc.,
(2)Stabbing counters, sinks, walls and upholstered wall covers Mom made, with sharp objects,
(3) Spewing forth large and frequent amounts of water,
(4) Fecal painting,
(5) Urinary protests on furniture and in stores,
(6) Running away at every opportunity,
(7) Refusing to wear clothing,
(8) Climbing on the roof,
(9) Dumping all his leftovers in the trash like at the school cafeteria,
and as a final example,
(10)Frequently testing alarm systems on exit doors in public places.
Three emergency alarms on the same visit is our record (he was on a kid leash to make it more embarrassing), but we've tied the record one other time too. No, these are not all of his "stages," but I could be here too long otherwise. The truth is, that as slow and tedious and elusive as that conclusion is, it does come. We have grown past some of his behaviors and cope with the others. Get to the point! Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there.
(Deep breath). Our fridge and pantry are locked for a reason, a really good reason. A one man wrecking crew frequently visited our food stores with catastrophic results. He would swim in the contents of a dozen broken eggs, splash in juice all over the floor, sprinkle brown sugar or a canister worth of cinnamon all over our bed, or whatever obscure application he could find for butter or oil. He was a food artist specializing in mixed media and murals.
Well, our fridge now has two hasps screwed into it and two carabiners that "lock" the food away. It is not a Weight Watchers diet secret, it is a means of survival in an unpredictable household. It is also effective for keeping three year-olds from the chocolate milk and babies from sucking on the salad dressing bottles in the door. We have a child proof plastic cover on our pantry door, an "idiot" doorknob as I affectionately call them, that Benjamin has figured out, so now we just lock the door knob and unlock it with a coin or other metal object (Wal-Mart purchase in hardware) when we need a bag of Cheetos or some Rice Crispies. We lock up our computer tower too. It also keeps out young boys age 9 months to 9 years. We live in a Fort Knox with throw pillows to make it more cozy.
Well, our fridge now has two hasps screwed into it and two carabiners that "lock" the food away. It is not a Weight Watchers diet secret, it is a means of survival in an unpredictable household. It is also effective for keeping three year-olds from the chocolate milk and babies from sucking on the salad dressing bottles in the door. We have a child proof plastic cover on our pantry door, an "idiot" doorknob as I affectionately call them, that Benjamin has figured out, so now we just lock the door knob and unlock it with a coin or other metal object (Wal-Mart purchase in hardware) when we need a bag of Cheetos or some Rice Crispies. We lock up our computer tower too. It also keeps out young boys age 9 months to 9 years. We live in a Fort Knox with throw pillows to make it more cozy.
The "food as an art form" stage is not over, but has improved dramatically with the use of our fridge lock and security measures to protect innocent eggs and battered milk jugs.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Smoke and Mirrors
Her name was Ruth Seguin. I remember her name because we worked at a fabric store together and her name reminded me of sequined fabric. She had a cheerful glittering persona with a rougher side, just like the fabric. I was a young girl of eighteen or nineteen. Naive? You bet.
Ruth was about twice my age. She had lived a hard life. Her parents definitely didn't treat her well. She started smoking at age fourteen, probably drinking too. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she postponed her smoking to complete chemo, then started up again. When she was diagnosed within the same year with irreversible bone cancer, she quit the cancer sticks, but kept drinking her beer. The high calorie content helped her keep her weight up. At least that was her reasoning. Her husband left her after twenty plus years. She was too depressing for him, but the new girlfriend wasn't. In sickness and in health must have been a one-sided agreement for him. I don't remember his name, which says a lot.
After her first brush with cancer and a mastectomy, Ruth had shown me the little tattoo dots on her rib cage that let the radiologist know where to aim. She said she had always wanted a tattoo, but was never brave enough on her own. Be careful what you wish for.
Ruth grew weaker and eventually couldn't work. She grew bloated looking from the chemo and eventually died. I would imagine that death was a blessing compared to life with a painful terminal illness. We gathered in her garage with her family, friends and neighbors. Two other "material girls", as we called ourselves, and I came to the memorial. Whoever it was that spoke about Ruth with a beer in his hand said wonderful things about our co-worker. Then he set his drink down on a workbench and perched his cigarette on top of it for a moment of silence. As I reflected on Ruth and my memories of her and the period of life that we had shared, I couldn't tear my eyes off the beer and swirling cigarette smoke. I had been taught my whole life not to smoke or drink but until that moment I had never fully understood the impact that such habit can have on everyone within breathing distance. My friend had killed herself. What started as an escape at age 14 had caused her to destroy her own body through years of self-inflicted poison.
What a lasting statement that made to me to keep my body clean. Her eulogy caused me to look at myself in the mirror and promise to never have smoke obscure the image staring back.
Ruth was about twice my age. She had lived a hard life. Her parents definitely didn't treat her well. She started smoking at age fourteen, probably drinking too. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she postponed her smoking to complete chemo, then started up again. When she was diagnosed within the same year with irreversible bone cancer, she quit the cancer sticks, but kept drinking her beer. The high calorie content helped her keep her weight up. At least that was her reasoning. Her husband left her after twenty plus years. She was too depressing for him, but the new girlfriend wasn't. In sickness and in health must have been a one-sided agreement for him. I don't remember his name, which says a lot.
After her first brush with cancer and a mastectomy, Ruth had shown me the little tattoo dots on her rib cage that let the radiologist know where to aim. She said she had always wanted a tattoo, but was never brave enough on her own. Be careful what you wish for.
Ruth grew weaker and eventually couldn't work. She grew bloated looking from the chemo and eventually died. I would imagine that death was a blessing compared to life with a painful terminal illness. We gathered in her garage with her family, friends and neighbors. Two other "material girls", as we called ourselves, and I came to the memorial. Whoever it was that spoke about Ruth with a beer in his hand said wonderful things about our co-worker. Then he set his drink down on a workbench and perched his cigarette on top of it for a moment of silence. As I reflected on Ruth and my memories of her and the period of life that we had shared, I couldn't tear my eyes off the beer and swirling cigarette smoke. I had been taught my whole life not to smoke or drink but until that moment I had never fully understood the impact that such habit can have on everyone within breathing distance. My friend had killed herself. What started as an escape at age 14 had caused her to destroy her own body through years of self-inflicted poison.
What a lasting statement that made to me to keep my body clean. Her eulogy caused me to look at myself in the mirror and promise to never have smoke obscure the image staring back.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Sea of Orange
I opened my son's drawer to get him a plain t-shirt without pattern or design and no tags. He's very particular about what he wears. It has to be comfortable and no buckles, zippers or snaps. Not hard right? Did I mention his current favorite color? Tangerine, pumpkin, flame, cantaloupe, carrot, and good old orange are his color(s) of choice. I opened his drawer to a sea of orange. Yes, there are other colors underneath, but his drawer is predominantly his "energy color," (that is his Grandma's phrase. It has to do with a key color to your aura. You ponder that one. It is too deep for my psyche).
Our only "real" sports team in this area has blue and orange for their team colors, so Benjamin has a lot of team spirit. Whenever he gets a haircut, he refuses to wear the cape, so he sits in his old t-shirt and when he's finished he gets a new orange t-shirt. Good thing he doesn't insist on wearing Abercrombie or Gap. We would be broke in no time.
We love when our son shows a preference for anything, because it is a form of communication. He has consistently had a preference for a certain color. First it was burgundy, which involved him nabbing anything that color from realative's houses when we would visit. He scored my Dad's pillowcase and his aunt's socks, but he made several other attempts. Then, for a while, he carried around a ratty old red towel like it was a security blanket. That was often convenient because he made a lot of messes and we had the means to clean up any liquid spill immediately by saturating his security towel.
He had security white socks too. He would only wear socks long enough to come to his knees. So they were generally men's socks. He liked to put on as many at once as possible. I don't remember his record, but I believe it was 7 socks on one foot and 12-14 socks on at the same time. It was quite a sight!
October is a great month for Benj to shine in orange all the time. We even get him one of those t-shirts that IS the costume. Perfect, a one size fits all way to show your holiday spirit. Ooooooooh, spooky!
Our only "real" sports team in this area has blue and orange for their team colors, so Benjamin has a lot of team spirit. Whenever he gets a haircut, he refuses to wear the cape, so he sits in his old t-shirt and when he's finished he gets a new orange t-shirt. Good thing he doesn't insist on wearing Abercrombie or Gap. We would be broke in no time.
We love when our son shows a preference for anything, because it is a form of communication. He has consistently had a preference for a certain color. First it was burgundy, which involved him nabbing anything that color from realative's houses when we would visit. He scored my Dad's pillowcase and his aunt's socks, but he made several other attempts. Then, for a while, he carried around a ratty old red towel like it was a security blanket. That was often convenient because he made a lot of messes and we had the means to clean up any liquid spill immediately by saturating his security towel.
He had security white socks too. He would only wear socks long enough to come to his knees. So they were generally men's socks. He liked to put on as many at once as possible. I don't remember his record, but I believe it was 7 socks on one foot and 12-14 socks on at the same time. It was quite a sight!
October is a great month for Benj to shine in orange all the time. We even get him one of those t-shirts that IS the costume. Perfect, a one size fits all way to show your holiday spirit. Ooooooooh, spooky!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Organic Muralism
I had forgotten how much young children like markers. All of those pretty colors! There's is something intoxicating about the brightly colored packaging and all those jewel-toned sticks that create streams of vivid color. And what better canvas could there be than...Mom and Dad's bed. Oh, yes. It's large enough to contain any creative genius that might be put forth by a budding artist and with a cotton comforter for absorbing liquid color, the possibilities are endless. A few mad scribbles here, a few there, three or four on my own body and oooooh, they are delicious too. I love markers! A few color changes. Voila. Perfection. I have become one with my art, literally!
Why did we leave him alone in our room with markers? He wasn't alone. Dad was on the laptop doing homework for one of his four college classes and Benjamin is stealthy. He is quiet and fast. The markers were extras from our school supply section of my closet where I stash all things gift related. Means, opportunity, motive and likely in need of a dose of calming meds and the scenario was inevitable. The comforter went promptly to the laundry and Benj met with a soapy cloth, but his lips are still a dark tint of blue. He couldn't have used yellow or pink, they are so pale that it would have lessened the impact.
This is not a new scenario, but it has been a long time. He also used to use organic material from his own body. We called this "Organic Muralism" to lessen the nastiness factor of cleaning someone's fecal matter off of every reachable surface in his room. (Look up Jackson Pollack, an established abstract artist who had a similar genre of art. True story). I will spare any further details, but he now has a wood floor in his room instead of absorbant and hard to clean carpet. We own our own carpet cleaner and powerful shop vac. He also enjoyed dumping out hard to clean liquids like shampoo, liquid soap, vegetable oil and raw eggs. He has also dabbled in powdered mediums like flour, brown sugar, cinnamon and laundry soap. It is taking him a long time to master his bathroom needs and when he had a "urinary protest" , we would have to clean that surface also. A big apology to whomever got to clean that clearance aisle at Walmart and the natural foods aisle at another local retailer :) If I remember correctly, the brown sugar incident was on that same comforter. It is a survivor like everyone in this household. Did I mention that we also have a three year old boy with drama and an eight month old boy that eats soil from plants and anything on the floor? I love it, most of the time.
Try reading a story book by Robert Munsch called "Purple, Yellow, Green" about a little girl who colors on herself with super-indelible, never come off until you're dead and maybe even later coloring markers. I love that story. I wonder why?
Why did we leave him alone in our room with markers? He wasn't alone. Dad was on the laptop doing homework for one of his four college classes and Benjamin is stealthy. He is quiet and fast. The markers were extras from our school supply section of my closet where I stash all things gift related. Means, opportunity, motive and likely in need of a dose of calming meds and the scenario was inevitable. The comforter went promptly to the laundry and Benj met with a soapy cloth, but his lips are still a dark tint of blue. He couldn't have used yellow or pink, they are so pale that it would have lessened the impact.
This is not a new scenario, but it has been a long time. He also used to use organic material from his own body. We called this "Organic Muralism" to lessen the nastiness factor of cleaning someone's fecal matter off of every reachable surface in his room. (Look up Jackson Pollack, an established abstract artist who had a similar genre of art. True story). I will spare any further details, but he now has a wood floor in his room instead of absorbant and hard to clean carpet. We own our own carpet cleaner and powerful shop vac. He also enjoyed dumping out hard to clean liquids like shampoo, liquid soap, vegetable oil and raw eggs. He has also dabbled in powdered mediums like flour, brown sugar, cinnamon and laundry soap. It is taking him a long time to master his bathroom needs and when he had a "urinary protest" , we would have to clean that surface also. A big apology to whomever got to clean that clearance aisle at Walmart and the natural foods aisle at another local retailer :) If I remember correctly, the brown sugar incident was on that same comforter. It is a survivor like everyone in this household. Did I mention that we also have a three year old boy with drama and an eight month old boy that eats soil from plants and anything on the floor? I love it, most of the time.
Try reading a story book by Robert Munsch called "Purple, Yellow, Green" about a little girl who colors on herself with super-indelible, never come off until you're dead and maybe even later coloring markers. I love that story. I wonder why?
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