The truth about: The Canadian and the Cleaver

The truth is, birds aren't my favorite of creatures because they are unpredictable.  I do appreciate, though, the nurturing motherbird: she braves the elements to provide a suitable nest for her babes; she sits on her eggs waiting patiently for their birth; she scrounges for worms to provide food.  I appreciate how pretty birds flit past my window, signing out to one another across my yard. 


My only beef with birds is their unpredictable pooping and spreading of germs.  I'm sure you recall the bird flu scare of 2005.  I retract my previous statements about truly disliking birds. 


The real meat and potatoes of this argument comes down to one thing: In my opinion, my husband's hobbies are disturbing.  Killing innocent animals for the sport of it is mean.   


This being the case you can imagine how I felt when I exited my car on Sunday evening to find a dead goose, lifeless, limp, lying on its poor pathetic stomach on my garage floor.  I screamed.  "Holy Smokes!" (The kids were in the car).  I then pressed my body up against the car, creating as much distance between me and the bird as I could; I side stepped my way past the deceased Canadian feathered creature.  The next morning when I headed out to the car it scared me three more times.  I screamed and my heart jumped into my throat three more times. 

As I sped away from my house I telephoned the murdering huntsman responsible for the garaged goosed.  I inquired, "Do you have big plans after work tonight, hunny?"  He replied, "No, why what's up?"  "The GOOSE IS UP! You GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT MANGY GOOSE!"  Defeathered, decapitated, deboned.  Problem solved.

Until.... this morning when I headed into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and found the cleaver he used to perform the revolting task in my sink, awaiting the wash.  Staring at me.  It talked to me (in my head) like it was a Stephen King creation, "I gutted a goose last night, I gutted a goose." 

Some Memories

A great man I know once wrote, “The great thing about Moms like mine is that there are so many of them on our little planet.”  His mother inspired a forward moving, forward thinking mentality.  She created optimism.  The matriarch of a family having seen its share of challenge, she encouraged positivity, humor, making the best out of life’s situations. 

My own mother encourages me to be the best version of myself that I can be.  She doesn’t set an expectation of me to win her approval; rather, she has taught me to be introspective – to listen to my own heart, follow my own path.  Better still, she has backed me at every turn, every fork, and every step.  When I met my husband I was not in the best mental place – I wasn’t up for taking chances with love.  I thought all men were jerks.  I was out of college and living with she and my dad in Chicago.  I’d wasted too much time having my heartbroken by the same boy.  It was a Saturday night and my friends were gathering at a small party on Lake Holiday, about 90 minutes outside the city.  Jamie, my husband, was going to be there.  My best friend, Amy, called me and encouraged me to come to the party to meet him.  I told her I wasn’t up for it.  I was singing that old pathetic “woe is me” song that all heartbroken women have sung.  As my mom busied herself around her bedroom, I sat in her purple velvet chair explaining why I didn’t want to go to the party.  She said, “But if you don’t go, you’ll never know.” 

I went.  Now, 12 years later, I sit in the basement of my home with that man, three children sleeping upstairs, and I am grateful for my mom’s advice that Memorial Day weekend in 2000. 

My mom has given me advice, like many mothers, on everything from how to pluck my eyebrows to what shade of pantyhose to wear.  She drove four hours from Downers Grove to Iowa City at the drop of a hat my freshman year of college when I broke out in a very bizarre allergic reaction to the mildew in my dorm and woke up covered in hives.  She has moved me to and from eleven different residences since 1995.  She has cleaned and painted over half of those residences.  Three times she has sat with me before I have given birth, nursed me back to health, and taught me how to mother. 

I have watched her do everything from power wash a deck to jackhammering a concrete patio. She has painted a kitchen pink, then blue, and then demolished that very kitchen for a remodel with a sledge. I’ve seen her bake a coffee cake from a recipe in her head and sling a chainsaw like a good lumberjack would.  She makes me a chocolate cake every year for my birthday and taught me the difference between homemade icing and store bought.  She is a jack of all trades in terms of mothering.  She can do it all…and she has.  She will sling a shot of Jagermeister, mix the best G&T, and get red wine out of a white shirt like no body’s business.  She is the most-singingest Mama around and the best at making sunshine on a cloudy day.     

She takes a vested interest in everyone she is speaking to.  She is genuine and honest.  She doesn’t muddle me up with guilt trips or unspoken expectations about silly things.  She is straightforward and positive.  Through her own choices and behavior she has taught me how to be kind, selfless, and loving.

She has taught me that I should never wait for a man to do anything for me unless I want to take the chance of waiting a very long time.  If there is a light bulb out, it is better to just change it.  If the garage door needs oil, ask the guy at Ace and make it happen.  She has taught me to be resourceful; Maxi Pads can be band aids, too.  Never take something camping that only has one use.

Most importantly, she has expressed to me through her actions that I am important and loved simply by being me.  In so doing, she has taught me that no matter what is happening in my own life, my children come first. 

My father, the man I know who wrote, “The great thing about Moms like mine is that there are so many of them on our little planet” was lucky like me.  He encouraged me, five years ago, to write about my memories of those I love.  There are few people I love as much as I love my mom.  I cherish her.  His mom and mine have at least one thing in common, three adoring children.   

All I Want for Christmas is My Four Front Teeth

My daughter lost two teeth this summer.  The first she knocked clean out when she fell from her bike.  The second she loosened in the fall so much so that the dentist had to pull it.  The week before Christmas she lost two more teeth the natural way.  The teeth became lose, they fell out of their own free will.  One came out in bed and the other came out while we were at Go Roma having dinner.  She said, "MOM! My tooth just came out!"  I went over to inspect the chicken nugget covered tooth and she said, "I cannot believe this happened AT A RESTAURANT!"  In one week she was visited by the Tooth Fairy twice and Santa.  Talk about a stellar week for a four year old.  Unfortunately, her smile resembles that of hockey defenceman, Duncan Keith.  Holiday photos aren't exactly what I'd hoped.

When, a few days before Christmas, I heard her singing, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, I mean my four front teeth..." I couldn't help but giggle.  If Santa and the Tooth Fairy could only pull some strings with Mother Nature that wish could have come true. 

I'm reminded, though, that parenting is best approached with the fewest expectations.  While I can keep them clean, fed, and having fun and learning whenever possible, I can't control much else.  I could not have predicted or planned for my third child's early labor, my first child's arthritis diagnosis, or my second child falling down an entire flight of stairs.  I think its only natural to have a mental map of what we hope for our children.  We should be wary of creating too big a mental map, though, if we want to have any hope of keeping our own heart in tact.  Creating a baby, raising a child, and watching that human grow into an adult is wrought with heartache.  If we, as parents, set our sights or expectations too often or too high we're sure to be disappointed.  If we keep our own plans in check our children will likely exceed our greatest dreams for them.  I'll never be able to make a deal with Mother Nature, but I will be able to raise a strong, brave and self-confident girl by letting go of my expectations of the experience of Parenthood and helping her create and navigate her own path. 

 

The New Normal

In July our daughter became very ill.  She ran a fever, had a positive strep test, broke out in a rash, and then complained of pain in her foot.  I spent a week running her back and forth to our pediatrician, sitting up with her at night trying to keep her fever under control, prevent the itchy rash from keeping her awake, and just sick with worry.  We ended up spending a full week at Children's Memorial hospital in a quarantined room on the infectious disease floor.  After several days of testing, the infectious disease team declared her free of any infection; however, the symptoms had not subsided and we discovered that while there was no infection there was totally out of control inflammation.  It was then we learned kids get arthritis, too: systemic onset juvenile idiopathic arthritis.


Coping with her disease has been life changing.  I had a very hard time managing the loss of the child she was before she got sick.  It was maddening to consider that the child I had spent the past five years watching shine might lose some of her sparkle.  I was furious and incredibly frightened by the possibility of her losing her capacity to do.  Once we returned home from the hospital I watched her so closely, we drew pictures of where her body hurt every morning, we took warm morning baths to loosen her joints, we investigated medications, and we agonized.  I cried myself to sleep, forced myself out of bed, and then into early labor with my third baby.

When we were at Children's her rheumatologist kept telling us her condition would be manageable with the right course of treatment.  It sounds horrible.  While I sat at her bedside and considered just the concept of managing sickness for her life I became acutely aware of one fact: normal had ended.

I can imagine what normal was to me before July 9, 2011 - the day she presented with a fever.  But, I can also close my eyes and hear her crying in pain, confused about why she wasn't getting better, questioning if she would have to use crutches, wondering if she would make it to the potty in time, crying because she didn't.  My mind begins to swirl.  I can think back to mornings when the first thing I thought about wasn't what my daughter's feet would look and feel like when she got out of bed. 

I am trying to embrace our new normal.  At the hospital she started Naproxen and Prednisone.  In August she began treatment on Methotrexate and we immediately saw improvement in her quality of life.  Now, November, her days are mostly good.  Often at night she is sore from a busy day of running around like normal.  She rashes occasionally, but isn't bothered by it much.  She only uses Naproxen when she "needs" it; though, I think she is just growing used to life with pain because she often behaves as if she is uncomfortable but just doesn't want to take more medicine.  She runs, does yoga, dances, races her brother outside, and talks about something and everything all day long.  So to that end she is normal.

The new normal unfortunately includes a sizable portion of panic and anxiety.  Six months ago when she would wake in the middle of the night to go the bathroom and cry it didn't send me into a panic attack.  Two weeks ago, though, she woke to pee and had pain in her feet.  She came into my room crying and frightened.  I think I was shaking when I woke up.  I worry that one night we'll wake up and she will be regressing into disease instead of improving. 

I spoke with another mother of a newly diagnosed JIA patient the other day and it was oddly wonderful.  It's awful to be having this conversation about our children being sick and managing a disease.  It was good though to understand her perspective, to follow her train of thought, and to have someone really get it.  It was unpleasantly comforting.  She was still looking for answers and in a mental space of severe sadness mixed with total confusion.  I get it.  I am in a more accepting mental space of knowing there aren't always answers but there is a manageable course of treatment in a new normal. 

Trouble is my mental space can acknowledge that a "manageable course of treatment in a new normal" sucks. 

Peace and Quiet

You know the saying, "Elvis has left the building?" I can imagine it - thousands of screaming women, devastated at the end of a show because the man they never knew they loved so much is officially gone. Of course they liked Elvis. But then they saw him in concert - and they loved him. His voice, his hips, his hair, for Pete's sake his hips! I can imagine the sheer joy, and the sheer disappointment when his departure was announced.

 

 

In my house every morning between 7 and 9 a.m. I think there should be a loud speaker announcement much like Elvis'. My loud speaker would announce, "Peace and quiet have left the building!" I would scream and protest when I heard it everyday, I would faint in a whirlwind of tears. I would, I swear I would. If only I had time for such shenanigans.

 

 

People ask me how its going with three children. I can really only confirm this: Silence is gone. Its as if one more body shot it right the hell out the front door. When I had two children, there was down time, some quiet. Now down time is like a not-so-distant memory.

 

 

I always imagined my life with three + children, though. I never would have quit procreating with anything less. I would have pestered the hell out of my husband had he denied me a third bambino. So to that end - the missing silence is my own fault. The constant talking, screaming, singing, humming, crying, whining, and moaning comes with constant activity. I feel like I have something to do at all times of the day; but, at the end of the day I sit down to nurse the infant, and I can't exactly recall what I got done. I've changed my "to-do" list into a "rolling list of hopeful accomplishments." I think I'm gaining more acceptance of getting less done and being content with having happy, sort of clean kids. The thing is, even though they've taken silence from me, they've given me much more in return.

 

 

The noise from each of them is different. My eldest, the Chicken, talks constantly either to me, to herself, to her dolls and toys, or to her imaginary friend, Annie. When she isn't having a conversation with someone, she is performing a new action or dance. She is finding new ways of flipping off the couch, hopping on one foot then the other, dancing like Angelina Ballerina, or telling her brother what to do. Quite often throughout the day she can be heard (over and over and over again) saying, "Mom, look at me!" Her latest trick is sure to follow. She is occupied at all times of the day with her own imagination and will certainly include anyone around. She creates a world of her own, but lights up reality with her every move. She is always looking to learn something new: how to spell Annie, where a truck will tow a car, why a semi-truck is called a semi. She prefers coloring on white paper to coloring books and writes me letters several times a week. At night, she never wants to go to bed without a snack, even though she rarely eats her whole dinner. She can't wait for her dad to come home from work every single day and she still tries to hide from him when he returns. Every morning she asks me, "what is today?" She is thrilled about school, play dates, and the dentist. She prefers peas to green beans, and will ingest an entire can of pears in thirty seconds.

 

 

The middle child, the brute we call Mister, can be heard making a variety of noises; yet, he only says a few actual words at 20 months old. He says "Ma! Ma! Ma!" nearly 1800 times a day and at increasing levels until I give him my attention. He communicates through sounds that I have come to understand to be one of the following: hi, dog, dad, come on, hot, book, bowl, baby. He is also a fan of a high pitched scream and grunting sounds that mean something to him but very little to the general population. He laughs and giggles constantly. When he poops he must leave wherever he is or whatever he is doing to find an alone space. Then he sits and grunts and groans all the while making a very stern, concerned expression. He can get very angry, and expresses anger with the high pitched scream, head butting, or loud crying. He is not one for having his diaper changed without a fight and if he's pooped he wants to see it every time. I can't blame him, though, who doesn't look at their poop? He is a truck obsessed book worm who occasionally likes to wear princess shoes and sunglasses. He is in love with his father, but mimics his sister. He snuggles me every morning and gives me wet, sloppy kisses every night. He licks his breakfast plate so as not to leave a drop of syrup behind, each time covering his forehead in stick. If his sister coughs, he coughs. If his sister cries, he cries. When she sits, he sits. When she walks in a circle, he walks in a circle; but, when he plays he plays independently and with focus. He walks with a heavy footed, determined strut. He pants like a puppy and dances with his fists.

 

 

The youngest, and generally most quiet, I have yet to give an official blog nickname.  He is either going to be Popeye or Ace. Popeye because he often looks at me with only one eye. Ace because his unruly, full head of hair often resembles Ace Ventura Pet Detective's oddly pointy style. Though the smallest, his contribution to the noise factor in my home is not to be overlooked. He is a third baby in a house of noise and he is seemingly aware of that. He makes himself heard by crying very, very loudly - at times shrieking. I think part of the issue here is that because he has older siblings I can't always meet his needs immediately as I'm knee deep in someone else's mess. So he is forced to cry loudly to make himself heard. The flip side of that awfully loud, ear piercing cry is a very happy, smiley boy who coo's and gurgles with the best of 'em. His smile, undoubtedly, cancels out any frustrations from crying. He gazes at the two older kids and is easy going. He likes to be part of the action and has quickly grown accustomed to having his sister's face 2 inches from his own face. He seems less enthused, though, when his brother, the brute, tries to smother him like a human blanket. He needs a swaddle to fall asleep, a pacifier to drown out noise, and he likes to have his face buried in a blanket or my armpit. He has learned his hands are his and he can get them into his mouth if he wants to; but, keeping them there is another story. He can handle a diaper change on a full stomach, but he won't go easily if he's hungry. He can pass twenty minutes easily looking at the window or playing on the activity mat. He's quiet in the bath and loves a massage.

 

 

I catch glimpses of silence at night just after the older kids are in bed and the infant is fading to sleep. I relish it for a few minutes until I, too, drift to sleep. In the morning, I wake to "Ma! Ma! Ma!" from Mister, I stumble around my dark room looking for my slippers and then I excitedly peek-a-boo into his bedroom to pull him out of his crib, and into my arms for our morning snuggle. Peace and quiet have certainly left me, but I wouldn't trade what I got in return for anything - PURE JOY.