From Baby to Boy With A Bang

I was doing dishes while Mr napped.  Suddenly I heard Him singing.  I smiled.  He does that all the time, just wakes up and entertains Himself with His own personalized soundtrack for awhile before calling me to get Him up.  But then I stopped smiling and got a dumb confused look on instead.  Because why did He sound so close?  And getting closer?
I stepped out into the living room, and there He was.

C: "Mister! How did you get out of your crib? You're supposed to be napping!" 

Mr: "Well now, Mommy. I counted, a 10. 9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and count a 1-2-3. And that's a long TIME, a long of SECONDS, and is ENOUGH napping, and well, Mommy. I just a busy guy. Got some trucks here."

And just like that he went off to make a train out of trucks.  
I knew it was the end of an era, but I didn't realize how serious it was.  
Because that night, I put Him in bed like always, and like always He pulled the blankets up to His chin, rolled over onto His side, and went to sleep.  Maybe it was a one time thing.
But later, the peace of the morning was shattered, sort of literally, by the sound of a huge crash, something glass smashing, and then, after the briefest vacuum of silence (all parents know the terror of this moment), the hysterical screaming of my son.  
Peanuts you can believe I was on my feet and across the house before my brain had even fully registered those sounds.  
There are moments (many while driving in DC traffic) in which I have to believe in guardian angels, because nothing else can explain the miraculous escape from injury.  This was totally one of those times.  
Little Mister rose from the midst of epic wreckage like a giant at the end of a good smiting.  There were broken shards of green, a storm of pennies and quarters, and scattered random keys and little things.  Oh.  And an iPad.  
Mister had awakened first, let Himself out of bed, and wandered out of His room to spy an iPad sitting on the high shelf over our entry table.  It was up there, of course, to be out of sight, out of mind, out of reach.
He pushed a big chair over to the table, climbed up, and must have stood on His very tip-toes on that narrow table to reeeeaaaaaach for His prize.  Something went wrong there, because the iPad, the shelf, the Boy, and the big ceramic dish full of change all took a big leap into the arms of gravity and hit the linoleum by the front door.  Pennies for miles.  Pennies for days.  Pennies in places we didn't know we could find pennies. 
And that dish.  J and I got that dish in a small village outside Budapest, on one of the best trips we've ever had.  I kept it over the doorway so I could see it throughout the day.  It reminded me of a beautiful, peaceful place, and a time when J and I were so happy there was actual bliss going on, guys.   It was our first trip as parents on our own, such a wonderful adventure we promised ourselves we'd do one every year.  
Well, we modified that promise due to Life.  But the dish stayed the same, and was a special piece of proof that the whole dream really happened.  Also, it was really pretty.  
Still, as I looked at the splinters of it while folding my crying son into my lap, all I could be was thankful that the dish got broken, and not Little Mister.  He somehow emerged without a scratch or bruise.  
Somethings can't be replaced, like intrepid little boys who try to steal illicit material while their parents are sleeping.  
I can't exactly replace that hand-thrown dish either.  But as I swept up the pieces, I called to mind all the memories of our trip and tried to tuck them into my mind somewhere they won't get lost.  The memories don't mean less because their icon is gone.  Honestly, I would have kept that dish.  It would have been one of the things that would be too hard not to keep.  But life and Mister did it for me.  Thanks for the assist guys!
As for that Mister, He won the freedom of His Big Boy Bed.  Sometimes He wakes up ready for action in the wee hours and terrorizes us by jumping on our heads or pitter-pattering up and down the hall at 3am. But for the most part, He just sleeps. Like the big two-year old boy He is, somehow and all the sudden.  
So. I had this pretty Hungarian ceramic.  I had this little baby, this last little baby, sleeping in a crib.  
I let them go.  

Little One Turns SEVEN

Today my Little One is seven.  Seven.
It has been a wild year, full of challenges.  She moved to a new state/town/home/school.  She weathered Her father disappearing into residency and Her mother going back to work.  She had three health emergencies at school, including on picture day and Her birthday.  She lost three great-grandparents, a grandfather, and Her dog.   She switched schools again.  She started riding the bus, 2 hours a day.  She found out that when the year is over, She will switch again, and oh- also be moving across the world.  (More about that later).  She adopted a fish, took on gymnastics, piano, and swimming, and had a sweet baby brother morph into a 25 pound wrecking ball.  And she lost a bunch of teeth.
 Little One has dealt with all of these things in the Little-One-est way possible; with grace, resilience, and cheerfulness.  Little One, surrounded by challenges, peers out onto a horizon of endless mountains and sees a grand adventure in each one.  Her first instinct on facing any steep terrain in life is to find a foothold and start climbing.
As my little girl begins truly to grow up, Her innate drive to Try Hard is something I find so beautiful and inspiring in Her.  It's this adventurous, open-hearted spirit and willingness to go through the struggle of something new that has brought Her through to being a seven-year old who seems to excel at everything She tries.  It's because She tries, and tries, and tries again until She gets it.  I might want to be like Her when I grow up.  In the last year, Little One has covered a lot of ground.  She has:

- Done well in school, and been accepted into the accelerated STEM program at the magnet school that is practically in Siberia it's such an long bus ride from Her mother.  Ahem.

-Become a self-described "book addicted person", consuming books like a flame.  In the last year she has read the entire magic treehouse series, fairy series (good riddance), and most of encyclopedia brown, in addition to stacks and stacks of others.  She usually gets about 20 from the library each week, and burns right through them.

- Started gymnastics for fun and was invited to team-track.  Last week She completed a gym right-of-passage and climbed 20 feet of rope to stick Her name tag on the ceiling!

- Become super interested in robotics, and for Her birthday asked for "small motors, lithium batteries, and lots of scotch tape".

-Begun cooking meals and baking all by Herself.

- Gotten pretty good on Her bike, though not yet ready to let go of training wheels.

-Managed to keep in touch with friends from Her old school, and also make great new friends on the bus and at Her new school.

-Moved forward in swimming and with Her grandad's coaching learned to dive.

-Been a flower girl in both Her aunts' lovely weddings!

-Taught Her brother the alphabet song, and also how to Cha Cha slide.

-Grown tall enough to ride some of the rides at a theme park

-Taken good care of Her fish.

-Eaten probably several metric tons of sushi.  (should I not have put those last two in a row?)

-Realized that Her parents are not perfect (that one stings a little)

-Loved us anyways (at least so far).

-Loved all of us, actually.  All of of us in the immediate and extended family, neighborhood, and basically the world.  She loves the whole world.  She wants to take care of all the everyone.

Her Loves and Not-Loves:

Loves:
Sushi
Seaweed in any form
Japanese food in general
Hot Dogs/Tofu Dogs/anything called dog that gets ketchup on it
Home made bread and honey
French Onion soup
Ethiopian food
Brussel sprouts
Sugar.

Reading
Robotics
Pokeman (because the bus kids play)
Anything that ends with Her covered in mud
Traveling/visiting new places
Learning about Anything
Making Mister Laugh
Art projects and pretend with Missy
Chasing the boys
Riding the bus
Dancing
Cooking (French Onion soup is Her specialty)
Vegan Baking (Brownie Pie is Her top recipe)
Riding Her bike
Being altogether silly
Pigtails
Headbands
Sparkles/ruffles/fancy shiny anything
Sleeping/snuggling with Her sister

Not So Much
Mushrooms
Bell Peppers
The idea of cheese or eggs.  The look and smell and existence of them.
Sitting at the Peanut-free table at school
Missing Her dog
When Little siblings don't get the memo about Her being In Charge
The "frog" stretch at gymnastics
Playing with dolls/barbies
Scary movies or stories
Lights Out at bedtime (She would read until midnight)
Sleeping/snuggling with Her sister

Little One at seven alternates between being curled up reading, practically in a coma She's so still and  quiet and unaware of the rest of the world, and being a whirling top, cartwheeling through the living room, dancing in the kitchen, creating utopian worlds in the backyard with Missy, constructing 4-foot cardboard robots all over the basement, and asking ALL. the. questions.  About ALL the things.

She's at a fragile stage of growing up, wondering aloud if there's really such a thing as a tooth fairy, but not daring to think about applying the same logic to Santa.  She wants the freedom to wear Her crazy mis-matched outfits and to ride Her bike beyond our line of sight, but still wants cuddles and lullabies before bed.  She's beyond wanting us to read to Her, but still likes to read right beside us.  She thinks She should watch these movies Her friends talk about, like Star Wars and Jurassic Park, but hides behind me when Bambi's forrest catches fire.  Sometimes in gymnastics I watch Her, steadily stepping along the high-beam, and it feels familiar.  She's walking the line between a Little Kid and a Big Kid.

Knowing how close that era of Her life (and ours) is now, it's impossible not to look ahead, as a mom, and go breathless with the wonders and worries of the more complex years ahead.  But being around Little One helps me to keep from panicking.  Hanging out and chatting with Her, it's hard to imagine She could ever not be sweet, fun, and fantastic.  When I'm with Her, I see all those challenges ahead in the Big Kid years for what they are through the Little One lens- adventures waiting to be taken on and made into successes.  Mountains waiting to be climbed.

Seven on the Seventh.  A golden birthday! Happy, happy birthday Little One, my golden little girl.  We love you so much, and love going through all your grand adventures with you.  May you always climb with such strength.   

The Story of E

When J and I decided to adopt a friend for X, we wanted an older dog.  We searched and looked all over.  On our way out of the city shelter in Baltimore, there was a racket coming from a dark little side room.  The shelter volunteer let me go in and open the door of a medium-sized airline crate, jam-packed with puppies crawling all over one another, saturated in mud and waste.  Those poor little things.  Maybe I could just hold them a little?
The volunteer shrugged and led us to a visiting room, and dumped the lot out onto the floor.  J and I  played with them tried to comfort them, and then we went home.  We continued our search throughout just about every shelter and adoption event in the state.  Somehow we never found the right furry friend.  And somehow, we kept talking about those puppies.  Somehow, even though we had agreed not to choose a puppy- we ended up back in the same room, with the same puppies- the four left now that they had been made available for adoption.
They were all cute and full of personality.
Except one.
One didn't play and yip and nip and wiggle.  It didn't chase a toy or tackle our faces or chew our toes. It just cowered. It wasn't cute, either.  The runt of the litter, it was all black and had a body too small for it's head, which was too small for its ears, leaving it looking more like a bat than a canine.  It was painfully skinny and bony, mangy and scraggly with goopy eyes.  It had little scars and bald patches from being picked on by it's brothers and sisters.
It shivered by the door as J and I wrestled the tumbling roly-poly rest of them, and then slowly, quietly, so we didn't even notice, crept up, crawled into my lap, curled up, and sighed.
Oh my goodness.  J could tell by my face in that instant that resistance was futile.  She crawled into my heart the same time she crept into my lap.
E ended up in the shelter because her litter had been a "welfare seizure"- meaning they were forcibly removed from their first owner due to abuse.  Between that and being the bullied runt, she came with all kinds of problems.  Medical problems (mange, worms, mites, infections).  And psychological problems- terror at loud sounds, strangers, or long objects (brooms, mops, spatulas).

Refusing to go either up or down

The vacuum cleaner was the actual devil as far as she was concerned.  She would yelp and hightail it to what became her bunker- the exact center spot under our bed.  A passing motorcycle could send her there for the rest of the day.
She was hard to train because she couldn't stand raised voices or crates.   And you try getting a stubborn dog out from under a queen sized bed- it's like wrestling a rabid chimp while spelunking in a cave tunnel.
She had food issues to the extreme.  If I set out a full bag of dog food, she'd have eaten her way to the bottom until she actually exploded. We know this because she has eaten herself into violent illness every chance she's ever had. She'd inhale, engulf her food.  And she would eat anything.  We'd let her out to pee and find her tunneling into the compost pile, refusing to give up a half-rotten banana peel.
This got her sick all the time.  E throwing up became as normal as a colicky baby's spit-up- there was always something.  Once a neighbor threw chicken bones to her over the fence.
That ended in a week-long veterinary hospital vacay to the tune of a couple thousand dollars.
She got car sick. She hated to get wet.  She was afraid of dogs, squirrels, big rocks, steep hills, puddles, and everything else ever.
As she grew older, she drove us to insanity by growling at everyone who entered/walked by/drove by/made any audible sound from any distance.  At 45 pounds, looking like a sleek black german shepherd, she scared the bejeezus out of I don't know how many people.  Once she followed my grandpa around the house nipping his heels.  She always waited until no one was looking.  Poor guy had some dementia by then, and no one believed him for days until she got caught.

"Look at me I'm all friendly and harmless. Those feet look tasty though."

She developed a strange habit of picking out the weakest looking kid on the playground or person in a group, waiting until their back was turned, then racing over, nipping them in the butt, and darting away.  She was so stealthy, people sometimes would look around and think they had imagined it.
We sent her away to a trainer for weeks.  Not much changed, except our bank account.
But we loved her all the same.

As a puppy, neurotic and skittish as she was, she was so sweet, so affectionate.  She loved for me to rock her like a baby, to carry her around.  Even nearing 50lb, she always thought she was a lap dog at worst, a furry baby human at best.
Though we wanted a companion for X, he turned out to hate the idea.  The first thing he did when he met E was to bite her soundly on the nose.  Despite that, she adored him so constantly and gently that he finally gave in, and the dog who hates dogs would curl up to her to sleep at night.
E surprised us by becoming the quintessential loyal companion to all of our littles.  She'd fiercely guard and protect them from all real and imaginary threats.  She'd plays with them tirelessly, and was always, always there to snuggle. Ever since Little One was small, I'd look over in the yard and see Her draped over E like a blanket, suffocating her probably. Singing.  E would just lie there like it was the best day of her life, wagging her tail.


She's raised her hocks at every stranger, but never growled or snapped at our babies, no matter what.  She's patiently let them climb on her, dress her up, "wash" her, lead her around, tug on her ears, brush her, wrestle her, and take her toys.  I once was two steps too far away to stop Mister as He went up to her during her dinner, and curiously reached his arm inside her mouth- while she was chewing- and pulled out some of her food.  She just looked at Him, licked His hand, and went on with her kibble. 
She would never run away.  When we'd walk she kept her pace just at my heel.  She would do anything asked of her as long as she understood.  After nine years of being loved by us (even if she did drive J and I crazy half the time), she settled into being a really sweet, loyal dog.  To us.  To extended family, she finally got friendly, too.  To strangers, She would threaten death until J or I told her to back off.  Which frankly I was ok with. No one was going to abduct my Littles from the backyard while I get the laundry.   And she never, ever stopped loving to curl up in my lap.  It was her most favorite thing.  Except food.
Which is how we knew something was wrong.
It was actually Little One who knew first.
"Mom, sompin's not right with E.  Her tail's not right and her ears are all down.  I think she's sick." 
Little One and E have been best friends since day one.  They've spent the summer playing pirates digging for treasure together, being explorers racing around the yard, thieves stealing J's tomatoes for snacks, fairies learning how to fly.  (In fact I took her to the vet covered in glitter.)
Little One knows E like no one else.
After Little One's tip, I watched E closely.  She was acting droopy.  And, despite the fact that she'd been getting fat and the Littles had been getting scolded for feeding the dogs a lot when they weren't supposed to- she wasn't really eating much of anything.  X was eating her leftovers, and she hardly touched her bowl.
The more I thought about it, the more she didn't look fat, just weirdly heavy in the belly.  When my mom came, she agreed.  She urged me to take her in.  Knowing E, I assumed she'd eaten something she shouldn't have.  The Sisters came with me, and I joked,  "how much will it cost us to fix you up this time, silly girl?"  But it wasn't that.
It was a tumor.  The size of a small watermelon.  It was taking up her entire abdomen, squeezing her organs aside.  It was so big, it took a radiology specialist to ultrasound around it and find out where it was even coming from.  It was her spleen.  Apparently that happens, in dogs.  Sometimes.

All that white fuzzy stuff is her tumor

We were told there was about a 50/50 chance that it was either a madly aggressive and lethal cancer, which would kill her in short order no matter what, or a totally benign growth that could be cured by just taking it out. But if we didn't take it out, it would eventually explode.  Which would be a sudden, scary, awful thing.
We couldn't know whether she'd make it through surgery, or whether it would really help her in the end.  But I feel pretty confident, that if there were some different kind of emergency, and it came down to life or death for me or my family and E could decide?  She'd defend us with all she had.
So we sent her in.  Her heart wasn't beating properly, and medicine didn't help it.  But we decided to go ahead anyways.  Amazingly, she made it through.  A ten pound tumor was removed, she spent the afternoon recovering with her IV, and though she was wasted on whatever was in that cocktail, she drunkenly walked out of the hospital, and we brought her home.
She seemed to be getting better. She wasn't eating, but she drank some water, cuddled and nuzzled us, and refused to pee anywherebut the greenbelt down the street.  So we walked.
Missy drew her a "most specialist pictuh evah ba-cuase I love her to im-PIN-ity- and that's the muchest".  Little One read stories and sang to her.  Even Mister understood she wasn't well, and pet her gently, calling her name softly.
J came home from a night shift, and I'd just taken E on a trip down the street and back.  He was laying with her while I cooked.  The Sisters went to play at a neighbors house.  I've never let them do that before.  But today they were gone, just at the time J came running out of the bedroom, calling me.  There wasn't time to even dial the vet.  She started to breathe quickly, she kind of spaced out, and then...she stopped breathing altogether.
And now she's gone.
I'm so awfully sorry that she didn't have a chance to recover and feel better, even for a day.  That she was drugged up and had staples from her chest to her tail and never understood why we did that to her.  As her Person, I feel responsible for everything that lead to that moment, and for everything I could have done better for her in the last 9 years.
I think it's cruelty of fate for a little girl to lose Her dog two days before starting a new school.  I'm sorry for X who will miss his friend.  I miss the security of letting the Sisters play in the yard while I work, knowing E would be kind to them and alert me if any danger came near.  I miss the certainty of a cuddle and a greeting every time I looked her way.
But I'm glad that it wasn't as painful as it could have been.  I'm glad she was home, with her People right beside her.  I like to think that confused as she must have been, perhaps she knew we were trying to help, and that we loved her.
Which we did.



And we do.

Meeting Little One the day She came home

Best friends from Day One

Helping LO learn to crawl

Helping Her learn to walk

Meeting Little Miss the day She came home

 

Partners in crime

 She loooooved snow

All 3 too happy to get in trouble

Bad Blood

A benefit to writing your own story is you get to be the hero if you want!  Which, of course, I do.  SuperC! Saving the day by changing the baby with one hand and sticking a bandaid on the preschooler with the other, while answering the gradeschooler's questions about why a / is used to denote fractions.  Tum-ta-da!

But every good hero has nemeses. One of mine, is Kidzbop.  

This diabolical entity is many things.  But in my life it takes the form of a Pandora station that plays all the crap pop songs you have never heard of because you are not a 12 year old girl, and then plays them in re-mixes performed by Alvin and the bleeping Chipmunks.  

I have Little One's Kindergarten teacher to thank for this monstrosity.  Apparently, she liked to play it in the afternoons and let the kids dance around to such educational gems as "all about that base".  The Disneyfied version.  She let Little One set it up, so Little One knows all about how to get Kidzbop on any device.  And She is. OBSESSED.  

It is all Kidzbop, all day.  Every. Day.  And so, SO loud.  

In my effort not to already be the curmudgeonly older generation (too much) I mostly try to just plaster on my haunted grin, and bear it.  Though sometimes it feels a little like the CIA is probably playing a joke on me, spying to see how long it will be until I crack under the torture.  

Sometimes I get into it and dance along. But really, guys, as a general thing?  

Chipmunks singing Katy Perry??? Why????

Every time I think I win a battle against this villain, playing something else, or hiding the iPad, it's little minions find a way to blast it again. 

Last month I arrived in Ethiopia, allllll the way across the world, in a place where there is no Pandora.  No Spotify.  No iAnything.  No Kidzbop! And what do I see. 

 I CAN'T ESCAPE!

Both Sisters are into this stuff.  

But at least I have my uncorrupted baby. 

Last night, I was washing Little Mister in the tub.  He started singing. 

Mr: "ya wa ga baaaah bod! ya wa ga baaaaah bod!"

He's so cute! Right?  So cute, all innocent and tiny, singing in His sweet little voice in the tub.  Singing His cute little made-up song.  

His sisters hear Him and start giggling.  A little too something, those giggles.  

They clap for Him and say, "Yes! Yes that's right!"

Then they start signing.  They start singing: "baby now we got bad blood you know we used to be bad love..."  

And I realized my sweet baby was singing some violent, angry, girl-drama Taylor Swift song.  

He learned Bad Blood before the ABCs.  I die.  

Kidzbop Strikes again.    

Birthday

Yep.  I had one.  

It was kind of hard to tell, at first.  Since J worked like 12 hours that day, and I spent it cleaning bathrooms and organizing the basement and covering my ears and rocking back and forth signing REALLY LOUDLY to drown out all the WHINING from the kids who were stuck in the house due to a mosquito invasion of apocalyptic proportions, and neglected due to the bathroom scrubbing and basement cleaning.  

As a special treat there was the insurance adjuster who came to assess my birthday present this year, which will be a new car door, seeing as how I smashed the other one into a wall.  Tricky, those walls! He knew it was my birthday, so he brought me a back-scratcher shaped like a bear claw.  Er.  Thanks..

He also tried to give me the gift of "hey, you're not that old" by giving me his number, and repeatedly telling me to call and text him, but not to tell my husband.  Or to tell him about the back-scratcher either.  And if he were my man, he wouldn't be mad at me for wrecking the car.  ('Don't tell your husband I said that').  And then after he left, he sent a few text messages and then came back, texting me from the driveway to ask if he could come in and borrow some duct tape.  Really? At which point I directed him to the furthest hardware store and went back to the basement, where it was less creepy.

The Sisters wanted to throw me a "party", which means they got out every piece of everything and flung it around the room, draping beads and scarves and, ahem, my bras ("they're so fancy!") from the furniture and lamps and taping stuff to the walls.  

Then, while I tried to wrestle a two-ton angry crocodile (or maybe it was Mister, hard to tell which was what that day) into a nap, Sisters decided to bake me a cake.  I guess the floor in there was white anyways, so whats a bunch of flour and sugar and stuff? Right?!

The whole gang of them wanted in on decorating it, too, so we got out- the sprinkles. Which, all the moms who shuddered upon reading that know, are almost as bad as glitter.  

J had offered to bring a birthday dinner home, but he got stuck at work until after bedtime, and couldn't text me until the children were already gnawing on their own elbows they were so hungry.  So it was microwaved tofu-dogs and freezer peas for dinner.  And wine.  For me. 

I re-wrestled the crocodile into bed, and stopped at the door to chuckle.  

Because I mean.  

This day.

This day guys! 

Then, guess what?

I walked back to the dining room, where I'd left the sisters finishing their dinners, and there they were. Grinning. With such a beautiful chocolate brownie cake, a banner that said "happy birthday mommy we love you so so so so much", a stack of handmade cards, and two gloriously decorated boxes.  

They sang to me.  

We had cake, and I opened the boxes, which they had apparently been hiding under their beds for weeks.  They were filled with little treasures.  

We chatted and laughed and I was showered in hugs and kisses.  

It was the best birthday ever.  

It was the first time that my children, all on their own, threw me a birthday celebration.  They worked hard and they did it because they love me.  

I realize that as I've aged and grown another year, so have they.  There has begun a great tectonic shift beneath the surface of our relationship, a change by which now, and more and more from now until forever, I not only take care of my children, but they take care of me, too.  

My children have always saved me, taught me, and brought me joy.  But now, they do it on purpose. 

On my birthday I realized, there is certainly a gift in that.  

News From The Ark

Well hello there.
It seems that every time I post here, I start out with some iteration of "it's been a long time".
It's like a person who loves to cook grand, multi-course meals, whose life speeds up so fast they realize one day they've had nothing but drive-through take-out for months.
Me, I like to write overly involved stories about things that are important to me, trying to preserve these gorgeous, fleeting moments, but it's come to a point around here that Instagram is about as good as it gets.
But the busy cook-at-heart would surely stay up late stirring spices into a pot from time to time, for the sake of remembering who they are, right?  And now and then, even though I should be doing other things, I pop in around here.
Hey.  It's been a long time!
But we're all still around.
This has been a rough year in some ways.  In the last six months, we lost J's remaining grandparent.  And his father, unexpectedly.  We lost my Nana, as I've mentioned.  And then, just a week later, my grandfather.  My grandaddy was a really, really important and special person to me.  I think I just shut down for awhile.  But I'm just carrying on, as we do, and missing him quietly.
We have also been adjusting to not only having J in residency (with the erratic, stressful schedule that entails) and having me go back to work (from home, mostly, with the erratic, stressful schedule that entails), but doing both at once.  We've had some struggles with Little One and school, plus, you know, Life.  Waah wahhh wahh.
The last year almost, it's felt like our little family was sailing through a storm.  We hunkered down, getting tossed around and soaked and bumping our heads on the rafters and just riding it out.
But, slowly (and with the help of J's parents and my mom, bless them), we've adjusted ballast so that, even though it's still windy out there, we've got a pretty even keel and strong sea legs.  Balance.
I returned from a trip to Ethiopia just in time for the last week of school, and all that fun and chaos. Little One had one more snow-day-make-up on today, and now we are FREE for the summer.  Freeeeeeeee!
It is possible that this change will knock me sideways again for awhile, but I have to admit I am incredibly excited to have long days spread before me with all my littles home.
Here are a few updates on those little monkeys, since it's been awhile:

Little One
Well for one thing, She lost another tooth tonight.  The growing up just will. not. stop.  It's crazy.
Little One has had a great year at school with friends, and a rough year with the learning part, but She handled all of it like a star.  I'm so proud of the way She has faced Her challenges and been a good friend and not stopped hugging me goodbye at drop-off yet.  She might be a little boy crazy.  But this is not really new.

Miss
Missy has traveled light years in Her ability to express Herself and handle Her emotions.  She is still our drama queen, no doubt. But She's able to reassure Herself that the world is not actually ending if She can't find Her favorite shoes.  She was the darling of Her preschool teachers, who really truly will never believe that I could call Her dramatic or accuse Her of refusing to get dressed for school in the morning, leading to Her arrival at school in nothing (I mean nothing) but a bathrobe.  She painted Her way through preschool, but somehow learned to read. It's because She quietly notices everything. She's the most cuddly, loving, kissy Little of all time, and also hilarious.  Mostly on purpose.

Little Mister
This guy.  He has his moments.  Moments in which He is hangry, and then gets frustrated, and reacts by throwing Himself backwards with all His might, whacking His head on the floor, and then, every time, freezes for a moment- in complete shock, as if it's never happened before- and then cries because, you know.  THAT HURTS.  In those moments I can only look at Him blankly and wonder if maybe I drank heavily during pregnancy and forgot about it.  But most of the time, most of it, He is sweet and fun and adorable.  He talks all the time, constantly, and we are realizing that He is actually saying stuff.  We can make a lot of it out now, and He's pretty funny.  He loooooovves His sisters.  He loves raisins.  And shoes.  And, ok, all the things.  He loves all things.  Except the ones He can't have.  Those things are WAHHHHHAAAAHHH!  Lucky for Him, with two doting Sisters wrapped around His pinky, there aren't a lot of those.

J
Not a Little.  But he counts right?!  I hear he's doing fine.  If you see him, you can ask.  I'll have to take your word for it.  Kidding, kidding.  Sort of.  J is working long hours and long weeks.  But he's still making time to be superdad, and I'm trying to accept the extra housework and kid-wrangling he's been picking up lately as we adjust that ballast.  It's funny how difficult it can be for a person who considers herself to be a feminist to allow someone else to do the laundry.  I just bite my tongue really hard, and breathe deeply in a quiet place for awhile repeating, "it's ok that he sorted into only two piles. If they all turn out pink I can buy all new clothes. Let it go. Let it goooo".   That Frozen movie song really applies to mis-sorted laundry.  Which never turns out pink.  He's basically a champ.

Me
Well I have a laundry problem, clearly.  But I'm thankful that J is so supportive of the new balance we are finding as a family.  I'm thankful to have a job I believe in that I can do without hiring help with my Littles, and that our moms step in at crucial times when I otherwise would have had to hire help.  And I'm especially thankful for this time when my Littles are all going to be with me all day, all summer. And like it.  At least, hopefully they'll like most of it.  I know these days are finite, I know they are precious.  I take none of it for granted.  And, despite the rough waters at times (that's life!) I am thoroughly enjoying the ride.  

Presentation Is Everything

When you have a toddler (which, unimaginably, I do now), people are always asking if He's a picky eater. So far I've just laughed- far from it!  Mister has been happy to eat anything.  Everything.  He's taken to signing "food" at random people.  "You finishing that? " At a New Years party, He sauntered up to a lady on the couch, picked up her fork, and helped Himself.
He continues to be amenable to any food.  But.  Whether He will happily eat it, or fling it on the floor, depends entirely on how it is served.
Cheerios and raisins are apparently finger-food.  Those can be served plain on a plate and He will eat them. Fine.  Steamed carrots? Yeah-no.  Fling on the ground.  Steamed carrots on a plate, with a fork? Hmm.  Maybe, maybe...no.  Fling on ground.  Carrots on the end of a fork held by a loving adult? BIG no.  No way.  FLING ON GROUND!
Same exact steamed carrots, with a fork, with one bite already on the fork, waiting, now we have a deal. He will eat them all.
Oatmeal from a spoon in my hand is destined for the wall.  Oatmeal with a spoon in His hand is destined for (the front of His shirt and) His mouth.
Peas, conversely, in a bowl with a spoon are going to be poured over the side of the high-chair.  Take that, peas!  Peas spread out on a plate (not in a pile), are a delicacy and will be devoured.
Milk is chugged from a bottle, hurled with epithets in a straw-cup.
Water is shunned in a bottle, sipped happily from a straw-cup.
Bananas are only good served whole, to chomp like a monkey.
The rules are exacting, nonsensical, and prone to change without notice.
This guy, I tell you. It's like a dictator! It's like a spoiled rock star!  It's almost like dealing with a... a... toddler.  

The Little In Mister

When we rock in the chair before bedtime, Little Mister likes me to hold my hand up, outstretched, so He can press His little fist into my palm.  I curl my fingers around His hand, closing it in.  He signs and coos, His eyes flutter shut.  He finds it somehow comforting, to have His hand held in mine, like that.

Every time, I know, His hand takes up a little more space in mine.  One day soon, I won't be able to close my fingers all the way around it.  Some day, His hand will be able to encircle my own.  

It's a distinctive strangeness, mothering this boy, to know that He will grow into a man.  That He will with some certainty become much bigger and stronger than I am.  How amazing to consider that, as I cradle Him so tiny, so fragile in the crook of my arm.  

Of course all my children will some day surpass me in strength, as I age, but this one will likely get there first, and while I still feel strong myself.  While I still feel that I am his protectress, His shelter.   

I think of my mother, caring for her father now.  I think of how one day, I will need my children to look after me.  To protect me, to lift me, to hold my hand.  

Sleepy Summer Snuggler

It is such a beautiful thing, this cyclical nature of life and loving. It is, if we are lucky enough for it to work the way it seems meant to.  When I reflect, I am hopeful and thankful in this future dependence on my children.  But for now, it seems so far away.  While I hear the racing of time along life's track, coming at me like a locomotive, I close my eyes.  I drown out the sound with a gentle lullaby.  I  hold His hand, close to my heart, and savor the little while it fits in mine.  

I'm Over Here

Hi guys!
It's Me! C!  Remember me?!
ME EITHER.

Last summer, I was cruising down my path in life.  You know, just going along, hitting occasional bumps, getting into ruts and out of them, going down hills and up hills, enjoying the ride.  When suddenly there was this little side path that just popped up out of nowhere.

It wasn't on like, my highlighted map or my GPS travel plan or anything.  But there it was, and I had to decide fast! So I slammed on the brakes and cranked the steering wheel as far as it would go, and spun out and fishtailed and skidded onto it.  And just kept going.

It's been quite a ride.  Until now, I truly have not been able to take both hands off the wheel long enough to type a single thing.

What happened was that I started working.  I have been so lucky to be able to stay home with my kids, and I had hoped and planned that I would always be able to do that while they are little.  But this opportunity came up that I couldn't pass by.

I have been volunteering for Artists For Charity for 8 years now.  It is a cause so dear to my heart.  And it's personal; I've met the kids.  They've taken care of MY kids.  I believe so wholeheartedly in what this organization does and the way they do it.  So when the opportunity came up to be a bigger part of that, I had to take it!

It's great, because I am able to work almost completely from home, determine my own schedule, and work pretty flexible hours.  So I still get to take care of all the Littles myself; no need for child care or babysitters, and I still get to be there for the tea parties, the first words, the fevers.  It's a dream come true, in so many ways.

The other side of it is that the line between "I'm working here" and "I'm living here" can get pretty blurry.  There are no hours that I'm not at work, but also no hours that I'm not at mommy-ing.  So I'm still working out the balance.

Add to this that I happened to jump in right at the absolute busiest, most crazy, chaotic time of year for the AFC team here- right before our big benefit that funds the whole operation.  And to really make it crazy we had two big benefits for the first time this year, on back-to-back Saturdays, one in NYC and one in DC (whose crazy idea was that?!)  Add to that J working over 90 hours a week as a resident, and me stubbornly refusing to miss PTA meetings or skip planning birthday parties, and I'm basically a hot mess.

My mom once described her years as a single, working mother as being on a runaway steam engine, just blasting through time.  I have thought of that metaphor so many times the last four months.  I get it mom, I totally do.

There have been times I've wondered whether it was the right choice.  Times I've been sure it wasn't.  Times when I thought that if I didn't get some sleep soon I might actually, seriously, spontaneously combust.  Mom-guilt and sleep deprivation are a toxic combination, Peanuts.  DON'T DRINK IT.

But.  The two events (which sound all small and cute when I say it like that, as if they can't possibly have dominated my entire life for three months) are now over.  They went well, thank goodness, and so I can go forward in the new year knowing that the AFC kids are going to be ok.  They are going to keep their home, their schools, their doctors.  I can take a deep breath, a step back, and start again working towards this goal of creating balance.  (Any of you have that? Care to share your secrets?!)

Also, my in-laws were here for a week, which helped a lot. Helpful, lovable in-laws are a luxury in life, and a blessing.  My mom, bless her, arrived at the height of the crazy and scooped up my Littles, made some lasagna, folded the laundry, and let me take a nap.  She'll be here a few more days, at which point I haven't decided whether chain her to something in my house, or zip my family into one of her suitcases.  And J, who has much more than I do to deal with right now, has nonetheless pulled through for me and been the most supportive and helpful person ever, as always. He even came and volunteered at the benefit, he even unloaded the truck the next day.  After making breakfast.

So while I'm still driving in unfamiliar territory, without a map, I think I've cleared the switchbacks and am headed for a simpler stretch.  Most importantly, and so luckily, I'm not driving solo.  Hopefully I'll be able to stop in here more often now, so you can come along, too.
 First- Hot shower.  Cookies.  Sleep.

And please, I have to ask, go check out the charity.  I wouldn't be getting up this early and working this hard if it wasn't that important.

Mary Had A Little Lamb

Mary had a little lamb. But Missy has a little dog.
Well.  Not that little, really, at 50 pounds, but Her dog seems to have other things in common with Mary's lamb.  Like being soft and fuzzy.  And wanting to follow his mistress to school.
We are lucky enough to live within walking distance of both Sister's schools.  Today Miss and I had dropped Little One off and were heading to preschool, when we were surprised at being charged by a big brown dog.  Who happened to be ours.
I told him to go home, at which he looked surprised, but turned to obey.  I watched him run across a green space and up a hill, where he made a valiant effort to get back into our yard through the hole he had dug under the fence.  He tried, but could't wriggle in.
So he just looked at me helplessly, a little guiltily, until I sighed.  "Ok then, X.  Come on."
He bounded over like he had just won christmas.
Little Miss, who had been complaining of the cold, of her feet being tired, of "please-carry-me-I-need-be-unner-yoh-ja-cket" was suddenly and miraculously cured of Her ills.
We backtracked a block to pick up his leash, and then he followed us to school.

X has never been a runner.  He is the dog who, as a puppy, stayed in our front courtyard during the day.  One day, a parcel deliveryman left the front gate open while J and I were at work- all day. When we finally got home, there was X, wagging his tail on the doormat.

There have been times he has jumped fenced before.  Always to get to the front door, where he waits expectantly to be invited inside, where he knows he belongs.

Until he developed a serious grouchiness with other dogs in his middle age, we never even bothered walking him on a leash.  He likes to be near his people.

The great tragedy of X's life was Little One's asthma.  Little One is allergic to dogs (of course).  A lick in the face gives Her a swollen eye that could compete with a bar fight injury.  She does pet and cuddle Her doggies, but always at the price of sneezing, wheezing, itching, and hives.  Dog time is always followed by wash time.
When She was three, She began to have serious trouble with asthma.  It was the dogs.
Numerous doctors have told us, in no uncertain terms, to "get rid of them".  But we couldn't.  Just couldn't.  So we tried everything; we restricted them to one part of the house, away from Little One's room.  We shaved their fur and bathed them every week, washed their beds every few days, vacuumed the house twice a day, and had HEPA filters all over the house.  Little One took a daily inhaler and a daily allergy medicine.
She was still needing Her rescue inhaler a couple of times a week.
So with heavy hearts, we built them a dog house in the back yard.  Within two weeks, Little One stopped having asthma attacks.  Soon She didn't need any of those medicines.  We couldn't argue with that.
So X and E became something none of us ever expected- outside dogs.  In Virginia they had reign over the yard and garage, but this house has no garage.  There is a storage room in the basement, and when we moved in it became the "dog room" for them to sleep in at night or during bad weather.
But just a few weeks in, Little One began having breathing trouble again.  Just having the dogs walk through Her playroom twice a day to get in and out was enough to affect Her health.
So we have converted the shed in the back into a behemoth dog house.  We fitted it with a dog-door, and they have their beds, their bones, their basket of toys in there.  They will have heated pads to curl up in when the weather gets cold.  But we still miss each other.
With the all-consuming life of babies and toddlers, we are sure they have felt quite neglected for some time.  But we've found a new turn of events now that the Sisters are six and three-and-a-half.
The dogs still don't get anywhere as much attention from me and J as they did before their banishment.  But, like all siblings in large families, they now get it from the other kiddos.
Miss and Little One play with them in the yard, throwing things for them, running with them, playing around and cuddling them.  They are now old enough to walk the dogs, holding the leashes themselves while I hold Mr, making their attendance possible on family strolls.  They seem to be reintegrating into the family in a new way, and the bond between the dogs and the children is pretty sweet to see.

It's why our otherwise well-behaved, never-been-a-runner dog X plotted an escape- to walk his girl to school.  It's why he greeted Miss first when he ran up to us.  And why he wagged his tail all the way to drop off- and whimpered all the way home.
Yesterday, Little Miss spent two hours in the back yard mixing mud and decorating a beautiful, elaborate "cake" for X, to celebrate his tenth birthday.

It's hard to believe it's been a decade since I held a tiny flop-eared puppy on my shoulder and whispered him a promise that I was taking him out of that county shelter and would take care of him forever.

Looking back over those years, I remember how he stood guard at my bedroom door every night when I was pregnant with Little One.  I remember how he herded her into the room with us when she was toddling around, how he he loved going down the slide with both girls at the playground and letting the neighborhood kids throw sticks for him or mob him to wash him together in the summers. I remember that time a foster puppy got out and I could not catch her- then I let X out and he rounded her up and shepherded her home.

X with the foster puppy he rescued

 
 There have been times I've watched a Little lean into his fur and cry quietly, and know that it helped them because I've done the same.  I remember the time all the houses on our row of town homes got robbed one night- except ours.  The time when J was deployed that he and E barked so ferociously in the middle of the night, and then the police knocked to tell me that a neighbor had seen a man trying to break in- who didn't.  I realize that while I've kept my promise to feed and shelter him, maybe he's the one who has taken care of me.
On the tenth birthday of the member of our family who was sort of our first baby, I maybe should have scolded my dog for digging a hole under the fence and wriggling through to chase us to school.  But I can't help thinking that he wasn't doing something wrong, so much as righting a wrong.  After all, he ended up right where he should be.
By our side.