There are four things in this world that drive me, quite literally, insane. Surprisingly enough, Bennett already is quite adept at two of the four items. Coincidence? I think not. Here is the on-the-edge-of-your-seat, nail-biting list that you cannot possibly wait a moment longer to hear.
1. The Quiet Talker. Don't even think about talking quiet around me or while we're talking on the phone. If you can't speak up, I don't want to hear you. Pretend I'm an elderly lady with a faulty hearing aid. Bennett accomplishes this effect by sitting in the farthest seat away from me that he possibly can in the back of the van. Then, while the music is playing and all my efforts are focused on trying to get from point A to point B as safely as possible, he decides to start giving me a brief history of Batman. He asks me a gazillion questions and will end up in tears if I don't answer him. I'm doomed. Not that Bennett is a naturally quiet child, oh contraire. But in the car his mission is to personally sabotage his mom's peace of mind while trying to concentrate.
2. Not Calling Me Back. Oh boy - instant rejection here. Remember, I'm 'worse case scenario' girl. If someone I love hasn't called me back - well, let's just suffice it to say that my fatalist mentality gets the best of me.
3. Parking Your Cart in the Middle of the Isle. Also called: inconsiderate. If everyone would just be the tiniest bit more considerate, like scoot your cart over to the side of the isle, the world would be a happier place. That's my soapbox.
4. Picking. Last - but definitely not least! This is actually the all time worst pet peeve for me. Chuck loves to pick. He does it without even knowing - his nails, his hang-nails, his toes, his feet, any excess or random skin flaking off his or anyone else's body (especially delightful while a sunburn is peeling). For whatever reason, I can't stand picking. It makes all the nerves in my body instantly cringe at the same time. Well, guess who else has a pension for picking - yup, Bennett. Not only does he pick - he LOVES to pick. And I personally think he loves it because he knows how much I hate it. I often overhear him saying "I love to pick". I know he's trying to break me down, play with my mind, some kind of torture tactic I suppose. Then, his icing on the cake routine is when he comes and announces to me, "Mom, I've got some pickin' to do", like he's falling behind his quota or something. I can't stop him from picking, but thankfully, I don't have to be in the same room to observe this ritual he and his father find as fun and productive as say...blogging. :)
My husband and I have asked ourselves this age old question many, many times. And to our delight, we always come up with doozy answers that inevitably keeps our butts securely in place on the sofa. Truth be told, we're actually anything but couch potatoes. We're always on the go (that reason was on the top of our 'Why Not Exercise' list, by the way). We feel justified in the fact that we keep our bodies so busy that we don't have time to exercise.
Despite our justified reasons, we decided to give it a try....don't knock something till you've tried it, right? Well, I'm knockin' now. I've 'exercised' for two whole days now, so I feel I have a leg to stand on here, that is, if it wasn't so wobbly from all that exercise. Here are my top five reasons NOT to exercise....
1. After doing multiple sit-ups, I find that I'm perpetually stuck in the 'crunch' position. This does not bode well for carrying around little ones, making lunch or dinner or pretty much doing anything in a vertical position.
2. My legs are too wobbly to make it up the 16 steps I already climb 15 million times a day. I have instead resorted to an upstairs and downstairs time schedule so as not to needlessly waste valuable leg energy. In the mean time, until I regain secure footing, I climb up the steps on my hands and knees like Chloe and come down on my bottom. My daughter has had to reteach me the tricks of the trade - but I'm a quick learner.
3. It wastes valuable time that I could otherwise be playing. And in this house 'We Must Play' is our daily battle cry. Who knows, one day some scientific study might be released that informs us that playing 8 hours a day with your kids is the best exercise. Then, I will suddenly turn into some health guru because I have prescribed to that idea for years.
4. Exercising sends too much blood to my brain and I end up getting woozy. The last thing the kids need is a woozy mother. That wouldn't be a very good role model of me to walk around holding onto the walls and every piece of furniture just to keep my balance. My children would surely mimic my every move. Then CPS might get a hold of our story and blame me for being under the influence while mothering. That's the last thing I need. Of course, this is a prime example of how I always imagine situations out till the absolute worst case scenario.
5. If I never exercise, I never feel guilty. However, if I say I'm going to exercise and then miss out on a few days of it, well then, the guilt feelings are more than I can bear. I walk around in utter depression heaping loads on condemnation upon myself for ignoring the one activity that is supposed to 'keep me going'.
Which brings me back to the premise of my story. My children keep me going. Trust me - they are ALL the exercise I need. Which reminds me, if you'd like training in my new workout regime, I'll be starting my new class entitled: Mothering...Exercise For Life . Unfortunately, I don't think anyone could make it because it is 16 hours a day with an occasional 6-8 hour break at dark (and that's not even guaranteed).
Does that title bother you? It should. It did me. Let me explain how it came to be....
Some very dear friends of ours are moving before Thanksgiving. So we agreed to celebrate together with an early Thanksgiving instead. The plans were made, the date was set, we each knew what we were to make and bring. Then the actual day rolled around...
Can you say 'catastrophe'? It didn't help that I woke up in a horrible mood. So bad, in fact, that I had a meltdown around 9am. I locked myself in my room and had a good cry. Everything in the world was wrong - at least that's the way it looks when you're in the middle of a pity party. It also didn't help that I had two very rambunctious boys running everywhere and a very clingy and whiney little baby girl following me everywhere while making sure I didn't forget what her voice sounded like.
I'm feeling a little pressure about the whole turkey thing - you know, so as not to be perceived as a bad cook. I need advice and who better to turn to than my Mom. So, I call Mom for the turkey prep advice and ask when I should put my turkey in if I'm planning on a 6pm dinner. Mom informed me that noon would work well, but be sure to keep the oven temp at 325 so it doesn't cook too fast. Check. Item one marked off my mental check-list.
Oh yah, before the meltdown, I was trying to prepare a new pumpkin tart dessert for which I found out too late that I did not have all the ingredients. I call my Mom again, " Mom, how important is pumpkin spice, really?" I did not like the bluntness of her reply, "Very important, honey." Oh great! Now I'm in the middle of making a pumpkin recipe that's not going to taste like anything pumpkin because I forgot to buy a tiny $3 bottle of the magic ingredient. I may as well just serve tofu with Cool-Whip on top. I call my friend who's coming for dinner and ask her if she by chance has this insignificant little ingredient.
Meanwhile, I decided I would also bake a Thanksgiving cake. That was actually rather selfish of me. You see, I'm probably the pickiest eater on the planet and since I'm not a fan of pumpkin anything or many berry pies, I thought I'd make the cake so I too could enjoy a dessert. I decided to write with frosting on the top. We couldn't just have some random cake for dessert, this is afterall, a pre-thanksgiving celebration. There has to be some momento touting the event. So, ever so carefully, in my neatest cursive handwriting, I begin to write Happy on the top line and Thanksgiv on the bottom line. Apparently, I'm too dense to know how to space my letters out properly while writing on a cake. So, in my stubbornness I decided to leave it just that way. We would no longer be celebrating Thanksgiving...we would celebrate Thanksgiv. There, problem two solved.
Thankfully, my friend stopped by to drop off the coveted pumpkin spice and noticed that I appeared to be, shall we say, a tad bit upset, weepy, red-nosed, with a slight twitch in my head. I confessed about my break down and we commiserated together. What a difference that made - to have a friend who was genuine enough to sit and listen as I spewed my frustrations and in turn, listened to hers. I could sense the day was about to change. My biggest frustration was that this was supposed to be a happy day, why then, could I not be happy?
I decided to put the turkey in 15 minutes early, just in case. I didn't want to cut it too close. Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about that because our Thanksgiv turkey was done precisely at 2:30 - a full 3 1/2 hours early. I am so not Martha Stewart! I call Chuck and my friends and ask them if they could possibly make it to dinner an hour earlier. Everyone was sweet to comply. I was expecting my 14 lb. turkey to shrink down to the size of a Cornish game hen. Luckily, we had slightly more than that to consume.
This day was the test to the old saying 'your feelings aren't dependent on your circumstances'. I obviously failed the beginning of the day. But by the afternoon, I just had to concede and laugh it off. It's typical of me. What can go wrong, most often will go wrong. And since I'd already had a good cry, I chose to laugh the rest of day. Laughter truly is good medicine.
We had a great dinner, dry turkey and all. Gravy does wonders! Luckily, I'm not the gravy maker in this family. So, Chuck saved the day for all of us. My hero. :)
Although its been nine glorious years since we were first married, I have to admit that my husband and I still make very strange bed fellows. Like most husbands and wives, we are opposite in every way. He's hot at night, I'm freezing. I'm sweltering in the morning, he's an iceburg. Many a night has commenced with Chuck strategically posing the question, "Should we sleep with the fan on or off tonight?" No one ever really knows the answer to that question until the moment is upon us. And surprisingly, I alone, hold the key to that mystery. Because it's all about me, right? :)
Another matter is the whole alarm clock issue. For some reason, my husband continuously buys the same faulty alarm clock year after year. Every morning he swears he set it the previous night, yet surprisingly, no noise or music escapes from it at the pre-determined time each morning. I should have told him to save his money. My body clock is as reliable as Walmart being open 24 hours a day. I ALWAYS wake up before my alarm and turn it off so as not to wake my sleeping husband. And then I remember - "wait, he's supposed to be at work right now". So, I ever so gently give him that little nudge, with my knee, then my foot, then harder, then the nudge becomes a shove. I can't stand to be late. I can't stand if I know other's are going to be late. Poor guy is hardly ever late to work - thanks to me.
And finally, the story behind this entry. My husband has serious sleeping issues. If at any point in the night I happen to wake him and ask him for something or tell him I think I heard a noise...he never really leaves the zen state of sleep he was in. Now, he still communicates (if that's what you want to call it) - he can talk and walk, but his actions and/or answers to my questions or comments don't always make sense. Between my talking in my sleep and his doing whatever anybody says to do while in his partly awake state, we are a sitcom waiting to happen.
Take last night for example...Chuck has been plagued by a tickle cough and your basic cold for about a week now. Conveniently, the little fake cough is more severe at night. So, after both of us laying there for 45 minutes last night trying to sleep and pretending to not be at all annoyed by the fake cough every 3.5 seconds, I just can't take any more. I blurt out, "Why don't you go take a teaspoon full of honey. That should help coat your throat." Where I got that one from, I'll never know. It must have been either Mary Poppins or my Grandfather, I don't know which. Evidently, I'm still handing out advice in my sleep - poor Chuck. But being that he is Chuck, he feels the need to respond to every and anything I say or do at night. I could tell him to go make a sandwich in the middle of the night and he would do it - no questions asked. He's so sweet, he feels that he's being rude if he turns his back to me at night. Anyways, back to the story at hand.
So, I'm assuming after he got out of bed he went and ate some honey. I fell to sleep the instant he got out of bed and we never really talked about the incident all day until tonight. When he was like, "What was that whole honey thing about last night?". And I was like, "Did you actually go do that?". To which he responds, "You could have told me to go drain the oil out of the car and drink it and I probably would have because I just don't think at night." Then I'm like, "why are we so crazy at night?". And it just now dawned on me that I'm writing this like I'm some kind of teenager - or do teenagers even talk that way anymore? Okay, maybe I'm reverting back to my 80's teenager days. :)
Just so posterity gets this story straight, this is a nightly occurrence. There are just too many stories to tell, that I could not possibly relate them all. If any of our off-spring find themselves in this same predicament -you know who to thank. It's in the genes.
When God was giving out love, I think Bennett got in line twice. His little heart is so tender, especially towards little girls (and me :) ). He treats his little 'Zoe' like a queen, even though she can be pretty 'catty' to him at times. She can do no wrong in his little world - so he keeps showering her with affection and help and kind words. She has yet to realize the depth of this gift he is bestowing on her. Bennett is especially concerned with the plight of all little girls that are his height or below. He feels it is his job to make them happy if they are sad. Take today for instance...
We were at our local library. As we were coming out, the kids asked if they could throw pennies in the water fountains that decorate the entrance to the building. The boys each got two pennies and Chloe got one. They take this 'making a wish' business very seriously. You don't just fling a penny aimlessly into any old fountain. It requires much contemplation and soul searching before giving up that precious money. They fully expect these wishes to come true.
As we were watching the kids go through their solemn ritual of 'making a wish', another Mom and her little girl approached the fountain Bennett was at. The little girl asked her Mommy for some money. The Mom was digging frantically through her purse. Bennett walked up to them and said, "Here, wu can have my money." He saw a little girl in need and felt the urge to come to her rescue. I watched in awe. It was one of those moments that you always hope you might see from your children - when they are looking out for someone other than themselves. I never urged him to do it, I just sat back and watched my son show someone else love and it was a beautiful sight.
The Mom looked at us in amazement and made some comment about our parenting. I told her it wasn't us...it was all Bennett. I explained the soft spot he holds in his heart for little girls. By then, the other Mom had found her pennies and was offering Bennett some more in return. He reluctantly took them. He didn't do it to get anything back, but out of the joy of making someone else happy.
After they had left, I pulled Bennett to me to give him a hug and let him know how proud I was of him. I told him that through that action, he just showed the love of Jesus to someone else. He was beaming. I asked him what made him want to do that. He replied, "Duh wittle dirl didn't have any money and I wanted to make hur happy."
He always seems so concerned about my happiness as well. Whenever I have to discipline him he always lets me know that, "Mom, I still wuv you even dough I made a bad choice." He doesn't want anyone to be mad at him. And if I ever appear sad or down in any way, you can guarantee he will find some type of flower or leaf or stick to bring me with the tag line, "I just wanted to make wu happy, Mom." He sure knows how to brighten up my day.
They other day, I found him standing on top of the chair trying to reach a flower in a vase that was sitting on our breakfast bar. When I caught him red-handed, he was stammering as fast as he could trying to explain about how he found this flower for me and that he wanted to give it to me to make me happy. Same thing happened at a restaurant. I think I'm going to have to ask Chuck to explain the etiquette about how and where you may get flowers. Stealing them from other people's vases and yards do not make mommy happy, even though they are a flower.
Last night I was getting Chloe ready for bed. As most parents and children do, we have a little routine we follow to a tee. We change into our jammies. We sit on our bed just so - and we have to be in the exact same spots or everything is thrown-off. We read the exact same flip book. Then we cuddle (my favorite part) as I sing her a few songs. Thankfully, I don't have to pick the exact same song every night. If she disapproves of the evening's pick, she just shakes her head no and I move on to a more acceptable piece of music.
As I was in the middle of singing "You Are My Sunshine", Bennett comes in and asks if he could sing a song for his sister "cuz I wuv her". I instructed him to come stand next to me and rub her back, as I was doing, while he sings to her. He laid his head on her arm as he was rubbing her back ever so gently and then in the highest, softest pitch he began..."Wu are a sweet dirl, Zoe. I wuv wu very much. Wu need to yearn to have more patience sometimes. Wu need to go to bed now cuz its wu bedtime. I wuv wu very much, Zoe." Then he quietly slipped out the door after smothering her with kisses.
He loves without abandon. Thank you, Bennett, for teaching me to do the same.
This is a rather odd title, I know. It could represent two different things. One being puke. The other being a phrase such as, "Get UP CHUCK....because a child of ours has thrown up." In both cases, the phrase involves a bodily function. Unfortunately, most of my stories revolve around bodily functions and my children in some form or fashion. It has come to be expected, hasn't it?
We seem to have been home to a tummy virus lately. It started with Chloe a week ago. One morning I went to get her up and found her sleeping in and around her own throw-up. Actually, she tucked her self into the farthest corner of the crib she could to escape the horrible stench and wetness that permeated the oppostie side it.
Whenever I walk in and find that one of my children has slept in throw up, I feel that I have somehow failed as a mother. I should instinctively know when my child has thrown up and should rush to their aide anytime of the night or day. However, my children never have felt the need to tell me that their insides transferred to their outsides during the course of their sleep. Evidently, they place a higher priority on sleep and their sense of smell must not be too keen.
This brings me to Bennett. It's always Bennett, isn't it? The other night, I went to give him one final kiss before going to bed. He had mentioned earlier that his 'tummy hurt' but I gave it no heed (my first mistake). Gavin had gone to bed earlier with a tummy ache and Bennett always tends to copy whatever brother does. So, I just figured he was copying brother to get extra attention. Boy, was I wrong!
As I opened the door, the smell of rancid gastric juices almost knocked me over. "What in the world?", I thought. I plugged my nose and continued walking over to the bunk bed in the dark, praying I wouldn't step on anything wet and gooey. As I bent over to kiss Bennett, I discovered where the scent originated from. There was my boy, all squished up at the bottom of his bed. There were at least 3 small piles of throw up in and around the upper portion of his bed, including, but not limited to: his pillow, his blanky, and his quilt. Another pile had miraculously ended up under his bunk bed (maybe it slipped through the slats; I still haven't figured that one out). It was everywhere. He didn't feel the need to inform us of this inconvenience. He just wanted to go back to sleep. The contents of my stomach were deciding that they didn't want to remain on the inside anymore either. I rushed out of there and ran to get Chuck who was already dozing off.
"Uh, Baby...you're not going to be very happy with me right now, but, uh...I need you upstairs for a minute", then I bolted. He would figure it out once he reached the top of the steps. As Chuck was cleaning and rinsing and re-outfitting Bennett with a new place to sleep that didn't reek of sour milk, I was putting a load of laundry in and Lysoling everything in sight. Poor kid, he was serious after all. Live and learn, right?
At precisely 2:16am, I was awakened by Gavin tapping me on the shoulder. Once I realized who he was, who I was and where I was, I asked, "Are you okay, Honey?" He replied, "Now I am." I didn't catch on. So he proceeded to explain, "Uh, I was trying to get to the bathroom and I uh, kinda didn't make it there all the way." Before he was finished with his sentence, Chuck was out of bed and already marching up the stairs with carpet cleaner and paper towels in hand.
This was a bad one. Instead of isolating the accumulated stomach contents in one neat place such as the bed, Gavin spewed them throughout a diameter of at least three feet right outside his bedroom door and into the loft right at the top of the stairway. In typical Gavin fashion, he was trying to convince us that it could have been worse. He said, "Well, at least I wasn't trying to run down stairs to get you and I could have thrown-up all over the stairs. That's a good thing, huh?!". We assured him that he wasn't in trouble and that accidents happen. It's hard to anticipate what and when and where and how your tummy will empty its contents - at least in this family.
We made it back to bed around 2:46am. Thankfully, getting up that second time around gave me time to take the first puke ladened items out of the washer and put them into the dryer. As I lay there pondering the unforeseen drama of this night, I harkened back to my childhood days of not making it to the bathroom in time. This seems to be a genetical problem in our family.
I was once sleeping with my Grandma while visiting with them and threw up all over her. She never showed one hint of frustration or anger over that. Another time, I did exactly as Gavin did to us, but I left a trail from my bedroom to the bathroom. My Mom was the first to reach me and gave me a towel to wipe my mouth. As she sat and consoled me, my Dad did the honors of cleaning up the mess. So that he could stomach it a little easier, he grabbed a nearby towel and held it up to his face to cover his mouth and nose. As the chore wore on, he came up for breath and mentioned to Mom that this time was especially odorous for some reason. Then she happened to notice the towel he was using to shield his face. It was the same one she had previously wiped my mouth with. He was breathing the fumes up close. I never remember laughing so hard while being so sick.
I guess the moral to the story is: what goes around comes around. It's just payback time, that's all.
This Mommy Story is actually about the Mommy - the pathetic Mommy, to be exact. Let me explain...
I love cookies. I have a serious obsession with cookies - not unlike the famed Cookie Monster. However, my body has decided that in order to help keep me from looking exactly like the Cookie Monster, it would install a trigger alarm somewhere within me to keep me from devouring too much of my favorite food. This trigger happens to be in the form of a migraine.
I hate my headaches. It seems that my body prefers that I consume a diet rich in bland, boring food such as grass and water. Those have yet to induce the headache trigger. But I NEED my cookies. This is my one vice (okay, my second vice - my other one is buying lots and lots of beautiful furniture). What's a Mommy to do?
But alas, I have found the answer! I stumbled upon the most scrumptious of cookies made my by beloved grocery store's bakery. I was in heaven. I have found the ONE cookie that does not alert the 'trigger'. Life is good. Well, at least it was...until 'corporate' decided that this particular cookie was too unhealthy to keep selling and instructed all the bakeries to no longer make this item.
Trust me, it's not a good idea to mess with me and my cookies. It took years of labored searching until my body deemed that this would be the ONE cookie that I may eat and derive pleasure from. I was not going to just sit idly by and watch as my favorite cookie was being maliciously taken away from me. Like the bakery makes anything that is good/healthy for you?! It was time I took action.
I wrote a nice little letter to 'corporate'. I got no response. I'm sure I'm deemed as 'The Cookie Lady' now. Things were looking bleak. But I'm not worried, I'm desperate and desperate people do desperate things. I decided that 'if I can't beat them, I'd join them'. No, I didn't go to work for the bakery department - at least not yet. I got in real friendly with all the employees in the bakery, though.
Then a thought struck me, why not just special order my favorite cookie. My new found bakery friends were more than happy to oblige. No need to panic any longer about if and when I'll get my favorite cookie. I am the only person I know who has a standing order at the bakery department for cookies. Not only do they know me by name, they bake 12 little cookies each week and have them ready for me every Saturday by noon. Does life get any better than this?
Today I went to pick up my cookies among other items at the store. As I made my way through the checkout line, the cashier noticed my cookies and said, "Oh, you're the one who orders those cookies every week". After turning multiple shades of red, I admitted it was me. I then asked this lady if everybody in the store knew about my little standing order and she gave me a wry little smile as she shook her head up and down. Oh great! How pathetic am I? My bakery friends sold me out. The whole store knows about me and my little headache and favorite cookie problem. They probably have my picture posted in the break room somewhere with a warning - 'Do not, under any circumstances, tell this woman she cannot have her cookies. Do what ever it takes. Customer satisfaction is our greatest goal'.
Not only am I pathetic, I am obsessive compulsive about my cookies and keep them in a high, safe place in case of a flood (or maybe hungry little people). I then retreat into the pantry or wait until all is quiet and then eat my one cookie. It is in that moment that I don't care what all those people think. All that work for one pathetic little cookie. What have I become?
We love traditions in this household. Actually, I'm not sure if it's the tradition or the routine we love, either way...we like doing things the same over and over and over again. I'm not sure what this says about us. Maybe that we're boring or route or can't think outside the box. I prefer to think of it as stability for the kids. A sense of comfort comes from knowing what to expect. So, everyday, along with our list of other endless 'traditions', you will find us giving each other love analogies.
This is how it typically starts off:
Mommy - "Have I told you guys I loved you yet today?"
Boys- "Nooooo."
Mommy - "Well, I love you guys as many fish that are in the sea."
Gavin - "Well, I love you as many roads that are in all the world."
Bennett - "Well, I wuv wuu as much dirt dare is in duh land."
The purpose here would be to try to 'out-love' the other person. Of course there has to be a winner. Someone has to love all the rest more than everyone else. I tell them that the Mommy always loves the kids more. But they don't buy into that. They have informed me that the kids always love the Mommy more. Whatever!
Here are some other analogies we've given recently. These go on and on. They are endless. So, I'll spare you the time and just write down a few so that I don't forget by time my kids are 13 and 16. Hopefully, this tradition will still be going strong...but just in case it's not, these should help jog my memory of one more crazy family tradition that I wouldn't trade for the world.
Mommy - "I love you guys as many stars that are in space."
Bennett - "I wuv wuu as many zass (grass) dat is in all duh fields."
Gavin - "I love you as hot as the sun. No, wait, as hot as the lightening. It's 4 times hotter than sun."
Mommy - "I love you as many wires as are in the whole world."
Bennett - "I love you as many vicks (sticks) dat are in duh whole city and on duh road."
Gavin - "I love you as many houses as are in all the world."
It's amazing to me, that no matter how hard we try, we can't seem to capture in words how much we love each other. It just doesn't get any better than this!
If you ever hear those words fall off the lips of my beloved middle child, Bennett, you might consider two options at your disposal. One, run and hide. Or two, reach for the the nearest HAZMAT suit. You might even want to have an extra one on hand.
These words were spoken to us the other night as we were on our way to a small gathering at church. Bennett never acts sick until he is. The malodorous odor permeating the minivan should have clued us into the fact that this was more than just a 'tummy ache'. We were about to be dealing with harmful, chemical odors here.
Chuck & I both figured that the lunch we ate (6 hours ago) did not sit well on poor Bennett's tummy. Before we left him in the hands of the unsuspecting and innocent child care worker, Chuck decided to take him to the potty. Come to find out, the odor that enveloped us in the car was not only in the gaseous state - there was matter attached to it. Actually, more accurately put, the matter was attached to Bennett's Batman underwear. We no longer own that particular pair anymore. Chuck had no idea how to clean diarrhea out of big boy pants - so he opted to let his son go 'commando' instead. Great. Now I have a somewhat smelly child running commando in the church. We are looking like the great Christian parental influence they desire to become apart of their congregation, I'm sure.
We enjoyed visiting with the other adults for nearly an hour. At that point, I thought I should run and check on the kids. The babysitter said that Bennett was rather quiet, choosing to just sit in the corner. I remember thinking how odd it was that the room still smelled of Bennett's previous episode.
I went over to my sweet child and asked him how he was feeling. He said he was fine, except that his tummy still hurt. I asked if he would like me to take him to the potty (there was a bathroom attached to the room). The rest of the events are still rather blurry to me. After you see a large, wet, tan colored mass fall out of your son's shorts as he rises from the corner, one tends to fall into a trance like state (I should know, it has happened to me often enough). Thanks to Daddy, we were commando, so there was nothing there to catch the mass as it landed on the carpet. The malodorous smell magnified. I almost fainted. My knees grew weak. I don't deal with smelly situations well - especially in front of other people.
With all the dignity I could muster, I continued to walk across the room with my poor child. The bathroom seemed like it was a mile away. It was the only safe place I could think of going. More remnants fall as we pass the onlookers and maneuver our way through toys. No one who witnessed that event will ever be the same. You may as well throw away the toys.
Once we made it to the bathroom, I had not a clue what to do. I asked Bennett what happened and he said he didn't know. The poor child never had diarrhea before and was unaware of the particular urges associated with that awful phenomenon. My mind was blank. I could think of nothing. I felt myself falling away to a far off place. Then a whiff of reality brought me back to the here and now. Suddenly the solution was clear - run and get Chuck. I did not have to handle this crisis alone! Thank God!!!
As I make my way back to the small gathering, it was obvious that I was interrupting. It didn't take much for one to figure out that we were having issues with a child and an 'accident'. I guess I gesture with my hands way to much when I talk (or even whisper, for that matter). The kind pastor offered to let Bennett sit in his office for the remainder of the meeting. We declined rather heartily for fear of being banished from the church - we still had our pride.
Feeling confident that Chuck was in control of the situation, I calmly sat back and enjoyed the rest of the gathering - far, far away from any smells that didn't resemble coffee. However, once Chuck made it back to the 'war zone' he was overcome with that same sense of gagging that rendered me useless. He said that he stood there for a good 5 minutes just talking to Bennett stalling for time and ideas.
Being that Bennett is almost 4, we don't carry an extra set of clothes or big boy pants with us everywhere we go. After this experience, however, you will see a duffel bag in my trunk that is packed with an extra change of clothes for my entire family. Experience dictates that you NEVER know when you will need an extra change of clothes. Chuck decided to sit Bennett in the sink and rinse him off. This was a pedestal sink. It took him 20 minutes to accomplish this task. We couldn't take him home in the condition he was in. And, we couldn't parade him through the church naked on our way to the car. We had a dilemma. Thank God for size 6 diapers. I think Bennett was more mortified by the fact that he was wearing a diaper than by the entire event that just played itself out before him.
Why couldn't this have happened at home before we got to church? Why did it have to happen that day? Why did it have to happen at all? Haven't I had my share of poopy stories to last me 10 lifetimes? Haven't I learned anything from my years of potty training Bennett? Hasn't Bennett learned anything from those same years? If you think these things seem to happen to me quite frequently, you are right. We need to form some type of committee to look into this phenomenon.
I knew something was going to be awry today when I woke up, glanced at the clock and it read: 18:88. You can not have a 'normal' day when you wake up at 18:88. I thought I was in some dream world, you know, like in the movie "Groundhog Day".
My suspicions were confirmed when I went to find my jean shorts in my drawer and they were not there. "Hmm, that's odd", I think to myself. I'm the only one in this house who does the laundry and I know that I just cleaned them. So where could they be? I then spent the next 30 minutes searching the house high and low for my jean shorts.
I had a dogged determination. I refused to give in to this craziness and just wear any old pair of shorts. Shorts just don't get up and walk away - they had to be here somewhere. My senses aren't too keen early in the morning...actually, I really had no clue what time of the day or night it was since it was 18:88. I'm assuming it was morning. Now that I think about it, it is a little strange that every time I glanced at the clock during my shorts investigation it consistently read: 18:88. You'd think I'd catch on or something...
I know the suspense is probably killing you - it was me. I was flabbergasted as to how such a thing could happen to me. I'm normally a neat and organized person. I started thinking back to the last time I wore my jean shorts. That's not a good activity to do at 18:88. I have the WORST short term memory. I can't even remember what I wore yesterday. How in the world would I remember some vague event in the not too distant past? Things are going from bad to worse.
I decide that this is too big a job for one person. So I enlist the troops. I call Deputy Gavin and Bennett to look upstairs. There is no way in the world they would be upstairs, but I was getting desperate. This mystery was more than I could handle. I even checked in the boys' drawers thinking that maybe in my absent-mindedness while I was folding clothes, maybe I thought my shorts were theirs. No outlandish idea is beyond the scope of reason now. I am accepting any and all leads.
Bennett finds me walking in circles down stairs with a dazed and confused look on my face, still in my pajamas. He runs up to me holding gold - my jean shorts. I pick him up and hug him and swing him in a full circle. I am overjoyed that he has confirmed that I have not actually lost my mind. I ask him where in the world did he find them. He tells me they were in his hamper. Who would have thought?
I reward my deputies appropriately, with a dime and a quarter and send them on their merry way as I slip into my precious jean shorts. Job well done. There's something to be said for persistence! Had I chosen to put on another pair of shorts this mystery would remain unsolved for who knows how long. Now I'm on to my next task, trying to understand the digital clock by my bed that is possessed with a mind of its own.
All this and I am only an hour and a half into my day. I can only imagine what the rest of the day holds for us. :)
It doesn't get much better than this...going on a date with your three year old. The boys get soooo excited when they know they get some alone time with just Mommy. Of course, we are big fans of routine around here, so each child knows exactly what is about to transpire for his date. But the anticipation and build up through out the day is almost more than they can handle.
Bennett & I left the rest of the crew after dinner and headed straight to DQ for a yummy blizzard. I decided that we would split a medium sized one since he never seems to quite finish his own ice cream. He made me promise that if we were going to split, that I would only have two bites. I conceded, knowing that there was no way he would finish that huge thing alone and I would be allowed to eat the ice cream at the bottom. Boy, was I wrong! :)
We opted to eat it in the comfort of our parked car, both sitting in the front seat together. Before he even took a bite he told me, "Mom, you can have your two bites now." Then he proceed to count to ensure that I kept my word. This was serious business. He then commandeered the ice cream and remained mostly quiet as he let the sweet, cold flavors linger on his palate. You could tell he was in heaven.
Since I was pretty much sitting there with nothing to eat, I suggested we drive over to the baseball fields and watch some games while 'we' ate ice cream. He loved this idea. Once at the fields we had fun talking and eating 'our' huge ice cream. I think it took him at least 30 minutes to finish the whole thing.
I asked him what he'd like to be when he grows up and he answered, "I want to be a foleece (police) man. Foleece kinda like superheroes cuz they get bad guys." I loved the priviledge of seeing how his brain thought things out. He also added that he was "very bwave" - this is key to being a 'foleese man' and a superhero. I told him he would make an awesome police man because he is an awesome superhero. You could see his chest swell with pride.
He started thinking a little deeper about this subject and found a glich that he felt needed to be discussed. My little superhero has mosquito bites (bumps, he calls them), up and down his legs from playing out in a field the other day. He deduced that he probably wouldn't be able to be a 'foleese man' because of his 'bumps'. "Foleece mans don't get bumps, do dey, mom?" I told him in no uncertain terms that sometimes they do and went on to give an example of a foleese man chasing a bad guy thru a field and getting bitten. Thankfully, he feels that he can still qualify for 'foleese man' school.
He then began to wonder why Daddy wasn't out here playing baseball. Good question. Daddys need to have fun too. We both agreed to bring the rest of the family back here next week. He probably thanked me for taking him on a date at least 10 times while we were out. He also told me that he "loves me too much". What mom's heart wouldn't melt at the sound of such sweet words?
Once 'our' ice cream was finished we were able to have all sorts of endless fun on the playground. Once it started getting dark, I piggy-backed him back to the car to go in search of 'the belt'. However, the night wouldn't be complete without a life question thrown in there somewhere. You know, one of those questions that I have no idea how to answer. Tonight's question was, "Mom, why is our pee yellow?" What a great question! We knew Daddy would know, which increased our desire to get home more quickly.
Bennett's been longing for a Batman belt. I told him I would look for one while at Target earlier in the day, but I didn't find one. His response was, "well, dank wuu for wooking anyways, mom." Affection and thankfulness was on the top of his agenda. He was tickled pink to end up getting to pick his own (brown) belt out at the store.
As we were driving home, he got the giggles because it was way past bed time. He also got a stomach ache, surprise, surprise. :) He ended our night with, "Mommy, I wish I were woo." God put the most sensitive and loving heart in this child and he gave him to me as my special gift. What an amazing life I have!!
