And so it Begins

Yesterday I heard the words I knew were coming. They were inevitable. His daddy played it. His grandpa played it. His uncles love it. He sleeps snuggled up with it every night as if it were a soft, cuddly teddy bear. Why would it not flow through his veins? And so I sat in my chair for an hour or so tossing his football as he ran around the living room catching the ball every time despite my inability to throw straight.

"Mommy will you play football with me?"

Don't Forget to Test on Two Year Old Males

You know Evan?

The escape artist?

He did it again.

Not as sever this time because I was awake. I was responsible. I was prepared. He was determined. I was putting my make-up on, which is a rare event because of my fear of leaving him alone for 30 seconds. I was going to a place where there were other women so it was a necessity. Especially since I still have the skin condition of a 15-year-old male who never washes his face. But, that is another story.

I heard him put on his shoes. He likes his shoes, a lot, because they are new, and they have lights. It was no big deal that he put them on. He does it frequently. I was getting ready to take him to story time, something this poor little deprived seventh child has done only once before in his life, and he knew we were leaving soon. He put his shoes on to go with mommy, or so I thought. The next thing I know, two minutes after I heard him running around, there was silence. I looked down the stairs and saw the front door open with a chair in front of it.

Now, if you remember, I am paranoid about him getting out. We have all kinds of locks. Three on the front door alone to be precise. We have an alarm also, but haven't used it lately because we had the lock he COULD NOT OPEN! Oops, my bad! It is a sassy latch thingy. I can hardly get it open, and they are outlawed in some states because the fire department has a hard time getting past them in the event of an emergency. Obviously, they were not tested out on 2-year-old male children. Every safety feature should be locked in a room with five 2-year-old males for twenty minutes to see if it is actually a safety device.

Evan is safe, and the police didn't visit me today. Fortunately, I caught him before he got out of the driveway. Of course I am sick about the whole thing. It is trash day AGAIN just like last time which causes my mind to wonder about all the things that could have happened with large trash trucks in the area.

As of today we are back to the alarm, back to the paranoia, back to only putting makeup on when he is chained to the toilet next to me.

I Am Needed

There are days when I wonder if I fell off the planet if anyone would notice. There are days when I wonder if they would notice when they no longer had clean undies, the bathroom started to smell, or their tummies started to rumble. But, then there are days when it all makes sense. When life is confirmed, and I know I am here for a reason. It is a sad truth that sometimes it takes yucky stuff to open our eyes to that fact that we really do need each other.

I hurt when my children hurt, more than I will ever be able to describe or even comprehend, but when my children hurt they want me. No one else really, just mommy. No matter how old they get or how independent they become, there are days when they need me. There are days when they look up I am there, and they realize that I am where they left me the last time they hurt. Standing there waiting to hold them, comfort them, place a cool cloth on their forehead.

I know my children love me. I am one of those moms that does know that deep down in my guts, without doubt, most days. I have good kids. Kids that know how to love and be loyal, like their mama, sometimes to a fault. But, I am glad they are like that because they are needed also, like their mama, just as they are. I am glad that life confirms that we have a place, even if it takes hard stuff to remind us, on some days.

Evan is a perfect example of all of this. He runs through the house everyday at the speed of lightning. About a dozen times per day he gets an owie and the first thing he does is seek out a kiss to heal it. Just a simple little kiss, a small hug, and a word of encouragement. Then he is back on his way to his next adventure until he needs his family to reassure him again that it is going to be ok.

I am like this with God some days, unfortunately. There are days when I remember to stop and snuggle on his lap and just rest in his arms. But, more days than not I run through life forgetting to stop and talk to Him until I get an owie. Then, the first thing I do is seek Him to help me get through the muck and the mire. I wish I were more mature, more adult in my relationship with Him. Maybe that is why we start out as children and then have children. To understand our need for something bigger.

I love the days when we just are. When there are no crisis to deal with, and we laugh. I love the days when we are in the middle of it all too because those days our true colors come out, and we get to see each other for who we really are. A family. People in need of love, acceptance, and just as importantly, forgiveness.

Skinny Pigs?

I was talking to Ian today about a character I had seen, and I called it a hamster. He looks at me and states emphatically, "It is not a hamster. It is a skinny pig." Oh, a guinea pig! Why do my kids have to be so darn cute?

Space Ships

Evan thinks barbecues are space ships. Ah, to be two again.

How to Burn Yourself 3 Times in 20 Minutes

Yesterday I felt like someone had beat me in the rear end with a bat. I had helped Steve do some work the day before and even though I am a very hard worker this somehow literally kicked my butt. Then I cleaned all day, you know, with two toddlers walking around behind me whining and putting the house back in it's original condition. Needless to say I was tired and still had hours to go.

Off to the grocery that is way over priced with two toddlers that are wired and an eleven year old that thinks candy is a food group. I go to the quick fixin's section and get some fajita stuff. Next, I wrestle the in-need-of-a-hot-bath toddlers and the eleven year old who didn't get to spend money on candy back into the car and drive home. I wrestle them out of the car, into the house, only to have the dog escape through the front door. I then proceed to yell at him so that every neighbor knows just how I feel about this dog escaping.

Next I put oil in the wok so that my family can have a meal. After it is nice and hot I "dump" the meat in and burn my arm. I say the "S" word while my toddlers look on and the eleven year old continues to ask me questions. Then I grab the handle of the wok and burn my hand. I decide some rice would be nice with our meal so I place this handy dandy pouch in the microwave. After 90 seconds I open the microwave and burn my finger on the vent hole. Thankfully dinner was good, and I succeeded in getting a meal on the table with only mild injuries.

I am actually a pretty good cook and do a good job of not damaging myself most nights. Fortunately, tonight went better although I wonder why I cook. The girls are off at youth group and the toddlers don't think it is necessary to consume food to survive. At least Steve and I don't have a hard time eating.

Do They Always Have To Think I Am Pregnant?

A few nights ago, after I wrote my last insane blog entry, I went to a movie and dinner with a friend. I was contemplating whether or not I should call her, if it was worth putting make-up on my teenage-boy-puberty stricken face, when she called me. I obviously needed to get out. After the movie we were sitting in the restaurant and all of a sudden that familiar feeling came over me. I know it well. The churning, that fainting feeling, the breaking out in a cold sweat. I asked to go, and my sweet friend drove as fast as she could home to prevent me barfing in her car. She was so kind, and fortunately I made it to the side of my house before throwing up at least a month's worth of something.

The next day as I was telling my daughter the gory details she became very quiet. She is 16 years old, and I remember when she was two she would go into the bathroom when I was pregnant with my third, lifting the toilet seat, gagging, and pretending to throw-up. That is what she saw me do, so she did it. It is what we did all day. I noticed her lack of words which is something in itself. She doesn't run out of words...Ever. She half whispers to me in a panicked voice, "Are you pregnant?" I say to myself, "Can't a girl throw-up without the whole world thinking she is pregnant?" Honestly...What's that all about!