Tomorrow is my 42nd birthday. Wow. And, might I add, OH MY GOD. How the heck did I get here? Certainly not a straight and unbroken road. No, I took a cracked path, filled with treacherous loose stones and occasional tall grass hiding land mines. But my path was also covered with beautiful flowers and lots of sunshine. And when the rains did pour down I always had an umbrella handy in the form of dear friends and, eventually, my amazing husband. And I know that my journey is not over yet. I have to admit it, I have, possibly, reached middle age. Hold on while I wipe away a tear...
I can only remember a few birthdays in the past that have bothered me. My 30th was not nearly as traumatic as society led me to believe it would be, most likely because I had just started dating my future husband and was totally enveloped in that hazy first few months of love phase. 35 arrived as we were trying to conceive a child, and so it sort of came and went. And to be honest, I can't really remember my 40th birthday. Not in a drank and danced all night kind of way, sadly. But here I am, turning 42.
A year ago at this time we had just returned from Russia, where we had met, fallen in love with, and then had to leave behind our new son. All I remember about last year's birthday is, well, nothing. My mind and heart were too full of that tiny 22 month old with the brown eyes and monkey walk.
This has been one of the best years of my life, and one of the most challenging. My mother passed away 2 days before our adoption agency called us with the possible referral of our little man. The next month we traveled to meet him, and then we came home and raced through the paperwork and before I knew it I was back on a plane, leaving my older son again, this time for a month. The memories and feelings of that month away from him will always be with me. Every moment away from my boy has been burned into my brain; it was truly the longest month of my life. While I celebrated the addition to our family and began the process of bonding with another son I mourned the moments lost with the boy I left at home.
And then my tiny toddler and I arrived back in the states. Both of us tired, wrinkled and basically a mess, me walking slowly from wearing the baby for three straight days. But we were home, and I was sitting on a bench, still wearing the baby but now also wearing the 4 year old who had climbed into my lap and thrown his arms around my neck so tight I could barely breath. And it was heaven.
Yes, this past year has been a challenging one. Folding the tiny toddler into our family has not been easy, and came with it's share of both laughter and tears. I may just have cried more this past year than the rest of my life combined.
Now we are settling in, and I am catching my breath. We still have our tiny toddler moments but the good outshines the bad. And, true to life, now that we have righted the ship, so to speak, my husband has lost his job. We thought it was coming, we planned for it, as best we could. And now all of our plans for summer fun and home redecoration and backyard play sets are on hold. But it's all good. I am used to life being on hold. Anyone who has lived through fertility treatments and international adoption knows how to wait.
I have really been focused on the waiting these past few days. I have been angry at the situation. I have been feeling like maybe it was time for someone to take care of me, for a change. I have been working since I was 15 years old. I put myself through college. When I received my lay off notice a few jobs back I went out and found a new job before the current one even ended. The only time I have not worked is when I quit my job for my youngest son, because he needed me more than all those assisted living communities did. But we all know that staying home with him was the hardest job I have ever had! Now I am back at work at a job that allows me the flexibility to care for my family the way I know they need. I do what every mother does. I work outside the home, and I work inside the home. Our work is never done, is it? So I was angry. But not anymore.
I have no reason to be angry. We may be waiting for monetary gain but we have so much right now. Our little United Nations wing upstairs, with a tiny brown haired toddler sleeping in his crib, his bum up in the air and a preschooler with jet black hair sleeping backwards in his big boy bed, surrounded by no less than 10 stuffed baby animals and one large Cleveland Browns pillow pet. Our front porch where my husband and I often sit at night, a baby monitor and two beer bottles on the table between our chairs. Our back yard where we play endless games of football with the big five year old while the tiny toddler wanders around trying to tackle us and where we sit by the fire late into the night. The kitchen with the wall paper I picked out where I love to cook for my family. The bedroom furniture my husband picked out all by himself and was so excited when he came home to tell me he had found exactly what we were looking for. I didn't believe him, of course, but he was right. Nine years later and I still smile when I walk into the bedroom. I have everything I need.
This is my 42nd year. This is the year my family will learn to live without me a little, so I can find more ways to be true to myself. Maybe this is the year I finally take those golf lessons, or move my yoga from the living room to an actual public studio. Maybe this is the year I dust off my french horn and go back to the community band or maybe this is the year I walk a thousand miles. This is the year I will sit on the sidelines and watch my big five year old play flag football. This is the year I will carry my tiny toddler into the shallow end of the pool for mommy and baby swim class. This is the year I will begin to date my husband again. This is the year I will no longer be angry at all the waiting. After all, I am nearly 42. It's time I grew up. This is going to be a great year!
Showing posts with label flag football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flag football. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
someone always takes a nose dive
The fact that I am surrounded by boys nearly 100% of my time is starting to wear on me. Between my husband and two sons there is a lot of testosterone flying around my home. Even the cat is male. When the boys were smaller it didn't seem as obvious as it does now. And I fear it will only get worse. I fear for what the future holds.
My tiny toddler is a 2 year old going on 10. His current favorite word is poop and I often walk into his room in the morning to find him laying in his crib, hand down the front of his diaper. The noises, the potty humor, the messes, the nose dives off every piece of furniture we own... sometimes it's a lot to deal with.
Last summer/fall my big five year old had back to back sports. Between flag football and tee ball we were at some sort of ball field two times a week. I loved watching my little guy play- especially football. He's fast and he gets the rules and truly loves the sport, which means I love watching him playing it. But the mud on his shoes. The gross wet mouth guard being spit into my hand. The dirty uniforms. The dirt and mud everywhere- the car, the house, the washing machine. All the sports practices and everything that comes along with it- the laundry, the snack prep, the getting the whole family out the door on time, on top of the astronomical number of hours we watch sports on the TV. Backyard time is all, "Mommy play football with me. Mommy throw the ball to me. Mommy tackle me!" It's like I live inside the ESPN channel. And when we are in the the backyard NOT playing sports someone is taking a nose dive off the toddler slide.
I have been caught by my son's doctor explaining to a stuffed sheep why we don't say the word poop. I have listened to my tiny toddler yell poop up and down the aisles of the local grocery store, with what felt like hundreds of witnesses. I have been trapped in a car while two of my boys (husband and oldest son) sing, "Under a shady tree, poop and pee", to Laurie Berkner. (The real words are "Under a shady tree, you and me...") When we leave school at the end of the day and I tell my tiny toddler to say "goodbye" to his friends he turns back to them and shouts "Bye Bye Pee Pee!". I have no idea if he is addressing the class as a whole or if there is one little friend worthy of the name "Pee Pee". When I ask my tiny toddler a seemingly innocent question such as "What is Daddy doing?" I get this response, "Daddy Poop!" or "Daddy ewwww!" (in our family, like every other family, we have our own little language. "Make ewww" is something we just started saying to the big five year old when he was a baby, as in "Did you make ewww? Do you need your diaper changed?")
I freeze and hold my breath countless times a day as I watch one of both of my boys fling themselves off the couch onto the floor. I may be over reacting but I swear they are going to break their necks one day somersaulting off the living room furniture. I pick them up and dust them off after they catapult themselves off the top of the sofa, dropping straight down to the floor, often head first. I watch in horror as the big five year old slides down the banister and flies down a hill on his bike. They stand up in the tub, dance on the coffee table, bounce on the bed... I can see how the momma of those bed bouncing monkeys kept letting her little monkey babies fall off the bed, one after the other. Although I doubt I would have called the doctor each time. I wonder, frequently, how I would know if they one day suffer some horrible head trauma from all this boy induced craziness. I mean, let's face it, they act pretty strange on a good day. Last week I witnessed my tiny toddler run straight into a tall glass display case at church, one that he has walked up to a thousand times. He ran right at it like a bull, bouncing off and falling backwards. Yesterday he fell off his Hot Wheels motorcycle, while it was standing still. He wasn't even riding it. Took a nose dive off the motorcycle.
Every book we read in this house is about sports, or trucks, or monster trucks, or cars, or NASCAR, or wheels, or dinosaurs, or diggers and bulldozers, or Santa. The tiny toddler has a thing for "Ho Ho". Every. Single. Book.And there is no sitting still for the reading of these books. Eventually someone takes a nose dive off the chair.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes we have tea parties. But eventually one of the stuffed animals gets tackled, tea is spilled, little tiny cups are used as weapons, cookies are smashed into the carpet. And someone takes a nose dive off the couch. Even if we are eating at the table the boys end up on the table and the food ends up on the floor. And then, one, or both, of the boys also ends up on the floor.
Someone always takes a nose dive.
My tiny toddler is a 2 year old going on 10. His current favorite word is poop and I often walk into his room in the morning to find him laying in his crib, hand down the front of his diaper. The noises, the potty humor, the messes, the nose dives off every piece of furniture we own... sometimes it's a lot to deal with.
Last summer/fall my big five year old had back to back sports. Between flag football and tee ball we were at some sort of ball field two times a week. I loved watching my little guy play- especially football. He's fast and he gets the rules and truly loves the sport, which means I love watching him playing it. But the mud on his shoes. The gross wet mouth guard being spit into my hand. The dirty uniforms. The dirt and mud everywhere- the car, the house, the washing machine. All the sports practices and everything that comes along with it- the laundry, the snack prep, the getting the whole family out the door on time, on top of the astronomical number of hours we watch sports on the TV. Backyard time is all, "Mommy play football with me. Mommy throw the ball to me. Mommy tackle me!" It's like I live inside the ESPN channel. And when we are in the the backyard NOT playing sports someone is taking a nose dive off the toddler slide.
I have been caught by my son's doctor explaining to a stuffed sheep why we don't say the word poop. I have listened to my tiny toddler yell poop up and down the aisles of the local grocery store, with what felt like hundreds of witnesses. I have been trapped in a car while two of my boys (husband and oldest son) sing, "Under a shady tree, poop and pee", to Laurie Berkner. (The real words are "Under a shady tree, you and me...") When we leave school at the end of the day and I tell my tiny toddler to say "goodbye" to his friends he turns back to them and shouts "Bye Bye Pee Pee!". I have no idea if he is addressing the class as a whole or if there is one little friend worthy of the name "Pee Pee". When I ask my tiny toddler a seemingly innocent question such as "What is Daddy doing?" I get this response, "Daddy Poop!" or "Daddy ewwww!" (in our family, like every other family, we have our own little language. "Make ewww" is something we just started saying to the big five year old when he was a baby, as in "Did you make ewww? Do you need your diaper changed?")
I freeze and hold my breath countless times a day as I watch one of both of my boys fling themselves off the couch onto the floor. I may be over reacting but I swear they are going to break their necks one day somersaulting off the living room furniture. I pick them up and dust them off after they catapult themselves off the top of the sofa, dropping straight down to the floor, often head first. I watch in horror as the big five year old slides down the banister and flies down a hill on his bike. They stand up in the tub, dance on the coffee table, bounce on the bed... I can see how the momma of those bed bouncing monkeys kept letting her little monkey babies fall off the bed, one after the other. Although I doubt I would have called the doctor each time. I wonder, frequently, how I would know if they one day suffer some horrible head trauma from all this boy induced craziness. I mean, let's face it, they act pretty strange on a good day. Last week I witnessed my tiny toddler run straight into a tall glass display case at church, one that he has walked up to a thousand times. He ran right at it like a bull, bouncing off and falling backwards. Yesterday he fell off his Hot Wheels motorcycle, while it was standing still. He wasn't even riding it. Took a nose dive off the motorcycle.
Every book we read in this house is about sports, or trucks, or monster trucks, or cars, or NASCAR, or wheels, or dinosaurs, or diggers and bulldozers, or Santa. The tiny toddler has a thing for "Ho Ho". Every. Single. Book.And there is no sitting still for the reading of these books. Eventually someone takes a nose dive off the chair.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes we have tea parties. But eventually one of the stuffed animals gets tackled, tea is spilled, little tiny cups are used as weapons, cookies are smashed into the carpet. And someone takes a nose dive off the couch. Even if we are eating at the table the boys end up on the table and the food ends up on the floor. And then, one, or both, of the boys also ends up on the floor.
 |
| yes, he was just run over by that truck. another nose dive. |
Someone always takes a nose dive.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
you are NOT invited to my birthday party!
My big four and a half year old has been planning his fifth birthday party for months now. For reasons unknown to me he is super excited about turning five. Well, I do know one reason. He seems to think that turning five will gain him automatic admission to Safety Town, where he will get to drive a car. I have tried to gently explain to him that I do not think, in fact, that he will be driving any cars anytime soon. But he is convinced. And he is usually right, so we shall see.
So the party theme seems to bounce back and forth between "construction" and "trains". Currently "construction" is winning. He has planned the decorations, what the cake will look like. He even knows what he will include in his goody bags. What he doesn't know is who will be invited to this shindig of his. He can tell you, however, who won't be invited. Mommy.
Nearly daily I do something that gets on his nerves to the point where he says, "Mommy, you are NOT invited to my birthday party." The other day he told his tiny toddler of a little brother that he was no longer invited either. The tiny toddler took it better than I did - he pointed his tiny finger at his brother and said "No!". And then he wandered off and that was that.
"Mommy, you are NOT invited to my birthday party!"
"You'll miss me if I am not there."
"No I won't. I won't miss you because I will be having so much fun!"
"Who is going to plan this birthday party?"
"You can plan it, Mommy. But you are NOT invited."
"Well,little brat sweetie, I am not NOT planning your party if I am not invited."
"Daddy will plan it."
"Alrighty then. It will be you, Daddy, Alex, a folding chair and lots of talk about football."
"That doesn't sound like fun."
"So am I invited again?"
"Sure! I want a round cake this year, NOT a square one, Mommy."
This exact conversation happens at least three times a week. We have nearly nine weeks until his big birthday rolls around. God help me. I may just lose my invitation and let my husband have at it. Maybe he'll bring two folding chairs.
So the party theme seems to bounce back and forth between "construction" and "trains". Currently "construction" is winning. He has planned the decorations, what the cake will look like. He even knows what he will include in his goody bags. What he doesn't know is who will be invited to this shindig of his. He can tell you, however, who won't be invited. Mommy.
Nearly daily I do something that gets on his nerves to the point where he says, "Mommy, you are NOT invited to my birthday party." The other day he told his tiny toddler of a little brother that he was no longer invited either. The tiny toddler took it better than I did - he pointed his tiny finger at his brother and said "No!". And then he wandered off and that was that.
"Mommy, you are NOT invited to my birthday party!"
"You'll miss me if I am not there."
"No I won't. I won't miss you because I will be having so much fun!"
"Who is going to plan this birthday party?"
"You can plan it, Mommy. But you are NOT invited."
"Well,
"Daddy will plan it."
"Alrighty then. It will be you, Daddy, Alex, a folding chair and lots of talk about football."
"That doesn't sound like fun."
"So am I invited again?"
"Sure! I want a round cake this year, NOT a square one, Mommy."
This exact conversation happens at least three times a week. We have nearly nine weeks until his big birthday rolls around. God help me. I may just lose my invitation and let my husband have at it. Maybe he'll bring two folding chairs.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
again with the "got dead" theme
My big four and a half year old came home from preschool yesterday with red dots and blue lines drawn, in marker, on his hand. He proudly pointed to his art work and explained that he drew the flag for "America and all the people who got dead". Again. Again with the "got dead" theme. This obsession of his has been with us since September 11th and it doesn't look like it is going away anytime soon.
We sat him down and explained, in truly preschool terms, what happened on that fateful day ten years ago. He was planning to go to the Cleveland Browns football game on the anniversary of the tragic events and we knew that the NFL would surely be putting on some sort of remembrance. We thought it best to mention it to our son before he heard it from someone else, so to speak. I don't think we even said that anyone died. But kids are intuitive. And they overhear a lot more than we think they do. So who knows where he heard the rest of the story - from us, mommy and daddy? From the day care teachers? From the news playing in the background of his life in the living room or the car?
So each day he comes home from school with a new picture he colored. Like the picture he drew of the monster trucks painted red white and blue. And the page full of butterflies - a yellow one for mommy, a purple one for love, a green one for gravedigger and a red one for the people who got dead. sigh. (don;t know who gravedigger is? concerned I am opening my child's sponge like brain to terrible things? click here.) he is bordering on obsession. And it is freaking me out.
He doesn't seem bothered by it. I ask him if he is sad about what happened, or if he is worried that it might happen again. And he says no. So maybe I just have a very compassionate little guy on my hands. And I know he is getting to that age where all the obsessions start. He can already name every monster truck. He can tell you the mascot for every NFL football team. He can quote lines from both "Cars" movies. This boy is not a newbie to obsessions. But because this newest one centers around people "getting dead" it worries me a little.
It's funny, really. I am no different than anyone else in America who wasn't touched personally by the events of September 11. I followed the news. I felt horrible - just terrible for the families who lost loved ones. I worried about the future and didn't like the thought of being in a large crowd, for fear of another attack. But eventually I turned the TV off and went back to my life. And when the 10th anniversary rolled around I registered it, I thought about where I was when I heard the news and how I was still living in my apartment in Akron where Brad and I eventually had to turn off the TV just to stop the constant barrage of coverage. Yes, I registered it. And I moved on. Life is here, in the moment. I have two small boys, one of whom is learning English and requires lots of extra patience to deal with his moods and frustrations. I have a household to run and the mom taxi to drive. I have meals to shop for and prepare and a husband to keep track of. Oh, and I have a thousand verses of We Are the Dinosaurs to sing. That alone takes up most of my day.
But my big four and a half year old seems to have plenty of time to think about America. My big four and a half year old who is not even American by birth is currently being a better patriot than his mommy. And his desire to wave the flag, and draw the flag, and talk about the flag- he didn't get that from me. My travels around the world have made me totally appreciate my life here in this country, that much is true. But I am not over the top patriotic. So a part of me is proud of my little guy. So so proud. And maybe I shouldn't worry about this obsession with the people who "got dead". Maybe next month I'll be looking back at this obsession fondly, as I live through his next one. I have a feeling it is just beginning...
We sat him down and explained, in truly preschool terms, what happened on that fateful day ten years ago. He was planning to go to the Cleveland Browns football game on the anniversary of the tragic events and we knew that the NFL would surely be putting on some sort of remembrance. We thought it best to mention it to our son before he heard it from someone else, so to speak. I don't think we even said that anyone died. But kids are intuitive. And they overhear a lot more than we think they do. So who knows where he heard the rest of the story - from us, mommy and daddy? From the day care teachers? From the news playing in the background of his life in the living room or the car?
So each day he comes home from school with a new picture he colored. Like the picture he drew of the monster trucks painted red white and blue. And the page full of butterflies - a yellow one for mommy, a purple one for love, a green one for gravedigger and a red one for the people who got dead. sigh. (don;t know who gravedigger is? concerned I am opening my child's sponge like brain to terrible things? click here.) he is bordering on obsession. And it is freaking me out.
He doesn't seem bothered by it. I ask him if he is sad about what happened, or if he is worried that it might happen again. And he says no. So maybe I just have a very compassionate little guy on my hands. And I know he is getting to that age where all the obsessions start. He can already name every monster truck. He can tell you the mascot for every NFL football team. He can quote lines from both "Cars" movies. This boy is not a newbie to obsessions. But because this newest one centers around people "getting dead" it worries me a little.
It's funny, really. I am no different than anyone else in America who wasn't touched personally by the events of September 11. I followed the news. I felt horrible - just terrible for the families who lost loved ones. I worried about the future and didn't like the thought of being in a large crowd, for fear of another attack. But eventually I turned the TV off and went back to my life. And when the 10th anniversary rolled around I registered it, I thought about where I was when I heard the news and how I was still living in my apartment in Akron where Brad and I eventually had to turn off the TV just to stop the constant barrage of coverage. Yes, I registered it. And I moved on. Life is here, in the moment. I have two small boys, one of whom is learning English and requires lots of extra patience to deal with his moods and frustrations. I have a household to run and the mom taxi to drive. I have meals to shop for and prepare and a husband to keep track of. Oh, and I have a thousand verses of We Are the Dinosaurs to sing. That alone takes up most of my day.
But my big four and a half year old seems to have plenty of time to think about America. My big four and a half year old who is not even American by birth is currently being a better patriot than his mommy. And his desire to wave the flag, and draw the flag, and talk about the flag- he didn't get that from me. My travels around the world have made me totally appreciate my life here in this country, that much is true. But I am not over the top patriotic. So a part of me is proud of my little guy. So so proud. And maybe I shouldn't worry about this obsession with the people who "got dead". Maybe next month I'll be looking back at this obsession fondly, as I live through his next one. I have a feeling it is just beginning...
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