Fifteen

My oldest is fifteen today.  FIF-TEEN.  15.  (fifteen) Can you tell I'm having some difficulty with this?

I don't know where to start.  Noah is the child we didn't know we needed.  I heard Natalie Grant refer to her youngest daughter that way last year; for years I had struggled with exactly how to talk about Noah, and her reference nailed it.  Most people would use that to describe their last (surprise) child, but we use it to describe our very first (surprise!) child. Noah was planned, but further into the future than when he arrived. He was wanted, but at the time, I could not fathom just how much I needed him, this boy of mine who has taught me lasting lessons about life, myself and how to be the kind of mom my children need. Noah was my first maternal introduction to God's timing and purpose, not my own.  My life would be tragically different without Noah.  While he surprised us, I will never say he was unexpected, unwanted or unplanned.  He was the child we did not struggle to conceive, but just like his brothers, he was desperately wanted.  At the time, we knew we weren't ready to be parents, weren't even sure we were ready to be married, and we relied even less on God and His perfect timing.  We did know that we wanted this baby, but that was about all we knew.  We've been very open with Noah about this; we don't ever want him to think we got married because we had to, or had him because we had to.  The circumstances don't change the fact that he is just as wanted, loved, prayed for and needed as his brothers.

When I say Noah took us by surprise, he's kind of been consistent with that his entire life.  When you have a child, you tend to not think of the things that could go 'wrong.' Instead, you envision a perfect life with a cherubic little baby who sleeps through the night from the beginning, never gets sick, and is always happy.  Enter Noah.  Enter reality.  When I say that we had no clue how to be parents, I'm also pretty sure he had no clue how to be a baby.  

Years later, we were finally able to tie it all together--his quirks, awkwardness, behavior challenges--with a diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome.  It explained his infancy, his childhood, and the challenges we faced raising him, as well as the challenges he faced in being him.

Timothy Noah Paul, I love you.  I'm so proud of you.  I'm proud of how you've matured, I'm proud of your accomplishments and all you've achieved. It is a blessing and my joy to be able to watch you grow and mature into the young man God intends you to be. Do you know that when you were diagnosed, we didn't have hope of such things?  The specialists gave us little hope of anything other than living with us for the rest of your life.  We were told to have few expectations.  Sometimes, I want to take you back to those specialists and tell them to suck it as I parade you in front of them.  Sometimes, I want to take out a billboard with your picture on it, telling other parents to have hope and not give up.  I'm proud of how you've stared down the face of what most consider a disability, and turned into a major ability.  I'm proud of how you've mastered life, and everything you've overcome to get to where you are.  Your hard work has paid off, and you're becoming one incredible, amazing young man.  I'm proud of how you make others rethink autism and disabilities, how open you are with your diagnosis, and unashamed of how God made you.  I'm grateful for the gift you are and the many lessons you've taught me. I love your sense of humor, and the conversations we have. I love how much you make me laugh.  I love that you can laugh about being our "practice child," and even make your own jokes about it (Parenting skills?  Who needs parenting skills?).  I'm pleased with the kind of big brother you are and I love how you dote on Avery and Ezra.  You truly bless them.  I'm so grateful for the love you have for them, even when one of them might be particularly difficult.  You are their hero, and you are worthy of that title.  I'm grateful for the way you put up with me and all of my antics, my mamarazzi photography, and the things I sign you up for.  You handle it with style and ease, even when you aren't really happy about it!  Most importantly, I'm proud of you just because you're you.  I'm grateful for the ways you bless me, and that I get to be your mom.  I love you more than you could ever possibly fathom.  Thank you for being my son.

Under the Big Top

I'm sure my most recent posts may seem romanticized to some, perhaps an embellishment to others.  Soooooo... Here ya go.

Those posts are the reality of our life here in Left Field.  On my honor.  Well, part of the reality--there's also the circus life aspect to our daily lives. So, you're right, those posts don't always tell the full story, but they do tell the truth. The other side of that truth is, yes, my kids frustrate me.  Sometimes they downright tick me off.  Sometimes I wish they'd go kick rocks.  I've threatened to leave them on the side of the road if they didn't behave in the car.  It's the truth.  Should I be ashamed for saying that out loud?  I'm willing to bet that any mom who says she hasn't felt that way at least once is lying.

But I still love my children, and make sure I tell them that.  I still apologize when I've done wrong.

It's seriously like a 3 ring circus around here, 24/7.  True story--someone posted a tin sign that read, "Insane Asylum" they found in an antique store and I almost tracked it down to hang above my front door.  On the outside.  It's loud, chaotic and constant.  It's dysfunctional and crazy. Someone is pouting, someone is yelling, someone else needs this while I'm up to my eyeballs in that.  I field meltdowns and temper tantrums.  Even our pets get in on the action. At least once a day, one of my friends gets a text that reads, "I'm going to kill them.  Which one I start with is entirely up to them."  I spend the first half hour of each morning begging the Keureg to please warm up faster while listening to Avery chatter away nonstop, picking up last night's conversations we didn't get to finish, repeatedly reminding Noah of his tasks, throwing Froot Loops at Ezra, and waiting for everyone's meds to Please.  Just.  Kick.  In.  Already.  I spend my afternoons arguing with Avery for at least an hour over homework that should take less than 15 minutes.  I spend my early evenings reminding Noah of his tasks and begging him to please do them properly, without complaining.  Again.  There's also more arguing with Avery. I cook dinner with an infant wrapped around my ankle.  I spend some of my days marveling at the tantrums Ezra is learning to perfect. I know the difference in tones my children's toothbrushes make when they don't use toothpaste, as opposed to when they do, which is remarkable, considering I'm partially deaf in one ear.  Last night, I nearly pinned a $20 to Avery's chest, drove him to a bus station and wished him luck.

Instead, I left the room before I actually said something I couldn't take back.

I battle daily pain and fatigue, the temptation to just slog through the routines of life, the need to go potty without an audience and the desire to hit the drive-through rather than cook dinner.  Wanna know the complete truth?  Sometimes I pop a Xanax in the afternoon or evening to make it to bedtime.  What? Don't look at me like over your second glass of wine!

I also know that none of these things make me any different from any other mom, which is why I don't always feel the need to concentrate on them in my writing.  That's just life.  I don't want to dwell on the negative, and some day, I want my kids to read these blog posts, so the less I write about them driving me nuts and write truth into their lives, the better.

In the same breath, I spend my days praying over my kids.  I spend bedtime saying prayers with them as I tuck them in.  I spend my time with them trying to do my best to speak truth to them, even when I really don't want to.  I spend my days playing with the world's happiest baby.  I watch my kids grow, and marvel that they are surviving me as their mom.

At the end of the day, I still love my kids desperately, and I still feel every bit of everything I write in those posts.  When I want to strangle one of them, I hug them and remind them I love them instead. Life here is far from perfect.  It's far from any romanticized version of a fairly tale, but I wouldn't trade one single chaotic hair-raising moment.  But we do have it all (just not all together!).

There you have it--the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Grief and Frustration and Anger and Venting and Raging

I've been struggling with this post for a few weeks.  Our family suffered a loss recently, one that could have been prevented, one that was tragic and has left repercussions not just through the family, but throughout the community. The loss isn't really mine to share, but the frustration, grief and anger I feel because of it are all mine.  While it was not my direct loss, it is a loss that has affected me deeply, as a mom, and just as a human being.

I don't know that this one will make much sense. I really didn't even know what to title this one.  The truth is, I'm frustrated, angry and hurting, so here I am, venting and raging and crying.  I want to shake my fist at the universe right now.

When you have a child, your life (should) changes.  If it doesn't, shame on you.  Yes, I said it.  Your responsibilities change, your perspective on life changes. Yes, parenthood is an adjustment, but some don't make that adjustment.  It is no longer about you, it's about that child, that gift, and doing everything in your power to raise your child with love, dignity, respect and discipline.  It goes beyond providing the basic material needs, to providing the most basic human needs.

Sadly, there are parents who don't measure up to this.  And that really makes me angry.  It makes me angry to see people take their children for granted, and not actually raise them.  Someone might call this merely a difference in childrearing views, but I don't see it this way.  Some don't see the great responsibility that comes with childrearing.  It's still about them, their addictions and habits, their own selfish ways.  Nothing changes.  They throw away any chance they have with their child, and then it's too late.  Even in the time of the greatest loss a parent could ever experience, they are still self centered in their thinking.  This particular child, even though a young man at death, deserved better.

Burying a child is a tragedy no parent should ever have to endure.  But when the final tragedy is the end result of a life that began as a string of severe dysfunctions and the real tragedy is a child who wasn't taught love and self worth, then well, yes, you, the parent, are to blame.  When your actions, or lack of actions, result in the burial or your own child--I just don't know.  There are no words.  It's too much.  It's just too much. As angry and hurt as I am right now though, I know that won't bring this child back, and grieving parents are still just that--grieving parents.  These are things no parent should have to endure, no matter the preceding circumstances.

Please, accept the responsibility that comes with raising children. Teach them discipline, love, self worth, and self respect.  Don't disappoint them.  No parent is perfect, but don't miss the opportunity to be the parent your children need you to be.  It's no longer about you, about the parents you had or didn't have--it's about your child, and the parent they need.  It's about the example you set, the priorities you teach. Please love your children and protect them with the fierceness they deserve. Speak truth.  Speak life.  Don't waste a moment.

On Raising Boys

A friend of mine just found out she's having a boy, and really, I couldn't be happier for her! It's funny how time and life circumstances change you.  I'm quite certain that if this were before I had my own children, I would have apologized to her and told her how sorry I am she's having a boy.  Now, I'm welcoming her to the grandness that is boy mommyhood with open arms and a great big smile.  Oh, the wonderful things in store for her! I did likewise for a young, excited mom-to-be at a restaurant recently.  Excited about her pregnancy, eager to quiz me about raising boys, I assured her it's a treat.  I even did it without sarcasm!  Yay me!

Fifteen years ago, I argued with the sonogram tech about Noah's penis.  I insisted it was his umbilical cord and she was certainly mistaken.  Nearly hysterical, I told her, "You don't understand.  I'm having a girl.  I can't have a boy.  That's a girl in there!"  "Ma'am," she replied calmly, "That's his penis.  This over here is his umbilical cord.  He's got only one of each, I can assure you."  God wouldn't give me a boy!  He would certainly know better--what in the world would I do with a boy?  Everything in my baby registry was PINK.  All the names we'd chosen were girls' names. None of my life plans included a son; they all included daughters.  A BOY?  Noooooo.  I didn't know a thing about boys, other than they were gross and dirty and smelly.  I was raised in an extended family full of girls.  I had visions of dresses and hair bows and ballet classes.  A BOY?  You've got to be kidding me.  

Sure enough, Noah arrived, in all his glory--a boy--as did his brothers--complete with only one of each, as the tech had promised.

It was a rough start, but here we are, three boys later.  I wouldn't change a thing.  I can't imagine life any other way, and I don't want life any other way.  I've realized now, with 15 years of boys under my belt, the tables have turned and I really wouldn't know what to do with a girl!  God is funny; as badly as I thought I wanted a daughter, when we stopped trying for Ezra, I found myself looking through all the little boys in need of homes on the adoption sites I perused daily.  The girls were beautiful and perfect and just as badly in need of families, but the boys were the ones who stole my heart.  God knows what He's doing.

I love every bit of being a boy mom.  It's an honor, a privilege--and well, let's face it--a daily challenge.  It's certainly never boring!  There's never a dull moment in our home, or even really a calm one.  Going to bed each night, I never know what the next day will bring.  There is constant (com)motion, constant energy--just constant everything.  And it's a good life.  Yes, they are dirty and smelly and gross, but they're also loving and kind and generous.  Boys bring flowers to their mommas, they give the best snuggles, and no matter what, you will always be their first love.

There's also much to look forward to in raising boys; I may not have daughters, but one day I will have daughters in law, and possibly granddaughters, and I will cherish those relationships.  I get to raise gentlemen, teaching them to also cherish those relationships, and how to properly treat their wives and daughters.  I get to watch these boys grow and mature and become who God made them to be.

My boys have changed my views on so much, they've changed my perspectives, and they've grown me.  While I'm raising them, they are busy teaching me.  They've taught me that a sense of humor is a huge part of parenting, and that I really don't know everything after all.

And you know what else?  I get to be queen.  And being the queen is good.

I'm Going to Miss This

The long and short of it is, I already miss what I'm about to write about.  Each time I look at my boys, I want to make a concrete memory of that particular moment--the smells, sounds, how it feels and looks, all the sensations--because I don't want to miss out on, or forget a thing.  I think it's one of the reasons I blog, and one of the reasons I take so many pictures--I know my memory is a joke, and I want to be able to look back on these days and remember them.

Years ago, when Noah was screaming his way through infancy, I glared holes through older, well meaning women who told me I would miss it, and to enjoy every moment.  I would thank them half heartedly (if that), wanting to give some snarky comment instead.  "Just so you know, I'M NOT GOING TO MISS THIS! AND I'M NOT ENJOYING THIS, EITHER!"  These days, I find myself wanting to give that same advice to young moms: "You WILL miss this--I know it's hard, and I know the days are long, but it's so worth it.  Please cherish these moments because they don't last forever.  They go way too fast, even though I know it doesn't seem that way right now."  When I'm given this advice nowadays, I whisper, "I know.  I already do, and I'm grateful for this chance," as I pull my kids closer.  Sometimes, if the person wants to talk, I share our story; other times I just promise the kind old lady I will take good care of my kids, and love every moment.

Now, as I rock Ezra to sleep and wear him in his kangaroo pouch around the house, as I watch my high schooler grow into a young man, needing me less and less, as I watch my six year old want to be as independent as his older brother--I'm going to miss every single last bit of this.  Even after a day of struggling with Avery to the point of exhaustion, as I watch him sleep at night--I'm going to miss this.

Part of me wants to say "Time to try for the fourth!"  I really want to do that, but I know we've rolled our dice, said our prayers and received the finest blessings. My arms ache for another baby to hold, there is space in my heart for the love of one more child.  I know all the reasons why we can't ask God for another child.  They don't stop the yearning when Ezra breaks into fits of giggles, or shows a streak of independence akin to Avery's (heaven help us), though. They don't stop the grief I feel when he topples another milestone, and we pass another monthly birthday.  They don't stop the tears when Noah hugs me and tells me he will always love me and need me, or when I pack away Ezra's outgrown clothes, the ones I saved from Noah and Avery in hope and faith, knowing this is the last time they'll be worn.  Those reasons don't stop the maternal desire I feel when Avery snuggles into his Mommy Cubby and offers his ear for sniffing.  

Someone once told me I would know when we are finished with babies, and this time we know we are.  This time it gets to be our decision, not the doctors' mistaken declarations. Shawn and I are at peace with this.  But, that doesn't stop the yearning I still feel for that baby, that child, that man-child, in my arms.

I'm okay, I'm at peace, but I'm going to miss this.