And the Mother of the Year Award Goes tooooooo.....

As a mom of boys, you learn quickly that at some point during the diaper years, you're bound to get peed on.

With Noah, it happened before we even left the hospital.  He hit the wall, he hit us, he hit just about everything.  The nurse laughed, and showed us how to properly change a baby boy.

We were faster with Avery, and dodged his streams.  Ezra proved us more out of practice however, and even found Shawn with a handful of poo in the pediatrician's office at just a few days old.

Today was one for the books though, I'm sure.  It felt that way, anyway.

Ezra was constipated, so I plopped him on the potty, as that has helped him in the past.

I kneeled on the floor, held him around his waist, and we sat, forehead to forehead while I talked to him in a soft voice, and sang for a few minutes while he worked his problem out.

Then I felt it--a warm stream, right in my face.   Pee.  And lots of it.

I didn't even drop Ezra in the toilet.  I didn't flinch, and I managed to keep my composure.  Go me.  

Ezra pooped, and we both left the bathroom proud of ourselves (after I washed my face).

Mother.  Of.  The.  Year.

Monday, Schmonday

Oh my geez.

That's about all I've got.  

Our Monday began last evening when our water was turned off.  We had bad storms last week, including two small tornadoes that touched down in our town/county, and managed to knock out our neighborhood's water supply.  It was patched, and last night, the patch gave way.  We went to bed, praying we'd have water back this morning.  We didn't.

Our choices for bathing this morning were to either shower in the pouring rain on our back deck ("Hey neighbor!  How ya doing!  We're doing great! Great to see you!  Say, mind if I borrow your soap, I forgot to bring mine out!"), or boil bottled water in my beloved Calphalon pots (one of these days I'm going to write them a ringing endorsement for all the pot baths we've taken with my anniversary presents).  It's embarrassing, really.  But it's also real life, and it must go on. 

Cue the howling, screaming cat.  Sounded like a cat fight, so we kind of ignored it.  Until Jethro sauntered into the kitchen, with the "Y'all might want to go check that out" look on his face, especially when he's usually at the center of any of the fights.  Shawn and Noah ran in, yelling for me, Avery and Ezra to stay out. Dashiell had gotten himself tangled up in the blind cord and was strangling.  I don't even have the words for the fear I felt, and how bad I was still shaking an hour later.  If we hadn't been home, I don't even want to think about it.  Noah took the brunt of it, trying to hold Dash while Shawn cut him free. Please--take a lesson from us.  We thought we were smart, safe parents, we keep the cords up out of Ezra's way, up off the floor out of the cats' way, but Dash got in it anyway.  It could've ended up so much worse than it has.  

I've also answered a phone call from the school nurse concerning Dash's vaccinations, and I'm looking forward to a phone call from the county health department now (but at least I know she is looking out for my kid, so I have that to be grateful for)! She also needed to make sure I had cleaned Noah, who looks like he went five rounds with Wolverine, and lost all five, up properly.  

After fishing Ezra's shushers out of the toilet, and rinsing his mouth out with a mouthwash doused washcloth and finally getting a real shower (we have WATER!), we're headed out in the pouring rain (not to shower!) to replace Noah's shredded Metallica shirt, take my kid to urgent care for antibiotics and a tetanus shot, oh--and to refill my migraine meds.

And then?  Then I'm gonna bite the head off a 50% off chocolate bunny.  

Easter Week and Baby Birthdays

I really wanted to call this one, Jesus, Mary, Motherhood, Easter Week and Baby Birthdays, but that seemed just a tad too long.  Easter gets me messy, birthdays get me messy, babies get me messy, and you know I'm messy in general--so, you can just imagine what this week has been like around here.  Yep, maybe I should've titled this one Everyone's Throwing Chocolate at Mama This Week instead.  Please forgive the disjointedness of this one.  I thought it would make sense once I had it all typed out, but perhaps it only makes sense to me.

Easter and Christmas always have me feeling reflective, more so over Mary and her mama heart than the real 'star' of the show, Jesus.  Perhaps that's weird or strange, but that's where my mind heads.  I can't get through these two holidays without breaking down into tears for what she endured as a mom.

From the beginning, Mary fought against the grain, choosing life for our Savior in a time that was not kind to unwed mothers, if she and Joseph had been found out.  She knew what would ultimately befall Jesus, she knew what she would have to watch, and knew she could not hide him away from any of it.  She did all of this for us, for love of her God, and love of her son.

Can any of us honestly say we would do the same?

I'm sure she wanted to put a stop to all of it.  I'm sure she wanted to throw herself on top of her son as the Romans beat him, I'm sure she wanted to hide him away as a young boy.  I'm sure she prayed that her motherly love could change the future, that something else could be done to save mankind.  Did she shout at God about the unfairness, begging Him to find another way, knowing there couldn't be, that only her child could save us from ourselves?

It makes me reflect on my own boys, and all the things I've wanted to save them from, but knew I had to step back and let happen, sometimes so they would learn a lesson, other times because there was nothing I could do but pray it out.  I've wanted to change the outcome for them, I've wanted to rewrite history and the future, I've shouted at God about the unfairness of life.  I've also shouted my praises and gratitude for both answered and unanswered prayers, for mercies and for grace.

Ezra turns two on Saturday.  Two.  TWO years old.  My baby I wasn't supposed to have is a full on toddler.  Right before my eyes, all of his baby ways are slowly falling away.  It absolutely wrecks me.  There was a time when Noah would be our only child, and another time when Avery would be our last.  But God is good, and God is faithful.  This time, it really is true--Ezra is our last.  This time, it gets to be our decision, God's decision, not the doctors' high and mighty declarations.  I won't lie to you though, it still hurts.  It still feels unfair.  I want to stop him right here, I want to stop time.  It doesn't feel fair that he ages.  All of his firsts have also been all of our lasts.  I'm so grateful for all of these, but I also cry privately, mourning these lasts in my closet.  And sometimes publicly on Instagram.

So, yes, I think of Mary.  I cry for her.  I cry for her precious heart, and all that she endured.  I cry for all of the firsts, and all of the lasts.  I cry for all that she gave up.  Everything she gave up, for us, so we can have everything we do, most importantly, eternal life.  Thank you, Mary, for your beautiful mama's heart, for your servant's heart, and for your faithfulness to God.

It Takes All Kinds--and Thank Goodness

These days, with social media and the news at the touch of our fingertips, we have access to just about anything at the drop of a hat.

This also means we, and others, are open to kudos, pats on the back--and sharp criticisms.  

The other night, my eyes were opened to a man in Aleppo who is doing his best to save the animals left behind by those fleeing to safety.  He began with just cats, but the government has since given him the zoo animals, and he's begun taking care of all animals on the streets, as well.  This man is doing his best to care for the zoo animals without the benefit of an education in caring for such animals, feed all of the animals without the benefit of the finances to do so, care for their wounds without the benefit of professional veterinary care, and just show them love in this war-torn country.  Naturally, all of the street animals are scared, hungry, many are injured and sick, and they've turned feral.  When there are many people digging through the rubble for human survivors (thank You, GOD), there is one man digging through for animal survivors.  I believe, without a doubt, he benefits from it also, having lost everyone dear to him in the first attacks. These animals are why he stays, despite the danger to himself.  This man shines the bright light of HOPE during a time of horrible, awful, unthinkable ongoing tragedy.  This precious man is doing his personal best.

As I read through the comments, however, person after person slammed this man for not helping people, and even for not escaping to his own safety. People were laughing at him, calling him names. Why isn't he doing this for children?  Why is he wasting his time on cats and dogs?  Why isn't he rescuing humans?  This man is an idiot!  

Here's the thing I've learned.  It takes all kinds of people to make the world go round.  Some people are meant to rescue baby goats with special needs.  Others are meant for cats, or dogs, horses, whales or gorillas.  Other people are meant to put their efforts towards conservation and education.  And then, yes, there are many others mean to save the human race.  You name it, there is a person for every need out there.  Thank you, Jesus.

Everyone has their calling, and bless them for following those callings.  Bless them for listening to God, their hearts, their instincts, or whoever their higher powers may be.  And thank God they do--can you imagine a world without that one thing it is they are meant to rescue, save and conserve?  

We need each and every person, and each and every one of us has a purpose. Don't belittle a person and his calling simply because it doesn't align with yours--and perhaps more importantly, don't miss your own calling because you are too busy mocking someone else's.    

It takes all kinds to save all kinds, and thank God for that.  

Avery Shall Overcome...

Avery has been battling anxiety to the nth degree for the past two and a half years, so this morning, when I found myself running through the front yard with him, both of us screaming, "I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU" while I carried a shovel and he carried a potted plant, I hardly batted an eye.

I should probably back up a bit.

Avery was always my fearless child, until almost three years ago.  Shawn and I can't pinpoint it, but we think it might have had something to do with a surgery he had.  He began having nightmares and started sleeping in our bed, became fearful of leaving us, became fearful of bugs and anything that crawls--his list of anxieties suddenly began to rival that of the tv character Adrian Monk from the old tv show Monk.  Things only got worse when we moved, and everything--EVERYTHING, results in meltdowns.  Some days we can go through upwards of five or six meltdowns. 

Side Note:  *If you don't know the differences between a meltdown and temper tantrum, please learn them.  Not every 'brat' in the grocery store is tantruming, and not every 'poor child' in the grocery store is melting down.*

There are days I know it's a good thing I'm not a drinker because, well, it wouldn't be pretty.  Hey, just being honest here--I'm a mom, not a martyr.  

We're working on things with the help of counseling, psychiatry, Avery's school, a lot of lean on me when you're not strong friends, some really great books, our church, and our own weird ways of doing things.  Sometimes we have to make Avery face his fear head on, and sometimes I have to take a page from my own childhood, going back to what I know I needed when I faced these things, and just hug him through it, rather than abandoning him with his fear and meltdown.  

Back to this morning.  

I needed Avery to move a plant from the garage to the front porch for me.  I needed him to do it, not Noah, not Shawn, not myself, because I needed Avery to work through his bee fear a little bit. This was one of those head on moments, but in a gentle parenting way.  So we stood in the garage and argued for a few minutes while he kicked my plant, flat out refusing, and pointing out all the (strangely, invisible) bees just waiting to swarm him.  I picked up a shovel and told him I would run ahead of him, ready to protect him from all organized bee attacks.  "NO!  They'll just attack me from behind!"  Duh, Mom. Then I tried building him up.  "You can totally do this!"  Annnnndddddd he screamed at me.  So I tried rationalizing with him--his size vs the bees' size, they're more scared of you than you are of them, blah blah blah.  He still was not going to touch that plant with a ten foot pole if his life depended on it.  And it hit me--Avery is about facts and science.  Why didn't I think about this before????  Duh.  I explained pheromones to him, that when he's afraid, his body gives off a scent the bees can smell, and that makes him attractive to them. His face lit up, and I could see the wheels turning.  Then he stepped out of the garage into the driveway and yelled, "I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU STUPID BEES?  I'M NOT AFRAID!"  He stepped back into the garage, said, "There, that should do it," picked up the plant, pointed to the shovel I was still holding, "But you're still carrying that, just in case," and off we ran, into the front yard, screaming like crazy people.  

Do you hear us, bees?  We're not afraid of you!!!

That Time I Tried to Pay Off My Professor

It went like this.

My junior year of college we had to train rats for a psychology class.  We were each assigned a rat to care for, and train, throughout the semester (I may have named mine...).  They remained on campus in the science building, in their cold little cages.  We were warned in advance:  At the end of this course, the rats will be donated to a local wildlife refuge to be used for food.  Do not get attached to your rat.  Do not attempt to remove your rat from the science wing, or from campus (AMY), as that is theft, and will not only result in having you removed from the college, but will also be reported to the police.  For some reason, my professor felt the need to make sure that I especially understood the repercussions of attempting a rat rescue.  The rats were school property, and test subjects only, not pets.

This was so devastating for me, an animal lover.  I know owls and snakes need to eat just like the rest of us, but did they have to eat MY rat?   And of course I got attached to my rat. Handing down that mandate was positively ridiculous. Would you tell a flower not to bloom?  Okay, then don't tell me to not get attached to an animal!  I was reprimanded for putting a soft blanket in my rat's cage, for visiting more than was necessary for his feeding and pellet training, and for handling (i.e., snuggling, talking to, singing to....) him. I may have also taken my studying and homework to the science building and plopped him in my lap while I worked, on more than one occasion.  When we did the water tank experiment, I used a few more towels to dry him, held him a little longer, and let him stay under the warmer just a tad longer than our professor allowed, just to make sure he didn't catch cold.

At the end of the semester, with a grade of a B, and a few snide remarks from my professor that I may not be cut out for experimental psychology, or experimental anything, for that matter, I cried, I begged and I pleaded with my professor.  Please don't send my beloved rat to the refuge.  Just let me have him.  I know you have to turn in the same amount of rats the school paid for, but you can just tell them one ran away when you were boxing them up.  He escaped!  It can be our secret!  I promise I won't tell!  He can live a happy little life all snuggly in my apartment!

My professor was impervious to my pleas. He reminded me of the warnings at the beginning of the semester, and shook his head.

So, I did what any (un)reasonable person would do.  I offered to pay my professor, cash, name his price, for the rat.  For some reason, that seemed more practical and less offensive than just stealing the rat--or, you know, just walking away, like a normal, reasonable person would.

I wish I could say it all worked out and I left with a happy little rat.  Instead, my professor asked me to leave his office, my rat became owl food, I was not reported to the school for attempted bribery, and we went on with our lives.

And now, my husband lovingly puts up with my endless donations to various rescues, and rescues of our own.

And, every now and then one of us will say, "Hey, remember that time I/you tried to pay off the professor" and one of our children will gasp in shock. "MOM?"

Yeah, I was a bad*** once after all.  Sort of.