Love, According to Avery

It's a boy!!!

Oh, I should probably mention our new addition is a kitten--Avery's kitten, Max Steele.  It turns out the kitten Avery fell in love with is a pretty sick little guy, but we know he was meant for us.  I doubt anyone else would've taken him as sick as he was, and I hate thinking of him being sick in a cage (remember, I'm the one who will take the elderly cat/dog/child with 3 legs, diabetes, a thyroid condition, blind in one eye, deaf in both ears, with cancer, before I will adopt a healthy kitten/puppy/child...  Everyone deserves a chance to have a family and be loved).  As BFF Sharon said, he needs us, and our family has a way of making the misfits fit.

Max has been ours for a little over 36 hours.  He's been quarantined in the bathroom for all of that, and will have to stay in there until he improves.  It breaks my heart, but one sick kitty is a lot easier (and cheaper) to care for than three sick kitties.

I've watched Avery carefully and what I've seen has amazed me, making my mommy heart burst.  Whoever says kids don't know anything about love is, well, an idiot.
     *I feel as though there should be a disclaimer here about teenagers and 'love,' but that's another post, right?

On the way home with Max (his crate safely buckled into the seat next to Avery), Avery talked to him about his new home, his new family, and how much he's going to like it here: "You're gonna wuv your new home Max Steele.  I'm going to wuv you and hold you and pway with you."  He shopped carefully for Max's supplies, and proudly--gently--carried Max in his crate out to the car, and into the house.

Avery has watched entire movies on the bathroom floor just so he can spend time with Max.  He's taken his toys, games and books in there.  Avery sits in there, talking, petting and brushing (and feeding Max treats...  lots and lots of treats).  He made a get well card for his cat, which we taped to the side of the washer where Max can see it.  Avery goes in every few minutes just to say hi and check up on his kitty.  He's been going in without me reminding him, and I hear him in there telling Max how much he loves him.  I found 60 photos of Max on my phone, each one obscured by a little finger.  We did let Max sleep with Avery the past two nights, and when we went in to check on them later, we found them curled up tight, Max purring happily.  We did put Max back in the bathroom before we went to bed so he could eat and potty, and this morning Avery went straight there to say good morning to Max.

Avery told me yesterday, "I bwoke my heart to give Max my wuv and make him better.  And he bwoke his heart to give me his wuv!"  How is that my four year old understands what it takes to love another living creature, but most of us adults can't grasp that concept?  I really think we get dumber with age...

Some of this I talked with Avery about before bringing Max home, and I've continued to remind Avery  over the past two days. But, most of this--it's all Avery.

I really don't like taking credit for my kids.  And I'm not saying that as a martyr in a misguided effort to be humble.  It's all them and God, truly.  How they are turning out is not a reflection of my lack of parenting skills.   Most of the time, I'm not even leading by good example (you do not want to see me in traffic or after a bad day in the kitchen....).  My prayer for Noah and Avery is that they grow up to be good, Christian, mature gentleman in spite of my failures as their mom.  I want them to be full of compassion, love, acceptance of others, and understanding, not just for other humans, but all life.  I want them to value all creatures, and see each life as a gift.  I'm proud of how they're turning out.  They are great kids simply because I won the luck of the draw on this--they're great kids because they're great kids.

And for that, I'm grateful.

Seeing Noah

We've been trying out new churches over the past few months--but that's another post.

The pastor today jumped right into Revelations, and I have to say, I admire a pastor who isn't afraid to do so.  Again, that's another post.

In part of today's message, the pastor began speaking of what life during and after the rapture will be like--everything that will be eradicated when all is said and done.  When he got to orphans and foster children (maybe I should phrase that, 'children without parents and homes' instead), abortions, miscarriages, still births, birth defects, poverty, and other heartaches and hardships our children face today--and we face as parents--I had to choke back sobs.  When he started naming off specific birth defects, I had to cling to my seat with one hand, and Shawn with the other, anchoring my feet to the floor and my butt to my chair, fighting the urge to jump up while shouting "NO MORE AUTISM!"  Even writing this post, even telling Shawn, and BFFs Sharon and Jen, about it, my eyes still fill with tears, and I still have to fight the urge to break down and cry.

The thing is though, I don't think of Noah as being defective.  He's different, yes, but far from defective.  God made Noah in His own image.  My child is fearfully and wonderfully made by our Creator Himself.  God knew Noah before He formed him in my womb.  God has great plans for His--our--son, and He knew those plans, walked Noah's path, before Noah was born.  And another thing?  Noah is who he is because of ASD--he's not ASD, but it is part of what has made him Noah.  I don't know who he'd be like without it, but there are parts of him I absolutely love and adore, knowing full well he wouldn't have those traits without it.  But would I make life easier for him, given the chance?  Absolutely. He's my son, and I want what's best for him.

Noah frustrates me at times.  At times, raising him is a full-on, hair-pulling (and raising!), foot-stomping, downright maddening experience; not just for me, but for himself as well.  This is not something I would ever wish upon any child, or any parent, most of all, my own.  I admit, with tremendous guilt (because there's a part of me that feels as though that might say something about how I feel about Noah), to breathing a sigh of relief when Avery showed no signs of it.  I will also admit that at times I feel guilty for complaining about Noah's autism; after all, in the grand scheme of things, his is an incredibly mild case.  On the flip side, there are also times I am guiltily grateful it is not something else with which we struggle.  But seeing Noah frustrated with himself is enough to drive this mom to tears.  Some days, it's just too much.  Living as though we are in the movie Groundhog Day, day in and day out, is enough to make me wonder just how long it will be before I end up in a pretty little padded cell with a fabulously stylish new coat, snacking on Xanax.  I love my son, but there are times I really, really hate autism.  I want to scream, "HE'S MY SON!  LEAVE HIM ALONE!"  There are times I want to rage against autism, times I want to ask God how this could possibly be part of His plan for Noah, times I just want to curl up in a ball and make it all go away.  Is it weird to want to scream at something I can't see, can't touch, can't even put a face to?

I will also tell you there is extreme joy in raising Noah.  At times, raising him can be a very humbling experience.  His triumphs are greater, his efforts bigger, his successes more celebratory, and his rare smile more precious.  I am always grateful for Noah, for his life, and the gift he is to me.  He is my hero, and I'm grateful for everything he is teaching me as I attempt to raise him up.  There are times I've even been grateful for autism, because we wouldn't be who we are today without it as a part of our lives.

I love Noah just the way he is, and I'd never seek out to change him.  Help him build coping mechanisms into his life to be able to function in society? Yes.  But change him?  No.  I don't believe my son needs to be cured, or changed, or whatever. Noah doesn't need to conform, or fit in, or be anyone but himself. But I do become frustrated for him (and yes, with him *sigh*), and in that frustration, whatever I can do to make life easier for him--I would do, I will do.  In a heartbeat.  Just like any other mom.

ASD has left both of us lonely while sitting right next to each other.  It has made it difficult for us to forge a bond; it makes it difficult for Noah to forge any bond.  It makes it difficult for Noah to not walk into traffic, to play with his brother, to make eye contact, to make friends, to be in crowds--it just makes life difficult, period.  BUT, it has also created a young man who strives for his best every day, has a love and sensitivity for animals, has a curious mind, and who makes me prouder than I could ever possibly put into words.  Noah is full of awkward goofiness, while at the same time, capable of profound thoughts that simply stun most adults.  Autism has grown and matured our family while helping us educate others, and has created goals and dreams for all of us individually, and as a family unit.  We have wonderful friends we wouldn't otherwise have because of the autism connection.  We've had experiences and opportunities we wouldn't have had without autism.  It reminds us that even the little things in life are huge, and worthy of celebrating.  We are constantly reminded to never take life too seriously. Perhaps most of all, our experiences, and autism itself, have taught us volumes about love, acceptance, differences, faith, and perseverance.

Every mom wants the best for her children, and sometimes that includes the eradication and cure of a disorder, a disease, or an illness, and even of everyday, normal difficulties and struggles our children face.  What we learn instead, is to use these trials to help make us stronger, and to help make our children better than they could ever be.  Sometimes, the difficult part--and the key in life--is remembering that what we think is best for our children, isn't what God knows is best.

What we learn, is to trust in, and lean on, God--and to teach our children to do the same.  We are mere humans, and simply cannot do this thing called 'life' on our own. 

Noah may never be 'cured' by society's standards (I won't print what I really want to say about that!), but he's imperfectly perfect (perfectly imperfect?) by our Father's standards.  Noah is perfectly imperfect to me.  And for our family, that's what matters most.

The Search For the Perfect Purse

*I feel as though I need a disclaimer here:  Contrary to the title, this is not a self-absorbed, narcissistic post about a purse! Okay, it sort of is, but that's not the point to this post, I promise!*

I like to blend in.  I do not like to stand out, or draw attention to myself.  I shrink when others draw attention to me, and pass it off with self-deprecating humor.  I am understated, introverted, quiet (well, until you get to know me....), and a people pleaser, just eager to get along and make sure everyone else is getting along.  I don't talk outside of close company for fear of sounding like an uneducated idiot. I am anything but flamboyant:  a jeans, t-shirt and flip flops kind of girl.  I don't wear loud, bold colors.  I am not comfortable in my own skin. I don't like having my picture taken, and on the rare occasion I post "selflies" on Instagram, I usually hyperventilate first.  I shy away from sleeveless shirts, shorts, short skirts and dresses, or any kind of footwear that might make me stand out.  I am not trendy or chic. I don't keep up with the latest styles. I don't shop for name brands.  My hair has been the same basic style since high school.  It took me two years to find the sandals I bought yesterday because everything was either too trendy, too colorful, too high-heeled... Just too much not me.  Two years ago, when I was shopping for new glasses, I took a leap and went with pale pink frames.  The first week I wore them, I had to fight the urge to return them for something brown.  This year, I went back to my comfy (and by comfy, I mean psychologically comfy!) brown frames from three years ago.  When we bought the jeep, I parked as far away from every other car in the parking lots so people wouldn't see me getting in and out of this trendy, flashy, sporty vehicle.  I am a housewife:  I talk like a housewife, I dress like a housewife, I walk like a housewife.  I am not California city chic, I am Bealeton townie SAHM.  I just want to blend in.  I don't want to be noticed.

I don't accept compliments well, not even from those who love me, usually deflecting them with good ol' self-deprecating humor.  I laugh and reply they have to tell me these things because it's in the "contract."  I'm not good at accepting gifts, either.

Even as I stare down the barrel of 40, I have these thoughts in my head:  "That person is wondering what in the world a girl like me is doing in a flashy vehicle like this."  If I'm wearing a sleeveless shirt or a short skirt, it's "That person is wondering who lied to me and if I even bothered looking in the mirror before leaving my house this morning."  Parenting in public brings "That person is thinking I never should've been allowed to have children."  I don't go out without make up, because then I'm positive people are staring, wondering if I know how ugly I am.  In the gym, I'm hedging my bets that the fit, skinny, beautiful people are wondering what a fat*$%& like me is doing there, besides wasting my time.  Everywhere, in my head, people are judging me.  I know in my head that I'm not important enough for strangers to give me the time of day with things like this (and even if I am, why on earth do strangers thoughts matter to me?), but this is what the Enemy, and my heart do to me--or rather, what lies in my heart after years of hurt, and what I allow the Enemy of my soul to tell me.  I'm damaged goods.

Yes, I've been in therapy.  Yes, I've been on and off anti-depressants for years.  And you want the truth?  I was even hospitalized in college.  But medication, hospitalization, and even therapy to a point, aren't going to change me.  The change has to come from within.  In some ways, it's much like getting in a cold pool: You put your toe in first, realize how cold it is, then back out.  Whereas, if you jump in all at once, you adjust much faster and easier.  Instead of jumping into the pool of confidence and throwing caution to the wind, I repeatedly dip just my toe in, backing out while yelling "I DON'T LIKE THIS!"  It's about changing my way of thinking, being confident in who my Father has created me to be.  It's about being proud of His creation, proud to be His child (oh dear, pride is another entire post....).  I don't have that confidence, and I pray for it daily.  It shouldn't ever matter to me what others think of me, but only what my Father thinks.

Lately, flipping through magazines, I've been thinking to myself, "I should dress more like that."  I've been thinking I should take more care with how I look, how I dress, how I behave.  If I project confidence, I'll be confident, right?  If I project confidence and take myself more seriously, others will too, right?  And eventually I'll learn, right?  I really don't know what has lead to the "I should"'s, especially when my husband and friends love me as I am.

Sooo....  How in the world does a purse fit into all of this????

When it comes to purses, I'm an understated, Vera Bradley girl.  I have been for years.  I can walk into a store, pick it out in five minutes, and be done with it. Muted colors, cotton fabric, nothing flashy about it.  Usually a backpack, maybe a cross-body (the easier to chase Avery with), or something with long handles that hands off my shoulder and leaves my hands free.  Everything matches (purse, wallet, accessories).  Easy, simple, done.  Truth be told, it's so easy and simple, I haven't bought a new purse in years.

And now, my good old standby is falling apart.  She's showing some wear and tear, and needs to be replaced.  With that, I decided it was time to step out of my box, OUTSIDE OF MY COMFORT ZONE, and go with something different.  Something other than Vera Bradley.  *GASP*

I gotta tell you, being outside of my comfort zone is well, it's terribly uncomfortable!

As I was walking through stores this spring I noticed the bold colors of this season.  Oranges, yellows, pinks, blues, purples.  And they have handles (I've since learned these are called 'hobo bags.')!  Handles that you carry, which means your hands aren't free!  There are so many styles to choose from, so many colors to choose from!  Colors and styles that will make me self-conscious, and possibly even draw attention to me!

Store after store, I've met with disappointment.  There's even been an anxiety attack or two, and I've even cried.

Why am I putting myself through this (my family is wondering why I'm putting THEM through this....)? Why on earth don't I just go with the nearest brown leather handbag I see, or make a dash to the nearest Very Bradley retailer?  Man, if I had a solid answer to that, I'd have a purse by now!

I think I'm trying to prove a point to myself.  I can step out of my box and be okay with it.  I can still be Amy, and have a bold-colored purse.  I'm sure it seems like such a silly thing from the outside looking in.  To me though, it gets to the root of what ails me.  If I can have a flamboyant purse, maybe I'll learn some confidence. Maybe I'll learn to not care so much what others are thinking.

Will a bold, stylish, trendy purse automatically make me a more attractive, more confident person? Absolutely not.  I'm not foolish or stupid enough to believe that.

But I think at this point, it's the principle of the thing.  It's what the purse stands for.

I think this is one of God's lessons for me.  Step out of the boat, and be okay with it.  Be the person He created me to be, and be comfortable with it.  Learn that it's okay to stand out, it's okay to be confident; and not just learn it's okay, but it's what my Father wants for me.  It's okay to be okay.

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.” 
― Bernard M. Baruch

Summer Without Focalin

Back in January at Noah's well check, our pediatrician became concerned when she realized Noah's growth has slowed tremendously, even a little dangerously, since starting Focalin two years ago (Focalin is a medication Noah takes for ADHD symptoms).  This is a typical side effect of the medication, and one I was worried about when he started it.  Noah was already on the 'pretty skinny' side, and I didn't feel as though he had much growth to sacrifice to the medication.

We really had a tough time deciding to put Noah on medication, but it became very evident that he was not going to survive his school career (or life, for that matter) if we didn't do something.  We fought the decision for quite a while, and it was one of the contributing factors in our delay in having him diagnosed.  If we weren't going to medicate our son, why did we need a diagnosis?  This goes in the "Who says parenting is easy?" category.  

We went from "We'll NEVER medicate our child!  Only bad parents do that!" to having our child on three medications--an anti-depressant for anxiety/OCD/depression symptoms, and two medications for ADHD.  The differences we've been able to see in Noah have been amazing.  I hate that my child is on so many medications, but as a friend pointed out, if Noah were diabetic, or asthmatic (as Avery is), I wouldn't give necessary medications a second thought.  My son deserves to be able to function, he deserves to be able to concentrate, he deserves to be the best he can be.  And it just so happens that medication helps with that.

But now we've run into the "My son also deserves to grow" issue.  He's behind his peers in growth, and seldom has an appetite.  He knows he's short, he knows he's skinny.  It's hurting his self esteem.  Therein lies the problem:  Which does he deserve more, to grow or to be able to function?  Why does it have to be one or the other?

Unmedicated, Noah has walked into oncoming traffic.  He does not see danger, or comprehend consequences for his actions.  He cannot think through problems or process the next step.  His organization suffers even more than usual (I keep hoping that maybe some day something good will come out of his OCD, but so far, his room is still a mess!), he can't complete tasks, and he literally has almost no self control.  Without medication, Noah is impulsive, constantly moving, and nothing settles him.  He is a bull in a china shop, knocking over the entire cookie display at Wegmans.

All of that sounds like a mom just making excuses for her ill-behaved child, doesn't it?

I'm not making excuses, I've lived it.  I've watched him to try to sit still, try to keep quiet, try to be "a good boy," and he can't.  It's painful.

However, per our pediatrician's recommendation, and with the blessing of Noah's psychiatrist, we are trying the summer without any Focalin.  We are hoping Noah will grow, even if it's just a little.  We are stuffing him full of whole milk and anything else we can get into him. He's taking protein supplements, and most days, I'm not even watching the fat content of what he eats.  This goes in the "It makes me feel even more like the World's Worst Mother" category.

Along with getting Noah to grow, we're also hoping he will learn, as much as he can, some responsibility and self control himself.  I don't want him medicated for life, and there are some things he just needs to learn to do on his own.  I want him to see that he IS capable of these things, and to have some pride in himself.

So far, I feel like we're surviving.  Yesterday he paced so much and his mouth moved so fast I thought my head would be spin.  Even with sending him outside at regular intervals, he still has energy to burn.  Even when I allow him some computer time  (so I can have a break!), the poor kid still can't settle himself.  Keeping Noah occupied is a full time job!  I will say this--I am seeing some maturity since we started the Focalin almost 2 years ago.  There are things he's able to do now that he could never have done then, and I'm proud of him for that.

I think pulling him off the medication for the summer will be good for all of us (ask me that question again next week....)--us being able to see what he can do, and him being able to see it in himself, also.

How I Messed Up Parenting

We all have bad days as moms.  At the end of any given day, I can easily tick off numerous ways I've messed up (my kids....), running out of fingers and toes to count on.  Most of the time, I call it a successful day if they are clothed, fed, somewhat clean, happy.... And alive...  We can pat ourselves on the back and congratulate each other for making it through another day.

Then are the instances when we mess up royally.  We snap at our kids, say things we later need to apologize for, forget our kids at school (or wonder why they are home early, having forgotten it's only a half day...), rush through the day without reading a treasured book, forget to take time to play with our kids--you know what I'm talking about.  It becomes 'one of those days.'

Oh, and then there are the times we try to "help" and just dig deeper holes, like I did....

As you know, over the past 10 months, we've lost two pets: Gretta, Noah's dog, and Sophie, my cat.  That part is important to the story.

Shawn and I were taking Avery to school the other morning, Shawn having taken the day off to join us for a field trip.  We passed our vet and Avery yelled, "That's where we took Fosie and Gwetta so they could go to heaven!"  Oh geez.

I decided to venture into damage control territory, and just really GOT.  IT.  ALL. WRONG.

"Well Avery, see, sometimes we just take our pets there for shots, or to get better, or just for check ups, like when we take you to your doctor!"

I could hear Shawn yelling at me under his breath, "STOP HELPING!!!  STOP!!!  LEAVE IT ALONE!!!!  SHUT.  UP!!!!!" and giving me looks out the corner of his eye while he tried his best to stay on the road as I messed up parenting.

Naturally, when we arrived at preschool a few minutes later, Avery announced to his teacher that he's going to heaven next time he goes to his doctor.

Yeesh....  Now I have to either hope he will forget this before his next allergist visit, or figure out how to explain it to our doctor....

Reality Check

Several months ago, Shawn and I finally came to the conclusion that yes, after a few years of going back and forth on the decision, we really do want to add another child to our family. We've told our close friends who will pray for us, Noah and Avery, and our new addition, on this journey.  We've been pricing baby things again, strolling through the aisles of strollers, car seats, cribs, clothing and toys...  Fantasizing about what Child #3 will be like, whether we will have Daddy's Little Princess or another prince, what the baby's personality will be like, what she or he will look like--and so on. We've been making plans to add on to the house, and pay off the Jeep so we can up-size my vehicle.  If we have a girl, she's already named.  A boy--well, we're hoping that if we tell God we've run out of good boys' names....  Anyway.  :)

We planned to start trying this fall when the boys go back to school, and it's been a source of excitement for us.  Every time we see a baby, we both crumple into gooey puddles.  My friend lovingly and understandingly allows me to snuggle (and sniff) her adorable, happy seven month old.  Shawn and I smile at passing babies, congratulating new moms, while cooing, ohhing and ahhing at their babies.  We've watched Noah's riding instructor grow round with child, smiling, and grateful for her happiness and good health.  Oh, we've got the Baby Bug bad!

Foolishly, we thought it would be easier this time.  Even with my current health issues, much of it has felt under control, and we've gone along our merry way, planning and preparing.  After everything we went through with Avery's conception and pregnancy, we were praying for a break on this one.

Then we hit a bump in the road.  And all I want to do is cry.

My new doctor has been running many, many tests, and one of them was my progesterone level.  When the results came back, she explained to me that normal for a woman my age would be 200-300.  Then she showed me my level--12.  That's right, TWELVE.  Progesterone is the 'pregnancy hormone.' It's the one that helps you get pregnant, and stay pregnant.

Sooo.....  With a level like mine, pregnancy would be a miracle.  Staying pregnant would be an even bigger miracle.  Both Shawn and I had some tears over that reality.  It was hard to hear, especially after one miscarriage already.  It's very scary.  Even the mere thought itself of losing another child is painful.

The good news is my doctor said it's fixable.  With proper (natural) hormone therapy and supplements, we should have me on the road to recovery within a year.  That is optimistic, but possible.  I have begun the therapy, so we're on our way.  Another baby is still a possibility.

I'm doing my best to not see a down side to this.  Okay, so it delays things for a bit.  That will give us a little longer to get things in order and prepare better.  Then there's the side of me that wonders if this is God telling us a third child shouldn't be an option for us, or just flat out isn't.  As a Believer, I know this is all part of His plan, and it's up to me to only follow Him and wait it out while praying.

I'm not good at waiting, though.  I'm impatient.  I want to be better now.  I don't want it to take months, a year, or more.  I want it to be days, weeks.  My arms ache to hold my baby, to know the child I want so badly.

This time does give me better appreciation for the two miracles I do already have.  They fill my arms and my heart with love and joy.  Maybe that's the point.

Mother's Day

I know with a title like that, I should be reflecting on motherhood, but instead I've found myself reflecting more on my marriage, just because of how my husband 'does' Mother's Day.

Some days I don't know if I'm just plain spoiled by Shawn, or if he just "gets it."  I'm thinking most likely, BOTH.  

Is it my husband?  Is it me?  Is it us together as a couple?

Would he be this wonderful to a woman who isn't me?

Is it years of me, him and us not getting it right, and finally figuring it out?

Is it just because we've both been hurt so much by life, and by others, that we can truly appreciate each other?

These are the sorts of things I ponder.

See, I don't remember my father playing outside, or really, anywhere, with me.  Even when he was home, he wasn't there, if you understand my meaning.  I don't remember my parents being loving toward each other--even as a child, it looked forced to me.  My father was always doing something wrong, or just wasn't doing things right (according to my mother, and the general vibe in our house).  Shawn doesn't remember his father playing with him either, and domestic violence was an issue in his house growing up.  Neither of us grew up with good models for marriage, or even parenthood.

"They" say that most girls marry a man who is exactly like her father.  For the record, I did not.  I did a complete 180.  And everyday I'm grateful I did.  Everyday I'm glad I married not just the opposite of my father, but Shawn.  "They" also say you can tell how a man will treat his wife by how he treats his mom.  And you know what?  Shawn treated his mom like a queen.

This year will be our thirteenth wedding anniversary.  Have we always been this way?  Oh, absolutely not!  It's taken us years to get here, and I know we still have further to go, more work to do.  But we're headed there.  Shawn appreciates me, loves me, cares for me, cherishes me--and he doesn't tell me, he shows me.  As one of my best friends constantly reminds me, I'm a regular princess, and Shawn treats me as such.  The poor guy canNOT say no to me.  If I want something, he will beg me to not use my womanly wiles in my favor ("womanly wiles"--ha!  All I ever really have to do is say "Please?").  It takes work to get to the point we're finally at, and more work to get to where we're going.

I spent this Mother's Day camping with Noah, some of his fellow Scouts, and their moms--a Mother's Day mother/son campout!  Sigh. I really didn't want to go, and quite truthfully, it did not start out well.  I did not want to disappoint Noah, and I knew I would be missing out on a very good moment with Noah. And as it progressed though, things went very well.  I'm very proud of how mature and independent Noah was throughout the weekend.  We hiked, we played wiffleball (moms won!), slept in tents (because those were actually more preferable than the cabins--ick!), pottied in disgusting bathrooms (which were actually better than the ones up the road near the cabins!), survived the boys' cooking, managed to fall asleep even though there were incredibly loud frogs (and boys), and made it through the weekend without showering.  And you know what else?  WE HAD FUN.

So, how did I go from my husband is great to a Mother's Day campout and back to my husband is great?  Oh man, if you could only see inside my brain....  HA!  Well....

Remember I said Shawn knows how to treat a woman?  This is how he showed up at the campsite to pick up the Scout trailer:

Yes, he arrived with flowers, and Starbucks coffee for all the moms.  Ohhh, he's good!  He and Avery also had a hand-painted "#1 Mom" t-shirt for me.  Once we got home, it was "Mom's Choice" for the rest of the day.  We played with the kids in the backyard, he cleaned the house for me, we had lunch at Denny's, and ice cream for dinner.  

I don't have the answers to the questions above, but I do know that I've got a winner.  Mother's Day was a treat for me, and it always has been.  My husband knows how to treat me--a woman--and it's not just on Mother's Day.  He knows how to treat me as his wife, and the mother of his children, every day of the year (okay, just so he doesn't sound 100% golden, we do have our arguments!).