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.

Ezra's Church Testimony

Just in case you're curious, here is Ezra's videotaped testimony they showed at church.  You might need tissues...  I still can't watch it without going through a whole box.  We are still reeling from God's amazing goodness!

https://vimeo.com/148756974

The Furr Family Guide to Building a Gingerbread House

This would be more appropriately titled The Furr Family Guide to Proper Holiday Dysfunction, because this is pretty much how we do everything, holidays or not, but I'll do my best to work with the original title...

1.  Purchase gingerbread house kit with a very hopeful, pie-in-the-sky attitude.  True, the last few attempts haven't gone so well.  But, you never know, this could be the year you get it right!  Deep down, you know it will be exactly the same as last year.  And the year before that.  And the previous five years. But still, you have hope in your heart, and a skip in your step.

2.  Over the next two weeks, each time the kids ask when you're going to build it, reply, "SOON! But.  Not.  Right.  Now."

3.  Finally, gather everyone for the big event!  It's time!  Read through instructions, remembering that the stupid thing has to dry after you assemble it, before you can decorate it.  *cue suddenly disinterested children*
"Can't we just eat the candy? Why do we have to put it together, anyway?"
"I'm going to go play with my toys."
"I'm going to go read my book."
*baby screaming for no apparent reason*
"FINE!  I'LL JUST DO IT BY MYSELF!  I DON'T NEED THE REST OF YOU!"
"Oh my gosh, people! Can't we all just get along and DO ONE FREAKING CHRISTMAS ACTIVITY AS A FAMILY WITHOUT ALL THIS DRAMA????"

4.  Children scatter.

5.  Settle infant in his high chair with frosting on his tray, then get to work.  Baby screams.  Give him more frosting.

6.  Muttering to yourself, begin the gingerbread house.  By yourself.  Because you don't need the rest of them.

7. Baby is fussy, give him more frosting. One child comes back and offers to help; remind him you don't need him. Or anyone else. Ever.

8.  Spouse bemoans lack of artistic talent.  Remind spouse the cat will eat it anyway.  It doesn't have to stand up to earthquake standards, and you're not worried about the the Big Bad Wolf blowing it down.  It does not have to be perfect.  However, because spouse is an engineer, it really does have to be perfect and pass earthquake standards.

9.  Declare gingerbread house finished.  This is the most effort you're willing to put into it.  It's finished.  Baby is covered head to toe in frosting, as is everything within a 100 foot radius of the baby.  His eyes are gyrating in his head from his sugar buzz.

10.  Children reconvene to admire the gingerbread house they just built.  Ohhhhh.  Ahhhh.

11.  Wake up next morning to discover cat has beaten your latest foolproof cat-proofing method, and eaten the carefully constructed house.

12. Swear off ever doing another gingerbread house.  The kids don't actually help, and the cat just eats it.  It's a waste of time.  It really isn't any fun.

13.  Know that you will repeat Steps 1-13 next year. Sigh.

I Don't Want to Grow Up

"Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional."  --Chili Davis

I turned 39 earlier this week.  Thirty-nine.  THIRT-EEEEE NIIIIINE.  How did this happen?  Actually, I'm not sure I'm having as much trouble with it as I thought I would.  I mean, it's not 40, so I'm not ancient yet, right????  RIGHT????  Just kidding.  No offense meant to the 40-and-overs.  I don't feel 39.  Of course, I've never been 39 before, so I'm not exactly sure how I'm supposed to feel. Or how I'm supposed to act, for that matter. How exactly does a person act 39, anyway? The gray hair and facial lines are starting to tell their story, my body has told the story for longer than I can remember (I'm not sure that counts as age related, though), and there are times my mind feels more like 80 than 39, but--I don't feel 39.  

I get reflective on my birthdays.  What were my parents doing when they were my age?  What stages were they in? I remember they just seemed old to me. They were grandparents already at my age.  Then, I make promises to myself, to my family, to my friends.  One of the promises my best friend and I have made is that while we may grow old, we will not grow up.  We will have fun, even when that requires us to be more immature than our teenagers. Yes, requires.  We will live life to its absolute fullest, even on the days it's hard.  We will be grateful to be alive, for the opportunity to watch our children grow up, to be with the ones we love.  We've decided that acting our ages is terribly overrated.  We are only given one life, and we need to make the best of it.  

Shawn and I have the same philosophy.  Well, most of the time!  I wouldn't say we're always successful. There are times stress does get the better of us, and we forget.  Overall though, I feel as though we haven't forgotten the passion, the fun, the life to our lives.  We often find ourselves saying to each other, "I hope we're still like this when we're old.  Let's not ever lose this." It's a promise we've made to each other, to our children, and any future grandchildren.

I often think that's what happened with my parents.  They forgot to have fun.  They forgot how to have fun. I won't get into all of it, but looking back, I'm certain that was a huge part of what went wrong.   

Of course, there are times this philosophy has us acting more like 5 year olds, or immature 13 year olds, but that's life, right?  Who wants to to always be a stuffy, boring adult?

Growing up, I always knew I wanted to 'grow old' like my grandmother.  Nan never seemed old.  Even when she was old, she was young.  It was her attitude, her personality, her belief in God and faith, her love--it all worked together to keep her young.  She was amazing.  Nan had a zest, a vim and vigor to her that was just contagious.  It wasn't until the multiple TIAs and age-related diseases began taking their toll that I realized just how old my Nan was.  Similarly, there is a woman I work with who approaches life the same way.  She's nearly 90, but you'd never know it.  That is my goal: To approach life the way these two women have, and to inspire others to do the same.  This is also something I've learned from my work at the grief center: Live one day at a time.  Enjoy it.  Live it to its absolute fullest.  Love like crazy.  Be yourself.  Cherish every moment.

I don't want to grow up.  I will grow old, I will age, but I will not grow up.

Snarky Mommy

I should probably warn you--I'm tired.  I'm sleep deprived.  Ezra still isn't sleeping through the night, Avery still typically ends up in our bed (how do I say no when he says he's lonely and was worried I was lonely too?  Wait: "No."), and Noah is a very early elephant riser.  Don't get me started on the cats and the dog.  I also had a very bad pain flare up.  Sooooo, I'm feeling just a bit snarky.

Which story would you like to hear first?  Avery sounding out the word 'tampon' ("Taaaaammmppponnn.  Tampon.  Mom, what's a tampon?") in the public restroom, or monitoring my speed in the car ("Mom?  That sign back there said 55, but your speed clock says 65.")?  Seriously, who taught this kid to read????  Or maybe how my 14 year old announces to everyone he's taken up life on the pole?  Thank you, winter track.... 

I started thinking this morning that I could probably get these stories to give me a paycheck, you know?  If I were so inclined with social media, I could start a Twitter account: Honest Mommy.  Sarcastic, Tired, Exhausted Mommy.  Why Mommy Drinks.  Why Mommy's Hair is Gray.  Why Mommy has a Coffee IV Drip.  Why is Mommy's Face Turning that Weird Red Purplish Color?  You get the idea.

I won't, but the thought is certainly there. I'll just keep entertaining you here on my blog.  While I can't be the only one with the thoughts that occur in my head when Noah absolutely needs a gift bag and tissue paper at 6 in the morning, or when Avery has a meltdown (naked, of course) in the hallway at 6:15 because the fan is on in the bathroom and he needs to pee, but he's scared of the fan, I'm certain I'm in the minority when I actually say them out loud to other people.  Seriously, we bought that gift on Saturday--we couldn't have wrapped it, ohhh, say, 36 hours ago?  Or even 12-16 hours ago???  And for the love of all things furry, just turn the dang fan OFF!

There you have it.  Honesty.  I love my children dearly.  I really do.  But sometimes it's a little easier to like them when I've had a full 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep without someone's foot in my face (I'm looking at you, Avery).

Miracles

If you can't tell by the majority of my posts, I'm a big believer in miracles.  I know how big my God is, and He never ceases to amaze me.  Still, He continues to prove Himself even bigger than the last time He wowed me.  Please don't think me simple minded.  I know these are truths.  I've seen them.

This time of year I love hearing of them even more.  We need them.  This season is filled with hope, faith and belief; those are things that miracles give us.  We need to believe in miracles, and our God who performs them.

I used to be a skeptic.  I've been a Christian my entire life--but miracles?  In this day and age?  Whatever.  I used to hear people use the word 'miracle' and think it was cute that they believed such a thing.  Sure, God healed you.  But didn't you see a doctor?  Didn't you take that medicine?  Didn't you just.... I thought those people--well, I thought they were simple minded, quite frankly.

And many times we use the word flippantly.  It's a miracle I got my hair to do anything in this humidity! While it might be nothing short of a miracle for you, it's not quite the kind of miracle I adamantly believe in.

The reason I believe is multifaceted.  Sometimes a miracle isn't presented in the blatant form a child born of a virgin.  Sometimes it's messy.  Sometimes there's no wow factor. Many times, it's not the way we imagined, or asked for. Sometimes, if we aren't looking for it, we miss it--and sometimes, we miss it even when we are looking for it. Sometimes, it's more in the form of deliverance, or acceptance, or a lesson, rather than a cure.  Sometimes it is through that doctor, that medicine, that red light that kept you from the accident you didn't even see coming, the friend who keeps you from doing something stupid.  Sometimes that miracle whispers, other times it announces its presence with a monumental roar.  Occasionally, it just happens.  It's supernatural in nature.  There's no explanation, nothing that anyone can put their finger on--but it happened, and you were there to behold it then, and you are here to testify to it now.