WE’RE ALL ON SOME SPECTRUM

Yesterday, on the way from picking up the kids from their schools, I saw something odd. As I turned, I saw a young man sitting on the sidewalk, obviously not well. The left turn I was making is the site of frequent collisions and bad accidents, and my first thought was he was a pedestrian who had been hit. He was sitting with his knees up to his chest, and his shoes were off. They were askew in the road, and I was unable to avoid one with my tires unless I wanted to chance going into oncoming traffic near a sharp curve. As I cringed while I thumped over his one shoe I could not avoid, I saw a van or SUV--I didn’t notice and I also kind of classify them as the same in my head anyway because, to most intents and purposes SUVs are only what people who want to feel like they don’t drive a minivan [but who need a minivan] choose—about 50-75 feet up with its hazards on. I decided that I’d pull into the parking lot adjacent to the spot where the young man was still sitting and make sure he didn’t need any help, such as a call to 911.

“Sir, are you alright?” I called. He looked up at me briefly, then put his head down and away from me. Hmmm, I thought. He didn’t appear badly injured, and certainly not as maimed as as one would be to cause their shoes to be flung off his feet. I realized he’d thrown his shoes into the road. Hmmm.

My children were asking me what was going on, what was I doing, and I replied, “I just want to make sure no one needs help. We’ll be going in a moment. Nothing’s wrong with me, us, or the car.”

I tried once more to ask the man, who could have been anywhere from 19 – early 30s, if he was okay, from inside my locked car with the window down. He didn’t respond at all and kept his gaze away from me. He appeared physically typical, no signs of Down Syndrome or other recognizable disability. But, he didn’t look at me. Hmmm. I began to formulate a well-educated hunch as to what might be going on. My kids, who usually don’t stop talking ever, no matter what, were silent as church mice, fascinated, probably. A little scared, maybe. They’re used to their weird mom doing this kind of thing, though.

As this was happening, the front door of the minivan/SUV up ahead opened and a woman came out, walking in our direction. I watched her and noticed she and the man sitting definitely resembled each other. As she approached, she stepped into the road to kick his shoes towards him in a weary way. “Ma’am, is this your son?” She looked over at me, and replied he was her son. “Is he hurt?” She shook her head no.

I thought for a moment, but only a beat, and said, “Is he learning disabled?” She nodded. I glanced at him, still there, head down, and decided to say it. “Is your son autistic?”  She met my eyes, and I could see the weight of the world on her, a woman clearly in at least middle age, as she said, yes he is autistic.

I went on to ask if she needed help, meaning it more in the immediate sense as it pertained to her son on the side of the road, but her answer broke my heart. “Oh, I need all kinds of help, and I don’t get it. We have an appointment at Duke next week. Maybe that will help. He’s okay right now, just, probably ‘shamed that you see him like this. See, he is mad at me because I took away his tea that he wouldn’t stop drinking because I was worried he’d have to go to the bathroom too much, and he just got out of the car on me.” I smiled at her and said for her to not worry about me or anyone else that doesn’t matter and to just go tend to her son, and wished her much luck, because, really, I didn’t know what else to say or have the wherewithal to help her or her family in any meaningful way, then I backed out of the space and took my kids on our way. I explained to them what was happening, and they understood pretty well, to varying degrees depending on their ages.

I knew I could have been making a big mistake, or insulting her and her son with my questions, but I also had some reasons for asking. I have dear friends whose family deals with autism. Their eldest son, J, may be the one with the symptoms and who has to learn to live in this confusing/baffling world, but, truly, their whole family is affected to its core. They’re “lucky” enough to be able to devote the time and resources to give that child all the therapies and support possible, but it is, like any disability, only improvable to a certain extent. And, I am ecstatic to report that, in the past 6 or so years since beginning to diagnose J, he has progressed so well. The little boy that I felt guilty if I absolutely needed to talk to—because I could see the distress it caused him—now comes up to me and initiates conversations. Sure, they’re weird as hell, and I admit, I am terrified the entire time that I will mess up and not know when his joking about, say, monkeys in the tree outside his bedroom will all of a sudden not be joking and I will accidentally upset him when he switches to literal, or because I simply don’t know ‘the script’ of this conversation and how it goes (because most of what he says, he expects a very precise response and you mess up… then he might meltdown, and who knows how long that could last or what event that could even cause to stop in its tracks)—but I am in it to win it and there for the duration when he does talk to me. Because, for all his difficulties in understanding the world around him and the weird people in it who smile when they’re really sad or say sarcastic things that don’t make any sense, he is also clearly very smart, and deserves to be treated as such. Heck, even if he were slow, he deserves to be treated well.

So, back to my possibly intrusive question. I can’t tell you how many times my friend, J’s mom, has had to explain what’s up, usually in response to some form of, “What the hell is wrong with your kid? Why won’t he behave/leave my kid alone/give my kid space?” or something like that because, hey, stuff happens, and all us moms know if your child is going to act out, well, it’ll be in a public arena. A child who’s sensitive to stimuli or has less impulse control only does that more often. I know she’s, sadly, used to having to explain to people, but I also know it pains her. No amount of philosophical awareness that it’s not her/their fault makes it un-painful when, yet again, they’re in public and she feels that sting of humiliation. Surely, on some level, J feels it, too. It can’t help him when he’s already confused and tantrum-ing.

So, I ask. I’d far rather risk insulting someone who does have a typical child than force someone to feel that if I can help it. And anyway, you find me a completely typical child without any weird peccadilloes and I will eat my shoe. We all have ‘em. But, if we’re not autistic, we generally know how to cope, manage, blend in and cover them up when needed. To me, that means we’re also fully capable of empathy, and not being that a-hole who tsk-tsks at the parents who are probably doing far more than we must on any given day, who not only have the garden-variety worries and difficulties we all have, but also must turn on a dime at any moment for any reason (and often for one that’s completely unknowable) because one of the people they cherish most on earth can’t cope and function as well as everyone else expects. The degree of vigilance necessary… just thinking about it exhausts me. I can’t solve these people’s issues for them, but I can do my damndest to not aggravate them.

This post is darker and more reflective than I generally am, I know, but it’s a topic that means a lot to me. I dedicate this to D, T, Z, and most of all J. You all are the best of the best, and you all only deserve the best.

An Occurrence at Cup & Saucer

It was the kind of meal that we never go out to have. Entering the restaurant at 7:45 or so on a school night… things we NEVER do. It was a fun, casual meal with a good friend, and the kids had desserts—we all did. As we stood to leave, Cole put a hand over his mouth, and looked a little green.

In a flash, I realized what was wrong, and grabbed a stray to-go container, swiftly catching all the courses of dinner as they emerged in reverse order. “Phew, that was close!,” Paul said, as we left, more or less in good condition. The waning blue moon shone overhead as we crossed the parking lot.

OR.

Cole puts his hand over his mouth. “You okay hon-ooooh, uh oh!” Pink is all I see flooding through little fingers, down his jacket and onto his legs and feet. Of course his legs are folded, and of course he’s wearing sandals. More and more flows out, seemingly SO much more than had recently been eaten, but I do notice the colors change as we move back from strawberry ice cream, to chicken tenders with milk, to carrot-walnut bread. Where is it all coming from? Does he have a second stomach in there, or maybe one of those hoses actors on SNL use for vomit gags?

The waitress is nice, but horrified. She’s college age, and I don’t blame her. I cleaned up the booth as well as I could, but the floor, well… let’s just say that Carter’s flip flops were casualties, as he’d “flipped” them off his feet while he ate, and I quickly decided that $2 flip flops bought in May had been sufficiently depreciated. Paul cleaned Cole up as well as possible in the bathroom as I pressed every spare bill from my wallet into the busboy’s hand.

“Well, that was awesome,” said Paul, as he carried Carter across the parking lot in the moonlight (no shoes). We drove home with the windows down, gasping for breath, and I don’t know a child has ever been as grateful for a bath as Cole was minutes later back home. Later, as we grownups sat by the fire, we realized we’d abandoned our leftovers. “Y’know, except for that last bit, it was a pretty nice dinner,” Paul said.

yeah, sorry, no pukey kid photos. I know, such a loss.

Rally, Rally, Make it So

I don’t think I can do this.

Most mornings I rise without trouble.  Sometime in the year or so after being thrust from the cocoon of college into real life where waking early every morning whether I felt like it or not, I realized I preferred to also wake reasonably early on days off, else I’d waste that precious time dozing because I’d stayed up to watch Letterman.  Ultimately, the reward of time to truly live the hours I had a choice about trumped the indulgence of sleeping in.  As a result, I morphed into a woman for whom 7:45 is late to be getting out of bed on a weekend, and 8:30 was truly decadent.

That was prekids.  As a mom, I realized I usually have only control over when I go to bed, so I ensure that I’ll get at least a good 6.5-7 hours before waking before the kids to have that alone time.  And I don’t mind it—I like it.  I may not be chirpy, but I’m pretty content padding around the kitchen setting up the coffee maker and checking all the online things one checks while the coffee pot gurgles and hisses its way to caffeinated bliss.

So, what I’m saying is this: I don’t usually wake up wanting to stay in bed.  Saturday, however, I woke before 6:00 and my first thought was, “I don’t think I can do this.” 

This was not just to wake and make a weekend breakfast of bacon and eggs or homemade waffles—and waffles were what I had promise-promise-pinky-swore I’d make because Carter loves them so—but to get us all ready for and away to an adventure we’d been eagerly anticipating for a month: camping.  Yet, there I was, throat burning, the cough Cole had been developing without much complaint over the past week clearly coming into its own in my head and chest, deciding this morning it’d be nice to sleep until at least 7:00 or so.

It’s time to wake up!  Up!  We want to get up and have breakfast!

My littlest friend has other plans, and no amount of me wishing it were not so will change the fact that, one way or another, my butt is getting up.  I slug down 2 ibuprofen while making the coffee and a quick snack to tide Cole over until I’m ready to get out the waffle iron and start beating egg whites for the batter and start to make mental lists of everything we will all need, all the while hearing The Brat who resides in all our heads whine to me about the inherent unfairness of life and other whiny bunk that really has no bearing on anything except that The Brat knows I am sick and more susceptible to believing the whines today than most days.

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In my idealized mental vision of our camping trip, I’d have had everything ready—or at least located—the day before setting out nice and early, us all singing Kumbaya no doubt.

In reality, I was stressed and grumpy.

I will be calm and happy when we’re there.  I have to slog through some edgy places to get there, though.

I told that to myself and anyone who’d listen all morning.

I hate being disorganized and not having ready the things I need in spite of my apparent lack of ability to do otherwise at this point!

I told my husband that a few times over the morning.  He helped me with fetching items from high places, ticked me off by insisting I pack that ‘godawful’ (my description) instant coffee—how dare he mess up my tenuous grasp on how I’d get us all to our goal!!—and surely bit his tongue many times as I made those dang waffles and played Tetris with our belongings to arrange them just so they’d all fit.  Oh, I was a peach that morning.  It’s incredible anyone wanted to go anyplace with me.

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All that being said, we got ourselves out, and I was right:  once we were there, we were all happy.  Sometimes you have to RALLY.

To be continued…

This guy here…

…woke at 2:15 this morning.

He needed a full change and was wide awake when I got him into new dry jammies.  I was not quite ready to get up for the day, so I hoped he’d snuggle up against me and sleep.

2:20     I very love you, Mama!  (I kiss him and say, “Let’s rest some more.”)
2:23     I need to rock!  I need to rock!  (This, complete with horizontal dancing.)
2:25     Fake snoring noises.
2:30     He knocks on the head board and says, What’s that noise??
2:45    I… can’t sleep!   IIIIIII can’t sleep.  (Sung, naturally.)
2:45 – 3:15:  more of the above
3:15     We get up and I take his little butt to the living room, put on Oswald on Noggin, and I try my damndest to doze.

4:15     This time, Carter.  He’s had an accident and joins the party after Paul helps him change.
4:20 – 5:00  Kill me now.  The only thing that makes me smile, briefly is remembering a line from Dharma & Greg where Greg thinks the song from the 80s goes, “I want to rock all night, and PART OF everyday.”  That is how stupid-tired I am at the moment—I’m thinking about terrible 90s sitcoms.

Miraculously I did catch a final hour of sleep before 6:15, but damn.  Now, of course, both boys are asleep.  They seem to have not gotten as much rest as they needed last night for some reason.  ;)

Being a Mom Means…

…constantly worrying about, oh… everything.  Did you remember everything your child needed for school today?  Does his helmet fit correctly?  Is it alright my kids ate 24 yogurts in 48 hours (true story) and does that mean they like it a lot, or have some underlying deficiency for which their bodies are compensating (I think they simply like yogurt a lot)?  Do they have a sweater on?  I could go on and on…

Sometimes, though, I have to laugh at myself.

We enjoyed a sparkling, crisp fall afternoon yesterday at the park, and I took some photos (shock).  While Cole napped, I transferred photos from my SD card to the hard drive and came across this.

We often joke that poor Cole has the “english teeth” in the family.  (Sorry, English people...I am sure you get tired of the jokes and that many Brits have naturally lovely teeth…)  Who knows how many of my children will require orthodontia, but we have a good hunch about this guy.

For some reason, maybe because I didn’t have anything better to obsess over at that moment, my eye settled on the back molar that seems to be refracted multiple times in the water… and how there is a dark spot.  I brushed that tooth a few hours before, and I see his teeth all the time, as he is a throw your head back and laugh hard kind of dude, so you’d think I’d chalk it up as an oddity and move on.

Nope!  I zoomed in on the photo, and became convinced my youngest child had a tooth literally—actively!!-- rotting out of his head, in spite of fluoride toothpaste and rinse, twice and sometimes three times daily wrestling matches tooth brushing sessions, and common sense.  I needed to see that tooth, pronto.  The Ren & Stimpy cartoon with the Tooth Beaver kept blipping through my head… Must. See. Tooth.  Toothtoothtoothtooth…

So—get this—I pried open my sleeping child’s mouth to peer at his molar.  Of course it looked fine.  Thankfully he remained asleep, since that would be a terrible way to awaken.  Being a mom sometimes means you go a little loco, man.

Well, so much for THAT idea.

We all have our gross comfort food that we love in spite of multiple dubious qualities.  For me it’s hominy and eggs all scrambled together—such an obscure combination that I had some to the conclusion it was something my mother made up one day when she really needed to go shopping and just told me it was a real food.  A couple of years ago, after my semiannual-ish whipping up of a full pan on a ‘forage night’, I decided to Google “hominy and eggs” and whaddaya know.  It’s a real thing.  At any rate, I love it.  Nobody else I know does.  More for me, I say!

Bunny loves Ramen noodles.  I try to avert my eyes from the nutritional content as I make it for her as an after school snack a couple of times a month.  Some days ya just gotta have your thing, even if it has 5 months worth of sodium in a serving.

I thought I would try to make them at least an eensy bit more healthy by going for schmancy Cup “O” Noodles, which has a token sprinkle of veggies mixed in it.  Figuring it would be a small enough amount that she’d just eat it and that it’d be a pain to remove the veggies that she’d just eat it, I served a bowl the other day.

Not so much.  Girlfriend made her point.

How is it…

…that I woke up this morning, made breakfast for 3 kids, oatmeal for my husband, packed two lunches, fed Cold a snack and lunch, but completely forgot to eat breakfast until nearly 2 p.m.?

I must be full enough from coffee sometimes if I don’t remember to make myself something when the kids eat breakfast, then I have cup #2, then I have some water, and I just… forget. So bad, I know. Then I finally realize I feel so grumpy because I have not eaten anything to speak of for 15 hours. (Derrr.)

I don’t have much time before elementary school pick up, and I want to make sure I don’t really send my blood sugar into a tailspin, so I whip up something healthy pretty quickly…

chicken salad/avocado/basil on sprouted wheat, carrot, figs

…and proceed to eat it off the cutting board, full of bread crumbs, smears of avocado and carrot juice, plus probably some fig. Yep, today’s ‘breakfast’ is a fancy affair. Better luck tomorrow!

Maybe I need a sticky note somewhere that says, "Hey doofus -- you should eat, too."

…wave ‘em around like you just don’t care…

Some days. We all have ‘em. When we’re lucky, someone else we love is having a pretty good day when we’re having a ‘some day’ kind of day, to balance out, or at least let you lean on them for a spell.

When we’re not so much on the lucky side, the ‘some day’ is more widespread. Maybe it lasts for a week. Usually it’s at the tail end of a cold for us, which means nothing has been done enough (laundry, dishes, cooking), but everything feels like too much. It’s enough to make a grown woman want to sit on the floor and have a good fit much like a frustrated two year-old I know might when he can’t line up the magnets on his trains and has used up all his patience. Over the course of the past 8 years there have been some tantrums, I admit. Looking back, they’re pretty funny: one time I was so over-stimulated and pecked-at feeling I threw an unopened box of crackers on the floor and might have then proceeded to stomp on them a little (the next week or so we discovered we were expecting Cole, so perhaps hormones played a small role there, haha).

My point is there are days I wanna call for a mulligan. Except, along the way, there are always gems to sustain. If I could and did push the reset button today, I would have missed block time with Cole, watching him press those blocks together with such force that a long tower always crumbles into two or three pieces. I would not have helped Bun scavenge some bark that had fallen off a tree near school for a fairy boat. Tee Ball time in the back yard would also have gone missed. I tell you what: Carter can whack that ball, even sometimes when pitched!

Some days—those days—you have to take the good bits where you find them. They’re always there, and generally the stuff worth remembering anyway. Why worry about a few stupid dishes? Sometimes, it takes a peek through a viewfinder to realize all the good that is there, just waiting to be noticed… at least for me. Sometimes, that narrower view where I can simply zoom in on the important parts also focuses me. Sometimes, on those days, I just have to throw my hands in the air and decide to enjoy at least some of it (and then do those stupid dishes).

I think our one man tee ball league is shaping up well, by the way.

He has made up a game with himself where he tries to hit the ball through a small window in the playhouse door. I say it’s a great game because the ball doesn’t fly very far before bouncing off the playhouse, which means a weary mama can cheer and admire her son’s prowess more and fetch less.

It is a good idea, however, to be ready to get out of the way when necessary. :)

P.S. It is possible, no, it is probable that tidying up leaves and toys in the back yard is another of those tasks that have slid a bit… oh well!

Distress

We’ve been having a LOT of luck finding sand dollars the past week or so.  Unfortunately (for us) or, depending on how you look at it, fortunately (for the sand dollars), about 1/3 or them have been alive and needed to be gently tossed back into the surf to hopefully live on.  Carter, aka Prince Midas, took a while to get used to the concept of throwing live ones back.  Not only does that mean less shells, but—get this—less dollars for him.  I think he’s confused by the name.  :)

For the Love of Story Time

Cole has a new favorite story.  All parents know that feeling… the dread and guilt the story you know a little too well brings on.

Your little one comes toddling up, favorite story in hand.  You’re so glad they enjoy it.   You’re soooo tired of reading it.  Eventually, because story time love can be fickle, the book changes.  Sometimes it makes you miss the older one really quickly.

Boom, boom, boom!

My not so quiet 2 year-old stomps my direction, as I am cleaning the kitchen counter for the umpteenth time that morning.

Stowwy!  Read!

Oh, Honey… I don’t think…

Stowwy!   Pwease!

But, it’s…  That’s…

Stowwy!  STOWWY!

Alright.  Story. (big sigh)

We sit.  I open and begin to read.

Heat oven to 275.  Remove all wrapping from ham, including plastic disk…

See, our Easter ham came with directions in a little pamphlet, and Cole knows a good story when he sees it.  You have no idea how many times I have had to read it to him this week.  NO IDEA.

Beeg Trees

Big Basin, originally uploaded by Kristianna.

Today, since they'd almost gone for two full weeks, it was *about* time for a 4 day weekend off from school. So, I packed us off to get some nature time today... All started very well. We were out by 9:15, and I seemed to be making good time.

Then came the windy last 10 miles. And we discovered that Mr. Middle gets carsick on curvy roads. Made it 18 days in a row to the beach without any inkling of this, but Highway 9 did us in. Plus: Bonus souvenir tee shirt bought by panicky mom who realized she must've used her last stashed shirt 'last time'. Carter loves this shirt. Minus: he puked on it on the way home, too.

HOWEVER, we did have a great time while there. I was *so* ready to throw in the towel, but put it to a vote, and both kids wanted to press on. (Well, Cole was asleep...) The kids became filthy with dust and sweaty dust-mud, and all in all, I'd pack a few extra shirts, quickly school Carter on the use of a plastic bag to puke in, and definitely go back sometime, maybe in the spring.

Brought to you by the color red.

Little Guards began today.  Bun is in the afternoon session, and it was a very nice day on the beach, weatherwise.  I was not feeling my best, but managed to set up for an afternoon of sand play for the boys.

 

I was in the mood to play around with the camera. so I filtered out all but red and orange…  that’s gonna have to be it for today.  My bed is calling me.  :)

Punctured!

Ear Piercing
Originally uploaded by Kristianna

On purpose! She did really well. For the record, I would totally recommend Icing by Claire's. At least the one by me. :) They were very clean and also have mad synchronized ear piercing skills. Bunny totally fell for the "1,2...." (no three!) trick. I find that funny, since I always do that to her for band aids and whatnot. I guess she thought only I knew that gem.

A couple of days later her ears look great, and I am glad I didn't get too bunched up over sticking to my idea that she should wait until she was 10. I'd read somewhere a long time ago that it's best to either pierce a baby's ears or wait until 10 so they can care for the healing. But honestly, I just clean her ears, and it's not a biggie. Hey, I'll take it over clipping her toenails. I admit -- I really won't miss that when she's able to take over. ;)

Some days you wonder why you got out of bed.

Well, the morning was alright up to a point, but going with the boys to the park was kind of a disaster for the first half hour. I was going to walk with Sonja on trails by a lake before playing at the 'airplane playground', but Christi wanted to be at a sunnier park, so we agreed on one near my house. It was COLD (for here) this morning and I was alright with not getting s sniffly Cole out in that before it warmed up a bit.

But then I finished the hat I quick-like decided to crochet him and thought a walk could be in my future if I just loaded the boys into the stroller ASAP. So I did, and the walk was really pleasant. I arrived at the park, warm from my walk, and Sonja was there with Eric in the sand area. I plopped Cole in the sand and sat down next to him on the edge. Sonja and I were chatting and Cole was crawling around, then suddenly Sonja called out, "Oh, Cole! Don't put that in your mouth!" I saw him taking out something he had indeed put in his mouth, with a sour/confused look on his face. I went over and, yep!, cat poop. YAY! I grabbed wet wipes, and cleaned his face and hands--and for once he did not object at all, actually sticking out his tongue to help me clean that undoubtedly awful taste. Then I got out the Purell and hit both our hands. Then we went to the restroom and I washed our hands again with soap and water, and I also tried to clean his mouth a little more, but really whattaya gonna do?

Walking out, I had Cole on my hip, and didn't see the rock on the sidewalk. So, I tripped over it and fell. As I'm falling, I'm just hoping I can wrench my body around so I take the brunt of it and Cole is not hurt or dropped. I did manage that, but hurt both my knees, the knuckes of my left hand and the knuckles/palm/wrist of my right hand. Cole, I think, was so dazed by the odd turn events had taken since he found a dubious treasure in the sand that he really didn't even seem to notice we were suddenly sitting on the ground.

I got us back to the sand area and again sat down with Cole. Sonja had an unopened bottle of water and I took her up on the offer to let Cole sip some to maybe get any nasty taste out of his mouth. Well, since new bottles are thinner to consume less plastic, they're easy to squeeze and spill. So as I was letting Cole sip, he grabbed it and squeezed! Like lava, the water bubbled out of the top and all over Cole's legs. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Anyway, the trip to the park was much better after that, thank goodness, and any injuries I took to my knees seem to be only scrape/bruises and I may have a bruise on the palm. Not so bad considering--and I was happy, since I had to walk 1.5 miles home!

Now I simply have to keep from obsessing about toxoplasmosis. :-/ It's some scary stuff, but also not really likely at ALL (I read only 2% of infected cats shed oocytes in their feces, any infected cat only does it for some short time once in their lives after being infected, it takes a few days for the oocytes to become pathogenic after actually being 'shed' by the host... yada yada). Just something to add to a mom's list of things to be convinced her child has, because there is no worry like the worry a mom can produce.

Fuzz Buster

How I know when it's time to wax my lip: my sweet 6 year old asks me if I am growing a moustache. Thanks twerp! ;)

This heat is cramping my style, yo.

I was going to start something new this week. The couch to 5 K challenge, not to really run a 5 K (I don't think) but to just get something new that I can do with 2 small kids in tow. It seems like the only way I can exercise is if I act like a fool playing in the pool with the kids or push the stroller. Playing for an hour in the pool is fun, but really it's not exactly melting these pounds off me.

So, I decided to start the couch 2 5K. It looks totally doable. But not in 100+ heat. So I'm holed up in the living room (the meat locker, as we call it, since it's the only cold room in the house and the blast of cool air when you enter is A LOT like entering a walk in fridge).

I want fall! But we have a good 6-8 weeks of summer here still. Booooooooo.
Oh well, there is the pool at least.

You can take the girl away from the farm, but you can't make her into a 'responsible' enough mother. ;)

I was reading about the phenomenon of 'helicopter parents' in a SFGate article a little while back, and it kind of turned my stomach.

The article is about the anxiety parents have when their children go to summer camp, about how hard it is for parents to let go, and how *they're* the ones shedding tears over the reality of being separated from their children for an extended--yet FINITE--period of time. Apparently camps are having to put resources into preparing parents for the separation and how to cope. Okay, okay, yes, parents love their kids. I have three and yes, I love them dearly. I'd jump in front of a bus for them, and all that--really.

But I dunno. I grew up with a lot of freedom. A lot of boredom. And the ability to suffer some gnarly injuries if I chose to do something unwise. There are some things parents routinely did 'back in the day' which are considered taboo now, that I agree with. Leaving kids in the car to go grocery shopping (especially at dusk, which I remember scaring me) -- yeah, that is a no-no. Letting a 8 yr old baby sit a 4 yr old for a couple of hours alone? Oh yeah, let's skip that. But standing inches away from your child on the playground lest they look like they might stumble? Nah, no thanks. I'm there, watching from maybe even 10 yards away at times. A couple-few weeks ago I was at the park with Gretchen and her kids and we were talking about how much more relaxed one gets with each child, which is true, and she asked me if I'd have let Bun climb a certain structure at the same age as Carter, who was climbing it. Yeah, I would have. But not with a juice box in her hand, as Carter had, haha!

But that's not the point. The point is parents now are totally whackadoo in a lot of ways. Or at least the ones about which people want to write articles! I'm sure there are plenty of normal parents who stand close and let a child realize touching something a wee bit too hot hurts (hint: generally they don't really touch, but notice the heat because they have nerves in their skin), who let a smaller child try something hard on the playground. But the parents in this article, who the writer makes appear to be the rule nowadays, well, I would not want them to be my parents!

These parents sound not so much *into* their kids for the kids, but as some seriously selfish, egotistical extension of self. There is a quote where a mom actually sounds like her feelings are hurt because when her child wrote home from camp, the letters were not about missing home and her parents, but about all the fun she was having doing new things. Call me callous. But my heart did not go out to this mom in her time of needing her child to be utterly miserable missing her. Mommy needs to get over herself and be happy her child is happy!

Day 8

2008-07-02 031, originally uploaded by Kristianna.

It was warm enough to play in the water today. I was only up to my knees, with Cole on my back, but Carter got soaked.

And made a discovery. Salty water!! The ocean is salty!

Gretchen and her kids came to the beach also, and we had fun digging up crabs and torturing them in buckets of sandy water before finally setting the poor things free. By 'we', I mean the kids. I did dig some, but only a new hole for Carter's truck to drive in and out of. ;)

Bunny swam to the buoy on her own today, and, while she says she is still afraid, something else won out. Pure unadulterated greed. I admit it: promised her a new Barbie toy if she'd just start to swim all the way out there without being dragged by the lifeguards. Hey, we all are 'reward motivated' at times. Why do adults work? Well, yes ideally there is the reward of a job well done. Of helping others, perhaps. But at the end of the day, it's the paycheck that motivates us. So patooey on anyone who wants to gimme grief. I bribed, I admit it. ;)

Day 4

Yesterday we headed to a different beach a few miles further south for 5 hours of Little Guards competition versus the nefarious cross-town rival Guards. Yeah, I am NOT kidding. Gots to represent against those Capitola Guards. ;) I came up against traffic on the way there, so the closer parking was full by the time we arrived, and I had to park at the top lot on top of the cliff. Good News: beautiful view. Bad news: had to get down, then back up this cliff via a steep switchback. Good News: check mark on my exercise for today! ;)


Those dots are the LGs, all grouped together before the battle began. For the record, Bunny was on time -- I sent her down the steps, which were a direct shot, with a fellow LG and that child's family, while I pushed the boys on the much more circuitous stroller friendly route.


We (boys and I) got down just in time to watch the first race for the 6 yr olds. That orange flag in the distance was the halfway point. Bunny is on the far right, wearing her hood up and black pants. It was chilly and foggy the first couple of hours. She was well within the middle finishing this race, a respectable finish for someone who prefers a sprint to a marathon.

There were rather large breaks between events, so I took the boys to the sand and set up our 'camp' for the next 5 hrs. I goofed and forgot the camera for Bun's next event, whic ended up being the one she did best at. Boo me! It was called the 'flag race', but really, I think they wee evoking Golden Retrievers. Huh? Well, lemme tell ya.

They separated into ages and also genders. A line in the sand was drawn. The kids had to lie on their bellies, feet towards the water on the line, heads down on their hands (arms akimbo... kind of). One less tennis ball than there were kids was thrown into the surf. A whistle sounded and they were off. They ran in, grabbed a ball if they could, then ran back to the line and returned to the prone position they started in. There were about 11 'heats', each time eliminating one child. Bunny came in third! She may just have at least been in second place had she realized a ball was still out there her last heat, but she thought both were found and headed back to the sand, despite the ball being near her. Oh well, she did great, and that was her favorite race. Probably because she did well, but I think also because it involved sprint running, which is her 'thing'. She can be pretty fast in bursts! Plus her hair stayed dry--no diving. :)

There were, man, like 100+ 6-8 yr olds in red swimsuits on the beach that day, but all I saw was this.


It was a very tiring day for her and me, both. I was up at 6, busily doing what little housework I would have time for that whole day, packing lunch and getting ready for the beach, leaving the house at 8:45, getting home at 4:00, leaving again for class at 5:30, getting back home to a thoroughly trashed house at 10... I know my husband is still figuring out how to manage all 3, and he's not exactly the multi-tasker type, but I sincerely hope soon I will not return to as many or more hours of cleaning than I was gone for. Ugh. I'd complain, but I know he was managing as best he could, since apparently Bunny was in a MOOD last night (she was tired from her day *and* she doesn't like me not being there when I am at class, so she picks on her brother, and basically pulls stuff that would NOT fly if I were home).

Anyway, today is normal schedule, so I don't have to hustle much. Just have to leave the house at about 11:15. Easy peasy, and I hope to be able to swim with the 2 big kids after dinner. Carter is doing so well in the pool. He LOVES to 'swim' with me and is jumping in like a pro. Okay, like a 2 yr old.

One last shot for today. Cole fell asleep like this. I love how his little arm is tucked in. :)

saturday::scanned photo

Just a few this week... I do love spending time looking at these photos for the first time in probably 5-7 years (or more, for the college ones). Sometimes, when you're sleep deprived, and stressed, it's good to touch base and remember the little things along the way and *try* to see the big picture. I become so myopic, so task oriented in the hub-bub of day to day life, which largely is also so free of noteworthiness--it all blurs. Wake up early, nurse baby, give 2 yr old sippy cup, make coffee, continue to nurse, drink coffee, make breakfast, clean up, help 5 yr old with homework and getting ready for school, take her and 2 other to drop off, run an errand or go straight home and have lunch, nurse more, boys hopefully take naps so they'll not be cranky in the evening, wake them, back to school for pickup, go to park, to an errand, or home, make snacks, nurse baby, maybe go outside for a while, make dinner, lots of little bits of laundry and tidying (never enough to be totally clean, but to stave off bad messiness), get kids to eat dinner, clean up after dinner, nurse baby, get kids a bath some nights, get them to bed every night, nurse baby. Sure there are the days we go on excursions, and the summer is a time for lots of those, but what I wrote above is pretty much a constant.

I genuinely enjoy it (most of the time once I have my coffee), mundane as it sounds all written out -- there are those moments when I get to color with Carter all alone, or play with him with his trains, or craft with Bunny, or hang out talking with her before bedtime (our only real alone time together, save the baby on my lap). There are the times when I look at the serenity on Cole's face while he sleeps, or the great big grins and chuckles he does and my heart nearly bursts. There are the times when I see the mirth in Carter's eyes, or the flash of gusto Bunny can have, and they amaze me, and make the relentless work all worth it. I love how Carter is finally speaking more, and telling me things, and I can't wait until he can really talk to us, just like Bunny does (old joke about wanting kids to be quiet once they talk notwithstanding). I see how *quickly* Cole is growing, and I am trying so hard to remember all the way that this is my last baby. That yes, I am very tired, but I will never have the gift of being able to wake to nurse a baby at 5 a.m. More than our older 2 children, I have been doing as much as I possibly can in caring for Cole all myself, I suppose because I am getting better at it along the way, but also because I want to do it. It's fleeting and while I will certainly change a diaper again, perhaps for a baby niece or nephew, eventually I will even miss stinky diapers. Parenting is relentless! Usually while I am going one thing for someone, I'm asked to do 2-4 more things before I finish what I am doing.

So, by the end of the day, I am tired. And cranky. I should repeat that -- CRANKY. I almost never get to shower two days in a row. I forget to eat, even though I am giving someone else food 2 times or more any given hour, then I eat crappy stuff because I am way too hungry once I remember to eat and I don't care what I eat by that point. I drink too much coffee. It's hard. But it's fleeting. The saying may be trite, but it is true: The days, and sometimes seconds creep by so slowly, but the years FLY. Like everyone I sometimes need very badly to vent, but just like someone who vents about their coworker doesn't actually hate them, or their job, I am not hating my life when I complain about something... I think it's hard for my husband to understand that one. It's doubly hard, since if I vent to him, he takes it personally. So I try to vent more to my mom friends. They get it. They know. It's not hatred of my life. It's letting off steam. It's that yes, it's okay to not like that I have not gone to the bathroom alone for 6 years. It's acceptable to lose your mind a little when someone has been sinking "eee-eye-eee-eye-oh" in an endless loop for 15 minutes straight! I'm human, just like everyone else. I say things I didn't think out before I uttered them. I become frustrated. Again, this is normal. Maybe very normal when you have a 6 year old, a 2 year old, and a 3 month old. And when the only times you have gone anywhere alone in the past 6+ months have been to the grocery store--and that, a total of less than once a month.

But still, it is fleeting. I do try to remember that. With mixed results, depending on the day and how everyone else is doing that day. I'm not master of my mood--I wish I could wake in a good mood and stay that way, but it's a dynamic organism, a family of 5 is. If someone else is having a terrible day, it sometimes spreads. Some good days I'm impervious and can make light of a child in a snit, and that makes them happier in return. Some days I am just matter of fact and doing my job. Some days I am a walking, talking nightmare of crankiness. I'm getting better at accepting that, and telling Bunny and Carter--and Paul-- that.

But anyway, the photo? The beach where Paul tried to propose to me. It was SO cold that evening we ended up going to the car to watch the sunset, and he proposed in there. It was still lovely anyway. We went out to dinner at L'escargot in Carmel afterwards, and that was divine, too.