Major League Dreams

I have heard the term Super Mom used quite a bit lately. I don’t have to look far to identify some women I would define as Super Moms, you know the kind of women who have the natural talent to seemingly do everything and do it well. They are the professional athletes of motherhood; child rearing gurus, domestic goddesses, entrepreneurs, PTA presidents, and all around amazing people. They are gifted with heightened organization skills, patience, kindness, energy, and the ability to function on less sleep. I have no scientific proof, but I also think some of them know the secret of how to be in more than one place at a time.  I applaud them, adore them, and strive to be more like them. However, the pressure I sometimes put on myself as I try to measure up to these women is ridiculous and intense. I am like the minor league player with major league dreams!

When I was in junior high I played basketball and I scored often. To watch me play you never would have imagined I could make a basket. You probably would have wondered how I stayed upright throughout the game without tripping over my own feet. I sort of ran with my whole body. I flailed my arms a little and it appeared as though my knees might ram my chin. Gawky doesn’t begin to describe the sad state of my body and athletic prowess, but just when people started to wonder why on Earth my coach let me play I would surprise everyone and do a perfect lay-up. I had no style or grace and there was no chance of the WNBA in my future, but I had heart and could get the job done. Motherhood is a similar situation for me.

Recently I was having a great day. Everything seemed to be going along without a hitch and everyone was cooperative and pleasant. I was overcome with pride at how much I was achieving. As they say….pride cometh before the fall. I was taking a few moments to apply a fresh coat of paint to my toenails, when things started to unravel. The phone rang and I answered it while continuing to paint away with a lovely shade of lavender. Now balancing the phone between my cheek and shoulder and painting my toes, I asked my son to hand his sister a toy that had fallen on the ground. He refused as he was busy with an important construction project. His sister began to bellow at the loss of her toy. I motioned with my hands for my boy to help me, while still trying to stay engaged in a conversation on the phone, and paint my toenails. When he vigorously refused I turned my head to give him “The Eye” and instead painted a large strip of my hair purple and dropped the phone.  Everyone survived and I enjoyed my funky modern hair for a week, a bright reminder that I shouldn’t try to do everything at once.

I am not able to leap from one building to the next and I am not capable of doing everything and doing it well. My number didn’t get called during the handing out of Super Mom powers. The focus of my days is teaching little lessons as they come, making sure everyone is dressed and fed (a major feat at times), ensuring no one suffers a major injury, the house is somewhat clean, we aren’t lost in an avalanche of laundry, and (gasp) I have a few moments just for me. It isn’t glamorous and it doesn’t qualify me for Super Mom status, but most days I succeed at these goals and I am happy with the job I have done. Some days those major league dreams start creeping in and I think I should be able to do it all. Those days are sad, because it doesn’t take long for reality to strike.

I will continue to be amazed by my Super Mom friends, cheer them on, and congratulate them on all they are able to accomplish. I will also continue to put all my heart and gawky flare into this thing called motherhood. I hope my love will make up for my lack of super powers. I am still in the game; I am just doing it in my own messy imperfect way. Every rodeo has its clowns…and I am better suited for the rainbow fro and goofy grin than the glory of trying to tame the bull!

Sometimes Life's a Bitch

  

From inside the house I heard the scream of fear coming from my son outside. When I reached the backyard my son and our neighbor boy explained to me that something had dug a hole under our play set and they saw it. As they were unable to explain what it looked like, thus I couldn’t determine what it was, I instructed them to stay away from that part of the yard. Well, come on people I wasn’t going over there and the kid’s dad would be home soon to embark on that investigation. Fortunately my son is skittish and kept his distance until his father was home. Armed with a long metal rod and a hammer, obvious creature investigation tools, my husband headed toward the hole. I watched from the safety of our upper deck. I never would have guessed they would locate a rabbit nest. With absolute pure uninhibited joy, only a child possesses, my son yelled, “Mom, you have to see this. It is a bunny nest and the babies are precious! They are precious like sissy!” During my husband’s poking and prodding he uncovered a rabbit nest with no less than six babies in it and I was overcome with happiness. Like my 4-year-old, I too had never seen such a thing and I agreed it was precious.

I grew up around farmers and avid gardeners, so I am aware that rabbits can be huge pests. Precious might not be the adjective some would use, but I was filled with the awe of new life. As a mom of two, the latest add-on arriving only 7 months ago, I couldn’t help but think of the mother rabbit that so carefully and meticulously dug this hole, filled it with her babies, and covered them with grass and fur. The baby rabbits were tiny and helpless, but cuddled close to each other as we gazed down at them. I was struck by the miracle of new life, even that of bunnies. Every little creation a wonder.

 My boy can be quite rough and tumble, but has the most tender heart. He asked a million questions about the babies and was concerned about their mommy and daddy. Aware of the possible negative outcome of disturbing the nest and afraid of the disappointment our son might have to face, we explained that we needed to leave the rabbits alone and that the momma might not be accepting of her young since we had uncovered the nest.  We also discussed the possibility that something else might “get” the bunnies. He suggested we cover the nest back up and hope that the babies’ parents would come and take care of them.  Then he spent much of the evening staring longingly and protectively out the window in the direction of the nest.

This morning my son literally jumped out of his bed in a t-shirt and underwear. He ran for the back door. He could not be stopped or contained as he screeched something about HIS baby rabbits. He was a 4-year-old with the heart of a parent. He was driven to check on his babies, so out we went underwear and all. We reached the nest and I could have felt the fist hit me in the gut. The hole was vacant and two precious babies lay next to the former nest dead. I knew this could happen. My husband and I even discussed the real likelihood this could occur, yet in the morning sun with my own baby holding my hand I just wanted to cry. My raw heart was reacting to this sad little event, but my hurt originated somewhere else.

Life is precious, a gift, and (as my mother always told me) sometimes it’s a bitch. I have watched two people I have loved since the beginning of my time struggle with old age. The toll of living a long life. Are their struggles life threatening or is the end just around the corner, no. However, life will not get easier for them. They are losing the ability to do the things they love, and they are in physical pain daily. There is nothing I can do, but lend an ear, run an errand, send a package, and love them. I can’t take away the struggle, I can’t kiss the owie and make it better, like they always did for me. They have been the shelter I sought during every storm of my life. I thought, and honestly still think, they are super heroes capable of taking down every evil in my life and protecting me from all real harm. I am drowning in sadness as I work to accept the reality that they are not invincible and that old age will be their kryptonite. Their life will end; it is reality. Reality bites!

Seeing those dead bunnies struck me because my greatest fear right now is the death of my little old people. The truth is I don’t fear death for them, but the reality of their death for me. I believe in life everlasting and a world without pain. I know He promises to heal my people and provide them a real home when they leave this world. However, my breath catches in my throat as I think about living my own life without them. Pretty selfish.

In the aftermath of the dead bunny discovery my son has danced joyously in my living room, painted rainbows, and created with his play-doh. He still has mentioned the bunnies and said he is sad, but his life is going on. Perhaps He is showing me there will be real pain, but there will also still be silliness, joy, and dancing.

Outbreak

Are you familiar with the movie Outbreak? Well, I think I might have been starring in the sequel this week and I don’t remember signing up for the casting call. Wednesday afternoon my son and I were working on our collective projects at the kitchen table while my daughter supervised and banged out her own rhythm from her highchair. Suddenly my boy shrieks that something is wrong with his sister’s hand. Sure enough she has two large blisters/boils on her hand. Thus, off to the doctor we went. Half way to the doctor’s office the boy proclaims he is tired and passes out in the back of the car, I should have been suspicious right then as he never confesses to a need for sleep and only powers off when the lights go out at night.

Once at our appointment, my son climbs into a chair in the office and goes back to sleep. Our doctor is unavailable so we see another doctor from the same practice. She appears baffled by the blisters, which we discover reach beyond my baby’s hand. She describes them as “atypical” and lances one to take a sample for testing. Now, I am no medical expert, but atypical was not a comforting description to me. The screaming baby (remember she just had a bulging blister lanced) wakes my whiny boy. He takes great offense at his sister’s mistreatment and requests that she be given a sticker and a band-aid to right all of the wrongs she has been subjected to. With few more answers than we had prior to our appointment we leave the doctor’s office with the promise of an antibiotic that is our “best bet” to address my girl’s rash.

Now in route to the Target pharmacy to retrieve my girl’s prescription, my son once again hits the snooze button in his car seat. This can’t be good. We get to the store and head to the pharmacy. They haven’t received our prescription yet, so we are to check back in a few minutes. My son asks to ride in the cart and is very quiet. His sister is asleep in her car seat. Most would probably enjoy this respite and peace, especially since it is rare.  However, I can hear the creepy horror music start playing in my head as I anticipate the probable price I will soon pay for the silence. After about thirty minutes we return to the pharmacy counter; still no scrip. The lovely ladies call our doctor’s office; closed. They call the answering service and leave a message for the doctor. They suggest we continue to shop and check back in a few more minutes. I push the kids around and I pick up several items I know we need and strategically place them in the cart around the limp 4-year-old body that is sprawled out in the space. He is listless and begins to beg to go home. His sister has managed to grow two new blisters during our wandering. We circle back around to the counter and the pharmacist just shakes her head. My little guy asks to get out of the cart. His feet hit the ground and out of the corner of my eye I see his blue Icee make a reappearance and land on the floor. He looks traumatized as he wails, “I hate when my mouth throws up.” I want to cry, “me too!”  Down on the linoleum with only a wet wipe between me and the vomit, I wonder how such a pleasant day went so wrong.

We have now been in the store for over two hours. Afraid to leave until the pharmacy at least gets the scrip and aware that my entourage and I will just have to come back to the store when it is ready anyway, we press on. The begging for home has gotten louder and my daughter is awake and ticked off. Who wouldn’t be when her brother is making the sounds of death from the back of the cart? We have made 3 trips to the family bathroom, countless laps around the store and the contents of the cart have grown from just necessities to a haphazard collection of “interesting” crap. I am tired and perhaps not in my right mind as I ponder the similarities between my children and the individuals in the movie Outbreak. I mean these kids have gone downhill fast. The littlest one is screeching like a banshee and her skin is bubbling up like bacon in a frying pan. The big one has hurled, is threatening to do so again, and his head is on fire. About that time a Target employee asks me if I need help finding anything. I fight the urge to ask her to call the CDC and warn them of an outbreak. Instead I say, “No, thank you. We are just looking.”

In the end my husband came and paroled us from the prison where the guards all wore red shirts. The prescription was eventually located and filled, the children survived without their organs liquefying as I had feared, and I am now the proud owner of a ton of junk I didn’t know I needed, including my very own copy of Harry and the Hendersons. Who knows, maybe next Wednesday we will reenact that film.

Bob's legacy lives on...

I gave my son my grandfather’s name; little did I know that my 4-year-old would regularly channel his namesake. Like Whoopi in Ghost, my kiddo shakes and shouts and then Bob appears. My son shares several physical traits with his great-grandfather, such as short stature, muscular build, and a notch out of one of his ears. However, it is the quirks and idiosyncrasies that flare-up and makes me take note that my son is so aptly named. The fantastic personality similarities include persistence, perseverance, strength, fierce loyalty, and attention to detail. I hoped my son would embody these types of ideals when I named him, but I never anticipated that my grandfather’s legacy would literally live on through my son by means of possession. Bob has a few tendencies that can be, let’s say, challenging. He can be gruff, stubborn, impatient, moody, and requires a regimented routine. The best mental picture I can paint for you is think 92-year-old Archie Bunker; rough exterior, but with a real deep love and soft spot for his family.

I first started to notice my son was having Bob Moments while we were driving in the car. My mom and I were talking about a friend of ours and some issues she was having. Last I knew, my boy was reading Fred & Ted in the backseat. Suddenly, I hear a voice from the back state, “her business, is not your business.” The voice was disgusted and chastising, more importantly it sounded nothing like my son. When I looked in the rearview mirror I fully expected to see a wrinkled frail Bob in Dickies and a plaid flannel waving his crooked finger at me while strapped into the Britax. It was not just that my son was saying something my grandfather would say; his inflection, affect, body language and sentiment were Bob.

The Bob Moments, are often just that, moments. On a few occasions Bob has taken over and made himself at home for quite a while in my little guy. One such occasion occurred when my mom, grandma, and I took the kids for a trip to the park. We swung, we spun, we climbed, we slid, we ran and we inevitably had a need for a toilet. It was early spring and the park restrooms were still locked up tight. I thought, hey, this is no big deal. One of the benefits of being a boy is he does not have to be limited by the typical confines of a restroom like girls. The world can be his toilet, or at least a nearby tree can. My mom takes my boy to hunt for a good spot. Seconds after they stroll off, my son is running back to me. His face depicts horror and his tone is highly agitated as he recounts how his grandmother had the audacity to suggest he urinate on a tree. He screeches, “Only babies go potty outside and I am NOT a baby.” I try to calm him and assure him it is perfectly acceptable for him to go outside. His face drops further and he quickly slams his arms across his chest, he has identified me as the enemy, right along with his grandmother. He stomps off and Bob takes possession and hunkers down for a good long time.  My boy, now about 15 feet away, keeps his arms firmly crossed, kicks the dirt up, wanders angrily in a circle, and mutters and mumbles about his asinine mother and grandmother who had the gall to believe he would relieve himself outdoors. He had completely forgotten he needed to go to the restroom; his concern had shifted to the injustice of being forced to consider peeing on a tree. The only way Bob could have been more present at the park that day was if “damn it” was a part of my son’s acquired vocabulary.

My grandfather will be gone someday, and as the day gets closer I often wonder how I will live without him. While I am comforted by the wonderful personality traits my boy has in common with his great-grandfather, the real gift God has given me are the Bob Moments. I know long after Bob is gone he will live on in my son, quite literally. I will get to see the quirks, the tone and the thoughts that make him uniquely Bob with every Bob Moment my boy has for years to come. This promise of having Bob with me forever makes me smile. My prayer was to get to keep my grandfather; turns out God heard my prayer. His plan was not mine, it was better.